Between (14 page)

He wiggled the mouse. The screen saver cleared and he was looking at Google Maps and an address across the mountains into Idaho. No way to be sure, but he had a pretty good idea who used to live at that address.

Sitting on the chair, he began a hasty search. E-mails first.

The door opened.

Zee was already on his feet, pistol up and aimed, before he saw the uniforms and realized he’d just drawn on two officers of the Krebston PD. Half an instant, and both of their service weapons were trained on his heart.

“Drop the weapon!”

Zee hesitated.
I could take them both.

“Now!” There was an edge of fear to the voice, and he realized he’d already missed his chance. He bent and dropped his gun to the floor.

“Hands on the wall, and spread your legs.”

He complied. The older cop frisked him, confiscating the knives and snapping cuffs onto his wrists. “What are you doing here, son?”

“I found it like this—was checking to make sure nobody was hurt.”

“Yeah? Why didn’t you call it in?” The short cop looked like he’d woken up on the wrong side of his life and was pissed about the injustice. Zee stared him down, kept his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

“Don’t carry a cell phone, couldn’t find the landline in this mess. Look—I’m worried about Vivian—”

“You just let us do our job.” The older cop had a steady face, deeply lined. His eyes were intelligent. Looked like he’d been in the business for a while, and Zee figured he would like the guy, given half a chance. “Neighbors called, said they heard loud crashing over here. We show up, and here you are.”

No good answer for that one. Zee held his tongue.

An exchange of glances, a hand signal, and the pissed-off cop moved into the apartment, weapon drawn.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Ezekiel Arbogast.” No point lying. Everybody in town knew him.

“Am I going to find any warrants for you?”

“I’ve lived in this town for ten years, Officer. If I’d been in trouble, you’d know.” As long as they didn’t start digging. As long as they didn’t pull up his record. “Look—I can understand how it looks to find me here, but I’m worried about Vivian…”

“Tell me again, Mr. Arbogast, what exactly are you doing here?”

“I told you I was worried about her—”

“And why was that?”

Because she’s the new Dreamshifter, doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing, and there’s some sort of Superwitch out to get her already.
Right. Silence was better than any lie he could come up with, so he held his tongue.

“And the gun?”

“It’s registered. I have a permit to carry.”

“Well, we’ll just check on that.”

“I wouldn’t have drawn on you, sir. Things were out of order. I thought maybe the bad guys were coming back in.”

“All clear.” The bitter cop was back.

“We’ll need you to come to the station—give a statement.”

“I have no problem doing that, as long as you dispatch somebody to look for her. Seriously—”

“Let’s go now, Mr. Arbogast. We’ll give you a ride.”

“Look, are you charging me with something? Because I’d much rather drive my own vehicle—”

“Book him now. Save time later,” the bitter cop said.

“Cool your jets, Sparky. We did startle him. Go to the car and radio in his name. See if he’s got a permit like he says, any warrants.”

“Fine. Waste of time,” Sparky muttered, stalking off. Every muscle in his body radiated disapproval.

“Now then, Mr. Arbogast. Tell me again why you are here.”

“We’re friends. I own the bookshop—she comes in to talk. Her grandfather died today and she was—distressed. I tried to call and she didn’t answer. So I came over—found this.”

“How did you get in?”

When you lie, make it simple. Keep the eyes steady, but not too intense. Don’t look away.
“It was unlocked. Another reason I was worried.”

The officer had pulled out a small notebook and begun jotting notes. “Anywhere you know of that she might be?”

“You could try her boyfriend. Jared Michaelson. He’s with Baskin and Clarke, in Spokane.” That one was a guess—he’d seen an exchange of e-mails. It didn’t matter, really—all he needed was to talk his way out of this room.

“Anywhere else?”

“She works at the hospital.”

Feet stomped up the stairs. “He’s clean.” Sparky bristled with frustration. “No warrants. The gun is registered to him; got a permit like he says.”

“Any priors?”

“Not in Washington. Take a bit to run the other states.”

“All right, Mr. Arbogast. Turn around, I’ll get those cuffs off.”

Once free, Zee massaged his wrists, trying to rub away the all-too-familiar sensation. His heart pounded. This was going to get unpleasant. They’d dig up his past, sure as death and taxes. He thought uneasily about the knife locked in his strongbox. The blood on the blade. If they got a warrant and searched his place, he was going to be in a whole lot of trouble.

“Can I have my gun back? The knives?”

“They will be returned to you at the station.” The decent officer nodded at him. Sparky scowled.

Feeling their eyes on his back, Zee walked out the door, keeping his pace easy and unhurried, although he wanted nothing more than to break into a run. Outside, two more men in uniform stood discussing the situation. Zee moved past them, dipping his head in recognition. “Hey.”

They returned the nod without interrupting their conversation.

He crossed the lawn, got into his Ford. The thing was old—he’d owned it before George Maylor appeared with his unconventional offer, and kept it just to have something of his own, not paid for under the bargain. At the time it had seemed like a good idea—now not so much. The damned thing didn’t want to start. By the time it had turned over three times, only to splutter and die, the cops on the porch had turned to watch him.

On the fifth try, it decided to run. One of the cops gave him a small salute, laughing, and he waved back, driving carefully and well under the speed limit. He took a right and headed for the police station as promised. It was on Fourth and Guildford, a one-story brick building that could use a face-lift. An unmarked and a couple of panda cars sat out in front. One available parking space between a rusty Subaru and an SUV.

He slowed, then kept on driving, straight down Fourth to where it ran up the hill and headed out of town, watching for lights in his rearview all the way.

