Beastly Bones (6 page)

Chapter Twelve

B
y half past five, Jackaby had finished making various arrangements and tending to the terrarium of chameleomorphs. He explained their care and keeping to Douglas while I watched the little kittens through the glass. One of them batted playfully at a water strider with its big fluffy paw, and then pounced and polished the thing off. It might have been my imagination in the dimness of the gaslights, but already they looked a little smaller and skinnier. I would be happy to miss watching their transformation from felines into insects. Fins on fur had been disturbing enough—I did not like to imagine the process they had ahead of them. It was still hard to fathom that the mackerel circling lazily in the pool toward the back was the same species as the wide-eyed little fur balls tumbling around in front.

Jackaby pulled on his coat, which clinked and tinkled as the contents of its myriad pockets rattled into place. He slung his satchel over one shoulder. “Well, Miss Rook, shall we?”

I nodded and followed my employer, casting a glance up the stairs as we stepped into the hallway.

“Do you think she'll be all right?” I asked.

“Of course not,” said Jackaby. “I think she will be dead. Generally speaking that falls outside the realm of
all right
. I do not, however, think she will be any worse for our absence.” He stepped into the front room and pulled on his multicolored knit cap.

“I still feel dreadful,” I said. “I wish I could do something. Jenny had been giving me some good advice about . . .” I looked at Jackaby, swimming in his bulky coat with the ridiculous hat stuffed over his messy hair, and decided not to go into the details of our conversation. “Well, anyway, she was being rather kind, and reminding me that fortune favors the bold.”

“That's nonsense,” said Jackaby. “Fortune favors the prepared. Unless you're talking about the Fates, in which case fortune generally favors Zeus. Were you talking about the Fates?”

“No. We weren't talking about the Fates. Never mind. I went and botched it, that's all—not that you helped anything this morning with that teacup business. I know you might think it pointless, but I just wish I could fix it. It's bad enough to bungle things professionally and . . . well . . . romantically. It would be nice if I could at least get a friendship right.”

“I don't think it's pointless,” said Jackaby. “I don't think it's pointless at all. I think it's a marvelous sentiment.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Atonement and reconciliation after an argument demonstrate strength of character and bolster the atmosphere of the workplace.”

“Oh. Well, yes. Mostly I just wanted her to feel better.”

“And mostly
I
just want to be sure you don't come to me to discuss your romantic entanglements. I much prefer that you remain on comfortable terms with Miss Cavanaugh. Although, should she ever be unavailable,” Jackaby said earnestly, “I want you to know”—he put a hand gently on my shoulder—“that Douglas is an excellent listener.”

“Thank you, sir. I'll bear that in mind.”

“Please do. In the meantime, try not to dwell on Miss Cavanaugh. She has more going through her metaphysical mind than you or I could ever fully comprehend, and in the end she must cross certain mental bridges alone. She needs time more than she needs flowers or kind words right now. When we return, you can regale her with glamorous accounts of tracking a bloodsucking murderer, maybe even tuck in a few rousing tales about digging up rocks, and I'm sure everything will go back to—well not
normal
, but whatever it was before.”

Jackaby might have had the social graces of a brick, but I did feel fractionally better. The least I could do was take Jenny's advice, and try to be bold on my little adventure. Today was about investigating my very own mystery, about helping unearth historic discoveries, and, admittedly, just a little bit about seeing a really sweet boy who made me feel sort of wobbly inside. I picked up my valise and pulled open the bright red door.

The train station was not more than a dozen blocks from Augur Lane, although accounting for distances precisely was never an easy task along New Fiddleham's unorthodox roadways, and no less complicated in the dim predawn light. I would never fully come to understand the logic behind the city planning. Some streets ended abruptly after only a few blocks, while others mysteriously changed names and ambled off. Roads meandered and intersected at odd angles, necessitating creative mosaics of masonry where conflicting cobblestones converged. Gradually growing familiar with at least a few of the city's quirks felt like becoming privy to an inside joke, and I had started to feel the subtle pride of being in on it.

We made good time, and although the sky was aglow in anticipation, the sun still had yet to make an appearance when the thick marble pillars of the station house rose before us. I took a seat on a bench inside and watched the milling crowd while Jackaby went to purchase tickets. The station opened onto two broad platforms framed by heavy roman columns. The main building had a high roof with an ornate tin ceiling, which helped the space feel open in spite of the growing crowd of waiting passengers.

