by Kezzy Sparks
After that, I came straight home to Emerald, and never went back to the office. By the time I was parking inside the garage, Friday had already passed into today.
Now as I lie awake, it’s still dawn. I didn’t sleep for long, which would make remaining in bed to catch more sleep a tempting thing, but then I realize it’d be wiser to rise up and get some things going early. I must charge my dropper. Casey’s wedding is on tomorrow, and I must work to bring him a smile. There won’t be any wedding gift greater than turning him back into the man he was!
Having decided that, I jump out the bedroom to go to the backyard with my wand. Today is cloudier and windier than yesterday and I have to shield my face from the gusts as I step off the small back porch.
One thing that I always remember about droppers when the weather gets this bad, is that it doesn’t affect their charging. Mine will still get powered up despite all the hostile conditions. The only prerequisite is early morning light, and I woke up just at the right time for it.
Another thing I realize, too, about droppers is that I won’t lose mine to the gusting winds. Locator wands are magically magnetic and will cling to earth. They can resist any force and won’t be tossed away.
Last night, in an unexpected turn of events, I never got to do a locate for Casey. I became so involved with the cow maulings and used up all my resources. For him my plan had been to switch to a late-night drop, hoping the change could yield a different result, but then the mauling emergency arose, and I ended up using the dropper to locate Butch Smiryl’s farm. A huge evil was unearthed, and things went good for Farmer Clyde, but it was a big loss for Casey. Today I hope no other crisis like that occurs.
Although doing everything to bring an end to Casey’s suffering remains the number one priority, there are a few other procedural tasks that must be cleared before the day gets going. The job of last night means I must deposit that magic scent of Butch’s gator familiar into the resource bank.
It’s important to do that in two ways. First, if Butch previously committed a magical crime and his signature was banked while he never got caught, a comparison is going to show this, and then we can charge him with two felonies. Second is that if he remains unrepentant and carries on with his evil ways, his signature will turn up again at another crime scene, and he can be nailed faster.
After I am done with the deposit, the next needed thing would be that I reload both the sniffer and the dropper with the magic scent of the Lady in Red. This is critical because a major inconvenience with droppers is that they need to be initialized with the scent of the black magic being looked for. For the past days, mine has been sensitized to that attacker of Casey’s, and that meant I had no need to prime it again and again; yet when I used it at Clyde’s farm, it lost the Lady in Red’s scent and acquired that of Butch’s gator familiar. As a result, it can’t work for Casey anymore unless I go back to Dick Road to pick that signature once more.
My work is therefore cut out for me. I will go to Grand Island and then from there head to Cheektowaga. I can’t drive to the island right away, though, because I woke up far too early for that kind of business. It’s not even six o’clock yet, and the resource center won’t open until nine. It might even help me if I can snooze a bit while the dropper is charging.
I dawdle around for a while, and then much later on, it’s after seven and I ready for the journey by jumping into a shower. The center is still a good hour and a half from opening, but I can phone to make an exception. Elder Sweeney can be flexible to an extent if someone is nice to him.
I come out of the shower then dress myself up before I dial. I am never one to make calls to people while in the nude; it makes me self-conscious. Sort of like the other person is seeing me, and that’s too embarrassing. The only time I do it is when I am calling Kay, and then suddenly it just feels so right.
After three rings, Rayleigh picks up. I called his home, and it’s lucky he wasn’t away—because that phone is the only way to get him when he is not at the center. He doesn’t carry a cellphone, never owned one, and doesn’t intend to at any time in future.
“Another trace for you, sir,” I say.
“Which place?”
“That farm in the news.”
“I see. So they called you for it. How did it go?”
“Very well, perpetrator to attend court soon.”
“That was fast, Melania. Congratulations,” he says in his raspy voice. “See you when you come.”
Like I intended, I ask him to open early, and he says he can be there in thirty. That’s good, and then not wasting time myself, I fire up the Vic. As usual though, I must detour at a Starbucks to pick up two coffees and a couple of muffins, and that burns away five minutes of my time. The Buffalo morning traffic is the other thing that holds me up for a while, but by eight, I’m cresting the Niagara River Bridge. Staley is accessible via the next exit, and I take the off ramp.
Rayleigh already waits for me. He thanks me for the coffees.
“Anytime boss,” I say as I give him the sniffer. He must deposit the trace before doing any matches. It would be interesting to know if Butch did something in the past that caught the eye of an investigator. If he did, I would like to charge him with more crimes, and records come in handy for that.
Ray takes a while, but unfortunately I don’t have too much time, and if comparison is to take too long, I must leave. I have an office to open, and even more importantly, there is Casey who needs help.
Sweeney finishes recording but has no quick match.
“Call me once you get something,” I say.
“I sure will.”
I thank him for the inconvenience he has had to endure for my sake.
"You are welcome, Mel,” he says.
The drive back to the mainland will be faster. Less volume, the daily grind has begun for many. From the I-190, I use Scajaquada and then the Kensington Expressway to get to Dick.
