“Nobody proved it was arson.”
“Nobody tried.” He tossed her a thin book—The History of Indigo Springs.
“Jacks, you’ve got to forget about that girl.”
“I’ve learned her name—Elizabeth Walks-in-Shadow.”
Sighing, Astrid opened the book to the marked page and found a black-and-white picture of a Native woman in a dress and bonnet. THE GHOST OF INDIGO CREEK? read its caption.
Jacks read over her shoulder: “‘After the flames died down, frantic villagers searched the smoking remains of the Indian settlement. The results were a grim reminder of the frailty of the human body. Nineteen souls were lost in the blaze….’” He looked at her expectantly.
“‘Its origin was never determined,’” Astrid finished.
“Never. Determined. ‘What is known is the deaths effectively ended the dispute over the town’s desire to extend its boundaries beyond Gibraltar Lane.’”
“Jacks, someone’s gonna hear you.”
He raised his voice. “‘After the burials, a young girl named Elizabeth Almore began to insist the fire was set deliberately. Elizabeth was a half-breed—’ Charming term.”
“It’s an old book written by an old bigot, Jacks.”
“‘Elizabeth’s grandfather was Godfrey Walks-in-Shadow, hereditary chief of the immolated tribe. Though only eleven at the time and fully integrated into the God-fearing white community of her father, Elizabeth insisted that any objects or relics recovered from the fire belonged to her. She brought the matter to court when she reached adulthood, but by then the artifacts had been dispersed. Elizabeth herself vanished before the case could be heard. Local legend has it that she was murdered, and that her spirit haunts the ravine where Indigo Creek flows.’”
“Jacks.” Her heart was pounding. “Say your great-grandfather was totally corrupt and covered up the cause of the fire. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“Is that what you think?”
“You’re doing this to annoy your father.”
“You of all people should be happy about that.”
“You can’t pick a fight with everyone in town.”
“They’ll be too chicken to mention it, trust me.”
“They’ll complain to the Chief.”
“No!” He opened his mouth, aping shock.
She rubbed her temples. “Jacks, remember about keeping a low profile? Being invisible, all that?”
“If people are pissed at me, who’s going to notice you?” He bumped his forehead against hers.
“Nobody proved anything,” she insisted. Jacks paced the wall, scrutinizing his work. As he reached the corner, a woman on Rollerblades almost slid into the traffic on the highway. He lunged out and caught her.
“Good thing you were there,” Astrid heard the woman say as he steadied her.
“Johnny-on-the-spot, that’s me.” He glanced fondly at his watch.
Astrid kept her voice low as he strolled back. “Do you think we got used to the chantments too easily? We use them all the time.”
“Mark of our generation. Get a gadget, use a gadget. We’ve got no fear of the unknown…as long as it’s plastic and fits in your hand.”
“There’s a cost, though.” She thought of the waves of fatigue that came when she used the pocketknife on the dead animals Henna was bringing home. She thought of Marlowe. They needed a power cantation that could be used safely.
And nothing Astrid had remembered so far explained the headaches. Magic never caused her pain when she was a kid.
Jacks held her gaze. “Yes, it’s weird and yes, there’s a lot we don’t understand. But we’re on top of it.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“That’s the vitagua talking. You said it was making you paranoid?”
“Yeah.”
“When you make a chantment, you feel better?”
“Yes. When there’s less magic in my body, the grumbles quiet.”
He gave her forehead a quick kiss. “So fight off the heebie-jeebies until we get that crap out of your system.”
“Right.” She conjured up a smile and found it rested more easily on her face. “I’ll go pick up Mrs. Skye.”
The sense of relief was short-lived. As she crossed the highway, she tripped on a crack in the pavement. She would have pitched facefirst into the curb, but strong hands caught her from behind, arresting her plunge.
“Whoa there, Astie.” It was Chief Lee. “’Bout time you learned to walk, isn’t it?”
“Seems like.” Her face flushed; she could see Jacks’s mural a hundred yards past him, and the image of Elizabeth made her feel like a kid caught breaking school windows. “Thanks for catching me.”
