Текст книги "River Marked"

Автор книги: Patricia Briggs

Соавторы: Patricia Briggs
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Information can sometimes be gotten when the opponent thinks you know all about it anyway. That was what Adam had been asking me to do—tell Calvin who I was.

“I can turn into a coyote,” I said. “My mom tells me I must get it from my father.”

Calvin’s jaw dropped, then his face froze. “Your mother was a white woman,” he said urgently. “You can’t turn into a coyote.”

“Can, too,” I said indignantly. It was one thing for me to tell him he was lying—I knew I was right. It was an entirely different matter for him to tell me I was lying.

“Can’t.”

“Can.”

“Can’t.”

“Can, too.”

“Mercy,” said Adam with exaggerated patience tinged with humor. He knew I was doing it on purpose. That was okay because he wasn’t angry anymore.

“Cannot,” said Calvin.

“Knock it off, both of you. Neither of you is five.” He glanced at Calvin. “He answered what I wanted to know anyway. That hawk was no natural animal, and this one knew it.”

No one reads body language like a werewolf, I thought. And then I realized what Adam was saying.

The blood shot from my head so fast that I had to step sideways to keep my feet—and sideways was three feet down the hillside. Adam jerked me back on the trail before I managed to fall. “Okay?” he asked.

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure it was true.

I’d never met another one of my kind. After more than thirty years, I’d sort of assumed that there were no more left, that I was the only one.

I’d also assumed they’d be coyotes like me. Hadn’t the old man last night kind of implied that? He’d known I was a coyote, and I’d only told him I was a walker.

I didn’t know much about being a walker. Only what Bran had told me, and he hadn’t known much—or he’d told me exactly as much as he intended to. I’d grown up thinking the last was true, but over the past year or so had come to believe the first.

“She is a walker,” Adam told Calvin. “Coming up with reasons it can’t be so doesn’t help, and neither does arguing. I should know: I was bitten and Changed by a bandit warlord in Vietnam. Even now, I don’t know of any werewolves living in Asia—there are things over there that don’t like us, and they can make their dislike fatal. Yet there he was. Mercy changes into a coyote. You can’t argue with fact. Just accept it and get over it. Was that your grandfather?”

If Gordon Seeker was a walker who turned into a red-tailed hawk, that would explain why he was able to disappear so effectively. There still should have been a pile of clothes where he’d changed, but being a walker would answer most of my questions.

“Grandpa Gordon changes,” said Calvin. He looked as though he had sucked on a lemon as he stared at me.

He didn’t not-lie very well, either. Maybe it was something medicine men learned when they were older. I had a feeling that his uncle Jim could not-lie as smoothly as any fae, and I’d seen that his grandfather could do the same. So why had they sent Calvin out with us? Unless they wanted us to share their secrets.

And the reason they might want us to know was tied up with Gordon Seeker, Yo-yo Girl Edythe’s prophecy, and whatever had happened to Benny and his sister that Calvin wanted to wait until later to tell us.

Someday, I’m going to meet some supernatural creature who tells me everything I should know up front and in a forthright manner—but I’m not going to hold my breath.

“That hawk wasn’t Gordon,” said Adam, who could tell a bad not-lie as well as I could. “Who was it?”

If Gordon could change, and the hawk wasn’t Gordon, then there were three of us. Three walkers. Gordon had known about me, about my existence, and the only reason we had met was chance. Engineered by Yo-yo Girl, but not by any desire on their part. Fine. They hadn’t wanted anything to do with me. I would extend them the same courtesy.

Calvin looked at me a moment and threw up his hands in surrender.“Coyote, huh? Maybe that explains a few more things about why Grandpa Gordon wanted you to see this.” He rubbed his face. “Look. Let me take you to see She Who Watches—I don’t know if she’s something you needed to see or not. Uncle Jim wasn’t exactly forthcoming, but she’s the best and best-known of the pictograms. Then I’ll take you on to the petroglyphs. I’ll tell you Benny’s story—and I’ll give you Uncle Jim’s phone number, and you can call him about anything else you need to know, all right?”

It sounded fair enough to me, and Adam nodded.

He turned around and led us back down to where the trail split, and we followed the path of the woman I’d seen earlier. There were more drawings on the rock faces we passed.

“There’s no lichen on the places where the pictograms are,” commented Adam.

