“The section by the water station. He’s in the third row, on the left si—”
“Got him, thanks.”
As I watch Angus, who’s muscular and mean-looking—or possibly merely concentrating hard—bounce a warm-up ball, Tacoma inches closer on the bench. This reminds me that I forgot to respond to his dinner invitation. “How have you been, Scottie?” he asks and switches to thought as Angus opens the match by slamming the ball across the court. “Whatever you do, don’t think at Dax during the match, in case he forgot to mute his CC. A thought out of nowhere can turn an easy return into a lost point.”
Angus repeats the ace. Dax manages to get his racket on the next served ball. He still loses the point, but it takes him a little longer. The first game goes to Angus, but now it’s Dax’s serve and he manages to win a few points before losing the game.
Tacoma extends his legs under the seat in front of him. “Dax just needs to warm up a bit.”
“How long does a match usually last?”
“At this level? A couple of hours at least.”
I settle into my seat. Lu and Wayne passed on coming along but promised to show up if there’s a celebration to be had for Dax.
During one of the longer breaks in the match, as the players down water and towel off, I turn to Tacoma. “You were working at the theater when the chandelier fell, weren’t you?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Tacoma says, his ears flaming as if I’ve accused him of failing to personally dive under the chandelier to save Rick. “The cord snapped in two.”
“Why?”
Before Monday, I would’ve worked the question into the conversation in a roundabout fashion; but everyone is eager to help the number one with anything and everything, including Tacoma, who asks, “Why what, Scottie?”
“Why did it snap?”
Tacoma looks at me as if I’m being obtuse. “Gemma Bligh’s curse.”
Wondering if Jada meant for the chandelier to fall on opening night or whether a later performance would have done just as well, I say, “The cord was old”—this is a good guess as most things in New Seattle are—“and with the chandelier being moved up and down during rehearsals for Mrs. Montag, it may have become worn through to the breaking point.”
“Ah, but it wasn’t moved up’n down.”
At the next chance in the match Tacoma explains. “The chandelier—the cord was triple-strand twisted cotton—hadn’t been moved for years. If they needed it, they just pulled the brocade curtain up a little higher. Rick got the idea to lower it at the final rehearsal with Vicky. We had to scramble to work it into the opening night performance, all while searching everywhere for boots that fit Vicky. Well, you were there, weren’t you?”
“I was?”
“Vacuuming the lobby. I was gonna say hi but I had my hands too full to come over and chat. Vicky ended up wearing Delilah’s boots but had to stuff them with socks so they wouldn’t fall off. It was so on the nose that no one wanted to say it. You know—big shoes to fill.”
At the next opportunity in the match—Dax has started to hold his own—I ask, “Who else was at the rehearsal when Rick had the idea? Other than cast and crew, I mean.”
“Everyone.”
“What do you mean, everyone?”
“Rick unveiled the idea on the Commons—Spotlight on my big scene. Didn’t you see it?”
“Never really paid much attention to what Rick had to say.”
“So,” Tacoma declares as if this settles matters, “it had nothing to do with friction on the rope. The curse struck sharp and clean.” He slices the air with one hand. “We didn’t understand what Delilah’s death meant until Rick was struck down, too. They died to make us see that we needed to change, be kinder… Hey, that was not out! Umpire, that’s a BAD call! Get your act together, you—”
I try to wrap my head around the new information. Jada had to have gotten to the cord between rehearsal on Friday morning and the opening-night performance the following day. Not a lot of time. Still, no security guard means she could have masked her dot on the map, same as in Bonnie’s tavern, hidden somewhere or other, and waited until everyone left for the day. Then it was a simple matter of filing away at the cord just beyond the point where it usually hung so that when the chandelier was lowered, it snapped.
Like Tacoma said, sharp and clean.
Dax slides his racquet back into the bag, stunned, as the crowd claps and roars. Scottie and Tacoma push their way over to him. Running a towel across the back of his neck, he greets them with a dazed, “I can’t believe I pulled that off.”
Tacoma high-fives him. “I can’t believe it either.”
