With a grunt, the ranger turned east on the highway rather than west toward the park. There was too much wrong in his head at the moment. A different trail, he told himself, might bring you to a better place. Then, to calm himself, he said aloud, “It's the scenic route tonight.”
Glenn had always looked for solitude when trying to sort out the difficult puzzles in his head. Few things offered the peace and quiet of a solo drive on lonely roads at night. The pictures of his dilemma rolled about in his head as he tried to sort them, categorize them, and find some connected meaning for them all.
Then his thoughts landed on a painting he'd seen in a gallery in D.C., one of the more famous creations by Salvador Dali. Just the memory made Glenn shake his head. The gal with him at the time had gushed over the genius of the artist and how the work spoke to her. Glenn was no critic; she may have been right. But to him the painting looked like nothing more than a heroin trip gone bad. The only thing the work told him was any further investment in that relationship would have been throwing good after bad. His current situation, Glenn thought, was that painting jig-sawed into a 3,000-piece puzzle. How on Earth could he put the pieces back together when even the final image made no sober sense?
“Maybe that's the problem,” Glenn said out loud. “You're sober.”
He wasn't impressed with his own wit. Come to think, he wasn't impressed with how much he'd been talking to himself lately. For the first time in their long acquaintance, a trip to Johnny Two Ravens had not helped. It had made things worse.
Puzzles. His mind was back on puzzles. As it was, he wasn't sure all the pieces he had were from the same puzzle. Earthquakes and tremors were a way of life in that part of the world. Were they all doomed by a super-volcano? Only in the minds of those who knew nothing about volcanos. There was nothing Glenn could see, so far, that made the recent seismic activity particularly unusual. Lew agreed. But had that seismic activity unleashed some evil as Two Ravens insisted? Was it possible? The way that his friend had carried on about the slide on Obsidian Cliff, the way he wouldn't let it go, was unnerving. That phrase “obsidian tears” rolled over and over in his head as he rolled into the town of Riverton. He had no concept what Johnny was talking about. Mother Earth is crying obsidian tears… Yada. Yada. Yada.
The traffic eased as the tourists coming and going from Yellowstone filled the restaurants or checked into their motels for the night. Foot traffic was light, locals mostly, finishing their day and hoofing it home, some dragging into the liquor establishment they'd chosen as their second home to vanquish the day's demons.
“Demons,” Glenn said out loud. “Warrior demons, no less.”
He stopped to let a group of twenty-something revelers cross in front of him. Glenn eyed their apparent destination, a fast food joint, and the thought of getting a bite crossed his mind. He rejected it immediately for fear he couldn't keep it down. He looked to the box on the seat beside him, illuminated in the amber glow of street lights, and was lost in thought again. A honking horn snapped him back to his spot behind the wheel. Glenn checked the rearview mirror, saw a truck driver flipping 'the bird' in his honor, and gave the Suburban gas. Time to get out of town.
It wasn't lost on Glenn that Johnny had been amazed, too, when Bill Pope had uttered the phrase, “Little people.” How could the old man have known what Franklin said? For that matter, what was Frankie talking about? Did he mean the little statue in his hands? Or was he talking about other people, little people? The damage to the museum said vandals had been there, but there had been no sign of anyone else – of any size – in the museum. The idea there could be a group of little people running around eating people defied logic. Even if the Indian legends were true, and they did once exist, then what of the part of the legend that said they were exterminated? What was it Alice had said? 'Like all crap fairy tales, the good guys won in the end. The Arapaho kicked their little butts.'
He looked to the box at his side, illuminated only by the lights from his dashboard, and shuddered involuntarily. The notion that thing might actually be a miniature demon… Glenn had an urge to push it out of the vehicle at 60 miles an hour. He resisted. But he also checked to reaffirm his sidearm was tucked snugly against his hip.
Night had fully descended and the landscape had disappeared. Glenn had stopped looking at billboards or reading traffic signs. Engaged in mental puzzle-building, he missed the sign marking the side road to Legend Rock. Had he noticed it, he might have taken the road out of an investigator's curiosity. But he was driving on instinct as he raced into the emptiness engulfing the highway ahead.
