“Well?” I said, glancing at Rocke as yet another large bullet popped into place with a sharp metal-on-metal snap.
“Better go meet the welcoming party,” Rocke said, the now full magazine vanishing somewhere under his coat. With the volume of weaponry I’d seen him attach to the harness he’d put on back at the motel, he could’ve outfitted a small army for a guerilla war. He’d called it a “precaution”, but the last time he’d taken a “precaution” while I’d been around him, we—well, more him—had ended up firebombing a house with an incendiary grenade. It had been for a good cause, but it was still something that jumped to mind whenever I started comparing Rocke’s job to my own.
I stepped out of the car and onto the warm pavement, letting out a quiet laugh as Rocke grimaced. “Maybe you shouldn’t have worn the coat,” I suggested as we crossed the street.
“Sacrifice for the job,” Rocke said, his expression the same calm, impassive stone it always was. Aside from the beads of sweat already running down his forehead. “Trust me, it’s for the best.”
I chuckled again, tapping the end of my staff on the pavement as we approached the steps. “Yeah, well as hot as it is, I think you’re going to get odd stares either way. Hello?” I gave one of the officers a lazy wave as he turned, then grinned as I recognized the familiar face.
“Hey, I know you!” I said, stopping at the top of the steps. The cop’s eyes widened in surprise as he recognized me in return. “Officer Carlton, right?” I stepped up to the dark-haired cop and extended my hand.
“Yeah,” he said, as he took his hand in mine. “Decroux, right?” I nodded as we shook, giving him my best friendly grin. The other officer turned as Carlton let go, revealing the face of Carlton’s shorter partner, Sanchez.
“Mr. Decroux and Mr. Rocke,” Sanchez said, giving us both wide smiles as he took our hands. “I heard you had a run-in with some of our boys this morning.”
“Yeah,” Rocke said, nodding. “I hope your friends weren’t too unhappy.” The look that Sanchez and Carlton exchanged was all that Rocke needed, and he nodded again. “I see. Well, sorry, but we had to do it.”
“Hey, it’s not us you need to apologize to,” Sanchez said, waving him off. He turned back toward the door, a large ring of keys jiggling in his hand. “The chief, on the other hand …” he said as he stuck another key into the lock and wiggled it back and forth. It wouldn’t budge. “Darn,” he said, popping the key out and moving it to the next one. “He’s pretty upset with you two, especially after he had to talk to the judge for Hanks to ease off.”
“Hey, if he dislikes paperwork as much as I do, then I’m probably as annoyed as he is,” Rocke said, leaning against the handrail. “When this is all over, I’ll come by and see if I can’t make amends.”
“What do you mean ‘when this is all over’?” Carlton asked as Sanchez switched keys again with a muttered curse. “I thought you guys were just taking a look.”
“It’s gotten a little more complicated than that,” Rocke said, giving the officer a slow nod. Carlton’s eyes turned to me, and I offered him a nonchalant shrug.
“Wait, you guys really are onto something?” Sanchez asked, yet another key sliding from the keyhole with a faint tap and ringing as it slapped into place alongside the other keys. “The guys this morning were convinced you were just pulling your badge to get a rise out of them.” Rocke’s face took a decidedly less-friendly turn, and I decided to step in before he said something that would cause problems.
“We weren’t.” Carlton’s attention shifted to me as Sanchez stuck another key in the lock, letting out another quiet curse as it failed to prove any more agreeable than the previous ones. “Trust me; we’re with you guys on this one. There’s something Unusual going on around here. You heard about Felix Bayou’s cows yet?”
“I heard a couple of them got eaten, yeah,” Carlton said, straightening a little.
“Try all,” Rocke said, his declaration getting expressions of surprise from both of the officers. “And they weren’t eaten. They had the blood sucked out of them—every, last, drop, just like the dog in that woman’s car this morning.”
“All of them?” Sanchez asked. Carlton’s face was still locked with surprise, although I could see a few glimmers of doubt in the way his eyes kept flicking between us.
