by Angela Hunt
“I would like to introduce,” Señor Prospero said, “Dr. Gregory Wu, an expert in molecular science.”
“Great,” Brenda whispered under her breath. “We got us a mini-United Nations right here.”
When Dr. Wu had seated himself, Prospero leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. “I own this TV station,” he said. “My talk show is live every weekday from one until five. We talk about all kinds of things—politics, religion, economics, and the environment. Many people have encouraged me to run for president, but though I am popular, I am no politician. I am an entertainer. But people see me as more.”
He shifted his position, bringing his hand to his face in a gesture I recognized as an anxiety indicator. “Two years ago, a farmer and his twelve-year-old son brought me this—thing.” He nodded toward the jar. “They said that since I was on TV, I would know what to do with it. They said they had seen similar things flying at night, but they had never seen a dead specimen. They left it with me, and I put it in this jar of formaldehyde.”
He cleared his throat, then gestured to Dr. Wu. “I thought it was a hoax, but wanted to be sure, so I hired Dr. Wu to take X-rays. He did, producing two films—a frontal view and one of the creature in profile.” He looked at his associate. “Dr. Wu, would you please distribute the films?”
From a folder, Wu produced two things—actual X-ray films and paper copies of those images. He handed the films to Tank, and the copies to Brenda, indicating that we should pass both around.
For a long while no one said anything. The images were alarming, but the films were obviously genuine. And when viewing the creature straight on, seeing the eye sockets and the mouth open and ringed with teeth—
A ghost spider crawled up my spine as I imagined the fairy alive and moving. What was this thing?
“It is one thing,” Señor Prospero said, “to cover sticks or wires with leaves and call it a fairy, but what man alive can create a skeleton of bone and cover it with flesh?”
“Hang on,” Chad said, slurring his words slightly. “How do you know that’s—that’s bone?”
“See the calcification at the joints?” Dr. Wu asked. “That is a result of normal wear of bone against bone. And do you see how the calcification is heaviest on the back where the wings join the body? That is what you would expect of a humanoid with wings—the bone is thicker in that area to support the additional weight. That is to be expected, but few would go through such trouble to create a hoax.”
Brenda leaned toward me. “Is Chad drunk?”
I shook my head. “I think it’s his cold medicine. But he does seem a little doped.”
“You will also notice,” Dr. Wu went on, pointing at a copy of the X-ray, “that the creature has been injured and that injury has been repaired.”
I studied my paper copy of the image. I might not have noticed, but Dr. Wu was right—one of the creature’s long legs had been broken and the bone clumsily reset. We could see a white spot over the break, as if someone had applied a patch of some sort.
Who would do such a thing? A doctor fairy?
Chad turned the jar to study the creature within. “We could s-settle this question in no time. Have you taken DNA from this--this thing?”
“We have taken samples,” Dr. Wu said, “but so far we have been unable to extract DNA because the formaldehyde has destroyed the material. But we have sent samples to other labs in the hope that they can read the DNA sequence.”
“That thing is creepy,” Brenda said, pushing away from the table as if being near the fairy made her nervous. “It’s nasty lookin’.”
“It is a duch,” Daniel said, his wide eyes intent upon the creature.
Señor Prospero frowned. “And what is a duch?”
“We’re not sure,” I answered, “because sometimes Daniel speaks in his own language. But we do know it’s something bad.”
“I must admit that Ms. S-Smartmouth makes a good point,” Chad said. “If you were going to create a fake creature, you’d want it to look fierce. Just like this.”
Brenda cast Chad a killing look, but I pressed on, not wanting the discussion to dissolve into a drug-induced spat.
“Other real animals look terrifying,” I argued. “Crocodiles, moray eels, and sharks. They’re not fakes.”
“Yet people who create hoaxes,” Señor Prospero said, “crave and create publicity, but neither the farmer nor his son has ever gone public with this news. I have never mentioned the fairy on my program, nor have I shown it to anyone but my wife and Dr. Wu. But—” he lifted both brows and smiled—“I have been asking God to send me someone who would know what to do with this thing. And here you are.”
