Industrial Magic

by Kelley Armstrong

  I left a message. "I'm sitting in a theater right now, with absolutely no idea why I'm here, what's going on, or who I'm supposed to talk to. This better be good, Cortez, or I'm going to need a necromancer to contact you."

  I hung up, and glanced at my neighbors again. Not about to disturb the rosary-widow, I turned to the teen and offered my brightest smile.

  "Packed house tonight, huh?" I said.

  She glowered at me.

  "Should be a great show," I said. "Are you a...fan?"

  "Listen, bitch, if you raise your hand and get picked instead of me, I'll pop out your eyeballs."

  I turned my endangered orbs back to the stage and inched closer to the rosary-widow. She glared at me and said something in what sounded like Portuguese. Now, I don't know a single word of Portuguese, but something in her voice made me suspect that, whatever she said, the translation would sound roughly like what pierced-girl beside me had said. I sunk into my seat and vowed to avoid eye contact for the rest of the show.

  Music started, a soft, symphonic tune, far removed from the caterwauling rock backstage. The lights dimmed as the music swelled. A scuffle of activity as the last people scurried to their seats. The lights continued to fade until the auditorium was immersed in darkness.

  More sounds of activity, this time coming from the aisle beside me. The music ebbed. A few lights appeared, tiny, twinkling lights on the walls and ceiling, followed by more, then more, until the room was lit with thousands, all casting the soft glow of starlight against the inky velvet.

  A choral murmur of oohs and ahhs surged, and fell to silence. Absolute silence. No music. No chatter. Not so much as a throat-clearing cough.

  Then, a woman's voice, in a microphone-amplified whisper.

  "This is their world. A world of peace, and beauty, and joy. A world we all wish to enter."

  The rosary-widow beside me murmured an "Amen," her voice joining a quiet wave of others. In the near-dark, I noticed a dim figure appear on stage. It glided out to the edge, and kept going, as if levitating down the center aisle. When I squinted, I could detect the dark form of a catwalk that had been quickly erected in the aisle while the lights were out. The woman's voice continued, barely above a whisper, as soothing as a lullaby.

  "Between our world and theirs is a heavy veil. A veil most cannot lift. But I can. Come with me now and let me take you into their world. The world of the spirits."

  The lights flickered and went bright. Standing midway down the raised catwalk was a red-haired woman, her back to those of us in the front rows.

  The woman turned. Late thirties. Gorgeous. Bright red hair pinned up, with tendrils tumbling down around her neck. A shimmery emerald green silk dress, modestly cut, but tight enough not to leave any curve to the imagination. Dowdy wire-rimmed glasses completed the faux-professional ensemble. The old Hollywood "sex-goddess disguised as Miss Prim-and-Proper" routine. As the thought pinged through my brain, it triggered a wave of deja vu. I'd seen this woman before, and thought exactly the same thing. Where...?

  A sonorous male voice filled the room.

  "The Meridian Theater proudly presents, for one night only, Jaime Vegas."

  Jaime Vegas. Savannah's favorite television spiritualist.

  Well, I'd found my necromancer.

  Diva of the Dead

  "I'M SENSING A MALE PRESENCE," JAIME MURMURED, somehow managing to walk and talk with her eyes closed. She headed toward the back of the theater. "A man in his fifties, maybe early sixties, late forties. His name starts with an M. He's related to someone in this corner."

  She swept her arm, encompassing the rear left third of the room, and at least a hundred people. I bit my tongue to keep from groaning. In the last hour, I'd bitten it so often I probably wouldn't be able to taste food for a week. Over a dozen people in the "corner" Jaime had indicated started waving their arms, and five leapt to their feet, spot-dancing with excitement. Hell, I was sure if anyone in this audience searched their memories hard enough they could find a Mark or a Mike or a Miguel in their family who'd died in middle age.

  Jaime turned to the section with the highest concentration of hand-wavers. "His name is Michael, but he says no one ever called him that. He was always Mike, except when he was a little boy, and some people called him Mikey."

  An elderly woman suddenly wailed, and bowed forward, sucker punched by grief. "Mikey. That's my Mikey. My little boy. I always called him that."

