Spark: A Novel

  Sean and I followed Boz to the end of the room where the boards were stacked. The Quonset hut was filled with the scent of teak oil and wood glue and the pine scraps burning in the stove. Everything combined into a butterscotch brown color that floated through my mind.

  “We’ll look for the mahogany first. It’s a dark red color—almost black. I think there’s one board four stacks down. All these boards were cut from logs shipped up from Central America. They’re approximately two hundred years old.”

  “How is that possible?” I asked.

  “Work now. Talk later.” Boz pointed to an eight-foot board at the top of a stack. “Jake … you take that end. Sean … you get the other end. Just pile it up over there.”

  We found the mahogany board right away, then rebuilt the stack as Boz searched for the Spanish cypress. “I think it’s here,” he muttered. “I hope it’s here.”

  This time, we had to search through three different stacks until we found the missing boards. Boz smiled at Sean when we finished the job. “Does Jake understand what we do here?”

  “Why don’t you explain it to him.”

  “We reclaim underwater wood that got sunk in the mud when old-time loggers were floating logs down rivers. Because of the cold water and lack of oxygen, the logs are perfectly preserved. About a year ago, we pulled a Norfolk pine log from a Vermont river that was cut in the eighteenth century and marked for use by the British Royal Navy. Everything we bring up is from old-growth forest … tight-grain hardwood that looks beautiful when it’s sanded and oiled. Usually, we take them out using divers with a boom and winch. The difficult thing is to dry the wood slowly so that it won’t crack, but we’ve built a drying center up in Maine with special presses and a vacuum kiln. This way we get to make beautiful furniture without cutting down any trees.”

  “So why are you in New York City?”

  “More customers found out about us when we moved down here. Ernie’s wife has family in Brooklyn and my sister has gotten into tango dancing.” Boz glanced across the room at Millicent and smiled. “I guess it’s hard to find tango milongas in rural Maine. We’re not as brave as Sean … breaking into buildings and organizing demonstrations. Our politics are up on the wall.”

  I followed his eyes and saw a painted sign that said: IF YOU DECIDE TO DO SOMETHING, THEN DO IT WELL.

  “Have you read ‘Machine Thinking’ by Thomas Slater? You can get it online for free. Slater says that the fifth-generation computers that control the nubots and the Shadows make it necessary for humans to justify their uniqueness. Machines, no matter how sophisticated, can only follow programs. If we sleepwalk through our lives, then we’re no better than machines. Only humans are capable of a job done well, which means thinking about the consequences of our actions. A job done well pays the bills, but it also improves the lives of everyone around us.”

  Still holding a paintbrush, Millicent crossed the room. “Did you find the mahogany?”

  “Yeah. That was easy. But the cypress was buried under the walnut.”

  “Ernest wants some help clamping chair legs. You can do that while I make our guests some hot chocolate.”

  Millicent led us over to the office area and told us to sit down at a steel table in one corner of the room. While we took our seats, she opened a refrigerator, took out a carton of milk, and poured some of it into a saucepan. Then she placed the pan on a single-burner hot plate and turned it up to medium heat.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Sean said. “I know you guys are busy.”

  “Sometimes a girl gets tired of looking at her brothers all day long.” Millicent touched Sean’s shoulder and I tried to understand the energy passing between them. “Besides, what’s the point of life if you can’t eat chocolate and dance the tango? Never forget the tango.”

  Millicent took a bowl full of chocolate paste out of the refrigerator and spooned some of it into the saucepan. Using a wooden spoon, she stirred the mixture carefully. “Did Bosworth tell you about doing things well? In this case, ‘a job well done’ means getting the milk hot, but never letting it boil.”

  When the milk reached the right temperature, she grabbed a whisk and beat the mixture until it was foamy. Then she poured the steaming chocolate into two mugs and garnished the top with slivers from a chocolate bar.

  “People don’t always dance together,” she told Sean. “Sometimes, it’s all about timing. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Enjoy …” Millicent turned away from us and hurried back across the room. “Bosworth! Get away from the table! The surface coat still hasn’t dried!”

