Sparks

by Laura Bickle

  She placed her fingertips on the base of the glass, motioning for Anya to do the same. Her rings sparkled in the candlelight. Anya reached around the salamander’s head and mimicked her. “Now what?”

  “We summon the spirit of Jasper Bernard to speak with us.”

  “That sounds like a grand, ceremonial magick gesture.” Katie was a kitchen witch—she improvised with whatever was at hand. Anya had seen her do high magick, but the witch’s distinct preference was for enchanting the mundane.

  “It is. It goes something like this: Jasper Bernard, are you here?”

  Nothing happened. Anya and Katie stared at the goblet for a good five minutes. Sparky yawned and placed his head on the table.

  “Jasper,” Katie said, in a more authoritative voice. “Please come to us.”

  Anya whispered, “I think he responds better to ‘Bernie.’”

  The glass jerked under her hands. It orbited in an agitated circle, moving faster and faster. Anya had difficulty keeping up with it. From her lap, Sparky sat up and pushed his gill-fronds toward the tabletop.

  “Bernie, is that you?”

  The makeshift planchette curled its way over to the recipe card marked yes. It stopped below it, circling like a beetle caught in the bottom of a jar.

  Katie whispered to Anya, “Ask it something to verify its identity. Something that no random spirit would know.”

  “Bernie, we know you knew Ciro. Tell us about your time with him.”

  The glass hesitated. For a moment, Anya was sure they’d caught a voyeur spirit toying with them, and her thoughts raced on plans to banish it. But the glass deliberately spiraled over to the alphabet of recipe cards. It spelled out: B-O-W-L-I-N-G.

  Katie nodded. “Very good.”

  “Where are you, Bernie?” Anya couldn’t help but ask. After seeing the spirit violently sucked out of the house like lint in a vacuum cleaner, she wanted to know.

  The glass turned in a figure-eight pattern, spelled out: V-E-S-S-E-L.

  “What kind of vessel? A boat?”

  The goblet curled around no. Its motion became jerky, erratic, and it zinged around the table, scraping random letters.

  “I think we’re losing him,” Katie muttered. “It feels like the communication is being interfered with.”

  Anya leaned forward, knuckles white on the goblet base. “Bernie, what happened to you? We need to find out.”

  The glass spun out of Anya and Katie’s grip. It spelled out H-O-P-E before sliding off the edge of the table and shattering on the floor. Katie’s cats fled the kitchen in a flurry of fur. Sparky climbed down to the floor and sniffed the glass shards, growling.

  Katie looked across the table at Anya. “Hope. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Anya smiled grimly. “It gives me a place to begin looking.”

  THE MORNING PAPER INCLUDED A headline in large type on the front page of the Metro section: DFD INVESTIGATES SUSPECTED CASE OF SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION. The article went on to quote an unidentified source about the grisly details of the Jasper Bernard crime scene and discuss how DFD was “stymied” by the case. Mention was also made about the crime scene being “mishandled” and a break-in occurring, calling any evidence in the case suspect.

  Anya rolled her eyes. She was certain that some letters to the editor would be forthcoming about DFD’s incompetence. She flipped the page, scanning for the continuation of the article. Her attention paused on an article discussing the possibility that the Detroit Tigers weren’t generating sufficient sales tax revenue for the city during baseball season. The Detroit Institute of Arts had a nice full-color spread about a forthcoming exhibit on ancient Greek art that piqued her curiosity. The photos showed faded urns and amphorae decorated with the shapes of gods and beasts. One of them was even nicknamed “Pandora’s Jar.” The massive pithos was painted with images from the myth. Scholars speculated that the age of the jar surpassed the age of the decoration, giving rise to debates about forgery and the provenance of the item. One set of experts suggested the jar could have been Pandora’s Jar from myth. Another insisted the jar had been used for entirely different purposes, as a burial urn. A third argued it was merely a piece of art, carved from unusual stone.

  “Ms. Kalinczyk?”

