by Ben Meeks
“Obie, I am a servant of the people, that’s all. I am just trying to keep everyone safe. I’m just asking you to keep the greater good in mind. You’re one of our top producers, but even at your best you can’t replace all that dust quickly enough. There’s a lot of families in need, not just of food and shelter but peace of mind most of all.”
I turned to look at him directly. “You don’t think I know what’s at stake here?”
“Of course you do. I’m just voicing my concern about how nonchalant you are about the dust being stolen,” he said. “It hasn’t even been announced yet. If we move quickly we might be able to recover it before it’s missed, that’s all. We need to avoid a panic.”
Otis, Hank’s father and president of the Tortured Occult, came out of the back room and waved me over. He was as large and imposing as Hank in krasis. They looked almost identical, except Otis was a little squarer around the shoulders and had grey on his chin. He had been around a long time and was starting to show his age.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about it at the bar, if it’s such a big deal,” I said. “Listen, I’m working on it. That’s all I can tell you right now.”
I didn’t wait for him to excuse me or even to see his reaction. Hambone seems to forget sometimes that I don’t work for him; I only answer to Thera. I crossed the room to where Otis was waiting.
“Well?” I asked.
He raised his hands, palms facing me, like he was already telling me to calm down. I knew it wasn’t good news. “The vote passed but you can’t keep Naylet in the clubhouse. You will have to hide her outside in the junkyard. There are a few vans out there that you can put her in. We will keep an eye on her for a few days until you can make other arrangements.”
“Outside? Why can’t I put her in one of the rooms in the back? Petra isn’t going to bust into the clubhouse to get her.” I looked around the room to see many other people absorbed in their own lives, unaware and unconcerned with my situation. “A van isn’t going to offer any protection.”
“It was discussed and that’s what was agreed to. This is the best I can do, take it or leave it,” he said.
“Sure, sorry, Otis. It’s been a rough couple days, I appreciate the help,” I replied.
“No problem. I’ll have Hank help you find you a safe hideaway,” he said.
Hank came out a few minutes later. We went back into the changing room and made the shift to human form before going to look around the junkyard. Hank pointed out a couple potential hiding places and I picked an old Ford Econoline van on blocks close to the clubhouse. All its glass was intact and the doors still closed and locked although the key was long gone. That didn’t bother me. If it was a pain for me to get her out, it would be a pain for Petra as well. I found a wrecked hood and bent it so it would fit in the van in front of Naylet to prevent anyone from seeing her from the windows. Once she was in place we locked the doors and closed it up.
“I need one more favor,” I said. “I need some transportation until I can arrange something. You still have that loaner?”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll grab the keys while you get those snakes out of my truck. They give me the heebie jeebies.”
C H A P T E R • 14
The loaner wasn’t a nice truck. Anything that identified it as a specific brand had rusted or been knocked off years ago. It was brown, but I couldn’t tell how much of it was rust and how much was paint. Despite its appearance it ran like new. Hank was a master of his craft and I knew any vehicle he got his hands on would be mechanically solid. It took a little over five hours to get to Jekyll, including stopping for gas.
I had been to the island a few times over the years, so I did a lap around the island to get my bearings. I hadn’t been here in a long time and it had changed a lot. At the same time, it seemed like the same old place. No longer in the prime of the hunting club days, when the rich Yankees migrated for the winter, now it resembled a quaint seaside community. A small shopping mall on the east side of the island was new. What was left of the original buildings, some looking the worse for wear, took up most of the developed area on the south side of the island. A golf course, some hotels, and a few rows of ranch style houses made up the difference. That’s not to say that the island was crowded, far from it. Large portions of the island were left undeveloped on principle. It’s my kind of place.
