Broken Dragon (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 3) (9 page)

“I yelled at you. You yelled at me, and I think the dragon got a little peeved and told me to stay out of its way,” Mara said. She took one of Ping’s arms and helped him back into his seat. “Don’t you remember any of that?”

Ping took that napkin from her and dabbed at his neck. He was back to being pale again. “I don’t even remember you arriving here.” He looked down at the table. “Are we having lunch?”

“Are you telling me that I have been talking to the dragon for the last ten minutes? That you don’t remember making lunch plans over an hour ago?”

“I’m afraid not. Well, maybe vaguely.” He looked down, appearing to take inventory of himself. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, you didn’t physically turn into a dragon, but I think, somehow, it took over your body or something. It looked and sounded like you. At least until I started arguing.”

Ping shook his head, as if shaking off sudden drowsiness. “Confronting the dragon is just going to make things worse. Its instincts are already on edge. The more threatened it feels, the more aggressively it pushes to exert control of me.”

“I didn’t make any threats.”

“You said you would send it home.”

“The other night I did.”

“That’s its greatest fear, the worst thing you could have said.”

“Ping, it can’t stay here. It will get you killed or will kill someone else.”

He flinched and grabbed his sides. Through gritted teeth, he said, “You have got to let me handle this. Ignoring the dragon’s folly isn’t advice. It’s a tactic. It’s the way to get through this. That’s what the book is telling you.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll stop confronting and arguing. Just tell me one thing.”

Ping seemed to relax. He let out a loud breath. “What?”

“Is the dragon female?”

He looked astonished. “What?”

“For a moment there, your voice sounded like an old woman’s,” Mara said.

Astonishment melted into doubt. “I’m not sure I’ve ever sensed a gender. I just assumed it was male.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” she said, then after a moment raised a finger. “I lied. One more question.”

“What is it?”

“You’re not hunting my mother are you?”

Ping looked surprised. “Why on earth would I do that?”

The condos looked more like LEGOs stacked in four staggered tiers than the high-rise that came to mind when Bohannon said their first stop was at a set of condos near the Willamette River. The detective pulled into a parking lot in front of a Visitors sign next to the expansive low-slung buildings and slid his truck into Park. He reached into his door’s side pocket and removed a folder. Flipping it open, he said, “The Ackermans are on the third floor in this building.” He nodded through the speckled windshield. “You ready? You got quiet there for a minute.”

“I just don’t like the Ross Island Bridge is all. Too close to the water for my taste,” she said. She opened the door and looked back at the detective. “Is there anything specific about these people that drew your attention?”

He shook his head. “No, just started at the beginning of the list and Mrs. Ackerman was willing to have us stop by. The husband, Arthur, was the passenger on the flight. She said he couldn’t come to the phone, but said he would be here anytime we wanted to stop by. I couldn’t really tell if she was just reserved or reluctant to talk on the phone.”

“Did she act like anything unusual was happening?”

“Not particularly.” He stepped from the truck and pointed to a concrete path to the building. Both ignored the misty rain and made no attempt to rush through it. When they got to the entrance, they found it locked, but next to it, mounted on the wall, was a silver panel of buttons, each labeled with a number. Bohannon pressed 322, and a moment later a woman’s voice barked out of the speaker, “Yes?”

“Mrs. Ackerman? It’s Detective Bohannon. I talked to you earlier.”

A muffled buzz, followed by a click, came from the door.

They entered what appeared to be an ancillary foyer with two elevators and a set of stairs leading to the upper floors. Bohannon took the stairs, and Mara followed. The place looked well-appointed, with clean carpets and fresh paint, but not excessively luxurious. After crossing two flights of stairs and a landing, they entered a door labeled Floor 3
.
A dark-haired woman in her thirties stood ten yards down the hall in front of the open door of her condo.

“Detective Bohannon?” She extended a hand, as they approached.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ackerman.” Bohannon shook her hand and pointed to Mara. “This is Mara Lantern. She’s an intern working with the department doing a ride-along with me today. I hope that’s okay with you.”

