Mercury Retrograde (8 page)

The sunlight in this place had always seemed thin to her. Even in the bright light of day, it trickled sallow and anemic through the overgrowth. Petra picked her way around a shattered plastic lawn chair, over bits of barbed wire, mattress springs, and old tires.

She paused before the shed in which Stroud had held her prisoner. The door had been taken off its hinges—­perhaps that had been the DEA's doing. When she peered inside, she saw nothing but broken plastic pots and busted lawn mowers.

Something moved in the grass, chortling. Sig pressed his ears forward.

“Cal?” She fumbled with her gun, sucking in her breath.

But it was only a quail. Sig took off after it like a shot, bounding into the grass.

“Jesus, Sig.” She holstered the gun and reached for the Venificus Locus.

She sat down on an upturned bucket. Fishing her pocketknife out of her pants pocket, she stabbed her barely-­clotted finger, summoning a nice glob of blood to sacrifice to the Locus. The blood settled into the track and she swished it around, willing it to do something. She stared as the liquid soaked into the compass with a nearly audible slurping sound. The compass wasn't giving anything up.

She whistled for Sig, who came bounding back with his tongue covered in feathers.

“Did you eat that bird?”

Sig cocked his head, as if to say:
Duh.

“Did you?” she demanded.

One ear flopped over, and he went to go drink out of an abandoned tire that was likely chock-­full of wriggling mosquito larvae.

“Get in the car.”

Petra called the county jail, with no luck. The county deputies had picked up some minors for underage drinking overnight, but none of them fit Cal's description. The only other arrest had been a sixty-­eight-­year-­old man who was charged with public indecency and the theft of a lawn mower with a subsequent DUI charge involving the lawn mower. After confirming that the culprit was not Frankie, Petra didn't want any more details.

The only other place she could think of to look was the Compostela. Cal had hung around there when Stroud was alive. Perhaps he knew some of the employees. Petra headed back into town, checking her watch to confirm that it was finally open.

Petra parked in front of the bar on the main street of Temperance, told Sig to stay in the truck, and headed inside. The stained glass played bright golden colors on the floor and walls in the setting sunlight. Dust motes were suspended in the air, giving the impression of time suspended in amber.

The bar wasn't in good shape. Long scratches had been dug into the wood floor. Two tables and several chairs were missing from the main floor, stacked in pieces in the corner. A ­couple of the lights over the bar had been broken.

Petra scanned the booths and headed for the back, to the bar in the apse. A blond man dressed in black was wiping down the counter, not making eye contact.

Petra slid onto a barstool. “Looks like the bar's seen some action?”

The man flicked her a glance with pale blue eyes and kept wiping the epoxied heart of what had once been a giant tree. “Drink and women and gambling. Always leads to fighting. What would you like to drink?”

“I'm wondering if you've seen Cal lately.”

The bartender stopped wiping for a moment. “Cal?”

“Yeah. About five-­nine, black hair, silver ankh earring. He used to hang out here a lot.”

The bartender's mouth twisted. “Ah. That Cal.”

“Have you seen him?”

“He was here last night. He wasn't looking too hot when he was here. Little pale, if you know what I mean.”

“Was he in the fight?” Her gaze scraped the ruined tin star light dangling above them from one wire.

“That boy's not much of a fighter.”

“Do you know Cal well?”

“Well enough.”

“Did he say where he was going?” she persisted. She knew that the bartender knew more than he was saying, but the truth had to be dragged out of him.

“No. There was one hell of a fight, and he disappeared afterward with some women on bikes. Haven't seen him.”

“Which women?”

“Dunno. Thirteen of 'em, out-­of-­towners, in a rush to cause trouble.” The bartender shrugged.

Petra didn't have anything to lose by fishing. Even with a club. “Cal worked for Stroud. Did you?” Stroud used to own the Compostela. She had no idea who it belonged to, now.

A ghost of a smile flickered across the bartender's lips. “I work for myself. And Stroud is no longer in business, is he?”

“Guess not.”

“Yeah. Rumor has it that he got to you and you got to him.”

Petra pursed her lips. Maybe this was the way it went—­quid pro quo. “Pretty much. Not that I had much to say about it, after Rutherford's men and the DEA showed up.”

