by Laura Bickle
Carefully, she placed the flare on a rock and dropped a piece of the salt on the red flame. To her delight, it flared orange with a streak of purple before it faded out.
“We have halite,” she crowed.
“How do you know?”
“NaCl burns orange. There’s a bit of potassium in there, which is what the violet is. As long as Jack isn’t a mineral purist, I think we’re good.”
She began chiseling off chunks of the glittering salt. Gabe used the back of her hammer to scrape off more, and they heaped it in handfuls into her bag. When it was full, it weighed nearly twenty pounds.
“Think that’s enough?” she turned back to ask Gabe.
“Yeah. I think it is.” Gabe grinned, took off his hat and set it on the handlebars. He shrugged out of his coat and left it on the seat.
“Where are you going?” she called.
He kicked off his boots. “Seizing the moment.” He smiled at her, seeming very human, and she dissolved in this moment of warmth.
She peeled off her clothes and followed, leaving the guns at the water’s edge, within reach. The air was breathtakingly cold, but the water felt above a hundred degrees, luxuriously warm. She splashed it on her face, and it reminded her of swimming in the ocean. It tasted a bit of sulfur. She deliberately tried not to think of whatever bacterial critters were roaming in it. She figured that she had much bigger things to worry about, and she’d worry about things she couldn’t see later.
A wolf paddled lazily by—the alpha. He swam as easily as an otter, his great paws churning ahead of his tail. Petra had somehow expected them to be cumbersome in the water, but they were so easy with it, as if it was their second element. She tried to imagine them in a river in summer, doing exactly as they were doing now—yipping, snorting, splashing, and sliding in the water.
Gabe floated out to the center of the pool. She hadn’t seen him this relaxed in a long time. Taking a deep breath, she dove under. She couldn’t see anything and relied on the muffled sounds above to guide her. She came up beneath him, toppling him over in the water. He turned over like a capsized boat, sputtering and flailing.
The wolves eventually had enough fun, and pulled themselves out of the water onto the rocks, licking at their paws. Petra and Gabe and Sig followed. She dried off with her extra set of clothes and dressed, wringing her hair out on the warm stones. It was drying stiff, in waves.
In this moment, she felt . . . alive. She grinned at Gabe. He sat across from her, inspecting his rifle. He smiled back at her.
“Don’t move.” A voice came from above.
Petra spun, looking up the ridge. A man-shaped creature stood at the top, glowering down at them. She sucked in her breath and reached for her pistols under her coat.
She thought at first that it was Skinflint Jack. This could surely be him—a blackened figure stumbling toward them, caked with blood, holding out a gun in a quavering grip. But glancing at the compass within Gabe’s reach, she saw that the Locus hadn’t alerted them. And there were no antlers. What kind of monster was this?
The wolves crouched down, their paws flexing on the stone, growling, ruffs rising.
“Who’s asking?” Gabe asked. He was sitting opposite her, obscured from the newcomer’s view by Petra’s body. His fingers tightened on the pistol on his knee.
The blackened figure stepped down the slope.
“Owen Rutherford. You’re under arrest.”
Chapter 17
The Gunslinger and the Stag
Owen advanced down the slope to the steaming pool. His gun shook in his numb grip, but he was determined to catch this man who could unlock all of Sal’s mysteries.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Sal Rutherford.”
Gabriel just looked at him. The light turned just so, and Owen could see under his hat.
He recognized Gabriel, and not just from the sketch his men had been sticking to every telephone pole, bulletin board, and shop door in town. He knew this from deeper memory, from the way back machine of his brain. It took him a moment to realize that this was the man he’d seen, armless, in the cornfield, as a child. He was certain of it.
Heart pounding, he reached to his belt for handcuffs. But eagerness made him clumsy and he stumbled. That was his undoing.
Gabriel drew a pistol in one smooth motion. What Owen thought were dogs lunged forward in the snow, at him in a grey blur. Realizing they were wolves, he fired, over and over.