Instinct, too, kept him from hitting the deer that dashed out in front of him.
The animal bounded onto the pavement. Glenn hit the brakes. The Suburban's tires screeched as his conscious mind realized what had happened. Without hesitation, or a glance in his direction, the deer leapt into the dark again on the opposite side. Glenn watched it go, took a deep breath, then inched forward, turning to look at the ditch where the panicked animal had emerged.
He saw movement; a dark shape low to the ground. Whatever it was, it too had stopped, and was looking at him. The shape backed into the brush away from the highway and, except for its eyes, disappeared. But the creature was still there, staring, for its eyes continued to show in reflection. They were a pair of eyes Glenn would never forget, bloody gold, if he had to describe them. Bloody gold eyes looking directly at him. And they were angry.
Then they were gone.
Chapter 27
Glenn hoped, at least, the eyes were gone.
Though he couldn't shake the feeling he was still being watched. A fresh shudder ran down his spine and Glenn accelerated to put distance between him and whatever had been chasing that deer. He'd seen plenty of predators, and all types of ogling reflections, but this was different. A new feeling of fear and foreboding fell over him like a shroud. What could he do but drive on.
By the time he reached the North Fork of the Shoshone River, headed west toward the East Entrance of the park, Glenn was physically exhausted and emotionally spent. Hours on the road, every moment one of deep contemplation, had driven him near batty but provided no answers. Outnumbered by the enemy, outgunned by the problems, and defeated by his own hang-ups, the ranger was done. He couldn't drive any longer. Then he saw the lights, just what he needed, and wasted no time getting off the road.
Born William F. Cody, the Sioux Indians had called him Pahaska, meaning 'long hair,' but the rest of the world knew him as Buffalo Bill. Buffalo Bill was a legend in his own time as a Pony Express rider, United States Army scout, buffalo hunter and, ultimately, a Wild West entertainer. He plied his trade across much of the western frontier but settled on a spot along the North Fork of the Shoshone River, below Sleeping Giant Mountain, as his base of operations. From there he led the wealthy and famous on hunts for Rocky Mountain big game.
Named Pahaska Tepee, the lodge he designed and built was now a registered Historic Landmark and used only as a tourist attraction. A newer lodge with rental cabins had been built on the same property. As had many weary travelers before, Glenn would use Pahaska Tepee for some much needed rest before heading into the park in the morning.
After checking in, Glenn parked the Suburban near a cabin at the back of the property. They'd warned him it wasn't fancy; hadn't been remodeled like most of the others. The ranger couldn't have cared less. All he wanted, make that needed, was a place to lay his head and a couple hours sleep before wading back into the fray.
The desk clerk hadn't exaggerated. It wasn't fancy. Constructed of rough, hand cut logs long before log homes became fashionable, it had been painted dark brown and covered with a tin roof. A small covered deck out front, with a single log rail along its length, a short set of four stairs on each end, and two chairs of woven willow branches as furniture, promised a wonderful place to relax with a cup of coffee on a calm morning. How Glenn wished he were there for a different reason.
A stone's throw to one side w
as a similar cabin, surrounded by an old pickup truck and various pieces of maintenance equipment, obviously the living quarters for the lodge's groundskeeper. A single light shone inside and a worn face appeared in the window. It remained long enough to satisfy a curiosity about the newly arrived neighbor, then disappeared. The light followed suit.
Glenn sat for a minute behind the wheel, his eyes closed, glad for the roadside attraction, glad to be off the road. Exhaustion had overtaken him. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself staring at the Pedro box at his side. After all that had happened, he no longer saw the thing as a doll. But he still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea it was a mummy, either. He didn't know what the box protected. All he knew was John Doe had hidden more than any of them had bargained for.
No. Come to think, Glenn knew one other thing. “There ain't no way you're sleeping with me!” he said aloud. He lifted the Pedro box, transferred it to the back seat, and covered it again with his coat.
