Dark Alchemy

by Laura Bickle

  Petra twisted her mouth in sympathy.

  “You’re a geologist. You know. Noxious gases bubbled up in muddy water, and the campers were just too close. Probably looking for somewhere warm to camp. It was warm enough near those geothermal gases. I found them after they were missing for a ­couple of days. It was eerie.” Mike’s gaze seemed to slide past her as he remembered. “The whole family . . . mom, dad, three kids . . . all in their sleeping bags like they were waiting for Christmas morning.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “That’s nice dinner conversation, isn’t it?”

  Petra rested her chin in her hand. “Anything less gruesomely weird?”

  “I saw a raven talk, once.”

  She remembered the raven that had accompanied Gabriel. “A raven?”

  “Yeah. They’re smart birds. I read a study from Europe that said they’re smart enough to use tools. The ones around here will drop nuts on the roads and wait for cars to drive over them to crack them.”

  “What did the chatty bird say?”

  “I was on winter patrol up on a ridge. It landed on a pine tree next to me. The branch was weak, and it got snow all over its wings. It shook itself off, looked me square in the eye . . . and I swear, it said: ‘Fuck.’ ”

  Petra laughed. “No shit?”

  “No shit. The bird swore at me. Then it flew off.” Mike spread his hands. “I asked one of the reservation elders about it. He said that I’d had a spiritual experience. I told him that I refused to believe that my spirit guide was a swearing raven.”

  Petra grinned. “I saw a weird raven the other day. It was with this guy, Gabriel, who works for Sal Rutherford.”

  Mike’s gaze darkened. “Yeah, I heard about that. You’d do best to stay out of fights.” He took a swig from his beer.

  He’d known and hadn’t mentioned it, waiting for her to go first, like it was some sort of a test. That irritated Petra. “I hate seeing innocent men get bludgeoned to death.”

  Mike shook his head. “Sal’s men are odd. Always in the company of ravens. Maria Yellowrose’s uncle says that they’re cursed, but won’t say why.”

  Petra filed that bit of info away to ask Maria about later. “I don’t believe in curses.”

  Mike smiled and took a drink. “You’ll believe in swearing ravens before you’ve been here six months, I promise you.”

  A commotion sounded from the vicinity of the pool table: a cue slapping down on the felt and balls rolling away. The noise disturbed something flapping in the rafters. Petra looked after it. A roosting dove? The flickering candlelight outlined the shadow of wings in impossibly large and abstract dark shapes overhead.

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t natural.”

  A young man in jeans was arguing with an older man in overalls. Beer glasses and an empty pitcher surrounded the edge of the pool table.

  “I think you’re drunk.” The older man crossed his arms over his cue.

  “It was all bent and twisted, like . . . like driftwood. But it was a body.”

  “Sal Rutherford don’t like ­people talking about what goes on around his property.”

  “I wasn’t the only one who saw it.”

  Mike’s head turned. “Excuse me,” he told Petra.

  He slid out of the booth, strode to the pool table. “Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” His attitude was congenial, but it seemed as if he wore some authority here. Petra knew that his jurisdiction ended at the border of the state park, but he had the attitude of a cop, whether on or off duty.

  “Nossir.” The old man shook his head. “The boy here just drinks too much and fancies strange things.”

  “Do you, now?” Mike turned his attention to the younger man. “I heard you mention a body.”

  The young man stammered. “I don’t want no trouble. The old man’s right. I drink too much.”

  The other young men behind the pool table began to edge away, heading slowly toward the door as if someone had dropped a live, pissed-­off snake on the floor. They were looking for escape, but didn’t want to draw notice.

  Only one person stayed in the corner. A silver ankh dangled from a goth kid’s ear, shaded by a shock of dark, razor-­cut hair. Petra’s eyes narrowed. She knew him. He was in the car of meth heads who had chased her yesterday. And he was way too young to be drinking. The kid scrunched forward on his stool, eyes wide and intently absorbing the conversation. His gaze crossed Petra’s, and he glanced away. But he remained, long fingers wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle, watching the scene play out.

