“Interesting question. Historically, you would use an ox rib for the bow and recurve it to get the needed spring. It’s best to back it with leather because the bow will shatter as it dries. Arrows are even more problematic. You have to splinter the bone into useable lengths and fire the heads. They’re not strong, but it’s said they fly true.”
“I don’t suppose you carry anything like that.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “But it seems to me I met a guy at a conference once. Hold on, let me see if I still have his card.”
Emily nodded into the phone. She stared out the windshield, listening to the engine groan as the car lurched over mud and tree roots. Ahead, Tom’s bike guttered and whined.
Clive returned to the line sounding jovial. “You are so lucky to have me as a friend.”
“That’s what I keep telling everybody.”
“The guy’s name is Adam Snow, and the place is called Weapons and Artifacts. It’s in Albuquerque. You want the phone number?”
“That’s okay. I’ll look it up on the Internet. Thanks. I owe you.”
“No problem. Glad to hear you’re competing again.”
Emily set the phone on the seat as Tom and his bike detoured around a fallen tree. She swerved to avoid the obstacle, and then followed him to a field bordering the highway.
Tom dismounted and approached, leaning into her open window. “You want I should lead you to Southland Field?”
“No,” she said. “Where is the nearest large airport?”
“Chennault International, just a little east of Lake Charles. You can return the car there. Follow this road and get on two-ten.”
“Thanks.” She smiled and added earnestly, “Thanks for everything. You saved my life.”
Tom grinned. “I’m just glad you found what you wanted.”
“And that I’m leaving.”
“That, too.” He rapped her doorframe and walked back to his bike.
Emily pulled around him, tapped her horn in farewell, and headed north on LA 27. After she got her bearings, she picked up her phone and dialed home. “Hi. It’s me.”
“Where are you?” Esmeralda said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m leaving Louisiana headed for New Mexico. I ran into Joey, but April wasn’t with him.”
“You found him? What did he say?”
“After he strangled me for a few minutes, he didn’t say much of anything.”
“Are you okay?”
“As well as can be expected.”
Esmeralda paused. “Your parents are here.”
“You called them?”
“I thought it was best. Do you have time to speak with them?”
Emily winced. “I really don’t. Just tell them I love them, and I’ll call again as soon as I have a chance.”
“One more thing. The police have a tap on this phone. We’re waiting for a ransom demand.”
Emily felt irked that Esmeralda hadn’t mentioned the tap sooner. It wasn’t that she wanted to hide from the police, she just didn’t want any interference. “That will save you from having to repeat everything I told you. As for a ransom, I don’t think April’s abductors have any intentions of giving her back.”
TWENTY-THREE
Weapons & Artifacts was a small shop with almost no storefront. Emily failed to notice it even after getting an address and directions from the Internet. She was surprised when the cab driver pulled into the parking lot. To one side of the shop there was a fabric store with early Halloween decorations in its window. A hardware store stood on the other side—a sign in the window boasted Voted Number One Hardware in Albuquerque.
Emily paid the driver and got out of the cab. The asphalt was rough and cracked with oil slicks marking the parking spots. Crows cawed and fought over something in the gutter. She took hold of the doorknob. It felt gritty, and she realized a fine layer of dust coated the building and the sidewalk. She opened the door and went inside.
Fluorescent tubes lit the windowless shop. The air smelled of leather. Emily gasped, running her gaze over walls filled with displays of bows and spears. She saw longbows and crossbows, staffs decorated with feathers, and a case full of arrowheads. Under different circumstances, she would love to spend time in the place.
A small, wizened man shambled out of a back room. He had a flat, dark face and shiny, black hair. He nodded and smiled, showing badly decayed teeth. “How may I help you?”
“Are you Adam Snow?” Emily asked.
“Actually, it’s Snowmaker, but I was the butt of so many jokes about snow blowers, I had my name changed.” He stepped close, peering up at her through slit eyes. Wrinkles lined his skin so heavily his eyes seemed to disappear. “Do I know you?”
“No, sir. I heard you sell bows and arrows made of bone.”
“Yes, indeed.” He shuffled away, motioning for her to follow. “Are you interested in a particular era?”
“I’m not sure.” She glanced about at the many exhibits.
Most of the bows hung on the walls in individual glass cases. He took one down, opened it, and offered the bow to her.
Emily took it gingerly. The bone was yellow, carved on either end, and backed by peeling leather. It felt fragile. She wondered how old it was.
“Did Native Americans make this?” she asked.
He scoffed. “Yes, but not the Native Americans you mean. It burns my cockles every time I hear that term used exclusively for those who wore buckskin and feathers as opposed to those who wear fur.”
She looked at him. “You mean Eskimos?”
“My people.” He nodded. “We made many things out of bone. Didn’t always have the luxury of trees like some Native Americans.”
“What’s an Eskimo doing in New Mexico?”
“I decided to retire somewhere warm.”
Emily chuckled, then turned her attention to the bow. “May I string this?”
“Acht tut tut.” He took the bow away and returned it to its case. “For display purposes only.”
