by Laura Bickle
Maybe Gabe had gone out for ice or something. She clicked on the television with the remote and surfed to the weather report. A major winter storm was predicted for later today, but it was expected to slide south of them. That could be good, or that could be bad. Good, in that perhaps the cops would be out doing other things, or hunkered down to wait out the storm. It could be bad in that it would make what she wanted to do more difficult.
The hotel door opened, and Gabe came in with two cups of coffee and a paper bag. “Good morning.”
“Good morning yourself.”
“I brought breakfast.” He handed Petra the bag, smiling. “It’s not wedding cake or Froot Loops, but man cannot live on spirit food alone.”
“Thanks.” She grinned and reached into the bag for a muffin. So it hadn’t been a dream. There was also a handful of bacon wrapped in napkins, which immediately got Sig’s attention. Gabe sat down on the bed beside her and kissed her shoulder while she fed Sig bacon.
“You’re probably not going to like what I want to do for a honeymoon,” she said.
“Probably not,” he agreed, draining his coffee. “And it’ll be less glamorous than the Dolomites. But I think I know what you have in mind. You want to hunt down Skinflint Jack.”
“Bingo.” Petra nibbled on her chocolate muffin. “After what he did to that wolf, after what he did to Mike . . .”
“And that’s why I love you,” he said matter-of-factly.
She leaned forward to kiss him. “But we need a plan. We can’t just go plunging into the backcountry after it.”
“That would be inadvisable, under any conditions.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking . . . we can’t track the Nine Stars pack with Mike’s radio tracker. I don’t have access to that. But I do have the Venificus Locus.”
“That’s a good start. We might be able to find Skinflint Jack, but what then?”
“I was hoping that you might have some thoughts on that.”
Gabe stared into space, as if sifting through memory. “I never confronted Skinflint Jack myself. But there must be some way to bind him, to keep him from causing harm.”
“Would my father know?”
“Maybe. I don’t know how far his alchemical adventures led him.”
Petra reached for the hotel phone and punched the code for an outside line.
“Why not use your cell phone?” he asked.
“I took the battery out. I don’t want Sheriff Owen to be able to track me via GPS. Just in case he’s snooping around.”
“Ah.”
She dialed the number for the Phoenix Village Nursing Home and asked for her father’s room. The receptionist patched her through, and her father picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dad. Thanks for the wedding present.”
The old man chuckled. “So you followed instructions.”
“Heh. Gabe did.”
“Good man.”
“The Froot Loops were a nice touch.”
“Glad those came through. What are you kids up to today?”
“Um . . . something less alluring than the Dolomites. Are you alone?”
“I’m anticipating a sponge bath with a highly attractive aide in about an hour, but other than that, my schedule is clear.”
Petra rubbed her eyes, not wanting to picture that. “I’ve got some questions for you. About alchemy.”
She heard the sound of his wheelchair wheels squeaking across the floor and the door closing. “Hit me.”
She sketched out the parameters of the legend of Skinflint Jack to him and punched the speakerphone button so that Gabe could listen in. “Apparently, Skinflint Jack is still chasing wolves, and managed to fuck up one of my friends last night. I’d like to figure out a way to neutralize him. My husband suggests a binding.” Man, that felt weird to say. My husband . . .
Gabe smirked and she elbowed him.
“Hmm. Well, I think he’s on the right track.” There was a rustling of paper. “The winter solstice is in three days. That’s a good window for working magic of all kinds. Jack was last seen close to Sepulcher Mountain.”
“Lascaris used to work there,” Gabe offered.
“I think you might stand a good chance of disassembling him on that date, in that place, with a separation operation. You’ll have to lure him or drag him there. Gabe, you’re familiar with that?”
Gabe nodded. “I’ve never done it, but I’ve seen it performed a couple of times.”
“Good. I can sketch it out for you, if you’d like. You’ll need tools—you’ll need something that belonged to Skinflint Jack in his life, and something to lure him across to death.”
