by Bill Fawcett
August turned hot and sticky. All Toronto sweltered under the relentless heat; residents and tourists alike complained, and waited for a break in the weather.
“Your Ma tells me that the adjustment in your medication is working out quite well,” said Uncle Perry as he sat with Arian and Dylan in a small, superior, air-conditioned restaurant tucked away in a tree-lined side-street near the university; the sky was aglow with the long twilight of Canadian summer.
“No episode at all in two months,” said Dylan, a mixture of pride and diffidence coloring his words.
“That’s encouraging. Isn’t it, Arian?” Perry remarked, and signaled the waiter.
“A bottle of the number 78, the Australian Shiraz. Two glasses. And a chilled bottle of the Panna, three glasses, no ice.”
“So far,” said Arian as the waiter departed. “If everything continues this way, I’ll be reassured when he leaves in six days. I’m planning on having the living room painted while he’s gone.”
Perry offered his nephew a satisfied smile. “That’s all good news. Are you packed yet?” He winked to show his question was in good fun.
“I haven’t done my laundry, but I got my duffle out of the closet, and I’m starting to choose what to take,” said Dylan. He had been busy making copies of his videos to offer dealers at DragonCon; he had bought a special carrying case for them, and had secured the forms for customs. That seemed a lot more important than clothes, but he didn’t want to make a poor appearance, so he was now turning his attention to clothes. “Ma’ll make sure I’m all ready the day before I leave.”
“I’m going to get him a set of new clothes for his presentation,” said Arian. “Something a little more formal than jeans, but comfortable in the heat. A good linen sports jacket and a couple of lightweight shirts, and a pair of khaki slacks. We’re going shopping day after tomorrow.”
“And shoes, Ma; you said you’d get me new shoes,” Dylan reminded her.
“Yes—and new shoes,” she appended.
The waiter brought the wine and the glasses and went through a ritual of tasting and approving the bottle, then poured for Perry and Arian, promising to return with their water.
“To your Atlanta trip,” said Perry, raising his glass toward Dylan.
“May it be successful in every way,” said Arian, sounding especially Welsh as she joined in the toast.
Fighting a sudden welling of shyness, Dylan said, “Thanks. I’m hoping it goes well, too.”
“I’m looking forward to hearing all about it,” said Perry.
The waiter brought the water and poured it into the crystal goblets on the table. He then took their dinner orders and went off to the kitchen.
“Anything interesting happening at work, Uncle Perry?” Dylan asked, as much to be polite at to find out about the cases he might be working on.
“It’s hardly dinner conversation,” said Perry.
“You never know. I’m always looking for material for more videos,” said Dylan. “This sounds really promising.”
“You mean for your Brian McKay character to pursue?” Perry inquired.
“Yeah,” said Dylan.
Perry paused, ruminating. “Well, I’m consulting on a case attempting to identify what appears to be a body that was torn apart by wild animals.”
“Perry,” Arian admonished him. “You’re right—this isn’t dinner conversation.”
But Dylan looked interested. “Wild animals in Toronto?”
“On the outskirts,” said Perry. “There isn’t much left to go on. The victim has been dead for between two or three months.” He saw the shock in Arian’s face and used his napkin to wipe his lips. “Sorry, Arian. I’ll tell you about it after DragonCon,” he assured Dylan.
“Thanks, Uncle Perry. It sounds like a really good story. I’ll get a great video out of it, I bet.” He toasted his uncle with his glass of water.
Arian shook her head. “Toasting with water is supposed to be bad luck.”
“It would be if he were old enough to drink legally,” said Perry, and picked up his wineglass again. “To DragonCon.”
Dylan touched the rim of his water goblet to Perry’s wine-glass. “To solving your case.”
* * *
Having cleared US customs at the Toronto airport, Dylan arrived in Atlanta ready to make his way to the convention, once he sorted out the shuttle to baggage claim, and then the ground transportation, Arian’s admonitions ringing in his ears as he made his way toward the front of the airport. He had decided on the plane to take the convention center shuttle, pick up his membership materials and then taxi to his b&b and decide what to do about supper. The summer swelter had Atlanta in its grip and Dylan could feel his new shirt sticking to his back, a dull headache beginning behind his eyes. Toronto could be muggy in the summer, but this was ridiculous, he thought.
