Dark Alchemy (3 page)

“Thanks, Bear.”

“Don't thank me.” Bear pointed upward. “Thank Daisy. The luck's all hers.”

Petra grinned and clanked through the door with her sack in hand. She crossed the street to get a better look at the Bronco. Rust had chewed through some spots in the wheel wells, but the tires still had enough tread on them to last until winter. It was no doubt a gas guzzler, but Petra didn't mind the idea of visiting Bear's deli on a regular basis to get gas and Bacchanalia sandwiches. The Airstream kitchen was not made to produce three-­course dinners.

The Bronco was parked on the curb in front of the Compostela, a bar that looked like it had stood since the Gold Rush days. The faded wood building was pierced by gothic windows and shutters, fronted by a porch with creaky floorboards. Petra guessed that it might have originally been a church. Perhaps as a nod to its origins and the name of the town, a wooden cross was hung over the door. A sign in the window announced beer and appetizer specials for happy hour.

Petra glanced at her watch. It was almost 2
P.M.
—­a bit early for drinking. Maybe Maria Yellowrose worked here.

Shuffling her groceries to her left arm, Petra pushed the door open into the shade of the bar. It took a moment for the red sun shadows of the day to resolve themselves. This place had, indeed, been a church in a prior incarnation. The gothic windows still held colored glass that played on the scarred floor in kaleidoscopic colors. The effect was no doubt spectacular under the influence. Church pews had been cut up and reassembled as booths and table seating. The altar area had been converted to a bar. Pendant lights glittered over a slab of highly polished wood that looked to have been cut from a single tree.

There was something pragmatically blasphemous about the whole setup. Petra didn't believe in anything that couldn't be quantifiably recorded. Religion held the same sway over her that fairy tales and New Age crystals did. But she still found it amusing.

The bar was sparsely populated at this hour. A group of old men sat playing cards in the corner, and a half dozen other patrons were silhouettes in the pews. Petra made her way to the altar. The bartender was a blond man about twenty years older than Petra, dressed in black. The wall behind him gleamed in a pattern of stars hammered out of tin.

“Can I help you?” Petra could feel his gaze sizing her up.

“Hi. I'm looking for Maria Yellowrose.”

The bartender pointed behind her. “She's over there. But now might not be a good time.”

Petra turned. At one of the pews, a man and woman were arguing. Or, rather, the man was arguing, and the woman was attempting to reason with him.

“ . . . not going anywhere,” the man slurred. He was dressed in jeans with a loose button-­up shirt, and his hat lay before him on the table. His skin was pale, and his wizened hands curled protectively around an empty glass.

The woman stood beside him, hands pressed to the table. Black hair dusted her shoulders, and she wore a long lace tunic over a gypsy skirt. She spoke low, so low that Petra could barely hear her.

“It's time to come home, Frankie,” the woman said. “I'll take you.”

Frankie shook his head. “I'm not going home to listen to any more of that bitchin'.”

“You can't stay here. You've already been cut off.”

Frankie stared into his empty glass. “No.”

“You can either come willingly, or get thrown out.” The woman's eyes slid to the bartender.

Frankie slammed down his glass. “Let me take a piss first.”

“Okay. Then we'll go.”

Frankie stumbled out of the pew and wandered away to the restrooms. The woman sat at the edge of the pew and rested her heart-­shaped face in her hand. Her sloe eyes were fixed on Frankie's empty beer glass.

Petra hated to intrude, but she didn't relish the idea of roaming the countryside without the protection of a steel skin around her. She screwed up her courage and approached the pew.

“Excuse me, are you Maria?”

The woman blinked and looked up. “Yes?”

“Hi. My name's Petra. I saw that your truck was for sale. But if this is a bad time . . .” Petra's gaze slid to the men's room.

Maria shook her head, and her silver earrings shivered. “There's no such thing as bad timing. I need to get that beast sold before insurance is due on it this fall.”

“Tell me about it?”

“It's a '78. Three hundred sixty-­seven thousand miles. New water pump and fan belt, old tires, air-­conditioning doesn't work. Put a battery in it last year. But it runs. It's never left me stranded.”

That squared with what Petra had observed. Her ankle throbbed, and she was reluctant to walk all the way back to the trailer. Even if the truck was a lemon, it might be fixable. “What are you asking for it?”

“Eight hundred, firm.”

“Let's go look at it.”

