Page 17

This prompted a wet guffaw from the man. Okay, so he’d said something funny. That could be good. A flirty joke. Everyone enjoyed a flirty joke, even if it was unintentional. Jack ran fingers through his stiff hairdo and gave what he hoped was a seductive giggle.

“You know,” Jack said, “I bet a handsome man like you is a bit of a rebel. I mean, pigeons? What else? Motorcycles? Drugs?”

“Oh, I’ve been on my best behavior since I left the military. Spent too many years having to make tricky decisions for the greater good. It’s the restful life for me these days. Although”—the man leaned in farther, closing the gap between them and whispering conspiratorially—“last Sunday I went out for an early bird special, but it was only four-fifty. Saved fifteen percent off the suckers even though they don’t technically start serving until five.”

“Hot,” Jack whispered back. “Listen, I’d never ask, but since you walk such a dangerous line anyway, do you think you could get me into Section 301 D?”

The man straightened and sucked his teeth for a moment. “Oh, Ms. Chen, I don’t think I can. We have to abide by very strict rules here in the archives, you understand. It’s an important job. There’s a reason they don’t put just anyone down here.”

Jack ran a finger down one of the feathers in the book. “Not even for little old me?” For the first time in his existence, both of those adjectives were strikingly accurate.

The man fidgeted with his bow tie again. “You drive a hard bargain. I can’t go letting you loose in there, of course, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to show you around.”

It was a start, Jack decided. He might not be able to do any actual research this way, but there was always a benefit to casing a joint. It would make coming back after hours a heck of a lot more efficient.

Jack batted his mascara-coated lashes and followed the man back through rows of shelves he’d perused only a few short weeks ago. The fluorescent lights above hummed like bugs trapped in a jar, restless and bleak. For a company devoted to the afterlife, the building that housed it was remarkably lacking in soul.

Aisle upon aisle of metal shelving units blurred together as they walked, centuries of dates written in changing hands scribbled across labels in front of weathered files. Between each row, a security camera blinked down. Jack tracked them as he walked, clocking blind spots in the nooks and crannies tucked among the endless shelves. Finally they reached a door at the very, very back of the bashfully eggshell labyrinth. A small bronze sign held onto the door by two reluctant nails, engraved with the words “Section 301 D—Authorized Personnel Only.”

The man whipped a key card from the pocket of a pair of brown trousers that sat alarmingly close to his armpits. He tapped it to his forehead. “Good thing I’m authorized.”

Jack attempted to swoon at this, though in truth he’d never quite figured out exactly what a swoon was. His best guess involved heavy breathing and a small wobble, though that may have come across more as a burp. The man didn’t seem to mind. With a triumphant flourish, he swiped his key card and swung the door open. Although a patchwork of more fluorescent lights flickered to life, their ticking suggested they weren’t thrilled at being revived. That wasn’t something Jack could relate to, though he supposed he might have felt differently as a corporate lighting fixture.

Inside the small room were more metal shelves, which came as a bit of a disappointment to Jack, who had expected its top secret status to be accompanied by a little more oomph. He went to step inside, but the man gently tugged him back by the wrist.

“That’s as far as I can let you go, I’m afraid,” he said. “Still. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Jack summoned a few half-hearted oohs and aahs, his focus fixed on the shelves and their contents. He scanned past the reams of old files until he locked onto a corner at the back of the room piled with books and cardboard boxes. There were no labels to be found in that corner, and every surface appeared to be covered in dust, which all seemed promising. That would be where Jack would start when he returned. Which he would have to do, because the startled lemur beside him made for an unrelenting guard.

9

It was after eight p.m. and Jack was restless. He was always restless before a job. It was like his body knew how much adrenaline was about to hit and decided to get a head start on the process. Even in a different body, he found himself unable to sit still as the hours ticked by. Dale was back on the leather sofa, cracking up in sync with the laugh track of whatever sitcom they were watching. Jack had barely been paying attention when he turned the TV on. Within ten minutes of arriving home after work, he was already pacing. Half an hour and he’d made visible tracks in the white carpet. By now, most of the dust and crumbs brave enough to try making a life for themselves on the lower floor of Margaret’s otherwise spotless house had been swept onto Jack’s knee-high compression socks.

The man from S.C.Y.T.H.E.’s archives was called Gerard. This Jack had learned from the key card he’d nabbed during a flirtatious stumble that ended in tangled limbs and subtle but awkward pocket searching. Jack had to dodge a great many things during that faux stumble, but one thing he couldn’t avoid was the promise of a date the following weekend. Which was fine, probably. Gerard didn’t strike him as the sort to get too handsy on the first date, and Jack was too much of a lady to give in to anything if he tried. Plus it meant he now had the little plastic rectangle that would grant him access to a room full of answers. He ran the key card between his fingers as he paced, the smooth white surface a promise in his hands.

He checked his watch again. Time always seemed to move slowest when you had the least use for it. Jack smiled to himself. That was a thought he’d first had on the night he and the You Agains broke into the city library on a mission to find the dirty books they weren’t allowed to read in the daylight. He was eleven and a half and nobody would tell him what an areola was. It felt like ages between the time school ended and when his parents finally went to bed. Dale, Eli, and Carter were sleeping over. They would meet Greer and Jules at the library, if only Jack could survive the wait. He’d learned a lot that night. Not what an areola was, unfortunately, but about the importance of timing when breaking and entering, which proved just as valuable. Especially when it came to not having a worried dog-walker call the cops on you or getting grounded.

Finally, his time arrived. Ten o’clock was too late for any of S.C.Y.T.H.E.’s day workers and still an hour early for the night shift. Jack had slipped into Margaret’s stealthiest attire: a black cashmere turtleneck, tweed slacks, and practical flats. He’d selected a purse big enough to hold any paperwork they needed to smuggle out while still tastefully coordinating with his ensemble. He was ready.

Jack and Dale loaded into the Mercedes, the night air crisp against skin hot with anticipation. Jack rolled down the windows as he drove, savoring everything that came with a night like this: the knot of thrill in his gut, the frantic breeze against his cheeks, the plan etched in his mind like a testament from God. Not that God, sure, but a trickster kind of god. There were lots of those, and they always seemed to be on Jack’s side.

This was it. This was what it meant to be alive. Okay, he may have had a small bladder leak in his excitement, but he had the appropriate undergarments for the situation. All that mattered now was that Jack McCoy was back, baby.

• • •

The parking lot was empty, but Jack eased the Mercedes to a stop by the curb a few blocks away, just in case. Plausible deniability, like timing, was an invaluable asset in situations like this.

Dale gave a whistle as they approached the glass doors that led to the S.C.Y.T.H.E. offices.

“It’s like the office from The Office,” he said, taking in the five stories of gray brick and glass. “I never had you down for a suit-and-tie man, Jackie.”

“It’s more a dress-and-kitten-heels situation,” Jack clarified.

“Didn’t really have you down for that either,” said Dale. “But you make it work.”

Jack slung his purse from his shoulder as they approached the locked doors. He dug around for a minute. These things really needed compartments. Ah. His hand landed on his lock picking kit. A moment later, they were in. He ushered Dale to the basement and swiped his key card for the archives, a little green light signaling their admittance.

“It’s back there.” Jack jutted his chin down the middle aisle toward the door hidden somewhere in the dark beyond. Then he gestured to the ceiling. “There are cameras every six feet up there, mostly down the center aisle. If we stay to one side we should be fine.”