‘Right,’ Churn signed and moved off towards the tree they had been using as a hitching post.
Hoyt turned to Alen. ‘You know we can’t travel north along the road; we’ll have to go through the forest.’
‘Have you used that route before?’ Alen asked.
Hoyt had travelled to many places, and had seen more strange and wonderful things than most people imagined existed. Work and study had taken him to the distant corners of Eldarn: he had run, crawled, or fought his way out of trouble in as many cities in the Eastlands as any Ronan or Falkan partisan – but he had never travelled through the forest of ghosts. He had always believed that he would have to be fleeing for his life before he entered those enchanted woods. He sighed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I haven’t. I hear it’s terrible. I guess I’m about to find out?’
‘It can be,’ Alen said unhelpfully, ‘but there are some who pass through with no trouble at all.’ He didn’t sound convinced that their passage would be easy. He looked around and shrugged. ‘You’re right, of course, we can’t use this road, and if we try any of the mountain routes we’ll certainly encounter border guards.’
And I would just as soon not have to fight our way into Malakasia – bad enough we’ll most likely have to fight our way out once we get there.’
And if we do get away, we will need to find a place to—’
Hoyt interrupted, ‘If we do get away, we will need to come up with a good story as to why we went in at all, because we both know creeping around under cover of darkness is something people do to get out of Welstar Palace, not in. If we get back to Southport alive, Branag and the boys’ll never let me forget this one. A bad idea, my old friend, this is a very bad idea.’
‘You’ll be fine; I’m certain of it.’
And you? And Hannah and Churn?’ Hoyt asked.
‘If we do things right, we’ll all get what we need from this journey,’ Alen said reassuringly.
‘That’s cryptic. Am I supposed to be just fine with the idea that you want to kill yourself?’ Hoyt asked. ‘Still thinking you lived too long?’
‘I have lived too long, Hoyt, let there be no mistake about that, and I will welcome death when it comes looking for me. But if Nerak is gone from Welstar Palace and his magicians have stopped their search for me, I would like a chance to get in there and – while sending Hannah home – disturb things a bit.’
‘Disturb? Odd choice of words.’
‘It’s the best I can come up with.’ Though he sounded lighthearted, Hoyt recognised that he was deadly serious. ‘Nerak has a team of magicians in there, powerful magicians, who would – should - have been Larion Senators. I want them dead. They have been serving evil for so long, and if I have a chance to break down their operation, I will.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘There was something else after that, wasn’t there? Something you left out?’
‘He has a daughter too.’ Anger washed over Alen’s face, masking for a moment his pain, loneliness and loss. ‘I have waited my whole life for this.’
‘Have you?’ Hoyt pressed. ‘I thought you never killed yourself because Lessek wouldn’t let you.’
‘Perhaps. And your point?’
‘You think this is why he forced you to keep living all this time – to go to Welstar Palace and kill Malagon’s daughter?’
‘No—’ Alen started, but stopped as Hannah appeared with a solid length of wood in one hand and Churn’s axe in the other.
She smiled at them. ‘My idea: If Churn sits in the saddle and uses this stick to keep in contact with the ground … well, maybe he won’t struggle so much with the height.’ Neither man answered; worry creased Hannah’s forehead. ‘What is it?’ she asked anxiously.
Alen looked at Hoyt, his countenance grim, and finished his sentence. No. There is something else.’
‘What was that?’ Hannah joined them ‘Is something wrong?’
Hoyt smiled at her. No, no. Things are fine and I bet you’re right. If we can get that hulking tree-trunk in the saddle without killing him or his horse, I bet this stick idea will work.’
CHICAGO CREEK ROAD
‘Nerak, you sonofabitch!’ Steven shouted at the empty lot, ‘did you have to flatten my house?’ He was turning in circles, one way and the other, trying to take in the enormity of what had happened to 147 Tenth Street.
