She shook her head as she dropped back into her seat, the chair letting out a pained squeal as her weight hit it. “Call it what you want, but something down there makes people vanish. I don’t know what it is, but I do believe it’s real.” She leaned forward again, fixing me with a savage smile.
“And if you two happen to find it? Well, it’ll make a hell of a story.”
* * *
I pulled into the parking lot of The Last Chance and shut the engine off, watching as the dust kicked up by my entrance swirled around my Rover. There were no other cars in the lot, which meant that Rocke wasn’t done amassing whatever research he’d found yet.
Eve had been kind enough to point me toward Charlie’s home, as well as give me a copy of that morning’s special edition paper “free of charge.” I took that one with a slight chuckle, but as she’d pointed out, after I’d paid her almost twenty times the asking rate for the last papers I’d been given, she could “afford a little generosity.”
Charlie’s home had been as unattended as the museum, although his neighbors had sworn they’d heard him leave that morning. Since his number was unlisted, I opted for a more old fashioned method of contact: a note wedged in the doorframe asking him to call me when he could.
After that and a quick stop for lunch, I’d sent Rocke a text, only to get a response that he’d be another hour or two and to meet him at The Last Chance. Which had once again left me with time on my hands.
Although this time, I didn’t have a sense of hesitation about what I was going to do. I was already yawning as I made my way across the parking lot, my staff clutched under one arm and the paper Eve had given me rolled in one hand. I was tired enough that I didn’t even bother with the steps, instead letting my boots ring out against the concrete as I hopped down into the entryway.
You’re tired, I told myself as opened the door to my room and flicked the lights on. You need the rest. Especially with everything that’s going on. For a second I glanced around, something tickling the back of my mind. Nothing shaman-related just a vague feeling that something was amiss, and then I almost laughed as I saw the carefully prepared bed and the patterns on the carpet.
Of course, you rube, I told myself as I dropped onto the bed and kicked my shoes off, not even bothering to pull the covers back. The maid service was apparently a little sloppy, but given the quality of the place and the fact that none of my stuff looked out of place, I wasn’t feeling energetic enough to bother them about it. I stood, the room’s thin carpet tickling my feet as I walked back over to the light switch and flicked it off. The darkness wasn’t absolute—quite a bit of light still made it through the closed blinds—but it was more than dim enough for me to sleep in, especially as tired as I was.
I turned on the bedside lamp for a moment, adding a little more light to the room as I set up my alarm and took a look at the paper Eve had given me. Reading was one of the best ways I’d found to lead myself into a nap, even if the material in question was fairly gripping—or real, in this case. I let out a sigh as I leaned back onto my pillow and started glancing over the front page. The words “Special Edition” took up maybe a quarter of the page, so I had to unfold the paper to see the bottom halves of the pictures Eve had chosen. It was pretty standard looking, but I couldn’t deny it was eye-catching. Each picture was of one of the people that had gone missing over the past week, some of the images as generic as headshots while others had obviously been cropped from larger photos. Underneath each was a name and an age, followed by the date they had disappeared. The last photo on the page was the woman from that morning: a smiling, friendly-looking older lady with sun-tanned skin and short-cut dark hair.
I opened the paper fully, a yawn slipping free as I started looking at the articles on the first page. A chuckle escaped my lips as I saw the headlines on the first article: “Silver Dreams’ Missing Persons Rate Highest in State.”
No wonder she knew all those numbers off the top of her head, I thought as I skimmed the story. Most of it felt like padding, honestly, but I caught a few grains of info sprinkled among the paragraphs—even though it was mostly just stuff she’d already told me. The second article was a reprint of an interview done years earlier discussing the hazards present in the southern end of the valley and how many people had been lost to them over the years.
My eyelids were already fighting to stay up by the time I reached the second page, which seemed to be dominated by a list of the various people who had gone missing in the last ten years along with a short blurb on each of them. There were fourteen pictures. Fourteen people that had gone missing, never to be located, in just a decade. Eve was right, that number was way too high to be a coincidence.
One of the blurbs caught my eye and I read over it before glancing at the one next to it. Of all the people on the page, only these two had gone missing together. Apparently, the pair had been brothers, amateur treasure hunters who had disappeared on the same “expedition.” Like most of the others, their disappearance was classified as being a result of the harshness of the desert.
I flipped the page again, forcing my eyes to stay open. Just another few minutes. The whole next page was taken up by several pictures of and an article on David Jefferson, the first “official” disappearance of the current outbreak. I had to hand it to Eve. The article was actually fairly well-written, both respectful of the situation and the individual in question. Whoever had written it had apparently been working on it for a while, because there were several interviews with people David had known, including his co-workers at the mine, where he’d served as the chief geologist—
Wait a moment. I folded the paper up as my eyes started to force themselves shut, refusing to listen to my commands any longer. Ford said that Peters was hired on as a geologist. How many geologists does Henderson need? The room dimmed as I flicked the lamp off, and I pulled the covers up under my chin, rolling onto my side as I drifted off. I guess it makes sense, I thought as the room faded away around me, the soft hum of the AC growing weak. After all, they’re trying hard to find new deposits, right? But what about what Felix … said … about the … surveys …
* * *
“Alright, what’d you find?” Rocke asked as I sat down on the end of the bed.