  Sean held his mug in cupped hands. Then he raised it to his lips, drank, and smiled. “Drink it down, Jake. It’s just steaming because the air is cold.”

  A mug of chocolate had been placed in front of me and it was clear that Sean expected me to pour it into my Shell. Rejecting the gift for any reason might create suspicion and doubt.

  My hands imitated Sean’s hands, cupping the mug and raising it to my lips. And then I drank—tipping the mug slightly and allowing the chocolate to enter my mouth. It was warm and thick and my tongue sensed its sweetness. This wasn’t a quick and glittery burst of white, but a deeper, darker color.

  I swallowed and the warmth spread within my body. The experience brought back a memory of a rainy afternoon with my mother, steam rising from a cooking pot while teddy bears danced on a yellow cup.

  “Good, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “People think they have control of their lives because they can buy crap at a mall, but if you look a little deeper, you realize that those in power are writing their story for them. The Vickerson family is creating their own story. That’s what all of us want to do. That’s our revolution.”

  I heard the steel door at the end of the room squeak open and slam shut. Then I heard Boz’s deep voice and a woman answering him. Sound of boots on the concrete floor. I placed the cup on the table, turned my head, and saw—

  Emily Buchanan.

  Emily had dyed her hair black. Instead of her banking uniform of starched blouses and tailored suits, she wore torn jeans, a man’s sweater, and an all-weather parka with a FREE SPEECH = FREE LIVES button pinned to the collar.

  “Thought I’d walk over.”

  Sean stood up and hugged her. “Jake, this is Emily. We both live in luxury a few blocks away from here.”

  “Hi, Jake.” Emily extended her hand, but I didn’t want to touch her.

  “You hungry, Em?” Sean set the saucepan back on the burner. “Millicent made some hot chocolate and I think there’s enough left for one more cup.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Emily unzipped her parka and smiled at me. “Sean was just joking about the luxury. We live in a warehouse surrounded by thousands of broken machines.”

  “Hey, Emily!” Millicent waved and Emily walked over to the cast-iron stove. The two women laughed about something as Sean stirred the chocolate with the wooden spoon.

  “Is Emily involved with Housing for You?”

  “No. Just a friend.” Sean poured the drink into a mug and scattered some chocolate shavings on the surface.

  The hot chocolate lured Emily back to the table and she sat down beside me. Although I had watched Emily on a surveillance tape and placed my head on her pillow, it felt strange to see this Human Unit not in my thoughts, but in reality. The real Emily was unpredictable; she played with the fringe on her scarf, then raised her hand and wiped a chocolate mustache off her lip.

  Sean described what happened when we broke into the abandoned house, and then Boz Vickerson joined us at the table. Boz laughed when Emily said he should take tango lessons with his sister. The conversation seemed to come out of nowhere and float around the room like one of the giant soap bubbles created by street performers in the city.

  Sean glanced at his phone. “It’s getting late. Can we drop you off at a subway station, Jake?”

  “Yes. I’ll go with you.”

  We said good-bye to the Vick
ersons and stepped out into the night. After being surrounded by the scent of burning pinewood and teak oil, the outside world was a cold chunk of iron. Sean and Emily sat in the front seat of the car while I got into the back, pulled up my pants leg, and drew the .38 revolver. I kept the weapon low, concealed within the shadows.

  At eleven o’clock in the evening the city looked like a screensaver image of New York that would disappear the moment you switched off your computer. Only the activity inside the car was real—Emily and Sean chattering about the leftover lasagna in the refrigerator while I clutched the mechanical heaviness of the gun.

  Sean pulled up to the curb beside a subway entrance, swiveled around, and smiled at me. “Good to meet you, Jake. Why don’t you give me your e-mail address and I’ll contact you the next time we have a cracking party.”

  The street was empty at that moment and no one was leaving the subway. I raised the revolver and pointed it at Sean’s head. “Take your hands off the steering wheel, leave the key in the ignition, and get out of the car.”