A group of well-dressed businessmen shuffled along, arguing about something or other, and as they passed, my eyes locked on a figure beyond them. Standing just outside the doorway to the first platform was a stout man dressed in a black coat with a dark waistcoat and a wooly scarf. His skin was sickly pale, and his chin had the bluish stubble of a day-old shave. There was no mistaking it; he was the man I had seen from my window, and he was staring right at me. Between the Jenny situation and our leaving for the valley, I had completely forgotten to tell Jackaby about him. The man caught me looking but did not drop his gaze. He only turned up the corner of his lips in a slow smirk that made my skin crawl. A family with six or seven noisy children cut between us, and when they had passed, the pale man was gone.

Curiosity burned through my chest, and before the man could get far this time, I hopped up from my seat and rushed to the door. The platform ran along the length of the building, and I caught sight of a dark coat rounding the far corner as I emerged. I glanced back, but Jackaby was still waiting in line at the counter, his back to me. Scowling, I rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet for just a moment, and then took off out the door and down the platform.

Passersby gave me affronted looks as I wove between and around them to hurry down the length of the building. I came skidding to a stop as I reached the end of the station house and rounded the corner, narrowly avoiding plowing into a little old lady in ragged clothes who was rummaging through the refuse bins. I stood, panting and peering from building to building, but the pale man was nowhere in sight. The sun was just creeping above the line of the horizon, and its reflection bounced blindingly off the nearby windows.

“Abigail Rook!” The ragged woman smiled up at me like a pleased old auntie.

I caught my breath. “Oh goodness—Hatun. How nice to see you again.” Hatun was one of Jackaby's occasional contacts on the streets of New Fiddleham. “Did you happen to see a man run through here?”

She thought hard for a few seconds. Her face crinkled up in concentration.

“Just now?” I prompted. “Did you see someone run through here just now?”

Her face brightened “That's what it is!” She clapped her hands happily. “You're alive! That's what's different about you.”

I blinked. “Yes. Erm. I was alive the last time you saw me, too.”

Hatun waved her hand dismissively. “Right, right. Sometimes I see things a little out of order is all. All the same, I'm glad you're not dead just yet.”

“Well, thank you for that, I suppose.”

“You're leaving town?” she asked.

“Yes. For Gadston, on the next train. You didn't see anyone?”

“Well thank goodness. Hate to see you go, but it's for the best. I am fond of the fellow, but remember what I told you about following Mr. Jackaby. I've seen it.” She leaned in and whispered loudly, “Death.”

Hatun did not look like much, but she was exceptional in her own right. While Jackaby had a unique vision of the world, Hatun saw the world through a sort of kaleidoscope of angles, some of which were more helpful than others. Her premonitions were generally on the less-reliable side, ranging from talking teakettles to an apocalypse of eggplants, but they were on the right track often enough to generally merit a listen. She had once told me that I would follow Jackaby to my demise, a prophecy that turned out—very fortunately—to be exaggerated. I had only
nearly
died, although I had the scar above my heart to remember it by.

“Oh—right, that. No, I'm not
leaving
leaving. I am still working for Jackaby. That business you were worried about, though—I came out of it only a little worse for wear. That's all over.”

“Is it, now?” The way Hatun looked straight at me—as though she were looking much, much farther than my eyes—made me more uncomfortable than I care to admit.

“Rook!” Jackaby called from the doorway. The train had begun to rattle loudly into the station, and he had to yell over the sound of the hissing steam. “Rook! What on earth are you up to?”

I waved him over. “Just saying hello to an old friend.”

He marched along the platform toward us, a pair of tickets clutched in his hand. Along the way he seemed to catch sight of something in the air. He slowed and reached one hand out to gently feel ahead of him, as one might reach over the side of a boat to brush the waves. A puff of steam engulfed him. He waved it away and continued on to the end of the platform.

“Jackaby. You're looking well,” Hatun said.

“Good day, Hatun. I don't suppose either of you noticed something peculiar hanging about in the air around here? Sort of a purplish, ashen color? Vaguely funereal? No?”

“Yes!” I said. “Well, no. I saw a man. He was terribly creepy, and I've seen him before, Mr. Jackaby. He was outside the house this morning.”

“Hmm.” Jackaby's expression darkened. “I've seen that aura before as well.”

I swallowed. “Campbell Street?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Fire,” said Hatun, barely above a whisper.

“Come again?” Jackaby asked.