To the right, Dave and Cindy Siegfried’s yellow-sided, split-level place sat quietly against the hillside as usual. Their cars were missing from the driveway; Steven assumed they were already at work, unharmed and completely unaware of the Eldarni dictator’s foul presence in the Rocky Mountain foothills.
The morning sun reflected off the recent snow, almost blinding Steven as he paced furiously. His gaze fell on the winter-thin hedgerow that separated 147 Tenth from the corner of Tenth and Virginia and his attention shifted: without the end wall of the front room, here was a completely different view of Idaho Springs. Down there were Abe’s Liquor Store, the 24-hour convenience place, and the ten-minute Oil & Lube he ignored until his car was four or five thousand miles late for a change.
He shuddered, an involuntary response to the chilly air against the layer of sweat that had broken out on his face and neck, then realised it was something more. He felt the familiar crackle of magic, the hickory staff’s magic, as it rippled across his shoulders, between his ribs and down his thighs into his very bones.
He felt calmer now. The far portal was gone, and that meant Lessek’s key was gone also, but now was not the time to collapse in despair. Years ago, his cross-country coach, claiming it to be Buddhist philosophy, announced, ‘Men, when you are running, run.’ It took years for Steven to understand what his coach meant, but the coach’s words came back to him now.
‘When you are looking, Taylor, look,’ he chided himself, and drew a deep breath of home.
Almost immediately, he saw it, bent askew, a small sign pegged into the ground near the sidewalk that had been almost covered by snow. Brushing it clean, Steven read aloud, ‘Lot for sale. Call Trevor Hadley at—’ He crouched and considered the sign. ‘Lot for sale,’ he repeated. ‘But that’s not right… Trevor Hadley.’ The phone number was someplace up the canyon in Georgetown, he thought.
Steven shook his head and tossed the sign aside, watching as it disappeared into a snow bank. ‘Not right,’ he mumbled again, and took several steps back towards the centre of the vacant lot.
He looked again at Dave and Cindy’s house, and this time he noticed something he’d missed earlier: the bright yellow siding was darker along the bottom edge. Trudging over, he scratched the discoloured area and peered at his finger.
‘Soot,’ he said, sniffing it. ‘Smoke, creosote, some damned thing. Fire. Goddamnit, our place burned down. And maybe—’ Steven rushed back to the expanse of flat ground that had been his front room. ‘There’s nothing here now, no debris. It was a fire. It burned. Maybe it happened a month ago, two months ago.’ The excitement in his voice grew. ‘Nerak might have got here first, but there’s nothing here. The house burned down!’
He turned in a circle again, getting more excited as he continued, ‘Look, it’s flat – too damned flat. It was never this flat. They brought in a bulldozer, bulldozed the place level.’ He was running now, small laps around the property, taking in the boring emptiness from every angle. ‘Nerak!’ he shouted, not caring that someone might see him raving like a madman, Nerak, you don’t have anything! You might have been here, but you don’t have the key or the portal, you arrogant bastard. Didn’t expect this did you? Well, what are you going to do now, you invisible prick? Freeze your spirit nuts off out here, I’ll bet!’
Reality caught up with Steven so suddenly that he slipped and fell headlong into the snow. The key and the portal were gone. That much was obvious. But where would they be? Where would a load of fire debris be taken in Idaho Springs?
He retrieved his watch-cap and scarf and began sprinting along Tenth Street towards town. If
he knew where to look next, he had to assume Nerak would take someone, kill them – Cindy or Dave, maybe – and come to the same conclusion. Didn’t they usually drive to work together? Why were both cars gone this morning?
Steven didn’t spare more than a glance at Abe in the window of his liquor store, or the mechanics working in the open pits at the Oil & Lube. Nor did he notice the neon signs blinking their ceaseless messages across the intersection at Tenth and Virginia, COLD BEER westward towards the mountains and OIL CHANGE $26.99 east across the foothills.
