The Wrong Dead Guy

  Bayliss wrote a report detailing with all of this, assuming that the DOPS was about to swoop in and arrest Laing, unaware that they were preparing to make him a job offer in Unfathomable Disbursements, a division for staff members who were paid in items a bit more chthonian than cash. After all, anyone who’d worked out how to embezzle from this world and the next and not have his skin used as a cocktail napkin in a demonic dive bar was, in the opinion of management, excellent DOPS material.

  Bayliss was in the process of printing her report when two men appeared in her cubicle and began to loom over her. Not stand, but specifically loom. The men were pale and, as far as she could see, entirely hairless. They wore matching suits and looked so much alike that when they she first saw them shoulder to shoulder, Bayliss thought they might be conjoined twins. In fact, they weren’t. At least, not physically.

  “Agent Bayliss?” said the one on the left.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’m Agent Night.”

  “And I’m Agent Knight,” said the one on the right.

  “You have the same name?”

  “No. He has a k,” said Night.

  “I have a k,”said Knight.

  “I see,” said Bayliss. “How can I help you?”

  “We’re from internal auditing and . . .” said Night.

  “. . . we’d like to ask you a few questions,” continued Knight.

  “About what?”

  “Your office . . .” said Night.

  “. . . supplies,” said Knight.

  “We have them.”

  “Oh,” said Bayliss.

  “Do you have any . . .” said Night.

  “. . . supplies in your desk?”

  “Some,” said Bayliss.

  “Are they authorized DOPS . . .”

  “. . . supplies?”

  “Yes, they are,” said Bayliss.

  “And did you obtain them through . . .”

  “. . . normal . . .” said Night.

  “. . . channels?”

  “You mean through a requisition?”

  “Yes,” said Night.

  “Yes,” said Knight.

  Bayliss said, “You see, someone was stealing them and—”

  “Did you . . .”

  “. . . report it?”

  “I wanted to, but I was afraid.”

  “Of . . .”

  “. . . what?”

  “Well, you,” said Bayliss.

  “Hmm,” said Night.

  “Hmm,” said Knight.

  “You should come . . .”

  “. . . with us.”

  “For auditing?” said Bayliss.

  “Yes.”

  “And bring your desk squid,” said Night.

  “We’d like to examine it.”

  “I’m afraid it was stolen, too.”

  Night and Knight leaned together, whispering rapidly in each other’s ear.

  “You should come with us,” said Night.

  “Everything is going to be all . . .” said Knight.

  “. . . right. There’s nothing to worry . . .”

  “. . . about.”

  “Let me get my things,” said Bayliss.

  “Of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Bayliss picked up her shoulder bag from under her desk, pausing for a minute so that the Auditors wouldn’t see her hands trembling. She took a breath and prepared to leave when from behind her she heard, “Hi. Who are your friends?”

  She looked up and saw Coop and Giselle shoulder to shoulder with the Auditors.

  Night looked them over. “Who are . . .”

  “. . . you?” said Knight.

  Giselle said, “I’m Agent Petersen.”

  “I’m Coop,” said Coop.

  “Ahhh,” said Night.

  “Ahhh,” said Knight.

  “The thief, yes?”

  “Yes, the thief?”

  Bayliss looked down at the bag in her lap. “They know about the office supplies.”

  Coop raised his eyebrows at the Auditors. “You think maybe I took them?”

  “Who . . .”

  “. . . knows?”

  “You remind me of a couple of Auditors I heard in the lunchroom,” said Coop. “They were clones. Are you clones? Are you all clones?”

  “What makes you ask . . .” said Night.

  “. . . that?” said Knight.

  “That,” said Coop.

  “What?” said Night and Knight.

  “That. What you said. What you both said.”

  The Auditors shook their heads vigorously.

  “We’re not clones. My name has an n.”

  “My name has a k.”

  Coop looked at Bayliss. “That certainly clears everything up.”

  “Where were you . . .” said Night.