“I’d give you a hug but you’re dripping with sweat.” Scottie inexpertly bounces one of the lime-green balls into the basket of them, then looks up to a shout from the stands. “Hey, it’s Scott. Everyone, it’s Scott the Curse Slayer!”
Soon the chant fills the room: “Curse Slayer, Curse Slayer!”
As if she’s been doing this for years, Scottie waves back at the fans—her fans—and takes a bow. In a crisp new outfit that for once fits her petite form well, she swivels to wave in all four directions, all eyes on her. While Dax did manage to pull off a major upset, Scottie has the stage. Which is as it should be…if it weren’t for what’s worrying him. He reminded her to be careful, but he can’t shake off the feeling of unease. To his own eyes, she seems exposed, vulnerable, the very opposite of what the number one spot should be—untouchable and removed from all manner of problems.
There’s a firm tap on his shoulder. Angus, with a towel draped over his head, as if he’s hiding from his loss. “Daxton, good game.”
“Better luck next time, Angus.”
They exchange an awkward handshake.
Angus is studying Scottie from underneath the towel. “She’s so-so in looks, I’ve always thought, but now that she’s number one, she’s…improved.”
The ugliness of the words makes Dax’s blood boil—and even more so when Angus adds, “Does she have a boyfriend?”
He hears himself saying, “Yes. Me.”
“But you’re PALs.”
“We are. What of it?”
Angus shrugs. “Not my business.”
Dax watches him walk away. Damn. He promised Scottie he wouldn’t say anything to anyone and he hasn’t been able to keep his promise for a single day.
The celebration at Puget Chow for Dax’s win is in full force, but I’ve slipped out early. His reminder that I might be the next target has left me shaken and I pedal fast, tensing each time I encounter a blind spot around a corner or a black gap under a staircase—where Jada, having masked her dot again, might be lying in wait to stick a broom handle into the spokes of my bike. I’m soon at Housing Thirty-Three. Though it’s only a single flight up, I take the elevator, as it seems safer than taking the deserted stairs. Once the door to my room clicks shut behind me and I make sure the lock is turned, I exhale.
Kicking off my shoes, I manage to knock my elbow on the dresser, which sends the newly-purchased chocolate bars I stacked on top tumbling into a heap. I unwrap one of the bars and reflect that it might be nice to move to a bigger space. Though I have yet to respond, the Jobs and Housing Office has sent several inquiries asking if I’d like Delilah’s old suite. The bite of chocolate melts in my mouth and I check myself. I’m starting to plan as if I’ll stay number one a long time. My newfound fame rests on the lack of any further accidents—if anyone takes a tumble down a flight of stairs, the town will turn on me in a minute. I know very well that none of it is real.
Cross-legged on the bed, I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and finish off the rest of the chocolate bar. Cece, wake up.
You have thirty-seven thoughts awaiting your attention, Scott.
Are any of them from anyone I actually know?
There’s a thought from Lu.
Lu and Wayne never did show up to Puget, but as Dax himself said, we can’t begrudge them their alone time. Wayne has on
ly until Sunday—four days away. I lick a bit of chocolate off my finger. What does she say?
I can relay the thought in just under a minute, Scott.
Wait, why?
The sender requested a delay of two hours, of which there are forty-five seconds left … Thirty seconds … Fifteen … Here it is: “Forgive me, Scottie… I’m leaving with Wayne tonight. By the time you get this, it’ll be too late to stop us. Be happy for us if you can.”
This makes me jump off the bed, sending the blanket tumbling off my shoulders. Cece, why didn’t you let me know at once?
The sender requested a delay of two—
Never mind. Is the map still live? Find Lu and Wayne.
I’m already sliding on shoes. But Lu and Wayne are no longer in the Dome and there is nowhere for me to run to.
29
Fighting off a yawn, I will myself out of bed. I was up half the night, tossing and turning. How could Lu leave without saying goodbye, after making us all promise to be PALs forever—after giving us PAL bracelets? She and Wayne must have been planning this for days.
