Embers by Laura Bickle

laptop. The angle of view stretched from one edge of the building to the other.

    “Nice,” she said. “But how long will the batteries last?” Electric and gas had not been restored to the site and might not ever be.

    “About forty-eight hours, give or take. The transmitter has a solar backup, so it should recharge during the day. But if you have a cloudy day, it’s going to be dead by the next nightfall.”

    “I didn’t know they made those,” Anya remarked.

    Brian grinned. “I’m considering this to be a field test.”

    She leaned against the car, watching him fiddle with the screen resolution. “I get the feeling that you ‘field test’ a lot of gadgets with DAGR.”

    “Sure. It’s a chance to work on surveillance in a wide variety of conditions. . . and the things we measure are very subtle. Gives me the chance to test-drive the equipment before I put together final prototypes.”

    “You got another one of those birdies for the basement?”

    “I like that. . . you just gave me a code name for these little guys. Blackbirds.” Brian pulled another one out of his bag. “Where do you want this one to perch?”

    “Follow me.” Anya stepped around the corner of the building, to the window she knew the arsonist had entered through. The camera at the main entrance would catch him if he was casually walking by; the camera in the basement would capture his image if he decided to come play some more.

    Anya pulled back a piece of plywood covering the window. Forensics had taken the grating and the glass in their unsuccessful attempt to lift prints. All that remained was a gaping black hole, leading to darkness. Gripping the edge of the window frame, she lowered herself down into the basement. Landing in a puddle, she reached up for Brian’s bag. Brian followed, clambering down beside her.

    Anya’s flashlight beam swept the basement. She saw no sign of the handyman spirit.
    “You might catch some ghost footage on camera, too.” She told him about the repairman with the vacuum cleaner who’d witnessed the arson.

    “I wouldn’t get my hopes up too much with this camera,” Brian told her, affixing the camera to a blackened beam facing the window. “Since sunlight won’t penetrate down here, you’re likely to get twelve hours on batteries, max, before it needs to be switched out.”

    Anya felt the collar around her neck warm, felt Sparky’s head lift from her shoulder and look backward.

    “That’s a pretty fancy gadget.”

    Anya turned, seeing the outline of the repairman’s ghost standing over Brian, peering up at the camera perched in the support beam.

    “Brian,” she said, “our ghost is here.” She doubted that Brian would be able to see or hear him, but she didn’t want him to think that she’d gone off the beam, talking to the walls.

    Anya addressed the ghost. “Hello, again.”

    “Hello, miss. May I ask what that geegaw is?” He held his hands behind his back, looking into the fish-eye lens. She wondered if he could see his own reflection in it.

    “It’s a camera. We’re hoping that the man who set fire to the warehouse will come back, and we want to try to identify him.”

    “Son of a gun.” The spirit passed his hand back and forth over the lens, fascinated.
    “That’s neat.” He looked back at Anya. “The only people who have been down here have been the firemen. I talked to them, but I was pretty sure they didn’t hear me, like you do.”

    A good sign. That suggested that the firebug hadn’t been back to the scene yet.

    “Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions about the other night?” Anya asked, treading carefully with the ghost. She didn’t want to frighten him off. But, for now, he was her best witness. “I’m Anya, by the way. And this is Brian.” She gestured to Brian, who had discreetly backed into a corner, fiddling with a digital recorder. Christ, she thought. Did he have a utility belt full of surveillance equipment,