by MK Alexander
I looked down at the stone. There I saw an etched circle, probably marked out in three-hundred and sixty degrees. There also seemed to be compass directions and any number of other glyphs that I didn’t understand, though surely it was some sort of calibrated area and somewhat similar to Fynn’s astrolabe.
“I will say with confidence that I can return us to our nearest present with some precision,” Fynn said with a smile.
“Nearest?”
“Yes. A nice cozy soft jump… probably back to my living room in Sand City.”
A smile crossed my face too. I had never heard a more comforting promise.
“Thank you, all my friends, bayarlalaa,” Fynn called to the crowd in Mongolian, English and a variety of Turkic dialects. He returned the cell phone, and with great ceremony, handed the leader a gold drachma retrieved from his pocket. The chief of the riders held up the coin for all to see. “He pays for his trespass!” Fynn translated to me. I heard cheers and laughter now. The hundred men seemed much less threatening. The inspector consulted his astrolabe with diligence, then threw a pebble to the sand below us, to a place where the riders had made a small opening. “Jump there.” He pointed.
“Where are we going?”
“Back, as I’ve said.”
“Back where?”
Fynn smiled. “To your familiar present, or near enough. Though, from there will have to try again.”
“What do you mean, try again?”
“We will have to travel back to nineteen thirty-three… to find Mortimer…”
“When?”
“Sooner than you may expect.”
With that, Fynn leapt off the rock and vanished. I heard murmurs from the riders and felt a tremendous panic rise up. I was stranded again, alone. I was wavering… but finally summoned my courage. I jumped as well and felt my new friend oblivion. No searing pain though, just a pleasant drifty feeling, just like I was falling asleep. There was a cottony taste in my mouth and the scent of cold mountain air.
PART II
TUESDAY
* * *
chapter six
auto sink
Nothing new. I woke up with unsettling dreams again. I tried to hold onto them, battling against a blaring alarm clock. At best, dreams are elusive and incoherent, too big or too complex to properly recall. These particular dreams were no exception; so huge, so full of intimate detail, they were destined to be forgotten. And while they held a consistent sequence of events that was decidedly un-dream-like, remembering them was not to be. The alarm clock saw to that.
My hand reached out and hit the snooze button. Fast fading dreams now: an abandoned Sand City, a dark forbidding place… an igloo, a house on fire… sitting with Inspector Fynn in a traveling living room… And last of all, the oddest and the clearest: a Mongol horde lending us their cell phones. Part of me thought to wiki these crazy things.
Ten minutes later everything was forgotten, mostly. My sleepy respite ended when the snooze alarm sounded again. My feet hit the carpet and I headed for the bathroom, deftly avoiding Zachary my cat who zigzagged across the floor. I peaked out the tiny window still not used to seeing mountains. Every morning this still surprised me. How could I be looking at mountains? But there they were: looming, jagged and not so distant. I knew this was Boulder Colorado… I was living in a small apartment on the top floor of a three family house in the northeast part of town. A set of outside stairs was the main entrance.
I’ll admit I had a difficult time adjusting even though it had been a month already. I still had that awkward very-first-day-on-the-job feeling, when even the most ordinary things were strange and unfamiliar. And in all, I was left with a nagging feeling, I couldn’t exactly remember how I got here. At least my feelings of deja vu were gone for now.
I readily concede to being homesick. The east coast kept a hold on me, well, my friends there at least. Joey Jegal bothered me routinely in a good way, sending me the scores of frisbee games… complaining what it was like to work for Chamblis and Melissa; texting funny moments from his day, odd pictures… and updating me on the antics of Pagor, Leaning, even Eddie the bass player. Just last week, he sent a couple of pictures of the seventh annual Sand City marathon. He mentioned Eleanor too, our former boss, though she was not feeling well lately and was more-or-less housebound.
I missed Suzy most of all. Leaving her was hardest for me. Promises were made to stay in touch but it remained to be seen what would come of them. She was working as a waitress at the Governor’s Inn and planned to visit as soon as the season ended. So far though, she had turned down every one of my attempts to schedule a video-chat. Maybe it was a computer thing. And curiously, I hadn’t heard from her in a while.
I had also tried calling Fynn repeatedly with no success. I’d left messages but so far he had not called back. Who knows where he might be off to. Probably traveling somewhere. Fynn had given me some books about dreams and another set about astronomy just before I left. I have to admit I had not gotten around to reading any of them. They were stacked up on the bedside table. He had also presented me with a very nice knife, though I never really figured out why. It had a brass handle and a sharp stainless blade. I took it everywhere I went these days.
***
I guess unsettling dreams were the least of my worries. They were only dreams, certainly nothing like this could have actually happened. Mongols with cell phones— that made me laugh. I had real things to worry about: my new job as a reporter at the Boulder City Broadsheet— though not quite the job I was promised. And a whole new city. I had new friends to make too… and well, those hallucinations as of late. Not really hallucinations, probably more like an optometrist-thing. Every once in a while I’d see these shapes or shadows just beyond the reach of my peripheral vision. It was an annoying distraction more than anything. I’d glance over to see what was there and nothing was— it was never anything. I suppose I should get it checked out— well, someday… I hated the thought that I might be needing glasses. Still, it had gotten better ever since I moved to Boulder.