  I tore my gaze away, my own eyes filling with angry tears as Jaime bore down on her like a shark scenting blood.

  "Is it my Mikey?" the old woman said, barely intelligible through her tears.

  "I think it is," Jaime said softly. "Wait...yes. He says he's your son. He's asking you to stop crying. He's in a good place and he's happy. He wants you to know that."

  The woman mopped her streaming tears and tried to smile.

  "There," Jaime said. "Now he wants me to mention the picture. He says you have a photograph of him on display. Is that right?"

  "I--I have a few," she said.

  "Ah, but he's talking about a certain one. He says it's the one he always hated. Do you know which one he means?"

  The old woman smiled and nodded.

  "He's laughing," Jaime said. "He wants me to give you heck for putting up that photo. He wants you to take that down and put up the one of him at the wedding. Does that make sense?"

  "He probably means his niece's wedding," the woman said. "She got married right before he died."

  Jaime looked off into space, eyes unfocused, head slightly tilted, as if hearing something no one else could. Then she shook her head. "No, it's another wedding picture. An older one. He says to look through the album and you'll find it. Now, speaking of weddings..."

  And on it went, from person to person, as Jaime worked the crowd, throwing out "personal" information that could apply to almost any life--What parent doesn't display pictures of their kids? What person doesn't have photos they hate? Who doesn't have wedding photos in their albums?

  Even when she misjudged, she was perceptive enough to read confusion on the recipient's face before they could say anything, backtrack, and "correct" herself. On the very few occasions that she completely struck out, she'd tell the person to "go home and think about it, and it'll come to you," as if their memory was to blame, not her.

  This Jaime might really be a necromancer, but she wasn't using her skills here. As I'd told Savannah, no one--not even a necro--could "dial up the dead" like this. What Jaime Vegas did was a psychological con job, not far removed from psychics who tell young girls "I see wedding bells in your future." Having lost my mother the year before, I understood why these people were here, the void they ached to fill. For a necromancer to profit from that grief with false tidings from the other side...well, it didn't make Jaime Vegas someone I wanted to work with.

  The dressing room smelled like a funeral parlor. Appropriate, I suppose. I looked for chairs, and found one under a bouquet of two dozen black roses. I didn't know roses came in black.

  J.D. had escorted me here before being dragged off by his assistant, who'd been muttering something about a man refusing to leave his seat until Jaime summoned his dead mother.

  After clearing the chair of roses, I tried calling Lucas again. Still no answer. Avoiding my calls, I suspected. Damn call display. I was phoning home for messages when the door opened and Jaime wheeled in.

  "Paige, right?" she said, gulping air. The glasses were gone, and the loosened tendrils of hair that had looked so artfully arranged on stage now clung, sweat-sodden, to her neck and face. "Please tell me it's Paige."

  "Uh, yes. I--"

  "Oh, thank God. I was running back here and suddenly thought, what if that wasn't her? and I was winking at some strange girl and inviting her to join me backstage, which is exactly what I do not need. My place in the tabloids is ensured without that. So, Paige--"

  She stopped and looked around, then opened the door and shouted. "Hello! Did I ask--?"


  A tray appeared from behind the door, floating in midair. Presumably there was some flunky behind the door holding it. Or so I hoped. With necromancers, one can never be sure.

  She grabbed the tray, then lifted the bottle of single-malt Scotch. "What are you people trying to do to me? I said no booze tonight. I have an engagement. No booze, no caffeine. Like I'm not bouncing off the walls enough as it is." She eyed the bottle longingly, then shut her eyes and thrust it out. "Take it, please."

  The bottle vanished behind the door.

  "And bring more Gatorade. The blue stuff. None of that orange shit." She closed the door, grabbed a towel, and mopped her face. "Okay, so where were we?"

  "I--"

  "Oh, right. So I was thinking, what if that's not her? I was expecting the witch. Well, maybe not expecting, but hoping, you know? Lucas called and told me he was sending someone--a female someone--and I thought, oh, my God, maybe it's the witch."

  "The--?"

  "Have you heard that story?" Jaime continued, her voice muffled as she tugged her dress off over her head. "About Lucas and the witch? Personally, I can't see it."