Casey’s driveway is taken over by a van, so I must park on the road. The van is one I have never seen before, a coffee-brown Dodge Caravan with a roof rack that has a step ladder on it. On its sides and back are labels of an electrician’s company, which causes me to wonder if Casey, in addition to what he is facing, also has trouble with his house lights.
I will call him before going to knock.
“I am outside,” I say.
“Sorry, not home,” he answers. He doesn’t seem to be in the best of spirits.
“How did everything go?” I ask about the bachelor’s.
“Pretty well, I guess.”
Still, I wonder where he is, but can’t ask. It sure would be nice if he just told me firsthand, yet he doesn’t.
“There is a van in your driveway,” I say to try and get him to explain things.
“That’s my guys. Don’t worry about them.”
Oh Jesus, he is not offering much, so I will let him be. He really doesn’t have to anyway, nor does he need to be present as I prime the locator.
I get out of the Vic and head for his porch. While I am here, I remember, I will have to reload the same scent onto the sniffer, too. For now it’s carrying Butch’s scent that I picked up last night, and I must erase that. Depositing a trace into the resource bank does not destroy whatever is the current scent. The sniffer will always remember until a new one is loaded.
By way of the guidelines, magic things cannot unnecessarily be brought out in the open where the ordinary public can see, but then this porch is where the Lady in Red’s signature is, and I have no choice. I fetch the sniffer. Its lambskin rope lashes about, but not as strongly as that first time Tuesday. The trace on here isn’t going to stay forever but will gradually vanish.
Satisfied the sniffer is now trained on Casey’s attacker, I bring out the dropper. This type is a silent tool when it comes to picking up scents and won’t vibrate wildly, the way a sniffer does. However, I know it’s priming because the magic trace is still available just like the sniffer already showed. We are still ve
ry much on the way to catching the Lady in Red.
As soon as I finish, a sound of a door opening reaches me. I look up. Out comes a man with squinting, bloodshot eyes. His face is sunburnt, and he has a ginger goatee on his chin. He is of medium height but even more heavier set than Casey.
“Can I help you?” he says, but in a non threatening way.
“I was looking for Casey,” I answer. “Now I phoned and know he isn’t here.”
“Big party we had last night, and he couldn’t make it back. So what shall I do for you?”
Awkwardness takes control of me because I can’t exactly tell this man what I am here for. “My name is Mel,” I say. “It’s fine if Casey isn’t here, let me go.”
The man is flustered, though he won’t mention it. “I’m August, Casey’s brother in law,” he finally says. “It was nice meeting you.”
“Good knowing you, too. Enjoy the wedding, bye.”
With that, I hastily leave.
Unable to take my mind off my client, I only drive some yards on Dick and already wonder when to do the locate. Nighttime might be better—like I wanted to yesterday—but somehow I am so itching for action I am tempted to do a morning drop. There is always the chance, anyway, that some other critical case might creep up like last night, and then I’m forced to use the dropper, and then when it comes to doing it for Casey, it is discharged. And then I have to wait again for tomorrow, which I don’t want to.
I decide to do it right away. There is the Genesee Park nearby, which has tons of natural land. I drive there.
A few people have already come into the park, and I must throw the dropper while avoiding their gazes. I do exactly that, and the wand lands facing northish. After a careful measuring, the direction is actually west of north. The line cuts past Grand Island going through to Lake Erie.
The next locate is at the little park near my office. That drop almost points westward. Surprisingly after I connect the two, I get a location in Lake Erie, on the Canadian side of it.
Something must be very wrong, or I located while the perpetrator was driving about, which gives bad results. There is no way the Lady in Red can be far out in the lake at this moment, and in a foreign country. And what's worse, the weather today is most unsuitable for boating.
It’s bad news I can’t relay to Casey, but there is the dream reveal I can try next.
For that, I drive to the office, which I make in less than five minutes. Before anything else, though, I must say hello to Mr. Gillz. The fish is paddling slowly, up and down. He senses my frustration; the enemy we are dealing with is crafty.
After dropping in some pellets, it’s time for the amethyst magic, and today it’s do or die. Tomorrow is the big day; time is running out. Wasn’t I heard saying to August enjoy the wedding. The knowledge that it’s that close shoots painful bolts into my heart.
***
Although it’s pretty routine for me to do most reveals in the car, there is a corner in the office that’s also suitable for the job. I have cheap Rexine couches in that area, and they are great to lie on.
I need Mr. Gillz’s help during this reveal, so I pick up his tank and place it on a small coffee table that sits between the couches. The amethyst then finds its way into my hand, and I focus on the fish. I don’t need a lullaby to work the magic of sleep, and soon my eyelids are closing on their own.
When I enter the dream, the first glimpse is of that brown, velvet-lined case. Strangely the case is now contained inside a white cardboard box, with some inner padding for protection. Looking outside the cardboard, I see a space that first resembles a decorated office, but upon closer inspection is actually a postal outlet. Envelopes marked for sale are displayed on walls, one type being the regular paper ones, and the other the bubble plastic type. Beyond are neatly laid out store fixtures, with shelves that are stocked with plenty of drug vials, tubes and cartons. It must be a US Posts in a drugstore then!