Myrna Kessler glanced at the digital display on the clock radio she kept tuned to her favourite Denver station. 9.04 a.m. Eight hours to go and she would be on her way up the canyon and over Loveland Pass to meet friends at a restaurant in Frisco. From there they’d spend the evening in Breckenridge, then she’d find someplace to crash until morning and get a few runs in before the tourists battled through their hangovers or the locals made their way up from the city.
Her car was packed; she had $ 108 in her pocket and about enough wiggle room left on her Visa card for an inexpensive dinner and a couple of drinks during happy hour. Myrna was attractive; she never had any problem finding men to buy her drinks, but setting out deliberately to do that, shaving off thirty IQ points and wrestling herself into a Wonderbra, always left her feeling as though she was on stage in some outdated farce. What was the point? $25 would cover her drinks, and Howard’s if necessary, and she could wear whatever she wanted. Anyway, she could be bumming around in her oldest sweatshirt and she was still noticed: men paid attention to women who had a pulse.
There had been a few customers, but the weekend rush wouldn’t hit until 11.30, when most of the town, Friday paycheques in hand, started their lunch break. Myrna and Howard would work the windows together until 1.00 p.m., when, as quickly as it had started, the queue would be gone. Then Howard would trundle sadly across Miner Street to Owen’s Pub and she would be left to close the bank at five o’clock, locking the doors and shutting off the lights.
Howard had been depressed since Steven and Mark’s disappearance. He had refused to fill the assistant manager’s position, even with a temporary employee, and he followed the investigations assiduously every day. Word around town was that he had climbed as far up the Decatur Peak trail as he could before the snow grew too deep for him to go any further. Myrna didn’t like to think of her boss up there, battling through thigh-deep snow and shouting for Steven and Mark until his voice gave out.
The police had been little help and Howard would never forgive them for it; he didn’t think the local authorities had done a comprehensive investigation into the mysterious disappearance of his friends.
It didn’t help that the roommates’ house at 147 Tenth Street had burned to the ground the day they had gone missing – a highly suspicious accident. No remains had been discovered in the ashes, and the fire marshal believed one of them had left the gas stove burning. Apart from the cars parked out front – Hannah Sorenson’s car was there, too – there was no evidence to show where the trio might have gone. Because of the snow, the police couldn’t even determine when Hannah’s car had arrived, or if Steven or Mark’s cars had been moved since that Friday afternoon. It hadn’t been a good day for climbing, and no one could work out how the trio had reached the trailhead unless someone else had come by to pick them up before dawn Saturday morning.
Both Myrna and Howard had been interviewed three or four times during the investigation, by local police, a city detective and then by members of a state police missing persons team. Each time the procedure had been the same: the officers arrived and had asked to speak with Howard; Myrna had shown them to the manager’s office. And after an hour or two, one or more of them had come back to the lobby and invited her to join them. Howard always shot her a glance as he sidled past to take up her position at the teller window. Invariably, Myrna was offered Howard’s chair and made comfortable before the interrogation began. Always the same questions:
Had Steven ever spoken of enemies, people who disliked him or those from whom he had borrowed money?
No.
Had Steven changed dramatically after meeting Hannah Sorenson?
No more than any twenty-eight-year old who finds someone he cares about.
Hadn’t Myrna studied in Mark Jenkins’ class at Idaho Springs High School?
Yes, history.
Had he ever given her the impression that he had extreme political beliefs?
No.
Had Steven?
Steven didn’t have political beliefs.
What did Steven and Mark do in their free time?
Climbed, went biking, they did some distance running, and Mr Jenkins was a swimmer.
Did Steven swim, too?
Do you really think he might be off swimming somewhere? All this time?
Just answer the question, please.
No, Steven was not a swimmer.
Was Mark Jenkins in love with Hannah Sorenson?
I don’t know.
Could there have been bad blood between them after Hannah came into Steven’s life?
They went climbing that Saturday. It snowed that day.
Were they gay?
Why are you talking about them in the past tense and how is their sexual preference going to help you find them?
Just answer the question, please.
No.
Have you climbed Decatur Peak?
No.