  “I’m not looking for trouble. I just want to know what you saw. Sounds like it was something bad.” Mike kept his voice low and friendly.

  “I—­” The young man shook his head, then looked past Mike’s shoulder. His eyes widened in fear. “I didn’t see nothin’.”

  Petra turned. Four men had walked into the bar. They strode in noiselessly, and that silence followed them as they approached the pool table. They smelled of fresh-­turned earth. Petra didn’t recognize three of them. But she recognized Gabriel.

  Gabriel flicked a glance at Petra. His face was smooth and unmarked . . . not the look of a man who’d had it bashed in with a fence post only a day ago. A raven fluttered down from the rafters to settle on his shoulder.

  He tipped his hat at her. “Ma’am.” Gabriel turned away to look at the young man. “We heard Jeff had too much to drink. We’re here to take him home.” His voice was the same rough whisper that she’d heard yesterday.

  Mike’s eyes narrowed, and Petra saw his fingers twitch toward his sidearm. “Jeff seems pretty sober to me.”

  Petra watched Jeff’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I, uh, have had a ­couple of beers . . .”

  Gabriel nodded. “And we don’t want the boy driving and endangering himself or others. Right, Jeff?”

  Mike kept his body between Jeff and Gabriel. “No need to worry. I can take him home.”

  Gabriel inclined his head, like a bird looking at something shiny. His face was an otherwise impassive mask. “Jeff?”

  Jeff edged out from behind Mike and slipped into the knot of men, head bowed. Gabriel turned and followed the men out of the bar, but he glanced back at Petra. Even in the darkness, he looked whole, and that was impossible. Then he turned and walked out, Mike and Petra following a little ways behind.

  “Is that the guy Frankie beat up?” Mike asked. He thought like a cop, Petra observed, searching for a flaw in the story.

  “Yeah.”

  “Frankie must be losing his touch.”

  Gabriel hopped behind the wheel of a pickup truck parked at the curb, and another one of Sal’s men rode shotgun. She watched as the remaining two men piled into the back of the truck, Jeff between them. As the pickup started, Petra thought she saw Jeff flinch.

  “Will Jeff be all right?” she whispered to Mike.

  Mike’s hands were clenched into fists. “I hope so. I hope to God that he was just drunk and talking out his ass. Because if he wasn’t . . .” One hand reached for his sidearm.

  The goth kid had shambled out of the bar, his hands stuffed in his hoodie. He stared at the truck, horror writ on his face as he whispered, “He isn’t coming back from there. Not ever.”

  That was enough. Petra stepped in front of the truck, heart hammering. She couldn’t allow anyone to disappear. Not like her father. The headlights blinded her.

  “Let him go,” she said, but was certain that her voice couldn’t be heard over the engine.

  The driver’s side door opened, and Gabriel stepped out. He turned the lights off. In her dazzled periphery, Petra could see that Mike had drawn down on the men in the back of the pickup truck. Mike and Jeff were having an argument.

  Gabriel looked nonplussed. “Get out of the way.”

  Petra lifted her chin. “What are you going to do with him?”


  “We’re taking him home.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t really care what you believe.” It was said without rancor, only a statement of fact. He stood before her, less than two feet away. His eyes were dilated full and black like the new moon.

  “Let him go.”

  “This isn’t up for discussion.”

  “What is up for discussion?” Petra pulled hair out of her mouth that had worked free of her ponytail. “I’ve got some questions for you. Questions about how you seem very hale and hearty after nearly being beaten to death. Questions about your blood—­”

  Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, and he cut her off. “I’ll make a trade. Life for a life. You saved mine. I’ll save his.”

  Petra nodded. That had worked better than expected. He wasn’t totally without honor. “Okay.”

  “But, no more questions.” He reached out, laid his finger across her lips. His skin was cold as frost, and she stifled a shudder.

  “I can’t promise that.” She said it honestly. “I’m a scientist. That’s what I do.”

