Arctic Smoke

by Randy Nikkel Schroeder

  The waitress mulled. “Yuh. They wrecked the store. They’re roommates.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” Rooke stretched a breath. He was either twitching his fingers at high speed or shaking. Seri noticed the initials on his briefcase: T.F. Rooke. Oh, so that was it.

  He crumpled his picture. Breath rushed from his nostrils, faster each exhalation.

  “Yuh.” The waitress nodded. Then whispered, “They live in some old church. Don’t tell the police, ’kay?”

  Rooke stood, knocking over a glass. “A church,” he rasped. “Where?”

  “I don’t know. The neighbourhood with the silly name? Spookleton?”

  He began to yank at his buttons, top to bottom. “Serendipity.”

  She surfaced, a little frazzled. “Yes.”

  “One more question.” He turned. His eyes were bloodshot. “Is there anything—anything in this world—that could crack your faith, tear down its walls, uproot its foundations?”

  “No.”

  “Think carefully. This is the one true thing.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “No. Absolutely nothing.”

  “Then you are my angel.” He grinned, plucked the cigarette somehow still smoking, drew fire to his lungs. “We have detective work to do, secrets to tear open.”

  He looked up and covered his eyes. Ash fell from his fingers to cling at his clothes. Finally, after long seconds, he dropped his hand, and the cigarette fell to the ground. “Fire up your metaphysics. We’re going to church.”

  “Why?”

  He stood. “To get back what’s mine. Finally.”

  Seri glanced at the briefcase nameplate, and wondered at the secrets of Theodore Franklin Rooke.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Circus of What

  Rooke roared through the amber lights. A truck hauling Christmas trees screeched and honked. Seri tugged her seatbelt. Now the fires were lit. The speed of the car excited her, implied a destination at last.

  Rooke rolled down his window, inviting a gush of chill. “Order the angels.”

  “First explain that clearing back there.”

  “Order,” he said. “The angels.”

  Okay. If the spooky stuff kept him stoked, she was willing to play her part. “Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones, Dominions—”

  “Enough.” He swooped lanes without signaling, skidded a corner. “Angel of mysteries.”

  “Usually Raziel.”

  “Angels of confusion.”

  “Group commanded by God to descend to earth and seed chaos.”

  “Chaos.” He tapped the dash. “Where does the archangel Michael originate?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Ancient Chaldea.” He clicked his teeth. “A pagan spirit, Serendipity. Who is Nebo?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “One of the sukallin, ancient Sumerian spirits. Angel ancestors. Do you see?”

  “No.”

  He flicked his head, eyes roving. “All the old pantheons, swallowed whole by Christianity. Toys in the attic. Assyrian gods, demons . . . .”

  He stomped the brake. Tires wailed. The car shuddered, stalled.

  “Babylon,” Rooke said. Seri had never smelled his cologne so strongly.

  She stared out the window. A dark empty intersection, enfolding them. Creaking stop signs, humming overhead wires.

  “It is always windy here,” Rooke said. The car rocked gently.

  “Let’s get moving,” Seri said.

  A Slurpee cup rattled across the street. Rooke took a long breath, opened the door, and stepped out. He walked a few paces, knelt. Seri heard his knees crack. He slowly traced a finger on the icy pavement, then put it to his lips.

  “Ted.” Seri climbed out and circled the car. “Get back in.”

  Rooke drew the finger from his mouth and beckoned. She crouched beside him, blowing into her hands.

  “Will you hear my confession?” He giggled, then turned suddenly grave.

  She was about to refuse, but God must have whispered in her heart. Rooke was confiding, building the kind of bond they’d need.

  “All right, Ted.” Let the esoterica begin.

  He traced the ice again. “Many years ago, in a city named Underwood, my brother and I discovered a wooden box filled with a beautiful iridescent powder.”

  “You were boys?”

  “We were men, then. We found the box at the very end of a dark cobwebbed hallway, among the apocrypha and esoteric paintings and satanic books, in an old vargueño desk, in one of its many inlayed drawers, in an abandoned building called the Museum of Evil.”

  “Where is Underwood?” She knew geography.

