by Frank Hurt
“I’m going to plead that case to Wallace. It doesn’t mean there’s no longer danger. It might just be delaying the immediate threat.”
Alarik dragged his fingernail across the soapstone. In the dim illumination from the dash panel, tiny flecks of white shavings fell onto the floorboard. Evidence of the man’s peculiar habit accumulated like dandruff on the carpet. He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and pointed his soapstone at her accusingly. “You’re not telling me everything, are you.”
Ember raised her eyebrows. “Pardon me? I’ve told you way more than I should have. More than I was authorized to, certainly.”
“Maybe so. But you’re not telling me everything. I’ve been thinking about this, and it just doesn’t add up. Not completely.”
The Ford clung to the asphalt road as it plunged down into a valley, weaving sharply through rough, wooded buttes populated by cedar and juniper. Ember let the centrifugal force push her up against the passenger door. She studied her transparent reflection in the dark glass, saw the driver watching the road as he maneuvered.
“You’re right, Rik.” Ember sighed. “You deserve to know more. I can’t tell you everything though, not yet. I have theories, suspicions. Some of them are bloody dangerous theories, too.”
“You’re doing all this for Arnie though. For my brother.”
Ember flicked her tongue across her lip, tasted the salty, swollen wound she found there. “I am. But there’s more to this than that. More to the Deference Spells, the cover-up. I just don’t know what, exactly. And believe me when I say that for now, you’re better off not knowing all my theories.”
“But you think talking to Dominic Hershel will clear that up.”
“It might be one more piece to the puzzle, yeah. Or it might be just a wasted trip. Another wasted trip.”
“Let’s hope we don’t hit any birds this time around.” Alarik flashed a grin.
“That’s not funny, Rik.” Ember felt green as she thought of the bodies that rode in the pickup box behind them only a couple of hours ago. “I’ve never killed anyone before. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“I never had, either. Neither had Anna. But I would do it over again, without a doubt. I don’t feel any remorse whatsoever. Those assholes got exactly what they deserved.”
“I guess.” Ember nodded slowly. She thought of the lecherous way the spies spoke to her. How they said they had watched her change clothes in her apartment, what they intended on doing to her on the drive back to Minot. Did that mean they deserved to die though?
“To the east,” Alarik pointed to his left with the whittled soapstone. “That’s the turn for Mandaree. We’ll be crossing the Little Missouri up ahead, where Roy and Marv said they entered the fog.
Ember studied the rugged terrain with the benefit of moonlight. Atop the steep hills were flat rocks jutting out like balconies. The trees seemed to cluster on the north faces of the rough terrain, with the woods dwindling on the southern slopes. An oil drilling rig stood atop one such hill near the highway, its towering derrick brightly lit by glaring, white lights.
Exhaustion and hypnosis of the highway caught up to Ember soon after. She drifted off and slept through the rest of the journey. She awoke an hour and a half later to a bright sunrise. As she stretched in her seat, she yawned and looked over at Alarik. His face was exhausted, unblinking.
Her yawn was contagious, as he duplicated the action. “We’re past Regent. You missed the Enchanted Highway.
“The…what? Enchanted?”
He chuckled tiredly. “It’s a stretch of road with giant, steel sculptures done by a local welder from Regent. Fifty-foot-tall grasshoppers, a giant tin man and woman, stuff like that. I know Gary—well, I met him once. Describing his creations doesn’t do them justice. You’ll see on the way back.”
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yawned again. “You must be exhausted, Rik.”
“I’m gettin’ there.”
The address Ember found online for Dominic Hershel led them to a farmstead partway between the towns of Regent and Mott. Surrounded by fields of wheat in all directions, the farmyard was bordered with massive silver grain bins. The driveway and yard were coated with a layer of red-orange rock which Alarik called “scoria.” Parked between two steel pole buildings was a blue-and-white tandem axle grain truck with its hood up.
A man in denim bib overalls was bent over the hood of the truck. He stood straight when he heard the Super Duty roll down the drive.