“All of them,” I said, raising my voice a little. “In case you were wondering, that’s five cows, and nearly sixty gallons of blood gone in about fifteen minutes.” Carlton wasn’t even hiding his disbelief anymore, and I could see Sanchez’s eyebrows rising as well. The four of us stood there for a moment, and I waited to see who would speak their mind first.
“There’s no way a chupacabra did that,” Sanchez said, speaking up first.
“You’re right, there isn’t,” I said, nodding. “We aren’t hunting chupacabra anymore.” Sanchez, halfway turned back towards the door, stopped partway and turned back, a questioning look on his face.
“Before either of you ask, we’re not quite sure what we’re looking for yet,” Rocke said, catching both of them with their mouths opening. “But whatever it is, it’s very dangerous, and it’s hunting people.”
“If that’s true, then why haven’t you warned anyone?” Carlos said, glancing towards his partner.
“And cause more panic?” Rocke said, shaking his head. “No thanks. Not until we have a better idea of what’s going on. Which is why we’re here, by the way. You having any luck getting that door open?”
“Um, no. Not yet,” Sanchez said, the keys jiggling in his hands.
“Well, hurry it up,” Rocke said. “It’s hot out here.”
“But we can’t—”
“I will pull my badge,” Rocke said, his eyes narrowing. “Paperwork or no, Hawke and I have business here. If you weren’t here, I’d probably be picking the lock myself.”
My eyes widened at his words, but either Rocke didn’t notice or didn’t care. Sanchez shrugged and turned back towards the door, while Carlton gave Rocke a dirty look that suggested he wanted to tell him exactly where to put it.
“Anything we should tell the chief about this when he asks, sir?” Carlton asked, his voice taking on a tone to match his expression.
Rocke didn’t even blink. “Tell him I’ll get to him after I’ve made sure that no one else goes missing.” There was a loud click as the doors unlocked, and Rocke stepped forward, stopping only when Carlton put up a hand, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he stepped towards the doors and pulled one open.
“Look,” Sanchez said, his voice calmer than his partner’s but still a little strained. “We’ll let you in, but just for a bit, all right? As soon as Carlton and I are done, we’re going to lock this place up, so you two will need to be out by then.”
“Why are you two here, anyway?” I asked before Rocke could say anything. Sanchez apparently took my question as an answer to his own, because he turned and stepped into the lobby, one hand stretched out behind him to hold the door until I could grab it myself.
“We’re checking up on Charlie,” Sanchez said as I followed him inside. “The museum was supposed to be open today, but nobody’s been able to get ahold of him to find out why it wasn’t. And to make sure he’d closed it up properly.” There was an unspoken subtext of his words, and I nodded.
“Especially with the rash of disappearances lately,” I said, trying not to picture the curator’s smiling face with a huge, bloodless slash below it. “Do you think—”
“Are you kidding?” Carlton’s voice echoed nearby. “The old guy probably just fell asleep drunk again, passed out on his way home or in a bar somewhere. It happens all the time. He comes here, then he goes home. Where would he disappear?” I blinked in surprise as a half-closed door in the back of the room opened, Carlton wandering out. Apparently Charlie’s happy demeanor had been a bit of a veneer. “His computer’s on, but he’s not in there.”
“All right,” Sanchez said with a groan, “That means he’s either in th
e restrooms or the break room—if he isn’t passed out near an exhibit.” He let out a sigh and shook his head before looking in Rocke and I’s direction. “Where are you guys headed?”
“Exhibits,” Rocke said, and Sanchez nodded.
“All right, give us a shout if you find him, or we’ll come looking for you before we go. Come on, Carlton. Let’s check the restroom stalls.” Sanchez walked off toward the gift shop without so much as a backwards glance, Carlton right behind him.
“Those two were a lot more charming when I was dying of thirst,” Rocke said.
“Probably has something to do with that fact that you weren’t making their job ten times harder for them then,” I said as I pointed towards the exhibit exit and started walking. “The police back home still give me dirty looks when I’m in town.”
