A Ghost for a Clue Read online

  Torula stood motionless. Starr made the sign of the cross. Neither seemed in danger, but I braced for what might happen next. I wanted to keep my eye on the image but couldn’t help glancing around to find some means for it to be projected.

  The vision slowly dissipated, and before I could make sense of anything, it was gone.

  Starr scampered up the steps towards us. “Oh, heaven help the poor soul. I know you’re a nonbeliever but, please, spend a moment in silence with me as I pray for his quiet repose.” She reached out and took our hands in hers, closed her eyes, and bowed her head. Torula gave me an awkward smile with a raise of her brows as if to say ‘Why not?’ then closed her eyes too.

  Starr’s cold fingers clutched mine as I let my gaze wander down and fixate on the floorboards, scanning them for anything suspicious. How could anyone fake such a thing?

  The deafening clang of a metal plate falling to the stone ground blasted through the air.

  Starr recoiled with a squeal and retreated towards the steps.

  “Aphids dark nitrogen.” A man’s senseless words spilled out of the Verdabulary.

  A bluish cloud, about the size of Starr, coalesced a few feet from where she had stood and moved towards Torula. I stepped forward to block it, but the smoky specter went right through me sending an icy chill slicing its way up my spine to my scalp. Jesus Bloody H. Christ. I huffed out a tense breath and reached an arm out—into and through the eerie figure—but there was nothing to grasp.

  The glowing, roiling cloud of misty blue glided closer towards her, and she stepped backwards. I walked around the hazy figure, reassuring myself it was harmless despite my heart’s pounding. As I came to stand next to Torula, the apparition faded away.

  I stared at the now empty spot as my mind fumbled for an explanation. There was computer equipment on the platform and a mix of all kinds of gear scattered in the plant beds all around. I squinted up at one of the beams supporting the Transhade overhead and spotted a small, black object. “What’s that?”

  “A security camera,” Torula said. “But we don’t think it works.”

  “Are you sure it’s a camera?”

  Starr was suddenly tugging at Torula. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Torula moved towards the console. “We need to check the data.”

  “Just do that from your nursery. Come on!” Starr said.

  “I’ll follow,” I said, determined to find a logical explanation.

  “We’ll be in my greenhouse,” Torula said, allowing herself to get dragged off by Starr. “Just one scream away.”

  12

  Using Company Property

  I followed the two botanists next door and was relieved to find that Torula’s greenhouse had a far more pleasant feel compared to the one we’d just left. Her plants were arranged in neat rows around her elevated work area, each one on a pedestal and covered by a bell-shaped glass enclosure—like the enchanted rose in Beauty and the Beast, except Torula’s plants could “talk” even though they weren’t under any spell. But the place did look touched by magic, with the glow of the greenhouse lights shimmering off the glass domes.

  Both women were at the central platform, seated at the console table. Starr fingered the tiny crucifix that dangled just beneath her throat as her other hand scrolled and clicked through charts and tables. Torula sat gnawing on her lower lip, brow scrunched, seeming far more frustrated than frightened as she scanned the data.

  “It is a camera,” I said, declaring my worthless discovery, “but there’s no indicator light to tell if it’s working or not.”

  “Because they’re not.” Starr gestured at another black gadget high on a beam. “Everyone thinks they’re just there for show, to keep us from lazing on the job. I mean, the only thing of value here is the software and data, and the system itself is designed to guard all that.”

  “Why not ask Security if they recorded anything anyway?” I asked.

  “Honey, we’re chasing ghosts using company property. If they haven’t found out yet, I’d rather not call their attention to it.”

  “But you’d at least get your hands on something to help you figure it out.” I glanced at her bejeweled cell phone on the table.

  Starr pursed her lips. “I’ve got a feeling if they did see what had happened, they’d have called me already.”

  I glanced around, hoping to find some idea for another avenue to take. “What about your research cameras?”

  “None were on when it happened,” Torula said, her eyes still scanning the data. “Did you hear it call out a name?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Florence?”