In that moment I’m not sure who was more dumbfounded—Señor Prospero or our group. Everyone around the table stopped fidgeting as a hush fell over the room.
“We were sent here,” I finally said, my voice trembling, “to see this thing, learn about it, and see if we can figure out why it’s here.”
“It’s c-clearly not natural,” Chad said, shaking his head. “And I’m not saying it’s a fake—I’m saying it’s not a natural part of the animal kingdom. I doubt there’s anything like it on the planet.”
Señor Prospero answered with a sad smile. “Unfortunately, there is.” He gestured to Dr. Wu, who pulled out a small box and set a small box on the conference table. When he lifted the lid, we rose from our seats to peer inside. On a soft bed of cotton, we saw the skeleton of another creature, one eerily similar to the first. The skin had desiccated and fallen away, but the skull, the jagged teeth, and the long, slender limbs remained. Along with the wings and the tail.
“You will notice,” Dr. Wu said, using his pen to gently probe the remnants of the wings, “this creature has two sets of wings. It was probably—”
“D-deformed?” Chad guessed.
“A prototype,” Wu answered. “A first attempt. You will notice that this one is curled up in a fetal position—as if it curled up to die.”
I bit my lip. Scientists did not usually make “as if” statements, but Wu was right—the creature did look as though it had given up.
“Where did you find the second specimen?” I asked.
“A truck driver brought it in,” Señor Prospero said. “He struck it with his truck as he was driving one night. When he stopped to see what he had hit, he found it curled up on the truck’s fender.”
“So . . . you think someone made this,” Chad said.
Señor Prospero nodded. “We believe it is a creation, but not a fake. It is a real creature. A hybrid.”
I shivered. We had run into hybrids before—the black-eyed children—and the experience had not been pleasant.
Dr. Wu lifted his hand. “This creature is probably 98.5 percent human. As to the remaining 1.5 percent, we can only guess.”
“A chimera.” Chad smiled. “A blend of two living creatures.”
“Exactly.” Wu nodded. “The creature could be a chimera composed of human and alien cells. Or human and animal. We will not know its exact makeup until we have an accurate DNA analysis.”
“That reminds me,” I said. “I just read a newspaper report about this. Apparently the U.S. National Institute of Health is lifting a ban that prevented scientists from creating human-animal chimeras.”
Wu shook his head. “The people who are behind this creature are years ahead of your NIH.”
“Does Mexico have a national research program involving chimeras?” I asked.
Señor Prospero shook his head. “Definitely not.”
“So whoever is doing this—”
“Is off-book,” Prospero said. “Not a national government.”
“I have a question,” Tank said, lifting the X-ray of the first creature toward the overhead lights. “This creature’s skeleton has white dots all through it. What are those?”
Señor Prospero looked at Dr. Wu, then sighed. “We have our theories, but I hesitate to mention them. We are lacking too many facts to be dogmatic.”<
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I looked at Tank and Brenda. “I guess that’s where we come in. Our assignment was to verify the creature, try to determine where it came from, and see if we can figure out why it exists.”
Prospero smiled. “Not an easy task.”
“No,” Tank said, meeting the man’s gaze. “But we’ve faced the impossible and survived, so I think we can handle a fairy.”
“Hubris,” Senor Prospero said, smiling. “You certainly have it in abundance.”
“Yes, he does,” Chad said, crossing his arms.
Tank beamed . . . I didn’t have the heart to tell him the comment wasn’t intended to be a compliment.
Chapter 4
With our shiny new credit cards from the Watchers, we rented rooms at a hotel not far from the TV station. Then we met in my suite to lay out a few plans.
“We need to hire a car,” I said, unfolding a map I’d picked up in a small store. “We shouldn’t be driving around Mexico without knowing where we’re going.”
“Roger that,” Brenda said, and when our eyes met I suspected that she, like me, was thinking about recent news reports. It might have been an unfair characterization, but our local news networks had featured too many stories about American tourists running into drug lords and ending up with their heads in one location and their bodies in another.
