“Have you gone down into the shaft?” I asked.
Charlie shook his head, wiry hair bouncing on his head. “Of course not. The shaft isn’t stable anymore. I wouldn’t dare go down there.”
“But a bunch of drunk teens would, huh?” I asked, picking up a broken chunk of wood in one hand. Something tickled at my nose, a faint prickling sensation, and I sneezed.
“Gesundheit,” Charlie said as my sneeze echoed around the room. I stood up, tossing the fragment of wood back on the ground outside the shaft.
“Thanks,” I said, shaking my head to get the faint itch out. “Where’d they break in, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Over here.” Charlie waved me further back into the room, bringing me to a stop by an old, metal door that had been painted a bland brown. It looked just like the kind you’d see in schools and other public places.
“When they first erected this building over the mineshaft, this was one of the back entrances,” Charlie explained as he flattened his palm against the metal. “We had the door put in as a safety requirement about thirty years ago. Technically, it’s a service entrance.”
“Where does it lead?” I asked, looking down at the metal by the handle. The thin material had been scratched and dented, sharp lines shining where the paint had been stripped away.
“Directly outside,” he said, giving the door a gentle push with his hand. It opened with a long creak, the long-unused hinges protesting the motion. I squinted at the sudden influx of sunlight, covering my eyes with one hand. Between the haze of light and the sudden water in my own eyes, I made out an empty scrub lot caught in a cul-de-sac by the shape of the building and past that, the road behind the museum.
“Is there a fence separating that lot from the road?” I asked as Charlie pulled the door shut. There was a faint pop as the door’s lock slipped past the splintered wood that had once held it.
“No,” Charlie responded with a shake of his head. “I suppose I should look into that after all this. And maybe a few of those cameras, too.” The old man let out a sigh as he turned and faced the splintered boards scattered around the mine entrance, disappointment etched on his face. I felt bad for the guy. The museum was clearly his life, and someone had gone and destroyed a part of it.
“Do you want a hand getting that wood cleaned up?” I asked, my question seemingly shaking him from his reverie.
“No,” he said, a sad smile coming back onto his face. “No, I can take care of it later. Or the janitorial staff will if I don’t have time. Or someone.” He gave his head one final shake, as if he was trying to get the sight of the broken boards out of his own mind. “Well, then, shall we continue our tour?”
I nodded, giving one last look at the now-open mineshaft as we left the room. Now that we had passed the “centerpiece” of the tour, the museum began to broaden a bit, opening up into wider areas. These, Charlie was all too proud to inform me, had originally been part of the smelting rooms. Each held scattered displays and pieces of history represented various events in the town’s history. And just as Charlie had said there was, a small display on the legend of the Wraith.
I spent some time wandering from exhibit to exhibit, genuinely enjoying the first bit of real vacation I’d had since arriving in Silver Springs. Despite its lack of actual information past “myth,” the exhibit on the Wraith turned out to be quite a bit of fun, especially when I discovered a sort of poster display of concepts for what the Wraith looked like, all drawn by various grade-schoolers in the area for part of a Halloween competition. Some of them were the standard movie monster fare—mummies, zombies, a few Frankenstein’s monsters—while some were genuinely clever or even creepy, like something out a horror film. There was even a set of audio recordings, old stories about the Wraith that someone had recorded and submitted to the museum. The kind of stories parents told their kids late at night or around campfires.
I was halfway through a particularly gory one when I spotted something odd at one of the other displays. Curious, I pulled the headphones off and made my way across the bare wood, my curiosity growing by the second. Almost buried against the back wall—between a display on holiday celebrations in Silver Dreams and some long-forgotten cattle-drives—was a small display that I certainly hadn’t expected to find in a museum in the southwest.
The title above the display read “Aztecs in Silver Dreams” complete with a giant question mark. Below that sat a large, plastic relief of what looked like an ancient Central American jaguar carving. I looked over the small display, pausing on the numerous placards and color photographs sealed under the thick plastic. Quite a few of them were of a small, ragtag group who definitely hadn’t been ready for the weather. Most of them were varying degrees of lobster red, but none of them looked unhappy. In fact, they seemed pretty pleased for the most part. I was just about to start reading the first placard when Charlie appeared at my elbow.
“Ah,” he said, his sudden appearance startling me, “I see you’ve found our black sheep.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, giving one of the photos a last glance before facing the curator directly.
“This is the display I argued most strongly against including,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “It really doesn’t fit with the rest of the museum, but the board overruled my objections. I suppose it does mark an interesting historical curiosity, even if there was no solid evidence found. But it remains, regardless of how inaccurate it is.”
“What made it inaccurate?” I asked. If he wasn’t going to let me read it for myself, then I was going to make him explain it to me.
Charlie let out a long sigh, as if I’d just asked him to do something as difficult as facing the break in earlier.
“About twelve years back, a professor at some college got it into his head that the ancient Aztecs had expanded much further north than anyone had thought,” he said, tapping one of the pictures with his finger. “This man right here. Professor Ford. With the upswing of research into Unusuals during the last fifty years, Ford got it into his head that some of the old legends about the Aztecs might be truer than most suspected.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “He figured that what had been explained away as exaggeration was actually magic.”
