All the Whys of Delilah's Demise

by Neve Maslakovic

  He scans with the scope. There. Two walkers are ambling into the garden, their steps in harmony, as if they’re comfortable in each others’ presence underneath their dark caps. In the garden for the exercise of a dawn stroll? He thinks not.

  The shorter of the two figures takes her cap off for a moment to adjust it, giving him a glimpse of her face. It’s Scott, the young woman who paid him a visit before she shot up to number one. The pair hide behind the above-ground pipe of the waste processing center as if lying in wait for someone, and Hugh does his job by taking snapshot after snapshot through the scope.

  The bulky pipe hiding Dax and me belongs to the waste center but there’s no smell, only a disturbing sound of sloshing liquid. The pipe bends and disappears into the ground at the perimeter of the Dome, the waste it carries destined for fertilizer in the greenhouses, according to Dax, who’s had plenty of time to chat about it. It’s a quarter of an hour past the time designated on my blackmail notes and the sole creatures in and about the apple tree thus far have been a couple of sparrows. Dax and I have gone from crouching behind the pipe to sitting on the ground with our backs against it, our feet stretched out.

  I unwrap another bar. “More chocolate?”

  “Aren’t you sick of eating it?”

  “Nope,” I answer through a mouthful.

  Dax gives a large yawn. “This murder investigation is turning out to be killer on my sleep. Couldn’t we have watched the map from bed to see who showed up?”

  “The map isn’t live for another fifteen minutes. Even if it were live, you would have still needed to be awake.”

  “At least I could have stayed in my pajamas.”

  I’m still getting used to the new reality—Dax and I going from being PALs at arm’s length to this new bond, all the barriers gone.

  “If someone does show up,” he continues, “you’re not gonna jump out to confront them, are you, Scottie?”

  “I thought of it,” I admit. “No, we’ll stay hidden and see who it is, then bring everything we have to Bodi and hope he takes us seriously.”

  “He’ll take you seriously. After all, you’re the—”

  “Shh, someone’s coming.”

  We roll back into the crouched position but the jogger passes by without so much as a glance at the tree. “False alarm. What were you going to say, Dax?”

  “That Bodi can’t dismiss you like before. You’re the number one.”

  “I keep forgetting that.”

  Another ten minutes go by and Dax gets to his feet and lends a hand to pull me up. “So it’s none of them—or the killer knew that it was a trap.”

  Either way, we need to leave before anyone figures out our identity when the map goes live.

  “I wonder if we’ve been thinking about it all wrong,” I say as, holding hands, we take the garden path through a patch of sunflowers rustling in the draft of one of the big air turbines. “I realized something… Being number one and the stuff that comes with it, the perks, the parties, the attention…it’s a hollow affair, an illusion, and it took me all of four days to figure that out. Jada knows that it’s an illusion. She still wants it and would be willing to lie, cheat, and steal to get there, I’m sure…but murder is different. It seems to me that whoever it is that’s hungering for number one—enough to kill for it—must have a stronger motive than their face at the top of a billboard or extra perks—or even Eternal Life.”

  “What other reason is there for wanting to be number one?” Dax asks.

  “Someone’s looking not for the illusion but the real thing.”

  “The real thing?”

  We’ve reached the perimeter of the garden. On the open street, foot traffic is picking up for the day. “Love.”

  “Love you back, Scottie.”

  I give his hand a final squeeze before letting go. “What the killer wants is a more of a one-sided kind of love. Adoration.” I gesture at the buildings bathed in the morning light, a crisp new day breaking over New Seattle. “From all of us—the whole town.”

  Dax scratches his chin under the cap. “Is that why you included Blank Jack? I suppose he did lose everyone he had—who knows how that can affect a person? The past couple of years must have been lonely for him. Still, how would he have gotten access to Delilah’s suite?”

  “One thing I learned vacuuming is that no one noticed me much. People are always going in and out of places—food deliveries, maintenance staff, cleaners, and so on.” Cece breaks in and I add, “I have to go—McKinsey wants to see me.”

