Ancestor

by Scott Sigler

  Sara laughed. “Clayton and the others are Yoopers.”

  “What the hell is a yooper?”

  “People from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. You know, Upper Peninsula … U. P. … Yooper, get it? Yoopers have a real thick accent all their own. Ya instead of yes, da instead of the, and they end a lot of sentences with eh?, which is basically a rhetorical question. You’ll get used to it. And if a Yooper is from above the bridge, can you guess what they call people who live below it?”

  “Ah,” Colding said. “Trolls live beneath the bridge. Wow. What a clever culture you have in these parts.”

  A blast of the Hummer’s horn jolted them both. Clayton had one hand on the steering wheel, the other twirling in an annoyed circle that said, Let’s go already.

  “I seriously do not like this guy,” Colding said.

  Sara walked around to the left rear door. “That’s okay, he clearly doesn’t like you, either. Nobody does, really.”

  Colding sighed and got in the Hummer’s passenger seat.

  Clayton jammed the vehicle into reverse and squealed out of the hangar. He turned right and stopped fast, throwing everyone around in their seats, then put it in first and shot down the dirt road that ran through the center of the island like a spine.

  NOVEMBER 9: BROTHERLY LOVE

  DANTÉ’S ELBOWS RESTED on his white marble desk, and his hands held his head. How could this have happened? Every time he turned around, they were stepping deeper and deeper into a head-high pile of dog shit.

  He looked up. Magnus sat in front of the desk, relaxing in a chair. He seemed not the least bit bothered by his actions.

  “Magnus, how could you have done this?” Danté spoke quietly, firmly. For too long, perhaps, he’d ignored the sad truth: his brother was a bona fide sociopath.

  “Relax,” Magnus said. “The problem is solved.”

  “Solved? Solved? You killed Erika Hoel!”

  “And what would you have done, given her a raise?”

  Danté’s face scrunched in frustration. He felt a pain in his chest. He pounded the desk with his fist, just once. The fist stayed there like a dropped gavel.

  “Danté, seriously, you need to relax.” Magnus sounded as calm as if this were a budget meeting with the board of directors. That calmness infuriated Danté even more. His own brother, a killer.

  “I don’t see the problem,” Magnus said. “Our facility is destroyed, including our equipment, including the cows. I had Farm Girl send an email to the media—the Animal Liberation Front claimed responsibility for the blast. Gosh, they didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but as they said in the email, if you commit atrocities on God’s creatures, don’t blame the ALF if there is collateral damage.”

  “Fischer knows that’s all total bullshit.”

  “Of course he does,” Magnus said. “But the ALF has grown more aggressive in the past few months, so the story fits. The media buys into it. If they do, so does the G8. Everyone wants to see xenotransplantation shut down, and guess what? Now we’re shut down just like everyone else. So what can Fischer do about it?”

  “He’ll look for Rhumkorrf’s project, that’s what.”

  “And he won’t find it. Fischer has no idea where Bubbah and the staff have gone. As long as no one on Black Manitou gets stupid and tries to contact the outside world, we’re in the clear. It’s what you wanted, Danté—time for Rhumkorrf to finish the project.”

  Danté sat quietly. Magnus hadn’t just made a snap reaction, hadn’t flipped out over his service buddy’s death—he’d thought all of this through. In a way, Danté wished it had been a reaction, a crime of passion. That would have been easier to understand than premeditated murder.

  “This isn’t Afghanistan, Magnus. This isn’t combat. You killed a woman, for God’s sake.”

  His brother smiled. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know what I am? Pretend you weren’t secretly relieved when Galina conveniently disappeared?”

  Danté leaned back as if he’d been slapped. He hadn’t wanted Galina to die, not even for a second. “I had nothing to do with her death. You did that, not me.” He felt his heart hammering in his temples. His skin felt hot.

  Magnus rubbed his right forearm. “You told me you wished Galina could just go away. What did you think I was going to do when I heard you say that? Did you think I wouldn’t come through for you?”

  Danté looked away. Magnus was wrong. It hadn’t been like that. It hadn’t. Danté had just wanted the project to continue, to benefit all of humanity. Of course he’d wished for Galina to go away, but he’d said as much in front of Magnus. Said it … seen the cold look in his brother’s eyes … and said no more.

