by Kezzy Sparks
Fear still rules Client E’s psyche, but now a new thrill grips her. This could turn out to be a successful pick job...
Seventeen
They get in. The entrance is pitch dark. Should they turn on the lights or leave them off? They only have so much time before The Mage’s return.
“Know exactly what it is you want to lift?”
“Yes, I do; just give me a flashlight,” she answers.
“Sorry, I don’t have one but let’s turn on the lamps.” The Boss gropes for the switches as he says that. “Fuck the hell,” he says as he fumbles. “A little illumination will make the job quicker.”
Soon, though, he locates the switches and the living room bursts into light. Not wanting to be outdone, the client darts into the kitchen and turns those ones on, too. This has to be quick.
She only has a moment to dash back to the living room when a huge black cat comes flying down the banister. It lands on The Boss’s hand. He swipes it with his other one. The cat dives to his shoes, biting and scratching his pants. He kicks it against the wall, and it whimpers.
“Familiars, watch out,” he cries. “I didn’t know she had this kind.”
Another one, gray and striped, hurtles down the stairs. It aims for the client. She almost screams as it reaches her, but The Boss manages to swipe it away on her behalf. It runs up the banister and then flies toward them again.
This time the client ducks, but the wicked feline lands on her back. It sinks a few claws into her dress and then skin. She screams as terror grips her.
This is turning bad. The Boss grabs the feline, risking being bitten on the hands, and throws it against the window. The glass bangs and vibrates, but no shards hit the floor.
The black one isn’t done. It meows fiercely, after which it springs for The Boss’s face with its forelegs outstretched, sharp claws poking out. The Boss parries it, but the cat manages to catch a thumb with its teeth. The warlock howls in pain, but he still flings it down. The cat thuds onto the floor, but not before opening a deep cut on the thumb. Blood drips.
The client is only seeing this with one eye, because the action is heating up on her side. The striped feline that just hit the window isn’t wounded at all. It rises to throw itself at her legs. She kicks out, but the feline grabs the hem of her jeans and looks like it could tear through to the skin of her ankles. Even as terror is sweeping through her, she kicks and stamps with the other foot. The feline won’t release. She hurls herself toward The Boss who kicks the cat. The cat whimpers and releases, then runs to underneath a table.
“We have to kill them.” The Boss rallies. He knocks chairs around trying to reach the felines, and the emboldened client does the same. The action continues briefly. Client E sweats like she has never known.
After a while, all six chairs are scattered and fallen about. The cats aren’t too deterred and are tag teaming. They jump and scream and tear at clothing. The caterwauling is deafening.
Finally the client has a different plan. She will use the couch cushions as shields. They rally again with The Boss. The cushions sure help. They cause the cat claws to sink deep into the fabric and that affords The Boss and the client a chance to really whack the felines. Tired and seeming beat, the felines wail as they head to the kitchen—like they are going to escape by the door. Actually they aren’t defeated, however, for they jump onto the counter and prepare to launch attacks from there.
With their cushion shields, The Boss and the client advance. Another battle rages in the kitchen, and soon plates and cups are knocked down and strewn on the floor. Finally completely beaten, the felines escape back into the living room, jump onto the banister, and then mourn away.
“Quick, where is the thing?” The Boss pants.
A short look around doesn’t yield a quick result. There is a chest of drawers in the living room of which only the top is lockable, and sure the lock is in place. The drawer won’t even yield.
“Try in here, Boss, let’s see,” she says, also huffing. “Please use your door opener.”
The Boss, hyperventilating, repeats the previous magical process. The drawer pops. The red catcher lies inside, and the Client’s heart jumps on glimpsing it. “This is it. We are done.”
“What’s that?” Wonder registers on The Boss's tired face. “So little for so much effort?”
“It’s a dick, and that’s enough,” E replies triumphantly. “You know how much I like those.”
Eighteen
It’s now early morning Wednesday and I wake up to the fact someone wants me dead. No one can just come to your car and smash a window as a sort of a joke. That would be so ridiculous. Only a real enemy bent on murder would do that.
It’s scary, but the most obvious about the attack is that it has everything to do with Casey. Honest to God, how else can you explain it? I have some other jobs going that I started on days or weeks ago, but none of them could have caused this. My car was smashed just as I’d driven from the Crooked, and that is the most defining evidence. The suspect I am dealing with this time around is smart and has already learned it’s me who is handling the investigation. And he or she wants me dead or gravely injured, which means I have to tread very, very carefully.
Before the attack happened, I had had an idea how my day would start, but now there have to be some changes. I will start off by examining that damage again. And even though I have an idea what I will see, there is always the possibility that the attackers returned to cause more. Indeed one can never tell with cowardly enemies. They can try a lot of things in a short time.
I dress up and come out of my room. Sara is sleeping soundly in her bed. Although I am not too sure, I don’t suppose she heard the big bang of last night—otherwise she would have woken up right away to ask. And it's alright if she didn’t; I will leave things like that.
