Indigo Springs (11 page)

“It’s not—”

“He gave up everything, and now you were encamped in that house with someone who was giving the chantments cute little names as if they were toys or—”

“Stop it!”

“Pets—”

“That’s unfair.”

“And—let’s not forget—she was playing with your mother’s mind.”

“Shut up!” Her voice rises. “I didn’t know what was at stake, I didn’t realize there was so much vitagua coming out of the unreal. My head hurt all the time, I was exhausted and forgetful. I couldn’t believe the chantments were dangerous….”

“Or that Sahara was?”

Blue is flooding the whites of her eyes. “Sahara wasn’t dangerous.”

“Please. She led hundreds of her followers to a contaminated area outside of Indigo Springs. Are you saying you don’t know this, Astrid? Your psychic powers didn’t tell you three people got shot rushing police barricades?”

“Your guys got trigger happy.” Her voice is angry.

“We lost people too. The retrieval team sent to get the Alchemites out of the woods didn’t come back.”

She shrugs.

“After the government burned out the alchemized trees, Sahara returned to Mascer Lane with all her followers. She caused a six-point-two-Richter earthquake there. Do you know how many people died, Astrid?”

“She can’t help herself. You can’t blame—”

“Who should we blame?” I say, and Astrid’s head rears back, like a snake about to strike. “You can’t pretend Sahara isn’t reckless, morally corrupt—”

“Quiet!” She slams her hands down on mine, on either side of the table. The brushtips at the ends of her fingernails are bright blue, seeping vitagua. The fluid is a quarter inch from my skin—a bizarre threat, but a real one.

It is a shock, but I can’t afford to show fear. I resist the urge to yank free, even as I think of Mark Clumber’s obvious paranoia, and of the wet sound he makes whenever he tries to speak.

Astrid clings with ferocious strength. Unnaturally blue veins throb in her face. Her skin is ice-cold. “The vitagua has made Sahara insane.”

I refuse to look at my hands, the drops of blue welling so close to my skin. I keep my voice even. “Has it made you insane too, Astrid?”

“I’m different.” She releases me and lolls onto the couch. The blue fluid pulls back out of sight, leaving her so pale that each freckle stands out on her skin.

The phone shrieks again in the foyer.

“Roach is worried about your safety,” Astrid says.

“I’m not in danger,” I say. It stops in midring.

“Can we go back to talking about gardening now?” she asks wearily.

“Fine. I’ve got all day, don’t I?” I keep my voice light, as though she hasn’t just attacked me. “The gardening. It triggered your memory flashes.”

“Touching things was triggering the flashes. At first it was contact with objects Albert and I had both touched.”

“I understand. Leeda’s garden was a place you’d been together. Digging in the garden brought on the memories of your father.”

“Right. As time passed, I got better at it.” Her anger seems to ease. “Remembering wasn’t quite like seeing Dad again. The memories were vivid, but old.”

“Did you leave Leeda’s? Go on to your next client?”

“Shamro Moore. Yes.”

“And did you learn anything else?”

“Plenty,” she said. “How to make a chantment, where the vitagua came from, why Dad had lived his life letting everyone think he was the village idiot. What he’d done with the things he’d bought and chanted over the years.”

I look at the painted image of Albert Lethewood. He is kindly and guileless, with childlike eyes. He reminds me of an alcoholic I used to arrest twice a month, back when I was new to the force. A sweet drunk’s face. It is easy to see how the people of Indigo Springs made assumptions.

Harmless, invisible. A perfect mask for his activities.

I look at the daughter who has thrust Albert’s mystery into my world. She has the same chin, the same wiry red eyebrows. But the innocence that suffuses his face is gone from hers. Maybe that’s a game, and this half-crazed exterior is all she wants Roche to see. Is there more to Astrid, or is this all that has survived Sahara?

She didn’t expose me to the vitagua just now, I think, and I certainly made her furious.

Despite my denials to Roche I wonder again: Did Astrid really commit the crimes she has all but confessed to, or is she covering for the friend she so obviously loves?

Jacks was home when she returned from work, pulling hot corn bread out of the oven while a thick mass of curried potatoes and chickpeas bubbled on the stove.

As soon as Astrid walked through the door, he set a plate in front of her. She didn’t bother to sit, pulling apart the bread and taking a bite. It was thick, grainy, and fragrant.

She dunked a piece into the curry. “You can’t keep cooking all the time—you’ll get resentful eventually.”

“Mom made this. I stopped by the bookstore and she dumped a housewarming package on us.”

“Oh. Good. And how was your day?”

He beamed. “I ran into a woman who’d blown her radiator on the highway. She spotted the sketches for the mural while I was calling the mechanic and it turns out she works at an art gallery in Eugene. Probably nothing will come of it, but she liked the sketch. Oh, and Dad stopped by the tour office twice and missed me both times.”

“You’re gonna have to talk to him one day, you know.” Curried potatoes sang on her taste buds. The spice was intense enough to make her sweat.