Morning brings the realization that I’m more mad at myself than at Lu. I dress for my dental appointment—colorful fabrics are present and mended holes aren’t, a repackaging that befits my new status—and methodically consume one of the chocolate bars as breakfast. I failed to see what was happening right under my nose: that my PAL was more in love than I knew. I didn’t confide my own problems to her—my certainty that there’s a killer in town, the Sherlock-Scottie plan, what happened with Dax in the forest, not even the other whopper news, about Delilah being my mother—and so Lu didn’t confide in me in return. If I’d understood in time… I wouldn’t have tried to stop her, no. I’d have given Wayne and her a last hug and all the chocolate on my dresser so they’d have something to trade.
On my way to the dentist, I fight off disquieting thoughts. Nights must be much colder than the sunny jaunt Dax and I took into the forest. Are Lu and Wayne lying in a snowbank together, frozen in place forever? Did they keep walking all night and succeed in reaching a village? Will I ever see them again?
I roll to a stop under a Tenner billboard, where a snapshot of me at the gala has replaced the old one by the bike. A couple of pedestrians wave hello in my direction and my hand goes up in a wave back above the freshly-painted handlebars. The Curse Slayer brand is all others see, as if I’m wearing a cloak. The truth is that all the perks and trappings of the number one, the new clothes, the crowd cheering in my direction at Dax’s tennis match, the stack of chocolate, all of it is nice enough…and as deep as the new shine on my bike. Distracted by the confetti shower of fame, I danced at the gala and kissed Dax in the forest and failed to notice the turmoil Lu must have been in. And I forgot about justice, readily accepted the story that there was no killer…until I found out about Delilah being my mother and it became personal.
I send a thought to the dentist apologizing for having to cancel, then bike at full speed to the Gardens Center, where, after catching my breath, I deliver an adamant, “Dax, we have to do something.”
We’re just outside his workplace—I caught him on his way in. He watches me kickstand the bike, then pulls me out of sight around the building’s corner. “About Lu and Wayne? It’s too late to try and catch up with them. I could kick myself for bringing up the whole endpoint thing. Wayne would have kept on toying with his rank in a leisurely fashion and Lu and he would still be here.”
His words momentarily deflate my urgency. “She couldn’t bear to let him go, and now they’re both gone…but that’s not what I meant.” I square my shoulders. “I’m done being scared. Let’s rattle Jada—finish this.”
“How?” Dax asks.
I relay the plan I came up with on the way over. “We’ll set a trap. I’ll send her a thought saying that I know she killed Delilah and Rick and tried to kill Bonnie. Wait, even better—let’s set a trap for all of the Tenners, in case I’m wrong about Jada. I’ll ask each of them to bring something or other to buy my silence and we’ll see who shows up.”
Dax leans back against the wall with his feet crossed and shakes his head at me. “I don’t like it. Too dangerous.”
“You said it yourself—I’m already a target. But all right, I’ll do it anonymously. Notes instead of thoughts, slipped under doors. I’ll hide out of sight to see who shows up to drop off whatever item I ask for.”
“You don’t know how to write and neither do I,” Dax brings up a practical objection. “It’s not like we can go to a public notary and request a set of blackmail cards.”
“I’ll muddle through somehow.” He still seems hesitant, so I ask, “Do you have a better idea?”
He concedes defeat and we make a plan to meet up at midnight.
After dinner, I move the floor lamp in my room over to the bed so its circle of light falls on the supplies I picked up at the market: a note-paper pad, yellowed with age, and two wooden pencils. “You’ll also need this.” The seller had handed me a squarish plastic thingamabob. “It sharpens the pencil when it goes dull.”
I plop on the bed on my stomach. Cece, let’s do this. First, a secluded spot… I know, how about the apple tree where Dax and I listened to Ben the Birdman give a speech at the town party? It’s right by the waste-processing plant, so it’s usually deserted… That’s WHERE, now for WHEN. Best to do it before the map goes live for the day, say half past six. Hopefully no one at the Security Office will pick up on anything odd going on… Which leaves the WHAT. Nothing too pricey—we want to give the impression of leaving the door open for future asks, just as a real blackmailer might do…
Cece interrupts. Blackmail. To extort money or a valuable object from a person by threatening to expose distasteful information. Are you not a real blackmailer, Scott?