  Anya looked up, tucked the paper under her arm. The waiting area in which she sat was worthy of GM Headquarters: potted plants, sleek chrome furniture, pastel watercolor art. Not prints—originals. A massive arrangement of fresh stargazer lilies bloomed on the coffee table, though they were curiously sapped of fragrance. The receptionist who stood before her was impeccably attired in a designer suit, displaying two-inch airbrushed fingernails that had clearly never been used for typing. The posh setting was completely incongruous for a nonprofit organization, housed in a nondescript building in the warehouse district with weeds sprouting between the cracks in the sidewalk. Miracles for the Masses put on a nice front of virtuous poverty, but the inside lining of the cloud was flush. The air-conditioning was turned way up, practically spewing cash from the vents.

  “Yes?” Anya responded, with a slight degree of irritation. She’d been waiting more than an hour for Hope Solomon to finish her coffee and decide to start taking visitors.

  “Ms. Solomon will see you now.”

  “Fantastic.” She rose to follow the receptionist down a peach-painted hallway lit with broad-spectrum bulbs to mimic sunshine. In this pastel palace, Anya felt as out of place as a crow at a garden party.

  The receptionist opened a door and gestured for Anya to go inside. Anya’s shoes sank into the plush white carpeting. A skylight overhead poured a dazzling amount of sunlight into the room. When her eyes adjusted, Anya fixed on a short blond woman sitting on the other side of a glass desk. She was wearing a pink pantsuit.

  “Ms. Kalinczyk.” The woman stood and extended a hand that clinked with gold bracelets. She smiled warmly. “I’m Hope Solomon.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Anya grasped her hand. Hope’s hand was cold as a corpse’s.

  And she reeked of magick. She stank of sour, dark magick the way some women emanated cheap perfume. It wasn’t the pleasant, white-magick herbal whiff that surrounded Katie. This was the metallic tang of ozone, the smell in the air after a lightning strike. And all the Chanel in the world couldn’t cover it up.

  Hope’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly when she grasped Anya’s hand. Her blue eyes flickered to the salamander torque around Anya’s neck. Anya could feel the collar growing hot as Sparky stirred. Hope dropped Anya’s hand a beat too quickly; Anya wondered what Hope sensed. Could she smell some of the char of a Lantern about her?

  Hope nodded and retreated back behind her desk. Anya looked at the glass vial dangling around her neck as a pendant with interest. It appeared to be opaque glass, but it exuded the pungent fetor of magick. She sat in her chair, motioning for Anya to sit in an armchair in front of the desk, placing the barrier of chrome and glass between them. “I’m told that you’re conducting an investigation.” Her voice was the controlled purr Anya had heard from television.

  “Yes.” Anya settled into the chair, feeling Sparky pacing around her throat. A tongue flickered in her hair. “Some correspondence from you was found in the home of Jasper Bernard.” She didn’t tip her hand just yet. She wanted Hope to wonder what kind of material she possessed; there was nothing to be gained by divulging that it was only the scrap of an envelope and the corner of a check.

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Does Mr. Bernard need help?”

  “He’s dead.” Anya watched Hope. Hope didn’t twitch or flinch at that knowledge; she knew. Perhaps she read the paper. Or she had known before.

  Hope touched her fingers to her chin in an expression of concern. “Oh, dear.”

  Anya wasn’t buying it. “Bernard’s bank records show that he received several checks from you over the past five years, ranging in amounts from five hundred to ten thousand dollars.”

  “I can check with our accounting depar
tment and see what they have. I’m afraid that I simply can’t remember every detail in the budget for an operation this large.” Her fingers sketched the office and world beyond them. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Anya felt Sparky peel off her neck and drop to the floor. The salamander padded through the plush carpet, pacing around the office. His tongue flickered over the bookshelves holding a wide-screen television, the potted plants. He reached up on his hind legs to analyze the knickknacks on the shelves.

  “I’ll look forward to receiving your records, then,” Anya said mildly. She didn’t want to have to force a subpoena, but she would if the information wasn’t forthcoming. “Perhaps it would help me understand more about Mr. Bernard if you would explain what it is exactly that your organization does.”

  As easily as if she were shrugging on a coat made from the skins of dozens of PR people, Hope assumed the sunshiney persona from her television program. “Miracles for the Masses is dedicated to serving the greater Detroit area by granting wishes to deserving citizens. We provide training on aligning one’s goals with the universe, and harvesting the rewards.”