Ember felt her excitement turn into anxiety as they stopped a few yards away. This man was older—probably approaching his 70s. “It isn’t him, Rik. Dominic Hershel is supposed to be in his mid-forties.”
Alarik took the Ford out of gear and turned the ignition key vertical. “We drove into the man’s yard. We’ve gotta at least talk to him.” He opened his door and left her in the pickup.
She opened the passenger door and grimaced as she stepped down from the tall vehicle. Her legs were sore, her hips hurt like mad, and her back was cramping up. Ember guessed this must be what 200-year-olds feel like. Maybe sitting in a vehicle for three-and-a-half hours after getting my butt kicked wasn’t such a great idea. Leave it to a massage therapist.
“Morning,” Alarik called out to the farmer.
“Good morning.” The man held a greasy rag and a ratchet wrench in his hands. His dark eyebrows were bushy over wary eyes, and his skin was wrinkled and tanned so heavily it might have been leather. He looked at the two visitors apprehensively. “What can I do for you?”
“I farm up in Mountrail County.” Alarik offered the snippet of biography as an icebreaker. His fingertips were powdered white from worrying his soapstone through the nighttime drive. They left a pale, dusty smudge on his stubble when he rubbed his jaw. “I don’t suppose you’re Dominic Hershel by any chance?”
The man leaned back and frowned. Somehow, his eyebrows became even bushier. “No, I’m Fred. Dominic doesn’t live here.”
Ember felt her weary muscles deflate. All this way, for nothing.
“Nick’s my son.” Fred pointed with the chrome wrench in the direction of the rising sun. “If you need to talk to him, he and his wife Kat live that way, just down the road.”
33
Watch Out for the Lava
“Did I just hear him correctly? Did he say that Nick Hershel’s wife is named Kat?” Alarik waved at the elder Hershel before departing the farmyard.
“Short for Katrina. Could we be so lucky?” Ember was as surprised as Alarik. “We are overdue for a lucky break, yeah?”
They drove down the scoria road in the direction Fred pointed them. Nick and Kat Hershel lived in a modular home with Masonite siding painted a cheerful mint green. A camper was parked on the cement slab next to an attached double garage. Theirs wasn’t a farmstead so much as a cozy rural property, with copses of young trees staked out around a yard built for a family. A swing set, sandbox, and playhouse with scalloped-cut shutters were surrounded by myriad plastic toys.
A younger version of Fred Hershel was seated on the front deck, soaking in the morning sun. His grey-stockinged feet were resting on the deck railing, and a white ceramic mug was cradled in his hand. He balanced the coffee cup on the railing when he stood to greet the strangers.
“Morning. It’s a little early for a sales call, isn’t it?” The man’s voice was gruff, with a hint of antagonism below the surface. He spoke like someone who was used to solicitors pitching him, and equally accustomed to sending salesmen on their way, disappointed.
Ember’s feet crunched over scoria that hadn’t yet settled and compacted. She approached the deck with Alarik and studied the man. She knew it was Dominic as soon as she saw him: the dark hair, the faint, curved scar on his right cheek. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Alarik. More noticeable still was the fact that this man—this NonDruw man—had a shadow blanketing him. Why else would a regular human have a Deference Spell on him unless he knew something he wasn’t supp
osed to know?
“Hi, Nick. I’m Ember Wright, and this is Rik Schmitt. We’re not selling you anything. We’re here hoping you might be able to help us, actually.”
Nick frowned slightly. “Help you? With what?”
“We’ve got friends who were affected by the Mandaree Incident from 2001. It’s my understanding that you were there. That you were in that fog, too.”
“I was.” He sounded uncertain even as he admitted she was right. “Not many people know about that. I don’t know how much I can help you though. Kat and I don’t really talk about that, and we don’t remember much about what happened. We were in a coma, brought on by the toxic gas that we breathed in. We’re lucky to be alive.”
“Kat. That wouldn’t happen to be Katrina Berg, would it?” Ember quirked a smile.
“It was, sure. Until we got married. How did you know that? How did you get our names, anyway?” The man was tense. Though Ember was the one asking questions, he kept a wary eye on Alarik.
