by Matt Carter
I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that there was no way that Haley could be a Splinter, that in all the time we’d spent together since her reappearance, never once had I seen any indication that she was anything but the girl I’d known most of my life. I wanted to tell Mina this, but I didn’t because at that exact moment she shrieked.
“Open the box!”
She unslung the glass case from her back and thrust it into my arms, pulled some long metal kitchen tongs from her bag, and knelt next to the fragment.
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” My stomach turned when I saw it.
It was part of that tongue that had gotten away, still with most of its improvised legs attached. It had anchored one end of itself to a tree root and wrapped the other end around a small rat, which was struggling for its life half-heartedly enough that it had probably been doing so unsuccessfully for most of the night. The tongue was repairing itself in the middle where small slivers of it had recently been gnawed off, and it had sprouted a few patches of brown fur and tufts of coarse whiskers at random intervals.
“Box!” Mina reminded me. I had almost as hard a time looking away as I did trying to figure out how the box was supposed to open, but I managed it somehow. Forcefully, she fit the tongs around the tongue-rat combo and began to pull it from the roots.
The tongue’s tail, if that was the right word, ripped off when she pulled it hard enough. When she held the rest of the squirming tangle just out of reach, it let go of the root to jump up and reattach itself. I held the box open for her to toss the whole thing in and then latched it shut. It fought viciously inside, scrabbling up the glass and hissing at us with two . . . no, make that three new mouths.
“It’s horrible,” I said.
“It’s a means to an end,” she clarified as she shook the box slightly. “I’ve built up a collection of talismans that have somehow kept my father out of my room. At least one of them appears to have an effect on Splinters. I’ve been hoping to test just which item or combination of items it is.”
“Maybe he just respects your space,” I proposed.
She shrugged, “Possible, but improbable.”
We’d made it back to the sidewalk when I heard the front door of the house behind us open and close. I looked back to see the same bald man from last night, smiling and waving at us in a neighborly fashion from across his immaculate yard before unwinding a garden hose to water his roses.
“That’s the guy from last night,” I said.
She nodded, “Dr. Westlake. Our town veterinarian.”
He smiled, looking at the sky and breathing in the fresh summer air as if he didn’t have a care in the world. This wasn’t the same man who had been shouting and cursing at his flaming car last night. Now there was something undeniably spooky about him.
I had to know for sure. I walked to him despite Mina’s protests.
“Uh . . . hi,” I started out. Dr. Westlake had been about to turn on the faucet but stopped to listen. “I heard there was a . . . commotion here last night. Did you see it?”
Dr. Westlake looked thoroughly bewildered. “Commotion? What commotion?”
“Uh . . .” I looked back at the car. “Wasn’t there a fire around here?”
“Fire? Not here, I’m afraid. If you’re mistaken and there was a fire somewhere else, I certainly hope everyone is all right,” he said. Then he smiled, as if this were all some good-natured joke. He didn’t glance at the glass case behind Mina, not even when the rat inside gave an extra high-pitched squeal.
He wasn’t afraid.
This man had been freaking out about his car the night before. Not the deer or the blood on the street, just his car. He definitely hadn’t been in on some plot about more important things then. And now he couldn’t care less about what had happened, and not because someone was bribing him or blackmailing him. That kind of “cleanup” would have left him at least a little nervous. He was absolutely calm on a pure biological level.
He was a Splinter now.
“Oh. Sorry. You . . . have a good morning, then.” I backed away to join Mina. We walked away slowly down the sidewalk, and it took everything I had to avoid looking back at him to see if we were being watched.
Once I was sure we were a safe distance away, I blurted out, “I believe you! About humans being Splinters, I mean.”
“Good,” she said simply.
“We have to find the Miracle Mine.”
She looked at me, exasperated, “I told you, I’ve tried. Being in the forest is dangerous at the best of times, obviously, and searching it without the records is like looking for a needle in a stack of needles. And I can’t get the records.”
I smiled. Mina had a good head on her shoulders when it came to analyzing whatever information she had in front of her, but I could tell she wasn’t used to more creative problem-solving.
“Have you ever tried asking nicely?”
11.
Sweet Talk
Mina
I didn’t exactly have the most extravagant hopes.
Finding the Miracle Mine had been one of my highest goals for as long as I’d known what it really was, just a few notches below ridding the world of the Splinters altogether. There was nothing in the National Mine Map Repository beyond the tourist info—I’d searched the obvious places thoroughly enough to be kicked out of most of them—and I’d stolen just enough time in the Historical Society database to realize how much more time I’d need there to find any decent new leads.
Ben had more experience in the woods than I did. That much was true, but it seemed like such a small advantage against such steep odds that I hadn’t even taken it into consideration when I’d selected him to maintain as an ECNS.
On the other hand, if I didn’t take whatever advantages I could when it came to finding the Miracle Mine, it would just be poor prioritization.
So I followed behind Ben on our way to one of Prospero’s few publically advertised tourist points of interest, the Prospero Historical Society and Museum.
Quite a distance behind him, actually.
