I turned and my eyes picked up a bright beacon of lights on the horizon. Of course, I thought. It’s the silver mine. The rumble was more distinct now, and I heard a sharp clang; a distant, but noticeable, metal-on-metal sound. Do they run all night, every night? I wondered. If they did, that had to imply a decent level of business, right?
I didn’t know, but I knew someone who might. My Land Rover creaked as I slid off the hood, the worn shocks protesting the sudden change in weight. The light in the lobby was still on, and I’d been able to sense someone inside.
But it wasn’t Larry behind the counter when I walked in. He’d been replaced by a slightly older woman with long, flame-red hair who cocked one eyebrow as I entered, but otherwise didn’t look up from her paperback.
“Welcome to The Last Chance,” she said in a cheery voice as I walked up to the counter, her fingers deftly procuring a bookmark from somewhere and sliding it between the pages of her novel. “Can I help you with—” she looked up, and then up again until she met my face, her voice faltering somewhat in surprise, “—uh, anything?” she finished in a somewhat higher pitch.
“Actually,” I said, smiling, “I’m already staying here.”
“Oh!” she said, her eyes widening as she snapped her fingers. “You’re that friend of Rocke’s!” She nodded, her surprise fading. “Larry mentioned that you’d made it in.” She stuck one hand over the counter, rising slightly from her seat. “My name’s Vanessa Owens.”
“Hawke Decroux,” I said, taking her hand and returning her energetic shake. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” she said, pulling her hand back but staying half-sitting, as if she wasn’t sure whether to sit or stand.
“So Rocke told you I was coming?” I asked. My question snapped her out of her momentary indecision and she dropped back into her chair with a loud creak.
“Sure did,” she said, nodding. “I left a note for Larry, but I don’t think he ever saw it.”
“Did it have any instructions from him?” I asked, surprised. “Like where to meet him or anything?”
“No,” Vanessa said, shaking her head. “It was just a note that you were going to come in the next morning and to give you the room next to his. Rocke said he was going to meet you here. Why?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Didn’t he meet you?”
I dropped my hands on the counter, fingers spread, as I shook my head. “No,” I said slowly. “He didn’t.”
“Well, that’s odd.” Vanessa frowned, chewing on her lower lip. “Did he say why?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head again. “I actually haven’t spoken to him yet or seen him.”
“You haven’t?” she asked, her frown becoming more pronounced. “But his car is right outside.”
“He’s not in his room,” I said, shaking my head. “His car was here this morning when I arrived, but he wasn’t around then, either.”
“Huh.” She sat back, folding her arms across her chest.
“He didn’t say anything about being busy with the job, did he?” I asked.
Vanessa shook her head. “Not that he told me. You’re sure he’s not in his room?”
“I’ve checked,” I said, briefly extending my senses once more and making certain that his room was, in fact, empty. “He’s not there.”
“Huh,” she said again, still frowning.
“You said you saw him last night?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “My shift starts at seven, and he came in right after that and let me know you were coming.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No,” she said with another shake of her head. “But I didn’t ask. I mean, it’s cool and all,” she said, shrugging, “but you guys are hardly the first to come through looking for a chupacabra.”
“We’re not?” I asked, surprised.
“Nope,” Vanessa said, bringing one hand up, and idly twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “We had a big group a couple of years ago, back when the last goat got sucked. They came to town and spent a week or two digging around, but they didn’t find anything.”
“So this isn’t the first time you guys have had a chupacabra outbreak?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it an ‘outbreak,’ but we seem to get one or two every few years or so. I guess the last one was six, maybe seven, years ago?”
“The town loses a few cows, and you don’t call it an outbreak?”
“A few cows?” she asked. “No, no, no. At most, a goat. Usually not even a big one. Where’d you get the idea that it’s eating cows?”
“Two cows have died of blood loss in the last week,” I said. Her eyes widened a little, a spark of interest forming inside them. “You hadn’t heard about that?”