Calvin nodded. He’d calmed down a lot, and his fear no longer made me ache to give chase. “Right. They had some way of clearing off a bare patch and keeping it clean a thousand years later. It might have been something as easy as scraping the rock clean. Lichen needs a certain amount of roughness to grow. Thereare a few bare patches of rock that were obviously cleared off.” He pointed. “But they don’t have anything on them. Maybe someone mixed the paint wrong, or maybe they didn’t get around to using them. You can see a bit of pigment on some of the bare patches when the light is just right.”

“Do you know which tribe the people who lived over there belonged to?” Adam asked.

Calvin shook his head.“When the Europeans came, everybody moved. Lots of bands and a few tribes died off entirely. Most tribes kept their histories orally, and many of those stories were lost. We have some good guesses, but so do other tribes, and their guesses and ours don’t always line up.”

We turned a corner, onto the same trail down which the woman had disappeared. I could scent her. The trail paralleled the fence. On the other side of the fence were the railroad tracks that ran along the river. The fence and the trail ended abruptly, leaving us in a corner between the fence and a basalt rock wall. On the rock, looking out at the Columbia, was the biggest, clearest pictogram I’d seen. She could have been drawn a decade ago rather than centuries.

She Who Watches looked like a raccoon’s face. Two little tulip ears perched on top of her head, and her mouth was open in a wide smile. A square of faded black was set in the middle of her mouth. It might have been a faded tongue or a long-ago attempt to cover up something, but whatever it was, it looked out of place in the rest of the face. Faintly, I could see where fangs had once been drawn in the mouth—and I bet she didn’t look so friendly long ago, when those were more obvious.

Most of the pictograms we’d seen were cruder, two-dimensional stick figures. This had depth and real artistry.

“There are a lot of stories about She Who Watches,” Calvin said. He opened his mouth and stopped. “But that’s not why it was important to come here.” He looked startled, as if he’d surprised himself with what he’d said.

“Why don’t you tell us the story anyway?” Adam invited. “We have time.”

Calvin looked uneasily over his shoulder but there was no one behind us.“All right.” He took a deep breath. “All right. It’s a Coyote story, so I suppose it’s appropriate, right? One of several about how she came to be here—all the ones I know are Coyote stories.

“One day, Coyote came walking up the Columbia and he found this Indian village. He walked among the people, but he couldn’t find their leader. So he went up to an old lady making a fish trap. ‘Where is your leader?’ he asked her.

“‘Tsagaglalal, She Who Watches, is our leader,’ said the old woman. ‘She is up on the hill.’

“So Coyote, he comes up to this place and found a woman standing just where we are.

“‘What are you doing up here?’ he asked her. ‘Your people are down in the village.’

“‘I am watching,’ she told him. ‘I watch to see that my people have enough to eat. I watch so they have good homes to sleep in. I watch to see that they are safe from enemies.’

“Coyote, he thought that this was a good thing. So he took her and threw her up against this rock so that she could keep a watch over her people always.”

“I bet there is more to the story,” said Adam. “Coyote wouldn’t throw her on the rock unless she made a smart-aleck comment or two.”

“Well,” I said, because he’d been looking at me, “I suppose if I were doing my job, and some stranger came up and started questioning me, I might be tempted to say something a little rude.” I’d said quite a bit to Adam over the years, and I saw in his eyes that he was remembering it, too.

“Maybe so,” said Calvin. “Let me take you back to the petroglyphs.”

He started back down the trail, and I hesitated. I turned to look at the little corner we’d been stuck in and took a deep breath, but I didn’t smell her. I’d caught her scent at the fork in the trail, and there was nowhere else she could have gone. Even if she had climbed over the fence, she’d have left her scent behind.

“Did either of you notice the woman who was out walking the trail a little ways behind us?” I asked. Maybe she’d been the hawk we’d seen.

“What woman?” asked Calvin.

Adam shook his head.“Who did you see?”

“The woman from the museum, from the Indian exhibit there,” I told Adam, expecting him to have seen her, too. Adam notices things. Part of it is being werewolf, but a bigger part of it, I think, comes from his time as a member of a Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol in the jungles of Vietnam.

“A family,” he said. “Father, mother, three kids.”

“And a middle-aged Native American woman wearing a bright blue shirt with a pair of macaws embroidered on the back,” I told him. “She smelled like mint and coffee.”

He shook his head.“I didn’t see her.”

He’d walked right past her.

“What does that mean?” asked Calvin.