  Gabriel’s hand dropped, and he seemed to consider. A crowd was gathering behind the windows of the bar.

  “Then save them for later,” he demanded curtly.

  She nodded, swallowing. She had enough sense not to ask when or where.

  Gabriel gestured to the men in the back of the truck. They brought Jeff to him, frog-­marching him as he squirmed. Mike was yelling at them to let him go, but the ranch hands ignored him. It seemed that they didn’t much care that Mike was armed. As far as they were concerned, it seemed he could have been threatening them with a water pistol.

  Petra grabbed Mike’s gun arm. “Wait.”

  Gabriel leaned very close to Jeff, speaking low enough in his sepulchral voice that Petra and Mike could hear, but the gawkers could not. “Start walking. Walk out of this town. Walk until you can’t walk any more, and then keep walking.”

  Jeff nodded, wide-­eyed. He took off at a brisk pace down the road, glancing back at them fearfully as he went.

  Gabriel and the other men piled back into the pickup, cranked the engine, and drove off in the opposite direction. Petra noticed that Gabriel had forgotten to turn his lights on, and she wondered how the hell he could see in the dark.

  Chapter Eight

  Mercury

  The remainder of dinner was a little tense.

  “That was monumentally stupid,” Mike told her.

  Petra bristled. “Hey, that wasn’t—­”

  “But I like your style.”

  Petra gave him a dirty look.

  “Seriously, though . . .” His gaze darkened. “Stay away from those guys. They’re bigger trouble than the meth heads.”

  Petra glanced around. After the scene on the street, the goth kid had disappeared. He seemed to be able to find as much trouble as Petra did, and she wanted to ask him about it.

  “What’s the deal with those guys? Why doesn’t anyone challenge them? Well, except Frankie. Frankie wants to cave Gabriel’s head in.” And his caved-­in head seemed to heal awfully damn fast.

  Mike stared down at the tablecloth. “They’re Sal Rutherford’s men. Sal owns the largest ranch around here, it’s been in his family for generations. Those men are his goon squad. They pretty much enforce his will, without question.”

  “What do the cops have to say about it?”

  “The sheriff’s deputies around here are pretty damn useless. The sheriff is Sal’s cousin. They let Sal run the county as he wants. For all intents and purposes, Sal’s men are the cops. Which is why you should leave them alone.”

  “I’m not specifically going out and looking for trouble. I feel like I should point that out.”

  “Yeah, well, it seems to find you. You should consider moving to the lodge at the Park.”

  Petra shook her head. “No.”

  Mike blew out his breath in exasperation. “At least there’s law enforcement in the park. Anything that happens there is a federal crime.”

  “Even if this is the Wild West, I can take care of myself,” Petra said.

  “Keep those pistols close. You’d be surprised at how wild it can really get.”

  They played rock-­paper-­scissors for the tab. Mike won, but she snatched the bill from the waitress before he could draw his wallet. Mike threw up his hands in mock surrender while she paid, then led her outside and struck off to find his Jeep and pull it around. Petra stood in the buzzing halo of a gaslight, swatting at mosquitoes while she waited for him to return.

  “The bugs attack harder when you struggle.”

  Petra turned, seeing the goth kid leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. The mosquitoes sense the carbon dioxide. If you keep still, they ignore you more.” He blew menthol smoke into the dark. “Or, you could just take up smoking.”

  “Nah. I like my lungs.”

  The goth kid shrugged. “I never seen anybody stand up to Sal’s men like that.” Shy admiration lit in his voice.

  Petra extended her hand. “I’m Petra. I’m new.”

  “I’m Cal. I’m not.” He shook her hand, ducked his head. “Look, about yesterday, I’m sorry about that. Justin can be a total asshat. It’s best to steer clear of him.”

  “Yeah. I gathered that.” Petra tried not to look at the purple bruise on Cal’s face. Cal turned away into shadow, self-­conscious.

  Petra let it drop, gestured with her chin back to the bar. “You believe that guy’s story? About the body on the ranch?”