  Sean and Emily stared at the gun for a few seconds, and then Sean shook his head. “No way,” he muttered.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Emily said. “Please …”

  “I’m not going to hurt anyone if he gets out of the car.”

  “Are you a cop?” Sean asked. “If you’re a cop, I want to see your badge.”

  I moved the gun slightly to the right and fired at the dashboard. The gunshot was loud and overpowering. It felt as if a bright red liquid had suddenly filled the car. Sean jerked away from the sound, and his head slammed against the side window.

  “The next time I use my weapon, a bullet will pierce your Shell. Your Spark will drain out the hole and vanish.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Some people want to speak to Emily about the banking information she received from India. The two of us are going to drive back to the city. You have five seconds to get out of the car.”

  “Do what he says, Sean.”

  “I’m not going to leave you alone.”

  “Don’t worry. I can handle this.” Emily sounded like Laura. Each word from her mouth was clear and distinct.

  Sean hesitated, and then he opened the door and got out of the car.

  “Now slide behind the steering wheel. We’re going to Manhattan.”

  Emily shifted into drive and the car pulled away from the curb. Sean stood on the curb, shouting and waving his arms, but he didn’t try to stop us.

  “I don’t know Brooklyn very well. I’m going to get lost.”

  “We’ll use my Shadow.” I pressed the activate button. “Laura? We’re in a car. Please guide us from our current location to Catherine Street in Manhattan.”

  “I’d be glad to help you, sir. Please turn right onto Roebling Street.”

  Following Laura’s directions, we took the Williamsburg Bridge across the East River and turned left on Bowery. We drove around for a few minutes, and then found a parking space across the street from the Coleman Park baseball field.

  Emily turned off the engine, and we sat in the car without speaking to each other. The hours I’d spent watching sports on my computer had taught me something about human behavior. I still couldn’t understand why people felt emotions, but I knew how an athlete behaved when he was about to kick a ball. Emily’s head moved back and forth as she peered out the windshield. There was a jittery tension in her body as if she was going to jump out of the car and run.

  “Now what happens?”

  “Put your hands on the steering wheel.”

  Emily hesitated, and then obeyed me. Leaning over the seat, I snapped on Lorcan’s handcuffs. I didn’t want her calling anyone, so I searched the outside pockets of her parka and pulled out a disposable cell phone.

  “What’s the reason for the handcuffs?”

  “I want to make sure that you stay with me until you talk to someone who works for the bank. After that, you’re free to go.”

  I maneuvered Emily out of the car, removed her scarf, and wrapped it around her wrists so that the handcuffs weren’t visible. Then I put my hand on her upper arm and guided her up Market Street, past a grocery store Dumpster that radiated the sludgy brown scent of wet cardboard boxes.

  “Where are we going?”

  We turned left and headed down Monroe Street. “We’re walking to my apartment. I live a few blocks away from here.”

  Emily stopped outside a closed fish market. “The Brooks Danford Group does business with criminals.”

  “That fact isn’t relevant to my actions.”

  “Well, it should be. Jafar Desai, the man who sent me the files, was murdered in Paris just a few days ago. I’d bet anything that the killing was done by someone working for Jafar’s father-in-law … Rajat Pradhani.”

  “I work for the bank. Not Mr. Pradhani.”

  “But BDG is helping Pradhani launder money, which means you’re helping criminals.”

  We turned the corner and walked north on Catherine Street. A garish yellow smell came from the mound of garbage bags outside the Yangtze Restaurant. Halfway up the block we stopped near Happy Girl Doughnuts and I took out my keys.

  “Now what?”

  “This is where I live.”

  I unlocked the street door and guided her inside. Climbing up the staircase, she paused on each landing, but I stayed behind her. The shuffling sound of my shoes on the slate steps pushed her forward.

  When we entered the loft, Emily spun around and presented her wrists. “All right … we’re here. Take the cuffs off. They’re not necessary.”

  I removed the handcuffs and Emily walked over to the drillpress machine. She pulled off her parka and canvas shoulder bag and hung them on a handle.