“I’m not sure yet,” I told him. Calvin couldn’t smell a lie. You could see it in his face that he believed what I said. I bet his uncle Jim would have called me on it. Adam gave me a sharp look.

There was a lot going on. Too much of it was mysterious and made no sense at all. And there were two other walkers, at least one of whom had known all about me before we met. The disappearing woman was one mystery too much. Though I was pretty sure she was my mystery and not something engineered by Gordon Seeker or anyone else we’d met there.

“Why don’t we go to the petroglyphs, then you tell me about Benny,” I told Calvin grimly. “I’ll see if the woman fits in anywhere.”

It wasn’t his fault. I had the feeling that he was even more in the dark than Adam and I were. Someone was playing games, and I was tired of it.

7

PICTOGRAMS ARE PAINT ON SOME SURFACE, ANY surface. Gang graffiti are pictograms, but usually the term refers to paints done by ancient man. Petroglyphs are carved into the rock. A lot more effort goes into them, and they take a lot longer to create. Like the displays in the museum, the petroglyphs at Horsethief Lake were on big chunks of rock that had clearly been cut from larger rocks. Unlike the ones in the museum, these were fenced off—look but don’t touch.

The first petroglyph I saw at Horsethief Lake looked like a pineapple.

Calvin didn’t quite hide his grin when I told him so. “Before the Columbia was dammed in 1959, the river was narrow and deep here, not the wide and tamed thing she is now. There were falls. Celilo Falls. We have photos.”

The young man stared out at the river.“You know, I wasn’t born then. My mother wasn’t even born back then. Some of the old ones still mourn the old river as if she were a living being who died.”

“Change is hard,” said Adam. “And it doesn’t much matter whether it is change for good or ill.”

The young man looked at him.“All right. Some of the change was good, some of it not so good. There used to be a canyon. Some people said that there were more petroglyphs on the canyon walls than any other location in the world. I don’t know, but there were a lot of them. When it became clear that the dam was going in, an effort was made to save as many as possible. These were displayed at the dam for decades before they were brought here. There are others in the museum and a lot, I suppose, in private collections—the tribes asked people to go in and take what they could as long as they would care for them. The ones left in the canyon are underwater, and I suppose they will be there forever.”

We were walking as he talked. Like the drawings on the rock, the carving was primitive. Some of it, like the pineapple person, were like trying to guess what a kindergartner had drawn. Some of them were extraordinary despite the stylization. I could have stayed looking at the eagle for an hour or so. But it was a rock that held a row of mountain sheep that clued me into something.

“I’ll be darned,” I said. “That’s why he sent us to look at the baskets.”

The men looked at me.

“Well, maybe not,” I conceded, thinking of the woman who’d stared at us in the museum, then followed us to the pictograms. “But those animals look like the ones woven on the baskets. If the only art you ever saw was on baskets and woven blankets, when you decided to carve something, you’dmake it look like the baskets.”

“When we’re through here, you can write to the anthropological journals and tell them your theories,” said Adam.

I narrowed my eyes at him.“Stuff that. I’ll write a doctoral thesis. Then I can go do what most of the other people with doctoral degrees in anthropology do.”

“What’s that?” asked Calvin.

“You don’t need to encourage her,” said Adam seriously, but his eyes laughed at me.

“The same thing that people with degrees in history do,” I said. “Fix cars or serve french fries and bad hamburgers.”

“This one is the one my uncle told me to point out to you,” Calvin said.

The rock had been broken, but the two pieces had been fit together carefully. The creature’s face looked a little like a fox—a mutant fox with very big teeth and tentacles. Its body was snakelike. It was like a cross between a Chinese dragon and a fox with the teeth of a wolf eel.

“We don’t know as much about these as we do the pictographs,” Calvin said. “They could have been carved ten thousand years ago by the first people, or a hundred years ago. We don’t know what this one was meant to represent, but we have a name for it. We call it the river devil.”

Its eyes were eager, intelligent, and hungry.

I’d seen them before. Bright green eyes in the water that I’d seen in my dream. I blinked, and the eyes were just eyes. No matter how avid they appeared, they were just carved in the stone. But I knew what I had seen.

“Now,” Calvin said cheerfully, while Adam watched me out of feral eyes, “there’s a Coyote story about a monster who lived in the Columbia in the time of the first people, before we humans were here.”

I tried a reassuring smile at Adam, who must have sensed my sudden recognition of the monster on the rock. I mouthed,“Later.” He nodded.