“Do you have any that are functional?”
He squinted at her. “What do you mean?”
“I need a working bow. I want to test how well the arrows fly.”
“Writing some sort of research paper?” He hung the bow and its glass case back on the wall. “There is a reason today’s weapons are not made of bone. They have a short life. Once the bone dries, it turns brittle. Worthless.”
“Any way to extend the lifespan?”
“Use a fresh kill. Cover the bone with leather or sinew. Sinew works best because it shrinks as it dries, putting the back of the bow into compression and protecting against breakage.”
“So they tied the sinew onto the bone?”
“Glued it. Boiled cartilage to make the glue.”
She nodded. “What did they use, ox ribs?”
“Whale bone. Not many oxen where that came from.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “I expected it to be strung with cat gut.”
“Gut has too much give. Simple rawhide works best.”
“Can you show me some arrows?”
“This way.”
He led her to a narrow wooden cabinet lined with a variety of arrows from aluminum to yew. Unlocking the glass front, he reached inside.
“Bone arrows are shorter than traditional arrows,” he said. “They cannot be fletched. As you see, the shafts are not round but wedge-shaped. Here, you can hold it.”
Emily took the arrow. It had three flat sides, notched at one end. The other end was ground to a sharp point. “Do Eskimos still use these?”
He grinned. “Not if they can help it.”
“How are arrows like this made?”
“With practice and care. You use a sort of chisel to split the bone into sections, and then you keep splitting until you get the desired thickness.”
“It’s so lightweight,” she said, hefting the length in her hands.
“It’s porous and old, probably shatter into a thousand pieces i
f you hit anything with it.”
“That one wouldn’t.” She pointed into the cabinet.
He stammered. “Wh-what? Which one?”
“There. I can tell by the color it’s not as old as the others. Let me see it.”
His lips pressed into a line, competing with the creases in his face. He took the arrow from her and put it back in its slot. Then he took out the arrow she had indicated.
The moment she touched it, she knew it was a viable weapon. The weight and balance were perfect. She looked closer and noticed tiny animals etched into the shaft.
Seized by sudden revelation, she stared at Mr. Snow. “You made this.”
He avoided her eyes.
Emily ran her fingers over the intricate carvings. “I need more like this.”
“How many more?”
“As many as you have. Money is no object.”
He narrowed his eyes, his jaw working as if in a silent argument. But her comment about money seemed to win out. He jerked his head. “Come with me.”
Ambling through the shop, he took her to the back room. Emily recognized woodworking tools in racks on the walls. And a tree stump with papery bark, some old railroad ties, even a piece of a telephone pole. Animal hides draped the ceiling. This was where the smell of leather came from.
She followed the old man around a wall of stacked crates and into a room filled with ancient-looking weaponry. Spears and lances stood upright in barrels. Hatchets and knives lay upon workbenches. Most were made of wood and stone, many decorated with tooled leather casings, and although they looked aged, they had the smell of new materials.
Emily stepped forward in amazement. Had Mr. Snow made all these things?
She approached one of the many tables, drawn to the three arrows lying there. They were creamy yellow, and the animal etchings on their sides were mottled brown. “Can these arrows be used?”
Obviously flustered, he motioned to a large kiln. “I bake them, you see. To dry them and add patina. If you want functional arrows, I will have to start from scratch.”
“Let me guess,” she said, picking one up. “You make these yourself and sell them to the public as artifacts.”
“I don’t tell them they are artifacts. I can’t help what they assume.”
“It’s the name of your shop,” she said. “What else would they think?”
He scowled at her.
“Fraud, isn’t it?” she said, setting the arrow down carefully. “You’ll have people standing in line to sue you. Maybe do a little jail time.”
“Perhaps. But if you go to the police to tell them of me, you will also have to explain why you want bone weaponry in working order.”
“Touché.”
Emily walked along the aisles, looking at his wares. The workmanship was beautiful. She picked up a knife. The blade was eight inches long and made of stone. The hilt curved in gentle scrolls, leaving indentations for the grasp of fingers.
“I don’t suppose you have anything like this in bone,” she said.
“Walrus tusk,” he said, rushing to a worktable and showing her a knife. “One of a kind. Quite pricey.”
“It’s a good thing you’re giving me such a nice discount.”
He hesitated. “Of course.”
“About the arrows—”
“I have ten cut, but they need to be notched.” He took a burlap bundle from beside the kiln. Inside were ten thin shafts of white bone, each about eighteen inches in length. “You can make separate arrowheads out of either bone or stone, but bone arrows fly better without the excess weight.”
Emily ran her thumb over the sharpened point. “They’re fine as they are. What about a bow?”
“I have only one.”
“I’ll take it, and as much leather as you can spare.”
“But why?” he cried. “Why do you want these things?”
“I’ll answer that with another question.” Emily set the arrow back on the table. “Do you take Visa or MasterCard?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Emily gazed out the window of the Florida-bound jet, reflecting on what she’d learned from Mr. Snow. Once the old Eskimo got over his distrust, he was amicable and forthcoming, and proved to be a skilled bowyer. He even taught her how to make a bone-splitting tool from a knuckle joint.