I didn’t want to take any chances.
Tank handed me the contact information Señor Prospero had given us when we left. The man who’d brought the fairy to the TV station was Hector Rodriguez, and he lived on a farm about an hour from Mexico City. I had imagined meeting him in a little cafe somewhere, but after looking at the map and seeing nothing but forest, I realized we’d have to go to the man’s house.
“Señor Rodriguez lives in the middle of nowhere, apparently,” I said, picking up my iPad to check out a satellite view of the area. I tapped on the maps icon, typed in the address, and found myself staring at a narrow road that wound through an area of heavy forest. I zoomed out and saw that our contact lived inside a national park: Parque Nacional El Tepozteco. I could see no road leading to his house, but it probably lay beneath the canopy of trees.
“All right.” I did a quick computation. “Google maps says we can reach the farmer’s house in about an hour, depending on traffic. We’ll visit him tomorrow, interview him and his son, and see what they can tell us about the fairy. And while we’re in the area, we can look around to see if we can spot anything else.”
“We should spend the night,” Chad said.
Four other heads swiveled toward him. “Are you still drunk?” Brenda asked.
“I’m fine.” Chad leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Think about it—this thing flies, and so far it has eluded most people, so I think it’s safe to say it’s nocturnal. It may even have luminescent qualities, like a firefly. So if it comes out at night, we should stay and look for it. Our bosses told us to get video.”
I blew out a breath. “We can’t assume that Señor Rodriguez will have room for us—or even want us hanging around.”
“We don’t have to stay at his house. We find out where he discovered the creature, and we camp there.”
Brenda stiffened. “Did you say camp?”
Chad grinned. “Haven’t you ever spent the night out under the stars?”
“Not by choice.”
“It’s easy. We just need to rent a tent, some sleeping bags, and some canteens. We can all share the tent, and Andi and I will double up with a sleeping bag.”
“Whoa,” I said, my face flushing hot against the air conditioned air. “This is not the time for joking around—and those kinds of jokes aren’t welcome here, not now or ever.”
Chad lifted his hands in a posture of surrender. “Cool your jets, sweetie. I was only testing the waters.”
“Well, stop it.” I bit my lip, frustrated that I couldn’t think of witty remarks as quickly as a doped-up Chad. “Or I’ll . . . you’ll regret it.”
Chad grinned. He was probably reading my mind, hearing me regret my inability to think on my feet . . .
“Or,” Brenda went on, ignoring Chad, “we could pick up some snacks, bottled water, and have someone make us a gourmet picnic basket. There’s no law saying we have to rough it out there.”
“You guys discuss it,” I told them, standing. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I left them in the living room and went to the restroom. After washing my hands, I stared in the mirror for a long moment and tried to imagine what I’d look like after a night out in the Mexican woods. Mexico was in the tropics, which meant lots of humidity. It also meant spiders and snakes grew even bigger down here, and maybe more venomous. Not to mention the mosquitoes. We’d not only need a tent, we’d need mosquito repellent, fly swatters, rain ponchos, a couple of lanterns, something to start a fire, and maybe a portable toilet . . .
I laughed and imagined my hair as a big red dish scrubber. Maybe I should get a hat. I’d never been camping in my life, but I was up for anything, as long as everyone else came along.
I dried my hands on a towel, then glanced in the mirror to make sure my hair hadn’t gone completely out of control in the humidity. Then I stopped cold.
The professor was in my mirror. He smiled when our eyes met, and my heart did a strange little flipflop. Was I seeing things? Did I miss him so much that I was imagining him in my mirror?
I closed my eyes and counted—one, two, three. I lifted my eyelids and saw him standing there, arms crossed, that funny little smile below his mustache. He was humoring me.
“Where are you?” I asked.