It had been a dream, I reminded myself fiercely. Just a dream.

Calvin missed all the byplay, which was fine.“This monster,” he said, “ate all of the first people who lived in the river. It ate up all the first people who fished in the river. Eventually, no one was willing to go near the river at all, so they asked the Great Spirit for help. He sent Coyote to see what was to be done.

“Coyote went down to the river and saw that nothing lived near the river. While he was watching, he saw a great monster lift out of the water. ‘Ah,’ it cried, ‘I am so hungry. Why don’t you come down so I can eat you.’

“That did not sound like a good idea to Coyote. So he went up into the hills where he could think. ‘Hee, hee,’ said his sisters, who were berries in his stomach.”

“They were what?” I asked, surprised out of my panic over a pair of hungry green eyes in a stupid dream.

“This is the polite version,” Calvin told me. “You can ask around if you want to find out the rude version. It is also rude to interrupt the storyteller.”

“Sorry.” I tried to figure out how berries who were sisters in Coyote’s stomach could have a rude version.

“‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Coyote.

“‘We know what you should do,’ his sisters said. ‘But we won’t tell you because you’ll just take all the credit like you always do.’

“But they were his sisters, and Coyote was very persuasive. He promised that this time he would tell everyone who was responsible for such a clever plan. At last they told him what to do. Following their advice, he took nine flint knives, a pouch of jerky, a rock, a torch, and some sagebrush and walked down to the river.

“‘Come eat me,’ he told the monster.

“And it did. As soon as it had swallowed him, he used the flint and stone to light his torch. Inside the monster were all of the first people it had eaten. They were very hungry, having not had food since they had been eaten by the monster. They were also cold because the monster was as chill inside as the river was outside.

“Coyote lit the sagebrush and shared out his jerky among them. He told the first people that he was going to kill the monster. Then, he told them, they would have to find their way out as best they could.

“So he took his first flint knife and started carving his way through to the monster’s heart. He hadn’t worked very long on the tough flesh before his first knife broke, and he had to bring out his second. The second knife broke, the third, and the fourth. Until at last he was down to his very last knife. But that one cut into the heart of the monster.

“ ‘Run!’ he told the trapped people. ‘Get out.’ And they did, escaping the dying monster any way they could. Out its mouth, out its gills, and out its bottom.”

“I thought this wasn’t the rude version,” I said.

Calvin grinned but kept going.“Beaver was the last to leave. He just barely escaped out the beast’s sphincter—and that is why the beaver’s tail is flat and has no hair.”

I groaned.

“At last it was only Coyote and the monster in the river, and Coyote had the upper hand.

“‘I will let you live,’ said Coyote, ‘only if you promise never to eat anyone ever again.’ The monster promised, and Coyote let it live. The beaten river monster sank to the bottom of the Columbia and never was heard from again. The grateful people threw a feast for Coyote, and he ate twice as much as anyone else.

“‘ Tell us,’ the people said. ‘How did you come up with such a clever plan?’

“And Coyote forgot the promises he made because he is vain and forgetful. He claimed all the credit for rescuing the people.”

Finished with his story, Calvin turned to look at the river devil hovering on the rock.“There’s no saying that the river devil and the monster in the Coyote story are the same beast, but I was told to tell you the story after you saw the rock.”

“And about Benny,” Adam reminded him.

“He’s going to be okay,” Calvin said. “Physically. The police are giving him a little bit of a bad time because he told them he doesn’t remember what happened or where his sister is, and the doctors are having trouble with figuring out what happened to his foot. But Benny’s not talking to them because it is none of their business, and they wouldn’t understand anyway.”

Calvin leaned against the fence that protected the petroglyphs. He looked at us.“I don’t see what this has to do with you. Why my uncle and my grandfather think it has anything to do with you. I mean, I understand why he thinks you won’t run away from the crazies when we start talking river monsters that eat people. But why is it your business?”

“Good question,” I agreed. “I’d be happy if someone had some answers.”

“Tell us about Benny,” said Adam, who was used to taking responsibility for the world on his broad shoulders. If there was a problem, and he thought he could help, he would.

Calvin looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time. Maybe he heard Adam’s willingness to put his life on the line for a bunch of people he didn’t know, too. After an awkwardly long moment, he said, “Benny told my uncle that he and Faith were out fishing, like they do a couple of times a month in the summer. They’d caught a couple of fish yesterday and were about ready to pack it in when something hit Faith’s line hard enough that she thought they’d snagged some garbage. She could have just cut the line, but she and Benny, they’re good folk. They don’t like leaving hooks and line in the river if they don’t have to.”