Petra glanced at Gabe. “I think I have an idea where I might be able to find some relics of Jack’s past. Or at the very least, something to lure him with.”
Stan’s Dungeon was the cultural hub of Temperance, the repository for all its accumulated history. Most pawnshops were keepers of personal scraps of often-sordid history: musical instruments and guns pawned to fund drug habits, unwanted jewelry from ex-boyfriends, and military surplus sold to make the mortgage. But Stan’s Dungeon was special. It was run by the county historian, and he kept particular track of every scrap of minutiae that crossed his desk. Some of that minutiae had historical significance. Stan had plenty of storage space in a paid-for building, and he didn’t particularly care about stock turnover.
The bell tangled in the door handle chimed as Petra entered, wiping her feet on the threadbare doormat. She was relieved that the shop was open; Stan kept erratic hours in this erratic place.
The merchandise was constantly changing. This winter, Stan had stocked up on a metric fuck ton of military surplus: coats, gloves, boots, ammo boxes, you name it—he had it jammed into the racks on the floor and the shelves lining the walls. He must have gotten a good deal at a federal auction, somewhere. Above the shelves perched old photographs of the town’s founders, a dusty kayak, and a few guitars with signatures rendered in felt-tip marker. A mechanical bull with worn paint sat in the corner. The whole place smelled of dust and a little bit of mildew.
“Good morning, Ms. Dee.” Stan was behind the gun counter, chirping cheerily.
“Hey, Stan. That’s new.” She gestured to a Civil War era cannon in the middle of the floor. “Does it work?”
“Fired a few cantaloupes from it over the summer. That’s gonna take forever and a day to move. I’m hoping a military reenactor with a trailer happens by. I’ll cut him a deal.”
Petra sifted through the racks. She picked out a couple pairs of gloves, socks, and warm gear for herself and Gabe. She was pretty darn sure that the sheriff was staking out her trailer, and she had no intention of returning there before going on the hunt for Skinflint Jack. If it wasn’t in her truck parked in the alley, it wasn’t going with them.
She gave Stan the side-eye. He wasn’t a trustworthy sort, like most chatty people. She had no other options—he was the only gun dealer in town. But she had every expectation that he’d dial the sheriff to gossip about her as soon as she left, given that the sheriff was knocking about town, looking to talk to her. But she at least wanted a running start. She chucked a few boxes of ammo, a pop-up tent, a couple of sleeping bags, and a thermos on the pile.
“You going camping?” he asked.
“Storm’s coming in,” she said. “They say it’s going south, but I want to be prepared in case the power goes out.” It was a lame lie, but it was all she had.
“I get that. Last year we had a storm that closed the shop for three weeks. Took forever to dig out. Of course, that was nothing like the winter of ’eighty-six . . .”
Petra let Stan natter on while she browsed. She did some poking around the guns—she and Gabe had three pistols and a rifle between them, and she thought that would be enough. Buying another would likely trip the sheriff’s wire.
She peered down into the coin case and pointed at the shiny pieces below. “Are those gold?”
“Yup. Been se
lling a lot of them, since the stock market sucks so bad.” Stan pulled out a velvet tray and showed her some of the shiniest coins. “These are American Eagle tenth-ounce coins. Those are the newest, and the best buy for gold investment. For hard-core coin collectors, I have some older bits, some going back to Rome . . .” he reached down to finger some coins in plastic sleeves. Petra glimpsed the many-thousand-dollar price tags on those and wrinkled her nose.
“How much are the Eagles?”
“The tenth-ounce coins? Two hundred apiece.”
“How many do you have?”
“Let’s see . . .” He counted aloud. “Thirteen.”
“Okay. I like the looks of those. Give me all of them.”
“Excellent. I’ve got some coin cases around here . . .” He rummaged under the counter for plastic cases that snapped around the coins.
She paused before the jewelry case, full of turquoise, sterling silver, and engagement rings. It occurred to her that she and Gabe didn’t have rings. Huh.
