Lost Things

by Graham, Jo

  "I have to if I'm going to be any use," Lewis said.

  Alma searched his eyes. "You don't have to do this for me," she said.

  He nodded slowly. "I know. But do you think I can just go home and forget about it while you and Mitch and Jerry are doing this? That's the choice, isn't it? I can bow out or I can figure out what to do."

  "Yes," she said. Alma looked down at her hand, and laced her fingers with Lewis'. "This is part of my life, Lewis. Part of who I am. You don't have to do it. But I'm not going to stop."

  "I know that," Lewis said. He looked like he was fumbling for words. "I wouldn't want you to. I like you different."

  "I like you too," Alma said, and put her arm around him, drawing him close to look out the window side by side as clouds as thin as veils drifted from the mountain peak.

  Chapter Eleven

  They took off from Woodward Field a little after noon, Alma at the controls as the Terrier rose into the gentle air. They’d been lucky with the weather so far, she knew, but to her relief it looked as though that luck was going to last a little while longer. The clouds and rain were staying well south of them, and while there was supposed to be a front coming into the California coast, they’d be ahead of it all the way to Chicago. The Terrier was sluggish with the extra fuel, climbing slowly, the controls heavy under her hands, but the engines were all running steadily. She glanced at the instrument panel, confirming RPMs and airspeed and the rate of climb. Everything was in order; it was just the extra weight that she’d have to get used to.

  “That extra tank makes a big difference,” Lewis shouted, and she nodded. She was getting used to the way that he sometimes seemed to read her mind when they were in the air, one pilot matching another.

  “Yeah. It’ll be better when we burn some of it off.”

  “What’s the height of the pass?”

  “8700 feet,” Alma answered. “I want to take us up to 10,000 if the weather stays good.”

  Lewis gave her a sidelong glance. “Will she make it with this load on?”

  “She should,” Alma said. She smiled back at him. “I know she’ll make 9500, and that’s plenty.”

  “Ok.” Lewis hoped he didn’t sound as dubious as he felt. He liked a bit more air between himself and the ground.

  Jerry had settled himself on the chaise, propping up his bad leg among a scatter of books, while Mitch sank into one of the rear facing chairs. He unwrapped the first of the sandwiches they had bought in Salt Lake City, and took a bite. Turkey. That was fine.

  It had been a long six hours in the cockpit, and he was glad to let Alma take the controls for a while. They’d left the door open, and he could hear their voices off and on, but the words were drowned by the roar of the engines. They were still climbing, he could feel that, throttle well open, straining for the altitude they’d need to cross the Rockies. He looked back at Jerry, still frowning over his books, and finished chewing the bits of sandwich.

  “So,” he said. “What are we going to do when we find this guy?”

  "That's what I'm trying to figure out," Jerry said distractedly, paging through one of the books on his lap.

  "Can we talk about this for a minute?" Mitch's voice was sharper than he'd intended, and Jerry looked up.

  "Sure," he said, adjusting his glasses. Jerry tended to forget they were supposed to be a team, not the Jerry show, sometimes. They needed to work this out together.

  "Ok," Mitch said slowly, "The way I see it we've got three problems. One, we've got to find this guy. We're reasonably sure we can do that. We ought to get into Chicago five or six hours ahead of the Chief, so we can get onto him at the station. Two, we've got to bind or banish this thing and get it out of Davenport. I've got no idea how we're going to do that. And three, we have to make sure it doesn't jump into one of us while we're trying to do number two."

  Jerry nodded. "I'm in agreement on all of those, though I think we actually need to address the third one first. If it can jump into one of us, we're in serious trouble. I think the only reason it didn't try to do that back at Henry's house is that it was surprised and scared. If we'd grabbed it there we could have dealt with it. A consecrated Temple, plenty of trained people for the operation, and frankly Henry's basement to tie Davenport up in while we worked it out. But it surprised us too, and we didn’t get the jump on it when we could have."

  "I don't usually tackle somebody and tie them up because they flex a little psychic muscle," Mitch said.