A truck was pulling into the parking lot next to Adam’s. It was battered and sported three colors in addition to the bright orange primer, and its motor purred like a happy lion.

“My uncle,” said Calvin unnecessarily, since we could all see him getting out of the truck. “So maybe all of us will get some answers.”

Adam glanced over his shoulder, then looked at Calvin.“So what did Faith do?”

Calvin, like most people, obeyed Adam’s tone of voice without even thinking about it and continued the story as his uncle approached. “She reeled it in, and the line kept coming. She leaned over the boat. Benny, he was leaning the other way to keep the boat from tipping, so he couldn’t see what she did. But she said—”

“‘There’s something funny on the line, Benny. It looks like tentacles. What do you suppose …’” Jim let his voice trail off, and then he said matter-of-factly, “And the next thing Benny knows, Faith is in the water. He jumps in after her, and something bumps his leg—he figures thatwas when his foot went. The water started frothing, and he got the impression that there was something really big in the water. Faith came up to the surface, and he grabbed her in one arm and grabbed a gunnel of the boat in the other. She opened her eyes, and says to him, ‘It’s so peaceful here,’ then her eyes go fixed. Benny, he’s seen people die before, so he knows she’s gone. About that time, he realizes that there isn’t any of her below her rib cage. So he makes the smart decision and drops her body so he can vault into the boat. He lies down on the bottom and feels something that bumps and bobs his boat all over the place. He’s gone shark fishing in the ocean, and he said it felt like when there’s a fish out there a lot bigger than your boat. At some point he passed out and woke up here and there until you found him.”

Jim paused and looked at Adam and me.“After I heard his story, I called in Gordon Seeker because he knows more about this kind of stuff than anyone I know. He listened to Benny’s story and decided nothing would do but that he go down to that new campground and check out the werewolf. Whatever he found in your trailer made him believe that you are right in the middle of it. Part of it seems to be that you”—he centered his gaze on me—“are river marked now. Whatever that means.”

He didn’t sound nearly as friendly as he had last night. But that seemed only natural. For all that he was human, and his cheerful manner was out there for all to see, Jim Alvin had all the hallmarks of an alpha, and we were intruders in his territory.

“So,” he said heavily, “now you know what we know. What do you know?”

“We told Calvin a few things,” said Adam. “Why don’t you give Mercy and me a little time to sort out what we know, and we’ll do the same. We have food enough for an army. Get Gordon and whoever else you think might need to know and come down to our campsite in two hours. We’ll feed you and talk.” *

WHEN WE WERE DRIVING BACK TO CAMP, ADAM SAID,“Did I read you wrong, or do you know more than I do about this?”

“I think knowing more might be a misnomer,” I said. “Maybe I have a better handle on the scope of the questions?”

He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a growl.

For thirty-odd years, I’d been alone. For a season, I belonged to Adam and he to me. Sometimes the relief of it was almost more than I could bear.

“The woman I saw at the museum and at Horsethief Lake, I suspect is Faith, Benny’s sister. She could, I suppose, be a random ghost, but she seems too interested in us not to be connected to us in some fashion. Benny’s sister is the best candidate. I’ll ask for a description of her before I tell them—if you think I ought. The only thing knowing who she is might do for them is confirm that she is dead, but I think Benny’s story is clear enough.”

“I agree,” Adam said. “Probably, if she doesn’t reappear, there’s no reason to bring her up.”

“Besides,” I said, looking out of the truck at the small orchard we were passing because I didn’t want Adam to see my face, “if they have a walker, he’ll be able to see her just fine, and she can talk to him.”

But Adam knew me, and he put a hand on my knee.“Gordon is probably a walker.”

“Right,” I agreed.

“And he knew about you before he came into our camp. He just didn’t know that you were going to be with me until he saw you.”

“Yep,” I agreed. The river had a scattering of fishing boats that were dwarfed by a pair of barges traveling upstream.

“They left you to be raised by a wolf pack,” he said. “Their loss. Would you rather have had them, or Bran and his pack?”

He wore the pair of dark sunglasses that he sometimes did while driving. He used to wear them more often when the wolves were still trying to hide what they were. And his face was as bland as his voice.