A part of me hoped to see Cearbhall walking down the street but I wasn’t that lucky. It would take some work to find him, but I knew where to start. I parked in the historical district and after a few minutes of walking found a booklet with a map of the island that helped refresh my memory. I found what I was looking for just north of Crane Cottage. An oak tree somewhere around 375 years old. The branches stretched out, reaching all the way into the ground and back up again with limbs large enough to be trees in their own right if they hadn’t been attached. Resurrection fern sat atop the uppermost branches, brown and shriveled waiting for rain to be restored to its lush green, accompanied by Spanish moss wafting lazily in the sea breeze.
I couldn’t help but smile when I saw it. The tree had grown noticeably since the last time I was here but I recognized it immediately. I ran my fingers over the branches, appreciating the twists and bumps of the limbs. It’s the imperfections that make it beautiful. Many of the lower branches stretched out around chest height and one in particular was flat enough on top to make a seat. I hopped up, leaving my legs dangling, and was sent back to my childhood in the orphanage. Every so often I would run off into the woods to explore on my own. I would get the speech of how it wasn’t safe, receive a personalized sermon on the danger my everlasting soul was in, and then be beaten with a belt, or a paddle, or whatever was handy, for my transgressions. It had been worth it. My time among the trees is one of my oldest and most treasured memories.
“It’s good to see you again, my friend. It’s been too long,” I said.
There was no response. That didn’t bother me. In life you can’t expect everyone to operate at your pace. Sometimes you have to sit and wait for them to catch up and, if you’re lucky, those ahead of you will help you along.
“How have you been? It looks like you are doing well. You have gotten a lot wider since I saw you last. Your branches are really sturdy. It’s really beautiful,” I said.
“You always were a sweet talker,” said a voice that seemed to manifest from inside the trunk.
The tree spirit manifested as a curvy woman with light brown skin with grey stripes reminiscent of a tiger or zebra, but less structured. Her hair was green and brown reaching almost to her knees, like the fern and moss on her branches.
“Let me have a look at you,” she said, walking over to me.
I couldn’t help but grin at seeing her. She looked more mature since I had seen her last. I hopped down off the limb and held out my hands, putting myself on display.
“No, Obie, I want to see the real you,” she said.
“I thought what’s inside is what matters,” I replied.
She tilted her head with an expression suggesting she didn’t approve. “What’s the point of having something beautiful inside if you don’t let it out?”
It wasn’t the kind of place I was comfortable shifting. A public area in the middle of the day. I was only about forty feet off the sidewalk, with some bushes and branches between me and one of the largest buildings on the island. Anyone that happened by or looked out the window would get an eyeful of something that could make the front page of a tabloid. I gave the area a once over. There were a few people around but no one was too close or looking in my direction. I stepped closer to the trunk and shifted to krasis.
“Wonderful, you haven’t changed a bit,” she said, eyeballing me up and down.
I didn’t want to give the impression I was uncomfortable by changing back right away. The truth is I enjoyed being in krasis; I would do it all the time if I could. Maybe that’s why I liked hanging out at the clubhouse, no need for pretense. In the middle of the day
, out in the open, is a different story. Secrets must be kept and cameras are everywhere now. The risk of being recorded is just too great for this kind of thing. I held this form for a couple minutes, without feeling particularly comfortable, before making the change back to human.
“I see you updated your pants,” she said as I fastened the Velcro. “These are much better. The buttons weren’t flattering.”
“I wish I had stuck to the kilt,” I said, my heart sinking into my feet. There were so many things I could have been known for in the past three hundred years, but the only thing anyone seems to remember are some ugly pants.
“We all do, Obie,” she replied, not bothering to hide her smirk.
“So listen, I was hoping you could help me out. I need to find Cearbhall. Last I heard he was on the island, but we haven’t kept in touch. Any idea where he is running these days?” I asked, glad to be changing the subject.
“He’s still around, but he hasn’t come by to visit in a while. I heard through the rustle and the roots that he fishes a lot on the pier. You might find him there. He made friends with some dogs he runs with from time to time, nothing serious, mind you, just some local pets longing for pack life. The last I heard he was spending a lot of nights by the old cemetery. There’s been some shady characters sneaking around up there, at least that’s what they say,” she said. “Maybe he is keeping an eye on them.”
