Chapter 6
My drive back to the motel was a contemplative one, full of thoughts that more than once had me considering going to the police, the sheriff, the town hall … anywhere that I felt Rocke might go in his pursuit of whatever this was all about. But I wasn’t Rocke. I was a shaman from Vermont who was used to talking deer into staying out of client’s gardens, not some gung-ho spook who dealt with missing people and mystery on a regular basis.
I glanced down at the survey map Ms. Valons had given me, still sitting folded on the passenger seat, and idly wondered exactly how much land the mines owned. From what I’d seen of Henderson’s desk, most of his files were land surveys, and the two top-most folders had been labeled “Survey Reports.” If nothing else, I was mildly curious how the company acquired its land, but I shoved the thought out of my mind.
Worry about finding Rocke first, I told myself as I made the final turn onto the road to The Last Chance. You can worry about pointless interests after you know if he’s all right. Even as I chided myself with the thought, a twinge of unease shot through me. An unlocked car, an abandoned phone, and no contact for almost two days now. Oh, and a sheriff who seemed determined to pin another man’s disappearance on Rocke. Although they had vanished at the same time.
No, I corrected myself, not the same time. The same night. There was no proof the two disappearances were related. At least, none that I’d seen yet.
Still, if I hadn’t found anything by the next morning, I was going to have to report Rocke’s disappearance to someone. Since the local police were likely to side with the wonderfully welcoming Sherriff Hanks, that left me with one other, immediate, if unwanted, option. Well, aside from doing nothing on my own. I could call the NSAU.
It wasn’t an option that I was looking forward to actually making use of, but I would if I had to. Most of the time, involving any sort of bureaucracy is the last thing you want to do when you want something to go smoothly—least of all the US government—but along with that bloated bureaucracy the NSAU had weight. Powerful weight. Yes, they were slow, and inefficient most of the time, but they were like a steamroller, inexorable in their methods and determination to get to the conclusion of any Unusual event.
They were also home to some of the more interesting government employees, which made for an amusing mental picture when I imagined the inevitable clash that would occur when Silver Dream’s sheriff met one of their agents. Or worse yet, one of their department heads. The US government was never short on spending money, and most Unusuals who dealt with the NSAU saw the results of that. Most government agencies hired based on who you knew, how many you knew, or what you knew—usually in that order. The NSAU on the other hand had made the rare smart decision and to search out those who could actually be considered experts. Wizards, necromancers, lycanthropes, even a few dragons, if the rumors were to be believed. All to oversee and regulate Unusual activity in the United States.
I grinned as I thought about the good sheriff meeting a dragon. I’d never personally encountered one, but reputation held that they were intense creatures, with a focus and determination that outstripped what most ordinary people could achieve. And with lifespans that could span more than a thousand years, dragons were easily one of the wisest and most interesting individuals you could ever meet.
And probably the most dangerous, I reminded myself. A dragon’s intensity gave it clarity and focus, but that could easily turn into single-minded fixation when the moment struck. Which was why there were so many myths and legends advising people not to steal from a dragon’s hoard. I could only imagine how angry I’d be if someone tried to rob my house. And if I were an ancient scaled terror with claws and fiery breath? A mix like that made things all the more obvious in my mind.
I shook my head as I pulled into the motel lot, driving away my attempts to distract myself. As entertaining a thought as it was to picture Sherriff Hanks squaring off against a NSAU official who could breathe fire, such thoughts weren’t helping me get anywhere. Especially since if they did actually happen, it would probably mean the worst for Rocke.
It was a sobering thought, and I snapped out of my fantasy immediately, thoughts tumbling back to the matter at hand. My friend was missing. A number of animals were dead, all victims of a strange chupacabra attack. And … And that was pretty much it.
No, that wasn’t true. I also had a map of the areas Rocke had specifically been told not to go. I glanced down at the folded paper as I pulled my Rover up alongside Rocke’s battered Subaru. Maybe there was something on the map that would give me a clue as to where to start looking, for Rocke and the chupacabra.
Once I was back in the air-conditioned cool of my room, I unfolded the map, eyes widening as I spread it across my bed. I’d severely underestimated how much land the mine owned. The green outlines Cynthia had drawn across the map outlined an area nearly four times the size of the city itself, filling the whole southern-half of the valley.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed that she had gone a step further, using clearly defined lines to divide up the larger tracts of land into smaller parcels, each dated and numbered. Whatever Henderson was paying her, it probably wasn’t enough.
Then again, I thought as I pored over the map, that’s probably the case for everyone working there. The whole operation had the feel of hanging on by its fingertips, and now that I’d gotten a good look at the map, I could see that the company had done just that for the last century. The earliest plot of land was actually underneath a good chunk of the city, and Cynthia had recorded both the date that the land was claimed as well when it had been parceled back to the city, dates which coincided with a few new purchases further south.
The city overgrew the old mines, I thought, rubbing my fingers against my chin and feeling a bit of stubble brush against my skin. I’d have to shave again soon, unless I wanted a patchy beard to develop. I rubbed my hand across my chin again, feeling the stubble drag as I considered the map. Something about the way the town had grown over the old mining territory nagged at me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.
