“Do you know what it is used for? It isn’t jewelry. It looks like a compass or a sundial, but the markings are unfamiliar,” he said, still turning it over in his hands.
“I don’t know that it’s used for anything. I assumed it was ornamental.”
“It obviously was in a fire. It got burned in the plane crash?”
“Again I would assume so.”
He placed the medallion between his palms, closed his eyes and tilted his head upward. He appeared to be meditating.
After a few minutes, Mara opened her mouth, about to fill the uncomfortable silence, when her mother placed a hand on her arm and lifted a finger to her lips.
Seconds later Ned opened his eyes. “If you’ll let me take the piece, I can work on it in the morning, maybe have it ready Monday evening. The copper should clean up easily. The little crystals appear to be azurite. It looks like all but one of those were oxidized in the fire. They will have to be replaced if you want to restore it. The center stone, the sunstone, should polish up okay. I have some azurite I can cut to match these and then set the replacements. It shouldn’t be that difficult to fix this up and make it look new,” he said, starting to add something but stopped himself.
“What is it?” Diana asked.
“I don’t know. I feel oddly awestruck by this object, like it’s too significant for me to be fiddling with. Sorta like how I would feel if you gave me a bucket of paint and asked me to restore the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Isn’t that strange?”
“I’d suggest you take it with you and sleep on it,” Diana said. “If you have concerns in the morning, you can let us know. You think that would work, Mara?”
“Of course. Any help is appreciated.”
CHAPTER 10
BOHANNON DIDN’T UNDERSTAND what the big deal was. The guy sat on the floor, next to a chrome table, crouched over a white ball, rocking back and forth. He, Suter and two doctors, one older and one younger, looked through a window into what seemed to be an examination room at Westside Hospital, all white tile and silver fixtures.
Suter looked at each of the doctors and said, “I understand you have a problem with a…” He checked his notebook. “Mr. Peter Newsome. What I don’t understand is why you called the police.”
“You see that thing he’s hugging?” the younger doctor asked.
“Yeah.”
“That came out of him.”
“What?”
“It came out of him. We think it’s an egg or something. He took off his pants, squatted down and laid it, right there in that room.”
Bohannon started to laugh but caught himself when he realized the doctors weren’t joking. He glanced over at Suter, who rolled an eye and looked at the floor. To Bohannon, the FBI agent seemed more inconvenienced than surprised.
“Okay, I’m still not sure what I can do to help,” Suter said. “You’re the doctors. Examine him and see what’s wrong.”
“He won’t let us near him, or, I should say, he won’t let us near it. He appears to be highly protective of it and quite dangerous,” the older doctor said. “See that examination table leg there?” He pointed into the room at the metal table behind Newsome. The indicated leg had melted, the wall behind it burned. “He spat at me, and his saliva did that. It melted the metal, as if it was splashed with a highly corrosive acid.”
“Can’t you give him a sedative or something?”
“We can’t risk sending someone in there. He could blind or even kill someone if he spits on them.”
A twitch fluttered under Suter’s eye. He rubbed it with a finger. “What do you want us to do?”
“If you guys can subdue him somehow, we’ll give him something to knock him out.”
“I’m not going in there,” Suter said, looking at Bohannon, who also shook his head.
“We could call animal control. They might be able to shoot him with a tranquilizer gun,” Bohannon said. “I’m not sure how willing they would be to do it.”
“If they have an empty dart, we could probably fill it with something more appropriate for a human,” the younger doctor said.
*
It took forty-five minutes to get someone at animal control on the phone and another twenty to convince them that the call was not a joke. The assistant superintendent agreed to send someone over but only under the condition that both a law enforcement officer and a doctor sign a release stipulating they had authorized the shooting of a person with a tranquilizer gun.
Half an hour later, a burly man in an animal control uniform arrived at the hospital with a light rifle and a document needing signatures. Suter and the older doctor signed the document while the younger doctor filled the dart.
“You know, it doesn’t matter how many pieces of paper you guys sign. If it gets out that I shot a dart into a guy in the hospital, we’re all going to the pokey. You guys know that, right?” the animal control man asked.
Everyone shrugged, nodded. He walked over to the door of the examination room, looked back at the other men for a final go-ahead, got a couple nods, cracked open the door and poked the rifle barrel into the room, trying not to expose himself. Without formally aiming the weapon, he pointed it in Newsome’s general direction, pulled the trigger, withdrew and slammed the door closed.
A dart hit Newsome in the right shoulder.
He spewed a thick stream of spit across the room, striking the door. The trail of saliva smoldered and sizzled as it oozed down to the floor. Newsome raised his face to the ceiling and screeched, rattling the window through which the men stared. The angry wail reminded Bohannon of a dinosaur’s cry in Jurassic Park.
The detective shivered.
“I hope what he’s got ain’t catching,” the animal control guy said on his way out.
Newsome hissed and whimpered, hugging the egg.
After two minutes, he slumped over.
*
“I want out,” Bohannon said as soon as they were on the road to the hangar.
“I don’t understand.”
“The man laid an egg, dude. I want out of this weird-ass case. What these people are going through isn’t the result of a plane crash. That’s for damn sure.”