At Registration Dylan found the Invited Guests—Video Presentations line; the noise echoing through the broad hall was so huge that it became one voice, like the roar of the sea. Dylan told himself to keep his mind on his purpose as he fell in behind a guy about his own age with shoulder-length black hair who was carrying a backpack that said Taos in sand-and-turquoise letters over an olive-green t-shirt and black jeans; there were fifteen people ahead of them, many of them chatting, so summoning up his courage, Dylan asked, “You from there?”
“What?” The guy turned around, revealing pleasant features marked by a square jaw and aquiline nose. “Oh, this.” He patted the straps of the back-pack. “Nope. I’m from Cerrillos; that’s west of Albuquerque. In New Mexico. I go up to Taos to ski.”
The line moved forward by one.
The guy from Cerrillos rubbed his hand on his t-shirt and held it out. “I’m Matt Alland.”
Dylan took the hand and shook it. “Dylan Rhys-Kayes, from Toronto.”
“Canada? Cool.” He cocked his head. “This your first time at DragonCon? I don’t remember seeing you around.”
“Yeah. You?”
“My third, but my first as an invited guest. I’ve been interning at the new special effects studio in Albuquerque all summer and I’ve made a presentation for the con.” He grinned. “I’ve got a video with a lot of Tewa legends—you know, talking animals, nature gods, like that—in it. I made my presentation video with the CG software they’ve got at the studio. My Mom’s Tewa; teaches cultural anthropology at UNM.”
“Tewa. That’s Indian, right?” Dylan guessed, hoping he was.
“Yep. Dad’s Irish and Mexican. A real southwestern family.” He moved ahead another a step. “What kind of name is Rhys-Kayes?”
“Welsh, all the way back, both sides,” said Dylan. “I was born there—in Wales.”
“What was it like?”
“I don’t remember much.” He decided to explain. “We moved to Canada when I was about three.”
“That’s right; you already told me you’re from Canada,” said Matt, his face brightening. “Lots of Indians up there.”
“Yeah,” said Dylan, trying to decide what he thought of this guy from New Mexico. “You on any panels?”
“Other than my presentation? One. On developing legends and folklore to video forms: that’s my long suit. There’s this fascinating dude from Iceland who’s on it with me and two others: he’s talking about the Eddas—the Icelandic dude. Mom asked me to take notes.”
“Sounds really cool,” said Dylan, meaning it. “It’s always good to get new material.”
“That it is,” said Matt. After they shuffled forward a few more paces, he asked, “Where are you staying?”
“The Peachtree Garden Bed and Breakfast,” said Dylan. “You?”
“Catty-corner from here,” Matt answered, gesturing in its general direction. “It’s all taken up by the convention. Is the b&b nearby?”
“A mile and half from here, according to t
he map.” He patted his duffle and stepped up another space. “I thought I’d get a cab over the first time, to learn the best way. But I’ll probably walk it most of the time.” As he listened to himself, he began to have doubts.
“In this humidity?” Matt chortled. “You’ll be soggy toast by the time you get here.”
“It should be cooler in the morning, and at night,” said Dylan, doubting it even as he spoke.
“It might be, but don’t count on it,” said Matt. “Sometimes I think about the Civil War, and all those guys fighting in this heat, no air conditioning, and I wonder why they didn’t all just collapse from it.” He looked around the room. “Want to grab a bite after this? There’s a good place about a block away—Cajun-style.”
“Sure,” said Dylan, pleasantly surprised at the offer.
“Okay. I’ll see you out front at five-thirty.”
“On the sidewalk?” Dylan asked, to be certain.
“Yeah. At the corner.” He gestured again to establish the direction.
“I’m meeting up with a couple of DragonCon friends then. You’ll like them. They do videos, too. Three of them are making presentations.”
“Sounds good,” said Dylan.