  “Danté, you know I love you, but let’s be honest, you really don’t have a lot going on in the balls department. You have Dad’s skill at running a company, the fund-raising, the public panache, all of that good stuff. When I watch you do your thing at board meetings or the media, it blows me away. I can’t do those things. But when it comes to the other stuff? The off-camera stuff? You just don’t have Dad’s stones. I do. Together, we make a great team, wouldn’t you say?”

  Danté felt that pain in his chest again. Sharper this time. His brother’s eyes, so cold, not a shred of emotion.

  “Get out, Magnus. Just get out of my sight.”

  Magnus stood and walked out, leaving Danté alone with his stress and his shame.

  NOVEMBER 9: THE FAIRY

  CLAYTON’S HUMVEE FOLLOWED the same road they’d flown over. No surprise, since it was the only road. Arching trees walled up either side. Brown, half-bare branches dripped from their inch-deep coat of melting snow. Many trees had black-flecked white trunks with peeling, paperlike bark. Pine trees stood out the most, thick and full compared with their anemic hardwood cohorts.

  Almost no sign of man … It was achingly beautiful. Unkempt dirt roads branched off from time to time, leading to the small, dilapidated houses Colding had seen on the way in.

  They passed by what had to be a road to the old town with the big church. Not far after that, the forest thinned a bit. The road quickly crested at a steep dune spotted with tall grasses. The dune’s downslope led to the island’s small harbor.

  Beach smells filtered into the open window, complete with a strong odor of dead fish. Up and down the shore, heavy purplish-gray rock outcroppings led right up to the water, some sliding in at an angle, others standing as small cliffs. Patchy, dry orange lichens covered the top of the rocks, adding texture and depth. In the long spots between the rocks, there was nothing but sand, grass and a few scraggly trees reaching out from twenty-foot-high sloping dunes. Thick logs dotted the beach. Some had gnarled roots still attached, white and stripped free of bark. They looked like the bleached bones of desert animals unable to survive an endless sun.

  The road ended at the blackened wooden dock, which ran forty feet into the harbor’s calm waters. A small black metal shed sat near the base of the dock. At the end of the dock, Colding saw Gary’s boat. A thirty-six-foot Sharkcat cruiser with a flying bridge. The perfect boat for deepwater fishing or a dockside party with fifteen of your closest friends. Black and gold script spelled the words DAS OTTO II on the boat’s aft.

  Gary hopped out of the Hummer, as did Colding. They both walked down the dock to the boat. This close to him and in the sunlight, Colding saw that Gary’s irises looked dilated. Colding finally placed the smell, the sleepy look, the constant half-smile … the guy was baked.

  “Gary, have you been smoking marijuana?”

  The man giggled a little, a soundless thing that made his shoulders shiver. “Yeah. I’ve been smoking marijuana, Mister Narkie Narkerson. Why, you want some?”

  “No,” Colding said. “Just how stoned are you?”

  Gary shrugged. “I don’t know, man … how high does the scale go?”

  Goddamit. This was their only support on the mainland?

  Gary’s smile faded. “Listen, brah, don’t sweat it. Just because I boof a bit doesn’t m
ean I can’t handle my business.”

  “I’m not a fan of drugs,” Colding said. “Or people who do them.”

  Gary rolled his eyes. When he did, Colding seemed to hear his own words through Gary’s ears. When the hell had he started talking like a high school guidance counselor? Still, he had to probe a little, see just how much of a liability Gary Detweiler might be.

  “Magnus tells me you can take care of yourself.”

  Gary shrugged. “I do what Magnus tells me. That’s why I’m always carrying this stupid thing.” He unzipped his coat and opened it a bit, allowing Colding to peek inside at a handgun—Genada’s preferred weapon, a Beretta 96—nestled in a shoulder holster.

  Colding nodded. “You ever had to use that on the job?”

  Gary laughed. “Do I look like Clint Eastwood? My preferred weapon is a bottle of single malt. I get more done drinking in the bars at Houghton-Hancock than I ever would with this stupid gun. I talk to strangers. I ask questions. I find out why people are in town. I see if people have any interest in Black Manitou, which they shouldn’t, because only locals even know it’s out here. The only shooting this kid does involves tequila and bourbon.”

