Wendigo Rising: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Three) (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 3)

by James Hunter

  “Assuming he’s in on it,” Ferraro said, pulling her door closed behind her.

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course he’s in on it.” I held the stone up between us, weaving a small flow of spirit into the orb. It glimmered for a moment, then issued a soft, pearly glow, which trickled through the cab like a night-light.

  “What the fuck have you dragged me into?” the sheriff asked, his voice a sharp whisper before falling quiet, only to be replaced by the indistinct buzz of someone gabbing at him through a phone. Unfortunately, I couldn’t pick up the words from the other end of the line since they were faint and partially concealed by the whine and squeal of feedback.

  “Why am I asking?” the sheriff whispered after a moment. “I’m asking because I’ve got an FBI agent snooping around and—you’re not going to believe this—a mage from the Guild.”

  Another pause.

  “Yeah, well I didn’t sign up for this,” Sheriff Kelly replied. “You’re not paying me enough to cross guns with the FBI or the Guild. You said this’d be easy money. No complications—your words. And now my career could be on the line. I could lose everything. And my guys are starting to get antsy—they’ve seen things, Doc. If you expect us to send along any more bodies for you to experiment on or extra protection from my end, I’m gonna need more money to spread around. A lot more money. Triple the agreed upon price.”

  “What do you mean?” Sheriff Kelly asked to some unheard question. “No, no, I’m still in—no need to take this higher …” He paused again, a long hold. “Shit. Fine. Fine, but they’re on to you and they know about Fast Hands and Bradford—”

  A long, tense lull in the conversation, interrupted only by a few bouts of static.

  “Oh shit. Oh no. Bradford’s dead? This can’t be happening. Shit, shit, shit.” His breathing was heavy, panicked. I could envision him yanking on his mustache as he swore. “This guy from the Guild will kill me if he finds out about this. You understand that, right? That’s what the Guild does to people who pull this kinda thing …” Another pause. “You think I don’t know it’s too late to turn back now? Dammit, I never shoulda listened to you,” he muttered. “You’d better get your ducks in a row over there,” he said more loudly, “because they’re comin’ for you …”

  Silence, static.

  “What? Are you outta your mind? No, I can’t swing by—I’m gonna stay as far away as I can manage, y’hear? If this Fed and this Fixer guy are worth their salt at all, they’ll probably sit outside this building, waiting for me to make a move …”

  “Yeah, okay,” the sheriff finally said. “I suppose I can send over Wisner and Stutzman, but you’d better get this ironed out.” He slammed the phone down into the receiver with a thunk.

  There was the shuffle and rustle of feet moving across the floor, followed by the creak of a door opening. “Get me Wisner and Stutzman in here right now!” he bellowed, then slammed the door with some real heat. The connection faded and fizzled, the light from the orb sputtering and dying as the construct in his office lost its giddyup.

  I slipped the orb back into my pocket and swiveled in my seat, smirking at Ferraro as I arched an eyebrow—smugness radiated off me in palpable waves.

  Ferraro scowled, her lips pulling down at the corners as she crossed her arms across her chest. “Don’t look at me that way,” she said. “You got lucky—you could’ve blown our only solid trail.”

  I barked a short laugh. “Clues and plans are great, but always follow the facial hair.” I pointed toward the building as two young officers—one slim, tall, and Native American, the other squat, broad, and white—hurried off toward a cruiser parked in the front lot. They started the engine and drove away, slowly and leisurely, so as not to draw notice. “Wisner and Stutzman?” I asked.

  Ferraro growled something inarticulate and feral, then pulled out onto the street, flipping a hard U-turn to get us moving in the right direction, before dropping back, ensuring we could track the cruiser without getting made.

  TWELVE:

  The Ol’ Mill

  “You didn’t look surprised when the sheriff mentioned Sullivan,” Ferraro said as we ghosted behind the cruiser, which had turned onto the US-93 South, bound for Lolo. “So, I’m inclined to think you knew something and didn’t bother to share it with me.” She fell quiet, letting the statement sit between us like an unruly third wheel.