She had the tool plus the rest of her tackle in an arrow case in the overhead. She expected problems with airport security, but Mr. Snow gave her a bastardized certificate of authenticity stating the whalebone bow, the ten bone arrows, and the walrus tusk knife were for display purposes only. He also gave her a card naming her a collector of antiquities. After a thorough inspection and a lengthy interview, Security passed her through.
Emily pressed the call button. She asked a flight attendant for a bottle of water and a bag of salted peanuts. That was something Chastity suggested she do—take in as much water and salt as she could in preparation for the trip. There would be neither on the other side.
As she waited, Emily ran through some of Chastity’s other suggestions—hold your breath while in the portal. Keep your arms pulled in tight, your eyes closed.
A wave of trepidation swept her. Was she really going to do this? Chastity said there were hundreds of demons in hell, all of them bent on inspiring as much terror and pain in their captives as they could. Even with a general floor plan of the seven levels of the castle, how was Emily going to avoid detection?
The flight attendant brought her snack, and Emily downed half the water. She held the cold, sweating plastic bottle to her equally damp forehead, fighting the fear churning her stomach. After taking several calming breaths, she conjured her daughter’s face and let it strengthen her resolve.
Emily landed in Jacksonville at three o’clock. She rented a white Chevy Aveo from a line of identical rentals. It still had a new car smell. She opened the windows, not allowing herself the luxury of air conditioning. She needed to get used to the heat.
On her drive south, she stopped at a gas station to use the rest room and to buy more bottled water. A display of pamphlets caught her eye. She remembered Dan’s stash of haunted house brochures, and how she teased him about it. She wished she hadn’t. How was she to know it was his last day on Earth?
As she leafed through the display, Emily found an ad for a Native American store. Indian not Eskimo, she thought, remembering Mr. Snow’s ire on the subject. She studied the ad’s thumbnail map as she walked back to the car. She set the bottles in the cup holders, stuck the pamphlet in the visor, and continued driving.
Once in Saint Augustine, Emily located Datil Pepper Road and then a store with an Indian headdress and colorful blankets in the window. She bought a hooded leather coat that reached to mid-calf, leather pants that laced up the sides, and buckskin prairie boots that cuffed below her knee. She signed the credit slip without noticing how much she paid for the ensemble. She had everything necessary.
She would go to hell tonight.
It was nearly five when she parked in front of Vanessa’s Psychic Parlor. She sat for a moment, wondering how to convince Vanessa to open Satan’s Mirror for her. Her knife was in her case in the trunk. Should she bring it along?
She decided money would be a greater motivator. She would offer Vanessa everything she had—it was meaningless anyway. She could come back for the knife if the woman refused.
Emily stepped from the car and strode to the parlor’s front door. Locked. She knocked and heard bells jingle on the other side. No one there. What sort of business hours would a fortuneteller keep?
She circled the building, following the alley to the back entrance. It, too, was locked.
A heated pique rushed through her. She wanted to kick out the screen door, wanted to scream you can’t deter me so easily. She gazed up the wooden flight of stairs leading to the apartment, sniffing as if she could detect Vanessa cooking dinner. A homey scene overtook her ire.
Joey might be there. He might be regaling Vanessa with the story of how he caught Emily in the
swamp. They were probably having a good laugh.
The idea sobered her. Mouth dry, heart pounding, Emily took a step. Should have brought the knife after all. She held the railing as she climbed, fingers splayed over splintering wood and blistered paint. When she reached the top landing, she felt heady and unreal.
She rapped at the door.
No one answered.
Emily cocked her head, listening for movement. She knocked louder, looking around. One of the windows held a rattling air conditioning unit. Her husband used to call them shakers.
She knocked again, and then turned the knob. The latch opened. After a moment’s hesitation, Emily pushed the door wider. A smell met her. Not cooking odors but that of spoiled meat.
Death. Vanessa’s dead. Joey killed her. She should go back to the car, call the police.
She took a step inside. “Hello?” Her voice sounded sharp in the silence. She stepped farther into the room, leaving the door open.
She was in the kitchen. Tidy. No signs of a struggle. The counter was clear. There were no dishes in the sink. Two coffee mugs sat on the kitchen table.
Emily moved forward, gaping, fabricating a story. They had a cup of coffee together. Vanessa said something Joey didn’t like, and his cold hands went around her throat…
With a gasp, Emily touched her neck where the bruises still showed. She stared at the table. Burn marks scored the chipped edge. The center held an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Two different brands.
He was here. She suppressed a shudder. Was he still in the apartment?
Eyes wide, she moved into the living room. An old window blind turned the air yellow. The smell was worse—musty and old. It came from the bedroom. That was where she would find Vanessa’s bloated body. She should leave. But she had to know.
Steeling herself, she squeezed between the shadowed furniture. A threadbare Oriental rug muffled her steps. On the arm of the couch lay a newspaper folded to the crossword. She picked it up, holding it toward the faint light filtering through the window. The paper was dated two days ago.
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