“You have an irritating way of pointing out the obvious,” I told him, touching his arm to let him know I was teasing. One of my favorite things about being mated and now married was that I got to touch him whenever I wanted to—and the more I touched, the more I wanted to.

“Good that you find it obvious,” he said. “Maybe Gordon and the other walkers had their reasons for staying away, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Who do you think is the second walker, the hawk? Is it Jim?”

“Could be,” I said, thinking hard. “But I don’t have any medicine-magic, almost the opposite, because magic doesn’t work on me like it does everyone else. I suppose he could be two things at once. It could also be someone we haven’t met as a human yet.”

“What bothered you so much about the river-devil petroglyph?” He made the turn into the campground and swiped the card on the box that opened the gate. “All I caught was your shock. I couldn’t pick up anything else.”

“Remember that nightmare I had on the way to Horsethief Lake?” I said. “I saw something that could have inspired a drawing like that.” And I told him what I remembered of the dream.

By the time I’d finished, we were at our campsite. Adam didn’t say anything for a while, and I helped him set up to feed an unknown number of people.

“Do you often have dreams like that? About people you don’t know?”

“No,” I told him. “Usually the people I do know are sufficient to spawn any number of nightmares without inventing any.”

He stopped what he was doing and pulled out his magic phone.

Okay, the phone isn’t magic, but it does things my computer struggles with.

“Good,” he said. “We have a signal. What was your teacher’s name? Do you remember?”

“Janice Lynne Morrison,” I said.

He glanced at me, a little surprised by my ready answer. I had trouble remembering the names of people I should know. An unfortunate number of my customers were known to Zee and me as Yellow-Spotted Bug or Blue Bus. I’ve had to check my paperwork to make certain of the names of people I’d known for years.

I shrugged.“Horror has a way of making things stick.”

He tapped into his magic phone for a while. If I had a phone that complicated, I’d have to bring Jesse along to run the damned thing.

“There’s a Janice Lynne Morrison who teaches third grade at a school in Tigard, one of the Portland suburbs,” Adam said with a frown. He turned the phone so I could see its screen. The face that looked back at me was grainy and too formal.

“That’s her,” I said, my heart sinking to my feet. “What am I doing dreaming about real people, Adam? What am I doing dreaming about their deaths?” I gripped his wrist because I needed to hold on to something solid. “Is it a true dream? I don’t do true dreaming. Did I see the future, so I should warn her somehow?” I knew I was babbling, but this was Adam I was babbling to. He didn’t mind and wouldn’t think I actually expected him to have an answer.

He tucked his phone away with his free hand and let me hold on as tightly as I needed to.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But we’ll find out. Warning her without more information won’t help, either. People don’t tend to take warnings about monsters who are going to eat them very seriously. Especially when they come from total strangers.”

“This is true,” said Gordon heavily as he walked around the end of the trailer. “It is why those who know things must sound mysterious. It is like fishing. The mystery the bait, the truth the hook—which is why it sometimes hurts.”

“The fish ends up dead,” I said dryly.

“Not the ending we are hoping for,” Gordon said with a sigh. “But always a possibility.” Today he wore jeans and a Dresden Dolls T-shirt.

He looked at me.“Who was your father, Mercedes Thompson?”

“Hauptman,” said Adam coolly. “Mercedes Athena Thompson Hauptman.”

“Joe Old Coyote,” I said, leaning against Adam a little and relaxing my grip on his arm, both signals that I was okay, and he needed to ease up the protection deal, as much as I appreciated it.

“Ayah,” said Gordon. “Killed by a car wreck and finished off by vampires. I told him he drove that thing too fast, but he seldom listened to good advice. Do you know who your father was?”

“Just hit me on the head and put me in your basket with the rest of the dead trout,” I told him. “Get to the point.”

He smiled at me.

“Some people like fishing,” said Adam dryly. “Necessary or not.”

Gordon laughed. He had a good laugh.“I do. That I do. Still, sometimes in the struggle much is gained that would not be otherwise.” Then the amusement faded out of his face. “Sometimes the fish gets hurt. I will tell you a story while you get ready to feed the people who are coming. There will be just three more in addition to those of us who are here.” He smiled at my frown. “I am an old man. And old men get to act mysterious. I talked to Jim about ten minutes ago. He and the Owens brothers are coming. Calvin has been set to watch at the hospital, where Benny is showing signs of not being as well as they previously thought. He keeps trying to get out of bed, and they have had to restrain him.”

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