  “Are you a church, then?”

  “No. We don’t like to pigeonhole ourselves that way.”

  Anya looked around the well-appointed room. Sparky sauntered back to the center of the room and began sniffing Hope’s desk. “I’m afraid I don’t see what you’re selling.”

  “We are a nonprofit organization incorporated under the laws of this state, operated for charitable and educational purposes.” Hope’s mouth tightened. “We provide seminars on self-actualization to help people realize their true purpose.”

  “How much do the seminars cost?” Anya sat back in her chair.

  “We have a sliding-scale fee structure. Members are charged based on ability to pay.”

  “So…” Anya leaned forward. “Tell me about the miracles.” Sparky reached up to nose the telephone on the desk. It burped out a bleep, startling Hope.

  This was more comfortable territory for Hope. “Our testimonials are impressive. While we can’t guarantee a miracle, our members’ experiences run the gamut from cured terminal cancer to two lottery winners. Our seminars have allowed people to harness the power of their own wishes to gain new employment, repair marriages, and get their children off drugs. Wishing is a powerful process. We’re simply here to facilitate it.”

  Sparky reached up to the desk and licked Hope’s business-card holder. He made a face and turned his attention to a cloisonné ginger jar decorated with a branch of cherry blossoms wrapping around the body and closed with a porcelain cap. It looked very old; the enamel had crazed in a few places. Sparky batted at it but was unable to make the container move. He turned his head to look at it, this way and that, fascinated.

  “I’d appreciate it if your accounting department would send over a copy of your annual report as well,” Anya murmured.

  “Our finances are not open to the Detroit Fire Department for audit,” Hope replied, her taut skin near to cracking like the enamel on the ginger jar.

  “You’re a public charity. I’ll get them from you, or I’ll get them from the IRS with a subpoena,” Anya said, lacing her hands primly together in her lap. “And the scope of the investigation is not for you to decide.” She might not be able to stop Hope from taking money from desperate people, but she could sure try to make her squirm. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Sparky bat at the lid of the ginger jar. She thought she heard something tapping inside it, like a bird pecking.

  Hope abruptly stood up. “I’m afraid that I have another meeting. My accounting department will be in touch with you to give you the information you’re legally entitled to.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation.” Anya glanced down at Sparky, who was still determinedly fiddling with the ginger jar.

  Anya reached out over the desk to shake Hope’s hand. She allowed the hem of her coat to brush over the glass and bump the ginger jar. The jar tipped over on its side, rolling across the desk. Hope lunged for it, but too late. The cap rattled off the jar, and a ghost roared out of the open mouth in a burst of cold air. In a flurry of white ether, it soared up to the skylight and vanished.

  Covering her shock, Anya bent down to pick up the cap of the jar on the floor. Her fingers brushed its sharp interior: A surface like a geode glittered on the inside. Identical to the surface of the bottle Anya had found in Bernie’s fire grate.

  Anya set the cap delicately back on the desk, sparkling side up. Hope had snatched up the container and wrapped her arms around it like a child with a firefly jar. Her look was one of barely concealed fury.

  “I hope I didn’t damage your… antique,” Anya said mildly.

  Hope’s face contorted, settled. She placed the jar back down on her desk. “It’s fine.” Her narrowed eyes raked over Anya, and Anya guessed that Hope had known what was in the jar. With the ghost gone, Anya felt Sparky crawling back up her sleeve to her collar. And she watched Hope’s eyes follow him. She saw.

  “Speaking of antiques… that’s an interesting necklace, Ms. Kalinczyk.”

  Anya’s fingers fluttered protectively up to her torque. It was so much a part of her that she assumed it was invisible to other people—like Sparky. “Thank you.”

  Hope eyed it like a gemologist staring at a diamond, and the threat was heavy in her words: “I’d keep a close eye on a valuable piece like that. Those kinds of things can disappear very easily.”

  Anya’s eyes narrowed, but her fingers remained wound in the torque, even when she walked out of the building into the sunlight that failed to chase Hope’s chill from her skin.