They reached the front of the line; Matt gave his name, exchanging greetings with the young woman manning the table, agreeing to meet her later that evening.
“Dylan Rhys-Kayes,” he said as Matt stepped aside.
“Spell the last name, please,” the young woman asked, frowning at the list on her laptop screen.
“R-h-y-s hyphen K-a-y-e-s.”
“Oh. Not R-e-e-c-e. Here it is,” she said, turned around to a box to retrieve is package. “Your badge is inside.” She patted the oversized envelope. “Please wear it for all DragonCon events. Your schedule is in this envelope. Please check the daily postings for any changes in programming. Be in the green room twenty minutes before your panels and your presentation.” She smiled. “Welcome to DragonCon.”
“Thanks.” He moved away, wanting to look inside his envelope, but knowing it would be best to get out of all the confusion. After a few minutes passed, he sought out the nearest men’s room, and after attending to his bladder, he sat down on the upholstered bench and took out his badge, hanging it around his neck as instructed. He then glanced over his schedule, noticing that his 3:30 panel had been moved back to 5:00 p.m. “Five tomorrow,” he said, to set it in his thoughts.
He hefted his duffle and decided to check in at the b&b, then come back and meet Matt and his friends. He supposed he could do it all in two hours. He stuffed his envelope into the outer pocket of his duffle and went off to find a cab.
* * *
“Dylan Rhys-Kayes, meet Everard Mitchell,” said the square-bodied guy next to Matt.
“From Eureka. Call me Mitch.”
“Eureka? Like the TV show?” Dylan asked, chuckling a little. He had changed from his traveling shirt into a t-shirt, and felt much more in tune with Matt’s four other companions. Around them, a swirl of conventioneers eddied like floodwater, leaving the six of them in a still center amid the busy flow of excited attendees. Traffic crawled in the streets while DragonCon-goers threaded their way through the cars that straggled into the intersection.
“It’s in northern California, way north, on the coast.” Mitch’s tone said he had answered this question more times than he wanted to. “I’ve just done a summer internship at LucasFilm in San Francisco, and I’m starting my sophomore year at SF State.” He was tawny-haired and his lightly-freckled skin was flushed from the heat.
“Awesome,” said Dylan. “LucasFilm.”
“It was,” said Mitch.
“This is Kevin Bessabhi,” Matt went on, indicating a small, wiry kid with the darkest eyes Dylan had ever seen.
“Nice to meet you.” He shook hands awkwardly. “I like your Brian McKay; I saw it on the Internet.” His voice was soft and fairly high, as if it hadn’t finished dropping yet. He wore blue-and-white striped Bermuda shorts, a light-blue shirt and a baseball cap.
“Thanks,” said Dylan.
“This is Nicole Swenson.” The girl Matt introduced was about average height, angular of build, dressed in loose cargo-style pants and a plain camisole top, showing off her golden tan to advantage, one of the few concessions she made to femininity. Her hair, a mahogany-brown, was tied back with an orange scarf, and sunglasses obscured the color and shape of her eyes.
“From Charleston,” she said, and volunteered nothing more. “And this,” Matt said, bowing slightly to the skinny, pale-skinned kid with the thatch of unruly red hair, “is Liam Haskins from Portland.”
“Oregon?” Dylan asked, extending his hand.
“Maine.” He shook Dylan’s hand firmly but without trying to crush it. “Doing Computer Sciences at MIT.”
“The restaurant’s just this way,” said Matt, already walking in its direction. “The food’s good, not too pricey, and the staff’s used to DragonCon. We won’t get hassled.”
“So you’re here from Canada,” Kevin said, falling in beside Dylan.
“Yeah. You?”
“Pretty much everywhere. My dad’s in the Air Force. We move around a lot.” It was impossible to tell from how he said it if he liked moving or not. “I was born in Nevada; we moved to Oklahoma when I was two, then to France, then to Florida, then to Turkey, then to Colorado. We’re still in Colorado, but next year dad’s going to the Philippines. I’ll be in college.”
Dylan looked at Kevin closely. “Aren’t you ... a little young?”