Just less than a month at the Broadsheet, I had stepped into one of the biggest floods in Colorado’s history: “a hundred year flood,” most people said, and a “thousand year rain…” I wondered how many of them had actually been around that long. Who can say? I was not in the area in ten thirteen AD. I laughed, Ha, maybe Fynn was.
“Like, who was here a thousand years ago?”
“Native Americans,” was the standard reply.
Boulder was more like Fairhaven than Sand City, certainly bigger than both places, twice as big at least. It was an uneasy fit, too many people, too many roads. And I still get lost. Boulder was younger, newer than what I was used to. The biggest difference was the architecture— it was a constant reminder that I was elsewhere; the buildings, oh, and the Rocky Mountains to the west. Overall though, I did like the feel of the place and it reminded me of home in some ways. I just needed to find a good pick up game. Lunchtime ultimate at Valmont Park was not very practical, though I heard tell of a Monday night pick up game just north of town.
On the plus side, working at the Broadsheet meant the same rhythm as any other weekly. I took some comfort from that at least. We published every Friday, just like the Chronicle. It was Tuesday already. I was slurping up the last of my Froot Loops when the phone rang. Given my new time zone, I was half hoping it might be Suzy, or Joey, or even Fynn. It was none of them; it was Andrew… not Andy. That’s Andy Williams, my boss at the newspaper— not the singer, no relation either. Initially, I thought his name was Anthony— that’s what I had heard on my message machine anyhow, but that was months ago. He could’ve said Andy, I guess. Weird though, he didn’t like being called that.
“Hey… What’s up, Andrew?”
“Morning, Patrick. What a night, huh?”
“A lot of fun, for sure.” I laughed. “How come the twins didn’t show up?”
“The twins?” he asked, obviously surprised. “Nah… not big drinker
s those two.” Williams paused a bit awkwardly. “I was amazed to see Cindy dance like that,” he said and chuckled.
“The Nanigo.”
“The what?”
“The Nanigo. That’s what got her up and dancing, like a Tango.”
“Oh yeah, the congas…” Williams recalled. “Had your coffee yet?” he veered abruptly.
“Of course,” I replied but thought about timbales instead.
“Good, good… Um, could you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Can you head up to Barker Reservoir and talk to a guy?”
“You mean that little pond I drive by on the way to Nederland?”
“Yes, a pond in your language— funny, Patrick.” Andy paused to laugh. “We call it a reservoir here in Colorado, remember?”
I smiled to myself. Andy was fun to wind up sometimes. “Near Boulder Falls, right?” I asked.
“Way past that, Williams said, then hesitated, not sure if I was joking. “Anyhow, a buddy of mine, Ollie Fisher, is doing this, um, side-scanning sonar thing up there. Thought there might be a story.”
“Okay…”
“I know him from college, a geeky guy but a good friend, at least he was back in the day. Calls me up and says he’s found something strange.”
“How strange?”
“Not like Loch Ness strange,” Williams joked. “Cars maybe.”
“Cars?”
“Yeah, well more like submarines. Can you check it out for me?”
“Sure…”
“Probably nothing to it,” Williams continued, and I could hear a bit of resignation in his tone. “Nobody reported any missing cars. But, I owe him a favor or two…”
“Where are you heading this morning?” I asked. “Another helicopter ride?”
“Not today… Mayor’s office, press conference… flood clean up.”
“Lucky you,” I said and scrambled for my notebook. “Where am I going exactly?”
“Barker Meadow Dam— right before you pull into Nederland. You can’t miss it.”
“That’s Drummond’s territory.”
“Yeah, so? You’re covering for Douglas. He’s still on vacation… Besides, there’s a Trustee meeting tonight, seven o’clock.”
“I’m covering that too?”
“Yes you are, but Doc Ollie is already waiting. He’ll meet you up there. Look for a blue pickup on your left. Take down his cell— okay?”
“Wait. Doc Ollie?”
“Sort of a nick-name.” Williams laughed. “He’s got a PhD in something or other.”
***
It was a pleasant drive to Barker Reservoir, and a beautiful day for it, mid-October. Route 119 changed to one lane as soon as it left the city limits and renamed itself Boulder Canyon Drive, not to be confused with Sunshine Canyon or Four Mile Canyon— which I still did. For about fifteen miles, it turned twisty and snaked its way through the natural contours of the land, though there was one small tunnel and a few places where the road was obviously blasted through the granite cliffs and outcroppings. It rose continually and followed a small stream. Sections of the pavement had been chewed up by the flood. Orange cones marked the danger spots and were easily avoided. My old black Saab seemed up for the challenge, rounding the corners with ease and speeding along the slopes. Either side of me, the cliffs raced by, and mountains further back hardly seemed to move, mostly bare stone with forests of deep pine and a few other trees that had turned bright yellow. Someone, a long time ago, had gone to a lot of effort to build this road through the rocks.