“Got it on the first try,” Charlie said, nodding. “And to be fair, he’s been proven right. Much of what was thought about the Aztecs and other ancient cultures has changed with the modern understanding of Unusuals and those with a knack for magic. We have a much greater understanding now of what Aztec culture truly was like, especially regarding their use of ‘blood magic.’ With this in mind, Professor Ford became convinced that the Aztec empire had stretched much further than previously thought, perhaps all the way into North America.”
“So he came here looking for evidence of that?”
The old curator nodded again, his head bobbing up and down like one of those big-headed toys that you attached to your dashboard. “Yes, he did,” he said. “He found something that indicated—at least to him—that the Aztecs had maintained an outpost far, far in the north that was a significant supply of silver. The outpost was said to lie in a valley, so—”
“He came here,” I finished.
“Yes,” Charlie said, nodding again. “He stayed for almost a year, combing the valley for any sign of the ancient Aztecs.”
“The Wraith never got him, huh?”
Charlie smiled. “No, but a lack of funding certainly did. He hung on for as long as he could, but he was eventually forced to give up. His team searched the valley tirelessly, mostly north of town, thanks to the mine, but they did get permission to look through the unused land that the mine owned.”
Whatever I had been about to say died on my tongue. “Wait, you mean the company let him and his team poke around on their old property?”
“Of course,” Charlie said, a look of confusion on his face. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“Why, indeed?” I asked, although the question wasn’t directed at h
im. Why had Henderson allowed a bunch of archaeologists dig around on their old land but refused Rocke when he’d asked for the same chance?
“Well, they never found anything,” Charlie said, apparently writing my question off as rhetorical. He turned back towards the display. “So this doesn’t really belong here. Not as history, at least. I still remember his team though.” His eyes settled on a group shot of what looked like the whole team sitting in front of a bar somewhere. “Alex, Martin, Samantha, Ford himself—” he started, tapping each one of them in order with his finger, “—Juan, Nikki, and Aaron.” His finger came to a stop on the largest member of the group, a musclebound blond who looked more like a linebacker than someone who would spend all day digging in the dirt.
“They were a pretty fun group,” Charlie said, smiling. “Even if they don’t belong on a display in my museum.”
“Do you still keep in touch with them?” I asked.
He seemed surprised by my question. “No, not really. The professor contacts me occasionally, asking if anyone’s found anything, but in the eleven or so years since he was here, I’m afraid his idea remains as implausible as ever.”
“You don’t think he was right then,” I said, grinning.
“No,” Charlie said, returning my smile with amusement. “Personally, I thought it was one of the most ridiculous things I’d ever heard of. Aztecs in New Mexico?” He let out a short laugh. “That’ll be the day.”
* * *
I spent a little longer browsing around some of the other exhibits, but eventually I had seen just about all there was to see. I made my way out of the museum, thanking Charlie for his time and promising to stop by and say hello if I could. My stop at the museum had killed almost two hours, which meant that the hospital’s visiting hours were officially open, but since they hadn’t called yet, I decided it wouldn’t be worth it to show up and wait around.
Instead, I headed toward the Salas’s residence, or as near as I could figure based on the water tower. I made a few wrong turns before I got myself on the right road, but I wasn’t too concerned about making good time.
What I’d heard at the museum still bothered me. It was odd that an archeological crew would be given free rein while Rocke had been told to forget it. Then again, I thought as I mulled it over, I might be missing some part of the deal. Maybe one of the archeologists got hurt or had a close shave. Maybe Henderson didn’t take Rocke seriously. Or crud, I thought as the Rover rounded another curve, maybe the company was under different management then.
The Salas’s home was just coming into view when my phone rang, and for a moment I stared at it in surprise. It had been so long since it’d rung, I’d almost forgotten what the thing sounded like.
I took my foot off the accelerator and at grabbed my phone, pulling off to the side of the road as my car began to slow. The number wasn’t an area code I recognized, but I took the call anyway.
“Hello?” I said as I held the phone up to my ear. “This is Hawke.”
“Hey, Hawke,” a raspy voice said. “Sorry I missed our appointment.” I brought the Rover to a full stop on the shoulder and spun the wheel with one hand to make a U-turn. I knew that voice; it was one I’d been hoping to hear all morning. “I was kind of tied up.”
“Hello, Rocke,” I said as I spun the car around. “You wouldn’t believe how glad I am to hear your voice.”
Chapter 10
“Rocke!” I said, smiling as I walked into his room at the hospital. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, my friend.”
“Hey, Hawke,” he said, looking away from the two officers I’d met the night before. He was sitting up in his bed, his face still puffy and bruised but not quite as swollen as the day before. A few butterfly bandages stood out against the purplish splotches on his face, marking where he’d once been bleeding. Gauze bandages had been wrapped around his head, high enough that it didn’t cover his eyes, but completely hiding the rest of his head from view.
“This is Officer Sanchez and Officer Carlton,” Rocke said, pointing at the pair.
“Yeah,” I said, walking up to the duo and offering them my hand, “We met last night. I think they wanted to question you then, but they had to settle for me.”