She wasn’t given to sentimentality or symbolism, but it occurred to her that she might have to make it look like a real marriage. There were engagement rings with giant rocks and stylized bands that looked like twigs and feathers. Pretty, but . . . Petra was afraid those might remind Gabe too much of his time with the Hanged Men and the Lunaria. She poked through the case and came across a pair of plain gold bands. They were clearly old, not new, with the kind of dark patina that old gold had about it. The rings were hammered, not entirely smooth, and there was something appealing to her about their imperfection.
“Can I see those?”
“Sure thing. You planning on getting hitched or adding to your dragon’s horde of gold?”
“Nah. Just looking for a fashion statement.”
“Those are interesting rings. Back in the day, people would make their own rings out of coins, pounding away at them over time.”
“So these were gold coins in a previous life?”
“Yup. Folks had a lot more patience then. Those were probably 1850 gold Liberty double eagle coins.”
Stan opened the case and fished the rings out. She put the smaller one on her right hand, and it fit well enough. Upon inspecting it, she saw that it was engraved on the inside with a row of thirteen stars, a groove, and united states of america. She guessed it was left over from the rim of the coin. The date was blurry with tool marks, but it began with an 18. The man’s ring had the same engraving inside, and it slid over her index finger. She had no idea what size ring Gabe wore, but she figured that it could be sized.
“How much?”
“A thousand.”
“Nah. They’re beat up. Eight hundred.”
“Nine hundred. They’re old. They have history.”
“I’ll take them.”
Stan went poking about under the counter for a jewelry box, but Petra said she’d wear them home.
“By the way, Stan,” she said, gazing at his collection of antique photos. “I heard an interesting story the other day, and wondered if you could shed some light on it.”
“Oh?” The man’s ears perked up at the mention of the word “story.”
“That there was a guy who had it out for wolves, back in the day. Skinflint Jack, also known as the Jack of Harts.”
“Ah!” Stan’s eyes lit up. “You stumbled upon one of Yellowstone’s strangest ghost stories.” He held up a finger. “I have something to show you.”
Petra leaned against the counter while he scurried off to the back to dig among the boxes. To make sure he wasn’t calling the cops to tip them off, she picked up the receiver of the red emergency phone on the counter. She heard a dial tone. So far, so good. She put it back on the cradle and waited.
Stan came scurrying back with a cardboard banker’s box that he plunked down on the glass counter. Inside, he fished out a dusty black flat archival box. “Skinflint Jack was a trapper whose family was killed by wolves. He went completely around the bend, and made it his mission to eradicate wolves from the area that became Yellowstone Park. He’s still something of a hero among ranchers who aren’t fond of wolves taking down their cattle. This is Jack.”
Stan slid a tintype photograph frame across the glass to her. It showed a man covered in furs, holding up a set of stag horns. A pile of bones was behind him. Petra recognized moose antlers, bear skulls, and elk skulls. He was tall and thin, with a thousand-yard stare above his dark moustache. A fur hat covered his head, and his left hand held a rifle, the butt of it balanced against the floor.
“Wow.”
“Yeah. That whole coat was beaver. And the boots, too. Amazingly water-repellent, that stuff, when it was available.” Stan rummaged around in the box. “Here’s a newspaper clipping.”
Petra gingerly took the framed piece of brittle paper. The headline read:
FAMILY FOUND DEAD
March 5, 1881
An unfortunate family was killed in their cabin by wolves, a mile south of Fawn Creek. Trapper Jacob Raleigh returned home after a trapping expedition to make the grisly discovery of his wife and two sons, dead. Every bit of bone had been torn from the bodies of Mrs. Catherine Raleigh and the two boys, Samuel and Ezra. Only the empty, frozen skins were left behind.
Petra’s brows drew together. “That’s a pretty grisly description for a newspaper.”