The bartender reached for a glass, poured a beer from the tap, and pushed it across the slick bar to her.

He fixed her with his cold gaze. “Want some advice?”

Petra's mouth twisted up. “Sure.”

“That kid is trouble. It follows him, and it's not gonna let go. Best you leave him alone before it gets ahold of you, too.”

Petra looked down at the growth rings of the bar, tracing one with her thumb. “Thanks. For that and the beer.” She sure wasn't gonna follow that advice, but it confirmed her gut suspicions about Cal being a perpetual damsel in distress.

The bartender nodded and moved away. Petra gazed at the back of his black shirt. She wasn't sure what to make of him. He wasn't helpful, but didn't seem actively harmful. She'd met very few truly neutral ­people in her travels. Maybe he was one of them.

A man at the far end of the bar hiccupped and elbowed his bottle of beer over. The bartender's hand flashed out and caught the bottle, setting it upright without the drunk man noticing.

Maybe he was something else.

Petra squinted at the bartender, as if he suddenly could become clear, but he turned his attention to wiping glasses.

She lifted the beer to her lips. She'd never been much of a drinker, and definitely not a fan of beer, but this wasn't bad. It was cidery and sweet. Lightweight. Maybe the bartender saw more than she thought.

“Petra.”

She turned at the mention of her name and saw a man in a booth beckoning at her. Frankie. He was half-­sprawled in a dark corner, his feet draped over the length of one seat. A candle in a red glass holder flickered dimly at him.

Petra collected her beer, left some money on the bar, and slid into the seat opposite him. “Hey, Frankie. What are you doing here?” She didn't really need to ask. She could smell the booze on him.

Frankie shrugged. “Gotta get out sometime. See the sights. Get some wings.” He wiped his fingers on a stack of soiled paper napkins and reached for a chicken wing in a basket. “Have some.”

Petra picked around the basket for a wing that hadn't been gnawed. “Thanks.” She took a bite and scalded her tongue.

“Jesus, Frankie, that's hot!” She dropped the wing and reached for her beer, drowning the spice in half a glass of cider ale.

Frankie chortled and picked his teeth with a bone. “Good stuff, ain't it? Ghost peppers.”

Petra wiped tears away with the back of her hand. “How is it legal to sell that?”

Frankie shrugged. “You gotta toughen up, girl.”

“So I'm told.” Regaining her composure, Petra wiped the sauce from her hands. “Frankie, if you were trying to find someone, how would you do it?”

“Is this about your dad?”

“Not this time. I'm looking for a teenage boy. In a lot of trouble. He ran away from the hospital, and I think he's hurt, real bad . . . got into some of that stuff Stroud was into.”

Frankie nodded, sucking the sauce from one of the infernal chicken wings. “Ask the chicken.”

“What?”

“I'd ask the chicken.” Frankie's fingers dipped into the basket of wings, pulling out the bones. He stared at the bits of gristle and fat, sucking pieces from the ends until the bones were as clean as toothpicks. He selected about a dozen of them, seemingly at random, tossing them in the center of the red and white checkered plastic tablecloth.

“Who's the Chicken?” Petra envisioned a tall scrawny guy with a line to the underworld of Temperance. “Is that a prison name or something?” It sure wasn't intimidating, if it was.

Frankie looked at her as if she was plain stupid, and shook his head. He opened the salt shaker and carefully tapped out a circle of salt around the bones on the printed tablecloth.

“Give me your hands.”

Petra opened her hands, palms up, and extended them across the table. Frankie picked up the pile of greasy chicken bones and dropped them in her hands.

Petra grimaced. “Ew, Frankie.” She turned to find a trash can.

Frankie's sticky fingers landed on her wrists, stilling her. “Think about the boy.”

She sighed. She thought about Cal: awkward, sneaky . . . but still a human being underneath it all. She thought of the mercury leaking from his eyes, knowing that he was going to die if she didn't find him. Splinters of bones dug into her palms.

“Now, throw them.” Frankie's slender fingers traced the salt circle on the table.

Petra opened her hands, eager to be rid of the sticky mess. The bones bounced on the vinyl tablecloth. Most of them landed inside the circle, a few outside. They skewed in a completely random pattern. One helluva mess.