“No!” The woman threw herself between him and one of the canines. She fell in the snow a split second before Owen did. White teeth tore into his coat and his gun arm, and he struggled to cover his face.
Something was standing on his chest. Gabriel. He aimed the gun at Owen’s face. The wolves didn’t let go, their teeth tearing into his sleeves and pants. He could feel the warm trickle of blood pooling in his boot.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t feed you to the wolves.”
This had gone all wrong. Owen struggled, his mind flailing. He blurted the first thing that came to mind: “Because I’ve seen what’s under that tree.”
Gabriel watched him with cold amber eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Then he picked up Owen’s gun. He rolled Owen over and cuffed him with his own handcuffs. The wolves crowded around him, snarling.
Gabriel looked over his shoulder for the woman. Owen assumed she was Petra Dee. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” The woman was sitting upright, her arm around a coyote. It was like fucking Omaha’s Wild Kingdom here. “Sig’s okay. Bastard got my hood.” Her fingers worked through a hole in her fur hood as she scanned the rocks. “And the wolves . . . I don’t see blood.”
“Lucky,” Gabriel said, turning his attention back to Owen. He rifled through Owen’s pockets and took his radio, knife, cell phone, ammunition, and a can of bear spray. “You were lucky. If you were a better shot, I’d have to kill you outright.”
Petra Dee came close enough to squint at him. “What the hell are we going to do with him?”
“Depends on him.”
Owen stared at Gabriel and used his best I’m in command here voice: “What you’re gonna do is let me go.”
“Not an option.”
“I’ll send help.”
“We don’t need your help.”
“Actually, you do.” Owen gestured back over his shoulder with his chin. “I pretty well destroyed your snowmobile.”
“Shit.” Gabriel stood and kicked him, right in the gut. Owen doubled over and a wolf stared at him. The wolf had terrible breath. Like dead rabbit and beef jerky.
Petra scrambled up the hill to look at the machine and returned, shaking her head. “He’s ripped out every wire he could find. That would be fixable.”
“Okay.”
“The part that’s not fixable is the broken spark plug and the shit he poured into the oil reservoir.” She crossed her arms and stared down at Owen. “Let me guess—was it cough syrup?”
Owen cackled at his own creativity. “It was cherry vodka.”
“You’re sloppy. You spilled it, and there’s a nice red puddle under the machine.” She turned her attention to Gabriel. “He got here by snowmobile. We take his and continue, siphon the gas from our machine. He won’t die here . . . it’s warm enough to survive until someone finds him. Well, maybe if we leave him some water and food. And we cuff him to the dead snowmobile. But that leaves shelter . . .” Her brow knit. She was soft.
“It makes more sense to just kill him.”
Owen shook his head. “The park rangers know I’m looking for you. If I turn up dead, you’ll be in a whole lot more trouble than you are now.” He was making threats, but he wasn’t sure they were buying his argument. But the first rule in hostage negotiation—even if you are the hostage—was never to show weakness.
Gabriel snorted. “That’s assuming you turn up at all. Yellowstone is a big place. I bet I can find a place to put you that no one would ever think to look.”
Petra rolled her eyes. �
��As amusing as I find this macho posturing to be, do you think we can figure out what to do with him and get on with things?”
Gabriel squatted before Owen. “I want to know what he knows.”
Owen glared at him. “The feeling is mutual.”
“I didn’t kill Sal.”
“You’re the last man standing. We hauled more than a dozen bodies out from under that burnt oak on the ranch. Did you kill those guys?”
“No.”
“Well, what did?”
Gabriel looked away. Petra put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no reason to talk to this guy. Let’s get going. When we’re done, we can call someone to pick him up. We’ll figure it out.”
Gabriel stood up, and one of the wolves reluctantly stopped chewing on Owen’s boot. It was as if Owen simply ceased to exist, as if he was no longer part of their calculus. They gathered their belongings in their packs.
