•
THE RCMP STATION AT SUNDRE was located in what looked like a former residential house. It was small, old, clean and tidy and very quiet. Harley had been in dozens of little stations like this during her time with the RCMP. Normally, asking to see the senior Staff Sergeant would get her swept into an inner office within a few minutes.
Not this time. The Constable on the front desk was polite but firm. “You can report a crime to me, miss.”
Harley shook her head. “This isn’t something you can do a drive-by for and forget it.”
“We will give the matter whatever attention it warrants, miss.”
“She’s not bullshitting you, Constable,” Bohdan added.
The constable’s badge read “Barnes”. Barnes’ gaze flicked to Bohdan and back. “If a serious crime has occurred, we will get to the bottom of it.”
“Harley Bernard,” said a new, male voice from behind them. “You’ve changed the color of your hair.”
Harley turned. The Staff Sergeant leaned against the doorframe leading to the inner sanctum. “That’s not all that has changed, Chuck.” It was better to be bald about the obvious right up front and get it over with.
“I can see that,” Chuck Hopson said. “What is the fuss you’re raising out here?”
“There’s something happening in Falconer that you need to know about.”
Hopson straightened from his lean against the doorframe and tugged his navy blue shirt down. “Better step in, Staff—” He bit off the end of the sentence. “Come through,” he added, instead.
Harley didn’t look back at Barnes, but Bohdan did.
“Stick around out here,” she murmured to Bohdan. “Keep your ears pinned back.”
He nodded.
Harley followed Hopson into the big office and he shut the door. She moved over to his desk, which was littered with paperwork. The visitor chairs in front of it were both upright, hard backed. She stayed on her feet.
“What’s this all about then?” Hopson repeated, sitting in the executive leather chair on the other side.
Harley told him swiftly. She was an old hand at reporting concisely. Hopson listened carefully, while drumming a pen on his blotter. When she was done, the drumming continued for a while.
“And you say you’re running a police department in little Falconer, now?” he said finally.
Harley frowned. “Not that it’s relevant, but yes.”
“How did they manage to employ you?”
Wariness flooded her. “I’m volunteering.”
Hopson’s brow crawled up his forehead. “Are you, now…”
“You know what is happening in Falconer. I know you must. They thought I had expertise they could use.”
His gaze shifted to her wings. Back to her face. “I see. Well, that makes this a bit easier.”
“What?”
“The problem is, Harley, the person who died isn’t actually a person, legally. And the person you think had something to do with his…or is it ‘it’?”
Harley just barely managed to not roll her eyes. “‘He’ is fine.”
“The person you say had something to do with it is also one of the old people.”
“Old races,” she corrected. “You don’t care that there might be an opioid lab running over there?”
“That, I care about,” Hopson said firmly. “But you’ve got no proof and we can’t go barging in there—” He halted as she tossed the blister pack on his desk, picked it up, then dropped it again. “It’s still not compelling enough to justifying a search.” He pushed the pack toward her. “Why don’t you keep an eye on the joint? Keep me informed.”
Irritation swamped her. “You know I’m still human under these wings, right, Chuck?”
He sat back. “Well, it looks like you, sure.”
“And if it was me lying on cold concrete, with blue lips, you’d still say it was none of your business?”
Hopson held up his hand.
“No, you wait,” Harley hissed. “They’re people just like you and Barnes, out there. The federal government will get around to giving us status one of these days, then it will be your job to care.”
“It’s not like I don’t care now, Harley.” Hopson’s voice was tight. “But right now, I haven’t got any jurisdiction over aliens and their affairs.” His expression hardened. “You’re one of them. You’re policing them. Perhaps you should go back to Falconer and do that.”
“And when I arrest Campbell von Havre for murder, I let you take all the credit?”
Hopson grew still. “You didn’t say it was von Havre in the middle of this.”
“You know of him?” She felt winded. “I didn’t think policing aliens was your jurisdiction.” Bitterness crept into her voice.
“He’s a…well, a person of interest. We know all about him,” Hopson said. “He’s a slippery bastard. He’s American, you know. From Montana.”
“I figured,” Harley said dryly.
Hopson’s irritation built. “He must have slid across the border, but as he’s an un-person, we can’t even demand he show a passport.”
The Canadian government had declared that while they were still deciding the legal status of the old races, no one could be forcibly ejected from the country. Nor could they be penalized for being undocumented. It was a half-measure that still left way too many people homeless and starving, but it was more humane than some of the ways other countries around the world were treating their emerging old races. The rumors coming out of China and North Korea were particularly horrendous.
But this was the first time Harley had seen it from the law-enforcement side of the equation. Hopson, who was used to being able to maintain law and order with relative efficiency, didn’t like being stymied by a point of law himself. The whine in his voice was not attractive.
“Why are you watching him?” Harley demanded. “If he’s an old one, why do you care what he does?”
“He mixed with interesting people, in Montana,” Hopson replied. “Most of them were grey hat—nothing on their records, because they knew how to keep their noses clean, but lots of suggestive associations and coincidences. And a lot of money. Eye-popping deals, scratching each others’ backs. You know how it goes.”