Of course not, Watson, it’s just part of the investigation—a clever trap. Now, where was I?
The what.
Right, the item of value. An antique such as Bodi’s silver letter opener?… Probably best not to meet a murderer by asking them to bring a knife… A basket filled with old-world knick-knacks? Too many letters to write… Wait, got it.
I ready the pencil above the first page of the notepad and dictate text for Cece to display in my eye field. Stopping now and then to erase mistakes, I copy down the letters one by one and end up with:
I KNOW YOU KILLED DELILAH AND RICK. BUY OLD NEWSPAPER. LEAVE UNDER APPLE TREE BY WASTE PLANT. SATURDAY 6:30 a.m.
I sit up on the bed and study the resulting uneven, wonky letters. The note took twenty minutes, even with the choice of leaving out Bonnie’s accident for the sake of brevity. I could have sent a thought to everyone in New Seattle in a thousandth of that time and cast the widest net possible, if only a way of doing so anonymously existed.
Having finished with Jada’s note, I count how many more I need and come up with eight: the other guests in Delilah’s suite the night she died—minus Rick but keeping Bonnie as she might have faked her accident to throw suspicion off herself.
After a moment’s consideration, I add one more name.
The guilty party will have all of tomorrow, Friday, to buy an old newspaper. It won’t be market day, but there are a handful of permanent stalls selling items of that sort. As to why a newspaper, I’m curious about the world Tadeo—my father; I still can’t get used to the idea—left behind.
As to the innocent, they’ll be puzzled by the note and hopefully put it down to a prank in poor taste.
Sharpening the pencil, which takes off a thin and curly beige slice, I get started on the first letter of the next note.
Just before midnight, there’s a knock on my door. Dax, in dark clothes and an old-fashioned baseball cap. He holds out an extra one. “Disguise. Don’t lose it, I have to return them to the Gardens Center in the morning. We use them to keep the sun out of our eyes.”
I reach out for the cap and wince. “My hand’s all crampy—it took me two hours to write them all. Right, let’s split up. I’ll t
ake half of the notes and you take the other—”
“Not letting you wander the streets alone in the dark, Scottie, with a murderer on the loose.”
This causes me to grin at him for some reason. Dax’s words send a romantic warmth through me—and, truth be told, I feel safer with him by my side. The ten folded notes in hand, we make the rounds along the deserted streets from one building to the next, starting with Blank Jack’s room in Housing Thirty and ending at Jada’s suite in Housing One.
Jada’s living space is right under where Delilah’s used to be—I never did respond to Jobs and Housing about whether I want it. As I watch Dax slip the last of the notes under the door—the paper sticks a bit on the carpet and he has to nudge it in—it strikes again, the sense of being watched, same as in the tavern basement. The sparsely lit hallway is silent. At the far end, the door to the building stairwell is as we left it, propped open with a cap so we can leave as quietly as we came. Jada, staring at us through the peephole? The fish-eye lens reveals nothing. There’s no map access at this time of the night for anyone to track us…except Bodi, who may very well have been keeping an eye on me since this all began.
30
Delilah and Rick are nurturing a clutch of speckled eggs, fragile and wondrous at the end of Hugh’s scope. There’s a smudge on the lens and he uses a shirt corner to wipe it off before refocusing. The piebald sparrow—Hugh has named it Renee—comes into view. He’s heard that its human counterpart has been offered the job of bird catcher. He’s still hopeful that Bird Control is just a fad and that interest in his sparrows will fade.
Renee flies off and Hugh loses her in the glare of the sunrise. It’s just as well. His mission today is peculiar and has nothing to do with birds. The matter encroaches on his credo of non-involvement in town affairs, but McKinsey and Bodi called on him to help. All other options were less than optimal.
All the Whys of Delilah's Demise Page 20