The sky was a cold blue and the air had that crisp feel. The far off peaks even had a dusting of snow and that did not sit well with me at all. I did not like the cold and already had to scrape ice off my windshield some mornings. As I drove past the dam, a skittish flock of birds, grackles maybe, lifted from a nearby thicket of trees. They blackened the sky momentarily then dissipated like a chaotic cloud.
Barker Reservoir was small as lakes go— but maybe not reservoirs— about a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. I guess the whole place was a plateau. I could make out the tiny Town of Nederland along the far western shore, just some buildings and houses. Across the lake to the south were a few A-frames perched high along a heavily forested shoreline. Just beyond the dam, I spotted the dark blue pickup and turned left down a small dirt road closer to the shore. I pulled up alongside the dusty truck that was parked beside a green port-a-john. At the shoreline, I saw a man rise from a folding chair and come towards me. The scene was a bit strange: a pristine lake, a wilderness, and just at the rocky beach, a rickety card table with a laptop on it. The man walked closer and looked me over.
“Mr Jardel?” he called out.
“Yeah, good morning... Doctor Fisher, right?”
“Call me Ollie, everybody does.” We shook hands. Ollie was wearing a flannel shirt under an insulated vest, and looked more like a skinny lumberjack than a geek. He had a scruffy beard and sturdy steel-framed glasses. His hair was swept to one side.
“Andy said you’d be coming this morning. Thanks for showing up.”
“Andy?” I asked.
“Andrew… Williams,” he said and chuckled. “Andy is what we used to call him back in college.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Fisher said and laughed again. “It was the only thing that would really piss him off. Hates that name for some reason…” He smiled and paused. “So… what did he tell you about all this?” Ollie Fisher gave an expansive look around. I noticed a tent pitched nearby, some equipment that was completely unidentifiable, and the back of his pickup truck, filled with hard plastic boxes.
“Side scanning sonar, right?” I asked.
“Three-D imaging, really.”
“And you found something?”
“I think so…” Fisher started down to the table by the lake. I followed. “Let me show you… Tell me what you think.” The morning was bright enough to make the computer screen hard to see, but Ollie Fisher pointed out three large shapes on the screen. He assumed them to be cars and that was hard to argue with. The submerged vehicles rested at the bottom of the lake, the closest, maybe forty yards off shore. “Finding one car… maybe not so strange, but finding three? I thought it was worth a call to Andy.”
“Definitely… How do you suppose they got there?” I asked.
“It’s gotta be the flood.”
“What makes you say that?”
Ollie looked at me like I was an idiot but smiled anyway. “This road got hit pretty bad. Probably, they just washed right in.” He looked up to the nearby hill. On the other side of the road was a canyon and a ridge full of scree. It wasn’t too hard to imagine a great wall of water descending.
“Hmm, nobody reported any missing cars.”
“What?”
“That’s what Andrew told me.”
“What else could it be?” he said more than asked.
“Is there a fence or anything?”
“You mean around the reservoir?”
I nodded.
“No, no fence.”
“An avalanche?”
Ollie looked back doubtfully. “There’s never been an avalanche here, not at this particular spot.”
“Could the cars have gotten here from the other side of the reservoir?” I nodded to the forested area across the lake. There were several rustic houses tucked into the hill.
“It’s pretty steep… and pretty far away. I wouldn’t say so.”
“Maybe a raft or a barge?”
“I don’t think there’s anything like that around here.”
“How deep is it?”
“On average? Well, about eight meters. Maximum depth is thirty six. Depends on the season, you know, spring run off. It’s way up from the flood right now, but the water level will drop a couple of meters by the summer.”
“I don’t suppose it drops so low that you could drive a car out there?”
“Not likely.”
“Where doe
s it all go?”
“The water?” He laughed. “Up Boulder Creek, or down as the case may be. There’s a pipeline to Betasso.”
“Where?”
“The water treatment plant in Boulder. Of course here, water residence time is only a hundred days or so— that’s pretty short, even for a reservoir.”
“What does that mean?”
“The water doesn’t stay here for long.”
“Some kind of underground spring?”
“Could be… Mostly run off though.”
“Fish?”
“Pardon?”
“Are there fish in there?” I stared across the expanse of water.
“I don’t think so… no boating allowed, probably no fishing. It’s not stocked, if that’s what you mean.”
“Swimming?”
“No swimming.”
“Why not?”
Ollie laughed. “This water is damn cold… probably never gets above fifty degrees.”
“Even in the summer?”
“Yup.”
“What was this before it was a reservoir, like a mine, or a quarry?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“Nothing, really, just curiosity.”
“Jesus, you ask a lot of questions.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re right though, the water has a very high metallic content, probably from all the old mines.”
I looked back at the computer screen. “I don’t think it was the flood,” I said after a while.
“Why not?”
“The shape.”
“What do you mean?”
“The shoreline is pretty straight here, right?”
“Yeah?”
“The three cars though… they make a curve or a V-shape.”
“So?”
I looked back at the ghostly images on the screen. I traced a possible arc with my finger. “Kind of weird, right?” I said. “This curve... it goes opposite to the shoreline.”
“What do you mean?” Ollie asked and turned from the screen to face me.