Maria nodded. She glanced back toward the men's room, where the sounds of vomiting could be heard. She caught the eye of the bartender.

The bartender didn't look amused. “I'll send him out when he's done.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Petra followed Maria out to the sunlight. The beast of a truck cast a shadow on the gravel, seeming to give Petra the once-­over through dirty headlamps. Maria opened the driver's side door, popped the hood. Petra stood on tiptoe to look in at the dusty engine as Maria started it. The engine vibrated with a satisfying idle, deep and loud enough that Petra had to shout to be heard above it. “Smells like oil.”

“Yeah. It burns about a quart every three months. Wasn't worth it to track down the leak.”

Petra nodded and dropped the heavy steel hood down with a puff of dust. Maria shut the engine off, but the sound still roared in her ears. Petra stepped up on the running board and peered into the interior. The vinyl seats were intact, and a fist-­sized charm made of citrine beads clicked from the rearview mirror. But she was more interested in the shotgun in the backseat.

“Is that for sale, too?”

Maria shook her head. “Sorry. But the pawn shop could probably hook you up.”

“Where's that?”

“Two streets over. Stan's Dungeon.”

“Sounds like an S&M shop.”

Maria cracked a smile. “Nah. Though you can probably score some handcuffs there, if that's your thing.”

Petra shook her head. “I'll pass. But thanks for the info.” Her fingertips lingered on the hot dashboard. “Eight hundred bucks? Can I take it today for cash?”

“Eight hundred bucks and a ride back to the reservation,” Maria amended.

“Deal.” Petra extended her hand, and Maria grasped it, bracelets chiming.

At that moment, Frankie came stumbling from the bar into the street. He patted his pockets, looked right, left, and then fixated on a box truck parked on the curb ahead of the Bronco. A man in jeans and a black cowboy hat was loading fence posts and coils of barbed wire into the back from the hardware store next door. In this heat, he was wearing long sleeves, buttoned at the wrist. A raven paced on the roof of the truck, watching the man in the hat work.

“Hey, you!” Frankie stabbed a finger at the man in the black hat. “Shouldn't you be back at the ranch, sucking Rutherford's cock?”

The man in the hat ignored him, throwing sharpened fence posts into the back of the truck as if they were foam pool noodles and not hardwood four-­by-­fours. The raven stopped pacing, turned its unblinking obsidian eyes toward Frankie.

Maria grabbed the old man's arm and dragged him toward the Bronco. “Time to go, Frankie.”

But Frankie wasn't through shooting his mouth off. “You digging graves for him? He got you digging your own?”

The man at the truck looked up then. Under the shade of his hat burned the coldest, most distant look Petra had ever seen. Petra had only seen a look that remote on a corpse.

“Watch your mouth, old man. Or the next grave could be yours.” His voice was barely a whisper, but the threat in his amber eyes chilled Petra's blood. The man turned his back to them and continued to load the truck, while the raven continued to stare at Frankie, fluffing its wings.

“
Frankie,
” Maria hissed. “
Shut the hell up.
”

“He ain't right. Rutherford's boys aren't natural. The raven told me.” Frankie flailed as Maria attempted to shovel him into the car.

Awesome. She forgot that the drunk guy was coming along for the ride, too. Petra hoped he didn't barf in the Bronco, since she was pretty sure that the mess was now hers.

“Get in the truck, Frankie,” Maria said, slamming the door after him. Frankie wormed to the other side and slithered out the opposite door. Petra saw him snatch a fence post from the ground. The raven cawed, a harsh, raw sound.

“Look out!” Petra shouted.

Frankie swung on the man in the hat. The fence post crashed into his back with an audible crack. The stranger slumped against the side of the truck. Frankie swung and struck the man again, hitting so hard that the man's shoulder dented the side panel of the truck on impact. Blood spattered on the dingy paint. The raven fluttered down from the roof of the truck, skittering helplessly along the perimeter of the fight.

“Jesus, Frankie's gonna kill him.” Maria dug in the back of the Bronco for the shotgun, scrabbled in the glove box for loose shells.

In the doorway of the bar, Petra spied the bartender. He stayed in the shadow of the door, watching.

“Help him!” Petra shouted.

The bartender shook his head. He watched with detached interest, like a vulture watching a predator make a kill that he could pick over later.