Harley nodded. A criminal was a criminal long before evidence surfaced and records were added to. Career criminals were easy to spot. She’d always had a handful of names on a mental list whom she watched over the years, waiting for them to show their true natures.
And now Hopson was watching Campbell von Havre. Even Akicita, who was a politician and could read personalities, was wary of him.
It matched with Harley’s impression of the guy, too.
“Why did he come north?” she asked.
“I wanted to know the same thing, so I asked around. There’s nothing official on him, not after he changed.”
“Yeah, I get it. What happened?”
“Beatings, at first.”
Harley grimaced. Beatings, muggings, were status quo for most newly turned old ones. Lots of humans didn’t like being reminded of what might be in their own futures and took out their resentment with their fists and more. “Lemme guess, he stuck around anyway.”
Hopson scratched his chin. “He stayed to protect the wife and kids, who were all still human.”
Were. She felt sick. She could already see where this was going. “And…?”
“House fire,” Hopson said. “Alarm didn’t go off, so it was across the whole house before anyone noticed. The fire department in Havre said von Havre walked back inside three times, right through the flames.”
“He’s a dragon,” Harley pointed out. “Why three times…?” She closed her eyes. “A body each time,” she whispered.
“Yep.” Hopson straightened. “Eight months later, he shows up in Falconer, dropping cash like it was going out of style and setting up that CBD farm. Even though they’re legal, now, we still keep an eye on ‘em. That’s how we got to know about him.” He gave
Harley a friendly smile. “If you’re policing in Falconer, you can keep an eye on him.”
Harley straightened. “And keep you informed?” she suggested lightly.
“We are the official police here.”
“Even if he’s doing something illegal, you can’t process him.”
Hopson didn’t like that. “There’s the letter of the law—”
“And the spirit of the law,” she finished.
“And I could easily take exception to you running your own little vigilante outfit over there,” Hopson said.
The threat, loud and clear.
Harley drew in a breath. Then another. She painted a friendly smile of her own on her face, forcing it. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Hopson said.
•
WHEN BOHDAN CRANKED DOWN THE window on the driver’s side, letting in a blast of Arctic air, Harley said, “You could always turn down the heater, if it’s too—” She halted as her gaze shifted to the heater controls on the dash. The heater was shut off.
“I think it’s you doing all the heating, ma’am,” Bohdan said, his tone apologetic. His face was red and shiny with sweat.
Harley let out a sigh. “I’m angry. Sorry.” She opened her own window an inch, to create a cross breeze. “I’m still figuring out how to…you know…”
“Control it?”
She nodded. That was as good a term as any. “Didn’t know I could heat up a space until just now,” she muttered. “Not from just being pissed off about something.”
“It makes sense, though. You being fire element and all. The Staff Sergeant…he didn’t care, I’m guessing.”
“Oh, he cares. He just can’t care officially. Not about Campbell. Or Martin ap Golden.”
Bohdan thought that through. Shook his head. “That’s fucked.”
“Because the rest of the world isn’t already there,” Harley replied. She glanced at the dashboard. It wasn’t even noon, yet. They were just coming into Falconer.
“What now, ma’am?” Bohdan asked.
“We’ll stop at the hospital and talk to Dr. Pranee, and arrange for the body to be taken to whatever the Mayor has set up for a morgue. Then you get to write up your first official notes.”
Bohdan rolled his eyes. “Joy.”
“Hey, you wanted to be a police officer.”
He shook his head. “I wanted to help the town.” He glanced at her and away and if his face hadn’t already been red with heat, she suspected his cheeks would have flushed. He was telling the truth.
“Write up your notes and then you’re done for the day,” Harley told him. “I’ll take Mojag with me tonight.”
“To where?” Bohdan said. Then, “You’re going to sneak around the arena, aren’t you?”
“I want to find out what Campbell is really doing in there.”
•
THE BACK OF THE ARENA was just as featureless as the front. Dark green metal cladding, a concrete wall for the last five feet, and a yard covered in a foot of snow that had tire tracks, boot prints, and animal spore all over it. Even with a new moon, the snow glowed. They didn’t need a flashlight.
“Deer,” Mojag said, pointing at a set of tracks. His breath fogged the air in front of him. “Their numbers are increasing now.” He seemed pleased about it.
“Sea containers.” Harley pointed to the long, low bulky containers at the back of the yard, by the chain-link fence. Then she pulled the cloak in around her and shivered.
“Why would he need sea containers?” Mojag said.
Harley grimaced. “One thought comes to mind.” She headed for the containers. There was no need to worry about leaving tracks in the snow. It already had too many to distinguish new ones. “Lots of the old races who get tossed out of their country, or leave voluntarily, end up in containers heading for Spain.”
“That refugee camp in Toledo?” Mojag said. “Think I’d rather take my chances living off the land.”
“That’s because it’s something your ancestors knew how to do. Some of the folk heading for Toledo don’t get the choice to stay. The others find the idea of fending for themselves with just an axe frightening. At least in Toledo, they get shelter and food and medical help.” She moved up to the front of the container and pointed at the precise arc of snow pushed back in a mound. “It’s been opened recently.”
