Fantastic Detectives

by Dean Wesley Smith

  She let the door slam shut behind her and stomped off the porch. It must be hell to go through life being such an asshole. She’d prove her worth when it came time to change the geography back to what it should be. She was primed and ready for when they got back to the hotel. That must be when Manley planned to do it.

  She splashed through the slush at the side of the road and fished out her keys just as the wind filled with a bloom of ether and roses.

  She froze as the land rippled under her. Spun and almost fell in her city shoes in the slushy snow as the electric shock of lightning flickered the soil and over her skin.

  “You bastard. You petty bastard.”

  Just because she’d acted on her own. Just because she’d rebuffed his advances.

  The rose-scent increased and caught in her lungs. The landscape rippled and the rushing sound of water and the creak of ice filled the wind. From three blocks over came the groan of an ice-jam and the gurgle of spreading water. The flood was back.

  He’d changed it back without her just because he could. Just out of spite. It took ten joint Changes to approve an agent for independent work and he was going to hold back her training because he had denied her, her first.

  Teeth clenched, she threw herself in the car and backed it up the Carpenter driveway. So not how she’d imagined her first mission, her first field day.

  ***

  Past midnight and Vallon’s anger still wouldn’t let her sleep. Instead her hands and feet were restless animals and she couldn’t bring herself to even think about putting on pajamas. Grand Forks’ hotels were almost as cold as the great outdoors. The electric baseboard heater in the joined hotel rooms could barely keep up with the cold oozing through the night darkened, frost-etched window glass.

  She perched on the edge of her bed, guardedly watching the door to the adjoining room. Carpenter was there, drugged and detained, but the air tingled with the musk-laden stink of Manley’s need for a woman. He’d used a lot of power to return the landscape to the way it had been and the usual price for that was the need for copulation. It was why male and female agents were paired. They had a ready outlet. But there was no way on this little green-blue ball of a planet that she was going to have anything to do with Manley. Not when he was power tripping on her. Not when he was playing games with her life. With her future.

  That was why she’d locked the door between the rooms. It was why she’d been so tempted to call Landon Snow for advice. But she was a big girl now: an Agent. She didn’t trust Manley as far as she could throw him, but as an Agent she’d have to deal with it.

  She still couldn’t believe he’d done the Change without her. Her skin ached for the earth and so did her bones. The ley-lines called to her with siren songs just as they always had ever since she came into her power at age eleven.

  She lay back on the bed and—reached—down into the earth. Rough chenille bedspread under her palms as she sank down-down-down into the power and let it sizzle and slide its way over her like a snakeskin hide. Surprisingly smooth and soft. Sensual even.

  The earth under Grand Forks felt newly minted with the Change, shiny as new plastic. Wisps of Manley’s sour-pesto scent clung to the soil and the bedrock underpinnings. She knew what she would have done to Change it back, but every AGS agent had their own slightly different talents that you could discern if you looked.

  He had taken the lake water and transmuted it to land, sucking water out of the soil to rebuild the depression the lake water had filled. Good enough, but not what she would have done. She would have used bedrock, pressing it up from beneath right under the border.

  The border.

  She stopped. It ran straight east west just over 80 miles north of the city like a ruler set across the consciousness of the continental landscape. Interesting how the awareness of people carved the landscape into being. The American awareness largely ended at that border. The Canadian one dribbled southward over it likely because that country was far more attuned to their larger neighbor than vise versa.

  But something was strange because the border line she expected didn’t lie where it should. It didn’t match up with the two demarcations of awareness either. Instead it was like there were two layers of demarcation one upon the other, like a new wave can partially obliterate the mark of a wave that came before it. The old and the new.

  “Dammitalltohell!” She sat bolt upright on the bed, leapt off and ran to the separating door, threw open the locks and found his door locked shut.

  “Manley!” She pounded the door with her palm.

  No response. So he was going to play it this way, was he?

  “Manley! We’ve got a problem!” Did he know what he’d done? If he did, he was flipping playing with fire with this one. If the Canadians did have an equivalent to the AGS—something they’d always assumed—there was going to be hell to pay for this one. “Manley! Answer me goddamit!”

  Still nothing.

  She pulled back from the door and looked at it. Pressed her ear against the wood. “Come on, Manley. There’s a problem with where you left the border. We need to fix it. Now open the door.”

  When she pressed her ear against the wood there was no sound, no nothing. He could have left her and gone back to Seattle for all she could tell. She closed the door and locked it again, then paced back to the bed and sat down, considering. Phone it in to AGS headquarters? If she did it would get Manley in trouble and he would never forgive her. If life wasn’t good now, it would be living hell then.

  Every moment she waited for him there was more chance of the Canadians discovering the Change and that international incident. Her knees vibrated under her as she considered her options. She could do the change herself. It wouldn’t look bad on her personnel file to have a notation that she’d used her own initiative to diffuse a bad situation.

  “Manley, you ass. It’s your fault if I screw this up.” She said to the air.

  But she wouldn’t. For her promise to Landon she wouldn’t.

