Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2)

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  A human figure in the dark to his left brought him up short. His hand went instinctively to his hip only to freeze there as recognition dawned. Now the same figure, silhouetted by a small exhibit lamp behind, made him snort with shame. It was a museum display, a bust of Harry Yount, a Rockies' mountain man, Civil War veteran, and the father of the Ranger Service. The real Yount had been Yellowstone's first gamekeeper and set the nationwide performance standards for all future rangers. Each year the Harry Yount Award, a duplicate of that bust, was given to a Park employee for their impact, accomplishments, and excellence in duty; the highest honor bestowed on a park ranger.

  He'd seen one, the real thing, in Glenn Merrill's office. The chief had been honored with the award the year after Apparition Lake. Of course, no mention of the lake or the incident had been made. He'd simply been cited for excellence. And well deserved it had been. Franklin had no illusions. He wasn't Yount material himself and was okay with that. He did his part without expectation of commendations or medals. But he'd never figured on receiving a scare from Yount, either. It was embarrassing. The bust, while beautifully rendered, was less than half life-size. Coming from the dark or not, a person that small probably wasn't likely to do him much harm.

  At least the scare inside the door had freed his mind from the fright he'd received outside. Come to think, he felt a little foolish now. There wasn't anything outside but park, never had been, and he knew it. Dredging up old memories of Bart Houser, he'd spooked himself. Being a specialist at making lemonade out of the lemons he frequently gave himself Franklin decided that, now he was inside, he might as well give the place a once over and make double sure everything was secure.

  The museum had five exhibit rooms. Lit by small painting lamps and miniature directional bulbs, the dim atmosphere created an ambiance Franklin found calming. There was a small theater set up for viewing an ages-old Park history and orientation film. While some brochures called it an 'auditorium' that was a huge word for a tiny space. There was also a little office for the curator. One room was dedicated to an up-close look at the modern era, the rest of the museum was a journey back through time. Exhibits throughout showed the evolution of the park and its protectors from the late 19th century when the US Army watched over her, through the creation of the rangers, to the specialists branching off into all areas of law enforcement, firefighting, and resource management that were the duties of contemporary rangers.

  There were framed pictures everywhere, images of rangers in any location you might name in the park, dating back to the start of the century and, from earlier yet, tintype images of Union pony soldiers going about their Yellowstone duties. There was a room decorated in flags and filled to the rafters with Union Army and Park Service uniforms behind glass, boots, belts, badges, and various designs of the famous 'Smokey the Bear' hat; there was even a display of early park soldier winter wear centered around a buffalo robe.

  In a small glass case, by itself, lay a worn brown leather book. A card beside it read: 'The diary of Lieutenant J. Archer McBride. 48th Cavalry Unit. Fort Laramie'. Other than the two facts that Chief Merrill had shattered the same book's last display case, and that it had played an important part in the solution to the mystery of Apparition Lake, Franklin knew little about it. He wasn't a diary reader. Still the thing must have been important to hold that position of honor among so many hundreds of artifacts.

  Franklin paused and grinned at a note, a warning really, framed and on display on one of the cases. He'd read it before but it deserved a second look. It had been written by a former park superintendent and addressed to all ranger applicants. The note read: 'A ranger's job is no place for a nervous, quick-tempered man, nor for the laggard, nor for one who is unaccustomed to hard work. If you cannot work hard for ten or twelve hours a day, and always with patience and a smile on your face, don't fill out the attached blank.'

  “Amen,” Franklin said aloud.

  Without warning, as if the word had been a stage cue, the window in the outside wall to Franklin's right shattered. The ranger half-fell, half-dove to the floor with blood already running where his brow had been hit by flying glass. He touched the floor, bounded up into a crouch, drew his sidearm, and pressed himself flat against the wall. Franklin tamped the wound with his offhand sleeve while his mind went into gear.

  The window had not shattered due to natural causes. There was no wind and no trees beside the building. There was no cataclysmic weather; the night was calm. It hadn't been broken by an animal. Any creature large enough would have burst through and would now be crazily bouncing about the museum looking for an exit. No, it hadn't broken by natural causes. The cause was man – and the act a crime. Franklin edged to the window and slowly peered out.

