Secrets of the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  “Where’s your gun? I’ll need to take it for evidence.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Jack lifted his gaze to Robbie. “I see. You expected Trump to come search Megan’s house again, and you were waiting for him unarmed?”

  Robbie lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t say I was unarmed, I said I don’t have a gun.”

  Jack pulled out his cell phone with a sigh. O-kay, then. “I’m calling the state police, as they like to be in on this dead body stuff. Why don’t you go to my house and make yourself comfortable, as I imagine we’re both going to be here awhile. The key’s under the mat.”

  “We need to find out if he sent Megan’s laptop to Collins.”

  “I’ll check his pockets for a hotel key or receipt. If he hasn’t sent it yet, it’ll be in his room or his car. If he has, we’ll deal with that problem after we clean up this one.”

  Robbie still hesitated. “I wanted him alive, Stone.”

  “So did I,” Jack said, speed-dialing the state police.

  With a sum total of three hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, Jack finished tying his backpack down on the rear rack of his idling sled, climbed on, and headed up the lake just as the sun was breaking over Bear Mountain. He didn’t have a clue where he was going; he simply trusted that he would recognize his destination when he got there. He wasn’t wearing a helmet because he hadn’t bothered to buy a new one, and the crisp February air would go a long way toward keeping him awake.

  He still hadn’t seen Megan, and he was beginning to think the gods were waiting for him to get his act together before they let him see her again. But then, she hadn’t exactly been beating down his door, had she?

  Oh, yeah, that’s right. She was otherwise occupied, doing a mysterious favor for Kenzie Gregor—like helping him give his slimy pet a bath or something.

  Jack reined in his anger, redirecting his thoughts to more pleasant things, like the sweet sound of his purring engine. He checked his speedometer and smiled when he saw he was cruising at an effortless sixty miles per hour. Young Tom Cleary was fifty bucks richer this morning, and Jack was eight hundred bucks poorer but immensely pleased.

  Back on the lake on a snowmobile, Jack found his thoughts once again drifted to Megan, so he mentally went over the list of equipment he’d brought. It had been difficult packing for an unknown destination, but he felt prepared for just about anything. He’d taken climbing gear, his gut telling him he was headed for high ground, along with several wool blankets and a collapsible bucket. His equipment also included snowshoes, his high-powered rifle, plenty of power bars, the knife his father had given him for his eighth birthday, and his hatchet.

  Twenty minutes later, Jack let off the gas and hit the brake, bringing his sled to an abrupt stop when he noticed the solitary mountain rising up from the lake five or six miles ahead. It was almost a perfect dome, and he estimated it to be more than a thousand feet tall. He could see several sheer cliffs peeking through the dense evergreens covering it, and he let out a pained groan. Even though he was prepared, he’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to actually climb to his destination—not on three hours of sleep.

  He checked the position of the sun, guessed he’d been traveling for a little over half an hour, and realized the mountain was sitting directly at the north end of the forty-mile-long lake.

  O-kay, he decided, giving his sled the gas and quickly bringing it up to speed; if his ancestors wanted him to climb, he would climb.

  Which is exactly what Jack found himself doing half an hour later, though he didn’t have to use a rope and harness. He’d found a faint but definitely man-made path leading up the mountain, and realized he was not the first Native American to come here searching for answers.

  There was a slight hum in the air that filled Jack with a sense of peace. The higher he climbed, the stronger the hum grew, until even his bones began to vibrate in perfect harmony with an energy as ancient as time itself.

  His ancestors were singing, beckoning him closer to their circle of power. By the time he reached the top, Jack couldn’t tell if he was still in his world or theirs. He stood in a small opening in the forest and looked around.

  He had definitely arrived at his destination.

  He slid his backpack off his shoulders with a tired groan, leaned it against a crooked old pine tree, and dug out his hatchet. He found several alder saplings growing on the edge of the clearing, apparently just waiting for someone to need them. He cut down a dozen, and carried them to the center of the opening, where he drove them in the snow in a circle about ten feet wide. He returned to his pack, got out the coil of rawhide he’d brought, and started lashing the alder tips together, forming a dome.