Mrs. Voorhees smiled her enthusiastically noble, volunteer, housewife smile at him from behind her desk, the way she did at anyone who opened the Society and Museum’s front door.
Well, almost anyone.
“Hello!” she chirped at the exact same discordant interval she always used for the word. “New to Prospero?”
“Almost new,” Ben agreed.
“Welcome! You’re definitely going to want a copy of the—”
Her eyes revoked the “welcome” when they found me in the doorway.
“She’s not allowed in here.”
Technically, any volunteer at the Historical Society was required to point this out, but Mrs. Voorhees had been the particular volunteer dumb enough to use her birthday as her password and then leave me alone at the reception desk, and she had taken it very personally.
I stayed at the door, holding it open without crossing the threshold. Ben looked over his shoulder at me as if only just remembering I was there, as if I hadn’t warned him about this complication five times over, and then looked excitedly back at Mrs. Voorhees.
“Really? What did she do?”
“Blatant disregard for the integrity of local records,” Mrs. Voorhees said stiffly. I doubted that was a specific charge, even as far as the Prospero Historical Society was concerned.
Ben laughed agreeably. “Yeah, that sounds like her. Blatant disregard for a lot of things. I can sympathize, believe me.”
Mrs. Voorhees smiled and looked back and forth between us, as if she expected to find writing on one of our foreheads explaining what brought us there together, if we were there together by more than chance at all. “What did you say your name was?” she asked.
“Ben Pastor,” Ben introduced himself, as agreeable as ever, any hint of how inconvenient or unpleasant he might find this woman perfectly hidden.
“Ben Pastor?” she repeated excitedly. “Ben Pastor who saved that poor Perkins gir
l?”
Ben blushed very convincingly for someone who’d been milking that impression all over town.
“People make it sound like I found her in a dragon-
guarded castle or something,” was the way he said, “Yes, that Ben Pastor.”
This was probably among the most exciting things ever to happen during Mrs. Voorhees’ volunteer shifts.
“Well, what can I do for you, Ben Pastor?” she giggled, though I didn’t get the joke. “Have you had a chance to look through the museum yet?”
The museum was a single room full of black-and-white photos and a few dioramas of the town from different time periods.
“Oh, just you, I’m afraid.” Her desire to be nice to Ben wasn’t quite strong enough to make her look apologetic about me.
“I completely understand,” Ben hurried to assure her. “And I would, but I’m kind of stuck with the babysitting thing if I want to get out and see the place while I’m here at all. Package deal.”
Even from behind, I could tell that he was rolling his eyes at me in a gallant, put-upon way.
I hurried to add up Mrs. Voorhees’ immediate network of contacts in my head. We were lucky. She almost certainly didn’t know how little connection there was between our families, so as long as we got in and out before she had the opportunity to check, this ploy would be no problem. I made a mental note to remind Ben later how verifiable things like that were in a town as small as Prospero.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Voorhees said with excessive emphasis. “Guidebooks, then?” she offered, opening the large filing drawer next to her desk. “We’ve got the real insider look here, not just the stuff you get from the Auto Club. Or a brief local history? Ancestry guides—”
“Actually,” Ben interrupted her the way I was trying to teach myself not to do, but she looked at him more as if it were a charming expression of interest than a breach of etiquette. “I’m more into hiking. I like to make time for a little nature exploring whenever I’m in a new place, and I know Prospero’s supposed to have all these old mining sites—”
“You don’t want to go looking for those!” She was warning him very earnestly, but she glanced at me, too, and I wondered if she still remembered what she had once caught me looking at. “We’ve got a couple restored for public viewing, but you take one wrong step next to one of those old—”
“Exactly!”
That weird flattered look from Mrs. Voorhees again. I really needed to learn Ben’s style of interruption.
“No, I was hoping you had a map of places to stay away from! My cousin slipped into an old well when we were six—well, I was six; he must have been seven. It had been mostly filled in over the years, thankfully, but it still scared the hell out of me—pardon my French, ma’am. I wouldn’t risk it at all, but . . . I mean, look at this place!” He gestured at the gift shop’s helpfully labeled “Vista Window,” and Mrs. Voorhees looked out as proudly as if she’d designed Prospero herself, surrounding landscape and all.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she agreed. “Our Adventure Guide points out the popular trailheads.”
Ben looked like he was trying to hide his disappointment. If he had actually been trying, he would have done a better job.
“Yeah,” he said wistfully. “I remember my dad helping me get certified for those beginner trails. I guess that’s kind of where the obsession started for me.”
Mrs. Voorhees had found the guidebook, but she didn’t make him take it, just gaped at him like this was the sweetest thing she’d ever heard, which, if true, almost made me feel sorry for her.
“He was so happy when I started asking him to show me the bigger challenges,” Ben hinted.
Mrs. Voorhees glanced at me, apprehensive again. “I can’t endorse reckless behavior,” she said. I think that’s a direct quote from the Prospero Historical Society Volunteer Handbook.
“Of course, not.” Ben leaned on the counter, closer to her. I was sure she would never have let me get anywhere near it without a lecture on leaving finger smudges, even before I was banned. “But if I wanted to be reckless, I wouldn’t need a map at all.”