  I nodded. I assumed it was another one of her plants’ names.

  Starr looked at us, doubt in her eyes. “You heard a name? All I heard was a scary moan after you asked who he was.”

  “No,” Torula said, finally taking her eyes off her monitor. “He said Florence before I asked for his name.”

  “I didn’t hear it at all,” Starr said.

  I surveyed their equipment. Extensive but not exactly state-of-the-art. Whatever the source of these shenanigans, could it be fooling with their system? “Tell me again how the Verdabulary works. How do you get a plant to ‘talk?’”

  Starr gestured towards the computer monitor displaying tabulated data. “The plants’ responses to different situations and stimuli are gathered and interpreted, then Torula gives them verbal translations, which are recorded by voice talents.”

  “And they adapt different characterizations to match the personalities I assign each plant,” Torula said. “When the Verdabulary recognizes a plant’s response to given stimuli, it broadcasts the corresponding spiel. But we’re still at the early stages of development. All we have for now is a very limited set of recordings.”

  “It’s possible someone could have hacked your system and is messing with those recordings,” I said.

  “But not all of us heard it, and the equipment didn’t record it.” Torula dug her fingers into her hair. “Something else is going on.”

  I nodded, relieved neither of them pounced on me again for implying they were being tricked.

  “What about the temperature?” Starr asked. “Did you feel it suddenly get cold in there?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “Oh, thank goodness.” Starr rubbed her hands brusquely up and down her arms. “I thought it was all in my head. It’s just weird, though, that the readings don’t show a temperature drop.”

  “What? That’s impossible.” I went over to Starr’s monitor to have a look.

  “I didn’t feel it get cold,” Torula said with a puzzled frown. “But even isolated cold spots should have been detected by the equipment.”

  Starr leaned away as she allowed me to take charge of her keyboard. “That’s so strange. It’s like each of us experienced it differently.”

  I checked the data showing temperature readings that had remained constant throughout the greenhouse. “I don’t understand. These should show a dip in the temperature somehow. I was convinced there was an endothermic reaction going on. Something like what happens in instant cold packs. That’s why I stayed behind. To find out how it could have been rigged, but I didn’t find anything.”

  Starr squinted at me. “Why would anyone bother to rig it?”

  “Why bother with crop circles, monster footprints, and UFO videos? It’s a different brand of fun for some people.”

  “It needn’t have been rigged,” Torula said. “This could have been biochemical in nature.”

  “Biochemical?” Was she saying it was a natural thing? Surely, she could tell it was a projected image of some kind.

  “You’re in botanists’ territory, Bram.” Torula looked at me, her eyes sparkling. “Around here, photosynthesis rules, and that’s endothermic. Heat is absorbed instead of released.” She spread both her arms out as she walked backwards, meaning to show off her greenhouse, but my eyes were drawn only to her. “That’s why gardens are the
coolest place to be.”

  “Gardens are the coolest place to be?” I curled my mouth into a one-sided grin. “I bet you saw that on a T-shirt.”

  “If I had a flower for every time you made me smile . . . I’d have a garden.” She bit her lip coyly and made my world spin. “That’s what I saw on a T-shirt.”

  Starr gaped at us, eyes agog. “I can’t believe you’re flirting at a time like this! And comparing this manifestation to instant cold packs and photosynthesis? Aren’t you even the least bit scared of it?”

  Even though it was Starr who had welcomed me here, I suddenly wished she were nowhere near us.

  “Why should we be scared of it?” Torula asked. “It’s something that’s gotten me perplexed, actually. Why people have a knee-jerk reaction to fearing it when not a single reputable news agency has ever reported ‘Death by Ghost.’ And yet many people find them even more frightening than sharks, scorpions, and snakes. Mom says the world is just being downright ghostist.”

  Starr recoiled at the accusation. “The last thing I am is . . .” She froze, blinked a few times, then sank into a chair. “Well, it’s not every day a man suddenly materializes in front of you. I mean, even Louie never did.”