Frankie leaned over the table with his hands in his lap, rocking back and forth. His eyes picked out each bone. His lips worked over words, but no sound came out.

Petra leaned in. “What are you doing?”

“Reading the bones. Shut up.”

She sat back. She picked up her beer, grimacing at the bone floating on top. She made to fish it out, but Frankie slapped her hand. She put the glass back on the table.

“Hmpf,” he said, scanning the table.

He reached for the basket the wings had come in and swept the salt and bones into the wax paper lining, as if they were trash.

“Well?” Petra demanded.

Frankie looked at her, his eyes sorrowful before he spoke: “It's out of your hands. The kid is gone.”

 

I
n the embrace of the tree, Gabe dreamed.

He dreamed of the basilisk, of the waves it made in the grass as it moved. He dreamed that he was wading in those grasses with a spear, trying to stab it like a fish in shallow water. But he couldn't walk; his feet had dissolved beneath him. He fell to the grass, unable to stand.

In the sunshine, a shadow stood above him. He expected it to belong to the basilisk, come to devour him. He reached for the knife at his belt.

But it wasn't the snake. It was the woman from the hospital. She stood over him, freckled face dark in shadow, bits of dark blond hair spilling over her shoulders. She held a gun in her right hand, slack, aimed to the ground.

“Who are you?” he asked. He wanted to know; she had haunted his dreams for weeks.

She knelt and reached down for him with her left hand. It was an ordinary hand, empty and nonthreatening, with scars on the wrist. She rested it on his chest, and he felt his heart hammering under his shirt.

“I am your undoing. Your dissolution.”

Her fingers dug into his skin, beneath it. He howled as she ripped his heart out.

Gold glittered in her fist as she pulled it away, a golden compass.

His eyes snapped open.

Golden half-­darkness surrounded him. The roots of the tree curled around him, holding him in a lover's embrace. His hand slapped against his chest for reassurance, his fingers tracing his sternum. He was whole. He wiggled his fingers and toes, and counted ten of each. The Lunaria had been able to restore his body.

But still not undamaged. He probed the raveled edges of his memories. He knew that woman. Somehow. She stood out in his memory, nearly as much as the fuzzy presence of his wife, Jelena. Jelena was long dust. But this woman was alive. Did she know what he was? Was that how she could hurt him? Did she somehow know the secret of the Hanged Men? Was that what the holes in his memory were trying to tell him? She had to be mortal, though—­she had scars. They weren't the noose scars that the Hanged Men covered under their collars.

He shook his head. No matter. Puzzles were for another time. He had work to do.

The Lunaria released him reluctantly, as if surrendering something precious to the world. The light surrounding the tree flickered, and Gabe felt its weakness. The roots set him gently on the floor, one curling around the scar ringing his neck.

“I will restore you,” he promised as he dressed.

He searched for Carver's ravens. He'd returned them to the Lunaria's embrace, hoping that this small bit of energy would be absorbed and help feed the tree. Restoring Carver from three such small pieces was impossible, but returning him to the tree was the right thing to do . . .

. . . or not. There was no sign of the ravens.

He hunted among the fruit of the Lunaria, the other Hanged Men slumbering in the glow of artificial sunshine. And he spied something strange, a spot where the Lunaria's rhizomes had woven back into themselves, making a nest about the size of a hawk's. Gabe peered inside.

A severed head lay within. Carver's blank face stared back at him, his eyes black and with feathers sticking out of his scalp. Roots dug deep into his neck, curling through his mouth and over his lower lip.

“Carver,” Gabe said.

The head's eyes glistened in the light as they moved right and left. Something was in there. Something that could not survive on its own.

Gabe reached inside the nest.

“Snake!” the head shrieked. “Snake!”

Gabe wrapped one hand around the back of the head and the other thumb around Carver's lip. He pulled the head free of the roots, turning it sharply, like plucking a pumpkin from a tough vine. Luminescent blood splashed back on him.

“Snake!”

A fragment of memory came back to him—­he saw himself in the roots of the tree, with the woman from his dreams standing before him. She reached inside the tangle of roots for him, and he heard ravens scream.