The little old woman stepped toward Jackaby. Her eyes were closed to slits and she breathed in deeply through her nose. “So much fire.”

Jackaby and I exchanged concerned glances.

“Or possibly fireflies,” Hatun amended, blinking. “Or flint. Feathers? Something with an
F
. What were we talking about?”

“We were just leaving. Always a pleasure, though, Hatun.” Jackaby handed me my ticket.

Hatun bid good-bye to Jackaby but then shot me a concerned glance.

“Don't worry—in a way, he's technically following me on this one,” I assured her. “No death this time, I promise.”

She nodded and gave me an unconvinced smile as we parted. Looking back, I can't blame her—it was a promise I was in no position to keep. In retrospect, there would be quite a lot of death.

Chapter Thirteen

By request of my employer, the contents of chapter thirteen have not only been omitted; they have been pulled directly from my typewriter, shredded, and used as terrarium liner for a particularly pungent frog.

—ABIGAIL ROOK

Chapter Fourteen

T
hrough the window in our train car I watched the streetlamps and brick buildings give way to trees and hilly horizons. “How far is it to Gadston?” I asked.

“About three hours until we reach town,” answered Jackaby. As soon as we had slid into the cabin, Jackaby had set to work packing a little leather pouch with a string of rosary beads, a handful of dried herbs, and a fat blue bauble that looked like an eye. He stood on his seat to hang the lumpy bag above the door with a pin, dropping back down to the cushion with a
whump
when the task was managed. “Gadston is only the mouth of the valley, so it will be another hour or two by carriage before we've properly reached our destination.”

The city was truly behind us, and we were now rattling through the natural, rolling New England landscape. Signs of spring crept up on all sides, with bright fields of flowers and fresh green hillsides. Free of the looming buildings and shady alleyways of New Fiddleham, I could let the uneasiness that had begun to settle over me give way to a tingle of excitement. Ahead lay not only the thrill of a new, important case, but also the prehistoric discovery I had been chasing since the day I left the shores of England.

Gadston was not a large town. A few houses dotted our approach, each situated on a wide stretch of mostly wild landscape. As we grew nearer, the properties pulled themselves together to form something more closely resembling a neighborhood, but even the smallest lots still looked as though they covered at least a healthy half acre. Gradually the buildings shuffled closer and closer until, by the time the train was hissing and slowing down for the modest station house, something resembling a town center had appeared, although none of the buildings was more than two or three stories tall. We rolled past a cheery red schoolhouse and a weathered grange hall, and as we lurched to a final stop, I could just see a white church steeple peeking over the nearest rooftops.

We collected our things and disembarked. I was met by the smell of dust and horses as I stepped out of the station house, along with something sweeter drifting on the breeze from a bakery across the street. It was a cozy, pleasant little town. I don't know precisely what I had suspected—dimly lit saloons, I suppose, and gritty cowboys having pistol duels at high noon. A local couple passed by, startling me out of my thoughts with friendly greetings and a hearty welcome. I smiled and nodded cordially. Their cheery goodwill only made me more keenly aware that I had left the big city, where sidewalk courtesy rarely extended beyond avoiding eye contact and not intentionally pushing fellow pedestrians from the curb.

“It looks as though we're not the only ones who still have a trip into the valley to make.” Jackaby stepped up beside me, motioning down the road to the trapper's sturdy cart. The rugged timbers and heavy burlap looked a little more at home here, but it was still an easy vehicle to pick out. Hudson had parked it just outside a shop with a wooden sign that read simply coyote bill's. The muscular horses shifted their hooves absently as they waited for their master to return.

As we neared the door, Jackaby slowed. His hand rose to feel the air ahead of him, as it had outside the train station.

“Sir?” I asked.

Jackaby ignored me and stepped up toward Coyote Bill's, his brows knit in a scowl and his eyes lost in concentration. He knelt just outside the entrance, his fingers delicately tracing along the door frame. The door burst open, and Hank Hudson emerged, nearly toppling over Jackaby. The trapper had a couple of boxes under one arm, and in his fist was a thin bundle wrapped in brown paper.

“Whoa! 'Scuse me, there, buddy.”

“Hudson!”

“Jackaby?”

“Hudson, you must tell me—this shop, is there something peculiar about it?”

“Yup. That's why I like it. All kindsa stuff they don't stock anywhere else.”

“No—no, something more malevolent than eclectic wares. It's very strong here, lingering about the door. Please. Use all your senses.”