  He pulled out the colorful, slightly tattered wool blankets next, rubbing them fondly as he breathed in their familiar scent. Vivid memories cascaded through his mind: Grand-père wrapped in his favorite blanket, huddled in front of a roaring fire, seemingly oblivious to the snow falling on and around him; three more blankets exactly like these, covering his mother and father and brother as they traveled to the afterlife; Jack’s trembling body huddled inside one of them as he fought the fever the bear attack had brought on when he was twelve.

  “Stop dawdling, Coyote,” Grand-père whispered through the trees. “We’ve been waiting what seems like forever for this day. Get on with your task.”

  “I’m coming,” Jack muttered, tossing the blankets beside the alder dome. He picked one up and shook it out, then carefully placed it over the structure, repeating the process until his shelter was completely covered.

  Picking up his pace, he built a fire just a few feet from the tiny entrance he’d left in the dome. Then, while the roaring fire did its job of making glowing embers, he went in search of water. He found a bubbling spring just beyond the clearing and knew he was standing on sacred ground. The wise ones had thoughtfully provided every necessity for anyone seeking their counsel.

  Jack knelt down and drank before plunging the bucket in the spring and lugging it back to the clearing. He set it beside the dome, crawled inside, and began tramping down the snow. He cut fir boughs and covered half the floor with them, then covered the boughs with one of the two remaining blankets. He went out and shoveled as many embers as he could into the dome, just inside and to the right of the door, well away from the fir boughs. He built the fire back up, poured the bucket of water over the wool blankets covering the poles to thoroughly soak them, then went back to the spring and refilled it.

  He came back and crawled inside his cozy little lodge. Knowing he’d soon be awash in sweat, Jack quickly undressed, neatly folding his clothes and setting them in a pile. Then he stretched out on the blanket with his hands clasped behind his head for a pillow, closed his eyes with a sigh, and decided to have a little nap while he waited.

  He woke up to a current of superheated air moving over his sweat-soaked body as several men entered the dome, led by Grand-père. His grandfather, Shadow Dreamwalker, followed, along with several other men Jack didn’t recognize. He thought one was a Viking, judging from his clothes. Another one wore the suit of a Crusader, and one looked to be wearing a Civil War uniform from the northern army, if Jack wasn’t mistaken.

  No women, only men, and all warriors.

  “Aren’t there any scholars among you?” Jack muttered, sitting up when Grand-père nudged him aside to make room to sit down. The lodge continued to fill up, and Jack realized he was the only one who was naked. Apparently apparitions didn’t sweat. He reached for his clothes, but the Viking was sitting on them.

  “You are already in touch with your gentler ancestors,” Grand-père said with a harrumph. “It’s your shadow side you need to get in touch with today, Coyote.”

  A spot of daylight appeared near the bottom of the dome, and Jack saw his brother, Walker, wiggle under the steaming wool wall and sit quietly behind the Crusader. Walker caught Jack’s eye, smiled, and gave him a wink.

  “I hope you are comfortable, Coyote,”
Grand-père said, “because I fear this may take us awhile.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It was noon the next day before Jack found himself cruising back down the lake. He felt surprisingly well rested, though his head still hurt from the rousing arguments he’d had with his ancestors, which had inevitably ended with long-winded lectures from each of them. Walker had dropped off to sleep after only two hours, and every so often Jack had glanced at his brother with envy.

  When the Old Ones had finally left just before dawn, Jack nudged Walker awake, and had just finished dressing when their mother entered the lodge looking for her older son. She and Walker had sat with Jack while he’d eaten a breakfast of power bars, and they’d chatted about any number of mundane things. Jack was sad his mother hadn’t brought his son for him to play with, but Jack’s father was babysitting. Walker was immensely pleased to learn the baby might be named after him. Then, when Jack’s eyelids had grown heavy, his mother had cradled his head in her lap and sung him to sleep.