  "You mean, Lucas dating a witch? Well--"

  "No, Lucas dating. Period." Jaime shrugged off her bra. "No offense to the guy, really. He's great. But he's one of those people you just can't imagine having a social life. Like your teachers. You see them outside the classroom and it freaks you out."

  Now stripped to her panties, Jaime proceeded to slather cold cream on her face, still talking.

  "I heard she's a computer geek. Probably some skinny kid with big glasses and an overbite, scared of her own shadow. Typical witch. I can see Lucas hooking up with a girl like--"

  "I'm the witch," I said.

  Jaime stopped cleaning her face and looked at me. "Wha--?"

  "The witch. Lucas's girlfriend. That'd be me."

  She winced. "Oh, shit."

  The door cracked open and J.D.'s voice floated through. "Got a fire to put out, Jaime. Needs your special touch."

  "Just hold on, okay?" she said to me, throwing on a robe. "I'll be right back."

  "Hey, it's me," I said, shifting the cell phone to my other ear. "Is your dad there?"

  "Paige, nice to hear from you," Adam said. "I'm fine. Midterms went well. Thanks for asking."

  "Sorry," I said. "But I'm kind of in a hur--"

  A drill screeched outside the dressing room.

  "Holy shit, what are you killing?"

  "I think they're dismantling the stage," I said. "Is Robert--"

  "He's out with Mom. What stage? Where are you?"

  "Miami. And, before you ask, I'm here looking for a necromancer. I've found one but she's not quite...right, so I was hoping Robert could put me in touch with another one in the area."

  "What do you want a necromancer for?" A pause, then his voice dropped. "You're not thinking of...you know...with your mom? You don't want to go there, Paige. I know you're still--"

  "Give me credit. I'm not trying to call up my mother. It's for a case."

  "You're working a case and you didn't call me?"

  "I just did."

  Another earsplitting mechanical yowl, followed by shouts and catcalls.

  "Sounds like a party," Adam said. "You said something about a stage? Where are you? A strip club?"

  "Pretty close, actually. I just got to see a strip act. Wrong gender, though. Now, tell--"

  "Oh-ho, you aren't tossing out that teaser without an explanation. What the hell are you doing looking for a necromancer in a strip club?"

  "It's not a strip club. It's a theater. Ever heard of Jaime Vegas?"

  "The--" He whooped a laugh. "Are you serious? Jaime Vegas is a necromancer? I can't believe people watch that shit. So she's for real?"

  "In a...manner of speaking."

  "Oh, God, how bad is she?"

  "Let's just say showbiz suits her well."

  "Hey, now, don't go playing nice. This isn't Lucas you're talking to. What's she like?"

  "Flakier than puff pastry."

  Another whooped laugh. "Oh, man, I wish I was there. So about this case...you changed your mind about working with Lucas?"

  "I never said I wouldn't work--"

  "Sure you did. When I was up in Portland last month. Lucas was talking about that Igneus case, and I said maybe you could help, and you said--"

  "This is just temporary. He's busy, so I'm filling in."

  Jaime slid into the room. I lifted a finger. She nodded, grabbed a Gatorade, and perched on the edge of the vanity counter.

  Adam continued, "If he's busy, that means you need a partner. I could--"

  "I'm fine. You have school."

  "Not for the next four days, I don't," Adam said. "No classes until Tuesday. I'll just hop--"

  "Stay. If I need you, I'll call. In the meantime, can you ask Robert about nec--" I glanced at Jaime. "--that list? It's kind of urgent."

  "I will if you promise to call back with all the details."

  "I'll call you first thing tomorrow. As soon as you wake up. Say, noon?"

  "Very funny. I'm up by ten. Call me back tonight. It's only seven o'clock here, remember."

  I agreed, then hung up and turned to Jaime.

  "Sorry about that. I wasn't sure how long you'd be." I put my cell into my purse and hefted it to my shoulder. "Look, I'm sure this is a bad time for you, right after a busy show and all. I appreciate you taking the time to see me, and the show was...great. But you don't need me bugging you with this. Whatever favor you owe Lucas, consider it squared." I stepped backward toward the door and grasped the handle. "Anyway, it's been great meeting you, Jaime, and I wish you all the best--"

  "I'm sorry about what I said. I stuck my foot in it so far I'm kicking myself in the stomach right now. After a show, I'm so wired, I just--I don't think."

