Chapter Six
Six
There are several nonmagical ways to steal a car.
The first and most unrefined way is to carjack someone. This is inelegant, risky. Not my style.
The second—and this is the one you see done wrong in movies all the time—is to hot-wire it.
It’s not just touching two wires together.
The first thing to try is breaking the ignition lock with a screw and slide hammer so you can get to the ignition switch.
If that doesn’t work, sure, pry open the panels to expose the ignition cylinder, get your wire clippers, and go to town.
And by the way, this only works on vintage cars. Anything made this millennium? You’ll need a bunch of fancy equipment and a whole other person.
Basically, it’s a lot of work. Also not my style.
I opt for the third and most elegant way to steal a car: being handed the keys.
I’m currently waiting around the corner from the back entrance of Moulin d’Orange.
It’s one of those places where the servers say “pardon my reach” and the menu includes the words “farm to table.” The produce delivery comes every Monday and Thursday at 4:30.
Today, it’s running a little late. Todd, the owner of a one-person produce-delivery business, may have been stuck on the phone with a very angry client shouting in a perfect French accent.
His van comes careening around the corner, just missing me, and screeches to a stop in front of the back door. A very frazzled Todd jumps out of the van and starts unloading wood crates of tomatoes and lettuce and zucchini. No oranges for Moulin d’Orange, weirdly enough.
“Let me help you with that,” I say in a slight Southie accent.
Today, I’m dressed in black slacks and a crisp, collared button-down. My hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and my makeup is the kind of impeccable that’s barely noticeable.
Todd gives me a relieved look. “Yes, please.”
He starts loading me up with crates, muttering to himself about inventory, poor guy. He unlocks the door for me, and I sail right into the kitchens of Moulin d’Orange. The occupants are in ordered chaos. Clamoring voices, clinking pots and pans, that sort of thing.
“Set those there,” someone snaps, nodding to an empty space on the counter without looking up from stirring a huge vat of soup. They reach for some seasoning with their spare hand.
I set down the crate, but instead of going back to help Todd, I slip into the back room, where some servers are gossiping. They look up when I enter.
“Hey,” I say. “Not working today. Just checking the schedule.”
They move away from a cluttered desk, one of them nodding to the chart pinned above it. “You want to trade for Saturday? I got double shifts all next week.”
“Sorry,” I say, scanning the schedule. “Going out of town.”
Nobody points out that they don’t know who I am, because I’ve acted like I know who they are and nobody wants to admit they don’t remember meeting someone. They go back to gossiping, but I’ve already slipped a black vest off the back of the chair.
I’m out the back door just as Todd’s coming in with his last load, the produce piled high enough he doesn’t see me. I slip on the vest and walk around the corner, up the alley, and back toward the front entrance on Newbury.
There’s a handful of valets waiting at the station in front of the restaurant, and I hang back just out of sight so I can get the timing right.
I watch an older couple get out of a silver Mercedes-Benz.
Then a middle-aged man with a blazer and a comb-over steps out of a black Tesla.
Behind him is a woman in a BMW. Then a red Jaguar. Meh. But behind that…
A 2026 Rolls-Royce Ghost. Black. Extended Series III.
Bingo.
I walk up to the last valet waiting. He’s a gangly college-age guy, his face pinched into a sour expression.
“Howyadoin’,” I say. “I’m taking over for you. Greg says he needs to chat.”
Valet Guy scowls. “Of course he does.”
See? There’s always a Greg.
He heads to the back, and I step up to the valet station just as the Ghost pulls to a stop in front of it.
A politician-type guy steps out, the bland kind with an inoffensive suit and haircut.
He hands the keys to the host, taking his ticket.
He’s already through the doors of the restaurant when the attendant hands me the keys.
“B3,” she says.
I nod, taking the keys and walking professionally to the other side of the car instead of sliding across the hood like I want to.
Inside are bright blue leather seats, mood lighting, and limousine-like luxury. I’m surprised there wasn’t a chauffeur. Maybe if he’d had one, his car that costs more than four Harvard law degrees wouldn’t have got boosted. Ah well.
I start the engine, smile to myself, and speed off down Newbury.
After a quick stop at one of Infamous Pete’s safe-deposit boxes—where I use one of his PINs to find a wad of cash, a half-empty flask, and an ancient decrepit journal—I take the Rolls just outside of Salem and pull into the front parking spot at Adams Brothers Mortuary and Crematory, Inc.
There are two other cars in the lot: a BMW and a hearse.
No mourners milling about the place. No funeral services in the chapel. That makes things easier.
I shut off the engine, but before I get out of the car, I stroke the dashboard gently.
“I’ll miss you,” I whisper.
I circle the building on foot, heading to the loading dock. There’s a key code for this entrance, but I figured that out ages ago.
I find CJ in the preparation room under a spotlight, standing over a dead body on a slab. They’re in scrubs and protective gear, their normally coiffed hair flat against their head, goggles biting into the scar running down their cheek.
They must have felt me coming, but they don’t look up as they pull something that looks like tongs out of the corpse’s nose.
“Hey.” I wave awkwardly, keeping my eyes anywhere but on the body on the table.
The room is a lot brighter than they show in movies. White walls and a pale pink tile floor. Easy to clean, with a drain in the middle, right under the table. Next to CJ, there’s a tray of tools I don’t look too closely at.
I’ve been here a handful of times, but this is the first time CJ has been working. The smell is what gets me. It’s not the scent of decay, which I’m honestly used to by now. Instead, it’s the embalming fluid, sickly sweet and sterile.
CJ doesn’t spare me a glance, but I know they’re waiting for me to tell them what I’m doing here.
“I’ve got a job—”
“No,” they cut me off, not stopping their work. They put a length of cottony fabric on the end of the tongs, and the whole thing goes right up the corpse’s right nostril.