He tapped his left wrist—shorthand for referring to time--then he pointed—not at me, but beyond me—and the gesture lifted the hairs on my arms. Could he always see us from where he was? If he was in a parallel universe, did his have gruesome fairies, too? I opened my mouth, about to say something else, but before I could speak he vanished. Gone. Just like that.
I exhaled in sharp disappointment. My former boss and good friend had been right there . . . unless my brain had conjured him up. Chad would say that I wanted his advice, so my subconscious had provided him, neat and tidy and pointing at me as if to say You can do it, Andi.
Except he hadn’t been exactly pointing at me. He’d been pointing beyond me, at something in the bedroom.
I turned. And saw a folder on the bed. A striking silver folder with my name on the cover. A folder I had never seen in my life.
As every nerve in my body screamed impossible, I walked over and picked it up. And inside I found a biography of Ambrosi Giacomo, a man I’d never heard of.
Moving slowly on legs that felt like wood, I went back to the living room. “Guys,” I said, interrupting their conversations. I held up the silver folder. “Anyone ever seen this before?”
They stared at it.
“Where’d you get that?” Brenda asked. “Party City?”
“Never seen it,” Tank said, speaking for everyone. His eyes softened with concern. “You okay? You look a little rattled.”
I set the folder on the coffee table, then sank back into my chair. “I went into the bathroom and nothing was on the bed. And as I was washing my hands, I saw the professor in the mirror. He pointed behind me, and just as I was about to say something to him, he disappeared. When I turned around, this was on the bed.”
Chad brightened. “Cool.”
Brenda looked at him as if he’d sprung a brain leak. “Are you insane? This sort of thing doesn’t happen . . . much.”
“I’ve seen the professor in mirrors before,” I reminded them. “But afterward I’ve never found anything . . . tangible.”
“It’s real,” Daniel said, smiling. “It’s from him.”
“I suppose,” Chad said, “if your professor traveled to a different dimension via a fold in the space-time continuum, he might have found a way to transport certain materials. Like a folder.”
“Never seen one like that,” Brenda said. “What’s it made of, plastic?”
Tank slapped his blue-jeaned thighs. “Who cares what it’s made of? What’s in it?”
I opened the folder again, relieved to discover that the contents hadn’t changed or disappeared. “It’s a bio of some man I’ve never heard of—Ambrosi Giacomo. Does that name ring a bell with anyone?”
I looked around the circle—Chad, Tank, Brenda, Daniel—nothing.
But Brenda whipped out her phone. “We don’t have to stay ignorant.” She typed on the keyboard, then nodded. “There’s a Wikipedia entry—not a long one, but enough to prove the man exists. In our world, that is.”
“And?” Chad prodded.
“Chillax, man, I’m readin’.” She skimmed the material, then looked up. “He’s some kind of businessman in Italy. Rich, apparently. And that’s all it says.”
“A photo?” I asked, wondering if Ambrose Giacomo and Benedicto Prospero could be the same person.
Brenda shook her head. “No picture. Says he was born in 1983. In Italy.”
I looked at Tank. “Ambrose Giacomo is not another name for Benedicto Prospero. The Italian guy is too young.”
“Does the article mention his companies?” Chad asked. “His line of work?”
“No and no.” Brenda dropped her phone back into her purse. “Sorry.”
“Maybe it’s a false name,” Chad said. “Or maybe the Italian dude is the Mexican dude’s son.”
“Maybe this stuff has nothing to do with the fairy,” Brenda said. “If the professor is off in another world, how do we know his world matches up with ours? Maybe he’s screwed up. Or maybe the worlds are similar, but Señor Prospero is Ambrose Giacomo in the professor’s world—and he’s younger.”
“Or—” Chad lifted a finger—“Maybe the professor is warning us about something in the future. Maybe this Ambrose Giacomo is a kind of Hitler in the professor’s world, so he’s warning us. Or maybe he just wants us to keep an eye on the guy.”
“Maybe the countries are different,” Tank said. “Maybe Italy is Mexico in the professor’s world and Mexico is something else. Maybe Ambrose whoever is investigating the fairies in the professor’s world—”