  “. . . when the office supplies were . . .” said Knight.

  “. . . stolen?”

  “I don’t need office supplies. I don’t write reports,” said Coop.

  “Everyone writes . . .”

  “. . . reports.”

  “I don’t. I just steal things.”

  “Hmm,” said Night.

  “Hmm. Do you have a . . .”

  “. . . desk squid?”

  Coop shrugged. “I don’t even know if I have a desk. I used to have a hamster. A cat ate him.”

  The Auditors put their heads back together, whispering and taking quick glances at the three of them.

  Giselle leaned over to Bayliss. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve never been audited before.”

  “We’ll be looking out for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  The Auditors stood apart abruptly.

  “We’ll be . . .”

  “. . . in touch.”

  “That’s quite a speech impediment,” said Coop. “You ought to have it checked out.”

  The Auditors looked at each other.

  “What do you . . .”

  “. . . mean?”

  “Of course, maybe you’re just possessed. Woolrich knows some good exorcists. You’ll love it. It’s like an enema for your brain.”

  The Auditors frowned.

  “We have to . . .”

  “Go,” said Coop.

  “Yes. Agent Bayliss is . . .”

  “Going with you.”

  “Yes. We’ll be in touch with . . .”

  “Me,” said Coop.

  “Soon.”

  “Okay, but you should know that I’m cursed. Anyone around me is in mortal danger.”

  “Cursed?” said Bayliss.

  “Cursed?” said Night.

  “Cursed? Is it an . . .” said Knight.

  “. . . authorized cursing?”

  “If the guy who did it kills me, I’ll ask,” said Coop.

  “This is all . . .”

  “. . . extremely irregular.”

  Bayliss stood up. “Please, Coop. I just want to get this over with.”

  He nodded to her, then looked back at the Auditors.

  “It was swell meeting you. Don’t be strangers. Any stranger than you are, I mean.”

  “Come, Agent . . .”

  “. . . Bayliss.”

  “We’ll see you later,” said Coop to Bayliss.

  “Take care,” said Giselle. When they were gone she added, “Those guys are scary.”

  “Poor Bayliss.”

  “I wonder if there’s anything we can do.”

  “This, for a start,” said Coop. He took the trap out of his jacket and put it in Bayliss’s top drawer.

  “Going bear hunting, are you?” said Giselle.

  “I don’t know. Let’s see if I catch anything.”

  21

  It was the end of another long and particularly dull shift in the mail room. Nelson had spent the best part of the night working on his spreadsheet. Some parts were filling in quite nicely, but there were holes and blank spots everywhere. He sat back and looked at his work. It wa
sn’t exactly the plans for the Normandy Invasion. In fact, the more he stared the more it looked to him like the seating chart at a particularly hostile wedding reception.

  Technically, it was progress, but he was frustrated and confused. No matter how much correspondence he controlled, it didn’t seem to be getting him any closer to it. The book. He tapped his pencil on the desk. As much as it infuriated him, there was nothing to do right then but follow the mook work credo mounted on the wall over his desk:

  there’s no dread when you’re dead,

  let’s nail it on the head, so we can put it to bed.

  At some point in the past, the phrase must have stirred old memories in an especially dim mook’s brain, because someone played the game where you add “in bed” to the end of a fortune-cookie fortune. The sign over Nelson’s desk actually read . . . SO WE CAN PUT IT TO BED. IN BED. The additional words didn’t fill Nelson with despair so much as a kind of slow-burning alarm. Yes, there was nothing to do but carry on with his plans, but if they didn’t work out, Nelson wondered if he might end his days wandering the bowels of DOPS headquarters adding In bed to the end of every sign he came across.

  IN CASE OF FIRE, PULL ALARM. IN BED.

  EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS. IN BED.

  IN THE EVENT OF A SHOGGOTH OUTBREAK, USE TORCHES AND ABOMINATION REPELLENT PROVIDED. IN BED.