“Mostly that the museum curator doesn’t keep as good of hours as his sign says,” I said. We were in Rocke’s room, our respective research results spread across his small table. Most of it was his. Mine consisted of the paper Eve had given me and … Well, that was it, actually.
“So I headed down to the paper to talk to the editor, instead,” I said, trying to appear at least half the gumshoe that Rocke was. “Turned out to be a pretty good move.”
“What’d she tell you?” Rocke asked.
“A couple of things,” I said, holding up a finger. After my nap, I’d done a bit more digging, and I had a feeling Rocke wasn’t going to like the results. I knew I didn’t. “One, that Silver Dreams has the highest rate of missing people in the entire state.”
“Really?” Rocke said, leaning forward.
I nodded. “The law of averages says it should be one person gone permanently missing every two to three years. Instead, it’s one to two, every single year.”
“That is odd.”
“It gets worse,” I said, holding up another finger. “Except in one case, everyone who’s gone missing, goes missing alone, and they’re all presumed dead.”
“And the case where it wasn’t just one?”
“Two brothers, amateur archeologists.” I’d done a little extra research on the pair after my nap but hadn’t found anything relevant that wasn’t in the paper. “They went out looking for Native American artifacts, wandered off into the south of the valley, and never came back.”
“Now, for three,” I said, holding up a third finger. “This is where things really start to get weird. Out of all these people who have gone missing over the years, as far back as records go? Guess how many bodies they’ve found.”
; “With your expression? I’m going to have to say none,” Rocke said.
“Close, but not quite,” I said with a shake of my head. “There have been three. Three bodies in over a hundred years, most of which were just chewed bits of bone.”
“Lovely,” Rocke said, his expression not quite matching my disgust. “And that’s only a little less worrying than zero.”
“I know,” I said, nodding. “I did some snooping online. This area actually has a somewhat decent amount of tourism, so there are groups of people who go camping in the southern end of the valley.”
“And how often do the groups lose somebody?” Rocke asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I tried to find out, but there wasn’t much research on it. Since no one has said anything, my best guess is ‘not many.’ There are definitely plenty of safety advisements to ‘buddy up’ if you look, though.”
“Anyway,” I said, keeping my hand up but not raising another finger yet. “That many groups makes that number all the stranger. Three bodies recovered. Ever. No one, in all the time people have spent scrambling around the valley south of here or surveying land for the mine, has ever found more than those three bodies.”
Rocke nodded and leaned back, staring down at his side of the table and rubbing his thumb across his chin, once again setting my teeth on edge with the scratchy sound of his stubble. “Anything else?”
“Yep,” I said, unfolding my pinkie. “Number four.” The newspaper pages made a faint crackle as I pulled them apart. “I was looking this over a little while ago. David Jefferson worked for Henderson Mining, as their chief geologist, right?”
“Right.”
I flipped the page and revealed the next person who had gone missing, an older man who looked as if he were almost near retirement. “Santino Rios. Guess where he worked.”
Rocke frowned. “I don’t know. Where?”
“Henderson Mining.” The paper rustled again. “Nicole Mejia. Same question.”
“I’ll take a shot in the dark and say Henderson Mining.” Rocke leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
“Gus Antonio,” I said as the next missing person came up. “Henderson Mining. And then this morning …” Another picture, this time of a younger woman. “Jessica Lestaz. Same as all the others.”
I closed the paper. “And it gets better.” I extended my thumb. “Five: I called and talked with Professor Ford, the guy who was looking for Aztecs? Not only did Henderson let them investigate the old tunnels, but the big guy he had ‘escort’ me out of his office the other night turned out to be Aaron Peters, one of Ford’s assistants on that trip.” Rocke’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah,” I continued. “Henderson apparently took a liking to him, gave him a full ride scholarship and then hired him as soon as he graduated. Kid’s a geologist.”
Rocke’s eyebrows moved up further. “Two geologists, and somehow they never got around to surveying any of the land that Felix said they’ve been looking at for the last few years?” he asked.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Especially if the company is always on a razor’s edge.”
“Yeah,” Rocke said, nodding. “Anything else?”
“I left a note at Charlie’s home asking him to call me so I can get some more Wraith stories out of him, and although Eve couldn’t give me anything concrete, she’s convinced the Wraith is a real thing—be it a force, man, or animal—that’s out there hunting people.”
“And that’s based on what?”
“Professional instinct,” I said, flashing him a grin. “I think you’d like her, Rocke. She’s a workaholic, has some predatory hunches, always digging around for a story …”
“Bite me,” he said, although I did see him grin slightly. “Predatory?”
I gave him a shrug. “More than me, that’s for sure. Anyway, that’s all I’ve got. What’d you find?”