“Sounds like he is staying busy,” I replied, not thinking much about the “shady characters” comment. “Shady” to a plant could mean a vegetarian pulling carrots from the garden or the grounds keepers trimming the trees. “Thanks for your help. I’ll come see you again soon, okay?”
“Sure, Obie, please do, and tell Cearbhall to come see me too,” she said.
I promised that I would, and made my way back to the truck. I sat in the truck, pondering my next move. My best chance to run into him would be on the pier, assuming he didn’t have a more private spot he liked to fish at. I could have a stakeout at the pier and move over to the cemetery tonight if he didn’t show up.
I drove over and parked in a largely vacant lot by the Jekyll Fishing Center. The pier, in the shape of an anchor, was cast out into the water as if its sole purpose was to keep the island from floating away. I walked out onto the pier under the pretense of a casual stroll. People were fishing from all over it, but Cearbhall wasn’t among them. It was only a few hours before sundown and there were worse places to wait. At least here I’d have a nice ocean breeze and would get to see the sunset over the water. I went back to the truck and moved it to a position to give me a good view of the pier and the sunset, and waited. I didn’t have a book and the fishing center was really only good for one visit. That left me with almost three hours with nothing to do but think. I thought about Holt and wondered what Petra could be doing to him. The sooner I could find him, the better, but I needed help. He would have to hold on until Cearbhall and I could make it back.
I thought about Cearbhall, and what I would say to him when I found him. We hadn’t parted on the best terms the last time I saw him. I was more principled back then, hung up on right and wrong. Cearbhall operates in a grey area that I understand much better now. We’d been bound to have it out at some point, but I never thought it would result in us going our separate ways. I decided it would be best not to bring up the past, unless I had to. We needed to focus on the future, and nothing positive would come from reincarnating old arguments.
When I had run out of everything else, my thoughts turned to Naylet. Before I let myself get too far into it I decided it was a perfect time to check out the fishing center. I got out of the truck and walked inside. Despite having a grandiose name, the fishing center was just a small building that rented rods and sold bait, food, and tourist stuff. The distraction didn’t last long and by the time I had done two laps around the small store it wasn’t nearly as late as I had hoped. Going back to the truck, I gave the pier one more look before climbing in and cranking the engine. The graveyard wasn’t far away, but I decided to drive the long way around the island and soak up the scenery.
The sun had just gone down when I parked in front of Horton House, or what was left of it. The building had been a large rectangle, like an enormous Lego block long before Lego was a thing. Now, it was little more than a shell of a building. The walls were made of tabby, a mixture of sand, lime, oyster shell, and water used in costal construction in days past. They were partially degraded from time and weather, not to mention assholes scratching their initials or attempts at witticisms into them. Each side of the building had nine windows and a door in the center. The balcony was gone, hell: everything was gone. It used to be a real nice place. I crossed the road, walking to a tiny graveyard with a knee-high brick wall marking its boundaries. I stood in the entry looking at the graves and sniffed the air—nothing. The gravel path in front ran beside the road through the trees. I decided to take a stroll and see if I could pick up Cearbhall’s scent. After walking for about ten minutes and coming up with nothing, I turned around and headed back.
A faint yellow light coming from Horton House caught my attention. It was probably just someone on their phone having a look around. From outside, it looked like someone waving around a weak flashlight. I crossed the road for a closer look. It was probably nothing, but I had nothing else going on. This whole trip was turning into a giant waste of time. I rounded the corner of the empty doorway into the main room to find a normal looking guy in jeans and a black tee shirt. A backpack was slung over one shoulder. He had his back to me and was looking up at the walls. When he turned to the side I saw he didn’t have a phone, it was a pendant on a necklace he wore emitting the yellow light. I couldn’t tell what the design was, but it formed a circle. He held it up to one eye and looked through it, scanning the walls meticulously. He must have heard me come in. He turned in my direction and when he saw me his head jerked back like he had been hit in the face. He jerked the pendant away and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.