The taillight of the truck broke under the impact of one of Frankie's blows, glittering red in the spatters on the pavement. The stranger was on the ground, and Frankie slammed the fence post into the man's ribs. The stranger's hat lay on the pavement, broken plastic shards glittering on the leather. The raven paced beside the hat, wings spread, shrieking.

Petra stepped up to Frankie. “Leave him alone.”

Frankie paused. Petra marveled at the power of her voice, that Frankie was willing to stop midstrike, bloody fence post lifted over his head.

Then she looked down, saw the pistol in her hands and the barrel pressed against the base of Frankie's neck. The pressure seemed to keep the gun from shaking.

“Holy shit,” she breathed at herself.

The raven looked up at Petra and cawed hoarsely, as if challenging her to act. Or pleading.

 

Chapter Three

Bluffing

A
shotgun shell ratcheted noisily into its chamber somewhere behind Petra. She held her breath, tensing to receive a load of buckshot in the back.

“Do as she says, Frankie,” Maria snarled. “Drop it.”

Frankie let the stained fence post clatter to the ground. Sullenly, he turned to Petra and Maria. Spittle ran down his chin and flecked the front of his T-­shirt.

“Last chance. Get in the truck, Frankie.”

Frankie, grumbling, shuffled toward the Bronco. He vomited in the street and collapsed upon reaching the truck, passing out against the fender.

Petra knelt before the beaten man. His dark hair was matted with blood and dirt. Petra rolled him on his side, saw the purpling bruise already swelling on the right side of his face.

“Are you okay?” It was a dumb question. He clearly wasn't.

“Mmmph,” he said.

She dug her cell phone out of her pocket and called 911. The call rang twice, then disconnected.

“Hey,” she shouted over her shoulder at the bartender. “Call an ambulance.”

The bartender disappeared. Petra didn't know if he'd make the call, if there even were ambulances out here.

Petra pried open the man's good eye. The pupil in his shimmering amber iris contracted in the sun. That much was good. The eye began to roll back into his head.

“You.” She shook him. “Stay with me. What's your name?”

The man coughed a mouthful of blood up on Petra's shirt. “Gabriel.”

The raven paced before them, rustling its feathers in agitation. Petra tried to shoo it away, but it hopped back, making sketchy tracks in the blood with its claws.

Petra turned Gabriel's stubbled face toward her, examining the bruise covering the right side of his cheek. His skin was oddly cool, like stone, and he smelled like metal. No heat emanated from the wound, nor from the blood that covered his skin. Petra rubbed her hand on her pants, conscious of the risk of blood-­borne contagion.

Gabriel touched Petra's collar. “Sorry about your shirt.”

Her gold pendant necklace spilled out from under the fabric, and Gabriel immediately brushed his fingers against it in fascination. “The true green lion,” he rasped,

“What? You know about this?”

His amber eyes fluttered shut, and she reached for his wrist to take his pulse. Her fingers sought an arterial thump of blood. But she didn't feel a thump . . . she felt a buzz. Like placing her fingers on a stereo speaker that was playing only static. “Paramedics will be here soon.”

Gabriel shook his head. “No paramedics.” He shifted his weight, struggling to get his hand under him to climb to his feet.

“You need a doctor.”

“No. Help me up.”

“Absolutely not. The squad will—­”

“ ‘
Medicines are our poisons, and poisons our medicines. Even the New Testament can be poison,
' ” Gabriel muttered.

“What are you talking about?” That sounded like something a whackadoodle would quote to avoid treatment. “The Bible?”

“Paracelsus. He wasn't an idiot on
all
counts.”

Something seemed to move under his shirt. She thought it was a trick of the light, but something like black feathers twitched at the edge of his collar.

“What—­?”

Gabriel shoved her hands away and hauled himself to his feet. The raven cawed at him, lighting on the driver's side mirror as he stumbled to the cab of the truck.

“You can't drive. You'll pass out,” Petra yelled at him. The absolute gibberish he was spewing suggested that he had at least a concussion, maybe a skull fracture or a brain bleed. The raven buzzed the airspace near her left ear, startling her into stepping back.

Maria Yellowrose grasped her arm. “Don't follow him.”

Gabriel's truck chugged to life and rolled down the street. The raven took wing overhead. The truck and the bird disappeared in the bright, dusty sunshine.

A man from the hardware store, wearing an apron and a name tag, came outside. He cranked open the valve to a garden hose spigot and began to rinse the blood from the street, as if someone had spilled a milk shake, and he wanted to rinse the stickiness away before it attracted wasps.