“I’m fifteen next month. I’m smart. Full scholarship. Cal Tech.” The boast was not the obnoxious kind; Dylan was impressed.
“I have early acceptance to Cal Arts, outside L.A., next year,” Dylan said. “Nothing like going to Cal Tech on full scholarship, though, let alone at fifteen.”
Kevin nodded, a slight frown settling between his brows. “Dad tells me it’s a lot to live up to.”
“Turn left,” Matt ordered. Obediently, they followed him, doing their best to stick close together in the jumble of people on the sidewalk. Matt stopped and pointed to the sign overhead. “We’re here: Bayou Bijou.” He marched up to the door of the restaurant and opened it. The smell of frying oysters, garlic, and hot pepper sauce met them as they stepped into the air-conditioned interior.
They were told there would be a ten minute wait while they prepared a table for a party of six. “We’re busy tonight,” said the receptionist, pointing to the waiting area adjoining the bar.
Dylan sat down, wishing he had a glass of orange juice so he could take his meds. The walk back to the convention from the b&b had left him more enervated than he had thought he would be. The wear and tear of traveling was catching up with him, and he could feel his legs getting a bit unsteady, a sure sign of a nervous system overload. Not a good thing, he told himself. He needed to take his meds, and soon. As the others sat down, Dylan remained standing, then went to the receptionist. “Do you think I could order a glass of orange juice? I’m feeling a bit dehydrated.”
“Atlanta’s like that in the summer,” the receptionist said, and signaled a waiter. “This young man needs orange juice. He’s with his friends in the waiting area.” She favored Dylan with a broad smile. “There you go, darlin’.”
“Thank you,” he said, and went to join the others, thinking as he went that keeping track of his medication schedule might prove to be trickier than he had assumed it would be. He removed the two pills from his pocket and palmed them. “I’m getting some orange juice,” he announced.
Matt laughed. “After the walk from the b&b, I’m surprised you don’t want a gallon of ice-water.”
“It was wearing,” Dylan admitted. He pulled a ten dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the waiter, who came toward him with a large glass of orange juice on a bar-tray. “Much appreciated.”
“Do you want change?” the waiter asked.
“How much is it?” Dylan asked.
“Four dollars.”
Dylan felt very awkward; he knew he was blushing, and that made it worse. “Give me four back, if you would.” He could hear Uncle Perry admonishing him against over-tipping, but he didn’t want to look like a cheapskate to his new friends.
The waiter gave him the four dollars and a knowing wink before he went off to the bar again.
“You should probably carry water with you all the time,” Matt recommended. “We always have water at home when it’s hot.”
Dylan popped his pills and took a long drink of orange juice, feeling its chill spread down his torso. He hoped this was the worst time he would have while he was in Atlanta. “Sounds like a good idea. I’ll pick up some bottles tomorrow morning.”
“That’ll help,” Liam approved; until he spoke, Dylan was unaware that he was paying attention, for he had been staring at the murals on the opposite wall in a fine, abstracted air. “If you find yourself getting queasy, get to some place cool and eat a handful of trail mix.”
“Okay,” said Dylan.
“Hey, I’m a red-head. I have to be careful in the heat, and I sunburn in about five minutes flat, even with industrial-strength sunscreen.” He gave a self-effacing grin. “I’m diabetic, too; that makes things worse. I always have a protein bar with me.” He slapped his pocket as if to confirm this.
Matt snapped his fingers. “We’ll keep an eye on you, until you get used to DragonCon and Atlanta weather. We keep an eye on Liam, as well. He needs to eat often.”
“Thanks,” said Dylan, trying not to sound annoyed. Why did everyone think he had to be taken care of? He glanced at Liam. “Sorry about the diabetes. It can’t be easy.”
“It takes some getting used to.” Mitch admitted, then slapped Dylan on his shoulder. “Hey, look, Dylan, I’m staying at the Hilton. I’m having a critique session tomorrow night for some of my videos I’m not presenting here. Matt’s got a new video that’s not ready for public viewing yet; he wants to show it—he’s asking for feedback. Why don’t you come along? Bring anything you want to show, provided it isn’t hours long.”