  Someone knocked on his door. He put his spreadsheet away. “Come in,” he said genially, trying to mask his inner turmoil.

  McCloud shuffled in. Nelson took his spreadsheet out again. He’d already hypnotized the mook earlier in the evening, so there was no reason to hide anything from him. And there were his extremely limited reading skills.

  Nelson started to say, “What can I help you with?” in a tone the management handbook called “Convivial Engrossment,” meant to convey “exuberant fascination to mask existential panic.” However, he only got as far as, “What c—”

  What stopped him from completing his carefully crafted greeting was McCloud’s right arm. Most of it was missing and what was left seemed to be attached to an old-fashioned bear trap.

  “I think I goofed up,” McCloud said. “Sorry, boss.”

  Nelson just stared. Even in the sometimes lethal confines of the DOPS, it was an unusual sight. Finally, he said, “Come here.”

  McCloud came around the desk, and after several minutes of pushing and wrenching with every implement Nelson could find in the mail-room toolbox, he managed to pry open the trap’s jaws enough for McCloud to pull out his mangled limb.

  “Thanks,” McCloud said as if Nelson had just given him a puppy for his birthday.

  “What the hell happened?” said Nelson. “Actually, forget that. I can see what happened. Where did it happen? How did it happen? And most importantly, did anyone see you?”

  McCloud’s eyes got glassy as he contemplated that many questions at once.

  He took a breath and said, “Bayliss’s desk. I put my hands in one of her drawers. And no one, because everyone had gone home.”

  Nelson put the bear trap on his desk and looked it over. It was a rusty, pockmarked antique with little shreds of McCloud between its teeth. There weren’t any markings or serial numbers on it to indicate where it had come from. But that didn’t matter. The trap had come from Bayliss’s desk, but it was nothing she would have ever done. But she had a friend who would have.

  “Coop,” said Nelson.

  It’s not enough that he dropped me down in pinhead central, now he’s going after the only assets I have to get me out of here.

  Nelson moved the filing cabinet and put the bear trap in the secret compartment where he’d been hiding Bayliss’s office supplies. McCloud was still standing by his desk, right arm dangling by a few spaghetti strands of meat, but without a care in the world.

  “Come on,” Nelson said.

  “Where are we going?” said McCloud.

  “We’re shoving your arm in the shredder. It’s the only safe way to explain how it got that way.”

  McCloud headed for the door. “You got it, boss,” he said merrily.

  Nelson pictured Coop’s smug face as he contemplated the man’s fate.

  Your time is coming. The moment I get the book . . .

  “Hey, look,” said Nelson. He twitched his shoulder up and down so that his mangled arm bounced like a yo-yo.

  “Please stop that. You’re getting gristle all over my floor.”

  McCloud stopped, but inertia made it bounce a few more times. He gave Nelson an awkward smile.

  “Sorry, boss,” McCloud said, and began looking for the broom.

  “No. I’ll do it,” said Nelson. “It’s more important that we take care of your situation first.”

  “Thanks. You’re the best boss ever.”

  “I know,” said Nelson wearily.

  He held the door open, but McCloud looked down at his one functional hand and held up a small box.

  “Oh. I forgot. I found this going to allurements,” he said.

  Nelson leaned on the open door. “What is it? A rabbit’s foot? A monkey’s paw? I have a whole drawer full of monkey’s paws.”

  “I don’t know what it is,” said McCloud. “But it’s very pretty. There’s a note inside that mentions that guy Pooc you don’t like.”

  “Who? Do you mean Coop?” said Nelson.

  McCloud thought about it. “No. I’m pretty sure it was Pooc.”

  Nelson slammed the door and snatched the box out of McCloud’s hand. Inside, he found the amulet, along with the note explaining what it was. Nelson felt more alive than he’d felt since he’d stopped being alive.

  “This is good work,” he told McCloud. “You get an A-plus tonight.” Nelson slid the secret compartment closed.

  “Now let’s go and chop off the rest of your arm.”