“Hey, I grew up here,” she said, shrugging. “I kind of stopped listening to details about chupacabra attacks when I was in high school. Did you say cows?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Young ones, but cows.”
“Damn,” she said, perking up a bit. “That’s a new one.”
“So I’m guessing they’ve never taken cows before?” I asked.
“Not that I’ve heard,” she said, shaking her head. “You think they’re getting smarter or something?”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘smart,’” I said, shaking my head. “The average chupacabra can only store a gallon or two, and most cows have around twelve gallons of blood. That’s a lot of waste.” She gave me an odd look, and I shrugged. “Internet research,” I said. “I was curious.”
“Huh,” she replied, nodding. Then she shook her head. “Well, it won’t matter much in the end, I’d expect. You guys will spend a week or two looking for it then give up when it vanishes.”
“Sounds like you’re pretty used to it,” I said. She nodded, then leaned forward.
“So, if it’s not too rude to ask …” she said, a curious look coming over her face. “Are you a spook? Like Rocke?”
I chuckled. “Not a problem,” I answered, smiling. “I’m not a spook, but I am licensed by the NSAU.”
Her eyes widened. “Can you do magic, then?” she asked. There was a bit of a childlike gleam in her eye, like a kid who’d just been told the Christmas tree was going up.
“I guess you could call it that,” I said, already prepping myself for the inevitable barrage of questions. “I’m a shaman.”
“Oh,” she said, deflating a little. Then, to my surprise, she shrugged. “Neat.” No questions, nothing. For a moment the room was silent, the only sound the faint hum of the AC sitting on standby for the night.
“Well …” she said, breaking the silence. I nodded, waiting for the inevitable question. “So what did you need in here?”
“I was just curious,” I said, thinking back to what had led me in there in the first place. “Does the mine usually run all night?”
Vanessa shrugged, one hand already back on her book. “Sometimes,” she said. “It’s usually when they’ve got something interesting going on, but they try to let everyone know as early as they can. My sister used to work there.”
“Used to?” I asked.
She shrugged again. “Job cuts. She moved out to Vegas, works at a restaurant now. Cooks. She likes it a lot better.”
“Have there been a lot of job cuts recently?” From what I’d heard, most of the town seemed to center around the mine.
“No.” She gave her red hair another quick shake. “Not in the last ten years or so. Nothing major, at least.” Her hand was plying at the book’s pages now, her thumb peeling the edge of the book up and letting the pages down one by one with a rapid thrum. “Joe—he’s a friend of mine—works there, and he said there’ve been some rumors of it recently. Personally, I hope he doesn’t get the axe.” A dreamy look came into her eyes, and my eyes reflexively darted to her fingers. “What they’re paying him, well, it’ll be enough to finally …” Her voice trailed off, and she gave her head a little shake. “Well,” she said with a smile, “I guess I do
n’t want to count my chickens before they hatch.”
“Best of luck to you,” I said, nodding and covering a yawn with one hand. “I need to get some sleep, but if I wanted to talk to someone about the mines, who would be the best choice?”
Vanessa sat back, pulling her hand from her book and rubbing at her chin. “You could try the local museum,” she said. “I think Mr. Andrews still runs the place, and it’s open most days. Other than that, you could try going down to the mine and asking around. Why?”
“Just wondering,” I said, nodding again. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Her book was open before I’d turned towards the door, her final words to me almost an afterthought, though I didn’t doubt the sincerity in her voice. “Say hi to Rocke for me when you see him.”
“I will,” I said as I walked out, the door swinging shut behind me. My mind was sparking, an idea coming together on the edges of my consciousness. Chupacabras were hibernating burrowers. At least, their insect-like chitin and the large, flat talons seemed useful for burrowing into sandy desert soil, and the hibernation seemed likely based on their chemical metabolisms. Scientists were fairly certain that was why chupacabras were so rarely seen. A rare species that burrowed and hibernated could hide quite easily, especially if it was skittish.