  A deep swallow and she stilled her brain, drew in the power from the ley-lines and felt the burble, burst and pop of the heat in her blood. Her ears popped and she tasted licorice anise on her tongue. Under the cold landscape of North Dakota the earth was still warm. The shadow of the lake hung like a ghost within the soil. But the border—how does one change perception?

  Like she would change her role within the AGS from problem child student to responsible AGS agent? By proving herself? By cloaking herself in a way of being and truly believing in it, even if the perfect Agent Vallon Drake had never been before?

  The people of the United States and Canada, the Gifted and partially Gifted and the non-Gifted all had a strong belief in the relationship of their countries. That just needed to be harnessed. Something she could do.

  Maybe.

  She clenched the edge of the bed and reached out to the dreamers, the sleepers along the imaginary line on the land. She dragged Manley’s travesty of a line southward and etched it in snow and sand, that might blow away, but that, for the moment would provide the glue for the dreamers’ imaginations to hold onto. The power of the ley-lines bubbled under her skin and she fed it out, a long string of golden fire across the landscape, searing the awareness of America, of Canada into place to a sound like drums.

  A sound that seriously reminded her of fists on wood.

  She opened her eyes and the separating door vibrated on its hinges. Manley.

  “Drake! What the fuck are you doing!”

  She leapt up and opened the door and Manley burst in, red-faced and furious, Carpenter at his heels.

  What?

  “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Manley had her by the shoulders, his grip painful as he shoved her across the room towards the bed and the truly awful thing was that after using the power, ol’ Dick looked absolutely attractive.

  She ripped away and put the bed between them, still trying to understand Carpenter’s presence.

  “Where the hell wer
e you?” she demanded. “You fucked up, Manley. You shifted the border. I undid it for you.”

  Manley’s lecherous little eyes carried a danger she hadn’t noticed before. A danger and a satisfaction that she didn’t understand at all. “No little girl. You fucked up big time. I was under orders to use the opportunity to shift the border. It was perfect timing. See just what the Canadians are monitoring. See just how far we can push things and all under the guise of dealing with a Gifted problem. If they noticed, we could fix it with apologies. If they didn’t notice, well then that told us volumes, didn’t it?”

  “But….” That wasn’t what she’d understood. It wasn’t what they’d told her in the Seattle briefing. But then why would they tell the fledgling agent anything. No, let her follow around and….

  “Oh my god. I was part of the plausible deniability.”

  She looked at Carpenter and read the acknowledgement in his eyes. He was in on it; most assuredly an AGS Field Agent. “The AGS could use my school record to show I’d been a problem all along. If they needed to, I could be their scapegoat, their fuck-up, the one who set the border wrong.”

  The silence in the room ached a lot like her heart. She needed to sit down. She needed to throw up.

  “Bingo, little girl,” Manley said quietly. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” His little pig eyes chased over her. “Now I suggest you get packed. The AGS is sending a jet to bring us in. Seems you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  And she had some questions for them. But then that was part of her problem, wasn’t it? The problems she’d had in school because she wouldn’t back down and she was always asking questions.

  Like she’d promised Landon she wouldn’t do.

  She’d pack and she’d go back to Seattle because it was all she could do. Because it was what was expected. Just as the border was where it was expected. Just as she was apparently expected to be a problem even after she’d tried her very best to be the good little Agent Landon had tried to make her be. The kind of Agent her dad was. The kind she’d promised to be.

  Fat lot of good it did.

  She hauled her suitcase from the closet and the carefully ironed dress pants and sweater she’d worn on the plane and then stopped herself. Her Agent uniform, she’d called it when she put it on. But regardless of what she’d thought that wasn’t what they expected of her.

  Fuck it. She’d give them what they wanted.

  She tossed the business clothes on the bed and yanked on jeans and a t-shirt and the pair of Docker boots that she wore in her off hours. This was more like it. This was who she was and where she lived.

  American Geological Survey, meet Vallon Drake, problem child.

  They expected it. Look out world.

  Introduction to “Under Oregon”

  The remarkable writer, Kara Legend, describes her life in seven words: “Hectic, wonderful, nothing like I expected.”

  She published her first short story in our seventh issue, Fantasy Adrift. She returns with a story delightful in its delicacy.

  She writes, “My inspiration for ‘Under Oregon’ downloaded one evening when I was rushing around the house—late, as usual—while the local television news blared in the background. The news anchor read a story about a girl falling through a hole in the floor of a house her parents were viewing with a real estate agent. Next came a story about insect damage in the Willamette Valley that was followed by a story about a horse and a fence and some kids…and before I knew it, ‘Under Oregon’ spooled out of my mind. I still have no idea about the horse, but that’s the wonderful thing about stories; they’re rarely what you expect and often, much more magical.”

  Under Oregon

  Kara Legend

  With all her might, Evangeline pushed the metal legs of the tripod into the soft, black earth between the rows of cherry trees then gave it a good shove to make sure it was steady. She stepped back and dragged a hand across her brow. It came away glistening with sweat.

  It was a warm morning in June, and a storm front had rolled down from Alaska yesterday and chased the clouds and gloom east, leaving the Willamette Valley gloriously warm and bright.