He climbed from the Suburban, closed the door quietly, locked it, then stood surveying his dark surroundings. All was dark and quiet in the adjoining cabin. The lodge and the cabins closer to the highway were silent as well. Nothing to be seen. And nothing to be heard but the wind whispering through the trees; and the bed inside his rented cabin calling his name.
It had been several hours, though it seemed mere minutes, since Glenn had crashed without even bothering to turn down the sheets when a loud and repeated banging jerked him awake. It sounded as if it were coming from outside. But, with the fog in his head distorting his thoughts, the ranger couldn't decide if what he heard was real or a mystifying new dream. He lay in the dark, trying to sort the noises and images, when he heard what had to be a real voice shout, “Hey, get away from there!”
“Hey,” the voice shouted again in anger. Then, “Hey,” again, in unmistakable terror.
Glenn snapped up in bed aware now it was no dream. He reached his feet as a scream, from what must have been incredible pain, tore through the night. “Help me!”
Glenn burst from his cabin door with his sidearm in hand.
His deck was dark and quiet. The only light, anywhere, was a single bulb on the neighbor's porch. Beneath it, in the shadows of the adjoining cabin's steps, lay the man Glenn had seen at the window on his arrival; the groundskeeper, he imagined. The fellow lay kicking and screaming his head off, under assault by a half dozen…
What were they?
Glenn holstered his weapon, knowing he dare not shoot in the man's direction, and started that way. He stumbled over one of his own deck chairs and fell to his knees. Bouncing back to his feet, Glenn grabbed the chair and heaved it at the fight. The chair fell short, bounced and rolled, knocking two of the tiny creatures from the groundskeeper's legs.
The creatures all stopped in their attack and turned to Glenn. The ranger stared back frozen. Even in that dim light they were breathtaking, unbelievable, horrible. They stood, a foot high each, not much more, wrapped in the furs that looked to Glenn like badger, fox, and wolverine. Each carried crude weapons of stone and wood. And the eyes of each and every one glared hate at him in glinting gold awash with blood. One of them issued a guttural cry and the entire band scattered into the darkness.
Glenn drew his sidearm and fired a round at one of the attackers as it disappeared from the nimbus of the porch light. Knowing he'd missed, he picked a second target headed the opposite direction and fired again. Again he missed the diminutive darting target. Then they were gone.
Glenn ran to the man, now motionless on the ground. Assuming he had little time before they'd be back and certain at a glance the groundskeeper had little time as well, he lifted the old boy to a standing position, hoisted him over his shoulder, and lugged him to the Suburban.
It was then Glenn realized what the banging noise had been that had yanked him from sleep. The doors and side panels of the Suburban were damaged, pounded to Hell and back, two of the windows featured spiderweb cracks, no doubt all courtesy of the little demons with their primitive weapons in an attempt to gain entry. It didn't appear they'd succeeded. The groundskeeper had interrupted them.
Glenn unlocked the passenger's door. He levered the old man into the seat and slammed the door. There was no time for triage. They needed to get out of the line of fire. Glenn hurried around, unlocked his door, climbed in, and started the engine. The headlamps came on illuminating, and reflecting off of, a wide row of bloody gold eyes staring from the darkness.
Spinning tires and throwing gravel, Glenn raced the Suburban down the drive and back out onto the highway. The groundskeeper was on his last leg and losing blood at an alarming rate. Glenn needed to get the old boy to the hospital in Cody. There was no time to lose.
Glen raced down the highway, sorting events in his head. Suddenly he remembered the Pedro in the back seat and reached around to check on it. Pulling the coat aside, he saw the padlock was secure and the box undisturbed. He felt a sense of relief, though he didn't know why.
He turned to the old man in the seat next to him. The brave old soul was bloodied badly with open wounds all across his body. He was unconscious and his breathing was labored. It was a race against time and flew in the face of hope.