He stepped backward, the head dangling in his hands. For a moment, he saw something gold and shiny in the fuzzy mess of his memory, but the image faded.

Gabe reverently set the head down on the floor of the chamber.

“I'm sorry,” he said to it.

With a deep breath, he lifted his boot and stomped down as hard as he could.

P
etra was two hours late for work the next morning.

She'd wanted to get to work at Yellowstone early. For the past ­couple of weeks, she'd been busily taking mineral samples from the emerging geothermal features in Pelican Valley, and she wanted to keep on schedule. Her position was a contract position, and she was conscious that she could be let go if she failed to perform to expectations. She had no boss on-­site, and her performance was measured strictly by her output. But there was no hope of getting a jump start on things today.

She ground her teeth as she joined a long line of cars at the east gate. This time of year, in early fall, lines should have been dwindling from their summer traffic jams, at least half the levels of traffic from August. No such luck. She drained her coffee and groaned about the lack of a ladies' room and the Bronco's lack of air conditioning. Sig morosely hung his head out the Bronco's window, glaring at the campers, pickup trucks, and shiny luxury vehicles. They were trapped in traffic behind a 1970s-­era van painted with wizards and dragons. “Steve's Creature Van” was painted in airbrushed script on the back, above a rendering of what she supposed was the Loch Ness Monster, swimming through a green lake of slime with a naked damsel in its jaws.

By the time she'd made it to the Tower Falls Ranger Station, the antifreeze was ticking away under the hood of the Bronco, and Sig had fallen asleep on the seat, belly-­up. The parking lot was full, and she had to make three circuits before giving up and parking on a wedge of grass under a tree. She had barely enough room to pop her door open against the tree, and plodded sullenly to the station. Sig followed, vigorously sniffing the vehicles in the parking lot as he went.

Predictably, there was also a line to the ladies' room. Petra sighed and fidgeted until finally ducking into the empty men's room. Feeling rebellious, she took extra time washing her hands and splashing water on her face when she was through. There had never been a ladies' room on the oil rig in her previous job. Plumbing was plumbing.

The door opened. She jumped to see Mike in the doorway, and splashed water on the front of her shirt.

“Uh, hey. Line at the ladies' was . . .” She hooked a thumb at the hallway.

“There's no talking in the men's room,” Mike said, frowning sternly. “It's a rule.”

“Well, there aren't supposed to be women in the men's room, either.”

He lifted his hand. “I should probably cite you. For something. But don't sweat it. You got some folks waiting for you.”

She blinked, reaching for the hand dryer. ­“People?” There was never anyone waiting for her. As a geologist, she worked alone, drilling out samples and clomping through weeds. “Did they find Cal?”

“No word yet on Cal. My sources are being pretty quiet. And I don't like that. Feels too much like secret squirrel business.” He frowned, eyes narrowing. “Take that for whatever it's worth.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it. I know that something bad's happened to him. I just want to help, you know?”

“Yeah. I know. Give it some time. I'll keep shaking the tree and see if anything comes loose. And I'll get my local network in gear looking for him. There's an APB out for him, but there's more that will be done for a missing kid if someone behind the blue line raises a big enough stink.”

A boy of about nine walked into the men's room. He looked at Mike, then Petra, then backpedaled to double-­check the sign on the door.

“I'm, uh, gonna leave now.” Petra headed for the door.

“Probably for the best.”

Petra walked past the queue to the ladies' room. She got a ­couple of glowering looks, but a few teenage girls broke free to go to the men's room. She chortled to herself, hoping that Mike had picked a stall instead of a urinal.

She made her way behind the information counter, to the offices in the back of the vintage log structure. It always smelled a bit like dust to her, but that was the nature of the beast. Sig had already beat her there, and was standing glumly beside the watercooler. She filled a cup for him and let him lap from it.

“Ms. Dee?”

She glanced up to see a man in khakis and a polo shirt staring down at her. He was thin and wiry, balding and tan.

“Yes?” She straightened. Sig leaned around her knees to stare at him.

“I'm Phil Gustavson, and this is Meg Howard.” He inclined his head to a brunette woman behind him. “We're biologists with the National Park Ser­vice.”

“Hi.” Petra wiped her hand on the side of her pants and offered it to shake. She glanced down at her coyote. “This is Sig.”