“Sure thing.” He patted her arm, looming over her with an air of uncertainty.
“Something I can do for you, Chief? Or are you checking my gait?”
“Peace, girl. I know we got off on the wrong foot way back whenever—”
“You called my father a perverted souse.” Dad was a hero, she wanted to add; she blazed with a desire to bellow Albert’s true story from the top of the fire tower.
“I’m not saying it ain’t my fault.”
That was a change. “What do you want, Chief?”
He shifted from foot to foot. “You kids making out all right in the new place? Jacks all right?”
This was about Jacks—he wasn’t haranguing her for fun. Astrid relaxed a fraction. “He’s feeding us a lot of sprouts.”
“Goddamn Olive and all her Wicca bull.” His face pinched. “I ought to send you girls a side of beef. And…Jacks and your pretty friend…they’re an item?”
“Jacks and Sahara?” She laughed. “They’re getting along, barely, for my sake.”
“Oh.” Clearly this wasn’t the answer he’d expected, and he foundered. “Hear your mother’s better.”
She nodded.
“That’s good,” he said. “Listen, Astie…Astrid. Could you tell Jacks something for me?”
Anything to get out of this conversation. “Sure.”
“Could you—oh! There he is.” The Chief took a step toward the department store. Then traffic bunched up, forcing him to stop. Astrid edged toward the truck, but the Chief swiveled. “I gotta see him.”
“Go to it,” she said, gesturing across the street.
“I want to say: Whatever he’s got to tell me, I mean to listen. He’ll open up if he knows I’m listening, right?”
“You’ll have to take that up with him.” She thought: Jacks thinks the potlatch fire was arson. He thinks your great-great-grandfather was paid to cover up a massacre.
The Chief made another attempt to jaywalk, nearly getting clipped by a red SUV. Then his radio squawked. “Astie, one other thing.”
She had almost escaped. “Yes?”
“I heard Jemmy Burlein was bitching about how Albert owed her money when he passed away. If you’ve got anything extra…” He looked embarrassed. “It’s none of my business, I know you two are quits—but she’s not doing too good with that hippie bike store.”
“You there, Chief?” the radio barked.
He snatched it up, pivoting away from Main Street and Jacks, loping in the direction of the fire hall. Raising a hand good-bye, Astrid fled. The grumbles chattered at her. It was a relief when Mrs. Skye reappeared.
“How’d it go with the doctor?” she asked.
The old lady shrugged. “Not sure. Lilla—that’s my niece—phoned him, asked him to send the assessor back. Says he needs to know there’s food in my fridge and cleansers under the sink—signs I’m keeping up with home life, you know?”
“We’ll go pick up whatever you need,” Astrid said. “Sahara and I will help clean.”
Playing chauffeur for the old woman took the afternoon: fetching groceries, hearing aid batteries, a mop and pail. Then, desperately hoping to rid herself of some of the vitagua she was carrying, she took Mrs. Skye into the antique store, one of Albert’s old haunts. “Let’s get you a rocking c
hair or something. If you can’t rebuild it yourself, you can teach me to help you.”
“Fair enough,” Mrs. Skye agreed, but Astrid’s eye had moved on; an old tripod glinted at her from the murky depths of the store. She bought it, mumbling something about giving it to a friend before bundling it into the truck like a thief. The allure of the thing was impossible to resist—with the added reservoir of vitagua she’d absorbed in draining Sahara and the cat, it was all she could do to keep from chanting it right there in the shop.
Dour inner voices gnawed at her: It won’t matter, it’s all going to fall apart….
Mrs. Skye picked up a chair and a couple of picture frames. “Sahara says my walls are too bare. Lilla had me thinking I needed to move into one of those geezer farms. You girls hadn’t helped me…”
Astrid flushed, pleased. “It’s okay. Did we get everything you need?”
Mrs. Skye flapped a hand at the local shoe store. “Doc was eyeballing my beat-up sneakers. You mind?”
“Go ahead.” The bike store was on the corner anyway. “I’ll be next door talking to Jemmy.”
