Helix: Plague of Ghouls (26 page)

“I’m beginning to think it’s the sound of your voice that triggers it,” Ishmael said, too softly for Gil to hear over the road noise. “I’ll be fine,” he said more loudly. “Maybe Helen is just out in the trees somewhere. She grew up in Wyndham. She doesn’t understand civilized life, not even at Varco Lake.”

“No one’s seen her for days. Grey said she was at the main house. Burley thought she was in the Hollow. Ferox said she’s been . . . running around Varco Lake . . . in false starts. And congrats. It’s a girl.”

“Shit, Gil!”

“Don’t look at me. She’s not my kitten.”

“God
damn
it, Gil, don’t bring this down on me now. We’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

“I hope she
is
a kitten,” Gil said.

“Screw you.”

“Kittens I can handle. Kittens don’t eat werewolves.”

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Gil.”

“I do.”

“I’ve got murders, I’ve got the Padre freaking out, I’ve got people looking at him because he’s the spitting image of a girl that’s just gone missing. All four of us are losing our grip on humanity whenever we walk into certain buildings. I don’t
need
this right now.”

“I know what you have to do,” Gil said.

“I need to jump off a cliff.”

“You need to—”

“I should have done it while I was on the island!” Ishmael said. “You should have seen it, Gil. Beautiful place to die. You should have seen the waterfall.”

Gil was quiet for what seemed like a very, very long time. When he spoke, his voice was level and cold. “We need Ishmael. The real Ishmael. The one who thinks. The one who acts. The one who lets me . . . finish my goddamned . . . sentence!” His breath was ragged. “The one who dealt with . . . rogues in the past. We all need you, Ishmael. Mankind especially.”

Ishmael nodded, as if Gil could see it. He massaged his forehead with shrinking fingers. “What’s really going on here, Gil?”

There was a brushing noise on the phone, and a slow clicking. It sounded like Gil was texting from a separate phone.
Passing messages, Gil? Really? Are you sending confirmation to Wyrd that you’ve got me in a full, change-inducing panic?

“All I can say,” Gil began, over the sound of three more sticky clicks, “is that things look bad all over.” More clicks. “Ishmael, listen.”

Clicks mingled with the roar of cars as they sped past.

“I’m going to ask you three . . . questions,” Gil said. “One. Why only your shoulder?” A long pause filled with keystrokes on a phone. “Two. Who has false starts?” He put the cell phone down on his desk. Ishmael could hear it as clearly as if he was standing in the room with Gil. “Three. Why is Abram bald?”

In the background, Ishmael could hear a door opening.

“Get back here fast,” Gil said.

“Are
you
safe?” Ishmael asked.

“No.” Gil hung up.

Ishmael nearly threw the phone across the parking lot, but any sudden arm movement would cause a claw to break through. He sat with his back against the brick wall, his head between his hands, and the phone beside him.

Holly came out some time later. She squatted in front of Ishmael, lifting his chin with her fingers to rouse him. Her blue eyes narrowed. She nodded, as if she’d come to some kind of conclusion.

Ishmael checked his hand. The fingernail hadn’t yet grown over. His shirt front was covered with fine hairs, as if he’d just stepped out of a bad barber shop.

“Close call?” Holly asked.

“In more ways than one.” He dusted himself off. “Dep and Ferox are on their way.”

Holly’s eyes flared open. “That’s not funny, Ishmael.”

“You’re not kidding,” he said. “They’ll be here probably within a day.”

“Can they even drive?” Holly shook her head. “No, this isn’t good, Ishmael.”

“I know.”

“Dep is in his false starts already. He’s not going to be able to control his changes. And every time he has his false starts, he’ll be farting out change hormones—”

She was beginning to sound like Eva Foster. He took her by the arms and kissed her. She inhaled sharply through her nose and pushed him away. “Oh, you
bastard.
” She stood and started toward the car. He stopped her, pulling her gently by the elbow.

“I can’t do this on my own,” Ishmael said. His chest was swelling even as his arm bones were warping. “I need a strategist.” She looked at his hand as if it was covered in leeches. Breathing quickly, eyes darting, Holly looked to the ground on his left, then on his right, then back to his left, as if watching a high-stakes tennis game played by evil ants. She was making up her mind.

She was also trying to fight the effect of his change pheromones.

“I’m sorry,” Ishmael said.

Holly’s chin wobbled. She began to cry.

Ishmael pulled her close, his chin on the top of her head.

“I’m out of ideas. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
”

After a few minutes, her body gave in. She was warm against his chest, and his shirt was wet with her tears. “This is the last time,” she whispered angrily. “And then no more.”

He kissed her on the head, and they rocked in the alley behind the electronics store while cars drove past.

“Never again,” she swore. “You don’t know what goes on in her
mind
, Ishmael.”

“We’ll get through this,” he told her. His voice was getting raspy, airy. “We’ll get it sorted out. All of it. No more quarantines, no more outbreaks, no more . . .”
Betrayals
.

“Syringes,” she said. “A centrifuge. Blood sample vials. Microscope.”

“We’ll do what we can.” A rib cracked. She caught him when he lurched forward.

“Whatever we can’t buy, we’ll have to steal,” she said. Her voice was thick and unrecognizable.
No, it’s recognizable. It’s just not Holly.

“Let me worry about that.” His upper lip had begun to split. Blood fell on her hair.

“We need to move fast. It takes almost sixteen hours to process the countercyclical agents.” She looked up at him. “Promise me you’ll be there when I get back.”

“I’ll always be there, waiting for you,” he swore. His hare lip was swelling, and whiskers pricked and burned as they broke the skin. He needed to find shelter, fast, but she stopped him.

“There’s one more thing I’ll need.”