Now thoughts of Franklin on the floor of the ranger museum pushed themselves forward. Glenn fought those, shoved them back into the compartment he'd created for them. He could not afford to get emotional now. Time was not on his side. He had to think. He needed time to plan. He had to… do damage control before things got out of hand.
The ranger grabbed the radio microphone. “Dispatch, one-oh-one.”
“One-oh-one, go ahead.”
“I'm en route to the hospital in Cody with a badly injured elderly male. There's no time for an ambulance. He's critical.”
“Ten four, one-oh-one. Standing by.”
“Advise them…” Glenn released the key, turned it over for an instant in his head, then keyed the mic again. “Tell them he was attacked by a mountain lion at Pahaska Tepee. There will probably be reports of shots fired. I discharged my weapon to scare off the cat. Tell the Park County Sheriff that I'll file a report later, but the paperwork will be coming.”
“Ten four, one-oh-one. Anything else?”
“Not for now.” Glenn replaced the mic in its holding bracket. Then repeated under his breath, “Not for now.”
His time at the hospital was nearly as brief as his communications with dispatch. Glenn gave the attending Emergency Room physician the same basic story, that his patient had been attacked and wounded by a mountain lion. When did it happen? Moments ago; within the hour. Where? Near Pahaska Tepee. The ranger was a little fuzzy on an exact location. He'd have to give it some thought, maybe retrace his steps. He broke it to a disgruntled ER admitting clerk that sadly he had nothing whatsoever to impart regarding the patient's personal information, next of kin, or insurance. He advised the nurses that the cat was still out there and that he had no choice but to keep moving. The Sheriff, Glenn had no doubt, would be along shortly and the ranger could not afford to be caught up in a long-winded explanation of the night's events. Not at this point in time. Besides, there were things that needed to be done immediately.
Glenn asked the nurse to tell the patient he would return as soon as he was able and see how he was doing. It was a promise the chief ranger was not able to keep. Without ever regaining consciousness, the groundskeeper died from his traumatic injuries before the next sunrise.
Chapter 28
Adrenalin pumping, pupils constricted, and heart racing, Glenn pushed the Suburban for all it was worth back to the reservation. Whatever the standard protocol outlined in Shoshone beliefs, the ranger was no longer willing to wait the three days the shaman had requested. He needed answers and needed them without delay.
He skidded to a stop, in a shower of gravel and cloud of dust, outside the shaman's house. Ignoring all the rules of respect Two Ravens had spelled out to him for approaching a holy man, with the box containing the lit
tle Pedro in his hands, Glenn banged on Bill Pope's door shouting, “Snow on the Mountains! I've got to speak with you! Snow on the Mountains!”
The door came open and the old Indian shaman stood staring at him. The look of surprise Glenn had expected was not there. There was no readable emotion on Snow on the Mountains hard copper face. Before Glenn could speak, and forgetting the rules he'd established for his own home, the shaman stepped through the empty screen door and onto the top step, backing the ranger up and forcing Glenn off and into the brown yard.
“I've got to speak with you!”
The shaman held a hand up before his face. “Quiet.”
“There's been another attack,” Glenn said excitedly. “An innocent man at Pahaska Tepee. He's dying now. We were attacked. I barely escaped.” He pointed at his damaged Suburban. “Look at the truck!”
“Quiet!” Snow on the Mountains said again. “You are hurting my ears!”
“I'm sorry. I don't know what to do.” He lifted the box. “They were after this.”
Snow on the Mountains stepped back, off the step, through the screen, and into the door frame. He pointed at the box. “Do not bring that into my house. I don't want it here.”
“But you don't even know what it is.”
“I know that it is evil!” Snow on the Mountains shouted.
Glenn froze in place. Never in the years he'd known the shaman had he ever heard the man raise his voice. Never. Even when faced with the unbelievable events of Apparition Lake, the holy man had remained as calm as the glassy surface of a summer lake. His shout demanded attention.
“Put that back in your vehicle,” the shaman said. “Lock it up. Then we will talk.”
Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2) Page 14
