Page 19

“You’re special ops?” said the man in the suit.

Had the shock of seeing Jack and Dale there turned this guy into a parrot? Jack decided not to be offended by the disbelief in his voice. Why shouldn’t he be special ops? Sure, he was Margaret just now, but he saw no reason why she shouldn’t be special ops either, aside from the arthritis and deteriorating eyesight. Besides, all any underling at S.C.Y.T.H.E. knew was that there was a secret agency within the organization tasked with doling out justice to those who toyed with the laws of death. Who they were and how they operated was knowledge disseminated on a need-to-know basis. For all any agent knew, the Department of Special Ops was made up entirely of little old ladies. If Margaret’s tidy drawers of paperwork were anything to go by, it would make for a very efficient agency.

“Yes. I’m special ops on a special mission. This is a special soul for reasons I can’t disclose. Special reasons.”

“Right,” said the man in the suit.

Was he buying this? Jack really needed him to buy this. One word to a higher-up that an agent had an essence in the building without clearance, and he was…not dead, exactly. It was too late for that. But fired, probably. Or worse; cast out of his host and into the ether with Dale and the other bodiless souls, doomed to a true end of life.

Jack leaned in conspiratorially. He was bringing out the big guns now. “Listen, uh…”

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“What?”

“Oh.” The Jack who was not the man in the suit gave a nod. “Jack,” said Jack. “Listen, Jack. The truth is, you weren’t supposed to see me here. My assignment is highly confidential, which is why I timed it between day and night shifts. But you know how these things go. Souls are tricky and things took longer than expected. But you look like a trustworthy man. I can trust you, can’t I? Because I would hate to have to take this interaction to the higher-ups and see what they do to make sure you keep this under your hat. My boss is very persuasive when it comes to top secret missions like this.”

The other Jack unfroze long enough to take a step backwards. “Right, yes, of course,” he sputtered. “If something’s top secret, it’s top secret. I completely understand.”

From over Other Jack’s shoulder, Jack spotted two more suited agents walking toward the revolving doors.

“Good,” Jack said quickly. “Excellent. I’ll be keeping an eye out to make sure you do.”

Other Jack began to say something else, but Jack was too busy shuffle-running to the door at top octogenarian speed to hear it. Dale drifted beside him through one of the doors just as the two other night shift agents entered the building, catching just enough of a glimpse of Dale to prompt a momentary creasing of foreheads before they fully vanished inside.

Jack didn’t slow his admittedly slow-adjacent pace until he was back in the Mercedes, Dale in the passenger seat, the S.C.Y.T.H.E. offices somewhere behind them in the thick dark of the night.

10

It was useless. Jack had never done exceedingly well in any high school class, but English literature was where his failures really shone. Not that he couldn’t have done well if he’d actually applied himself. Every teacher said so. But he’d had better things to apply himself to than untangling metaphors about unrequited love through the symbolism of curtain color. Until now: sitting at Margaret’s marble kitchen island with a steaming cup of black coffee, staring down at the flowery late-Victorian bullshit he’d snapped on his phone the night before. Who the hell wrote about mundane office protocol with words like “betwixt”?

All Jack had been able to glean from the chapter entitled “An Information Hierarchy: The Proprietors of Knowledge and How That Knowledge Ought to Be Disseminated for Optimal Efficiency and Confidentiality Among the Ranks” was that folks nearly two hundred years ago used too many words to say very little. And also that he might well be on the right track, if only he could hack through the weeds of convoluted description to figure out exactly where that track was. He skimmed the introductory paragraph for the seventh time that morning:

It best behooves both the daily proceedings as well as the covert nature of our organization that the identities of, and facts pertaining to, those who will presently shed their earthly coils be revealed only to those for whom the knowledge is most pertinent. Staff below the rank of Director are to have said knowledge only as it serves the function of their operation. Chairmen and Directors of one or more S.C.Y.T.H.E. facilities may freely access a comprehensive inventory of impending mortality as it is received each month from The Place via telegram. This document is to be secured upon receipt in the Room of Records of each facility. Entrance to the Room of Records shall be secreted betwixt that which relieves and that which nourishes, for we as arbiters of the afterlife must always remain cognizant of what it is that separates us from our clientele, in order to maintain a wall of indifference between us.

Okay, so there was a monthly list, though Jack had his doubts as to whether it was still sent by telegram. Regardless, that was the best he could decipher from the jumble of words on his phone screen. He exited out of his photo app and tapped his phone book, his thumb hovering tentatively over Greer’s number. She was in. She’d already said she was. And yet there was a sense of unreality to the past few days that left Jack half-sure it was all some weird possession-fueled fever dream, that she’d hang up at the sound of his voice the way she once had. If she even picked up at all.

He forced his thumb to tap the screen. Greer had gone to college for English literature. She’d studied books for fun. She’d be able to untangle the old tome from Section 301 D if anyone could. That was why he was calling. That and that alone.

“Hello?” She’d picked up. That was a start.

“Hey,” Jack said, keeping his tone measured, casual. “I need you.” Nope. Try again. “For the job,” he added quickly. “I need you for the job. There’s this book, I think it’s what we need, but I can’t understand a fucking word of it, and I thought, hey, Greer would be able to understand this, so that’s why I called.” Great, he’d just become as unnecessarily wordy as the book he was presently mad at.

“All right,” said Greer. “I’ll be over soon.”

That was it. It was that easy. Of course it was. They were working together, just like they used to. Sure, she didn’t exactly seem thrilled about it, but she was the one who’d reached out to him, after all. This was on her. She couldn’t be mad at him when this was on her.

Jack pocketed his phone and went to join Dale in the living room.

Greer arrived half an hour later in denim capris and a blue-and-yellow-striped polo T-shirt. Jack could have sworn she used to wear that same T-shirt when they were teens, but that couldn’t be right. That was decades ago. Decades ago, but this was still Greer.

“Well?”

Jack led her through to the living room, where his phone waited on the coffee table and Dale waited on the couch. He pulled up the picture and held it up to Greer, who took the phone and lowered herself to the couch. Dale shifted to the other cushion just in time to avoid her sitting through him.

“What am I looking at here?” Her eyes lifted to Jack.