Hudson blinked, but then he leaned down tentatively and gave the doorknob an obliging sniff. “It smells like . . . metal?” he said.

“Not—I don't know—a bit saturnine?” asked Jackaby, “with a hint of stygian exigency?”

“You know what any of those words mean?” Hudson asked, looking to me for help.

“I think one of them might be a sort of cheese.”

Hudson let the door close behind him. “Smells like an old brass doorknob, Jackaby, and maybe a bit like sweaty man hands.”

My employer nodded and straightened up. “Chasing shadows, I suppose, but I have the most troubling suspicion that some unsavory element has frequented this establishment.”

“Hah!” Hudson laughed and slapped Jackaby on the shoulder. “You ain't never met Bill, have you? Unsavory elements are sorta his clientele. He's real good at getting hold of whatever a fella might need. Not exactly a hundred percent clean, but real good at the trade. Me an' Bill go way back. I always save him a few of my best hides, and he's gotten me some . . . some hard-to-find items when I needed 'em most. He always keeps shells in stock for my best rifle, too, so I make a point of stocking up when I come through.” He nodded to the boxes under his arm. “They're the big ones.”

“This wouldn't be the same Bill you told me about from the war, would it?” Jackaby asked, his eyes narrowing. “The one who sold Southern pistols to the North and Northern rifles to the South?”

Hudson chuckled and strode over to the cart. “In his defense, neither batch of 'em worked. Bill's as crooked as a bag of snakes, but he ain't one for blood, if he can avoid it. He's just a fence.”

“A fence,” I said, “who deals in rare artifacts?”

Hudson nodded approvingly. “I do like this one, Jackaby—she's a razor, ain't she? You and I had the same idea, little lady, but no such luck. If somebody is looking to unload a stolen fossil, they didn't go through Coyote Bill. He doesn't know nothin' about it.” Hudson pulled back the burlap flap and stashed the rifle shells in the back of his cart. He tucked the paper parcel in his belt. “Y'all headed down to the valley? Happy to give you a lift—I'm all done up here.”

“That would be wonderful,” I said.

“Actually, if you don't mind, I'd rather meet Coyote Bill for myself, first,” said Jackaby.

Hudson shrugged. “Go ahead and say hello, then. It'll take me a sec to clear some space in the back, anyway.”

“Hold this, would you, Miss Rook.” Jackaby handed me his heavy satchel, which nearly threw me off balance as he slung it over my shoulder. “I'll only be a moment.”

Hudson relieved me of the luggage as my employer vanished into the little shop. “Lemme give you a hand with that.” For all his rough and rugged appearance, the burly mountain man proved to be every bit the gentleman. Something squawked loudly as he nestled my suitcase into the back of his cart, and I jumped at the noise.

“Don't pay Rosie no mind,” he called over his shoulder. “She's an ornery thing, but she won't be able to reach ya.”

I peered into the carriage at a bulky shape, draped in a heavy cloth. Only a small corner toward the bottom revealed the bars of what might have been a massive birdcage sitting atop a simple wooden crate. It was easily as tall as I was.

“Fair warning, though,” Hudson added, pulling the canvas closed. “If she does her business on the way, you're gonna want the windows wide-open back there.” He made a funny face and fanned his nose in pantomime.

“I think I'll be all right,” I said. “I've had to develop a certain tolerance for unexpected aromas working for Jackaby. Has he shown you his frog?”

“Who do you think caught the lil' stinker for him? Hah!” The cart rocked as Hank pulled himself up into the main compartment. “Had to throw away a nice moleskin coat after I bagged that critter.” He chuckled at the memory, shuffling the contents of the cabin to make room on the bench. He was clearly not accustomed to carrying passengers — the cabin was crowded with boxes, furs, and jars of dried goods, and it was hung with rifles, ropes, and antlers along the interior. He cleared a space and draped a hide of soft, lush fur over the bench for us.

The door opened, and my employer emerged just as the trapper was finishing up. Hudson helped us both into the carriage and climbed up into the driver's box. With a click of the reins we were on our way. The tools and traps hanging all around us jangled ominously as we began rolling, but the hide beneath us was impossibly soft and comfortable.

“Find out anything interesting?” Hudson asked from the front.

“Nothing especially,” Jackaby replied, fidgeting with a slim metal tube I hadn't noticed before. “There have indeed been all manner of individuals in that shop, and recently, too—but no one aura I could single out. You never mentioned that your friend was of goblin blood.”