  “My great-grandfather built the museum. I never knew him, I was not alive when it was open. I went at the insistence of my brother.”

  “And Underwood? In Canada or the States?” Seri wished she hadn’t asked. She had never seen Rooke so earnest—or was that lifted eyebrow a twitch of dark irony? If he was misleading her, he was the best tale-teller she had ever seen.

  “It’s never been clear.” Rooke scratched the ice, peered into the incision. “We stole that powder.”

  Seri laughed. Quickly snapped it off.

  “My great-grandfather was a hellfire preacher,” Rooke said. “He was obsessed with evil.”

  Mine too, Seri thought. Good, good. Another connection.

  “He was obsessed with hellish powers on earth, all manner of the occult.” Rooke clawed the ice. “My brother should not have made me go.”

  Seri wondered how to keep it grounded. “So you have a brother?” she asked.

  Rooke cast her a deadly glance. “Symbolically.”

  Of course. “And your great-grandfather is symbolic, too?”

  “I always wanted his hat.” Rooke hoarsened. “But he wouldn’t even let me try it on. Then, when I found the powder, and it sparkled in a hundred shades of blue, he offered his hat in exchange.” Rooke coughed.

  “Your brother or great-grandfather?”

  “I refused. There was a scuffle. Some of the powder spilled.”

  A hat? Again she almost laughed, then felt the roots of her hair twitch. He was messing with her, of course. Let him.

  Rooke reached up to tap his teeth, bit a finger. “Do you remember when King David first saw Bathsheba? Do you recall the. . . .” He coughed again, began to pack snow into the ice-scratch. “The inexplicable, overwhelming lust that possessed the poor man’s judgment?”

  Seri fingered the dimple in her cheek. “Okay, I get it. Or Eve in the garden, or Lot’s wife, when she turned back to gaze at Sodom.”

  “She should have run away.” Voice getting hoarser.

  Lightning lit up the sky. Snow sifted through the empty intersection. Wires hummed and crackled.

  Rooke put down a hand to steady himself. “My brother made me go. He made me touch the powder. It was his transgression.”

  Seri rose to return to the car. “Okay, your sins are forgiven. Penance is, phone your brother and apologize.”

  He didn’t hear. “Years later, north of Underwood, when the Circus of Quaphsiel came looking, my mind darkened, and I asked him to hide my lovely powder. And he stole it.” Rooke spit the word. “In its absence I have tried every consolation, every religion, every cult. They are all empty, all vanity.” He looked up for agreement, or explanation, or absolution.

  Seri paused. “Sorry. The circus of what?”

  Minutes later they sped the streets again. Seri drove. She was glad to see the winking tail lights of other cars, other intersections filled with traffic and humanity. “Where’s this church?”

  So she was working on Christmas Eve, the night before Christ’s birthday? She’d have to tighten up, do better. Right now there were a few necessities.

  She swerved to avoid fallen Christmas trees scattered on the road.

  “Goodness. Must’ve been that truck.” Ornament glass popped beneath wheels. Snared tinsel fluttered in vain at the night sky.

  Rooke clenched his teeth. “
You give yourself away with angels.”

  “Excuse me?” The car crunched over a pine bough.

  “We try so hard to order angels,” Rooke said. “But each attempt ensnares us further in the worlds of superstition, pagan folklore, until we can never claw ourselves free.”

  Seri didn’t argue. Yes Lord, she’d do her part, though it strained every fibre.

  “You are the daughter of a mixed marriage,” Rooke muttered.

  A subtle barb, but she caught it, even the undertow. The child of both Christian and pagan: just like Saint Augustine.

  † † †

  “What curious light in here.” Seri’s hands bunched in her pockets.

  “Stained glass.” Rooke’s eyes cruised the chapel. “Chops up the moon.”

  An ancient payphone rang, seemed to raise the dust. Instruments littered the tiny stage, drew the light across their curves and angles—bongos, tom-toms, temple blocks. Rooke tightened his shoulders at the sight.

  “Follow me.” He ignored the ringing phone, led Seri up the stairs behind the choirloft. “The sanctum.” He opened the door at the top. She heard him gasp lightly.