  "Well, no." Jerry grinned. "Of course we don't. That's because we're the good guys."

  Mitch tipped his hypothetical white hat. "And now we can't nab Davenport. I suppose Lewis and I could ambush him, mug him, knock him out and haul him back to the plane, but…."

  "And then do what with him?" Jerry grimaced. "First of all, I have no idea how to bind that creature yet. Secondly, what do we do with him on the plane? We don't have nearly the energy we'd need to keep it in a protective circle, even if we used Lewis, and he has no idea what he's doing."

  "And that brings us back to the thing jumping," Mitch said grimly. "If we can't keep it from jumping into one of us, we can't risk contact."

  "That's what I'm working on now," Jerry said. "We need an amulet, a sigil. Something that we can wear or carry that will protect the bearer. Otherwise, you're right. This is too hot to handle." He waved a book in Mitch's direction. "There are a lot of things we could do if we had proper equipment and time. And the right materials. But…."

  "We can use Henry's machine shop at the airport," Mitch said. "There's probably equipment we could use as a burin, and there's sure as hell plenty of sheet metal. Lewis has a pretty good hand in the shop. I've seen him do some nice fancy cuts."

  "Engraving on metal would be better than on paper with ink," Jerry said.

  "Less likely to get wet or torn."

  Jerry nodded. "On silver would be ideal."

  "We're going to get into Chicago between eleven and midnight," Mitch said. "You think Henry has silver lying around his machine shop at two in the morning?"

  "Ok, no. Ideally we would need to consecrate the burin at the hour with the correct planetary correspondence to the sigil we desire to grave."

  "We've got five hours," Mitch said. "And those are the hours we have before the Chief gets in. So one of them better be the right hour."

  "And then of course we should create the correct sigil. The problem is that the most obvious power to call upon to bind it is Diana, which suggests we should use one of the sigils of the moon. But most of them have the opposite effect of what's intended. They're for opening or revealing, for activating oracular talents or making plain what is hidden. I suppose, of course, we could use a non-specific protective device, but…."

  "Like…." Mitch probed.

  "A sigil of Sagittarius would be appropriate, since Diana has a clear correspondence with archery, but I would prefer to get a specific invocation in. Give me a moment, here." Jerry pulled his pocket notebook out and started scribbling with the stub of a pencil.

  "Ok." Mitch leaned back and ate his sandwich.

  Lewis glanced at the altimeter again, listening to the engines straining. 8680 and still climbing, though the air was rougher here, lifting and dropping the Terrier at irregular intervals. A lot rougher, he amended, as the bottom seemed to drop out of his seat. The mountains loomed ahead, bare rock too steep even for snow, the peaks higher than the plane itself. Alma was frowning, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

  “We could go north to South Pass,” Lewis said.

  He thought she would have looked at him, but the Terrier bucked again, and there was a thump and a curse from the cabin. “We’re all right,” she said.

  “It’s less than 8000 feet,” he said. “South Pass.”

  “It’s an hour longer,” Alma said. “We’d have to put down in Cheyenne then, too.”

  And Cheyenne was a lot busier than North Platte, a regular stop for passenger planes as well as the mail carriers. They wouldn’t just l
ose time in the air, they’d lose it on the ground as well. The Terrier dropped another ten feet and rose again almost as quickly. This was the way to go, if they could just get the altitude. He glanced at the numbers he’d scribbled on the edge of the flight plan: they would be burning about twenty gallons of fuel per hour, maybe a little more given that Alma was running rich, and the supplemental tank held forty-three gallons. It was getting close to time to switch over to the main tanks — in the next half hour, maybe sooner. And that meant they’d be crossing the mountains with a full normal fuel load: tight, but doable.

  “We’ll need to switch tanks soon,” he said.

  “Ok.” Alma’s hands were steady on the controls, the muscles of her forearms bunching and relaxing as she eased the plane up another hundred feet. “We should probably do it sooner. I’ve had to keep the mix richer than usual to get us going.”

  Even as she spoke, the port engine misfired. Lewis swore under his breath, his heart racing, but then the engine caught again. “How about now?” he asked.