Jemmy Burlein was a fragile-seeming nymph with Irish coloring and long limbs. She had been an all-star basketball center in high school, the undisputed goddess of the court, queen of a circle of horny boys and admiring, jealous girls.
She and Astrid had lived together for two years. It had been a sensation, that relationship—Jemmy was supposed to have stolen Astrid from an engineer named Stew Murphy. Town gossip had Astrid and Stew on the brink of marriage; in truth, they’d split up well before Jemmy came along.
When Albert died, things with Jemmy had fallen apart in their turn. Astrid had moved back home, hoping to keep Ma’s growing oddness in check. Jemmy had opened the bike store and begun a long-distance relationship with a homeopath from Seattle.
Astrid found her onetime girlfriend just completing a sale, sending a young boy and his mother out of the store with a bright orange bike.
“Hi,” she said, faintly awkward. “I heard a rumor today—Dad owed you money?”
Jemmy colored. “I shouldn’t have told anyone. I was having a bad week…June Field told you?”
“Chief Lee.”
She winced. “Sorry. I guess it’s all over town.”
“What’s it gonna do, ruin Dad’s reputation?” As she said the words, Astrid found herself smiling. Dad had everyone fooled.
“It’ll give people an excuse to hash over our torrid affair again.”
“I don’t care if you don’t. What happened?”
Jemmy set to work assembling a pile of bike components. “Albert came over one night, looking for you. He said it was an emergency.”
“Where was I?”
“Spokane, at that garden show. He wanted to try catching up with you, so I lent him the car.”
“When was this?”
“Just before he got sick.”
“He never showed up. He wreck the car or something?”
“He never told you?” Jemmy raised her eyebrows. “Someone took a shot at him.”
“What?” She reached for the counter to steady herself, only to discover it was out of reach.
“It’s okay—they missed.” Dropping her tools, Jemmy nudged Astrid over to a crate, urging her to sit. “He came back late that night with the windshield blasted in.”
Ma’s ravings echoed through Astrid’s mind: He was killed…. Banged up, baby…bangbang!
“How do you know Dad wasn’t inside?”
“From the holes. He’d have been splattered all over the driver’s seat. Sorry—I just mean there was shot all over the upholstery.” Jemmy cranked a pedal onto the bike frame, shaking her head. “Thing was, Albert insisted on fixing it right away. He’d only returned to talk me into giving him my credit card. He wanted to go to Portland and get the windshield replaced—”
“You didn’t give my father your credit card.”
“Crazy, huh?” Jemmy colored. “There was something in his voice…”
Astrid swallowed. Sahara’s mermaid.
“He was gone for a day. When he got back the car looked…”
“New?”
“No. He’d gone out of his way to dirty it up. New windshield, new seat, new paint job, but the car looked just like it always had. He gave back the credit card and promised he’d pay me before the charges went through. And he begged me not to tell anyone.”
“Didn’t that make you suspicious?”
“Of course. Oh, Astrid, I figured he’d gotten into something shady. A drug deal maybe. I told myself if anything popped up on the news: somebody heard the shot, police looking for a car—I’d tell you. But then Albert was in the hospital, doctors said he had less than a week…”
Astrid flashed back to those days, the two of them sitting in the hospital, bleak and shell-shocked. Had it only been a year ago? Here was a memory she wished she could lose: sitting at Dad’s bedside while he slapped at the side of her head. Holding his hands down, saying it was okay when it wasn’t…
She fought a rush of tears. “Did you guys talk again?”
“No,” Jemmy said. “A few days later…”
A few days later he was gone. Astrid swallowed thickly. “You never told anyone what happened?”
“It felt like a last request.”
“And when the credit card bill came?”
Jemmy ducked her head. “It wasn’t just the windshield. He’d gone to some pawnshops.”
“Tell me how much,” Astrid said.
“I feel rotten about this.”
“Don’t. I’m looking to keep it quiet too. How much did you tell June Field?”
“Only that he died owing me money. I couldn’t admit I’d given Albert my MasterCard.”
“You tell anyone else?”