“Seriously?” Rocke asked, eyebrows jumping in surprise. “Even though it was my badge and name on most of the paperwork?”
“Guilt by association, I guess,” I said as we passed into the exhibits nearest the museum exit. “They don’t bother me, but I can tell there’s a bit of a grudge all the same.”
“Bear it with pride, Hawke,” Rocke said, his eyes jumping from exhibit to exhibit as we walked further into the museum’s depths. I blinked a few times as we moved out of the better-lit lobby, helping my eyes adjust to the dimmer exhibits. Only half of the overhead lights were on, throwing the whole museum into a sort of pervasive twilight.
“The whole town can hate me for all I care,” Rocke said, pulling his phone from his pocket. There was a fake electric hum as the flash lit up, throwing a pure white light across the displays. “As long as they’re alive to hate me, then my job’s done.”
“Unless you want another job there,” I said as we came to a stop. I glanced at one of the nearby displays, fixing our location in my head, and pointed toward where I remembered the exhibit on the Wraith was.
Rocke let out a laugh. “Trust me, Hawke,” he said as I caught sight of what we were looking for ahead of us. “Hate me or not, none of them will forget what went down here, which means the next time something Unusual happens, they’ll call someone at the NSAU, no matter how much they don’t want to.”
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” Personally, I liked having my customers happy to see me, or at least somewhat welcoming. Then again, I lived in one place, unlike Rocke, who was always on the move. Come to think of it, I wasn’t even sure if he had a place he called home.
A row of pictures ahead of us caught my eye, and I nodded. “This is it,” I said as I slowed my pace. “The Wraith exhibit. “
Rocke stepped past me, his phone held high as he began to walk up and down the exhibit, mostly looking at photographs but stopping every so often to glance at one of the hand-drawn pictures or peer at an article before moving on. I hung back as he worked, watching him make his way from one end of the display to the other and starting over, coming back the way he’d come, still stopping and taking closer looks at various pictures and articles.
“Find anything yet?” I asked, and he shook his head. Looking at the exhibit had been part of Rocke’s plan, although he’d wanted to do it with Charlie answering questions so for a more complete picture. But with the curator off somewhere, probably curled around a bottle, his best bet was just to take a quick look. If we were lucky, he’d see something that would give him a better clue about what exactly we were—
“This one’s a fake,” Rocke said, his voice echoing through the museum and startling me.
“What?” I asked, stepping forward in surprise.
“This picture,” Rocke said, tapping his finger against the glass, “It’s a fake. See how the lighting is different on the figure in the background?” He shook his head. “It’s a cheap Photoshop, from the days before Photoshop.”
“I don’t see it,” I said, bending over slightly. It was a picture of a canyon with a vague, slightly hunched figure off in the distance, what looked like a clawed arm raised towards the camera.
“There,” Rocke said, tapping the lower section of the figure. “See the shadow line on the rock next to this guy?” He ran his finger down one side of the photograph. “It stops when it goes behind him here,” he said, his finger lifting as it came across what was supposed to be the Wraith, “and then it picks up again right here.” The glass made a faint squeak as he dragged his finger across it. “There should be a shadow right here.” Another tap, this time across the blurry figure’s midsection.
“Good eye.” I could see the distinction now that he’d pointed it out, and it wasn’t anything I would have noticed on my own.
“No, sloppy museum,” Rocke said, rolling his eyes as he moved on. “I’m not expecting much from a small town, but they really should have caught that.”
“Maybe they’ll give you a medal for pointing it out,” I suggested.
“Or show me the door,” Rocke said with a chuckle as he bent down to examine another photograph. “For all I know, the mayor’s kid made that picture.”
“Or they could have been wondering for years whether the photo was a fake and they’ll all be glad to finally have an answer.”
He laughed. “No deal. Anybody who’s only suspected that it was a fake and couldn’t spot that line isn’t going to be thrilled when I point out how easy it was.” There was a squeak as one of his sneakers twisted against the wooden floor, and he stared down at one of the pictures, his brow furrowing. Then he glanced at me.