  He saw nothing. Now his mind raced. Vandals? Thieves? The place was full of artifacts, historically important to the park, but were they worth anything monetarily? Old pictures, old uniforms, rocks and plants. Not likely. Thieves made no sense. It had to be vandals. Kids up from the Gibbon Campground? Maybe. That could have been what he heard on the river. Urban punks homesick for the mischief that amused them in the city.

  Then memory brought Franklin more bad news. He'd left his patrol vehicle unlocked. A shotgun sat in its holder on the front seat. He hadn't intended to be away this long. Now that weapon was sitting there for anyone to take. He needed a look at the parking area. He needed to know the weapon was secure. Franklin crouched to a low profile and dashed across the room. He reached the target window – as it exploded in his face.

  Whatever had been thrown through the glass caught him in his chest and ripped the weapon from his hand. It bounced on the floor and disappeared in the shadows under a display cabinet. Stunned, aching, partly blinded, and terrified, Franklin dropped to the floor and curled up next to the wall.

  The windows in the room next door came crashing in. As did the window in the room across the hall. The building was surrounded and, from all corners, glass flew like wedding rice. Ignoring the glass, Franklin rolled to his knees and scurried for the hall. He arrived in time to hear a chop, chop, chopping at the museum's front door. That was joined an instant later by the sound of wood being chopped in the roof above. Calling the place surrounded would have been a ridiculous understatement. The museum was under an orchestrated attack. Any notion of defending the building flew out the broken windows. Not only could Franklin not protect all six rooms at once but, it suddenly dawned on the wounded and bleeding unarmed ranger, he was trapped.

  Chapter 14

  With no idea what the attackers wanted, Franklin realized he was in trouble. And he wasn't waiting to see how that trouble developed. He crawled down the hall to the 'Army barracks', the room set up as a replica of a turn of the century cabin interior from the days when the Union Army protected the park. Like the cabins in those days the room was cramped with few hiding places from which to choose. A cast iron stove occupied the near right wall. Beyond it a stand-alone pantry cupboard filled the space to the far corner. Both weighed a ton; moving either was out of the question. Two wooden folding chairs, a small table beneath the window on the near left wall, and a simple olive drab Army cot against the far left wall made up the rest of the furniture and took up the remainder of the space.

  Splintering wood and shattering glass filled the air behind him. Franklin was out of time. He jumped the railing separating visitors from the display, whacked his knee on the iron stove in passing, and dove under the cot. Barely had he disappeared from view when the window at the foot of the cot burst in.

  Glass rained down on the old table beneath and into the wash basin decorating it. And something… somethings… made entrance. Franklin couldn't see who. Under the cot, biting his tongue to keep from shouting in terror, and at the pain in his head and the added injury he'd just done to his knee, with his face jammed blindly into the dark far corner of the cabin, he saw nothing. But he heard the crash and tinkle of glass. He heard the basin hit the floor with a tinny bang and an extended whirl as i
t gyrated to a stop. He heard the repeated sounds of something… somethings climbing in, clearing the sill, vaulting the table, hitting the floor and padding quickly out of the room and down the hall. All at his feet, six feet away, and out of his sight.

  As soon as he could after the room grew quiet again, and as quietly as he was able, Franklin eased himself from the corner and out from under the cot. Whatever had entered from outside had passed through without pause. Whoever they were, whatever they wanted, their interest was elsewhere in the museum. Every fiber of Franklin's being told him to use the window himself to get out of there. But he knew he wouldn't. His heart wouldn't let him. He had a duty to protect the museum property, to find out what was happening and, truth be told, he was almost as curious as he was frightened.

  It made no sense to remain unarmed. But his weapon was lost deep in the shadows of another room. Crawling around on the floor looking for it would only make him that much more vulnerable. And the vandals were in the museum. There was an axe, a common tool for the time period, leaning against the wall near the cupboard. Franklin took it tightly in hand and started away. Then, on second thought, he returned and grabbed a snowshoe from the wall, as well. It wasn't much of a weapon but could be used as a shield. He was a ranger, rangers adapted, and beggars couldn't be choosers. He stepped over the railing, moved to the door, and looked and listened.