  After a few minutes I sighed, reached back into my duffel bag, and pulled out the picture of James and the good doctor. I unfolded it and held it out where she could get a good look, even driving. She glanced down, studying the photo for a flash before returning her gaze to the road.

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” she asked, disappointed, like a grade school teacher who’d discovered her star pupil cheating on a test.

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t understand. I know what it looks like: there’s a traitor somewhere high up in the Guild, who has some serious mojo and access to the Guild vault. You already said it, James fits the bill to a tee. Now, with this photo and the statement from the sheriff? Everything points to James. But I know him. I’ve known him for years. I’d trust him with my life, and this”—I slapped the glossy picture with the back of my hand—“well, I know he wouldn’t do something like this.”

  She nodded slowly, pressing her lips together. “I can understand why you might feel that way, Yancy. But here’s the thing, betrayal is awful because you never see it coming. When someone betrays you, it’s always the person you think would never be capable of it. That’s why you need to follow the evidence. People lie, but evidence doesn’t.”

  “Except sometimes the evidence does lie,” I said, absently running one hand along my pant leg. “I mean, this shit is too perfect, if you catch my meaning.”

  “In the law enforcement field, that’s what we call a slam dunk,” she said. “If there’s an abundance of evidence all pointing at the same suspect, then that person is likely guilty.”

  “Or,” I said, cutting in, “it could be a frame job. I’ve been on the wrong end of a frame job, so I know what it’s like to take the rap for something you didn’t do. Besides, it’s not like a picture—or even an eyewitness—means jack shit in our circles. Lots of things can appear to be someone. A talented mage using an illusion could do this. Or a doppelganger, specter, or even a minor demon lord. This”—I slapped the picture again, as though I might be able to beat a confession out of it—“is only circumstantial evidence at best.”

  “I’m not saying James is guilty,” she replied. “But the evidence does strongly point that way, and we can’t afford to ignore it.” She paused for a beat. “And, if it is a frame job—though it might not be, and we should prepare for that possibility—we still need to run it down. I’ve found that frame jobs can often reveal a great deal about who the real culprit is.”

  The red taillight of the cruiser flared in front of us, and the car disappeared as it pulled onto a forest access road. We slowed, crawling past the turn off, giving it a careful look.

  A narrow gravel strip path, jutting off from the highway proper and descending into the pines.

  “Let’s find a place to stow the car,” I said, watching the access road, though there wasn’t anything to see.

  “We don’t know how far back they’re headed,” Ferraro replied, pulling the vehicle to a stop and thumbing on the hazards. “We might never catch them if we try to go in on foot.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I unfastened my seat belt and turned in my seat, rummaging around my gym bag once more. “I’ve got an off-road ride for us. We’ll find these dirty douches no matter how far they go.” My hand wrapped around the quartz stone Winona had given me and pulled it free with a tug.

  Ferraro eyed the stone with an equal degree of scorn and suspicion. “Great, more rocks,” she said with all the enthusiasm of a dental patient awaiting a root canal. “And what does this one do—let us listen to their car tires?” she asked, then paused and shook her head. “You know w
hat, forget I even asked.”

  I opened myself to the Vis, held the stone up to my ear, and wove a faint stream of will and spirit into the crystal. For a second nothing happened, but then Winona’s voice exploded in my head:

  You have found something? she asked without preamble.

  Yeah, I thought back. I’ve got a couple of dirty cops headed out to some undisclosed location off the US-93. Pretty sure they’re headed to home base. Can you find me?

  Yes. The voice inside my head paused. You need only think of your surroundings, draw a picture of it in your mind. The curve of the road. The lay of the trees. The crest of the hills. I will find you.

  Just you? No word from Kong yet?

  Kong? she sent, confusion running through the thought like a strong breeze.

  I sent the best image of her father I could manage—the normal version, of course, not the big red death-dealing version.

  Oh, she sent. He is resting. Recovering. We will speak of him later. Show me where you are.