“Calm down. We don’t know it’s an egg.”
“Who cares? It came out of him. That ain’t right.”
“We don’t even know if what’s going on with Newsome is related to the accident. You’re reading too much into this.”
“I’m calling my lieutenant as soon as I get done with you guys today.”
Suter turned crimson. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re stuck with this case until it’s done.”
As if someone had flipped a switch, sweat dripped down Suter’s forehead, flew off his brow as his head twitched several times. His cheeks inflated, deflated. His jaw jutted out, looking nearly unhinged. He cocked his head at a forty-five-degree angle, causing an audible bony crackle. He looked at Bohannon, gritted his teeth and said, “You don’t walk away from a case like this. We will ruin you. If you dump on us, you can kiss that shiny new badge good-bye, Detective.”
They drove in silence for fifteen minutes.
As they exited the highway heading for the hangar, Suter said, “Let’s take the rest of the weekend off, recharge our batteries. Maybe you’ll have a fresh perspective on Monday.”
He closed his eyes, rubbed his neck, licked the perspiration from his upper lip several times. “I’m feeling a little under the weather anyway. Why don’t you drop me off? I’ll call Pirelli and tell him that we’ll see him Monday.”
Bohannon glanced over to the passenger seat and blanched, shocked at how quickly Suter had deteriorated. The FBI agent sat hunched over with his arms wrapped around his midsection. His collar was soaked, his hair matted to his skull.
He noticed Bohannon looking at him. “What? You never seen a sick man before?”
Bohannon stared ahead. “Hold on, we’re just a few minutes from the hotel.”
CHAPTER 11
ABBY LAUGH
ED AS Mara leaned over the white plastic picnic table, hoping the Sloppy Joe dripping down her cheek would land on her paper plate instead of her T-shirt or shorts. Bruce extended a lanky arm across the table, handing her a paper napkin. She waved him away and retrieved one from her lap. He leaned back and used it to mop his brow, pushing back his damp sandy-colored hair.
He had ridden from his grandfather’s gadget repair shop to meet them at a cluster of food carts situated on an old asphalt lot, located just off the Springwater Trail in southeast Portland. They sat at a white resin picnic table under a green umbrella in front of a bright orange van. Dozens of cyclists and hikers, many with dogs, milled around the twenty or so colorful hand-painted food carts that hawked everything from Thai food to chicken and waffles.
“I’ve driven by this place a dozen times. I had no idea it was such a mecca for bicyclists. It feels like a little circus,” Abby said, looking at the beer garden, a large white tent across from the carts.
“I don’t think this place would be here without the trail and the riders,” Bruce said. “But I think it is starting to grow popular with locals who don’t use the trail as well.”
“It’s a great place to meet and get fueled up for the ride. Where are you going to take us?” Mara asked.
“I would suggest we run up to Powell Butte, off-road it for a bit on the trails there. Then we can double back and connect up with the I-205 trail and head down toward Oregon City. That should be a good ride and show you how to get around a little between here and down south.”
“Would that be a typical ride for you?” Abby said.
“I pretty much go everywhere by bike, so there isn’t a typical ride for me. For people who don’t ride all the time, this will be a good ride without overdoing it,” he said.
“My mom got to you, didn’t she?” Mara asked. “I wondered where she went while we were unloading our bikes.”
“Yeah, she asked me to take it easy and to keep an eye on you. Don’t worry, I haven’t changed the plan at all. You guys will get plenty of riding done today. You’ll be tired when you get home.”
“Like I need a babysitter. You are what? Three years older than me?”
“Mellow out,” Abby said. “Your mom’s not being completely unreasonable. I mean, you were in a plane crash and just got out of the hospital. You can still see the bump on your head. Most mothers would have slashed your tires and told you to stay home.”
“She got to you too.”
Abby rolled her eyes and looked at Bruce. “Do you like younger women?”
“Ah, maybe we should hit the trail,” he said, blushing. He stood up, gathered their paper plates and took them to a trash bin next to the orange van. “I’m going to run to the restroom. I’ll meet you girls over by the bikes.”
“Why do you always do that?” Mara asked.
“What?”
“Say something to rattle people just to change the subject.”
“Works, doesn’t it?” She watched Bruce as he walked away. “He has nice legs. Those bike shorts really show them off.”
“You’re not looking at his legs.”
*
A couple hours later, they sat on a log nestled against a wall of ferns and brush just off the trail in Powell Butte Nature Park. Leaves rustled in the breeze, and light dappled the ground around them, moving to the sway of the branches.
“I didn’t sign up for mountain biking. I thought we were going to do a little pedaling around the city. You know, urban cycling. Look at us. We’re in the middle of the woods climbing a mountain. There’s not a Starbucks in sight. I can hardly breathe,” Abby said.
“Technically, it’s an extinct volcano,” Bruce said. “It’s a fairly short trail and not that challenging of an incline. Besides, the fun part is coming soon.”
“Fun part? This wasn’t the fun part?”
“Going down is much more fun than climbing. Just make sure you keep control of your bike. You don’t want to get going too fast and slam into a tree.”