  “What sort of devil. . . ?” He leaned against the door, gripping the knob. His own phone buzzed in a pocket.

  The walls were perforated, plaster gashing. A drill hung stabbed in the wall. The floor was strewn with cigarette butts, sleeping bags, dusty cushions.

  Rooke entered, kneeled by the sleeping bags. Ran a finger over the pillows.

  “He’s been here.” Rooke sniffed the finger, gently put it between his lips.

  “Punks.” Seri understood.

  Rooke withdrew the finger. “I should have come earlier.”

  “We, Ted. We.”

  He silenced her with an X-ray stare, then rose and moved to an ornate hardwood bookcase on the wall. His phone sounded again. His lips compressed as he seized an ancient book at the end of the case and pulled it. He reached behind the remaining books, knocked them off one by one, until the shelf was bare but for a tiny wooden box. He popped the unadorned lid, fingers quivering.

  He turned. Seri had never seen his pupils so large.

  “Gone,” he whispered.

  Seri guessed. “Your powder.” Must have been some animating totem.

  “Insult to injury.” He dropped the box and tapped his phone, fingers still shaking.

  “Thief,” he rasped, putting the phone to his ear. “Mr. Frump. I have evidence.”

  A long pause.

  “—Galt Gardens?” Rooke said. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  He began to furiously tap his fingers on the wall.

  “—when?”

  He hit the door in two long strides, grabbing Seri’s arm on the way.

  “Ted. Not so tight.”

  He stopped, looked straight into her eyes.

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” he said. “Again.”

  † † †

  Malachi Frump’s face was a lumpy quincunx, bespectacled, lenses thick as ship windows. He snapped his fingers, pointed in two opposite directions. “About five people on each side of the stage when they lit the flag. Up there.” He slapped the amp.

  “Who?” said Seri.

  “The boy with the reggae hairlocks. I have the pictures.”

  Rooke clicked his tongue. “Where are the ashes?”

  Frump removed printed pictures from a leather zip case and offered them, fanlike, to Rooke.

  Rooke waved them off. “Where are the ashes?”

  Frump wrinkled his nose. “Here on the floor, I suppose.”

  “The Mounties didn’t take a sample?”

  “Only city police here. They haven’t disturbed evidence yet.”

  Seri followed Frump’s finger. Two cops stood at the stairs, both tall, a little gone to seed. Both into unfinished workouts—bunched biceps, meaty chests, skinny legs.

  Rooke kneeled and wiped a smudge across the wood-grained stage. He raised an ashy finger, appraised it. “Seri.” Held up the finger. “Any green or blue?”

  “It’s ash, Ted.”

  “Ash.” Rooke wiped the finger along the lapel of his coat. He straightened, taut and humming as a power cable. “Who are the officers?”

  “Turner and Bachman,” Frump said. “Over there.”

  Rooke looked at the cops. His lips soured. “Give me the pictures you took, Malachi. Merry Christmas.”

  He strolled across the stage. “Hey, Randy!”

  The redheaded cop with a checkered crew cut turned, frowning. “How did you know my name?”

  Rooke smiled. “Pretty obvious, ’migo. How many of you here?”

  “Two,” said the blond cop.

  Rooke stopped between them. Tall as they were, he had to look down at their badges. “Why only one car?”

  “Just a routine misdemeanour,” Turner said.

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “Me.” Bachman ran a hand through red thicket.

  “You.” Rooke pursed his lips. “That explains a few things.”

  Bachman flexed. “Who are you?”

  Rooke swept his eyes across the stage, fanned the pictures. He looked down, tapped a foot. Then said, quietly, “Did you make any arrests?”

  “They got away,” Bachman said.

  “Away.” Rooke’s voice hoarsened. “You do know what an arrest is?”

  “Hey bud, if you think this is some kind of—”

  “Why,” Rooke interrupted, “do people destroy things?”

  “Huh?”

  “What motivates vandalism?” Rooke rasped, pattered pictures on his thigh.

  Turner and Bachman looked at each other.

  “Who knows the vandals?” Rooke continued, voice hazing around the edges.

  “Wul, uh, we haven’t had time to—”

  “Did you question anyone?”