  “Can we hurry this along?” Ferraro whispered in my ear, her frustration evident and understandable since, from her perspective, I just sitting with a friggin’ rock next to my ear like an absolute moron while the bad guys got further and further away. She couldn’t know I was actually having a telepathic conversation with a Bigfoot. Heck, that sounded so friggin’ ridiculous I’m not even sure telling her would’ve made any difference.

  “Shhh,” I hissed back, focusing. I surveyed the landscape, visualizing the highway stretching on for another thirty feet before gradually winding left and disappearing into the Montana wilderness. I pictured the access road, the brown gravel, the rutted dip from truck tires, a massive and jagged boulder protruding just to the right of the turnoff. I sent Winona an image of the tree line, mostly tall ponderosa pines, interspersed with some firs and a few junipers.

  Winona’s mental fingers pried into my senses, a disconcerting and uncomfortable sensation akin to having someone crawl into your pants while you are still wearing ’em. Suddenly my nose was picking up the crisp smell of a slow blowing breeze and the musty scent of deep earth and gravel.

  This road leads to an old lumber mill, long abandoned. This is where the prisoners go? she asked.

  How’s about you hightail it over here and we’ll go find out together.

  It will not be long, she sent, the connection fading then snapping shut.

  I pulled the crystal away from my ear and tossed it back into the black duffle. “Alright,” I said, turning toward Ferraro. “Lady Bigfoot will be here soon, so let’s get geared up to kick ass, take names, and then politely set those names on fire with a blowtorch.”

  “Lady Bigfoot,” Ferraro mumbled under her breath. “The company you keep baffles me.” She hopped out of the car and moved toward the trunk, which clicked open a moment later.

  I followed suit, grabbing my gym bag out from the back, then sliding out of the car so I could get some fresh mountain air. And by “get some fresh mountain air,” I actually meant air coated in rich, delicious nicotine—Ferraro refused to let me smoke in the car, and I needed a friggin’ cigarette.

  I pulled a half-crumpled pack of Reds out of my pants pocket, shook a smoke free, and lit ’er up with a small blaze of Vis-conjured flame. Smoke and warmth filled me up, instantaneously loosening the tightness in my shoulders and chest and slowing my heart. I took a few content puffs, pushed the packet back into my pocket, and set about gearing up. I already had my pistol and K-Bar, but a few extras wouldn’t go amiss.

  First, I slid on a pair of fingerless biker gloves, which I’d augmented with a few nasty extras: steel plating affixed into place over the finger padding and short silver studs protruding from the knuckles. In the past, I used ’em to beat the holy-living-shit out of fairies and shapeshifting asswads, but I’d since upgraded them. A couple of complex sigils worked into the leather and imbued with Vis had turned these puppies into a pair of portable Tasers—weave a little spirit into the sigils, the circuit would snap closed, and the silver spikes would turn into friggin’ cattle prods.

  I added a can of OC spray to my belt, opposite my K-Bar. Then, because I love to play things safe, I tucked a sleek, subcompact Glock 26—affectionately called a Baby Glock, ’cause it’s just so cutesy-wutesy—into a leather holster in the small of my back. Having an extra ten rounds at my disposal could be the difference between having a mouthful of ribs in my future and having a mouthful of graveyard dirt. I also tossed a couple of speedloaders for my revolver into my jacket pocket.

  I felt like Batman, complete with my own kickass utility belt. If I could only get sound effect words to appear when I punched bad guys in the teeth, I’d have it made.

  I tucked my duffle back into the cab just as Ferraro came around the side of the vehicle wearing clear ballistic shooting glasses and decked out in a black flak jacket, complete with mag pouches, flashbangs, and a med kit. She had her Glock on one hip, a steel collapsible baton on the other, and a sleek military-grade M-4—with an uber-sick broomstick handle and rail-mounted light system—dangling from a three-point sling. I gotta admit, I felt a little self-conscious. Honestly, she looked like a way bigger threat than me, even at my most menacing.

  “Glad I’m working with a real professional,” she said, eyeing my coat, my travel-worn jeans, and the cigarette hanging from my lips. “I have to wonder whether you’re always so on the ball or if this is only to show a rookie like me how things are done.”