“Great. I’m going to die with bark between my teeth,” Abby said and turned to Mara. “How you doing? You’re not having a brain hemorrhage or anything, are you?”
“No. This is perfect,” Mara said looking up at the forest surrounding them. “After airports and hospitals and doting mothers, I’d take this anytime. This is exactly what I needed to unwind.”
“So you never talked about what it was like, you know, on the plane,” Abby said.
“I have to admit it was the most surreal experience of my life.”
“Were you scared?”
“To be honest, it all happened so fast there wasn’t time to be afraid. I think I was more disoriented than anything. There were these strange flashing lights, and I thought I saw—”
“Saw what?” Abby asked.
“Nothing. Just a plane full of people freaked out and screaming. Completely normal considering we were plunging to our deaths.”
“It’s hard to believe no one was killed in the crash. I saw them pull the plane out of the river on the news, and it was a wreck,” Bruce said. “Makes you wonder what could have caused it.”
“Yeah, it makes you wonder,” Mara said.
“We probably should get going. If I don’t get you guys home before dark, your mother will skin me alive,” Bruce said.
*
Mara followed Bruce and Abby as they took a right off the Interstate 205 bike path onto Eighty-Second Street heading into Gladstone, the exit just before Oregon City. At various junctures along the way south, they had been required to veer away from the highway, follow roundabouts or use surface streets, so Mara didn’t think much of it as they made the course correction. She had pretty much zoned out after several miles of pavement and concrete, and blindly followed Bruce’s lead.
They gained speed on the inclined road, sped past several blocks of gas stations and office buildings, and swung to the left when they came to the yellow and orange Department of Motor Vehicles building. The road ended at a set of pylons sticking out of the pavement in front of a tall knot of chain-link fencing.
Without slowing down, Bruce maneuvered between the pylons and continued on a path through the fencing under a large orange warning sign suspended from iron scaffolding above. It read Danger: Jumping from Structure Prohibited.
Mara had her head turned to the right, concentrating on not crashing into the pylons. Once she cleared them, she saw a flash of silver fencing, then a rusty beam reaching up above her.
Then she saw the Clackamas River.
Mara froze, but her bicycle hurdled forward, banked into the security fencing that blocked the sides of the bridge. As she spun, she saw a flash of neon blue and red, a kayak on the water. She heard paddles splashing in the current. Children laughed along the far banks. More splashing. She could see through the walkway into the river, water flowing below her. Whitecaps licking up at her. Then just spinning and darkness.
*
Mara could still hear water rushing by when she awoke with a start. “I can’t, I can’t—”
“Shush, you’re alright now. Calm down,” Abby said, sitting on the park bench next to her.
“I can’t cross the bridge.”
“You don’t have to.”
“We can go a different way home.”
“We don’t have to do that either.”
“Why?”
“I had Bruce carry you across while you were out.”
CHAPTER 12
MARA PARALLEL PARKED her Subaru Outback in front of the Mason Fix-It Shop on Woodstock Boulevard in southeast Portland. She normally hated Monday mornings, hustling to the shop on time, but today she looked forward to getting back into a routine. She stepped out of the car and smiled up at the simulated wood-grain sign with fake burned-in letters, thinking as she always did that the Gadget Repair and Bicycle Maintenance subtitle was not big enough.
Not that it mattered. The sign only competed for attention with a barber pole next door and the white backlit plastic
letters spelling out Tattoos another door down. The other half of the block featured only Mr. Ping’s anonymous Ceramics in what looked like old 1970s lettering from Broadway. It all looked frozen in time, as if the world had kept going forward everywhere except here at this brown strip of shops with the display window of antique radios, grandfather clocks and a neon Texaco star at its center. Across the street, the modern bank branch, coffee shop and sub sandwich franchise—with their prefab, premolded plastic-and-glass exteriors—emphasized the point.
A clatter in front of the ceramics store drew her attention from the ancient lock she always struggled with when opening the fix-it shop. She looked up the walk and saw Mr. Ping’s ample backside, standing next to a ladder, his head turned upward. Mara stepped back from the building to get a better view and saw the Going Out of Business banner hanging askew across the front of the building.
“Pull it a little tighter on that side to even it up,” Ping directed from the sidewalk. He faced away from Mara and did not acknowledge her. Since all she could see was the bald spot on the top of his head, she wasn’t sure if he intentionally ignored her or simply did not see her arrive. He was generally antagonistic toward Mara and her employer; they rarely spoke. She wanted to ask about the sign but decided against it. She turned again to the uncooperative lock.
“Hello, Mara! Good to see you are up and about.” Ping smiled and walked over to her. “I heard you were in the hospital. Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, unsure of what to make of his uncharacteristic neighborliness. “I see you made it through the experience intact. Were you hurt?”
“Not in the least. Doing great, great.” He smiled. His positivity was off-putting. He held up a finger to get her attention as she opened the shop’s front door. “We were wondering if you would have a few minutes to talk this afternoon after you close up.”
“We?”
Ping pointed up the ladder. There stood Sam, the transparent red-headed kid from the doomed flight, solid as the sidewalk they stood on. He waved and said, “Like we need to make an appointment. Huh, Mar?”
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