  “Yay,” said McCloud.

  Things are falling into place. I just have to hang on long enough for management to get so fed up with Coop that they make him a mook. Maybe it’s time to push up the timetable on that.

  Nelson thought about the amulet and wondered if he could use it to get closer to the book. It would take some research, but time was one thing he had plenty of.

  In a singsong voice, Nelson said, “Let’s nail it on the head, so we can put it to bed.”

  “In bed,” said McCloud.

  Nelson opened the office door. “Get to the shredder.”

  22

  Coop stepped out of the cab like a drunken ballerina. While he didn’t quite pirouette, he did turn in a series of fast, clumsy circles trying to keep an eye on the street, the alleys, and all of the empty storefronts. Really, anyplace big enough to hold an angry mummy. To the untrained eye, he would have seemed irrational or delirious, but Coop felt more like a giraffe in a sports coat chasing its own tail. At the moment he was okay with that. He continued this dizzying sprint all the way from the curb to the door of a psychic reading parlor.

  The taxi remained at the curb. “Are you all right, man?” called the driver.

  “Just great,” said Coop.

  “Do you need a doctor?”

  “Yes, but not the kind you mean.”

  The cabbie leaned closer to the window. “What kind do you need?”

  “Someone who can do a body transplant. Put my brain in a whole new, unrecognizable body.”

  “Oh,” said the cabbie. “I don’t know any like that.”

  “I bet they have some at work, but I’d probably just end up jammed inside a Game Boy attached to whatever robot legs they had lying around.”

  “Is that so?”

  “If you had to choose, would you rather have tentacles or chicken feet? I’m leaning toward chicken. They can run fast and tentacles are just creepy.”

  The cabbie scratched his head. “You look very together for a crazy person.”

  “Thank you. That’s what I’ll be putting on my tombstone.”

  “I got to go. You be careful. Don’t let any ghosts sneak up on you.”

&nbs
p; “Why? Do you see any ghosts?”

  Coop did another quick turn and came to rest with his back against the psychic parlor’s door.

  “See you around, Froot Loops,” said the cabbie as he merged into the sunny and resolutely unspectral traffic of Sunset Boulevard. The flat L.A. light, the smog, and newspaper bins full of abandoned sandwiches and strip-club flyers were suddenly very comforting. Coop managed to turn around and slowly open the psychic parlor’s door.

  Bells overhead tinkled in the curtained gloom. The mingled aromas of incense, herbs, and cigarette smoke made his eyes water. It smelled like someone had burned a witch and tried to cover it up with a gallon of patchouli oil.

  “Minerva?” Coop shouted into the dark backroom.

  A cheerful voice called back. “Hello there, friend. I’ll be out in just a minute.”

  Coop threw the dead bolt on the front door and checked for undead pharaohs through the front window.

  “Almost there,” came the voice again.

  Coop turned around to find a .44 Magnum pistol shoved in his face. At the other end of the pistol was an older woman in a big flowing seventies dress with lot of scarves. She looked like Stevie Nicks carved out of a dried apple.

  She shouted, “All right, fucker. You have ten seconds to get out or you’re going to have more blowholes than a dolphin gangbang.”

  Coop threw up his hands.

  “Minerva, don’t shoot. It’s me, Coop.”

  Stevie Nicks considered this for a second and with her free hand put on a pair of glasses she had tucked into the top of her dress. She squinted at him.

  “Coop,” she said in the same cheerful voice she’d used before. “It’s been a dog’s age.”

  “How are you, Charles Bronson?” he said, his hands still high in the air.

  Minerva lowered the pistol and put it in her pocket.

  “Don’t let this bother you,” she said. “I just keep it around to shoot people with. How are you?”

  “You’re the psychic. You tell me.”

  He lowered his hands. She looked him up and down.

  “I don’t exactly need my crystal for that. You lock my door and your knees are shaking like a Chihuahua banging a snowman.” She shook her head. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”