Mara glanced at Bohannon, making a point of catching his eye, but didn’t contradict him.

Mrs. Ackerman shrugged. “No problem. Come on in.” She led them into a large living room and pointed them to a large sectional couch tucked into the corner. “Would you care for something to drink? Coffee or a soft drink?”

“No thanks. We don’t want to take up too much of your time. We’d just like a minute or two with Mr. Ackerman, to ask him a couple questions, and then we’ll be on our way,” Bohannon said.

She stood across from them on the other side of a coffee table made of four lacquered blocks pushed together, about to take a seat in what looked like a leftover section of the couch. She paused midsit. “Oh, I’m sorry, but that is not possible.”

“You did say he would be here, didn’t you?” the detective asked.

“Yes, I did. And he is.” She took her seat. “But he cannot answer any questions.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Why would you tell us it was all right to stop by, if he couldn’t talk to us?”

“I wasn’t aware you wanted to speak with him. Frankly I was hoping you were bringing answers, not more questions,” she said. “I had assumed you were looking into my husband’s case, that Dr. Marcus had contacted you.”

Mara leaned forward on the couch. “Mrs. Ackerman, why can’t your husband answer questions?”

“Because he’s hibernating—at least that’s what the doctors think it is.”

Bohannon blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say
hibernating
?”

She stared back at the detective, peeved. “You mentioned looking into some cases of strange occurrences. I assumed you were referring to my husband’s condition.”

“In a roundabout way, that’s true, ma’am. I just didn’t know about the specifics of your husband’s situation. You see, several of the passengers of Flight 559 have exhibited, I guess you could say, unusual behaviors or characteristics following the crash. We’ve been checking up on some of them.”

“Unusual behaviors? Like what?”

“For example, a few weeks back, I encountered a woman who could crawl up the side of a building effortlessly. She even jumped from its roof, a three-story building, landing without a scratch.” He paused for a reaction and got a blank stare. “Tell me about your husband. You say he’s hibernating?”

Mrs. Ackerman stood up and said, “Follow me.”

Bohannon and Mara exchanged glances and followed the woman out of the living room. She led them down a hall to a closed door at the end. Grabbing the doorknob, she waited for them to catch up to her.

“Is your husband in there?” Bohannon whispered.

“You don’t need to whisper,” she said and opened the door. “There is no way you can wake him up.”

The door stalled in her hand; something blocked it from the other side. Mrs. Ackerman pressed her shoulder to it and pushed her way into the room. Whatever it was, was sliding out of the way. Having gotten the door open enough, she squeezed into the room, clearing the way for Bohannon to see inside.

A mountain of blankets filled the room, covering every inch of the floor, piled high enough to press against the light fixture in the center of the ceiling. It wasn’t clear if furniture was in the room or not. If so, it was buried. Mrs. Ackerman pulled at a multicolored quilt, setting off a minor avalanche. She struggled to get it loose but walked toward the back of the room, pulling the quilt behind her, until it detached from the pile, revealing a large foot, connected to a man, judging by its size and the hair curled around the ankle. The foot twitched and disappeared into the mountain.

Bohannon pushed against the door to widen the entrance but stopped suddenly. He brought his hand to his nose and backed away. “Whoa, that’s a powerful smell.”

Mara got a glimpse into the room. A moment later the odor wafted over her, and she too backed away. Covering her nose and mouth, she said, “He’s hibernating under all those blankets?”

Mrs. Ackerman staggered over the blankets toward them. She grabbed the door for support and kicked away a blanket that had gotten tangled on her shoe. “Yes, my husband has been under that pile for more than a month now.”

Bohannon turned back toward the living room. “Maybe it would be best if we returned to the living room.”

Mrs. Ackerman stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind her. “Sorry about that. But I have found showing people is more effective than just telling them. At least that way they don’t think I’m delusional.” She waved them back down the hall.

Mara took her seat again on the couch and said, “Is he actually hibernating, or is that just how you describe it to people?”