Have you climbed with Mark and Steven?
No.
The questions had gone on, a rhythmless poem of point and counterpoint, until one of the officers had thanked Myrna for her time and encouraged her to call if she thought of something or remembered something, as if Steven’s political beliefs or his preference for peanut butter over cream cheese or Mark’s swimming in the town pool would help locate them under seventeen feet of mountain snow.
Now Myrna wasn’t sure which was worse: the fact that the police had asked the same pointless questions so often, or that they had stopped entirely. She remembered the morning the Clear Creek County Gazette quoted state officials saying the search along the Decatur Peak trail would be suspended until spring. If they were up there, they were dead. Howard had given a cry, a muted bark that had been half frustration and half rage before running, his squat form at once both comical and tragic, to the town office of the local paper. He had been gone for thirty minutes before Myrna watched him sulk back down Miner Street to Owen’s. Finding it locked, at 8.50 in the morning, he had turned and walked home, never sparing the First National Bank of Idaho Springs a second glance.
This morning, Howard was in his office. He was in a foul mood again and Myrna needed a break; she had been running the bank on her own for the past month and she refused to allow his depression to ruin her anticipation. It was a special day, not just because of her planned weekend, but because she had received her federal financial aid forms. She could finally get to college, leave the canyon and move to Fort Collins. She felt a sudden pang of guilt that Mr Jenkins – after all this time she still struggled to call him Mark – was not around to help her with the application and grant forms. He had promised he would talk her through the paperwork. Myrna said a quiet prayer that the boys would be found before she left for university.
As she started on the forms – her social security number, her income, her mother’s maiden name, and so on – Myrna was distracted for a moment by the piece of paper she kept safe under the glass sheet across her desk. On it was drawn a series of circles in different coloured ink, measuring diameter lengths around each circumference. Pi. Steven had caught her drawing the sketches the afternoon he had first met Hannah Sorenson. Myrna had never taken the time to ask him how he knew that Egyptian architects—
The small bell above the lobby door rang, waking Myrna from her daydream; she quickly shuffled her financial aid paperwork to one side.
A police officer crossed the lobby with a purposeful stride: not here to open an account, she though
t. More questions, terrific. Perhaps he would start with Howard and she could get a few pages done.
‘Good morning,’ she said, not really surprised to be ignored. When he reached the old pine countertop, Myrna realised he wasn’t from Idaho Springs. The patch stitched across his shoulder read Charleston City Police. Unnerved at his silence, and somewhat disturbed by what appeared to be dry blood caked in his ear and across the lobe, Myrna nevertheless offered her most hospitable smile.
‘A bit out of your jurisdiction this morning, aren’t you, Officer?’ Men pay attention to women who have a pulse, she thought, and waited for the young man to respond.
A distressing feeling, like sudden tunnel vision, overtook Myrna Kessler. Still trying to be polite, she tried to discreetly shake the weird feeling, closing her eyes and tossing her head sharply. She didn’t want to embarrass herself further in front of the out-of-town police officer – he might have news of Steven and Mark – Myrna ignored the sudden itch on her left wrist. She swallowed hard, trying, with her last breath, to maintain the professional integrity of the First National Bank of Idaho Springs.
‘Officer? Can I help—?’
‘I want Steven Taylor,’ the policeman said before crumpling to the floor. He struck his chin on the countertop hard enough to split the wood.
Myrna reached through the slatted window and ran her fingers along the fissure. A black, festering wound opened on her left wrist and without even trying to scream, she let herself go. The splintered edge of the broken countertop was the last sensation she felt before spiralling away.
Myrna stood up, stepped into the bank lobby and crossed to David Mantegna’s discarded form lying on the floor. With an unexpectedly vicious kick to the ribs she turned Mantegna’s body over, then bent down and withdrew the officer’s 9mm pistol from the leather holster in his belt. She rooted around in his pockets until she found a pouch of chewing tobacco, which she stuffed into her blazer pocket.
Lessek's Key Page 7