  At the Agency, three people are waiting for me. My boss is at her desk, with Bodi to one side—on his feet and arms crossed below his usual unreadable expression—and Hugh on the other. My interactions with McKinsey since my luck changed have been awkward—she’s my boss but I’m above her on the social and affluence scale, which has lent an air of over-politeness to our recent conversations—but now her gaze is steely. She slides one of the blackmail notes in my direction across the desk. “What kind of tasteless prank is this, Scott? You slipped this under my door, didn’t you? Don’t bother denying it.”

  Words tumble out of me. “It’s not a prank. I was trying to draw out Delilah and Rick’s killer.”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen McKinsey rendered speechless. When she does finally find her tongue, it’s sharp. “You think I killed Delilah and Rick?”

  My ears are burning with shame. “No—I was just trying to be thorough by writing ten notes.”

  “Ten? Good Lord,” Bodi says. “Who else got them?”

  “All of the Tenners, current and recent—except for Renee.”

  “At least Renee escaped a nasty message under her door.” McKinsey’s tone is icy enough to pierce skin.

  I have a question for Bodi. “Have you been watching me on the map?”

  “We don’t do that kind of thing, stalk people. Hugh saw from the roof— No, I won’t ask who the other person was.”

  I was about to insist that Dax’s presence in the garden was purely accidental and that he had no knowledge of any blackmail.

  Bodi picks up the note. “No one showed up carrying a newspaper, did they, so will you finally quit pursuing this now, Scott?”

  “Even if I think I’m in danger?”

  “Because you’re number one?” A crack appears in McKinsey’s wall of anger. “Scott, I think it’s fine to relax and enjoy your newfound wealth and fame. Everyone feels like an imposter at first. No one is out to get you.”

  Touched by McKinsey’s compassion after I accused her of murder, all I want is to leave. But there’s a question to be asked first. My new rank did not come with a side serving of wisdom. I’m not untouchable. “Am I fired—again?”

  “For trying to blackmail your boss? For hassling fine, upstanding New Seattle citizens? We haven’t decided yet.” McKinsey holds up a hand to forestall any response from me and says, “Discussion,” and I know the three are silently chatting about me. All I can do is stand with my head bowed.

  After Bodi and Hugh leave, Hugh still not having said a word, McKinsey explains why I was summoned to her office and not to security. “Bodi guessed it was you and suggested we handle this outside the Security Office. Consider yourself lucky—the three of us decided there’s been too much upheaval these past few weeks. We’ll put out the word that a prank got out of hand. Your name will be kept out of it. And no, you’re not fired. The number one is never fired.”

  She lobs a final piece of advice in my direction. “In the future, Scott, keep in mind that you don’t have to approach things underhandedly anymore. What you think is important, others will.”

  Deciding to test this, I run downstairs to catch up with Bodi.

  31

  Bodi’s gaze is less weighty on me now; if he still suspected me of being behind the attacks, my rash blackmail plan has surely convinced him otherwise. I’ve caught up with him on the front steps of Town Offices One. He asks, “What is it, Scott?”

  I deliver the answer with the i
magined authority of the number one. “Renee. You did her intake interview. What did she tell you about herself?”

  Bodi’s significant eyebrows register amusement at my tone. “There’s nothing of note in her backstory.”

  “She must have had a life Outside,” I insist before he has a chance to walk away. Renee the Recluse, Chase called her. She was a no-show at the gala and the Tenner meeting. Is she still getting used to her new life, or is it something else?

  Bodi, as if the whims of the number one must be somewhat indulged, says, “Look, if someone asks to stay—happens once every couple of years—I look at character, not the background details. Does the individual seems trustworthy and honest? Will they do their job and stay out of trouble? Blank Jack gave the impression of hiding something. While that did turn out to be the case, it wasn’t anything sordid, just a sad family story. Renee was open and frank with me.”

  “Did she say what made her come in?”

  “Sometimes a person just wants a fresh start. I think she’ll fit in fine.”

  After the building doors close behind him, I instruct, Cece, locate Renee.

  She’s outside Work Three.

