“I awoke in a hospital, burned and blinded but alive. My body, although ravaged, was the same age it had been when I was taken. I couldn’t speak. I’d done nothing more than scream for ages. It took a long time to get my voice back, but I could listen, and I soon realized I wasn’t home. Time had passed me by. I had to learn how to survive in this new world.”
“Culture shock,” Emily said.
“You’ve no idea.” Chastity smiled. “Social workers at the hospital helped me get settled. I learned Braille. First book I read was the Bible, but the hell I knew wasn’t there. So I turned to science, researching wormholes and alternate universes. When computers became available, I was first in line. In fact, my parishioners just bought me a new one, has a screen reader already installed. I love to surf.”
“You get the Internet here?”
“I have a satellite dish out back.”
Emily blinked, her image of the woman taking a sudden left turn. She struggled to get back on topic. “You’re saying hell is an alternate universe?”
“I think it’s in a different dimension. That’s why time stops for us but not for them.”
“Then demons are not the evil super humans that religion would have us believe,” Emily said savagely. “They are alien creatures who have fed on us since the beginning of time.”
“They are evil, and they are superhuman. You would do well to remember that,” Chastity said. “But there is something more I wish you to understand. I believe hell is a vacation resort.”
TWENTY-TWO
Chastity and Emily talked until after midnight when Mom came in and shooed them both to their respective rooms. Emily tossed and turned, and didn’t fall asleep until dawn. Her nightmares were so vivid, she was grateful to be awakened at eight.
By the time Emily finished Mom’s breakfast of biscuits-and-gravy, sausage, and eggs, and was dressed in her own clothes, Tom pulled her rented Subaru into the courtyard. She accepted a packet of jerky rolled in a bit of leather and a goat-bladder water skein that Chastity found in the house.
With Tom on a dirt bike riding ahead of her, Emily made her way down the tortuous path out of Chastity Commune. She felt invigorated yet daunted by the preparations she needed to make. A full-length leather coat would pose no problem, but she had no idea how to make weaponry out of bone. Despite Chastity’s assurances that she had plenty of time, Emily knew that every moment she delayed would seem an eternity to April. She couldn’t justify learning how to carve knives and arrows while her daughter languished in the devils’ clutch.
She wished she could buy the needed items, but bone arrows and bows were not common commodities. In fact, she never heard of such a thing. She knew only one person who could help.
She reached into her backpack, which she had retrieved from the trunk, and pulled out her cell. With one hand on the wheel, she scrolled down the phone list. The jouncing and rocking of the car made reading the tiny screen difficult, but she eventually found the number to Clive’s Archery Emporium. She dialed and waited to connect. “Hello, Clive? This is Emily Goodman.”
“Hi, Emily. What’s up?”
“Well, I need some advice.” She struggled to keep the car on the overgrown road. “I’ve gotten myself into a sort of competition, and I need to know how to make an archery set out of bone.”
“Interesting question. Historically, you would use an ox rib for the bow and recurve it to get the needed spring. It’s best to back it with leather because the bow will shatter as it dries. Arrows are even more problematic. You have to splinter the bone into useable lengths and fire the heads. They’re not strong, but it’s said they fly true.”
“I don’t suppose you carry anything like that.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “But it seems to me I met a guy at a conference once. Hold on, let me see if I still have his card.”
Emily nodded into the phone. She stared out the windshield, listening to the engine groan as the car lurched over mud and tree roots. Ahead, Tom’s bike guttered and whined.
Clive returned to the line sounding jovial. “You are so lucky to have me as a friend.”
“That’s what I keep telling everybody.”
“The guy’s name is Adam Snow, and the place is called Weapons and Artifacts. It’s in Albuquerque. You want the phone number?”
“That’s okay. I’ll look it up on the Internet. Thanks. I owe you.”
“No problem. Glad to hear you’re competing again.”
Emily set the phone on the seat as Tom and his bike detoured around a fallen tree. She swerved to avoid the obstacle, and then followed him to a field bordering the highway.
Tom dismounted and approached, leaning into her open window. “You want I should lead you to Southland Field?”