  The Detroit Crime Lab had been shut down for several years after an audit had unearthed gross mishandling of evidence. Recently resurrected, the lab hadn’t yet escaped the shadow of its earlier reputation. The newly hired lab workers were touchy and sensitive to criticism, but determined to prove themselves.

  Housed on the upper floors of DPD Headquarters, in a 1920s-era building just north of Greektown, the crime lab seemed a shiny anachronism. Computer monitors gleamed on stainless-steel tables, where paper evidence bags were neatly labeled. Microscopes, glass test tubes, and rolls of adhesive tape were arranged at workstations. Fluorescent light overhead shone on the yellow metal cabinets containing arcane tools for DNA analysis, fiber collection, and ballistics.

  Sparky found the machines to be irresistible, so Anya kept her visits to the lab short. As soon as she stepped through the glass doors, she could feel the salamander moving around her neck.

  “Lieutneant Kalinczyk.” The shift supervisor, Jenna Bentham, approached her with a clipboard. Her white coat was immaculately pressed, the braids of her hair tied severely away from her face. Anya could see the thick files stacked up on the desk behind her. Despite their efforts, the lab had a huge backlog; whatever Gina had said to them had clearly put Anya’s evidence at the front of the line.

  “What’ve you got for me?”

  “Some pretty interesting stuff. Shall I start with the tame stuff and work my way up to the unusual?”

  “Sure.” Anya felt Sparky creeping down her back. He padded toward a counter and slithered up a stool. He started playing with the knobs on a hot plate. No evidence was currently cooking in glass beakers on its surface. Figuring that was the least problematic thing he could get into, Anya let him, turning her attention to Jenna and the lab results.

  “Let’s talk about the remains. The ash and tissue samples sent over by the coroner’s office were chemically unremarkable. The gas spectrometer didn’t register the presence of standard flammable compounds in either the victim’s remains or in the couch fibers you sent. No chemical signatures of gasoline, kerosene, or the like.”

  “What about high-temperature accelerants? The exotic stuff, like fireworks compounds, fertilizers, thermite compositions?” Anya still held a flicker of hope that a conventional explanation could be found.

  Jenna frowned. “That was what we expected to find, fr
ankly… but no HTAs were detected. And it doesn’t fit with the scene. HTAs, at four thousand degrees, would decimate that room. And the damage just doesn’t support that conclusion.”

  “So we’re assuming the body smoldered at low temperature for an extended time?” Anya frowned. That didn’t fit the timetable.

  “That’s all I’ve got now.” Jenna flipped through her clipboard. “The only other unusual thing we found, chemically speaking, was a residue of silicon dioxide on the slippers.”

  “Silicon dioxide? Quartz crystal?”

  “It’s not a byproduct of any combustion process. The particles are very small, less than a millimeter in length.” Jenna peered through her glasses. “If this were an HTA situation, I might expect to see some turquoise glassiness that mimics a natural mineral if, say, a jet plane burned up on a concrete runway. It’s structurally similar. But this is not that kind of situation.”

  Anya shook her head. “I just don’t see how this is possible.”

  Jenna gave her a sharp look. “I rechecked the results myself.”

  Anya put up her hands. “Look, I’m not questioning you. At all. This investigation is just… weird. I can’t see how it fits together… in a scientific sense.” Never mind the nonscientific puzzles.

  Jenna shrugged. “I’m gonna leave the significance of that up to you, as the investigating officer, to interpret. I’m just giving you the facts.”

  Anya frowned. “You said we were progressing from the least weird evidence to the most weird.”

  “Yes. We analyzed the fragments of the bottle you brought in.” Jenna held up a plastic bag containing the bottle shards. “Silicon dioxide—quartz—is the crystal inside the bottle. But it’s structurally odd. In the natural world, a geode is formed in sedimentary or igneous rock. Dissolved silicates are deposited in the interior in layers, forming the geode. However, these silicates are bonded to glass in a crystal latticework structure. The glass isn’t much more than fifty years old—a wine bottle, judging by the stamping on the base. It’s simply not possible for a geode to form in that environment over that short a period of time.”