Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
“Something’s wrong.”
Gray raised his eyebrows. “You’re gonna have to narrow that waaaaaay down.”
“She should be here.” They were in Fargo’s Manchester Office Building, a hive of activity.
Amara’s hands were on her hips as she turned in a circle, surveying the large room.
“Tanya Bergen should be in this office at this moment, pissed about her vacation being cut short and about to die of a stroke.”
“In this oddly stinky mailroom, no less,” Gray observed.
“But she’s not.”
“So . . . do we go look for her?”
“That’s not how this works. C’mon.”
“Sure, sure. Where are we go—oh. You’re grabbing me and hauling me to the elevators. Gotcha. And speaking of ‘how this works,’ here’s something else I don’t get. You can go anywhere to Reap, I get that. But how can I? I’m not Death. I’m not even Death’s intern.”
Amara stabbed the button for the lobby and they rode down in silence.
“Amara? Did you hear all that stuff I just babbled? Or are you too busy plotting your next Reap? Which is also fine.”
“Mmmm?” She was doing her best to project “so focused on the task that nothing else is getting through” because she was pretty sure she knew the answer to Gray’s question, and it was equal parts ludicrous and frightening. “Next?”
“What?”
“Who’s next?” She was through the elevator doors before they opened on the way, and Gray jumped out and trotted to keep pace.
“Oh. Um.” Gray dug for the paperwork. “God, this curly paper is the—okay, if we’re going alphabetically—”
“Closest. Who’s closest?”
“That’ll be Sergeant Wayne Perryman, Minot Air Force Base.”
* * *
“Holy shit,” Gray muttered. “We are walking past so many people with guns right now! And they don’t care! Or at least haven’t noticed.”
The Minot base was a few miles outside the city proper.
Amara had driven past the comforting warning sign (Only the Best Come North), and the airman on duty raised the gate without asking for ID, speaking to them, or looking at them.
She had the impression that the airmen were so used to accommodating Death, it was just another chore they barely had to think about.
The size of a small city, the AFB sprawled across the prairie, boasting its own golf course, movie theater, and Minuteman III missiles.
There were plenty of service personnel outside soaking up the sunny day, and not a single one noticed Amara or Gray.
Possibly because they were all focused on the fox picking its way through the slush, doubtless looking for a tasty rabbit. Or a garbage can.
“He’s supposed to be here.” They were in the headquarters for the 91st Missile Wing, and Amara was pacing again. “He’s supposed to be excited because they’re inducing his new wife’s labor tomorrow—”
“Oh, man.”
“—and he’s getting a head start by handing out cigars and beef jerky. Then he’s supposed to go have a heart attack in the break room, since his arteries are clogged with cigars and beef jerky. But he’s not here. What. The. Hell?”
“Should we ask? Maybe he’s been assigned somewhere else.”
She was already shaking her head. “Not how this works. I might not know much about the job, but that part I internalized pretty quickly. In all the time my father has done this, he never had to find someone to Reap. If you have to look to Reap, you’re not Death, you’re just a serial killer.”
Gray reached out and plucked the elbow of a passing airwoman. “Excuse me, we’re looking for Sergeant Wayne Perryman. Do you know where he is?”
The airwoman, dressed in crisp blues, her long brown hair pulled back into a sleek bun, stared at Gray like she was trying to focus, and when she finally answered, it was with the slurred speech of a drunken sleepwalker. “Hmmmm . . . nnnnnoooo. Should be heeeeere.”
“That’s right,” Gray said with a vigorous nod. “He should be here.”
“Mmmmmmm . . . not here.”
“Do you know wh—”
“Nnnnnnnot here.”
“Stop it,” Amara said. “You’ll break her brain. Come with me.”
He did, and they sat in the Mustang while Amara tried to figure out what to do and Gray tried to take a picture of the fox with his phone.
“I know weird is relative, but a fox running around an Air Force base is weird.”
“They’re not uncommon. We’re only fifty miles from the Canadian border. Now. Going forward—”
Gray was ahead of her. “Number three is Melanie Chamber. Seven miles from here. Minot City ”
“Oh, fucking swell.”
* * *
Melanie Chamber stirred in her small hospital bed and turned her head to look at her visitors.
Her eyes were sunken pits, her skull bald and yellow, her elbows like windshield wipers.
Eaten alive, day and night. Poison the only cure, and not much of one.
The ward was hushed, which Amara found equal parts appropriate and sad. “Hi. Are you looking for my mom?”
“Oh, thank God.” Whoa. Did I just give thanks because I can Reap a fifth grader?
“She means no,” Gray said. “We’re here for you, hon.”
Melanie somehow produced a smile. “My grandpa told me about you. How I shouldn’t be scared when you come. But you’re not what I thought you were gonna be.”
“Tell us about it,” Gray replied.
“I thought you’d be older. And a guy.”
“My father’s sick,” Amara said, taking Melanie’s hand in hers, careful not to jostle the IV or dislodge the tape. “I’m filling in.”
“Will he get better?”
“I don’t know. But you don’t have to worry about that.” Melanie’s small hand was essentially one giant, red-black bruise. She looked as if a breeze would blow her away. She looked as if a breeze would hurt. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Okay. That’s . . .” Her tentative smile became fixed. Her chest fell and did not rise again. Alarms began to shrill, and Amara stepped back so the code team could begin their fruitless tasks.