“W
hat the hell was that about?”

Petra rode in silence for the first ten miles in the shotgun seat of the Bronco before she spoke. Hot afternoon air slid through the open windows, rattling Maria's car charm against the windshield. She could taste the red dust on the breeze. In the backseat, Frankie stretched out, sleeping off his bender with a crust of vomit drying around his lips.

Maria glanced sidelong at her. “How about you start with what the hell you're doing here, at the ends of the Earth?” Maria had the shotgun wedged up next to her, between the door and her hip.

Petra tried a half-­truth. “I got a job. I'm a geologist.”

Maria watched her. “The economy's that bad, that a geologist would come all the way here?”

“Yellowstone's an exciting place. It's the caldera of an active volcano. Hot steam geysers, noxious gases, mudpots . . . for a geologist, it's a playground.”

The smell of fetid breath came in a gust from the backseat as Frankie wobbled upright. He spoke in a dreamy singsong. “Runaway from water. Runaway from fire. Runaway looking for her daddy.”

The fine hair on Petra's arms stood upright in the heat. “What did you say?”

Frankie slid back down to the seat as if he'd been deflated.

Petra turned her face to the window, bit her lip. The blood was drying on her shirt. She was trying not to imagine what microbial creepy-­crawlies were in it. The gun felt hot in her hip pocket, drawn twice today.

Maria stared straight ahead at the road, which was stained red from bits of iron ore in the asphalt. “Frankie is clairaudient.”

Petra blinked. “What?”

“Frankie hears things. But only when he's drunk, and he forgets all about them when he's sober. Which isn't often.” Maria stared at her. Hard.

Petra looked out the window at the shimmering heat. She rubbed her temple, mindful to try to keep the blood on her sleeve from smearing on her face.

Maria laughed. “You aren't fooling anyone.”

“You clairaudient, like Frankie?” She couldn't keep the skepticism out of her voice.

“No. I'm a social worker. I've seen more than one domestic violence case in my time.” Maria gestured to the mark on Petra's arm.

Petra opened her mouth to protest, closed it, and tugged the sleeve down on her wrist. Maybe it was better if Maria thought it was that simple. Something in the other woman's expression had softened, and maybe that was a good thing.

“It's not what you think. I just . . .” Petra shook her head, and she could feel the quaver in her voice. “I don't think I'm ready to talk about it. Not yet.”

Maria nodded. “Fair enough.”

“You're a social worker?” Petra turned a question back on her.

Maria nodded. “Yeah. I work at the Family Center on the reservation. This far out, ­people have a lot of problems that get swept under the rug.”

“Like Frankie?”

Maria shrugged. “Frankie's my uncle. I've gotta take care of him.”

Petra's brows drew together, and she glanced in the side view mirror at the lump in the backseat. They looked nothing alike. Maria was dark and exotic to Petra's eye, while Frankie looked like a wrinkly white cast-­off from a Florida retirement colony.

“We're related by marriage,” Maria said, and it had the feeling of a confession, the way she said it. “He was my uncle's . . . aunt's . . . er. They met at Burning Man in the nineties. It's complicated.”

Petra glanced at the shotgun tucked up next to Maria's skirt. “Would you have shot him?”

Maria chewed her lip. “No,” she admitted. “But I would have shot in his general direction. He was swinging at one of Rutherford's men like it was the ninth inning with bases loaded.”

“He said his name was Gabriel.” The name tasted odd and metallic on Petra's tongue.

“I'm surprised that one of them spoke to you. They're a quiet, creepy bunch. They work for Sal Rutherford, the owner of the biggest ranch around here. Ranch hands.”

“I take it that you don't think much of Rutherford, either?”

The corner of Maria's lip turned down. “Sal's got money. Lots of it. And he gets what he wants. His family's been here for generations, old cattle barons. They were always pissed that our tribe got land here. He moves his fences forward every year. We move them back.” Maria gestured with her chin to the green sign beside the road that said:
WELCOME TO
RED ROCK INDIAN RESERVATION
. Pavement dropped immediately to gravel with an audible
thunk
of the Bronco's tires. At least the shocks didn't squeak.

Maria's mouth thinned. “This may go to Rutherford, sooner or later, I think. The reservation populations have been dwindling as more and more ­people move away to look for work. Someday, this land might belong to the federal government. Or to Rutherford's descendants.”