“That is what the doctors call it. About a week after this started, I called a friend who’s a psychiatrist and had him come over to take a look. We actually went in there and unburied Arthur, which was no easy feat. Though he looks like he’s in a deep sleep, he kept reburrowing into the blankets without ever opening his eyes. We had him out long enough for my friend to do a quick physical checkup, and to take some blood and saliva samples. His heartbeat is less than 10 percent of a normal person’s—so is his breathing. His body temperature is around seventy degrees, at least when he’s out of the blankets.”

“Did they get anything from the blood tests?” Bohannon asked.

“His cholesterol is off the charts, but they think that is because he’s burning body fat instead of eating. They did find what they think is a strange enzyme, but they’re not sure if it’s related. Physiologically they say he’s acting like a hibernating bear.”

“Is he in any danger?” Mara asked.

“They don’t think so, but, honestly, I don’t think they know.” She turned to Bohannon and asked, “So, what is the connection with the other passengers from Arthur’s flight? Do you think they were exposed to something that is causing them to act strangely?”

“That is what we hope to determine, Mrs. Ackerman,” the detective said. He stood up. “We will be sure to get in touch, if we find out anything that will help your husband.”

As they walked to the door, Mara asked, “In the meantime, what are you going to do?”

Mrs. Ackerman shrugged. “Wait until spring.”

Mara stared out the passenger window, as they headed south on Highway 99E in Bohannon’s truck. The detective had said something about going to a nursery, a greenhouse of some sort, but she was lost in her own thoughts. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was neglecting something, that she needed to do something before it was too late. It was like hearing a rattle in a car engine and knowing she should fix it before it became a bigger problem, but not wanting to open the hood and face the mess underneath.

Trees whipped by and gave way to a cluster of industrial buildings. Bohannon turned onto a side street, but Mara didn’t pay any attention to the road signs. She had to help Ping and the dragon, before something truly horrendous happened. She might not be able to confront him, but that didn’t mean she should do nothing. And Abby. She’s out there somewhere, Mara hoped. And Hannah. What is Mara supposed to do about her? Mara felt her chest tighten. She took a deep breath and tried to relax into her seat. With all that, what was she doing out here looking for more problems?
Looking under the hood
, she guessed.

A slight lurch of the truck and the crunch of gravel drew Mara out of herself. She blinked and looked around, as Bohannon braked in front of a house trailer and a large greenhouse. Turning off the ignition, he stared at Mara with a concerned expression. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

“Just thinking. I don’t mean to be antisocial,” she said.

“No problem. I’ve cruised through entire shifts with partners who’ve barely said a word. You ready to go in?”

“So who is this again?”

“We’re meeting a guy named Reuben Stills, he owns Mount Blossoms Nursery.” Bohannon pointed out the windshield toward the trailer and greenhouse.

“He’s a passenger?”

“No. He has an employee named Elizabeth Murray, who was on your flight. Stills reported her missing on Thanksgiving, but there’s not much detail in the report. I couldn’t get any of Mrs. Murray’s family on the phone, but Stills said he would be here, so I thought we’d talk to him.”

* * *

Reuben Stills waved them into the greenhouse and pointed at the rows of potted poinsettias sitting on wooden pallets. He began to speak, but his voice cracked, and tears welled up. He pulled a handkerchief from his flannel shirt pocket and dabbed his eyes. He picked up one of the pots and hugged it to his chest. Embarrassed, Bohannon looked down at the dirt floor, giving the man time to compose himself.

“I’m so sorry for making a scene,” Reuben said. “It’s just, before Liz showed up Thursday morning, all these poinsettias were on the verge of dying. She saved every one of them, and then, poof, she’s gone.”

“Mrs. Murray’s a gardener? She tended your plants?” Bohannon asked.

Reuben waved a hand dismissively. “No, she was the office manager, but she had developed this remarkable ability to revitalize sickly plants. It was absolutely miraculous. I have been in the business since I was a child, and I have never seen anything like it.”

“I see.” Bohannon nodded, pretended to take notes in a pad.

“No, I don’t think you do see! She practically resurrected these poinsettias from the dead!” the nursery owner said.

Mara raised an eyebrow. “Exactly how did she do this?”