  Work Three is not far. I walk over only to find that Renee’s been on the move, the map now showing her a couple of blocks away, near Medical Two. Rather than chase her further, I decide to look for her in the evening.

  I make my way to the Jobs and Housing Office, which also doubles as the town warehouse. It’s my first time here, my bike-errand and vacuuming assignments having always arrived via thought. A harried-looking clerk occupies an oversized desk in the middle of a cavernous space. If there were supplies stocked up around the desk in the past, the years have shrunk them down to a handful of crates and cardboard boxes stacked in corners. My voice echoes a bit as I address the clerk. “I came to ask about Renee.”

  “No time to look that up,” he all but barks in my direction; except for constant blinking, his eyes seem to be permanently stuck in the low-left position. “I think tasks out”—blink—“and they either get done, or don’t, in which case they boomerang back to me and we do another round. At the moment”—blink—“I’ve got twenty-five things to deal with: a leaky sink has been reported and I need Maintenance to deal with that”—blink—“and someone wants to switch floors so I have to look into that”—blink—“and the Housing Twelve cafeteria fridge died in the night and a cleaning crew needs to deal with that”—blink—“and I’ve had to dig up a paper map for the new bird catcher, so there’s that—”

  “Renee’s working already?” I interrupt. I do some quick math; according to what Bonnie said in the Tenner meeting, Renee was scheduled for the chip implant on Wednesday. “It’s only three days after her surgery.”

  “It’s microsurgery—a tiny incision for the chip and a tiny hole in the skull for the mesh syringe, and you’re all done—” The clerk blinks in my direction and an aghast expression overwrites the harried one. “Scott, my apologies, didn’t mean to be rude. Let me check the details for you at once… Renee, you said? Let’s see, she came in”—blink—“on the twenty-sixth of March, a Friday. She was originally in”—blink—“Housing Thirty, but I moved her after her fortunes improved.” He makes eye contact with me again. “The suite that used to be Rick’s. Since she’s still—as you so rightfully pointed out—recovering from surgery and in the training phase of her CC, she’s doing only light work for the moment. Ben has her marking nest locations on the paper map.”

  “What’s she like?”

  He gets back to work. “Who can remember? Like I said”—blink—“I’ve got twenty-five things to deal with—no, twenty-nine…”

  After a filling dinner at the Housing Thirty-Three cafeteria—a meal during which plenty of trays joined my own at the table—I kickstand my bike outside Housing Two. Dax offered to come along, but I figure it’s best if I visit Renee on my own, given how skittish she seems to be.

  I’m here not because Jada wants to know all about Renee and has given the Curse Slayer the job. Make her your friend, she said, a sinister and repulsive order. No, the vibe I’ve been trusting all along is telling me that I need to talk to Renee. That she has a reason for keeping a low profile. And that my life may depend on knowing what it is.

  Before going into the building, I have Cece show me the snapshot of Renee. I’ve glimpsed it on billboards but now I study it in my eye-field. Renee is smiling at whoever took the snapshot—a sophisticated, composed smile that reveals a set of teeth so perfect as to make me jealous. Her features are smooth and unweathered, as if the cold was kinder to her than to Blank Jack, though of course she is twenty-six—half his age. The most striking thing is her mass of hair, tumbling past the shoulders of her white top.

  There’s something about the image, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I stare at it a long time.

  Inside, a knock on the door marked Suite One produces no answer.

  I knock more loudly. “It’s Scottie. I dropped by to introduce myself and say hello.”

  The map shows Renee at home, her dot blinking bright red in the main room of the suite. No way to tell if she’s ignoring my knock or napping on a couch oblivious to my presence. Feeling foolish, I press on. “Hope you’re healing well from the ConnectChip surgery and settling in fine. All the attention—well, I’m not used to it either. To be honest, I’d be glad of a friend.”

  The door stays shut in my face.