The Bronco churned through a small town like any other in the West: convenience stores, fast food, gas station, a Laundromat. Down one side street, Maria pulled a U-­turn and parked the Bronco beside a white two-­story house that probably dated from the 1930s. Flowers bloomed in carefully tended window boxes, and laundry was drying on a clothesline in the side yard. The paint on the porch was curling a bit, suggesting that traditional women's work was going on as usual, but the men's work was slipping a bit. Maybe Maria was doing it all.

Maria shut off the engine. Valves continued to ping loudly against the backboard hood as Maria reached into the backseat. “Frankie. Frankie, get up. We're home.”

Frankie groaned and climbed upright enough to ooze out from the car door. Petra inspected the backseat with a sharp eye, searching for vomit.

Frankie muttered to a grasshopper resting on the mailbox, then to the birds perched on the roof gutter, before sinking down into a porch swing.

Maria rolled her eyes. “He thinks the animals talk to him.”

“They do talk to me,” Frankie insisted. He pointed at Maria. “That one could be a most excellent shaman, if she would stop talking long enough to listen.”

“Frankie, take your pills.” Maria groaned, rubbing her forehead, before turning her attention to Petra. “He knows nothing about shamans. Look, you wanna come in and avoid the heat? I need to dig out the title on this beast. And you can get cleaned up.”

Petra self-­consciously climbed out of the truck. She peeled her shirt off, but the tank top she wore beneath was still stained in places and showed off her scars. A mess, no matter which way she looked at it.

Petra followed Maria to the porch. Sweetgrass surrounded the foundations of the house, and a garden heavy with tomato vines and nodding sunflowers stretched to the west side. Sparrows were busily attacking the sunflower heads in a quest for seeds. A small grey and white cat lurked in the dirt, tail lashing, waiting for an opportunity to pick off one of the tiny brown planes.

“Leave those birds alone.” Maria gave the cat a stern look. The cat blinked and ignored her.

Petra smelled sage as she followed Maria into the house, noticing that the door was unlocked. She wondered if Maria was that trusting, or whether her fearsome reputation with the shotgun was enough to keep intruders at bay. Plants had overtaken the interior of the little house, as well. Maria punched a button on the window air conditioner, and the artificial breeze stirred a strand of bells and devil's ivy growing from pots suspended from the ceiling. The main room was a small living area dominated by a slipcovered couch on one end, kitchenette on the other. Cast-­iron pots dangled from a rack, where more plants reached from the kitchen windowsill. Herbs were stuffed in bottles and laid out to dry beside empty canning jars. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, scarred wood floors covered in colorful carpets.

“I'll get you a clean shirt.” Maria disappeared into the back of the house.

Reluctant to sit on the furniture with half-­dried blood on her clothes, Petra stood awkwardly in the center of the floor with her arms crossed, listening to the air-­conditioning hum. She jumped when the front door creaked open, but it was only the small cat, pushing the door with her front paws. The cat sauntered into the living room and looked up at Petra.

Petra knelt and let the cat have a sniff of her fingers. The cat thrust her head under Petra's hand, emitting a rusty purr. By her size, Petra had judged her to be a half-­grown cat, but closer inspection showed the sinewy muscle of age.

“Pearl likes you. And Pearl's not usually very fond of strangers.” Maria returned to the living area with a small bundle.

Pearl looked up at Petra and emitted a meow that sounded like she'd smoked six packs of cigarettes a day.

“Is she your watch cat?”

“Pearl does what she wants.” Maria handed Petra a shirt. “This should fit you.”

“Thanks. I'll bring it back to you.”

Maria shook her head. “No need. It shrank in the dryer, and makes me look pretty slutty if I try to wear it. There's soap and washrags in the bathroom.”

Petra looked down at her shirt.

“Don't worry about getting blood on anything. The towels are old. Feel free to use the shower, if you want.”

“Thanks,” Petra said. She was grateful to be directed to the bathroom and to shut the door behind her. She placed her red-­speckled hands on the faux marble countertop and let out a quavering breath. She stared at her red knuckles, reached for the squeaky tap. Hot water scalded her shaking hands, and she scrubbed viciously with cedar-­scented soap.

She yanked her tank top over her head, taking three tries to peel it over her face without the red touching her lips or eyes. It had soaked through to her bra and skin. She pulled the rest of her clothes off, reached past Maria's daisy-­patterned shower curtain for the shower tap, and stepped in.