“No,” she said. “Where is the nearest large airport?”
“Chennault International, just a little east of Lake Charles. You can return the car there. Follow this road and get on two-ten.”
“Thanks.” She smiled and added earnestly, “Thanks for everything. You saved my life.”
Tom grinned. “I’m just glad you found what you wanted.”
“And that I’m leaving.”
“That, too.” He rapped her doorframe and walked back to his bike.
Emily pulled around him, tapped her horn in farewell, and headed north on LA 27. After she got her bearings, she picked up her phone and dialed home. “Hi. It’s me.”
“Where are you?” Esmeralda said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m leaving Louisiana headed for New Mexico. I ran into Joey, but April wasn’t with him.”
“You found him? What did he say?”
“After he strangled me for a few minutes, he didn’t say much of anything.”
“Are you okay?”
“As well as can be expected.”
Esmeralda paused. “Your parents are here.”
“You called them?”
“I thought it was best. Do you have time to speak with them?”
Emily winced. “I really don’t. Just tell them I love them, and I’ll call again as soon as I have a chance.”
“One more thing. The police have a tap on this phone. We’re waiting for a ransom demand.”
Emily felt irked that Esmeralda hadn’t mentioned the tap sooner. It wasn’t that she wanted to hide from the police, she just didn’t want any interference. “That will save you from having to repeat everything I told you. As for a ransom, I don’t think April’s abductors have any intentions of giving her back.”
TWENTY-THREE
Weapons & Artifacts
was a small shop with almost no storefront. Emily failed to notice it even after getting an address and directions from the Internet. She was surprised when the cab driver pulled into the parking lot. To one side of the shop there was a fabric store with early Halloween decorations in its window. A hardware store stood on the other side—a sign in the window boasted
Voted Number One Hardware in Albuquerque.
Emily paid the driver and got out of the cab. The asphalt was rough and cracked with oil slicks marking the parking spots. Crows cawed and fought over something in the gutter. She took hold of the doorknob. It felt gritty, and she realized a fine layer of dust coated the building and the sidewalk. She opened the door and went inside.
Fluorescent tubes lit the windowless shop. The air smelled of leather. Emily gasped, running her gaze over walls filled with displays of bows and spears. She saw longbows and crossbows, staffs decorated with feathers, and a case full of arrowheads. Under different circumstances, she would love to spend time in the place.
A small, wizened man shambled out of a back room. He had a flat, dark face and shiny, black hair. He nodded and smiled, showing badly decayed teeth. “How may I help you?”
“Are you Adam Snow?” Emily asked.
“Actually, it’s Snowmaker, but I was the butt of so many jokes about snow blowers, I had my name changed.” He stepped close, peering up at her through slit eyes. Wrinkles lined his skin so heavily his eyes seemed to disappear. “Do I know you?”
“No, sir. I heard you sell bows and arrows made of bone.”
“Yes, indeed.” He shuffled away, motioning for her to follow. “Are you interested in a particular era?”
“I’m not sure.” She glanced about at the many exhibits.
Most of the bows hung on the walls in individual glass cases. He took one down, opened it, and offered the bow to her.
Emily took it gingerly. The bone was yellow, carved on either end, and backed by peeling leather. It felt fragile. She wondered how old it was.
“Did Native Americans make this?” she asked.
He scoffed. “Yes, but not the Native Americans you mean. It burns my cockles every time I hear that term used exclusively for those who wore buckskin and feathers as opposed to those who wear fur.”
She looked at him. “You mean Eskimos?”
“My people.” He nodded. “We made many things out of bone. Didn’t always have the luxury of trees like some Native Americans.”
“What’s an Eskimo doing in New Mexico?”
“I decided to retire somewhere warm.”
Emily chuckled, then turned her attention to the bow. “May I string this?”
“Acht tut tut.” He took the bow away and returned it to its case. “For display purposes only.”
“Do you have any that are functional?”
He squinted at her. “What do you mean?”
“I need a working bow. I want to test how well the arrows fly.”
