Page 32

“Well, yeah,” said Jack. “It’s an underground criminal enterprise dealing in death. It’s not gonna feel like Disney World, dude.”

“I feel fine,” said Dale on a shrug.

But Greer said nothing. She stood a few paces behind the others, arms wrapped around each other in what would have been a hug if there was anyone in between them.

“Greer?” Jack pulled away from the group and closed the gap between them. “What’s up?”

“This is going to work, right?” Her gaze never left the floor.

“You heard what that Cyrus guy said,” said Jack. “The list has only been a rumor until now. That makes it rare, and rare is expensive. This is going to work.”

Greer nodded but still didn’t look up. “It has to work, Jack.”

“For your daughter, I know,” Jack said, voice soft.

Greer’s hazel gaze lifted for just a second, as if his words surprised her, before it fell back to the floor. “Exactly. For my daughter.”

Before Jack could say anything else, something grazed his elbow. He turned to find Cyrus just behind him, a strange look on his face. Cyrus pressed the list to Jack’s chest with more force than was strictly necessary, pale blue eyes aflame. “Get out.”

Jack slid a quick look at Greer as the others gathered behind him.

“What’s up?” Jack tried to say, but he’d barely finished the first syllable when Eli cut in, snarling, “Jack, what the fuck did you do?”

Cyrus beckoned the bald man by the door with a curl of the finger. “This is a forgery.”

Jack grabbed the paper and ran a frantic eye over it. This definitely wasn’t the copy he’d made from the original; the handwriting wasn’t his, and he’d taken every precaution to keep the authentic list and the copy separate. But the paper he held in his hands was of the same type as the scroll beneath the glass dome in the Room of Records at S.C.Y.T.H.E.

“That’s impossible,” said Jack.

“If the Scroll of Souls exists,” said Cyrus, “it’s written in the first ink invented in ancient China, just as it has been for as long as paper-based writing has existed. This is ballpoint pen.”

Jack peered at the list. Cyrus was right. The names did seem to be written in the streaky blue ink of the Bic pens lying around the office, something Jack hadn’t given a second thought to until now.

The man from the door appeared in front of them, face hard, and with a quick nod from Cyrus, he escorted the You Agains from the factory with one meaty hand on Jack’s bony shoulder and another on Eli’s. Greer kept her eyes on Jack the whole walk to the door, a pleading look scribbled like ballpoint ink across her features. He could feel himself stumble under the weight of it, but there was nothing he could do. Not now, not as puzzle pieces he hadn’t even known were missing slotted into place.

The night air brushed his cheeks as he staggered out the door with a measured shove from the bald man, the metal click of a lock reverberating behind them. Jack hopped a step or two, regaining his balance as the others gathered around.

“Well, shit,” said Jack, closing his fist hard over the forgery of the list he’d forged. “Looks like someone beat us to it.”

18

There was a cunning thief lurking within the corporate beige walls of the S.C.Y.T.H.E. offices, and Jack couldn’t believe it wasn’t him. Someone else had snuck into the Room of Records and taken the Master List before he had ever had the chance, but for the afterlife of him, Jack couldn’t imagine who, or why. His coworkers all struck him as fairly corporate beige themselves. Stealing a priceless death list didn’t really seem like the kind of thing Linda from Accounts or Arnold over in Natural Causes would get up to in their free time. But someone had. And whoever it was had to be high enough up to know of both the Master List’s existence and its location. That would narrow down the suspects, but truth be told, lowly agents like Jack only ever dealt with their immediate supervisors, the department managers. Anyone above that rank seemed to rarely step foot in the office, and if they did, he’d certainly never been introduced to them.

Still, at least the department managers offered him a place to start. After being manhandled out of the goth flea market the night before, Jack and the others had gathered back at Margaret’s, the buzz of earlier in the evening replaced by the weight of defeat. It wasn’t the first time they’d botched a job. That went with the territory. But this time it wasn’t a math test score or a night in the slammer at stake, it was Greer’s daughter. It was Jack’s second chance.

From the moment Jack had taken in the ballpoint scribbles on the paper he’d stolen, he knew. There was no question in his mind that someone—someone else—at S.C.Y.T.H.E. had taken the list. There wasn’t any use trying to convince Cyrus of the authenticity of its contents; if the list was forged, there was no reason for him to believe Jack that the information it contained was true. What he needed now was to discover who had the real thing and get it to the Bleak Market. He’d have to work quick: Dale needed to cross over within forty-five days of his death to avoid becoming a ghost, and while Jack didn’t know how imminent things were with Greer’s daughter, her desperation made him decide it would be better to get this done sooner rather than later. But Jack McCoy never shied away from a challenge.

From the expensive austerity of Margaret’s living room, surrounded by the people who mattered most, Jack explained the situation. He was met with more pushback than he’d anticipated, Eli and Carter ready to abandon the job altogether, but Dale was undeterred, and Greer, well, Greer didn’t have the luxury of giving up. So it was decided: Jack would return to work in the morning and find out what he could about the heads of each department so the group could recalibrate and formulate a new plan. Someone at his office had the Master List in their possession, and Jack needed to sniff them out so he could take what was rightfully his. Or at least, what was no more wrongfully his than it was for whoever had taken it.

The Murder department of Jack’s branch of S.C.Y.T.H.E. was headed by a woman named Brenda Wahl. Brenda shared a rough age bracket with Margaret and stood only a few inches taller than Jack’s borrowed height of five feet. The photo app on Margaret’s phone suggested she and Brenda had something of a friendship outside of the office, with pictures of the women on the golf course or at upscale cocktail bars scattered among images of Wesley and one photo Jack had initially taken as risqué but that turned out to be medical in nature.

Margaret’s friendship with Brenda meant Jack just had to play the part convincingly enough to suss her out. A quick knock on her office door and he was ushered inside with a singsong greeting from within. Jack poked his head around the door and Brenda’s dyed-brown bob lifted from where she’d been craned over her desk, reading through files.

“Oh, Margie, come in!” She closed the files and propped her chin in the bridge formed by her clasped hands, her elbows resting on the desk.

Jack took the chair across from her and carefully crossed one leg over the other. He’d practiced this move many times over the past few months. Not having anything at risk of getting caught between his legs certainly made the maneuver easier, but he still hadn’t fully adjusted to sitting so demurely. He straightened his plum pencil skirt and tried to imagine how these two geriatric gal pals talked to each other. This was probably not a “what’s crackin’, home slice?” situation. Though situations rarely were these days.

Before he had the chance to try his elderly lingo, Brenda spoke. “This isn’t about dinner at the Honeysuckle, is it? Sorry again, Margie. I’ve been so swamped lately, but Roger and I would still love to go at some point.”