I moved my eyes further south, following the growth of the town and the subsequent sale of old property. At least a quarter of the city limits seemed to be built on old mining territory, with the last sale taking place almost forty years ago. I stared at the lots for a moment, but then shook my head. Despite the niggling twinge in the back of my head, I couldn’t see anything that looked vital, except for a small, squared-off area in town helpfully labeled as the original mining complex. The text beneath it confirmed it as a museum, probably the one Vanessa had mentioned.
I moved south, doing my best to jump from purchase to purchase as the company expanded. They definitely held a lot of property, more and more all the time, it seemed. The land purchases grew steadily larger the further south I looked. I found the current location of the mine—or at least the location of the office I’d been at earlier—and noted with some quick approximations that they owned almost everything for the next ten miles to the south in almost every direction.
Almost. Three parcels near the edge of the map had been given dotted borders rather than solid ones, and each bore next year’s date, along with notes from Cynthia that those purchases were “pending survey report.” That explained the survey reports I’d seen on Henderson’s desk. They didn’t own the land yet. I wasn’t much of a businessman, but I was pretty sure Henderson wouldn’t want me knowing exactly where they were surveying, either. I wasn’t familiar with any sort of mining espionage, but I could see it being plausible.
Whatever was nagging me about the areas of the city purchased from the mines caught my attention again. There was something about the shape of the roads, the positioning of the properties.
Then it clicked.
Moments later, I was back in the motel room, having braved the hot August sun in a brief, mad dash to my Rover for the piece of paper I now held in my hand, the map that Mrs. Salas had drawn for me the day before. Now th
at I was holding it over the map I’d gotten from Cynthia, I could see why something had looked familiar. I’d recognized the streets from Mrs. Salas’s sketch.
I grabbed a pen from the bedside table and began drawing a circle around Mrs. Salas’s home, wincing when I accidentally pushed the pen tip through the paper. I pulled it back out, smoothing the map with one hand, and continued making my circle with more gentle pressure. I pulled back, following the road, and found the next house I’d been to. I drew a circle around that one, as well.
I did the same for the next two houses, both Felix’s and the one I hadn’t visited. Then I leaned back, looking down my work. Just as I’d suspected, all four of Rocke’s were sitting inside parts of the city that had been sold back by the mines.
Which meant that Rocke’s theory about old mining shafts was probably right on the money, just in the wrong location. He’d been looking at property the company still owned, when it was likely that the company had nothing to do with it. At least, not anymore.
It was a nice observation, and one that made me feel more than a little accomplished. But then I frowned. As exciting as my little breakthrough was, it didn’t bring me any closer to figuring out where Rocke was or what had happened to him.
I dropped back into my chair, hearing it echo my sigh with a slightly distressed creak. I stared down at the map spread across my bed, frustration bubbling inside me.
I’m getting information, I thought, the beginnings of a headache moving across my mind. But I don’t feel like any of it is actually getting me closer to what happened to Rocke. I started rubbing one hand against my temple, trying to stave off the faint pain growing there. The only way any of this would actually help is if we were both sitting here trying to find the chupacabra. It would give us an idea of where—I sat up straight my hands dropping against the armrests as another thought occurred to me. Unless Rocke was doing the same thing, and kept a record of it somewhere.
I stood, grabbing my staff and readying myself to order Larry or whoever else was on duty to let me into Rocke’s room again. But I stopped before making it to the door. I’d already been inside his room, and I hadn’t seen any papers or maps spread around. The only place I’d seen anything like that had been—
I almost slapped myself as I realized what I’d been overlooking this whole time. Rocke’s cell phone had been right on the passenger seat of his car, on top of a huge pile of papers. In the parking lot. Right next to my own Rover. And it had been there since I’d arrived.
I shook my head as I headed out into the sun for the second time in the last few minutes. Jacob Rocke, I was not.
* * *
The hot afternoon sun pounded down on me as I dug through the back of Rocke’s car, looking for anything that might be a clue to his disappearance. I’d already determined to take the whole stack of papers and his cell phone from the front seat, though it looked like his phone would need to be plugged in before it’d be of any use. I’d checked the glovebox as well, but it hadn’t yielded anything but a box of fuses and a well-thumbed owner’s manual for the car. The driver’s area hadn’t held much either—a half-eaten box of Tic-Tacs that had fused together from the heat and some receipts that were far too old to be of any use.
The backseat of Rocke’s car was another story, however. The floor was covered in paper, everything from photocopies of old newspaper articles to business cards of what I assumed were old clients. I rifled through the mess for a few minutes, one knee up on the seat as I gradually stretched myself across the back of the car, only to come to the conclusion that I was looking at the paper remains of old cases that Rocke hadn’t bothered to throw out yet.
The only other item of interest in the backseat was a zipped-up duffel bag, its sun-faded surface having once been black, but now more of an off-looking dark grey. I wiped my hand across my forehead, my fingers coming away slick with sweat. The inside of the car felt like a sauna now, and the faint southbound breeze wasn’t nearly strong enough to compete with a day’s worth of dead air inside a closed car.