As soon as he hit the town limits, Zee kept his eyes out for a side road heading in more or less the right direction.
The first choice turned into gravel, then a dirt track, until it ran out in a dead end. He backtracked and took the first turnoff that headed in the right general direction, a gravel road that wound through forest. Every mile or so, a barely passable drive led off the road to a trailer or a cabin. No visible people. No other traffic.

An hour later, he rolled into Metalline Falls. A small community, nicely isolated, but it had taken way too long for him to get here. By now they’d be looking for him. How hard depended on what they’d turned up with the background check.

He figured they were definitely looking for him.

Reviewing maps in his head, the Google Map in particular, Zee drove through the small town and turned off on a known but little-used route—a steep pass, narrow, and gravel all the way. Nobody would be out here this time of year except for the hardiest sportsmen, and most of them weren’t going to be bothered with hunting down an escaped criminal.

Ten years of good behavior wiped out in one morning. Part of him wanted to regret this; part of him felt an odd relief. No matter how hard he’d tried to channel the energy of his dreams into the actions of a peaceful and law-abiding citizen, somewhere deep inside he’d known that he was destined for another fate.

Nature or nurture? He’d spent a good bit of time debating this question in the light of his own development. When he was a child his parents moved constantly, always looking for a place where life was easier. This involved evading the wrath of local churches who had given handouts according to the dictates of charity only to encounter increasingly pressing demands without any of the expected gratitude or sanctity in return. Which meant, for Zee, every year a new school and a new band of small-town kids to whom he had to prove himself. Not easy for a dreamy kid who preferred books and pencils to sports.

The name didn’t help. Ezekiel Maccabeus Arbogast. Every year, he told the teacher his name was Zee. Every year,
in front of the entire class, he was badgered to produce his given name. The church-educated kids were the worst, the ones who inevitably began singing “Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones” whenever he walked into the room.

And yes, his parents had named him after Ezekiel, the prophet who had the weird visions about the bones coming to life, and also after Judah Maccabeus, the warrior hero. God alone knew what they’d been thinking, but he guessed that reading through the Bible while smoking weed might have played into the decision. None of the kids seemed to know about Judah, but they sure did get the Ezekiel part.

At least once a year, somebody beat him up when they caught him alone. Walking home from school, out behind the church. Adults somehow never noticed when the beatings were going down, and his parents paid no attention to the black eyes and bloody noses, other than to tell him it was time he became a man and learned to fight back.

On his thirteenth birthday he took their advice.

Over strenuous objections on his part, his mother planned and executed a birthday party, inviting the entire seventh-grade class. Not in the cluttered single-wide, of course, but to a bonfire out in the field.

As soon as the cars and pickups started dropping off kids, Zee knew he was in trouble. All day he’d hoped against hope that nobody would show up. Instead there were fifteen kids. They smiled at his mother and called her ma’am; hummed
dry bones
under their breath as they greeted Zee and trooped out to the isolated fire pit.

Dem bones dem bones

“You kids have fun, now.”

Dem dry bones

His mother sashayed out of the firelight toward the trailer, limbs loosened by the six-pack she’d shared with his dad, hippie skirt swishing around her legs, long hair trailing in waves over her shoulders.

Toe bone connected to the foot bone

One of the boys wolf-whistled at her back.

Something inside Zee twisted. Careless and self-centered
as she was, she was the only mother he had. One of the few decent things he’d learned from his father was to treat her with respect.

Foot bone connected to the ankle bone

“Nice ass,” another boy chimed in, insolent, his eyes pinning Zee in the shadows.

His name was Carl; he was on the football team and swaggered around school bullying the smaller kids. Worked in the bush with his dad summers, logging. He’d been the first to start the inevitable song. Not the kid you wanted to mess with.

“Shut up,” Zee said.

Ankle bone connected to the shin bone

“She’s hot for a mom,” Carl said.

“I said shut up.”

“Oooh, you gonna make me? Hey everybody, the prophet wants to pick a fight. Think God is on your side, prophet?”

Shin bone connected to the knee bone

A setup. Already they’d formed a ring around the campfire, with him and Carl closed in. The song was no longer only in his head; all of the voices took it up as a chant.

“I don’t want to fight,” Zee said, eyeing the circle. “I just want you to shut up about my mom.”

Carl stepped forward, put a hand at the center of his chest, shoved him. Zee tripped over a branch, stumbled backward and almost into the fire.

The chanters picked up the intensity.

Knee bone connected to the thigh bone

Thigh bone connected to the hip bone

Above, a sky crusted with stars, lancets of cold and distant light. The chanting ring of kids around the fire, faces flickering in and out of shadow. The smell of smoke. Fear. Humiliation.

Trapped, he ran at his tormenter, fists clenched, and sprawled flat on his face as Carl stuck out a foot and tripped him. Face pressed into the dirt, he struggled to draw breath into lungs emptied by the force of the fall.

Hip bone connected to the back bone

Back bone connected to the neck bone

Something broke inside him in that moment. He got to his feet another person. Cool, clearheaded, with an understanding of his opponent and his own body that he hadn’t possessed a minute ago.

Neck bone connected to the head bone

“Fist bone connected to the jawbone,” Zee said, and swung.

When they pulled him off his foe a couple of minutes later, his knuckles were bloodied but he was otherwise unmarked. Carl was not so lucky. His nose twisted off to the right and spouted gouts of blood over his face. His front teeth were missing. Both eyes were already swelling. He lay sobbing, only half conscious, his breath burbling over the blood in his throat.

One of the girls, more sensible than the rest, had run to the house for Zee’s parents, and his father staggered out to the fire, drunk and shouting imprecations at his son. The rest of the night was a blur. Subdued kids. Angry parents. And in the end the cops and his first trip to juvenile hall.

More important, that was the night the dreams began. Vivian. Himself as Warlord. It was the night he first began to hunt the dragons.