  When he’d awakened just before noon, he’d been alone and a bit chilled because the fire had long gone out. He’d quickly dismantled his makeshift shelter, hiked down the mountain to his sled, and raced toward Pine Creek with a firm resolve and a heart filled with hope.

  Maybe the Old Ones did know what they were talking about when they’d explained there was no escaping his shadow; that he’d always find it right behind him, attached to his heels. And it was at that precise place of attachment, the Ancients had said, that Jack needed to focus his energy if he wished to be effectual. He couldn’t walk in only one or the other; shadow and light were complementary, not adversarial.

  Yeah, yeah, he got it now.

  While he’d had their collective wisdom at his disposal, Jack had asked for suggestions on how he could deal with each of the current problems he was juggling. That little request had started a whole new round of arguments—between him and his ancestors, and then between the Old Ones themselves. Hopefully the results would be worth the headache.

  Which was why when Jack entered Frog Cove he veered east toward the Bear Mountain shoreline instead of toward his home on Frog Point. He stopped on the lake in front of Matt and Winter Gregor’s cabin, shut off his sled, and was just climbing the porch stairs when he heard a pickup pull up out back. He walked to the end of the porch just as Matt Gregor got out of the truck and spotted him.

  “Chief Stone,” Gregor said, coming toward him. “What can I do for you?”

  It appeared Matt was a to-the-point kind of guy. Jack usually got along well with men with that quality.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve come to ask you for a favor,” he told Matt, getting directly to the point himself. He stepped back when Gregor climbed the stairs and faced him. “I’m in need of some sort of natural disaster,” Jack explained, ignoring Matt’s raised eyebrow. “Nothing too big or destructive, just a simple…oh, earthquake, maybe?”

  Matt just stared at Jack.

  “It would be up on the Canadian tundra, so you don’t have to worry about people getting hurt. And if you could limit its scope, even the animals should fare okay.”

  Matt folded his arms over his chest. “Are you drunk, Stone?”

  Jack sighed. “Look, I know you don’t really know me, other than what Megan may have told you. But I promise, I’m perfectly sober and admittedly desperate. Believe me, it’s a hell of a lot harder for me to ask you for a favor than it will be for you to grant it.”

  “And this favor is a limited, nondestructive earthquake somewhere up on the Canadian tundra,” Matt repeated. “May I inquire why you’ve come to me? I build jet engines, which have nothing to do with geological science.”

  “Engines don’t have much to do with magic, either,” Jack said. “But drùidhs are supposed to serve the good of mankind, and this earthquake will definitely be a good thing for a lot of people—especially Megan.”

  Matt eyed Jack with guarded interest. “Drùidh is a rather unusual word for you to use,” he said softly.

  “But one you’re quite familiar with.”

  “Says who?”

  “Say my ancestors.” Jack shrugged. “And for all I know, there may have been a few of your ancestors kicking around in my dream, too. Look, the bottom line is, I know you’re a powerful drùidh. So I’m asking you to create a natural disaster for me, just big enough to expose the oil sitting under that tundra. Once it’s common knowledge that it exists, the company Mark Collins is working for will lose its competitive edge. The Canadian government will hold on to the mineral rights, and it will be their decision what to do with that oil. Collins will no longer have any reason to come after Megan, and your father-in-law won’t go after Collins. Everyone wins—except for Mark Collins and the oil company he’s working for.”

  Matt was silent for several seconds, then quietly asked, “If you’re so knowledgeable in the ways of our ancestors, why don’t you simply create your own natural disaster?”

  “Just because I know what needs to be done doesn’t necessarily mean I can do it.”

  Matt continued studying Jack, this time the silence stretching interminably. “So the reason that man was murdered in Canada, and you sent Megan home, and the threat followed her here, is all because there’s oil under the tundra?”

  “Yup. And best as I can figure, someone hired Collins to make sure the oil wasn’t discovered until they could secure the rights to that area. That’s why he planted one of his students in the survey Megan was working on: to report if something was discovered. But once the government knows the oil is there, Collins will be out of a job and Megan will be safe.”

  “And so you need an earthquake just big enough to make the oil…what? Bubble up to the surface?”