Downstairs, I stand briefly at the door, consumed by the feeling someone with a weapon is standing outside. Will he or she strike instantly, or ask questions first? Honestly, it’s terrifying to imagine, and a cold fear claws at my gut.
I remain at the door for a while, but finally summon the courage to open. The outside is quiet. There is no one standing anywhere.
My car is there on the driveway. Like I imagined, the jagged hole is the same size as last night—but I can’t really say no further damage was done until I circle to the other side. I do just that, but don’t see anything else. As a result, I start to feel better, even though the lack of a second attack doesn’t mean I am out of the cross hairs yet.
It’s crazy, but next is to think of how to manage the situation for now. There are some glass shards on the pavement, and I imagine the most logical thing would be to sweep them away so Sara doesn’t see them. It will rattle her if she did, and I don’t want that. She is young and vulnerable, and this place has been very protective to her, and I will strive to keep things that way.
I get back inside to fetch a small brush and dustpan. I sweep away not just the shards on the pavement, but also those on the car floor. Fortunately there isn’t a lot, for shatterproof glass is truly magical, and doesn’t release a lot of splinters when struck.
“Good job.” I give myself a pat after I am done.
Following that, a good idea now would be to go and park the Vic away from here for the same reason of keeping my sister in the dark. I could use the street, but then I also don’t want neighbors to notice, so I will resort to the mall close by.
The wind blows at me through the broken window as I take to the road. The Southgate Plaza is a sprawling complex covering perhaps three or four acres of space. They have cafes and restaurants, a jewelry store, clothing boutiques, beauty parlors and even a medical diagnostics service. Their rules against illegal parking by persons who aren’t immediate customers are among the strictest in town, but I take a slot in the southwest corner. Aren’t some rules simply made to be broken, I mean?
Finished, going back home would have to be on foot. Now, unlike before when I came enclosed in a stee
l and glass cab, I am in the open—and that once again causes chills to spread through me. Yesterday I saw lights in my rear view mirror, and had an eerie feeling I was being followed, though I never took action. I imagined I was just being too wary as usual, and then tried to ignore it. Now I know there is real danger out there.
Luckily I get back home safe. Dawn is ending, and I remember there is that single time sensitive task I need do. My locator wand, the one I routinely call a dropper, has to be charged. Yesterday I was found wanting in that respect—which resulted in me spending a whole day without locating. Today ought to be different.
“We have to catch that attacker of Casey’s,” I whisper my client’s name, but also know I am a victim of the same perp myself.
My practice is to keep the dropper in the tote that I always go around with. I go back upstairs to find it. The thing looks simple but indeed has some amazing features. It’s shaped like a rod for most of its length but has a thicker butt and a narrow, pointed front. The butt has fins, just like those darts some people like to throw at a board.
Charging the dropper requires two main things, early morning or more preferably dawn light, plus a space that is wide open to the outside environment. As far as open space is concerned, my usual go-to place is my backyard. I can’t use the front because bureau guidelines don’t allow us to display magical things in public. Neighbors or road walkers could see, and even if they can’t identify what they are glimpsing, it still means a rule has been broken.
With regards to ambient conditions, the requirement is more flexible. It won’t matter if the day is cloudy or windy, the wand will still charge.
I go out to the backyard and leave the dropper there. And yes, it’s charging.
My earliest tasks may now be complete, but I remain so anxious to know exactly if Sara heard anything last night. It’d be very troubling if she did, and so I will go wake her up to find out. My justification, if she were to complain about why I am disturbing her, will be that she has school work to complete, and indeed she has, because she ended up watching America’s Got Talent. After she is up, I will then carefully observe things and wait to hear if she will ask about the noise. If she didn’t hear a thing, then all the better; I prefer it that way.
“Wake up, sleepy girl,” I say when I slink into her bedroom. “You have work to do.”
My sister shudders and then opens her eyes. There is no shadow of fear in them. It’s therefore confirmed she never heard anything.
“Thanks Mel, sorry I forgot the alarm,” she says.
“No problem,” I say, happy she is ignorant. “Just do your work, and today you shall have a good day at school. Never be afraid.” I refer to those living shadows that she sometimes sees.
***
Much later, after she is gone, I carry on with Casey’s problem. The dropper must be more than well-charged by now and ready for use. And it’s already primed with the scent of Casey’s attacker, a thing I did yesterday at his home and, therefore, don’t have to repeat. The trace is already stored in the locator’s memory.
I go back out to where I left it, pick it up, and launch it the right way. One other requirement of this wand is that it works well only if spun and dropped onto natural, untainted ground. That, though, isn’t a problem here because my backyard is suitable. And it’s fenced too, which prevents neighbors seeing, and bureau rules are satisfied that way.
Droppers, truly, are fantastic things. They act like compasses, although they aren’t compasses in the real way. They sense the whereabouts of wanted suspects from pretty much anywhere and will point to a direction where he or she is. This is such a useful feature. It lets investigators know where to concentrate a search.