His face soured. “Stuff I don’t like. The NSAU is looking, but for now, they’ve got nothing. This, though …” He pulled a folded map from his pocket and began to unfold it across his papers. “Take a look at this.”
I leaned forward. It was a city map, but one that held quite a few familiar markings. I blinked as I recognized it as a smaller version of the map I’d put together, the one with all the chupacabra attacks the town had suffered over the years. This one was different, though. While most of the markings were clear circles, drawn in pen, a good half-a-dozen or more were filled in with red marker.
“What’s with the red marker?” I asked. “And how’d you get this?”
“Same way you did,” Rocke said, tapping his finger against one of the red dots. “Research. Difference is, I looked up each of these attacks and read the descriptions. The clear circles? Those are definite chupacabra attacks. But the red circles? Those are the ones were the reports specified that the animals throat had been cut.” My blood froze as I looked up at him in surprise.
“And not just cut,” he said, his expression set in stone. “Sliced. One side to the other. Just like—”
“Felix’s cows,” I said, slumping back against the bed. “Damn. I didn’t even consider that.”
“No one has,” Rocke said, leaning back in his own seat and folding the map back up. “They were still reported as chupacabra attacks. The only reason we know now is because I spent the last four hours reading through old newspapers line by line to check all the details. For all we know there could be more.”
“Which means this isn’t new,” I said. “It’s been going on for …” I glanced at Rocke.
“Decades,” he finished for me. “Oldest entry I could find was back in the fifties, so around sixty years ago. There might have been more before that, but it was the oldest one I could find.”
“So there’s probably more that you didn’t find.”
Rocke nodded. “Worse, it means that most likely, this has been going on for a very, very long time. We’re just the first to notice, and that’s only because things got really bad.” He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms in front of him, and nodded at the papers he’d left on the table. “These are all the reports I could copy. There might be something in here that could help us figure out why.”
I didn’t respond. A thought of my own was worming its way through my mind, growing clearer and more distinct with every passing second. A thought I really didn’t like.
“What do you know about the ancient Aztecs?” I asked, leaning forward and looking right at him.
Rocke gave me a puzzled look. “Nothing much,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Central-American empire, fought off Cortes’s initial invasion of the Americas, only to get stomped into the dirt when he returned with the second fleet in a year-long war that would’ve gutted the Spanish economy if not for all the gold they brought back.”
“Know anything about Aztec magic?”
“No,” he said, rubbing his chin again. “I don’t think we ever talked about that when I was a student. Didn’t it have to do with sacrifices?”
“Human sacrifices,” I answered, nodding. “And Professor Ford? He told me that they were looking for an old Aztec mining outpost, one that had been ‘committed’ to one of their gods or something.” Rocke’s face grew, however impossibly, even more serious.
“And ‘ancient gods’ is sometimes a way of saying ‘magic,’” he muttered. “Great. Did they ever find anything?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head, “but it’s just one more thing to think—”
“Maybe someone did,” Rocke said, his voice going low as he cut me off. “Think about it. Ancient Aztec outpost, human sacrifice, the dead cows this morning. Could be that someone’s found it and gone cuckoo.”
“That wouldn’t explain the ones sixty years ago,” I said. Rocke stared down at the table for a moment.
“Maybe,” he said. “There’s always the chance that whoever is behind this died years ago. Necromancy can do a lot of very disturbing things.” Then he shook his head. “No, I would’ve felt that.”
�
�Felt what?” I asked, a little alarmed.
“A lich. It’s when a necromancer dies but locks their spirit to their body. Kind of like a Horror, except they’re still aware and in charge. It’s a way of cheating death but it’s not cheap. It’s not easy to hide either. I know. I met one—a weak one. And I could feel him from almost a half-a-mile away. No,” he said, shaking his head. “Whatever this is it’s not that.” He looked up at me. “And I’ve got an idea how we might find out. Feel like finally getting to the bottom of this?”
I didn’t hesitate to nod. “You bet,” I said, standing and grabbing my staff. “What are we going to do?”
“Something that should bring this whole thing together,” Rocke said, crossing the room and unzipping a duffel bag sitting on his dresser. Another zipper came undone as he opened a compartment, and he started pulling out box after box of bullets, setting them in front of the television. “Is the museum still open?” I nodded.
“Good,” Rocke said, pulling a pistol from his bag and setting it next to the ammunition. A second gun followed—a massive, silvery thing that probably required a license just to look at. “I’ve got one or two questions for that curator. After that?” He stood up, gripping the magnum in his hand and aiming its barrel at the ceiling. He flipped a magazine in his free hand, glanced at the top, and slid it into the grip with a sharp click.
“After that, it’s time to have a nice, long chat with Henderson.”
Chapter 18
“Uh-oh,” I said as we pulled around the corner and onto the street where the museum sat.
“What?” Rocke asked, looking up from the bullets he’d been busily loading. “Oh, yeah. That’s not the most welcome sign.” A black-and-white was parked in front of the museum entrance, its lights off but the two officers who should have been in it knocking on the museum door. I slowed as we came closer, pulling over and parking on the opposite side of the street.
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