  Jack nodded. “The moment the seismic alarms go off, that section of tundra will be crawling with geologists. They’ll find the oil, and it will be on every news station around the world by noon that day.”

  “You want an earthquake,” Matt repeated yet again. “So that Greylen won’t have to deal with Collins himself.”

  “Simply getting rid of Collins will only solve Megan’s problem temporarily. The oil company would just hire another Mark Collins, and the new man would discover Megan was part of the original mess.”

  Matt nodded. “That makes sense.” He looked directly at Jack. “In fact, everything you’ve told me so far makes sense—except that I can’t quite reconcile how you’re handling Megan’s problem with how you’re handling my brother’s.”

  “I gave Kenzie a week, and I’ll honor my promise,” Jack told Matt. “So instead of brewing a storm cloud over my head, why don’t you wave your magic wand and send that slimy beast back where it came from?”

  “Because Kenzie has asked me not to.”

  Great. Just damn great. “So anything the brother of a powerful drùidh wants, he gets? Even if it means a dragon is running around Pine Creek, breaking into shops? What happens when someone is working late in one of those shops? Are you willing to tempt fate just to indulge your brother?”

  Matt laughed, though he sounded anything but amused. “Hell, Stone, I all but sold my soul for Kenzie. Tell me, what lengths would you go to for Megan and your son? Or for any member of your family? Would you be willing to walk through the fires of hell for them?”

  “I already have.” Jack turned and walked off the porch toward his snowmobile. He stopped on the edge of the shoreline and looked back. “The sooner that earthquake happens, Cùram, the better for all of us. And I’d appreciate it if we could keep this little matter between ourselves.”

  “Megan hasn’t told you about the magic yet,” Matt stated. He suddenly lifted one brow. “Or is it you who haven’t told her yet, Coyote?”

  Jack smiled. “We’ll both get there eventually.”

  Matt nodded. “Then I will keep this between us. And I will stay out of your matter with Kenzie, as well. My brother must walk his own path, just as you must walk yours.” Then he grinned at Jack. “Keep your television
tuned to the news tomorrow morning, Stone, and see what happens when shadow and light work in harmony.”

  Jack gave Matt a wave and walked down the steep shoreline to his sled. O-kay. Either he’d just put Canada on the map as the newest nation to give OPEC a run for its money, or he’d turned it into the next world disaster-relief recipient.

  He zoomed across the cove and up onto his lawn, grabbed his pack, and headed around the house to his porch, taking the steps two at a time. He opened the screen door and spotted an envelope taped to the window.

  He dropped his pack, tore open the envelope, and read the invitation written in Megan’s bold scrawl.

  YOU ARE INVITED TO GÙ BRATH AT SIX TONIGHT.

  Jack shoved the note between his teeth, unlocked the door, picked up his backpack, and walked into his house with an eager smile. Nothing like ignoring a girl for a few days to get her to take matters into her own hands. Maybe after dinner with the parents, he’d take his little warrior for a moonlight stroll and see if she wanted to rip off his clothes again.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Dinner turned out to be a birthday party for Elizabeth’s youngest boy, with nearly every kid in town in attendance. Grace told Jack he was welcome to join the adults in the living room; no, he wasn’t expected to bring a present; yes, Megan was around someplace. “Feel free to hunt her down,” Grace had offered just as the birthday boy—Joel, Jack thought his name was—demanded his gram’s attention in the kitchen. Apparently there was a major crisis over the cake’s looking like Big Bird instead of Curious George.

  Feeling a bit overdressed in the tie and blazer he wore under his police jacket, Jack lingered in the huge foyer of the MacKeage fortress for several minutes, working up the courage to venture into the chaos. In that time he witnessed no fewer than a dozen kids, ranging in age from five to thirteen, sliding down the curving banister at breakneck speeds—with no adult to supervise them. The kids did appear to have a method to their madness, though. The older ones slid down first; then one stayed at the bottom to catch the younger kids while the others guarded the youngsters sliding past them on their way back up the stairs to do it all again.