“And you were most helpful,” Sanchez said, giving my hand a quick shake. Carlton followed suit a moment later, though his was a bit less enthusiastic than his partner’s.
“We already contacted the NSAU and got the proper paperwork pulled,” Sanchez continued, holding up a clipboard with a small stack of papers. “You’ve made the whole process easier just thanks to that.”
“Yeah, ‘easier,’” Rocke said, rolling his eyes and scowling. It was a little dour for him, but given that he’d been suffering from a concussion in addition to everything else, I could imagine that paperwork hadn’t been the first thing he’d felt like doing when he’d woken up.
“Anyway,” Sanchez said, looking back up at me, “you actually got here at just the right time. We just finished up, unless you have anything to add?” he asked, his attention switching to Rocke.
“Nope,” Rocke said, shaking his head slightly and then wincing.
“In that case, we’ll let you know when we find something,” Sanchez said, the clipboard back at his side once more. “Thanks for your time.” Rocke muttered a vague farewell as the pair left the room.
“Finally,” he said as soon as their footsteps had faded. “Dealing with paperwork has never been one of my favorite parts of the job.”
“At least they knew about it beforehand,” I said, taking a seat in one of the chairs next to the bed. As far as hospital rooms went, Rocke had it pretty nice. The television in the corner was a flat-panel, the window would have been letting in plenty of sunlight if not for the heavy blinds drawn across it, and there was even a card sitting by his bedside table for instructing patients on how to access the free Wi-Fi.
“Not a bad place,” I said, settling myself and resting one leg on my knee. “For a hospital, I mean.”
“I still don’t like it,” Rocke said, one hand coming up to rub faintly at his forehead. “I don’t like hospitals normally, and I especially don’t like waking up in them. You know this one’s haunted?”
I blinked in surprise. “Seriously?”
“Yup,” Rocke said, nodding. “I’ll take care of it before I leave. Not a very strong one, but a ghost all the same. Some miner who got injured in a collapse and blamed the doctors for not being able to fix him. He’s still around, whining about it somewhere further back in the building.”
“And no one’s noticed him?” I asked. It was still somewhat shocking to me that Rocke dealt so casually with the unliving.
“Like I said, he’s not very strong. Barely an apparition, angry and confused.” He let out a sigh. “I’ll talk with him before I leave, try to get him to accept things.”
I nodded. “Anything else interesting going on here?”
“No,” Rocke said, starting to shake his head but clearly thinking better of it. “I guess if I had to pick a hospital to wake up in, I’d take a small town one. Not nearly as much to deal with.”
“I’d never thought about it that way before,” I said, shaking my own head.
“Well, not to be blunt or anything,” Rocke said, “but you wouldn’t. You’re a shaman. Life, death, it’s all part of the cycle you interact with. Nothing wrong with a hospital in that respect. Me?” He grinned. “I’m limited to one area of that specifically, and only then with things that are bending the spectrum, trying to step outside their sphere. Being in hospital’s like being stuck at your job twenty-four-seven.”
“Message received,” I said, leaning back with grin. “I’ll dump you off at a haunted house somewhere next time.” I laughed, and Rocke cracked a grin.
“So, I know you’re waiting for me to ask,” I said, changing the subject. “What happened?”
“You mean why didn’t I meet you when you showed up?” Rocke asked. “Pretty simple, really. Somebody jumped me,
clocked me from behind while I was digging around in my car. Gave me a nice goose egg and a concussion.”
“You didn’t see who it was?”
“No,” Rocke said, shaking his head. “There wasn’t even another car in the parking lot. My memory is a little hazy, but I’m sure of that. I’d just finished planning out my route to the south end of the valley and was grabbing my stuff from the car so I could leave it in my room. Past that …” he shrugged. “I woke up with a burlap sack tied over my head and my hands and legs tied to that chair. I could hear some voices, but I was so woozy, none of it really made sense. Then whoever it was started beating me, and that didn’t help. I think I passed out again at some point. It all gets really foggy after that. Nightmares, hallucinations, shock.” He shook his head again, wincing but carrying the motion through.
“Do you remember when we found you?” I asked.
“Vaguely,” Rocke said, looking at me. “It was you and that Louisiana guy, right?”
“Felix Bayou?” I asked. Rocke thought for a moment and nodded.
“Yeah, that was us,” I said. You were in pretty rough shape.”
“So the doctors tell me.” He paused for a moment, hand on his forehead, staring down at his blankets with a confused look on his face. Then he shook his head again, slowly this time, and turned back towards me.
“Any luck with the chupacabra?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t see one while we were out there, if that’s what you mean. And without you around, I mostly just said hello to your clients.”
“Did Mrs. Salas give you some of that jam?”
“Yeah, she did,” I said, nodding.
“Freg,” Rocke said, shaking his head. “I was looking forward to that. You still got any?”
“Half a jar,” I admitted. “I’ll bring it with me the next time I come by.”
“Good,” Rocke said. His bed made a whirring noise as it began to sink back, putting him in a more relaxed position. “They had any problems with those chupacabras since I put the wards up?”
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