Annoyed, I grabbed the handle of the bag and pulled it across the seat towards the open door, backing myself out of it and into the welcome breeze. It wasn’t as cool as I would have preferred, but it was better than the alternative. I wiped more sweat from my face and unzipped the bag.
Nothing. I hadn’t really expected any major revelations, but I was a little disappointed all the same. A mélange of clothing stared up at me from the duffel: neatly folded socks, pants, and shirts all arranged in a decently organized pile.
But I wasn’t done yet. I slid my hand down the side of the bag, fingers probing for anything out of the ordinary. Near the bottom, my fingers met warm metal, and I nodded as I pulled my hand back out and examined my prize.
It was a pistol, although I wasn’t really certain what kind. Guns were Rocke’s strength, not mine. The smooth, black metal was warm in my palm, the texture of the grip sturdy in my hand. It was a small pistol, at least for someone of my size. Small enough that my pinkie rested against my palm when I wrapped my hand around the grip.
For a moment, I considered taking it. Rocke used guns because they worked. Nothing took a magic user apart faster than a bit of hot metal, especially if it had been enhanced with carefully etched spellrunes, which I suspected Rocke’s probably were. But after a moment, I shook my head and carefully replaced the pistol in the bag. I knew how to work a gun, but I wasn’t going to take one that wasn’t mine. Especially with Sheriff Hanks looming over me.
Gun replaced, I checked the rest of the bag but found nothing interesting. Aside from the spare clothes, there was only the pistol. I zipped the bag back up and pushed it back across the seat.
Which leaves just the trunk, I thought as I looked back at the end of the car. But I didn’t have any keys, and I hadn’t found any extra sets while searching the car. Nor had I noticed any latch or switch to open the truck from the inside of the car. I wandered around towards the back and gave the lid a quick glance anyway, but a few short pulls only confirmed that I wasn’t getting in. I gave the driver’s side another quick once over, searching for any sort of silvery metal that could be the keys, but I came up empty once again. I was out of luck.
Uncomfortably warm and slightly frustrated, I slipped Rocke’s phone into my pocket and grabbed the pile of papers he’d left on his passenger seat. If nothing else, I could spend the next hour or so sorting through them and seeing if there was anything useful in the stack. Maybe I’d get lucky and find a ransom note.
Stepping back into my motel room did improve my mood a little, mostly because I’d left the AC running. My clothes were still damp, but I wasn’t cooking under the sun anymore. I dropped Rocke’s papers on the bed alongside my map and headed for the sink, water on my mind. I paused along the way to plug Rocke’s phone into my charger, and grabbed one of the complimentary paper cups and filled it to the brim. The water felt soothing as it rushed down my throat, and I greedily gulped down a second glass before filling a third and carrying it back with me.
I hit pay dirt almost immediately. The first few sheets were photocopies of old newspaper articles, most of them about a haunted home in Arizona—probably his last case—but as I set them aside, the next piece of paper caught my eye. It was a computer printout. Single color sheet, probably printed at a local library, and containing exactly what I was hoping to find.
It was an aerial view of Silver Dreams, along with the southern half of the valley, probably copied straight from Google Earth or something similar. But it was overlaid with a series of thick black lines circling various areas, dividing the whole map up into sections that were almost identical to the areas on the map Cynthia had made for me.
So I was on the right track, although I had gotten my information in a different way. And, I realized with some surprise, more accuracy. Rocke’s homemade map had the company owned outlines stopping well short of where the mine’s north edge, not accounting for the land that had been resold to the city. To the sout
h, I could also see that it lacked the land the company had surveyed but not purchased.
Instead, Rocke had circled the southern parts of the map in pen, without any labeling. There was also a circle around the southern half of the town, though again, without any note as to why.
I looked back at the map Cynthia had given me, mentally copying the lines from Rocke’s map to mine. They formed a loop over the southern half of the city, one that just happened to surround each of the four houses where there had been a chupacabra attack. It also sat comfortably within each of the old mining areas Henderson Mining had sold back to the city. Bingo, I thought, smiling. Maybe I wasn’t as bad at this detective stuff as I had thought.
I set Rocke’s map aside and pressed on to the papers below it. There was a pamphlet from the Silver Dreams museum, which folded out to reveal a map of the original mining complex I’d seen blocked off on my map. Rocke had apparently been there. A few photocopied news articles about chupacabra attacks from fifteen years ago followed the pamphlet, names and dates highlighted. A few of them also had addresses highlighted, and I set those aside as well, hoping to add them to my map later.
The next set of papers I recognized as one of the Wikipedia articles on chupacabras I’d gone over the day before. Rocke had written questions in the margins, calling attention to lack of detail or conflicting theories and misinformation, his statements mirroring many of the thoughts I’d had while reading.
I flipped past that and found a printout of small, fine-print legalese. “Utah Regulations Concerning the Infection and Treatment of Lycanthropy,” the title read, and I flipped through the next few pages, running my eyes over the faint lines. Legal-speak, all of it, and from a different state besides. Probably something from an old case. The next set of documents—a series of notes concerning a possible vampire stalking somewhere in some town in Washington—was the same. After that, a map of the same town with reported sightings. Rocke had been busy.
Dead Silver Page 10