“No, but June obviously told the Chief.”
“A few thousand, am I right? More?” From Jemmy’s eyes, she had it about right. “It’ll take me some time, but—”
“I can’t take money from you, Astrid—”
Equally embarrassed, they haggled until Mrs. Skye turned up, chatting away amid a trio of other old ladies but wearing a tired expression that let Astrid lay down a check for some of the damage and escape with the last word.
• Chapter Seventeen •
“I drew the vitagua from Sahara and Henna on a Saturday,” Astrid tells me. She expertly shuffles a pack of gaming cards covered in trolls and flame demons. “Some of the grumbles said Sahara would leave me. Others said it was me who’d be leaving. I’d be taken away from them all—Jacks, Ma…”
“Even Mrs. Skye?”
Her eyes crinkle fondly. “They didn’t mention her.”
“I see.”
“I had maybe a pint of vitagua soaked in my body, Will. A fraction of what I carry now, but even so the grumbles had so much to say about my future: handcuffs, jail cells, cameras watching my every move. They said I would cut my leg—” She tugs up her jeans, revealing a pink scar on her ankle. “—on a rough edge of a bedframe, it turned out—and there’d be a hue and cry. They said Arthur Roche would think I’d attempted suicide.”
“Why didn’t you try to change the outcome?”
“How? Stop making chantments? Perhaps that would send Sahara away. Magic was pulling us together, Will. The secret made us so close; nothing could break us up. I had to believe the grumbles’ predictions could be avoided: that the premonitions weren’t set in stone.”
I bend close. “Astrid, this is important. Have the grumbles been wrong?” I need to know if there is a window for free will in her worldview, if she believes the things she predicts are inevitable.
Suddenly we are plunged into darkness. The artificial sunlight vanishes from the windowscreens, and the overhead lights die.
“I don’t know if they’re always right.” Astrid’s voice is a thread in the blackness. “The real problem is they have an agenda. They told me just enough to get me in trouble.”
She takes my hands. A trickling sensa
tion, like blood flowing, spreads across my palms. I can feel the paint rolling over the cards, as if my skin is made of their paper surface.
Fear edges through me like a razor blade. I pull free and the sensation fades. “What’s happening up there?”
“It was…is Jemmy,” she says. “She’s one of Sahara’s Primas now, remember? Roach’s men grabbed her, and now she’s shut down the power in this cage. Sahara taught her a cantation that converts electricity to magic. It’ll pull power from any nearby source of electricity.”
“Enough electricity to black us out?”
“Looks that way. If she needs more, we might get lightning strikes. It’s something to see.”
“Is Jemmy trying to escape?”
“No. This is a message.”
“To whom?”
“To the Roach, and I’m not about to translate it.”
The darkness is beginning to get to me. The sense that my eyes would have adjusted by now, had there been any light at all, is strong. Where are the backups?
Astrid continues her story: “On Sunday, Sahara was sleepy and surly both. Every time we touched, I sensed how much she resented my pulling the vitagua out of her. She wanted to recontaminate herself, so I made sure there was no magic to be had—none pooled anywhere, none coming up through the fireplace. She thought I didn’t trust her.”
“Which you didn’t.”
“We pretended everything was okay.” Pain thickens her voice. “I made chantments: a Christmas tree ornament that helped sick people get well. A cigar box that always had a little present in it, every time it was opened: neat rocks, a mounted butterfly, a fish skull. A snowglobe that, when you shook it, made you think you were on the beach.”
“Bet you wish every day for that one,” I say.
“Now you mention it, we did send it to a convict. I also chanted the tripod.”
“Four chantments. How did you feel afterwards?”
“Better. Less…doomed.”
“What did the tripod do?”
“Made violins out of dust,” she says. “Ridiculous, huh? But that’s what it does. Beautiful old violins.”
I sit in the dark and imagine it, an old-fashioned camera platform weaving dust into wood and strings.
“While Sahara sulked, she surfed the Web. I think she was looking for proof that vitagua contamination was safe. Evidence, to change my mind. Instead, she must have typed a new combination of words into her…”
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