  Back in my room, I ready for bed, the full belly making me drowsy, and soon drift off to sleep. The dream that comes is of mountains peaks covered not in snow like in my window but vibrant gems. Delilah is pulling me up the glittering slopes and at the same time I’m pulling her down. We see-saw, gems crunching under our feet, until, in one moment of horror, dream-me sees that Delilah’s face is my own and that I’m in a battle with myself. Then the gems collapse in an avalanche, burying me alive…

  I wake up in a sweat. Getting out of bed for a drink of water from the pitcher on the corner table, I stub my toe and swear in a fashion that would cause Cece, if I hadn’t put her in sleep mode, to brightly inform me that the Code of Conduct frowns majorly upon that particular word. I pour water into a glass, drain it, and get back in bed. The dream isn’t hard to interpret. I’m feeling exposed, beset by worries that all my new gems will be the death of me—as the number-one crown was for my mother. I spend the remainder of the night tossing and turning, unable to shake off the fear that the killer is watching from the shadows, biding their time.

  Morning brings a thought from Renee. It’s choppy—she’s still getting used to her CC—and makes her sound hesitant, like Poulsbo. “Scott… How awesome of you to stop by my place…last night. I’m still getting used to my new life, would prefer to be left alone…to do so. I hope you…understand.”

  32

  7:55 p.m.

  Twenty-four hours have passed since I tried to befriend Renee and here I am nearing her doorstep again. Muffled sounds of evening activities seep out from behind doors and walls as I take the hallway to her suite. Though she requested privacy, I plan to keep on knocking until she lets me in.

  I do so, loudly enough that I’m more hammering on the door, and a neighbor down the hall pokes their head out to see what the commotion is. A belated thought occurs to me. Cece, people map.

  I’ve just missed her—Renee’s dot is headed away from the building, one of many in Founders Square. I give myself a mental kick for forgetting to check beforehand and gauge whether I can catch up with her if I hurry. Then I have an idea. It’s not perhaps the best idea, but I follow through with it anyway.

  I press the handle.

  The door is unlocked and swings open. I fumble for the light switch and find it. The stillness of a living space unoccupied at the moment greets me. “Anyone here?” I call out even though I know no one is nearer than the neighboring suite, and squat down to pick up what’s at my feet: the Tenner gala invite. Ty slid it under the door on Monday morning, six days ago—the day her fortun
es improved, as the Jobs and Housing clerk put it. Renee hasn’t bothered to pick it up. Remembering that I haven’t gotten around to giving Ty the ruby I promised and feeling bad about it, I close the door behind me and set the invite on the living room table, then take a look around. Renee’s suite—Rick’s old space—is spacious and bright, if a bit bare; whatever knick-knacks Rick had would have gone to the warehouse and Renee hasn’t added any yet.

  I poke around a bit. The personal fridge is well-stocked with Tenner fare, the sink empty of dishes and dry. Spread out on the kitchen table is the paper map the clerk mentioned, bent at the corners with age and torn here and there along well-worn folds. Renee has been marking nest locations with neat x’s and additional details: “nest in tree,” “second floor, nest in crack above window sill,” and “nest on roof water tower.” She has decent hand-writing skills.

  The map is the main sign of life. In the bedroom, the pillows are fluffed up, the blanket creaseless. Same as the living room, the bedside table lacks any personal items. Neatly folded linens and a small selection of clothes occupy the dresser drawers. In the bathroom, the towels are pristine, the toothbrush new. Sometimes a person just wants a fresh start, Bodi said, and Renee has gotten hers.

  Back in the living room, I push the balcony doors open. What used to be Rick’s view faces north; Delilah’s suite, across the square one floor up, is fully dark. As to the suite I’m currently trespassing in, a quick check of the map produces the information that its occupant is to be found at the entrance to the Oyster. I peer over the railing, but I’m too high up and the figures under the streetlamps are small and indistinguishable.

  Remembering to slide the invite back on the floor where I found it, I leave, closing the door softly behind me.

  9:35 p.m.

  The eatery doors shut behind Jada. It’s been a frustrating evening and she’s come out front to regain her composure, out of sight of her patrons and staff. She takes a few calming breaths, then immediately loses the calm as a figure steps out of the shadows. “Lu—you didn’t treat her well.”