That was a little strange, I’ll admit, but by itself wasn’t something I needed to get involved with. Some people use magic; it’s what they do with it that’s important. Magic alone wasn’t a problem. “Sorry to give you a start there, thought you were someone else.”
“Hey, no problem,” he said. When I turned to leave he followed up with, “Who were you looking for? Maybe I could help you look?”
I heard the scuff of a shoe from behind the wall to my right. Someone else was in the house with him.
“No thanks,” I said.
Halfway to the truck I was hit in the back so hard I almost didn’t register the gunshot. I collapsed to the ground as the pain surged through my back and out into my limbs. It took a second for my mind to get up to speed on the fact I had been shot. My back was burning intensely and a warm wet feeling started running down my back and legs. This was bad and I knew I had to get out of here. I ran for cover behind the truck, at least I tried to; I couldn’t stand up. I looked back to see my shorts were saturated with blood and clinging to my legs. I tried to move them but they weren’t responding, being dragged lifelessly behind me as I crawled. The man with the looking glass, followed by a punk looking chick with piercings and pink hair, were advancing on me, guns drawn. He was again looking through the monocle and that must be how he saw me. There’s no way he could make a shot like that without some kind of night vision helping him out.
“The rumors are true,” he said walking up to me.
“What is it?” the woman asked, keeping her gun on me. She had a silver dagger drawn in the hand supporting the gun.
I had unwittingly stumbled on a pair of hunters. People who supply the black market with dust by tracking down and killing ultra-naturals. There was no way I was going to get away. The bleeding had stopped, the healing was underway with a tingling already returning to my toes, but all this guy had to do was keep popping rounds into me, assuming they didn’t try to kill me outright. I only had one chance to make a move before
they figured it out.
“Let me see,” the woman said.
Her companion held the monocle to her eye so she didn’t have to free a hand from her weaponry. “We hit the jackpot, look how he glows. Hey, he looks like he’s healing up pretty fast, we should get him secured quick.”
“Let’s do a couple more, just to be safe,” the man said before firing three more rounds into my chest.
The impact slammed into me as the bullets tore through my body. I fell back, not even able to scream, only gasping as my lungs filled with blood. They actually laughed at seeing my body fail. That’s when I saw it behind him, a single eye glowing yellow, bounding up and down in a charge. The world disappeared into a tunnel as distant gun fire and screaming echoed in my ears. Then all was quiet.
C H A P T E R • 15
I woke up facedown in a bathtub, the cold porcelain chilling my cheeks. It felt good, but took a second for my mind to come around to what had happened. Getting shot once wasn’t one of my favorite things, let alone four times. I was glad to have been unconscious for the healing process—you miss a lot of pain when you’re unconscious, small blessings. I wasn’t sure where I was in the healing process. I didn’t have any pain but I hadn’t moved yet either. I took a minute to move every piece of my body, just a little wiggle, starting with my fingers and toes, moving through my arms and into my back. Nothing hurt, so I pulled myself into a seated position in the tub. I was still wearing my clothes and they, along with the white porcelain of the tub, were covered with blood, some pooled and dried into a rusty brown around the edges. A few pieces of mushroomed metal, the bullets expelled by my body during the healing process, rested in the blood.
Through the open door of the bathroom I could see a small studio apartment. A kitchen was directly beside the bathroom, with a bed and a couple of chairs facing a TV against the far wall. A playground and palms illuminated by streetlights were visible through the sliding glass door. Some folded clothes had been placed on top of a towel on the toilet. A note covered the pile that read: Out, clean up the blood. It was a familiar scribble; I could recognize Cearbhall’s handwriting anywhere.