  “Now sounds good,” Alma agreed.

  Lewis leaned forward, remembering the procedure Mitch had drilled into him. Open the right valve, open the left valve, count twenty seconds — the port engine missed again, but he kept counting. The Terrier was designed to fly on any two of its three engines, that was no problem. The main thing was to keep the fuel flow steady, and make the transition without getting air in the lines. Twenty seconds, and he reached between the seats to close the valve on the supplemental tank. He held his breath, waiting for the engines to falter, looked sideways to see Alma’s knuckles white on the control wheel. The starboard engine missed, caught; the Terrier steadied again under Alma’s touch. And then the needle twitched on the main fuel gauge, a sure sign that the gas was flowing, and Lewis allowed himself a sigh of relief. Alma grinned, shook her head.

  “It’s always something.”

  The altimeter was hovering at 9200 feet, mountains rising on either side higher than the plane. Below them, Lewis could make out the thread of a road tracing the narrow pass, but there was no other sign of human presence.

  “I’m going to hold her here,” Alma said. “We’re at the peak, no point trying for more.”

  Lewis nodded, and let himself relax into his seat.

  "There." Jerry thrust his notebook under Mitch's nose. "What do you think?" There were pages covered in scribbles, bits of mathematical formulas and Hebrew letters, a square of numbers like a strange acrostic puzzle, all the things that made up Jerry's work. Balanced against the swaying of the plane, he stabbed the pencil at an elaborate square design made up of symmetrical swoops and curves alternated with triangles and an elaborate hexagram. "That."

  Mitch's brow furrowed. "I think that's going to be impossible to engrave."

  "It's the best possible sigil," Jerry said. "I've transliterated Diana Nemorensis via numerology, then used the Hebrew letters corresponding with each number to create a grid, then calculated the best way to have a single line pass through each number in correct order to make a symmetrical design…."

  "We're talking about a machine shop, not a jeweler," Mitch said. He twisted around. "Hey Lewis! Can you come back here a minute?"

  "Go on. I've got it," he heard Alma say, and Lewis climbed out of the copilot's chair and came back.

  "Can you engrave this?" Mitch asked as Lewis came between the chairs.

  Lewis took the notebook and turned it so the light from the window hit it better, running his other hand through his hair. It had escaped from its pomade and didn't lie flat like Valentino's. He looked doubtful, but replied, "I suppose? I'd give it a try. Something about fourteen inches square…."

  Jerry snorted. "Fourteen inches. If we all want to wear amulets as big as dinner plates around our necks."

  "Well, it does say to put on the armor of light," Mitch said, cracking up at the visual implied. "I suppose we could use rotor covers or something. Sort of like a breast plate."

  "What?" Lewis blinked. "Isn't that the Advent service?"

  "Mitch is being stupid on purpose," Jerry said. "We need it engraved on an amulet you could wear or carry in your pocket."

  Lewis looked at it and regretfully shook his head. "I don’t think I can do that," he said. "I've never done work that fine. To try it I'd need a jeweler's burin. There's no way I can do that on something maybe three by three on shop equipment."

  "I told you," Mitch said. He reached over and rapped Jerry on the forehead. "Simplify, Jerry."

  "Lout," Jerry said. "If you don't care if it works or not I can just put any damn thing on there." He picked up his books again. "Back to the drawing board."

  "We'll be coming into North Platte in about an hour, " Lewis said.

  "Ok," Mitch nodded. "I'll take the next leg shotgun if it suits you." He glanced over at Jerry, his nose back in the book. Maybe Alma could get something more useful out of him.

  Lewis ducked back into the cockpit and settled into the copilot's chair. They were leaving the mountains at last, and the ground beneath them showed trees as well as broken rock. The air was easier now, a tail wind carrying them, and a glance at the controls showed that Alma was running a leaner mix of fuel.

  Alma glanced over at him. "I couldn't hear most of that. Are they onto something?"

  "I don’t think so," Lewis said, frowning. "Mostly bickering."

  "They do that."