  The sounds of splintering wood and breaking glass had stopped. Likewise, the pitter-pat of padding feet. All was quiet. Franklin eased slowly down the hall, ears pricked, drinking in the silence and doing his best to return only the same. He reached the theater on his left and peered through the open door. The movie screen was dark and the room empty but oddly lit with a spot of moonlight. Two of the four bench seats, and the floor beneath, were littered with wood chips and tar paper. Stars twinkled through a hole freshly chopped in the low ceiling. Franklin edged back, took a breath, and turned to the first room on his right. It too was, thankfully, empty. The displays seemed intact but both windows were history and the floor peppered with shattered glass. He was about to move on when a new sound stopped the ranger in his tracks – a strange chanting.

  It came from the next room, down the hall on the right, a room used to exhibit flora, fauna, rocks, and objects of interest found among each throughout the park. A deep and resonant voice cried out, “We revere you. We revere you. We exalt you.”

  Franklin didn't know what to think; he couldn't think. Already drowning in fear and at the edge of sanity, he was blown away when a chorus of voices joined the first, repeating, “We revere you. We revere you. We exalt you.”

  Clutching the snowshoe, seeing it suddenly for the poor and flimsy shield it made, strangling the borrowed axe to control the shake of his other hand, the ranger moved to the next door; the door to the exhibit room from which the chant appeared to be coming. He paused for another breath then eased his head around the frame. What Franklin saw was not believable. What he saw was a scene from a crazy science fiction movie. He saw a room full of toys; but they weren't toys. They weren't toys at all. They were what looked to be… little Indians.

  It was crazy but that's what it looked like to Franklin. The exhibit room was full of copper skinned little Indians, none of which looked to be more than a foot tall, wearing skins and grubby animal furs; and carrying stone knives, clubs, axes, bows and arrows and other primitive weapons. Franklin was petrified with fear. More incredibly, the appearance of these creatures wasn't the strangest part of the situation. It was what they were doing…

  Franklin had never heard of the Pedro Mountain mummy; wouldn't have known it from the mummy of Tutankhamun. He knew nothing of its discovery, its loss, or its recent mysterious resurrection. He knew an old man, a John Doe, had been found dead in the forest. But they hadn't been briefed on the details yet and he hadn't a clue of the connection. Franklin knew nothing of curator Natasha Balasan's exciting revelation. He knew nothing of her short and not-so-sweet debate with his boss, or the chief's putting the kibosh on any communication with the press. He knew nothing of Balasan's little rebellion. That if she couldn't tell the world she had the Pedro mummy in her museum, she was going to – at least – display it for the few minutes the icon was in her possession. He knew nothing of her rearranging an exhibit room to make her little prize the focus of any and all who might enter. He knew none of that history. Franklin knew only what he saw; that the exhibit room had been rearranged to make a new tall glass case the center of attention. Inside the case, under special lighting, atop a wooden pedestal, on a square of purple velvet, was a statue of a miniature man sitting cross-legged.

  There the scene went from the bizarre into the surreal. The astonished ranger now spied to see that the little Indian warriors, who'd violently broken into the museum were gathered around the glass case. More than gathered, much more, for they had all fallen to their knees, dropped to their faces and lay prostrate on the floor before the display. The statue of the little sitting man towered over them and, for Franklin's money, the creatures appeared to be worshiping the thing.

  Not all of the creatures were on their faces in awe. Franklin spotted one walking on the far side of the display case with his hands in the air. He was a frightening, yet mesmerizing, character. Like the others, he wore a dirty animal skin and carried a stone hammer on his belt. But this one stood out with feathers and bones tied in his wild hair and a leather patch over his left eye. Chillingly, the patch had an 'eye' painted on it. More chillingly, the iris of the functioning right eye blazed like bloodshot gold. His nose and cheeks were striped with what Franklin registered as 'war' paint.