Mojag lifted the bar holding the container closed. “Padlock.”
She rapped her knuckles against the molded steel wall and listened carefully to the echo coming from inside. “It’s not empty,” she decided.
“Can we bust the lock?”
“This is supposed to be a reconnoiter,” she reminded him. “To see what we can see without Campbell breathing over our shoulder.”
Mojag nodded and stepped back from the container and gazed along the row of six, all with a foot of untouched snow on their tops. “Two others have snow pushed away from the doors.”
The container they stood before was the first in the row. Harley moved up the row with Mojag, who tested each door. At the third container with snow pushed away from the door in a sweeping arc, Mojag rattled the padlock, then paused. “It’s not closed.” Even in the dark, she could see the whites of his eyes.
“Open the door, then.”
Mojag removed the padlock and caught the door as it wavered open with a soft squeal of rusty joints.
Harley waved. “Another six inches, or I won’t get through.”
He opened it a little wider and she slipped through. The chill in here was of a different kind. The air was frigid and still. Her fogged breath hung where it emerged, forming a little cloud.
Mojag slipped inside with her.
“Now we need a flashlight,” Harley murmured, trying to peer into the total black of the container. Three tiny windows—more slits than windows—all covered with iron grills, would have illuminated the interior with moonlight, if the moon had been a little larger, but the thin crescent added no light.
“Your phone has a flashlight app,” Mojag pointed out.
“Don’t have a phone,” Harley said shortly.
“Right. Sorry.” He pulled out his own phone, took off a glove and thumbed through the screen, looking for the app. Then the screen went black. Mojag swore softly. “I couldn’t find a power outlet in the station to charge it, earlier,” he said apologetically, putting his phone away.
Behind them, the door of the container closed with a soft metallic gong.
Harley leapt for the door and threw her shoulder against it as she heard the padlock rasp against the bars on the outside and click closed.
She swore heavily and stumbled over to the first tiny window. “Quickly, give me a leg up. Hurry!”
Mojag didn’t ask a hundred and one questions the way Bohdan would have. He laced his hands together and bent for her to step into it. Her head hit the top of the container, forcing her to roll her head back so she could see through the window, which was right at the roofline. She gripped the grillwork of the window and watched the yard, her heart thudding.
A black figure moved swiftly across the snow, heading for the man-sized door on this side of the arena. It was almost a shadow in appearance. Nothing was lit by the moonlight, not even white flesh. The stars didn’t gleam upon a head of hair, either.
“An orc…” Harley breathed. “Wearing all black. Let me down, Mojag.”
He put her back on the floor and brushed off his hands. “We’re locked in here?”
“Seems so.”
“By an orc,” he added.
“Campbell said his night manager was an orc,” Harley said. “David, he called him. And David ‘found’ the body, too.”
Mojag moved over the door and rammed it with his shoulder. “We have to find a way out of here. It’s going to hit thirty below tonight.”
“See if there’s enough charge on your phone for an emergency call,” Harley said, pulling the cloak around her tightly.
He pulle
d out his phone again and pressed the power-on button. The phone lit up then shut down immediately.
Harley sighed.
Mojag wordlessly put the phone away again.
“I’ll think of something,” she assured him.
•
THEY FUMBLED IN THE DARK, exploring the container. It was completely empty. Even the floor had been swept. Moving helped keep them warm, but once they had finished exploring the container, the cold settled into their bones.
Harley tried calling through the window but the containers were a hundred meters from the arena, and the arena was on the very northern edge of the town—there was nothing beyond the chain-link fence but pine trees and coyotes, which they could hear through the window.
After a while, Mojag crouched down so his short coat covered his legs, crossed his arms and shivered. He didn’t put his back to the wall, which would be even colder than the air in here. She could hear his teeth knocking together, but he said nothing.
They had left the car far down the road and walked a quarter mile to the arena. Even though everyone in town likely knew it was Akicita’s car, they wouldn’t connect it with the arena.
“Is anyone expecting you to come home soon? Someone who might send up an alarm when you don’t?” Harley asked Mojag. Her own teeth were chattering, now.
“I live alone,” he whispered. “Family are all out on the reserve.”
“Okay.” There wasn’t anything else to say.
Harley’s thoughts slowed. Blurred. She knew it was the cold gumming up her thinking but that wouldn’t help them get out of this. She walked in a tight circle, trying to warm herself with movement.
When Mojag stopped shivering and slumped into a bowed shape, sitting on the floor, her heart leapt. “No, no, get up!” she told him, hauling on his arm. He barely stirred. She slapped his face, but that just hurt her hand, for her fingers were freezing inside her gloves.
Harley was out of options. There was only one thing left to do. Deep reluctance making her move even more slowly, she pulled off the cloak and wrapped it around Mojag. “If you tell anyone about this, I will kill you,” she whispered. She settled behind him and put her arms around his shoulders and pressed up against him. Then, with a little flex of her shoulder blades, she snapped out her wings and brought them around in two arcs, to enclose them inside the little circle.
The Dragon of Falconer Page 3