“We’ve been doing research, trying to help our friends figure out what happened to them when they were in the…coma, as you say. Your names came up.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, we don’t remember much that happened. Sorry.”
She saw Alarik glance at her, then to Nick. “I’m sorry to be a pain, but we just drove through the night from east of New Town. I wasn’t bright enough to stop for coffee along the way, and it’s a long drive back. Could I steal a cup of coffee from you?”
Nick hesitated as he considered the request. Finally, he nodded. “Sure, I suppose so. Come on in. Shoes off outside.” He turned and slid a glass patio door along its track, revealing the kitchen inside.
Alarik and Ember followed, kicking their shoes off. As Ember unlaced her boots, she noticed a splatter of blood on the toe. She took care to tip the boot onto its side, hiding the speck.
An attractive blonde woman with deep blue eyes was at the kitchen stove, using a silicone spatula to melt butter in a cast iron skillet. She was roughly the same age as Ember but taller and slightly heavier. She, too, had the shadow of a Deference Spell cast over her.
Two girls, maybe seven and eight years old, were seated at the table. They were chasing the last pieces of floating cereal around their bowls with a spoon. The children had their mother’s hair and fair skin, but their father’s dark eyes.
“Kat, we’ve got company. This is Rik and Ember, from up north. They drove down to ask us about the Mandaree Incident.” Nick took down two clean ceramic mugs from the cupboard and poured piping hot coffee into them from an insulated carafe. He slid the steaming mugs across the table, to two open chairs.
“Kids, why don’t you run outside and play while the grownups visit?” Nick ruffled the girls’ hair, causing them to squirm and giggle.
“Drink your milk first,” Katrina ordered.
The command was obeyed without argument. The girls hopped down from the chairs that were too big for them, then carried their empty bowls to the sink. The older one said, “Lucy, let’s see if the mud pies are done yet.” Two pairs of bare feet ran out onto the deck and down the steps.
The younger one hopped from the last step, over the rough scoria and landed on the plush lawn. “Watch out for the lava, Bonnie!”
Katrina slid the patio door shut. “I was just getting ready to make us breakfast. Would you care to join us?”
Ember’s stomach grumbled. She ignored it. “Oh no, we couldn’t—”
“It’s nothing fancy,” Katrina began cracking eggs into a steel mixing bowl. “Just an omelet with chopped ham, onions, and cheese.”
Alarik swallowed and raised his eyebrows as he looked longingly. His coyote subform licked its lips in anticipation.
Ember hugged her hands around the warm coffee mug. “That’s so nice of you. Yes, thank you.”
“I was just telling them that we don’t remember much from the toxic cloud.” Nick poured the last of the coffee into a pink mug on the countertop next to his wife. He filled the carafe with water from the sink and prepared another pot.
“Nothing at all?” Alarik asked.
“Wish we could help you, but that was almost a decade ago.” Katrina whisked the eggs as she held the bowl. “I don’t remember much about it. We’re just glad we survived.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you two meet?” Ember poured a spoonful of sugar into her coffee, stirring it slowly so the metal would not clink against the walls of the mug.
“We worked together in the oilfield as mudloggers—wellsite geologists.” Nick measured grounds into the filter basket of the coffee maker. “We worked and lived on active drilling rigs, evaluating formations as the wells were drilled. In fact, we met on that drilling rig, right before the mishap that caused the gas leak. Good ol’ Ensign 77.”
Alarik said, “Ensign 77? I think I’ve worked on that one.”
“You’re a roughneck?”
“No, a welder. My brother and I own Schmitt Brothers Welding, up in Plaza. We’ve won a few bids for Ensign Drilling.”
“You’ll have to give me your card,” Nick said as he flipped the coffee maker on. “I’m a consultant now, and you don’t know how hard it is to find reliable welders right now. Or maybe you do know.”
Alarik produced a business card from his wallet and handed it to Nick. “I do. This boom is really building steam. I wish I could clone myself.”