“You have to tell them.” Anna sat on the rock beside Owen. “You have to tell them what you saw. You’ll never catch up to them again.”
“I will,” he said.
“No,” she countered. “You won’t.”
“I saw the tunnels beneath the tree,” Owen blurted. Desperation leaked into his voice. “I saw stuff I couldn’t explain.”
Gabriel paused, his back turned.
Owen continued, plunging in: “I went down a tunnel. I found an underground river. It showed me things.”
Gabriel turned partially. “What things?”
“There were bones all around. Bones of weird creatures, animals I’d never seen before. And when I looked in the water, I saw a crime scene. A crime I couldn’t solve, with a little girl who haunts me. And then a creature with teeth came up and tried to get me, but I ran and—”
Petra had turned to Gabriel. “What the fuck is he talking about?”
“The Mermaid,” he murmured. “He met the Mermaid.”
Owen sat up and scooted forward on his butt. “You know! You know there’s something down there, something that can see the past, something that’s guarding pearls the size of bottle caps . . .”
Gabriel glanced at him. “You’ll stay away from her, if you know what’s good for you. She’s tricky. You were lucky to survive her. Forget about that. Sell that land and go about your life.” Gabriel sounded like his mother.
“I need to know,” Owen said. “I’ll inherit the place. I need to know what it all is. If you tell me . . . I’ll let you go free.”
“You seem to think that this is some sort of negotiation.”
“Everything is a negotiation.” Owen leaned forward. “I found something from the past. An old Pinkerton ID. With your name and prints.”
Gabriel turned away, rubbing his forehead.
“Is that you, somehow?” he demanded. “I’ve seen ghosts and a mermaid . . . it ain’t that far to believe in things that live a long time.”
“Owen. You need to forget this,” Gabriel said.
Owen laid his last card on the table. “I can make the investigation go away. Entirely.”
Gabriel cocked his head. “Why would you do that? Sal was your cousin. Blood is thicker, after all.”
“I need to know. I know this thing is huge. And it could be mine.”
“That seems . . . about as honest as any other Rutherford.”
Petra grabbed his sleeve. “Gabe. You can’t.”
“Will you continue the deal your predecessor had? Will you keep silent about what you learn?”
“I give you my word.”
Gabriel squatted before him. “How do I know that you’ll keep it, and not put a gun to my head the instant I cut you loose?”
“Because I’m a Rutherford.”
Petra snorted.
“We aren’t going back to civilization any time soon,” Gabriel said. “Maybe it would be best for me to cut you loose, and you and I settle this, later. We’ll sit down over a beer and spin some yarns. But later.”
“No. I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not until I have all my answers.”
Gabriel glanced at Petra. “He’s stubborn. Like you.”
Petra was having none of it. She crossed her arms over her chest. “You do what you’ve gotta do. But I want no part of your deal.”
“Understood,” Owen said. “What he and I strike is between us. It has nothing to do with you.”
“She’s no longer a person of interest?”
“I’ll leave her alone. Drop the investigation. All I want is the answers I’m looking for.”
Gabriel paused. “All right.”
He rolled Owen over and uncuffed him. He stuck out his hand.
Owen grasped it with his own frozen, sooty hand. “Deal.”
“Why the hell did you do that?” Petra hissed at Gabe, gripping his sleeve. The wolves seemed content to babysit Owen. Three of them sat around him in a circle, staring at him intently, as if he still might become dinner. They wouldn’t even let him reach into a pocket for cigarettes without growling and snapping. She’d dragged Gabe back, out of earshot, toward the snowmobiles.
“It’s our only chance,” he said. “This is the way it always is when power changes hands from one Rutherford to another. There is bargaining. Grief. Acceptance.”
“Do I not get any input in this?” She was starting to feel pretty darn peripheral to decisions that were going to impact the remainder of her existence, however long it was. “I mean, if nothing else, we are married.”