  “You should buy some more furniture, Jacob. Where’s your couch?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “So where do your friends sit when they come over?”

  “I don’t have any friends. If you want to sit down, there’s a chair over in the kitchen area.”

  Emily glanced at the chair but kept wandering around the room, touching the old machines and peering out the windows. She had a quick, nervous energy—like one of the hermit thrushes with olive brown wings that darted through the streets of the city. It was logical that she wanted to run away from me, and that meant I had to figure out what she was thinking. In A Boy for Baxter, the dog could watch and sniff and figure out Gordon’s mood. I wasn’t a dog, and understanding what went on in the mind of a Human Unit seemed like a difficult task.

  “You said that people from the bank wanted to talk to me. So where are they? Let’s move this forward.”

  I slipped on my phone headset and dialed Miss Holquist’s number. She answered immediately. “I found the customer we’ve been looking for. We’re at my apartment.”

  “Is she under control?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Give her your phone.”

  I removed the headset and slipped it onto Emily’s ears.

  “Who’s this?” Emily asked. “Do you work for the bank?”

  Miss Holquist started talking and Emily remained silent for a few minutes. At a certain point, she shook her head and frowned.

  “Is that it? Have I heard your little speech? Okay … now it’s my turn. Two days ago, I did a search on the Internet and found out that Jafar Desai was killed in Paris. Did you know that? Did you know that the bank is connected to a criminal who hires assassins?”

  Emily stopped talking and rolled her eyes. “I’m going to tell you about the files. I’m getting to that. All you need to know is that I can’t give the files back. When I heard that Jafar was killed, I sent the files to Thomas Slater at the We Speak for Freedom Web site. Since I don’t have the files anymore, tell Mr. Underwood to let me go or call the police. I’m sure I broke one of the security laws that were passed after the Day of Rage.”

  Emily looked up at me. “Now she wants to talk to you.”

  I slipped on
the headset. “Yes?”

  “Keep her under control,” Miss Holquist said. “I’m going to contact our employer and call you back.”

  The line went dead, but I left the headset on.

  “So what’s the decision? Are you going to let me go?”

  “Miss Holquist wants to talk to the bank’s legal staff. They’ll determine if the information you received is owned by the bank or by the Pradhani family.”

  “They should have figured that out earlier.” Emily turned in a slow circle and examined the loft. “Okay … I see one bed, one table, and one chair. Do you have a bathroom?”

  “Over there.”

  She went into the bathroom, and then stuck out her head a few seconds later. “Why is your mirror covered with masking tape and newspapers?”

  “Why do you ask so many questions?”

  “Is the mirror cracked? Is that the problem?”

  “I covered the mirror because I don’t like to look at myself.”

  “Okay. That’s reasonable. I feel that way in the morning.”

  She closed the door again, but her energy remained in the room. I heard the toilet flush and water splashing in the sink as I hurried over to the entrance door and used my key to lock the dead bolt from inside the loft. Then I returned to the kitchen and waited.

  The bathroom door creaked open and Emily smiled at me. “I think you’re wrong about the mirror, Jacob.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You’re a very intense person … that’s true. But you’re not unattractive. Why don’t you look at yourself in the mirror for a few seconds every morning and then—”

  Before I could react, Emily sprinted across the room and tried to yank the door open. The dead bolt held and she fumbled with the lock—finally realizing that she was trapped. I couldn’t see her face, but her hands became fists then hands again. She took a deep breath, smoothed back her hair, and faced me.

  “This is crazy. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You took the files.”

  “They were sent to me. Okay? I met Jafar Desai at this silly Financial Futures conference in London. He told me that his father-in-law was crazy and he needed some kind of ‘insurance’ if he and his family left India with his wife’s inheritance. Trust me … this wasn’t a complicated scheme. I never met Jafar after the conference. We didn’t talk on the phone. Jafar said he would transfer a monthly payment into my bank account. If the payment didn’t occur … that meant he was in trouble and I should post the evidence of money laundering on the Internet. I hated my job and was planning to quit next year, so Jafar’s offer sounded like a good idea.”