I was sure this was the point where his plan would fall apart. This was where she had to say yes or no, and as hard as he’d pulled on the “yes” side of the scale, “no” would still win, and “no” was just as big an obstacle whether it was said with single-minded conviction or not.
Trust Ben to find a third option.
He didn’t ask for her answer.
“You know, if I did want to have a quick look around the museum . . . it wouldn’t take too long, would it? I mean, I’ve always heard Prospero’s had some really interesting things happen here. . . .”
He glanced over his shoulder at me, and I tried to look as if I’d be annoyed if she gave him a good reason to stick around with her any longer.
“No, it wouldn’t take long, not at all!” she answered.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked me.
I pretended to sulk harder against the doorway, and he turned back to Mrs. Voorhees.
“I was so tempted by those gold rush journals when I read they were here. I’m kind of a history buff; I’m thinking about teaching someday. I know I’d kick myself if I missed them.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Voorhees bit her lip and drew her eyebrows together for a moment and then stopped herself before she could crack her makeup. “Most of the historical books aren’t actually on display. They’re very fragile . . .” Ben didn’t say anything, but somehow he made her spontaneously decide that she couldn’t stand to disappoint him a second time. “But the journal’s in surprisingly good condition!” She dropped her voice as if speaking in anything less than her usual maximum volume might obscure her words at all. “I can close up shop for my break. If you’d be very careful and keep it to yourself—”
“Of course!” Ben saved her from saying anything more incriminating. “I mean, if it’d be okay. I can’t even tell you how cool that would be!”
Mrs. Voorhees smiled unpleasantly while she shut and locked the front door to keep me away from her computer while she gave Ben the grand tour.
I set myself up under one of the stray pines in the side yard, a feed in each ear, eyes on the tracker, front door, back door, and two rearview compact mirrors for my own safety. It was an uncomfortably warm afternoon; it only took a few minutes of trying to block the sun with the pages of my observation notebook to make me envy Ben’s air-conditioned project.
It took closer to an hour to make me start to worry, to start imagining a Splinter Mrs. Voorhees taking Ben straight to what he’d really been asking for, however far away it was, even though I couldn’t see any way I could have missed them leaving.
After an hour and ten, I packed up my things and was about to start knocking on the glass door when I heard another door open inside, and Ben and Mrs. Voorhees both came back into sight in the temperate reception area, both laughing, not a drop of sweat or a hint of sunburn between them.
Ben fiddled the lock on the front door open to join me on the step, slowing down for excessive repetitions of “Thanks” and “It was great to meet you,” with an encouraging smugness about his smile and a thick manila folder tucked under his arm.
Once we’d descended out of Mrs. Voorhees’ sight, he opened the folder to show me the topographical maps inside.
I remembered the survey team coming out when I was little and how disappointed I’d been when the results had been kept confidential. And that was back when seeing the actual Miracle Mine would have been a cool day trip to me rather than a breakthrough in my life’s work.
“And I got a look at that journal,” he told me, “but it’ll take a lot more than a lunch to find anything useful in it.”
Lunch. The word distracted me painfully, but only for a moment.
“Did you get a copy?” I asked, wishing he’d finally adopt the logical habit of beginning with important details like that.
He pulled out his phone and brought
up the slideshow of thirty-four pictures, each one of them two handwritten pages wide. Whatever involuntary reaction it caused in me doubled the triumph on his face.
Cold energy drink and matching energy bar in hand, leaning against the cool, underground wall of my room, I waited for the photos to upload and watched Ben laying out the map pages on the floor by the coordinate markings, pointing out his errors here and there. My skin was still stinging from the sun. The writing in the Diary of Ambrose Arkham was small, sloppy, and smudged in places, and the lines on opposite pages were so misaligned with each other that it was hardly any faster to read both at once than one at a time, and the sketches of tunnel layouts were so crude that they took even longer to make sense of. It took me all of thirteen minutes to get through the whole thing, but that was okay. Ben was only just finishing laying out the last few pages by then.
“Okay,” he squinted back and forth between the carpet of pages and some kind of reference key on his phone, the way Aldo did when he was trying to see too many things at once. I wished I could just see it all for him. At least he understood the thing, in a slow, rusty way. It probably would have taken longer for him to teach me what I was looking for. “There are caverns that look like they were probably mines here . . . here . . . here. . . .” He marked sixteen places, some small enough to put in a near perfect circle, some long and irregularly shaped.
“How deep do these three go?” I pointed out the ones with public tours.
“Not very. Looks like they were the newest when the mining stopped.”
“Probably not those, then. I’ve searched the public parts, and people have definitely disappeared while I’ve been watching their main entrances.”
Ben put a double minus sign next to each one. I liked it. Much better than crossing them out. He was finally understanding the concept of “probably.”
“That leaves a lot of options.”
“He describes the place a little,” I said, “before the replacement.” I meant to turn back to the first half where the only useful observations were, but I was having some trouble looking away from later entries.