“Hawke, come take a look at this.”
I stepped over next to him and followed his finger. An old black-and-white photograph of an oddly flat chunk of plaster sat behind the glass. Something about it looked familiar, something in the shape of the bumps on one end. The label below it read “Photograph of plaster cast of an unknown footprint – 1957.”
The lightbulb flipped on inside my brain, and I could see it now. The raised bumps were actually dips, which made the cast an imprint of—
“Well?” Rocke said, glancing at me. “Is it or isn’t it?”
“It’s hard to tell,” I said, squinting as I bent down closer to the old photograph. One end of it had started to fade, making it difficult to see the narrow end of the cast, but if I flipped it around in my head and pushed that down into the ground …
“You know, I think it is,” I said as the mental image of the plaster cast sank fluidly into the memory of the sand near Mrs. Fimmlewit’s home. “That’s definitely the same as the footprint that we saw outside the mine entrance. The photograph’s just upside-down.” I could see it clearly now, the arch of the foot following the strange forward pads. The long, claw-like extrusions in the front of the foot. The additional pads further back.
I bent in closer as my eyes neared the “front” of the photo. The image was blurry here, or maybe a little sun-faded; it was hard to tell. I leaned in closer, trying to trace the line of the footprint with one finger. It looked like there was a faint impression near the back, something large. A rear claw, maybe? Or another pad? Rocke had moved on, but from the pace he was setting, he wasn’t finding anything.
I leaned in closer, narrowing my eyes even further in the dim light. Strange, I thought as I scrutinized the back of the foot. The photo was blurred, but I was pretty sure that back impression wasn’t a claw. That almost looks like a—
An echoed curse swept through the room, followed by a shout at full volume. My head jerked up as if on a string as Rocke twisted, one hand already shoved inside the front of his jacket. The voice shouted again, distinct this time.
“Sanchez!” Carlton’s voice echoed off the exhibit walls. “I found him! By the mineshaft entrance! We need an ambulance!”
Rocke bolted past me, feet ringing against the floor, the loud slaps quickly fading as he sprinted further into the museum. I pushed away from the Wraith exhibit, the cast slipping from my mind as I tried to keep up with the bobbing light ahead of me as it worked its way back into the depths of the museum. For not having a layout of the place, Rocke
was doing a pretty good job of staying ahead of me.
The slap of his shoes stopped abruptly as he dove through a darkened doorway, and a few seconds later, I heard Carlton let out a surprised shout. I rounded the doorway moments later, staff at the ready, and I immediately saw what had led to Carlton’s curse.
Charlie’s body lay on the ground in the middle of the room, his arms at his sides and his legs out straight. His wispy, grey ring of hair was barely tousled, and his face was serene, if a little pale. He almost looked like he’d just fallen back onto his back and decided to lay there a while. If not for the ugly, pale-pink gash across his neck, I could have believed that was the case.
Carlton stood several feet back, eyes wide with shock and horror. His mouth flopped open and shut like a fish who’d just been dropped on a dock, and the faint noise coming from his mouth could barely be counted as speech. Apparently, he’d dried up after his initial outburst. His eyes snapped to me as I stepped into the room, and the crunch of the gravel under my boots seemed to shake him from his stupor.
“Is this—?” he started.
“What the dog looked like?” I said. “Or the cows? Yeah.” His face paled, taking on a grey cast. “And that poor woman a few days ago.” I stopped a few feet away from Rocke, who was still staring down at the body, an unreadable look on his face. The sound of racing footsteps continued to echo around the room as Sanchez burst in, one hand already on the butt of his pistol.
“Maldito,” he muttered as he took in the scene, his eyes jumping from the body, to Carlton, then Rocke and me, then back to Charlie. “Esto no es bueno,” he said, running one hand through his hair. “No bueno.”
“You got that right,” Rocke said, crouching.
“Sir, step away from the body,” Carlton said, apparently having regained his voice. Rocke glanced up at him and then shook his head.
Dead Silver Page 33