Especially if there was a ready supply of underground tunnels and hiding places nearby, like those the mine generated and then abandoned. A single chupacabra could hibernate for years in an empty passage, waking up only when the mine got active enough to disturb it or needed to venture out for food.
I mentally congratulated myself as I returned to my room, resolving to check on that possibility as soon as I could the next morning, assuming Rocke hadn’t already. And assuming he showed up from wherever he’d vanished to.
“Darn spooks,” I muttered to myself as I slid between the sheets. If it turned out he’d just been too occupied with the job to bother saying hello, I was going to figure out some way of getting back at him. Maybe I could find an owl who wouldn’t mind leaving a few surprises on Rocke’s car. Or a larger animal, depending on how long it took him to show up.
I gave one last yawn, said a quick prayer, and flipped off the light.
* * *
I woke to a loud banging, an echoing series of thumps that seemed to bounce through my skull as I pulled myself away from dreams that had been both bizarre and familiar.
“Just a minute!” I called, trying to get my bearings as I sat up and glanced around the unfamiliar room. It took me a moment to recognize my surroundings, to sort out the strange lingering wisps of dream and separate them from reality. I shook my head, rubbing my hands down my face as the last, bits of sleep faded away. Traveling to a new area had given my subconscious some creative new ideas for weirdness.
“Just a minute!” I called again, this time a bit louder. “I’ll be there in a second!” Blinding shafts of light cut across my eyes as I turned my head towards the bedside clock, wicked spears of early morning sunlight peeking through the gaps in the window blinds. I squinted and ducked my head back, my eyes cutting across the table as I searched for the clock.
Seven-thirty, I thought, reading the digital clock face. Almost an hour later than I would normally get up. Or several hours, if I factored in the time zone. Then again, I hadn’t accounted for that when I’d gone to sleep the night before, either.
The knocking came again at my door, and I felt a spike of annoyance as the heavy thumps echoed through the small motel room. I took a deep breath and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Maybe it was good news. Maybe it was Rocke, urgently looking for me. Except that he’d have known to stop knocking after my first response.
“Open up!”
I shook my head as the knocking started again. Whoever it was, it definitely wasn’t Rocke, not with a voice that rough. Rocke’s voice was smooth, steady. Cool and collected no matter how crazy things got. This person sounded like a bearded trucker who’d had one too many pots of coffee that morning.
I looked down at myself, trying to decide if I wanted to bother putting on a shirt before greeting whoever was making such a racket at my door. On the one hand, it would be the polite thing to do. On the other … I shook my head as the pounding continued.
Forget it, I thought as I stood up, stretching my arms over my head and letting out another yawn. I reached down by my bedside and picked up my staff. Staff or shirt, I’m going to pick the staff. Whoever’s at the door can just deal with it.
“Open up! Come on! I don’t have all day!” the voice called.
“All right, I’m up!” I called, a tad more annoyance slipping into my voice than I had expected. I crossed the space to the door in three quick strides and pulled it open, making sure that my free hand was holding the staff very visibly next to the doorframe as I did so. “What’s so important …” I trailed off as I caught sight of who I was addressing. “Sir?” I added in surprise.
The man standing there, fist still raised to pound on my door, wore a tan uniform, complete with matching straight-brimmed hat and—I noticed with a start—a sheriff’s badge on his breast pocket. He tilted his head back in surprise, then tilted it back even further, analyzing me with tired eyes—tired but fierce, daring even. I kept my face impassive as I returned the stare, catching the greying beard and curly black hair poking from the edges of his hat, framing the sun-worn leather of his face.
“Sheriff Thomas Hanks,” the man said, his voice coming out in a gruff rasp.
“Hawke Decroux,” I said, extending my free hand. He looked at it, but didn’t move to take it. After a moment, I pulled it back. Apparently, he wasn’t the friendly type. I saw his eyes dart to my staff, then to my bare chest, and then back up to my face.
“You’re a friend of Jacob Rocke?” he asked, voice still gravely.