As the men talked shop, Katrina poured the contents of the mixing bowl into the hot skillet. She began chopping mushrooms on a cutting board, with an onion and a slab of Cloverdale teardrop ham waiting for their turns on the counter.
Ember studied the woman’s back and the shadowy Deference Spell that blanketed her. Why a Deference Spell on these people? A Memory Wash would have been more effective, easier to implement. Only an Investigator could cast such a spell, but Higginbotham has Investigators under his influence. Does an Investigator need free will to induce a Memory Wash?
The Malvern woman looked inward, tapping her store of mana. Ember’s reserves were still far too low to cast the temporary counter-spell she had used to extract information from Duncan. Even if she had the power to do so, she wasn’t sure it would be worth the cost, not for answers to just one question.
Katrina laughed at something Nick said. Ember didn’t hear what the others were saying. She sipped her sweetened coffee and thought about the elaborate counter-spell movements that Barnaby taught her. She visualized going through those poses now, as if she were standing in the kitchen next to the other woman, rather than sitting at the table watching her.
A strange thing happened when Ember saw through her mind’s eye. As she got to the midway point of the movement, her fingertips began to tingle, just as they did when she had physically cast the counter-spell in Duncan Heywood’s garage. Though her hands were both wrapped around the coffee mug on the table, she felt the Deference Spell around Katrina react. Ember could see a heavy, tar paper tent surrounding the woman as she stood at the stove.
Ember continued visualizing the remainder of the counter-spell. She was at the end point, where she would plunge her fingers into the tent, forcing a flap to form, within which she would reveal the host trapped within. She hesitated.
Her fingertips continued tingling. Ember was breathing normally, though she willed the imagined version of herself to continue holding her breath. She touched the Deference Spell’s tent, and it felt real. It was stiff but pliable, like canvas. Her fingers gently ran along the side of the material, feeling its smooth surface. At one spot, she felt a tiny bump. Barely perceptible, it felt like a deformation in the Deference Spell—a knot in the canvas.
Using her fingernails, Ember imagined plucking at the bump, teasing it until a thread came loose. It was such a little thing, this single thread, but she pinched it between her fingers and began drawing it away from the tent. The thread became a string, and it grew. She willed the dark string loose, pulling it steadily as the material forming the tent fell away.
; Katrina began humming a happy tune as the Deference Spell came apart and evaporated into the air. Ember imagined stepping backward through the counter-spell. She gasped aloud.
Everyone stopped talking and looked at Ember.
“Sorry, the coffee’s just hot.” Ember shrugged. She looked at Katrina to find her aura clean and unblemished. The Deference Spell was completely removed.
Ember wanted to jump up and down, wanted to dance on the table right then, shouting “I did it! I removed a Deference Spell! Not just temporarily, but completely!” Instead, she cleared her throat and imagined giving herself a fist bump.
She repeated the movements on Nick. Instead of forcing the mana to her will, she was able to gently guide and redirect the energy, even while seated. The man didn’t freeze at any point, didn’t even seem aware that anything was happening to him. None of them were.
When the dark tent fell away around Nick’s aura, his smile became brighter, his expressions more vibrant. He set the table with four plates and forks, but not before giving his wife a kiss on the cheek. “Love you, Honey.”
Katrina was all but glowing. Her disposition wasn’t unpleasant with the Deference Spell in place, but with it gone she was appreciably happier. The woman purposely bumped her hip against her husband’s thigh and continued humming a song nobody else knew.
Alarik watched the exchange, then looked away, self-conscious to be observing such a tender moment among strangers. He suddenly found interest in the crayon drawings pinned with magnets to the refrigerator door.
Ember closed her eyes and smiled. The sugar-laced coffee certainly helped perk her up, but the real rush was in doing what she technically should not have been able to do. She expended so little mana in lifting the Deference Spell, too. She felt refreshed, ready to take on the world. Or at least those in the world who stand in my way.
Katrina’s omelet smelled and tasted like it was made in heaven. The melted cheddar held together diced onions, mushrooms, and ham within the scrambled farm-fresh eggs, toasted to buttery perfection on the skillet. Today’s secret ingredient is victory.