  “Louie?” I asked.

  “My husband.”

  Torula took a tentative step towards her. “Starr, did you ever . . . feel anything that you thought . . . could be Louie?”

  Starr took a breath, closed her eyes, and nodded, reaching for the tiny crucifix around her neck.

  Torula took the seat next to her friend. “What was it?”

  “I’ve never told anyone.” Starr opened her eyes and glanced at both of us. “The first time was a few weeks after he’d gone. The kids and I had come home from church where I’d ended up crying. When we entered the apartment, the TV was on, but I’m sure it was off when we left. And it was tuned to his sports channel. Something the kids and I never, ever watch.” She trembled as she took another deep breath. “And there were many other incidents. Things would disappear and reappear in the most mysterious ways. And once, I even got a text from an unknown number that said ‘I’m here.’ I tried calling it but never got past an automated message saying it can’t be reached.”

  I cupped a fist over my lips to keep from suggesting it could have just been a wrong send from a burner phone.

  A flush rose up Starr’s cheeks. “At first, all of this gave me comfort. Until I realized he was sticking around just because of me. Trying to fix a problem only I could fix.”

  “What problem was that?” Torula asked.

  “The emptiness I refused to fill.” Tears fell from her eyes. “That’s when I decided to set aside the black and show him I was moving on. So he could move on.”

  I let out a heavy breath. Somehow, I’d always had a suspicion that Starr’s colorful exterior was a carefully maintained mask to hide her grief. But I never would have guessed it was for the benefit of her dead husband.

  I squirmed inwardly, on the verge of breaking a widow’s heart all over again. But I had to dissociate her feelings for Louie from this Verdabulary bug we had yet to figure out. “Hey, now, this is obviously not anyone . . . from your past. I mean, it’s not even remotely realis—”

  Starr blinked through her tears as she looked at me. “Are you still saying it’s a hoax?”

  “Or a glitch. How do you know it wasn’t just the Verdabulary?”

  “The name ‘Florence’ isn’t in my library,” Torula said. “And I’ve been trying to find something in the data that could explain what we heard, but there’s nothing.” She glanced at me, then at Starr, then back at me. “You do realize what that means.”

  “The sound must’ve come from somewhere else,” I said.

  “No. It means he made the sound,” Torula said. “He has his own lexicon.”

  Starr clasped her hands over her heart. “Ghosts are sentient, aren’t they?”

  I held up both my hands. “Whoa, hold it right there. It could’ve been just some noise that, by coincidence, sounded like a word. So don’t call it a he.”

  “What else do you think it could be but somebody’s soul?” Starr asked.

  I winced. “Now let’s not call it a soul either. It could just be somebody’s bad joke.” Then a disturbing thought suddenly struck me. Franco’s VN couldn’t possibly be behind this, too, can it? Could all this have been staged by an app? Or did Franco subscribe to some posthumous service more elaborate than a fake arrest or kidnapping? It was too ridiculous to consider but maybe worth checking at the VN site, just to be sure.

  “And what if it’s not a hoax?” Starr asked, brows raised. “Look at the data, Bram! The Verdabulary detected movement. It probably pushed that metal plate. And be honest about what you saw. What else could it possibly be?”

  My gaze darted over all the tabulations on their computer screens convinced there was an explanation in there somewhere. “I could go through these charts all day and not know what to make of them. We need to show these figures to someone who knows what to look for.”

  “Like who?” Torula asked. “Trust me, there aren’t any mainstream scientists out there willing to be involved in stuff like this.”

  “She’s right, honey. You’ll need to go off-road to get any ‘expert’ opinions.”

  I was willing to drive as far off road as I needed to get some logical answers. “Would it be okay if I copied the data—”

  “Oh, I’m afraid not,” Starr said. “We’re already doing these experiments on the sly, and releasing data to an outsider would only . . .” She averted her gaze with a sudden, worried frown.