  "That's okay. I--"

  "I mean, shit, I can't believe I didn't figure out who you were the minute Lucas told me your name. I knew your mom. Not personally, but I knew who she was, and then I heard about you and Eve's daughter last spring, so I really should have put two and two together, but when I do a show, my brain goes on hold and--" A wry twist of a smile. "And I babble and blather, and make no sense at all, not that you noticed or anything, right?"

  "It's okay. Obviously you're busy and you don't need this, so don't worry about it. I have other necromancers I can contact."

  She began brushing her hair. "Better necromancers."

  "I have no idea whether they're better. I've never worked with you."

  She looked up, as if surprised that I hadn't paid her a false compliment.

  I continued, "I'm just saying this is probably a bad time--"

  "You need me to contact a girl in a coma. Simple. It's ten o'clock and you're not going to get anyone else to do it tonight. Might as well give me a shot, let me repay Lucas."

  What could I say to that? Spending the next couple of hours with the Diva of the Dead wasn't exactly my idea of fun, but she seemed calmer now, as the high from her performance wore off. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Or so I kept telling myself as she dropped her robe and started searching for clothing.

  Gone

  FOLLOWING THE ADDRESS I GAVE, THE CAB STOPPED IN front of a square block of brick squeezed between a restaurant and a small accounting firm. Unlike its neighbors, this storefront had no obvious signage. It took a minute of searching to see the near-microscopic sign in the window: THE MARSH MEMORIAL CLINIC.

  "Jesus," Jaime said as I rang the after-hours bell. "What is this? A rehab center?"

  "A private hospital," I said.

  "Shit. Who do you have to kill to get in here?" She caught my expression. "Ah, not who, but how many. A Cabal hospital."

  A blond woman in her forties opened the door. "Ms. Winterbourne. Hello. Mr. Cortez said you'd be by this evening. Come in, please. And I presume this is Jaime Vegas?"

  Jaime nodded.

  "Has there been any change in Dana's condition?" I asked.

&nbs
p; A brief flutter of emotion rippled the nurse's composure. "I'm afraid not. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. Mr. Cortez asked that this be a private visit, so if you need me, please buzz. Otherwise, I won't bother you. She's in room three."

  I thanked her and followed her directions into a side hall. As we walked, Jaime looked around, taking in everything.

  "And just think," she said. "This is for the employees. They've probably got a place in the Swiss Alps for the execs. And the family? God only knows. Can you imagine having this kind of money?"

  "Remember where it comes from," I said, quoting Lucas.

  "I try, but you know, sometimes, you see what a Cabal can do and you think, hmmm, maybe tormenting a few souls now and then wouldn't be such a bad gig. You're dating the guy who's supposed to own all this one day. I'm sure you think about that."

  "Not in a good way."

  "More power to you, then. I'd be tempted. Hell, I've been tempted. Ever met Carlos?"

  "Carlos Cortez? No."

  "He's the youngest. Well, you know, the youngest of the legit--uh, of Delores's kids. Carlos is the hunk of the litter. Takes after his mother, who's gorgeous...and as vicious as a rabid dog. Carlos got the vicious genes too, but seems to have missed out on Benicio's brains, so he's not very dangerous. Anyway, I met Carlos at a club a couple years back, and he showed some definite interest. There were a few moments there when I was tempted. I mean, here's a guy with money and power, wrapped in a damn near perfect gift box. What more could a girl want? Okay, maybe someone who doesn't have a reputation for nasty bedroom games, but everyone's got their hang-ups, right? Honest to God, that's what I thought. I'm standing there, looking at this guy and thinking, hmmm, maybe I could change him."

  "Probably not."

  "No shit, huh? I don't learn my lessons well, but that's one I've committed to heart. Take it or leave it, 'cause you ain't gonna change it. But that still didn't keep me from thinking about Carlos. Power and money--if Calvin Klein could bottle the scent, he'd make a fortune." She tossed a grin my way. "Just think, we could've been sisters-in-law. We'd certainly have livened up family reunions."