  “We’ve been—”

  “Do you have any information?”

  “Wul—”

  Seri smiled with satisfaction. She had lit this fire.

  Rooke snapped the pictures on his palm. “I’ve been here two minutes and already I have photographs. How long have you two been here?”

  The cops looked at each other, breathing through their mouths.

  “Listen,” Bachman said. “Who are you to order us around like this?”

  Rooke fixed his eye, until the cop looked down.

  “Do you have any evidence?” Rooke said, voice cracking.

  “Evidence?”

  “That’s where you gather up clues in order to make an educated guess about the perpetrators.”

  Seri almost laughed.

  Bachman continued to look down. “Wul, sir, we have this broken violin. Turner.”

  Turner gathered some shards of fiddle from the table. “A violin, sir. Somebody broke it.”

  “Seri.” Rooke’s voice a husky whisper. “Take that fiddle.”

  “Can’t,” said Bachman.

  “You going to stop us, Randy? Tell me: any criminal records?”

  “Wul, no sir, I’m a cop.”

  Seri smiled. Rooke touched his brow. “I meant—never mind. Now listen.” The cops leaned forward, straining to hear.

  “Who do the vandals know?” Rooke said. “Who can be appropriately questioned?”

  “Sir, we’ve never seen these guys before.”

  Rooke tapped his brow. “They’re musicians. They’ll have a manager. Which academy did you boys go to?”

  Bachman rubbed his thigh.

  “Randy?” Rooke’s voice was almost gone.

  Turner looked up. “Sir, are you with the RCMP?”

  Rooke ignored him.

  “Mr. Frump,” Seri said. “Do the vandals have a manager here?”

  “As a matter of fact.”

  “Good,” said Rooke. “We’ll find out where they’ve flown with that powder.”

  Seri grinned. They were humming now. If Rooke needed some symbol of lost beauty to keep him moving, so what? He lived and breathed in a mythopoetic dimension.
>
  “Powder?” Frump’s eyes surfaced deep-pool lenses.

  “Gentlemen.” Rooke looked at the cops. “Dismissed. Better to reign in hell, Randy.”

  “Better to rain. . . ?”

  Rooke shook the pictures.

  “And don’t point those guns at anyone,” he whispered.

  † † †

  Rooke followed Seri backstage, to a cramped room hung with a bare bulb. Rooke stood at the door, flicking the bulb on and off. His head almost reached the ceiling. Seri shuffled the violin pieces in the plastic bag. Maybe they were overdoing it here. No. Let this partnership grow.

  She sniffed. Some kind of narcotic hung in the air—marijuana, but something unfamiliar beneath, some smell right off the spectrum. Each sniff made her think of ice cracking. She bit the inside of her cheek, suddenly aware of her tongue, the way it filled her mouth, the places it touched her teeth, how it descended her throat.

  “Ted.” She watched him flick the light switch. “What’s due process here?”

  He scanned her with those eyes. One hand dropped from the light switch, index finger still pointed. The other drew his nail clippers from a coat pocket. He nodded almost imperceptibly at the bare bulb. Seri looked—a spider web knit bulb to ceiling, fat red cat-faced spider watching from the edge.

  “This room is laced with the last strands of a former life,” Rooke whispered.

  She nodded. Just flow with the demented poetry.

  He slowly, smoothly reached out to the web, hand poised, not a tremor. Then one quick snatch. He plucked the spider from the web, shook it, held it at a delicate pressure. The lightbulb flickered.

  “Here she is. The manager.” Frump, at the door, escorting a thirty-ish woman with multi-coloured hair extensions.

  “Sit down,” Seri said.

  Rooke did not look up from his spider.

  “I’m not talking to you, asshole,” the woman said, sitting in the single chair. “Are you the police?” She squinted at Rooke, then looked up as if trying to remember something.

  Rooke smiled, continued to regard the spider.

  Seri felt her tongue swelling. Drugs in the air. Her mouth watered. “What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?” The woman leaned forward, clawing lint from a pantleg.

  Rooke looked up from the spider. “This is just an interview.”

  “I didn’t do anything illegal or immoral,” she said. “Do I get a lawyer?”