decided to avail herself of the coffee John had brewed in the salesmen’s lounge; she couldn’t quite look at a pop machine yet without wincing. “What area do you want to go into?”
“Epidemiology.” The kid put his chin in his hand, and Anya could very nearly see the shapes of his daydreams. “If I go to work for CDC in Atlanta, they have some great research programs. . . and some sweet loan forgiveness.”
It was a shame that a bright kid like that dreamed of fleeing the city. But Anya couldn’t really blame him. Unemployment was over 25 percent in the city, and the crime. . . a government research fellowship looked undeniably better than an inner-city life guarding a rich man’s Mach 1. Anya wished him well, but also wished that there was something in the city to keep good kids like him around. But Detroit had nothing to offer him.
She lifted her cup. “To the future doctor. Salut.”
“Cheers.”
From the next desk, Brian called out, “Hey, you might want to take a look at this.”
Her heart quickened, and she rose to bend over his shoulder. Brian pointed out a twinge of movement on the periphery of the dark screen. “I think we have a visitor.”
Anya sprinted past the Mach 1 and out the door. The fluorescent brightness of the showroom receded into the darkness of the street. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, and she scanned the ruined façade of the warehouse. Around her neck, she felt Sparky churn to life. He slithered over her hip, landing on the sidewalk in full hellbender shape. His feathery gills strained forward, tail lashing in agitation. He was in full agreement with Brian’s instruments that something was out there, but she couldn’t see where. . .
There. She spied movement behind the fence, around the corner of the building where the firebug had entered. Her heart hammered in her chest and she reached into her jacket for her gun and flashlight. In all the time she’d been an arson investigator, she’d never had cause to draw the little .38 revolver. More than anything, it had been just an extra piece of heavy junk to lug around, like a watch or cell phone, that she carried only because she was expected to. Now, in the pursuit of this criminal, she was glad to have it. The metal felt cool and foreign in her hand.
She jogged across the street, her steps light and nearly soundless on the cracked macadam. Sparky surged soundlessly beside her. She paused at the fence line, listening. Hearing nothing, she ducked under the open edge of the fence, then crept through the rubble to the basement window. She could see a light moving in the basement, pale yellow as a firefly. It bobbed and weaved from one edge of the basement to the other, as if searching. But the light was not bright enough to be a flashlight; it was pale as Sparky’s Gloworm. She kept to the right of the window, knowing if she stood directly before it, the intruder would see her shadow against the paler blackness of night.
She aimed her gun into the dark, then clicked her flashlight on in the other fist. “Come out with your hands up.” It sounded like a line from an old movie, but she couldn’t come up with any clearer instructions.
The light in the basement stilled, then extinguished itself. From the darkness below, she heard Virgil’s voice: “Be careful, Miss Anya. He’s got a. . .”
She heard a crash of something metallic being kicked over. She sensed Virgil’s cold, ghostly presence beyond the wall. Then. . . he simply fizzled away in an amber flash, as if he’d been sucked into a black hole. That rushing of strange gravity felt so familiar to Anya that she rocked back on her heels. It felt like when she devoured a spirit.
“Virgil?” she whispered.
No one answered. She couldn’t sense him beyond the charred black of the wall. In the sick pit of her stomach, she knew that he was gone.
A brilliant red light erupted from the basement window. Anya flung her arm up to shield her eyes.
“Epidemiology.” The kid put his chin in his hand, and Anya could very nearly see the shapes of his daydreams. “If I go to work for CDC in Atlanta, they have some great research programs. . . and some sweet loan forgiveness.”
It was a shame that a bright kid like that dreamed of fleeing the city. But Anya couldn’t really blame him. Unemployment was over 25 percent in the city, and the crime. . . a government research fellowship looked undeniably better than an inner-city life guarding a rich man’s Mach 1. Anya wished him well, but also wished that there was something in the city to keep good kids like him around. But Detroit had nothing to offer him.
She lifted her cup. “To the future doctor. Salut.”
“Cheers.”
From the next desk, Brian called out, “Hey, you might want to take a look at this.”
Her heart quickened, and she rose to bend over his shoulder. Brian pointed out a twinge of movement on the periphery of the dark screen. “I think we have a visitor.”
Anya sprinted past the Mach 1 and out the door. The fluorescent brightness of the showroom receded into the darkness of the street. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, and she scanned the ruined façade of the warehouse. Around her neck, she felt Sparky churn to life. He slithered over her hip, landing on the sidewalk in full hellbender shape. His feathery gills strained forward, tail lashing in agitation. He was in full agreement with Brian’s instruments that something was out there, but she couldn’t see where. . .
There. She spied movement behind the fence, around the corner of the building where the firebug had entered. Her heart hammered in her chest and she reached into her jacket for her gun and flashlight. In all the time she’d been an arson investigator, she’d never had cause to draw the little .38 revolver. More than anything, it had been just an extra piece of heavy junk to lug around, like a watch or cell phone, that she carried only because she was expected to. Now, in the pursuit of this criminal, she was glad to have it. The metal felt cool and foreign in her hand.
She jogged across the street, her steps light and nearly soundless on the cracked macadam. Sparky surged soundlessly beside her. She paused at the fence line, listening. Hearing nothing, she ducked under the open edge of the fence, then crept through the rubble to the basement window. She could see a light moving in the basement, pale yellow as a firefly. It bobbed and weaved from one edge of the basement to the other, as if searching. But the light was not bright enough to be a flashlight; it was pale as Sparky’s Gloworm. She kept to the right of the window, knowing if she stood directly before it, the intruder would see her shadow against the paler blackness of night.
She aimed her gun into the dark, then clicked her flashlight on in the other fist. “Come out with your hands up.” It sounded like a line from an old movie, but she couldn’t come up with any clearer instructions.
The light in the basement stilled, then extinguished itself. From the darkness below, she heard Virgil’s voice: “Be careful, Miss Anya. He’s got a. . .”
She heard a crash of something metallic being kicked over. She sensed Virgil’s cold, ghostly presence beyond the wall. Then. . . he simply fizzled away in an amber flash, as if he’d been sucked into a black hole. That rushing of strange gravity felt so familiar to Anya that she rocked back on her heels. It felt like when she devoured a spirit.
“Virgil?” she whispered.
No one answered. She couldn’t sense him beyond the charred black of the wall. In the sick pit of her stomach, she knew that he was gone.
A brilliant red light erupted from the basement window. Anya flung her arm up to shield her eyes.
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