“Writing some sort of research paper?” He hung the bow and its glass case back on the wall. “There is a reason today’s weapons are not made of bone. They have a short life. Once the bone dries, it turns brittle. Worthless.”
“Any way to extend the lifespan?”
“Use a fresh kill. Cover the bone with leather or sinew. Sinew works best because it shrinks as it dries, putting the back of the bow into compression and protecting against breakage.”
“So they tied the sinew onto the bone?”
“Glued it. Boiled cartilage to make the glue.”
She nodded. “What did they use, ox ribs?”
“Whale bone. Not many oxen where that came from.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “I expected it to be strung with cat gut.”
“Gut has too much give. Simple rawhide works best.”
“Can you show me some arrows?”
“This way.”
He led her to a narrow wooden cabinet lined with a variety of arrows from aluminum to yew. Unlocking the glass front, he reached inside.
“Bone arrows are shorter than traditional arrows,” he said. “They cannot be fletched. As you see, the shafts are not round but wedge-shaped. Here, you can hold it.”
Emily took the arrow. It had three flat sides, notched at one end. The other end was ground to a sharp point. “Do Eskimos still use these?”
He grinned. “Not if they can help it.”
“How are arrows like this made?”
“With practice and care. You use a sort of chisel to split the bone into sections, and then you keep splitting until you get the desired thickness.”
“It’s so lightweight,” she said, hefting the length in her hands.
“It’s porous and old, probably shatter into a thousand pieces if you hit anything with it.”
“That one wouldn’t.” She pointed into the cabinet.
He stammered. “Wh-what? Which one?”
“There. I can tell by the color it’s not as old as the others. Let me see it.”
His lips pressed into a line, competing with the creases in his face. He took the arrow from her and put it back in its slot. Then he took out the arrow she had indicated.
The moment she touched it, she knew it was a viable weapon. The weight and balance were perfect. She looked closer and noticed tiny animals etched into the shaft.
Seized by sudden revelation, she stared at Mr. Snow. “You made this.”
He avoided her eyes.
Emily ran her fingers over the intricate carvings. “I need more like this.”
“How many more?”
“As many as you have. Money is no object.”
He narrowed his eyes, his jaw working as if in a silent argument. But her comment about money seemed to win out. He jerked his head. “Come with me.”
Ambling through the shop, he took her to the back room. Emily recognized woodworking tools in racks on the walls. And a tree stump with papery bark, some old railroad ties, even a piece of a telephone pole. Animal hides draped the ceiling. This was where the smell of leather came from.
She followed the old man around a wall of stacked crates and into a room filled with ancient-looking weaponry. Spears and lances stood upright in barrels. Hatchets and knives lay upon workbenches. Most were made of wood and stone, many decorated with tooled leather casings, and although they looked aged, they had the smell of new materials.
Emily stepped forward in amazement. Had Mr. Snow made all these things?
She approached one of the many tables, drawn to the three arrows lying there. They were creamy yellow, and the animal etchings on their sides were mottled brown. “Can these arrows be used?”
Obviously flustered, he motioned to a large kiln. “I bake them, you see. To dry them and add patina. If you want functional arrows, I will have to start from scratch.”
“Let me guess,” she said, picking one up. “You make these yourself and sell them to the public as artifacts.”
“I don’t tell them they are artifacts. I can’t help what they assume.”
“It’s the name of your shop,” she said. “What else would they think?”
He scowled at her.
“Fraud, isn’t it?” she said, setting the arrow down carefully. “You’ll have people standing in line to sue you. Maybe do a little jail time.”
“Perhaps. But if you go to the police to tell them of me, you will also have to explain why you want bone weaponry in working order.”
“Touché.”
Emily walked along the aisles, looking at his wares. The workmanship was beautiful. She picked up a knife. The blade was eight inches long and made of stone. The hilt curved in gentle scrolls, leaving indentations for the grasp of fingers.
“I don’t suppose you have anything like this in bone,” she said.
“Walrus tusk,” he said, rushing to a worktable and showing her a knife. “One of a kind. Quite pricey.”
“It’s a good thing you’re giving me such a nice discount.”