“Hear me out,” I say, then pause to dry heave, because it’s possible the sound is worse than the smell.
I take a deep breath, which probably isn’t the best choice, and continue.
“This job is…big. Big challenge, even bigger payout.” I take the money tack—not because CJ is greedy or anything, but because they’re infinitely practical.
Running away from home at thirteen will do that to you.
“I’m serious. If we do this—you know what, could you maybe not do that while I’m here? ”
CJ has stuffed the white fabric deep into both nostrils and is now shoving some down the body’s throat. They give me an exasperated look that says I’m at work and pick up a long hooked needle. Oh god.
I know, I see Dead people all the time, but I’m used to being around their souls, not the bodies they leave behind. There’s something especially disturbing to me about corpses. Maybe it’s because I was trained at a young age to be careful with how I disposed of any shed organic material.
Or maybe dead bodies are just gross.
I pick a spot behind CJ’s left ear and stare. “I get it. I should have texted. But you always leave me on read. I assume you’re having trouble sending texts. If you haven’t done the new update, I can help.”
CJ grunts but otherwise doesn’t respond.
“We do this job and we’re set for life. And probably the Afterlife.”
I put my hand out to lean against a nearby table, then remember the drain in the floor and decide against it.
“It’s a little unorthodox, I’ll admit, but OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
CJ looks up and blinks at me. “I’m sewing his mouth shut.” They push the needle out the right nostril and pull the string through as if to demonstrate.
“Why would you—why—but—what—why?”
CJ lifts their eyebrows, sets down the string, then puts one finger under the man’s chin to push his mouth closed. When they move their finger away, the mouth drops back open automatically. They demonstrate a few more times, the mouth closing and opening in slow succession.
“Stop, stop! I get it! I get it, okay?”
CJ shrugs and goes back to work. “I wish I could do this to you,” they mutter.
I give them a sarcastic smile but forge ahead. “This job is big. I just need a crew. He offered a shitload of money—”
“What’s the job?” CJ asks, pulling a thread that’s now coming out from just under the man’s jaw. With a yank, the corpse’s mouth snaps shut.
“It’s to…steal-a-soul-from-the-Afterlife,” I mumble.
CJ glares.
“It’s to…” I keep my voice light. “Steal a…soul from the Afterlife.”
CJ’s expression doesn’t change.
I sigh. “It’s to steal a soul from the Afterlife, okay?”
CJ presses their lips together and takes a deep breath through their nose. When they let it out, they say, “This is about Dante.”
“No, of course not, why would you say that?”
CJ levels me with a stare, and okay, maybe it was a little foolish to think they wouldn’t put two and two together.
“We’re not doing this again,” CJ says.
“Doing what again? We’ve never stolen a soul before. Nobody has. We’re not doing anything again. What we’re doing is brand-new.”
They put aside their tools. Unfortunately, that leaves the body’s mouth hanging open, this time with a crisscross of string inside.
CJ waits for me to make eye contact. “Dante’s gone. It sucks. But you have to accept it. Even if we could resurrect someone—which is impossible—Dante’s soul is gone. We’ve checked. He’s passed on to whatever’s after…after.”
That’s probably the most I’ve heard CJ say at one time, so I’m surprised that they aren’t done with their rant.
“This insistence you have that we can bring Dante back is what broke up the crew in the first place.”
I admit that stings a little, but I scoff. “Who can say why the crew broke up?”
“You yelled at us that if we wouldn’t help you resurrect Dante, then we could fuck right off, and we took that literally.”
“Well, surely not literally.” I clear my throat, scuffing my shoes on the tile floor. “You know, ‘yell’ is really a strong word. I spoke loudly at best.”
CJ looks at me flatly, then goes back to their work, jaw set. That usually means the conversation is over, but I’m not giving up that easily.
“It’s different this time. There are…Things have…Just trust me.”
CJ raises an eyebrow behind their goggles. “Trust a con artist?”
“You’re not a mark. You’re my crew. And you have to trust your crew.”
They just shake their head. In the silence, I hear the first hint of sirens in the distance. CJ does too, and it snaps them out of their stupor.
They yank the goggles off their face. “What did you do?”
“Me? What? Nothing?” I say, backing away. “Unrelated, that car outside, is it free for a quick getaway?”
“The hearse?”
“Yeah, is there a body in there?”
“Would it matter?” they ask, but they’re already pulling off their protective gear.
I shrug. “Not really. It’s just, we either take that or the Rolls they’re looking for.”
CJ closes their eyes, and I know I have them.
Stealing the car wasn’t about transportation.
I could have easily taken the commuter rail out to Salem.
But the Rolls comes with a built-in tracker.
The owner gets a notification when the car gets too far away from them.
Easy enough to disable, but I turned it back on once I got here.
If I gave CJ enough time to think this through, they’d just keep coming up with excuses.
But if I can get them to say yes now, I’ve got them.
Once they’re in, they’re in.
CJ groans. “I’ll drive.”
I clap my hands together and do a little hop. “Let’s go!”
We’re pulling out of the parking lot just as the cop car pulls in. CJ throws the hazards on, as though there’s a body on board, and the police don’t even try to wave us down.
I’m sure CJ can feel elation rolling off me in waves. They don’t snap at me to tone down my emotions like they usually do, but their knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel.
We ride in silence for a while, but once we’re on the highway, I turn to them.
“You said everyone left because of what I said. But you didn’t leave. At least, not completely.”
CJ’s quiet for the longest moment. “You have to trust your crew.”
Like I said, once CJ’s in, they’re in. And once CJ’s in, the rest will fall like dominoes.
I flash them a wide grin. “Then let’s get the crew back together.”