My wand kicks about in the air while it spins, and then soon it lands. An additional great thing about this wand is that it will lock on powerfully no matter what. It can’t be displaced or hindered in any way. Even hurricane-type winds would not force it to point in the wrong direction. Once it senses where the evil thing or person is, it will grab accurately.
I check the dropper; it’s pointing southward. Now comes the part where a small error could be introduced. I must very accurately measure the directional angle and transfer it onto an actual map. Guessing where north and south are will not help at all, and to prevent that, a protractor and a compass become necessary.
My protractor is huge, and it’s a full circle, like a builder’s, but the compass is a small pocket-sized one. I lay the compass right next to the wand, and then bring the protractor on top. Noting the correct position of North, I measure the angle the wand points, then write it down. What’s left is to draw the directional line on a map.
Excited with the result, I get back into the house. I keep some of my Buffalo maps here, though the bigger bunch is in the office. I pick one, and on it locate my home, then draw a line at the angle I measured. The line cuts across the map in a slightly south easterly direction, passing through Orchard Park, and going farther down.
Good, now I have an idea where to go; the Lady in Red is somewhere there along that line.
Honestly, direction is great, but the power of the wand becomes clearer when you use it to get an actual location. For this, I will need to go to another area farther away, repeat the process, and get another directional line. Where the two lines meet becomes the point of interest. It’s where the suspect is!
Great, so I will do that.
One important caveat about use of locators is not to waste too much time in between drops. The suspect could end up moving to a different location, and then you get an unreliable result. So I must do the second one as soon as possible. And the best place I think of going to is Cheektowaga, because not only is it far enough away from here, it’s where Casey is, and I can be able to see him.
With speed I pack everything back into my jean tote, and head back to the mall. The Vic is still there where I left it, and I fire it up quick and shoot onto Union. Cheektowaga is about six to seven miles up the road, and even if the morning traffic stalls me, I will get there soon.
As I drive, the wind gusts through the damaged opening, and I am forced again to remember the attack. Some hanging shards feel as if they might splinter off and strike me like they were meant to last night. This city, really, is a bad one, although on the outside it might look like a great and caring one.
The small strip mall where the Crooked Uncle is nestled looms ahead, but just before I reach it, I turn right onto Chapel Avenue—which connects with Dick after only a short drive. Casey’s home stands in the sun, and there is a veil of peace surrounding it. Inside, though, the story could be different.
“So nice of you to have come early to check on me,” Casey says after I knock. “Are you okay yourself?” He comes out to stand on the porch.
“Yes, I’m great.”
It might scare him if I tell him of the attack, but still the window is going to give him a hint.
Casey notices it before I can distract him. “What happened there? It wasn’t like that yesterday.”
“Just a little accident, at home.”
“Nobody got hurt?”
“No, thank God.”
I fetch my tote. There aren’t any neighbors around who could notice, but like before I won’t do the drop here out front.
“Man, could we please use your backyard?”
Casey can no longer be considered someone who is unaware of magic, so I can spin the wand in his presence. We go to the back.
“What’s that little stick, Mel?” he asks when I raise the dropper.
“A pointer,” I mutter cryptically.
“Impressive.” He gapes at it.
His backyard is overgrown with daisies more than mine. There are patches of loan here and there, but it’s all natural enough for the drop to succeed. I wave the wand, then rapidly spin it upwards. The dropper shoots high, then inevitably it tips and lands neat, no bouncing.
“Goodness, Mel, what are you trying to do?” Casey’s eyes dazzle with amazement
.
I give him a smile to say be quiet. Then I fetch the protractor and compass and repeat the angle measuring. The result I get is 245 degrees away from North.
Casey glares at me as I labor.
“Let’s get back into the house,” I say, ignoring his yearn for explanations. “Via the front,” I add.
Although we could use the backdoor to get in, I left my map in the car, and I have to get it.
Inside the house, I lay out the sheet on his coffee table. When I draw a line at the 245 degree angle from his home, it cuts through Seneca and on to Orchard Park and farther down. This new line and the old one I first got intersect at a location in Orchard Park.
So, the person who harmed Casey and apparently also attacked me is somewhere in Orchard Park. I will have to rush there and find out.
“Casey, now stay safe I have to go.” I can’t waste time.
He still glares at my tote as I pack. “What have you seen?”
Of course, I could tell him exactly, but the danger with revealing everything to an angry client is that they might be tempted to go to a location and cause trouble there, which is against the law.
“Let me check out the place,” I say.
“Nice, good luck.” Still lost in wonder, he sees me to the porch.
And for my part, I am relieved he hasn’t insisted on us going together.
“I will surely call.” I hop back into the Vic, wondering what or whom I will see when I get to Orchard Park…
Nineteen
Casey remains on his porch as he sees Mel go. She is an interesting character, and has started a process she calls magical locate, whatever that means.
Hopefully something will come out of that quick, for the wedding is something he doesn’t want to cancel. Oh God, not after what he has already put into it. He loves Megan so much and won’t want anything to ruin their happiness.