“Name it,” he growled. He needed to get away. He didn’t want to be around when Eva Foster made her first appearance.

“A machine to record voice notes. Because if we do this . . . it’s going to be on
my terms.
”

INSTEAD OF FOLLOWING
Bridget to the hotel, Two-Trees decided to make a couple of pit stops.

He stood on the curb, watching all directions. When the road was clear, he crossed the street and jogged up the library steps. The building itself was the second oldest in Halo County, although the stairs, ramp, and glass front had been added since the Pritchard Park incident. He finished his takeout coffee and chucked the cup into a garbage pail beside the sliding glass door.

Library volunteers and employees moved between stacks and computers with great industry. There were one or two men at the computers, both from Waabishkindibed by the look of them, and they were scrolling through the want ads in online newspapers. One jabbed the other in the ribs with his elbow and pointed at his screen. Elsewhere, a child sneezed in his mother’s arms. Two-Trees began to scratch and think about bed bugs and pollution from Styroforma.

It didn’t take Two-Trees long to remember the general layout of the place nor to see what was new. He’d spent many afternoons hiding out near the music rentals section, listening to LPs he couldn’t play at home. He went past that same section—now devoted exclusively to DVDs and CDs—went around the corner, and up a ramp to the east wing under a sign that said “Reference & Biographies.”

The elderly woman behind the desk rose and recognized him at once. “Well, bless me, if it isn’t Hector-Younger!”

“Hello, Mrs. Keech,” he said, with a smile. She’d been ninety years old when he was in grade school, and she was ninety years old now.

“It’s so good to see you again.” She reached out for his hand, and when she had it, she patted it gently. “How can I help you today?”

“Do you still have the Anishinaabe children’s section? I tried looking for it, but the whole library’s been remodelled and now I can’t find anything.”

She told him it was in the basement. After renovations, they’d expanded the children’s section, and they’d turned the basement into a knock-off cultural centre for the Ojibwe kids who’d moved into town. “Out of sight, out of mind,” she said in a bittersweet voice. “That was the official board decision.” He laughed awkwardly and channelled the conversation toward happier topics.

“Actually,” he said, “I’m looking for a specific book, and I know I’m in the wrong section, but maybe you could help me. I want to know if it’s still here.”

“Of course. Is it for your own little boy?”

“For a friend of mine who just started learning Ojibwe. Grandfather’s old book. You remember it?” When her eyes seemed to fog over, he reminded her. “Grandfather Red Cloud?”

“Oh yes,” she replied, tapping the back of his hand. “Yes, I remember him fondly. He had three books.” She paused. “Well, isn’t that funny. I just had someone in here earlier today, asking about him.”

“Really,” Two-Trees said. He tried to sound surprised, but he was in too much of a hurry to put on a convincing act.

“Another young man said he was looking for an easy reader for his little girl, who has friends on the Reserve. I thought of your grandfather’s books right away. Yes, now, who was it who asked . . .” She looked down at her notes. “One minute, Hector.” She smiled and turned to a stack of unsorted books half-wrapped in printer paper. “Ah yes. Here it is. I knew I had it on reserve. Oh, excuse me! No pun intended.” She turned, blushing, and held the old picture book between her hands like a sacred text. It was
Sister Whitehair and the Trickster.
“But to be fair, he did ask for it first. Do you have a telephone number I can call you back at, once the book has been returned?”

Two-Trees shook his head. “Can I just see it again? I’m in town for the first time in years, and all the old memories came flooding back.”

“Of course,” she said, presenting the book to him.

He ran his hand over the beaten, faded cover of the middle grade reader and wondered just how many other children had enjoyed the stories of
Sister Whitehair.
He turned the book over and opened the back cover. Inside was the picture of a boy with messy hair squatting on a stump, wearing a coyote skin cloak and holding a homemade bow. In the foreground was a white-haired old man wearing a t-shirt and jeans, pressing brush to canvas as he painted a funny looking boy with messy hair. The finished canvas would later become the book’s front cover.

Two-Trees had once been that kid with the raggedy wig, modelling as the Trickster.

That had been long before he’d learned the significance of wearing wolf and coyote skins, before he found out why all human staff members at Wyrd were named after trees, before he understood why his father and his grandfather disappeared for weeks at a time, and long before he understood why, one night, a man in a wolf-headed cloak broke in to their home. Four years after Red Cloud’s funeral, Two-Trees’ father confessed that it hadn’t been a cloak.

Three pieces of paper slipped out and fell on the floor. He picked them up.

“Gracious,” Mrs. Keech said. “What have you there?”

“Looks like someone was job hunting online,” he lied. He showed her one of the pages, which had a series of laboriously hand-copied URLs. “I’ll bring this up to the computer sign-up desk in case he comes back to look for it.” He gave her back the book and said, “You know what I should be doing? I should be
buying
a copy of my own.”

“Oh, it’s likely out of print by now,” she said. “You should try the second-hand book store on Prince Street. If they don’t have a copy handy, they should be able to find one for you.” She patted him on the hand again and asked if there was anything else he needed. There wasn’t. He thanked her for the help, and she told him to come back again soon.

God, how I’d rather just stand around shooting the shit with you, Mrs. Keech.

He was so close to home, again . . . and yet he’d never find his way back. Not after that first werewolf broke in and tore his house to shreds.

And Grandfather with it.

He crumpled the notes in his hand and jammed them into his inside coat pocket.

Think about it later. Way too much to do right now.

He returned to the truck, first to check his messages (none), next to send a message to Bridget asking her what kind of beer she wanted (Sam Adams, if he could find any, Guinness if not), and lastly, to see what Michael Crow had left for him between the pages of
Sister Whitehair and the Trickster.