“That man is not going to let us go. That, or we kill him. It’s your choice.” He said it without a trace of resentment. He was turning this man’s life over to her.
She quailed, rubbing her forehead. “Damn it, Gabe. I don’t want to be responsible for—”
“Choose.”
He waited then, a silence that stretched out over the night that had fallen. Tatters of clouds had been pushed away in the wind, revealing a sinuous snake of stars overhead. Petra stared up. If Owen was aiming a gun at Gabriel, she’d have no hesitation in killing him. None. But now, unarmed, he was just as much a threat. He was just unarmed. What was her problem? Why couldn’t she just say they should bury him in a ditch, where no one could find him?
Because she wasn’t built that way. She knew it, and she couldn’t help it. Gabe could do it; she knew he could. He’d done terrible things without batting an eyelash.
But she couldn’t allow that to change her.
“Okay,” she said. “We do this your way. For now. But if he steps out of line once, just once . . .” Her hand rested on her gun belt. “. . . I reserve the right to drop him over a cliff and make it look like one hell of an accident.”
“Understood.” A smile twitched across his lips.
“What’s so funny?”
“Our first fight as a married couple.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, leaving her fuming while he approached Owen. She sighed and joined them.
“So,” Owen said. “What are you guys doing out here anyway?” The wolves had finally let him light a cigarette and he was trying to look relaxed. But Petra could see that his hands shook, his fingers black with what looked like soot. Was he in withdrawal? Injured? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“Someone is out here killing wolves, nearly killed a park ranger friend of ours. We aim to stop him.” She lifted her chin.
“Why not let the rangers handle it? The thin green line is all over poachers. And if they hurt one of their own, they’ll never stop until the culprit is behind bars.” Owen shrugged.
“This is no ordinary poacher. We think it’s the ghost of Skinflint Jack.” Gabe laid it out without preamble or apology, like throwing poker chips down on a table.
“Oh.” Owen blinked, and took a drag on his cigarette. “Far be it from me to pick and choose what ghosts around here are for real. Still, it sounds like some kind of mission.”
“You believe in ghosts?” Petra asked, surprised at his nonchalance.
“I’ve got my own. Little girl from an unsolved case. Anna.” Ow
en hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s sitting right over there.”
Petra saw nothing. “Do you talk to her?”
“Yeah. She talks to me. She led me out of that maze in the field underneath the tree.”
Oh, God. He was a nutter butter. Not that she had any room to judge, but looking at this man, jonesing hard for a cigarette and blackened and bloody . . . yeah. She could believe it. She just couldn’t decide if that would make him more or less dangerous.
“So you went under the tree.” Gabe’s face was unreadable.
“Yeah. Found a shit ton of bodies. And Sal. Sal didn’t die like the others. Sal was hanged.”
“The men hanged him from the tree,” Gabe said. “After he burned it.”
Owen’s eyes narrowed. “Why did he burn it?”
“He wanted to kill us for not following orders. All of us. The tree is—was—the Lunaria. The Alchemical Tree of Life. It kept us alive. Sal wanted to destroy it.”
“Who killed the men?”
“In a manner of speaking, Sal did. He choked off the source of their life. Once he burned the tree, they knew they were finished. They went to ground and didn’t rise again.”
“So this is . . . a multiple retaliatory homicide?” Owen’s filthy brow wrinkled, and it seemed as if he struggled to understand.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How come you survived?”
Gabe flinched. Owen had hit a nerve, all that bright and shiny survivor’s guilt. “I was the oldest, the first man hanged from that tree a century and a half ago. Whatever trickle of magic was left kept me alive. That’s the only thing that I can reckon.”
Owen’s eyes were large and dilated as a raccoon’s as he absorbed all this dark information. “What is that river . . . underground? And that thing you called the Mermaid?”
Gabe shrugged. “The tunnels are funny. They lead you in strange ways, to strange places, usually where you need to go. The fact that they led you anywhere suggests to me that the land is at least open to accepting you as a master.”