Hudson's head appeared through a little flap in the front of the cabin. “Come again? Known Bill for years. He ain't no goblin.”

“Half blood, almost certainly. I would guess goblins are on his mother's side, based on the ears. For some reason they tend to be more pronounced down paternal lines. Notorious brigands, their lot. Not the least bit trustworthy, but it stands to reason that he has a propensity for peddling pilfered goods. A useful associate to have on your side, all things considered, so long as you're not counting on loyalty.”

The trapper looked about to object, but then nodded. “Huh. Actually explains a few things.”

“He does indeed deal in rare goods,” said Jackaby, “but he told me the same thing he told you. Bones he can do—sheep, salamanders, even a few human reliquaries—but there are no dinosaurs in the bunch. He does have quite a few curious items tucked in with the ordinary goods on his shelves, though.”

“Is that one of them?” I pointed to the small metal tube in his hands.

Jackaby held it up a bit sheepishly. “Oh, this?” I saw that it was a little penny whistle. It looked like the sort you could buy from any dime store. “Not exactly. No.”

“Then why on earth did you buy a—”

“He is a remarkably talented salesman.”

Hudson chortled and pulled the bundle of brown paper from his belt, waggling it through the flap in the canvas. “Tell me about it! Ain't ever left that shop without somethin' I didn't need.” He passed the parcel back, and I unfolded it to find several strips of dried meat. “Deer jerky. Help yerselves.”

Through the window I could see that we had already left the little town behind. Gadston was nestled just outside the mouth of Gad's Valley, twin bluffs bordering the natural gateway into the broad valley like marble pillars. As the cart rolled through the pass, we were briefly draped in shadow, and then the splendor of the landscape opened to us like a theater curtain. Light poured over the carriage, and vast acres of woody hills and waving grasses lay before us. The path wound past burbling streams and fields of wildflowers, with only the occasional barnyard or cottage adding a human touch to the scenery.

The wheels began to bounce against a stretch of washboard bumps in the rough road, and the whole carriage shook. The boxes of ammunition beneath our seat rattled, and a bear trap, its steel jaws fortunately closed, swung free from its peg above us, whipping back and forth like a grisly pendulum. Jackaby dropped his whistle to grab at the trap, but on the third swing, the chain holding it slipped as well, whipping over his shoulder and rattling into the back of the cart.

There came a loud squawk from behind us, and I looked back to find that the cloth shrouding Rosie had been knocked away. The bear trap had clattered to the floor, its long metal chain drooping over and into the poor bird's enclosure. Every bar of the massive cage had been lined with what looked like corks from wine bottles. It had a round base about three feet in diameter, and as the creature within flapped to steady itself, I could see that its wingspan must have been twice as wide. The bird's plumage was dark amber and rust red, with wings of brilliant gold. It was built like a large crane, with less neck and more beak—and what a beak! It was slightly curved and as glossy as polished brass. Rosie squawked again and shifted her weight from foot to foot as she eyed the intrusive chain with annoyance.

I reached back to pull the jangling chain off her. “I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Jackaby said. “You don't want any part of you too near that bird.”

Hank's head appeared through the flap again. “She's a softie, these days, but he's right. Best to keep yer fingers clear of—”

Rosie let out a shrill screech, and I turned back in time to see her rear up and lash at the chain with her sharp beak. Two halves of a cleanly split link fell to the bottom of Rosie's cage, and the ends of the chain slid away to either side. The light streaming through the flaps caught Rosie's beak and danced along its razor edge, and she preened briefly before settling back down.

“Don't worry. She's a grumpy old thing, but she's basically harmless,” said Hudson. “Besides, she doesn't go for the bars anymore. Haven't found a metal she can't cleave clean through, but she gets stuck in the cork.”

“W-what?” I stammered. “What kind of bird is she?”

“One of a kind!” Hank smiled. “Used to be whole flocks of 'em, once upon a time. I did some trade with a funny little Greek fella out of Arcadia a few years back. One day his ship comes in—he's lost half his cargo, three crewmen are gettin' hauled off to the hospital, and he tells me this pretty thing got loose in the hold. She carved her way through to the mess hall like it was a tin can and put a breach in the hull before they managed to get her secured. Poor girl was so trussed up in leather straps, she could hardly move. Well, the Greek is more than happy to let her go for a decent price, but he knows she's worth more'n I can pony up—plus he's got all them ruined goods to make up for—so, I brought your boss here out to the docks with me to see her for himself.”