  "They wanted to know if I could engrave some sort of symbol for us to wear." Lewis shook his head.

  "A protective sigil." Alma seemed unflustered, her hands light on the controls. "Like the one on the plane."

  Lewis put his head to the side. Thin clouds were starting to build below them, nothing serious, a thin veil obscuring the ground. "What?"

  Alma gestured toward the back of the plane with her head. "The roundel on the tail. It's a protective sigil. Gil and Jerry worked it out and painted it on all the Gilchrist planes. It's on our business cards and stationery too. And on the sign on the hangar."

  "Oh." He thought for a moment. He supposed there was no harm in painting a protective sign on a plane. That wasn't witchcraft. More like wearing a St. Christopher medal. "What's the Bible verse?"

  "They have pierced my hands and feet. I can count all my bones," Alma said promptly.

  Lewis blinked. "That's depressing." He looked at her sideways. "Why the hell would you paint that on an airplane for protection?"

  "Don't ask me," Alma said. "That was Gil and Jerry."

  They came down the eastern slope of the Rockies into the mail field at North Platte in the declining light of the early evening. Lewis climbed out to stretch his legs while Mitch supervised the refueling, and walked along the length of the runway past the old gas beacons, metal pots half as tall as a man squatting on wheeled trolleys, ready to be lugged into place. He’d landed with worse light back in the war —he’d landed more than once by the light of a dropped flare, heart in his throat and an Act of Contrition on his lips. He’d been lucky each of those times, lucky and good; North Platte to Iowa City — another lighted field, a night stop for the mail planes — was nothing in comparison. It would only be an hour past sunset by the time they got to Iowa City. And Mitch would take the last leg into Chicago’s Municipal Field. He walked back toward the Terrier, stretching carefully. He’d only taken the controls a couple of times, but it was easy to tense up as though he’d been flying, particularly in the mountains.

  Alma and Jerry were nowhere in sight when he got back to the plane — in the end of the hanger that served as a control center, probably — but Mitch was sitting on the cabin steps, smoking. The fuel truck had pulled away, and Lewis frowned.

  “We’re not using the supplemental tank?”

  Mitch shook his head. “No need. I hate the way she handles with it full, anyway.”

  Lewis paused. “We could probably make Chicago in one hop with it full. Cut out the ground time at the very least.”

  “You’ve got guts,” Mitch said. His smile softened th
e words. “I thought about it, but we’d be cutting it awfully close. I just don’t see the need to take that much of a risk. Especially since Jerry hasn’t figured out what to do yet.”

  “These — sigils,” Lewis said. He pronounced the word carefully, tasting it on his tongue, trying to decide exactly what he wanted to know. “Will they really keep this — is it a demon? — from possessing any of us?”

  “That’s the plan,” Mitch said. “Technically, I don’t know if this thing is a demon, exactly, but it’s certainly not a creature of Light.”

  Lewis blinked, not sure if that actually answered his question, or just raised more, and Mitch pushed himself to his feet.

  “I wish I knew what it wants — but maybe Jerry will have figured that out, too.” He ground out his cigarette and started for the hanger.

  Lewis ran his hand through his hair, wondering again just what he’d gotten himself into. Demons, possession, magic…. Alma. He supposed that was what it came down to: this was Alma’s world, and he wanted to be part of it. He reached into his pocket, found the half-empty packet of cigarettes and lit one, inhaling the familiar tobacco. He had choices, he couldn’t kid himself there. He could walk away — Ok, maybe he couldn’t actually do that, or at least he didn’t want to, didn’t want to leave Alma, but he could say to her, Ok, this is too strange for me. I don’t want to be part of this magic, this lodge business. She’d made it clear that it had to be his choice, and Mitch had pretty much said the same thing: he had to choose, not just follow because Alma wanted it. She would keep him on as a pilot, as her lover, it would just mean he wouldn’t be part of things like this…. And that wasn’t good enough. Whatever happened, he wanted to be with her. To be at her side.

  “I wish I knew what I was doing,” he said, and rested his hand against the Terrier’s aluminum skin.