The woman crouched down to look at Sig, offering her hand to sniff. Sig turned his head away, wary. “Nice coyote. Did you rescue him as a pup?”

“Nah. He just turned up a ­couple of months ago and wouldn't leave. Don't worry. He's had shots.”

“Neat. I've never seen a tame adult that wasn't reared by ­people.”

“He's a good boy.” She reached down, her fingers lingering in the soft, golden fur around his ears. “What brings you guys to Yellowstone?”

Phil looked over his shoulder, toward the crowded lobby. “Can we talk in private?”

“Sure.” Petra straightened and led them back to the tiny conference room she'd taken over. It was stacked high along the walls with file boxes, and her microscope and gear were spread over half the table. There was enough room remaining to open three folding chairs, and Petra settled in to listen. Sig slid under the table, and Meg closed the door.

“We're here for the same reason that those guys are here.” Phil gestured to the ­people outside.

“What's that?” She decided to be deliberately obtuse.

“The snake.” Meg pulled a file folder out of her backpack, and slid it across the table toward Petra.

“The snake from the news?” Petra lifted an eyebrow. They couldn't be serious.

“That snake.” Phil crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't look happy.

Petra opened the file folder. It contained stills of the video she'd seen from the newscast, overdrawn with measurements and indicators of scale over color enhancements. “You think this is real?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘real,' ” Meg said. She laced her long, callused fingers together. “I'm not buying that it's a dragon or a naga or some other mythological critter. What was that other thing we saw on the Internet, Phil?”

“Some guy thinks he can prove that it's Quetzalcoatl.” Phil rolled his eyes.

“Awesome. What do you think it is?”

“Not sure. It doesn't look like anything we've seen before.”

Phil interrupted. “We thought it might be something as simple as a dumped anaconda, and worried about it becoming an invasive species, but . . .”

“ . . . but then we did some measuring and looked more carefully. We're more concerned that it could be something new. A new species, entirely.” Meg leaned forward, and excitement was palpable in her brown eyes.

“Wow.” Petra leaned back in her chair. “But, um . . . did Mike tell you about the campers who were killed? And the ­people who wound up in the hospital?”

“Yes. And that's why we're talking to you. We got your samples at the federal lab. They generated a lot of discussion.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrow quirked up.

“The stuff you sent in was all over the place. Some phospholipase enzymes, neurotoxins. Metalloproteases that cause hemorrhaging. Arsenic trioxide—­which is, weirdly enough, an impurity in gold ore. And a ton of acetic acid. Not normal.” Meg's eyebrows had crawled nearly up into her hairline.

“We're working on a theory . . .” Phil steepled his fingers before him, and Petra had the impression of an academic in an office, surrounded with paper, who had just gotten the chance to play in the field for the first time in twenty years. “We're thinking that there might be something about Yellowstone's geology that caused a unique creature to evolve.”

“That's kind of, um,
X-­Files
.” If anyone mentioned aliens, Petra was ready to bolt.

“You saw the scene of the incident with the campers. You know what's normal for Yellowstone's geological hazards, and what's not. We want to look for the creature, and we want you to come with us to consult.”

Petra blinked. “Let me get this straight . . . you want to me to help you guys chase a giant snake?”

“Pretty much,” Meg admitted. “Yellowstone isn't our bailiwick, and the park rangers have their hands full corralling the amateur monster hunters.”

“But think of it,” Phil said. “
Serpens Gustavson Howard Dee
.”

Petra made a face. She wasn't much into chasing immortality with scientific names. But the idea . . . the idea of the unknown creature intrigued her. Irresistible curiosity tickled the back of her brain.

“We're mostly concerned with protecting the public.” Meg made an immediate ambition course correction. “We need to catch this thing before it hurts anyone else.”

Petra looked down at Sig. He rested his head on her foot.

“What do you think, Sig? Do you want to chase monsters?” Her stomach churned. She
should
be looking for Cal. But Mike was on the case. And Frankie said he was gone . . .

Sig's ear flipped over, and his gold eyes regarded her solemnly.

She couldn't forget the body of the little girl at the campsite, killed in her sleep. She blew out her breath. “So. When do we leave?”