  Colding could hear the sincerity in Gary’s voice—the man hated carrying the weapon. “So if you don’t like the gun, why work for Genada?”

  Gary nodded toward the Humvee. “My dad has lived on this island for fifty years, man. He’s not leaving. This is where I’ll wind up burying him. I need to be here for him, you know? And if I work for Genada, well, then I get paid to be here for him. I make crazy money, and all I do is drive this beautiful boat and bang tourists. Once or twice a year, Magnus and Danté come around. I say yessir and nosir and take them wherever they want to go. Maybe I’m not a gunslinger, but this is more like a permanent vacation than a job.”

  “But you’ll use that gun if you have to,” Colding said, his voice low and serious. “If my people are in danger and I call you out here, you’re prepared to do what I tell you?”

  “My dad is now one of your people. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect him.”

  Colding extended his hand. “Gary, I think you and I see eye to eye.”

  Gary’s easy smile came back. They shook. “Anything you need from the mainland, just use the supersecret megaspy radio in the security room. Dad will show you how to get hold of me.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and Magnus had a message for you. He said to make sure his snowmobile is ready.”

  “It is. It’s in that shed with mine.” Gary pointed to the black metal shed at the foot of the dock. “I keep it there so when we’ve got five feet of snow, I can get to the mansion and back to the docks.”

  “Five feet of snow,” Colding said, and laughed. “Whatever, dude, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Gary just smiled his stoner smile and nodded.

  Colding stopped laughing. “Wait, you’re serious? Five feet?”

  “Sure,” Gary said. “If it’s a mild winter.”

  The Humvee’s horn blared.

  “Can you two stop grab-assin’?” Clayton shouted from the vehicle. “I’ve got work ta do.”

  Gary threw his dad a snappy salute, then untied the boat and hopped in. He climbed up a ladder to the flying bridge. Seconds later the Sharkcat’s engines gurgled to life—they sounded big and powerful. The boat had plenty of room, easily enough to evacuate the entire staff if it came to that.

  Gary waved to Colding and shouted to be heard over the engine. “Good luck, chief. I’m just a call away if you need anything.” With that, Gary gunned the engine, trailing a strong wake as he headed out of the harbor.

  Colding walked back to the Hummer and hopped in.

  Clayton stared after the boat, then shook his head. “Such a show-off, that guy. I love him, but it’s hard when your son is a fairy.”

  “A fairy?” Colding said. “You think your son is gay?”

  Clayton shrugged. “He’s got an earring, eh? Pillow-biter for sure.”

  “My word,” Sara said. “An earring on a man? Well, he’s got to be one of them there homosexuals.”

  Colding rubbed his eyes. “Clayton, you are truly a man of culture and learning.”

  “Ain’t that da truth,” Clayton said. “Okay, let’s get this shit finished so I can get on with my day. I get paid for maintenance, not for being a fuckin’ taxi driver.”

  The term salt of the earth didn’t go far enough to describe Detweiler. More like the rock on which that salt might crystallize. “Clayton, I think you need to relax.”

  “Ya? Well, think about this, eh?” Clayton leaned onto his left cheek and ripped off a loud, barking fart. The rotten-egg smell immediately filled the Hummer.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Colding said as he leaned his head out the window. Sara let out a gagging noise, but she was laughing as she rolled down both the backseat windows.

  “Oh, Clayton!” she said, breathing through her shirtsleeve. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

  Clayton’s shoulders bounced up and down in a chuckle. He breathed in deeply through his nose. “Oh, that was a good one, eh, Colding? Welcome to Black Manitou, city boy.”

  “Just take us back to the mansion,” Colding said. “I want to see the security room.”

  Clayton backed the Hummer off the foot of the dock, then drove over the sand-covered pavement and crested the dunes. He was still laughing when he drove onto the road leading to the mansion.

  NOVEMBER 9: DRINK TILL YA YUKE

  INSANITY. TIM FEELY had worked with Jian for two years, so he felt confident knowing insanity when he saw it. And all of this? Yeah, insanity.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago, Erika Hoel had been licking single-malt scotch out of his belly button. Slowly. That was good. That was hot, and fun, and sexy. Sure, being stuck on a frozen island for months on end was crap on a cracker, but being there with a wild-ass Dutch cougar made it a tad more palatable.