“Different sensibilities, back then. Sensationalism ruled the papers.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Skinflint Jack had a cabin in the backwoods somewhere. Nobody’s been able to figure out exactly where it was, but there’s been speculation that he might have occupied one of the ones near Panther Creek. Legend says he still haunts the area.”
“I heard about the pond that he haunts . . . that he’s in the business of granting wishes?”
“There’s plenty weird enough about that pond. There was an old woman who used to go out there every winter to dump a bag of rock salt in a circle around the perimeter of the pond. I saw her do it one year and asked her about it. She said the pond was a portal to an angry spirit, that the salt weakened the spirit that lived at the bottom. Nothing grows around that pond, owing to the salt.”
Petra’s brow wrinkled. Maybe the salt was a key to keeping him contained. “Is that woman still around?”
“Nah. She was an old woman when I saw her. She’s long dead. But she did fish something out of the pond. She sold me this.”
Stan dug into the box and pulled out a rusty piece of metal with teeth.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a trap that belonged to Jack himself. See the engraving?”
It was a wicked looking thing, and Petra didn’t want to touch it. She’d had a tetanus shot within the past few years, though, so she gently took it from Stan to examine it. Sharp teeth closed in a mouth with a rictus grin, with a trip plate, and trailing a seven-foot tail of broken chain. On one of the rusted jaws, someone had etched the initials JR with a crude heart around the letters.
“That’s what they used back then. The animal would step on the plate, and then, snap! The hunter would return later to collect the prey.”
The live, suffering prey. Petra tried not to grimace. There was likely old blood on this, many lifetimes of torture.
“How much is it?”
Stan blinked. “It’s not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale, Stan,” she chided. Stan always had a price.
Stan stroked his perfectly waxed moustache. “A thousand.”
“For this rusty piece of junk?”
“You asked. It has historical significance. I might write a book about it someday. Or sell it to a museum.”
“This thing is rusted shut. It probably doesn’t even work.”
“It’s not legal to use that, you know.”
“I know. But how much do you really want for it?”
“Nine hundred, firm.”
“Eight hundred.”
Stan screwed up his face, cogitating on it.
“S
tan, if you’re gonna be closed for winter storms, this is the best deal you’re gonna get for a long time.”
Stan sighed. “Eight hundred. Plus nine for the jewelry. Twenty-six hundred for the coins. And two hundred for the rest. Forty-five hundred.”
“Thirty-seven hundred. For cash.” Stan liked cash.
Stan made a face, but his eyes lit up. “Forty-one hundred. Gold is always worth money.”
“Those rings have been sitting around forever. You haven’t sold ’em yet for scrap. They’re not stamped, and I just have your word that they’re gold.”
Stan harrumphed. “Four thousand.”
“Four. Deal.”
Petra fished a wad of cash out of her coat pocket. She always cashed her paychecks at Bear’s Gas ’n Go, paid her rent with a money order, and stuffed the rest behind a loose piece of paneling on the trailer wall. Maybe she should consider adulting up sometime and getting a checking account at a real bank, but everyone seemed to really like cash here. This had come close to cleaning her out. She should think about what she was going to do for money when she was in the hospital.
Stan bagged up her purchases, making sure to find a cardboard beer box for the trap, cushioning it with wadded newspaper, like a sacred relic. She could tell that he regretted selling it. Maybe she’d sell it back to him, if it was still possible, after this trip to the wilderness.
“Thanks, Stan.” She slung the tent bag over her shoulder and balanced the other bags on top of the beer box, clumsily elbowing her way out of the door.
The hardware store was just down the street. She walked briskly, head down, heart pounding, as she thought about the story about the old woman and the salt at the pond. Maybe there was something about the salt that Jack didn’t like. And she was all about getting ahold of things that Jack didn’t like.
She stuck her head in the musty hardware store. The teenage girl behind the counter never said more than five words to her. She was sitting behind the counter in a paint-spattered apron, reading a book, surrounded with glittering brass key blanks tacked up on a pegboard.