  “Mock all you want,” I said, pulling another long, sweet drag from my smoke, “but I’d wager you my next year’s casino winnings—which, believe you me, is nothing to scoff at—that you’ll change your tune when you see me lay into these shitheels with my toys.” I gave her a lopsided grin and blew a plume of gray smoke out through my nose.

  But she wasn’t smiling at my dig. In fact, her eyes had grown about two sizes too big, and her rifle was slowly, yet quite deliberately, moving up into her shoulder pocket. It was the way you might move if you happened upon a giant, pissed off grizzly with paws bigger than your head, which told me our guest had arrived.

  “Ease up,” I said, swiveling to the rear. Winona lurked just inside the tree line on the opposite side of the road, a hulking mountain of muscle and hair, effortlessly blending with the forest around her. “Winona, it’s cool. This”—I patted Ferraro’s shoulder—“is Special Agent Nicole Ferraro. She’s with the FBI, but she’s clued in. She’s gonna be riding shotgun with us on this one.”

  Winona nodded her shaggy head, then blurred across the road, appearing before us in a heartbeat.

  Worry oozed off Ferraro like perspiration after a hard-hitting workout. This was probably the first time Ferraro had witnessed any overt supernatural wackiness since our last mission together, not counting the few workings I’d performed. In this game, even a few months away from the crazy could leave your average vanilla mortal questioning their sanity. A few months was more than enough time for your mind to concoct all sorts of elaborate lies, lies capable of explaining away the uncomfortable truth of the preternatural.

  But when a giant ape-creature appears within spitting distance, all that shit comes crashing down like an avalanche of madness. Confirmation of the crazy. Confirmation that all those walking nightmares haunting your thoughts were as real as it came.

  Ferraro pushed out a deep breath with a soft sigh and let her weapon hang on its sling once more. “I’m Ferraro,” she said, voice even and level. She was one cool-headed cat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended a hand, which hardly quivered at all.

  Winona considered the proffered limb gravely for a moment, then abruptly broke into a huge, slightly terrifying, smile. She grabbed Ferraro’s hand and pumped with enough energetic force that Ferraro’s whole upper body shook.

  “I am Winona Treesinger, daughter of Chief Chankoowashtay. It has been many long years since our kind has worked openly with the little brothers and sisters. It is a good omen.”

  “Hey, wait jus
t a cow-farting-second,” I interjected. “Let me get this straight, with her it’s all handshakes, hugs, and good omens? You’re yanking my friggin’ chain, right?” I turned to Ferraro. “When I met She-Kong and her pops, it was physical assault, property damage, and blackmail. What the hell?”

  Ferraro shifted her cool, level gaze to me. “Obviously they’re good judges of character.”

  I threw my hands up in frustration and pitched my cigarette, incinerating the butt in a flash of heat and a puff of smoke, which left gray ash behind. “Fine,” I said. “Whatever. Let’s just get this show on the road, already.” I paused, looking at Winona. “Can you carry us into the mill and veil us both?”

  The Bigfoot considered the request for a beat, like maybe she was running through some sort of Sasquatch shorthand in her head, before finally nodding.

  “She’s our off-road vehicle?” Ferraro asked, trying very hard not to sound insulting or incredulous.

  “Yep.” I cocked an eyebrow. “Hope you like piggyback rides.”

  Winona moved quickly, scooping one of us up in either arm like an overworked mother toting around a pair of unruly, weapon-wielding toddlers. A surge of power enveloped us, a purple field of energy bleeding out from the Bigfoot, encompassing our party in a second-skin of near invisibility. And then we were moving.

  We flew through the woods, Winona’s steps as sure and steady as if she’d run this same path every day for a thousand years: her feet naturally avoiding every pitfall, every loose rock, every protruding root. Now that I was doing this in full daylight, I got the sense that the forest was making way for her. As if the trees were pulling back to clear a path, like troops scattering at the passage of a general.

  It took us less than twenty minutes to cut our way through the dense vegetation—and never mind that we didn’t even take the road. We found ourselves on a steep slope on the forest’s edge, overlooking a giant mill. A real mutt of a building.