  Something had been destroying their crops. Evangeline had been investigating for weeks and narrowed the culprit down to one likely candidate. Magic was the only way to deal with the pest. Fortunately, she had studied the subject and today was perfect. Nothing could go wrong.

  “We should have brought a pounder,” her cousin Stevie said. He stood out of direct sun, under the arching branches. There were faint blue circles under his eyes and he needed a tissue.

  “A pounder?” Evangeline echoed. “You mean a hammer?”

  “Yeah, that would work, too.”

  Stevie was only twelve, three years and two months younger than Evangeline. Not the sharpest thorn on the family vine, her Dad always said whenever Uncle Brian, Stevie’s dad, was out of earshot. It was true, but the way her Dad said it made Evangeline’s stomach hurt.

  Which was why she took care to include Stevie in her plans even when there was a greater chance he might screw things up than be of any real help.

  She sighed and pointed at the shallow white plate she’d filched from the kitchen that Stevie balanced on his palms. “Then who would carry the potion?” Cranberry red liquid sloshed from side to side every time Stevie ducked his head to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his tee shirt.

  “Me.” He grinned.

  Evangeline swept her arms like a television game show hostess revealing a shiny new car. “You may do the honors.”

  Stevie frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to say something first?” he asked. “Like a spell?”

  “Naw. This is a new method,” Evangeline lied. It wasn’t a proper spell, but Stevie didn’t need to know that.

  “I really think you should say something,” he insisted.

  “You don’t trust my potion, is that it?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” Stevie’s voice rose and the liquid pitched dangerously close to the rim. “That’s not what Hermione would do.”

  “Well, I’m not Hermione, am I?” Evangeline snapped.

  “No, Hermione’s really smart.”

  Evangeline muttered a few more words under her breath; ones that would have made her father shake his head in weary resignation. She took a step toward Stevie. “Last chance. You going to do it or not?”

  The potion had to be in place before the new moon that would be exact in a couple of hours or the spell wouldn’t work. The fruit fly population, already dangerously high and attacking fields and orchards all over the Valley, would explode and destroy their entire crop.

  If that happened, her dad said they’d have to move back to Arizona.

  She waited, silently counting to ten. At eight, something tiny buzzed past her head. Bigger than a dragonfly, smaller than a bird. Well, smaller than a crow, but bigger than—

  “Fairy!” Stevie yelled.

  The world stilled as if a giant had dropped a bell jar over them. The rushing of the wind vanished along with the buzz of insects. All Evangeline could smell was the sweet perfume of the potion and something light and lemony that wafted off the only thing moving—the fairy.

  The creature perched on the edge of the white plate. Stevie’s blue eyes bugged and his mouth hung open. Her golden wings fluttered back and forth slowly.

  The fairy crouched, dipped a delicate finger into the potion and raised it to her lips. A piercing screech erupted from her, louder than anything a body that small should produce. She launched into the air, aiming for Stevie’s face like a miniature missile made of gossamer and fueled by implacable fury.

  Six things happened at once:

  1. Stevie screamed like a little girl and threw his hands in the air.

  2. The plate fell.

  3. Evangeline lunged for the plate.

  4. The fairy landed on the bridge of Stevie’s nose and rode it like a bronco, pummeling him with
her little fists.

  5. The plate hit the ground, spilling the precious potion into the dirt.

  6. Evangeline planted her face in the wet dirt.

  Although it was only moments later, it seemed like hours had passed when Evangeline pushed up from the ground and brushed clumps of damp brown earth from her chest. Her white tee shirt and khaki shorts were stained with red blotches. It looked like she’d peed her pants…or worse.

  Stevie sat on the ground across from her, his legs splayed out straight in front of him, a dazed expression spread across his round face. His nose bloomed red and was beginning to swell.

  He swiveled his head, then said, “Is the lady gone?”

  “Yeah,” Evangeline said. “Looks like the coast is clear.”

  “What do we do now?” Stevie’s voice was plaintive, sounding younger than usual.

  Evangeline shaded her eyes and gazed upward, trying to judge the time. If they hurried back up to the house, she might be able to concoct another potion and get back out here before the sun and moon met in the sky, but it was nearly midday. That meant Mrs. Bishop would be clattering about the kitchen. If Evangeline waltzed in and started collecting cups of vinegar and dishes of salt and spice to add to her more esoteric collection, there would be Questions.

  Lots of them.

  Questions Evangeline didn’t want to answer.

  “We go home,” she said to Stevie. “We’ll try again next month.”

  The plate had fallen on the ground between them. Evangeline rocked forward onto her knees and retrieved it. It wasn’t broken, but a couple of hairline cracks raced across the surface. If she returned it to the back of the shelf in the pantry, Mrs. Bishop might not notice for a few days. Maybe the cracks would give way the next time the housekeeper spooned something hot onto it. Or the time after that. Either way, when the plate broke, it wouldn’t be Evangeline’s fault like everything else.

  Holding on to the plate, she clambered to her feet, stretched out a hand to Stevie, and they headed for the house.