  “I understand.”

  “My goodness.” Starr glanced at a beam overhead. “What if those cameras do work and Security called Management instead? Would they consider this . . . illegal?”

  “Maybe we can go back and check the sound system,” Torula said, as though she hadn’t even heard her friend’s concern. “Find out how it managed to say ‘Florence’ in your voice.”

  “My voice?” I asked. “That thing sounded nothing like me.”

  Torula looked at me wide-eyed, as though surprised by my surprise. “I . . . I don’t know.” Her gaze wavered. “It could just be some subconscious glitch. My mind seems to be confusing the hyper Thomas for Bram.”

  “Who and Bram?” Starr asked.

  “What?” Torula asked.

  “Who’s Thomas?” Starr clarified. “You said hyper Thomas.”

  “I didn’t say Thomas.”

  “Yes, you did,” I said. Another slip of the tongue?

  “Oh, my goodness,” Starr said. “Whether it’s a Florence or a Thomas, it’s giving us names. It’s obvious we’re dealing with a person here.” She clutched her necklace. “Oh mercy, we’re experimenting with somebody’s soul.”

  Jesus. Starr’s widowhood was obviously blinding her to all of her science. Or was I just being a “widowist?”

  “We have to go back there,” Torula said and moved towards the steps.

  “No!” Starr said. “We have to think about this.”

  “About what? Torula asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s just that . . . we’re toying with somebody’s life after death. And we’re using company equipment to do it. This could ruin us. I’m not sure we should be doing this.”

  “We can’t stop now,” Torula said. “We may have just proven that it’s repeatable.”

  “Well, it’s my nursery,” Starr said. “And my decision is that it’s closed for the night.”

  13

  His Purpose In Life

  I sat at my worktable in the sparsely furnished unit I’d leased for my stay in California. Walls and floor, off-white. Furniture, black. Windows, huge, uninterrupted glass covered with gray blinds. Simple. No nonsense. Clutter-free.

  Yet I still couldn’t focus.

  My laptop sat in front of me, and beside it, a refillable sketchpad lay open. It was where I preferred to do my equations. Nothing compared to the raw sensation of numbe
rs being scratched out on paper to get my mind whirring. But my work on Project Husserl had ground to a halt.

  A ghost was standing in the way.

  Though both Torula and Starr could have sworn I’d walked right through something otherworldly, all I could think about now was how to prove that I hadn’t. Bugger. They were right to call it a hyperwill because we had no damn idea what the bloody hell it was.

  It had to have been a transmission. I still saw the translucent image in my mind. Its artificially gold eyes. The period costume any theatrical actor could have worn. It must have been a 3D broadcast of some kind.

  The chirpy notes of my robot, whistling as he approached, cut into my thoughts. “Here’s your coffee, mate.”

  “Thanks, Diddit.” I took the mug from the table-like surface of his cube-like body.

  Then the central section lifted, exposing the smaller cube that was his head. The LED color bars that formed his mouth were curved into a smile. “Would you like some music?”

  “No thanks, mate. I need to think.”

  “No worries.” He swiveled around and resumed his happy whistling. I stared at him as he glided off, fulfilling the essence of his programming. His purpose in life, which only I knew.

  Life. It struck me then how loosely that term could be used, and it was downright disturbing when biologists slapped it on too eagerly to something they still didn’t understand.

  I let out a gruff breath and stared at my sketchpad, ordering myself to tune out the stray thoughts and tackle the problem of Project Husserl instead. Looking through my notations, I forced my brain to cooperate. Okay, okay. Focus. I rubbed my hands together. Cracked my knuckles. Cracked my neck.

  “With automation down,” I said out loud, in hopes that talking to myself would help. “How the hell can injured astronauts call robot paramedics without having to move a limb or make a sound?” By blinking? Rhythmic breathing? Eye movement?

  For a few minutes, it seemed like I could get some work done, but my busy butler whistled by again, causing a vague thought to fritter away.