“I am,” I said, nodding. I could see the sheriff’s squad car sitting behind my own Rover in the parking lot. My pulse picked up slightly. “Why?”
“Do you know where he is?” Hanks asked, ignoring my question. “I’d like to speak to him.”
“I don’t,” I said, growing irate. “What’s this all about, anyway?”
“Do you know how I could get in touch with him?” he asked, ignoring my question again.
“Maybe,” I said, my annoyance shifting into anger. “What’s this all about?”
“If you know where he is or how to—”
“What’s this all about?” I said again, leaning forward slightly. “Why do you want to talk to him so badly?” The sheriff gave me an unimpressed look, shaking his head as he glanced down at his badge.
“Do you see this badge, son?” he asked, tapping the bronze piece in question with one finger. “You know what it means?” I was tempted to respond, but I knew bait when I saw it.
“It means,” Hanks continued, bushy eyebrows drawing close together, “that when I ask you a question, you give me an answer.” His finger moved back down. “Now, do I have to draw up a warrant for you, too?”
He was bluffing, and I knew it. “You’ve got a warrant for Rocke?” I asked, feigning surprise. Hanks ground his teeth on one side of his mouth, like he was chewing at a non-existent cigar. Bingo.
“No,” he admitted after a moment. “Not yet,” he added, glaring at me.
“Ah,” I said, nodding. “Just caught me a little off-guard. The NSAU doesn’t like it when a warrant gets issued on someone they license.” It was a dirty play, but I didn’t feel that bad about putting the sheriff in his place at the moment, or at least taking a bit of the wind out of his sails. The guy had started off with the wrong foot, and he seemed to be doing his best to kick me with it, too. I didn’t feel any sympathy.
“I’m well aware of that,” Hanks said, his tone deadpan. Maybe he’d already tried for a warrant and been turned down, the way he was acting. “Don’t think I won’t get one.”
“For what? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble to ask,” I said, my own as deadpan as the sheriff’s.
> “For one of the worst crimes that can be perpetrated on God’s Earth,” the sheriff said, scowling. “Murder.”
Chapter 4
For a moment I was too stunned to respond. Jacob Rocke, wanted for, of all things, murder? I chuckled, then let out a laugh. Hank’s eyes widened in surprise, but then the sheriff’s face darkened. He took a step forward, his chin almost touching the bottom of my chest as he glared up at me.
“You think that’s funny, son?” he asked, his tone dark.
“Murder?” I said, raising one eyebrow as I looked down at him. “Of course not. But the idea that Rocke is responsible? Pretty much.” I shook my head. “Unless your ‘victim’ had a habit of skulking around at night and sucking the blood out of people instead of animals, I’d say you’re after the wrong guy.”
“You’d say that, huh?” Hanks said, stepping back and folding his arms, right hand resting just under the badge, pushing against it slightly with one knuckle. I doubted it was accidental. “And if I tell that you’re coming down to the station with me to answer a few questions?”
“I’d ask if I was being arrested,” I responded coolly. Hank’s eyes burned into me, and for a moment, I wondered if he really was going to do it. Then he scowled.
“Not at this moment,” he said, unfolding his arms and resting one hand on the butt of his pistol. “But if you leave town, I’ll have one issued for you. Consider yourself a person of interest, Decroux. I don’t have patience for games, and if you hold out on me I won’t hesitate to lock you up until I get what need.”
“You sound amazingly charming,” I said, smiling and entertaining various fantasies of what I could get the various animals at home to do to his car if the conversation were taking place in Vermont. “Tourism must be a priority here.”
“Don’t you dare get smart with me,” Hanks said, his glare growing more intense. “I may not want someone like you in my town, but I won’t hesitate to keep you here. In a nice cell while you await trial.”
Ah, that explains it. “Someone told you I was an Unusual, I take it?” I said casually, as if I were discussing the weather. Apparently the sheriff had a beef with Unusuals.
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