  The leader of this band of little people cried out again, “We revere you. We revere you. We exalt you,” showing a mouth full of vicious fangs.

  “We revere you. We revere you. We exalt you,” the prostrated creatures answered.

  “We have come.”

  “We have come.”

  “Finally, we have come.”

  “We have come.”

  The leader turned to face the glass case and to stare at the petrified idol, his reflection colored by the display lights, the reflection of his eye glistening with adoration, victory, and an inexplicable hatred. He grinned and a growl escaped past leering fangs. He pulled the hammer from his belt and shattered the display case.

  “Hey!” Franklin shouted, stepping into the room. It was the most useless comment he'd ever made, combined with the single stupidest action he'd ever taken. The one-eyed leader, standing in shattered glass, hammer still in hand, turned and stared at Franklin. The room full of toy-sized Indians, in one startled movement, jerked up off the floor, and turned. Each, like their leader, wore paint on their copper-colored faces. Each had bloody gold eyes and growled with a mouth full of fangs.

  The leader turned and reached for the little statue in the broken display case.

  Franklin threw his axe. It hit the leader in the back, splitting it nearly in half. The creature went down. Growling, its followers jumped to their feet. Growling himself, Franklin rushed into the room swinging the snowshoe like a cricket bat blasting the little people aside. But they didn't stay blasted for long. One after another they landed, rolled, and scrambled up. They started back toward him and toward the shattered display case the ranger had backed against and suddenly found himself defending.

  Whatever the creatures were, little men, animals, or demons from the pits of Hell, they were on him like angry bees, like starving rats. They leapt on him, tore at him, bit him, bit him again. His left knee, his right hip. One clung to his duty jacket, swung underneath, and sank its teeth into his back. What could Franklin do but scream.

  His axe gone, his snowshoe useless, Franklin spotted a large basket on a countertop filled with collected rocks. In that instant the ranger didn't see rocks; he saw weapons. With no other option, lousy with the creatures, he grabbed the largest rock from the basket and used it as a hammer. One by one he battered the little monsters off of him and onto the floor. Battered the othe
rs as they rushed him. The defense worked, he found, but only just. For all the weight and might he put behind each blow the tiny villains ought to have been crushed but that was not the case. Each time he knocked one away, Franklin saw, it rebounded uninjured and came on again.

  Then, as if stabbed with a flame, the ranger felt a sting in his lower back. Crying out, he dropped his hammer. He turned to run and, for his trouble, received another matching blow and identical burn in his side. Arrows… He'd been shot with tiny arrows! Pain exploded in his brain with flashes of light and streaks of brilliant color. The shrieks of the creatures, and his own screams, pummeled his ears and turned the colors in his brain to lightning bolts. His mind issued rush orders for adrenalin while his lifeblood oozed away. Franklin crumpled to the floor.

  The burning stings, the vicious bites were losing their individuality, becoming a single aching numbness that started to overwhelm the ranger. Franklin's mind began to take flight. He thought suddenly of Tabitha, a public information officer for Glacier National Park. He'd met her last summer there in Yellowstone. Bubbly beautiful Tabitha. For the first time in years he'd thought of something other than Yellowstone. For the first time in his life he'd lost his mind and heart together. She'd done the same. They'd kept their relationship a secret until recently. Recently, they'd made plans to do something about it. Tabitha and Ron, Ron and Tabitha…

  He snapped from what seemed a drugged reverie. He tried to recognize the room around him. He tried to get his bearings. He saw a doll on the floor. No, not a doll… The little Indian statue, lying on the floor amid broken glass and splintered wood. He grabbed it up and tucked it under his arm. Franklin didn't know why.

  Then again, yes, he did. He didn't know what it was, the little statue, but these murdering monsters wanted it. That seemed reason enough to not let them have it. From the blood spattered floor, Franklin reached above his head, tipped the basket on the counter, and grabbed another rock. He hugged the ugly statue and promised himself they'd stick together. The demons would have to come separate them.