Of the people I am able to glimpse, is a black woman who speaks fast in a Caribbean accent. The man she serves is white. Soon money is exchanged, and a cabinet door is opened, and the box is slid in violently.
The door is closed. Everything goes dark, and I wake up.
I am panting. This could be good but more likely not. Casey’s privates have been mailed. Who was that white man? And did he send the package to my client’s home? It could be that, but the other possibilities are horrendous. By tonight, that box could find itself in the cargo hold of a plane and flown away, never to be seen in America again.
Thirty-eight
The first action I take regarding what I saw is to phone Zed and ask if the guild has any power to stop a parcel moving in the postal system.
“Absolutely not a heck of a chance,” he says.
“So what options do we have? I have a package that I would like to intercept.”
“Sorry, which one by the way?”
“Casey’s,” I say. “I have the belief someone mailed his organs to somewhere.”
“Yikes, that’s too bad, but frankly there is no hope. The USPS only takes instructions from the regular police, not the guild.”
I get his point; no intervention can be made from our side. While some might see here an opportunity to get the regular cops on board with the case, it’s actually an absolute no, no. In magic circles, we always do our jobs and finish them without the help of the conventional authorities.
After hanging up, I think to take the law into my hands and go to the local headquarters of the US Postal Service and try my own intervention. I rush out the office and start the Vic.
It looks positive, but the moment I drive out the lot, reality then hits me. There isn’t much I can do. I have no knowledge which postal outlet the box is held in. Nor do I have the identity of the mailer. And even if I did, without any recognized authority, I just can’t budge into the system and demand to get a parcel I hadn’t posted.
I come back into the office and slump onto the couch. Which is where I still am. Too bad for Casey, I can’t do anything for him before the wedding.
***
Later on, around five, my focus becomes to complete the cow mauling case. Justice waits and must be served.
I place another call to Zed. “Time to go and serve the Pendle on Butch.”
“Alright, and I think I must join you on that one.”
“Perfect,” I say. “And that also gives you a chance to see both crime scenes.” I don’t suppose he has visited Dayton's farm either.
“What a mind reader you’re,” he says, “because that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Always trust me to know how my guys work.
“Come down, then. And we go with the Vic.”
He agrees, and before the hour is out, he is knocking at my door. Public parking around here is a bit tight, so we decide on changing cars and will take his Honda because he has nowhere to park it. There is a McDonald’s just down the road where he could have left it, but as a guild we try to respect the property rights of others.
We jump into the Honda and head to Clarence pretty much following my route of last night. The skunk has been removed, but a bloody splotch remains where the unlucky animal got slaughtered. The smell, too, does hang on, but by the looks of things, it might get finally washed away when the clouds above start to spit.
Zed wants to go to Clyde’s farm first, and so we head to Davison Street. Dayton is home, looking very relieved. His hair is ruffled by the wind as he stands with us.
“Nothing happened again after you left,” he says while he holds the hand of his little girl, Sylvie.
“That’s good to hear, man,” I respond.
Getting on with business, I introduce Zed, and then Dayton asks Sylvie to go to her Mom in the kitchen, and we pace to the pens. It takes us some time, but we get there and Zed makes his records.
“Imagine I had to use a chainsaw to cut up the cows and burn them,” Clyde says.
“Don’t worry. You will get over it,” I say. It’s th
at sad, and Clyde could use a sympathetic ear, but we must be leaving.
We turn back. It’s gotten even cloudier and windier, and the forecast drizzle could start any time. Temperatures are down, too, and it’s almost like getting back to winter. The sun hasn't set, though, and we can see well without the aid of artificial light. Our step is now quicker as the wind blows at us, no wonder we become glad when the Honda welcomes us into its interior.
Driving to Boyd takes us less than eight minutes. That road is a quiet country lane, more picturesque than I could discern last night.
Butch’s home is now visible in greater detail. Outside of it, nothing shows that might suggest to the public that a warlock lives here. His grass is well watered and neatly cut; he must tend it with zeal, or else he employs able landscapers. His two-story is well appointed, with a decorative brick façade that has large windows with gleaming shutters. The long driveway is paved with asphalt, but as it gets to the porch, the paving changes to shiny aggregate bordered with exquisite interlock.
The beauty of his home is not what we came here to see, and so we ignore it and knock forcefully on the door, indicating we are on a serious mission. Butch himself answers. His face creases with uneasiness at our sight. He probably is the same age as Dayton, but his hair is all black with no wisps of white. He is dressed in a long-sleeve sweatshirt and black longs.
“Come out,” I say. “We need to talk.”
Reluctantly he steps forward and closes the door. The wind rasps against the woodwork.
“We are here to finish the job.” I give him a withering stare.
Butch sighs, and his face scrunches.
“Tell everyone in your family to stay indoors,” I order. “They mustn’t know what we came for.”