  Since then? Explosions. Sabotage. Brady Giovanni burned extra crispy. That same wild-ass Dutch cougar nearly choking out Jian with a fire axe. Colding all bloody. A gigantic plane and a secret frickin’ base filled with “Yoopers.” It was like a James Bond movie featuring inbred hicks.

  And, perhaps worst of all, being awarded Erika’s duties.

  He needed a drink. Maybe somewhere in this mansion he’d find one, and hopefully before he found a gun—because if he had to listen to this way-too-happy woman with the curlers in her hair for one more minute he was going to shoot himself right in the face.

  “This is my favorite view on da whole island,” Stephanie said. “It’s da back porch.”

  “Really?” Tim said. “I guess that’s a good name for a porch on the back of a house.”

  Stephanie laughed. Her ex-jock husband did not. He shot Tim a glare that clearly said, Watch it, asshole. Guy wasn’t as big as Brady had been, but he was big enough. Tim decided he’d watch it.

  Hangover or no hangover, the view from the sprawling veranda simply took Tim’s breath away. The mansion was a jewel atop a crown of snow-spotted golden sand dunes that sloped gently toward the shore.

  Flecks of sand and snow blew across cut-stone steps that led almost to the beach. Whitecaps frosted the water all the way to the horizon. Hundreds of frothing spots stood stationary against the roiling waves—ship-killing chunks of granite. Two hundred yards out from shore, a towering rock rose sixty feet out of the water before it seemed to fold over on itself. “What’s that big rock that looks like a horse head?”

  “That’s Horse Head Rock,” Stephanie said.

  Of course that’s what they called it. Black Manitou Island, a place of poetry.

  “Come on,” Stephanie said. “There’s so much more to show you!”

  A wide, floor-to-ceiling picture window stood at the back of the veranda. French doors led into an expansive lounge filled with leather furniture and expensive-looking tables. A long mahogany bookshelf packed with old-leather tomes surrounded a large flat-panel TV. A matching mahogany
bar with a marble counter and brass trim dominated the room. Behind it oh thank you, Lord, thank you! sat a well-lit, glass liquor cabinet filled with hundreds of bottles.

  Tim walked straight to the cabinet. Lonely glasses were lined up on a long white cloth, just waiting for a friendly handshake. He grabbed one and started looking through the bottles.

  “A little early for a drink, isn’t it?” James said.

  “There’s always room for Jell-O, big fella.”

  Tim saw that one brand of liquor dominated, taking up an entire shelf. “You’ve got enough Yukon Jack to last through the second coming. Assuming, of course, that Christ likes to drink till he Yukes.”

  “I’d leave those alone,” Stephanie said quietly. “Those belong to Magnus.”

  Ah. Magnus. Well, Tim would just go ahead and leave those alone, then.

  “Oh my,” Tim said as he pulled out a bottle of Caol Ila scotch. “Come to Poppa.” He poured a glass and drained it in one go. Burned going down. The first glass was just hangover medicine, really. The second glass was for taste.

  “Mister Feely,” James said. “Do you mind? We’ve got work to do.”

  Tim left the bottle on the counter. He followed James and Stephanie out of the lounge. The rest of the building reeked with turn-of-the-century high class. The twentieth century, mind you, not the twenty-first. Teak paneling, mahogany trim, every room sported a crystal chandelier. Back in the day, this place must have been the hotness.

  But all the style and warmth couldn’t quite hide the building’s age. The floor dipped here and there, some teak wall panels didn’t quite line up. Every hall and room held the visible signs of minor repairs—decades of settling had taken their toll.

  “Thirty guest rooms,” Stephanie said. “Dining room kitchen all that stuff. Da basement has all da old servants’ quarters, which are pretty much storage now, eh? Also houses da security room but we can’t get in ’cause only Clayton has da door’s secret code. We’ll show you your room, then take off.”

  His room. Perfect. Nap time, and not a nap in some godforsaken air force chair designed by the Marquis de Sade. A couple more drinks, then delicious slumber. He drained his glass.