  Cal’s lips thinned. With the black makeup he wore, it made it seem as though his mouth were drawn on unevenly by a Sharpie marker. “Yeah. I believe him. And I think some friends of mine may have gone missing out near Rutherford’s place.”

  “Have you called the cops?”

  Cal shook his head and ground out the ember of his cigarette butt out in the gravel. “Cops aren’t real fond of taking tips from ­people like me.” The corner of his cartoon mouth quirked up. Petra decided that he was different from the other meth heads. Maybe a guppy in a tank of piranhas, pretending to be a piranha with drawn-­on teeth.

  Petra stared up at the stars. “Seems like ­people go missing here a lot.”

  Cal paused in tapping out another cigarette. “Yeah.” He watched her through thickly lashed eyes. “You missing someone?”

  “My dad. Twenty years ago. He came here, but never left. At least, that’s as much as I can determine.” She bit her lip. She knew that if she was ever to uncover any information about her father, she’d have to begin asking for help. Asking everyone.

  Cal kicked the gravel. “My dad was never around, either.”

  Cal glanced up from beneath a fringe of bangs to look at a dog-­eared photograph she dug out of her wallet and showed him. The photo captured her father in happier times—­sitting on the bumper of his prize T-­Bird, arms folded, wearing a dress shirt and necktie. His brown eyes were crinkled in humor, his dark, thinning hair gleaming in the flash.

  “I’ll ask around about your dad, see if anybody remembers him.”

  “Thanks, Cal. I mean it.” Petra’s heart warmed toward the boy. “His name was Joseph. Joseph Dee. He’d be about sixty-­five now.”

  Cal ducked his head. “Just let me know if you hear any more about any bodies being found on the Rutherford property. Two kids, about my age. Adam has blond hair, and Diana has a tattoo of a blue dragon on her arm. They’re inseparable.”

  “I will,” she said sincerely. “But with everything I’m hearing about Rutherford’s ranch, why would anyone go there?”

  Cal fiddled with his cigarette nervously. “The Alchemist sent ’em. The Alchemist doesn’t like Sal.” His eyes were large and dilated, but with worry, not drugs.

  “Who’s the Alchemist?” Petra’s eyebrow
quirked up.

  “He’s . . . Stroud is . . .” Cal seemed to struggle to find the right label. “ . . . like my boss.”

  Stroud. She’d heard that name at the pawn shop. That was the guy that Stan had called about her compass. Fuck. She decided to be bold. “Stroud. So he cooks the meth?”

  Headlights washed over the sidewalk, and Cal retreated into the shadows. “I talk too much.”

  Mike bounded down to open Petra’s door. He followed her gaze into the darkness. “Something wrong?”

  “Nah. Nothing.” She wondered where the poor kid slept, if he had anyone to look out for him. Not this man he called “the Alchemist.”

  “Is there any way of looking for that body that Jeff mentioned?”

  Mike shook his head. “On Sal’s land? Probably not. Remember, the sheriff’s department is basically Sal’s family. If deputies came out there, they would only find a scarecrow, if they found anything at all.”

  “Sounds like a nice little political fiefdom he’s got set up.”

  He changed the subject then, to the safe topic of park security, perhaps hoping to lure her to the lodge. Petra listened politely, but made no commitment.

  Mike drove her home and watched carefully to make sure she’d gotten inside. She waved at him through the door before he took off.

  Petra watched his taillights recede into the night. She was convinced that Mike meant well, but she chafed at the notion that she was a little girl who needed looking after. She hadn’t had a father since she was a teenager. She didn’t need one now.

  Sig was home. He was pacing up and down on the ugly patterned linoleum, toenails clicking.

  “Do you have to pee?” Petra eyed the open window. She assumed that he could get out the same way he’d let himself in. But maybe he wanted to play civilized and insist on her opening the door for him.

  She opened the door, made shooing gestures.

  Sig sat down on his rump.

  Petra shut the door and locked it. She filled a bowl with water and left it on the floor for him. He slurped greedily from it and continued to pace.