“All in good time.” Jacks brandished the magic wristwatch playfully.

She thought about pushing the issue, only to decide not to break his good mood. The choice brought a faint pang of sadness. She and Albert hadn’t been getting along at the end. She didn’t want Jacks to end up with regrets.

There’s time, she thought—the Chief is healthy enough. “I found out some stuff about Albert and the chantments today.”

“You promised to stay away from the blue goo.”

“It’s called vitagua, and I have. Dad told me everything a long time ago.”

“You’ve been holding out?”

“Course not. I forgot, somehow.”

“‘Somehow’? I love the sound of that.” He glowered.

“Well, I’m remembering now. Where’s Sahara?”

“Can’t you give me the ABC’s without Her Majesty present?”

“Don’t snark.
A
is for Albert. He was making chantments out of the crap he bought at flea markets.”

“Making them?”

“Yeah.
B
is for the blue goo in the fireplace.”

“Vitagua,” Jacks said.

“Yes, vitagua, which is what he used to pull it off. You infuse vitagua into an object and it becomes magical.”

“Okay. And what’s
C
?”

“Uh…confidential. He was pretty firm about it being a bad idea to tell people about this stuff.”

“Damn. I just sent out a press release.” With a teasing smile, he popped a clump of hot bread into her mouth.

Momentarily flustered, she swallowed. “Be serious. There’s also
D
for danger. Apparently one day there will be too many chantments gathered together in one place—”

“What’s that…a prophecy?”

“I guess. If they pile up, people can sense them.”

“What people?”

“Chantment collectors—thieves, really. And Albert hinted some people would destroy them if they could.”

“Why? They seem pretty benign.”

“He was vague.” Now that she wasn’t hands-deep in a garden, her recollection was getting fuzzy, as if the conversations with Albert had been dreams. Pain ground into her skull. “Know that face he used to pull when he didn’t want to admit some ugly truth? A thing he’d done, money he’d spent?”

“Oh, don’t I just. But if Albert was making chantments but couldn’t stockpile them, where are they?”

“He sent them away.”

“To who?”

“People in trouble, or in need. All that junk he bought, Jacks—he chanted it and then gave the stuff away. That’s where his money went.”

“Mom’s money,” he said. Then, grudgingly: “Ev’s too.”

“Yeah.”

“That ol’ drunk Al Lethewood,” he said, doing a fair imitation of his father before bursting into laughter. “He conned the whole town.”

Catching her hand, he tangoed her around the kitchen, twirling her into the hall.

Astrid concentrated on not tripping over her boots as he reeled her back against him. He smelled of aftershave and hot bread. “Chief’d bust a gut if he knew, huh?”

“To say the least. Why didn’t Albert sell the things?”

“It would have made it easy to trace him?”

“Would have kept him solvent too,” Jacks said ruefully.

“He found hard-luck cases in the newspapers and mailed them the chantments anonymously.”

Still dancing, he dipped her. “Magical gifts.”

“Exactly,” Astrid said as she came up again.

“And we’re supposed to do this—be an unregistered charity? Become Santa Claus?”

“It’ll be fun, Jacks.”

“Screw charity.” Sahara chose that moment to appear, drifting through the back door in a high-necked black dress and new shoes. The mermaid hung over her collar and her arms were full of bags. “We’re funded,” she announced. “The jeweler was putty in Siren’s hands.”

“Take that thing off now,” Jacks said. Astrid stepped away from him, flustered.

Sahara removed the mermaid and dropped it into a new purse. Throwing herself into a chair, she grabbed a hunk of bread. “I’m starving.”

“What’s this about a jeweler—you zapped someone else?”

“Only a little, Eligible. What’s with the bread?”

“Olive made it, it’s delicious, and we are grateful,” Astrid said, rubbing her temples as Jacks bristled.

“Don’t encourage him, Astrid. We’ve been running ourselves ragged all day and he’s feeding us health food.” Sahara fished in one of the bags. “I bought champagne.”

“
C
is for conspicuous,” Jacks grumbled.

“Flashy by nature, that’s me.”

“We have to keep a low profile, Sahara,” Astrid said.

Sahara tossed her head. “Astrid, my dear, unless you plan to become your father—bad reputation, bad finances, bad liver, and all—”

“It’s not that simple, Your Majesty,” Jacks said.

“Did Albert tell you how to make new chantments?”

“We have to send them away, Sahara. We can’t let them or the vitagua concentrate.”

“Fine. Did he tell you how?”

“She means it, Sahara. We can’t keep them.”

“I’m not deaf.” Sahara picked at the potato curry. “Speaking of people with crappy hearing, I sent that life-skills evaluator of Mrs. Skye’s packing. She’s safe from the machinations of the niece, at least for a while.”

“You’re going to use that thing on everyone you meet.”

“I should’ve let him pack the old lady off to a home?”

“How do you know she doesn’t need assistance?”

“Jacks, there’s nothing wrong with her I can’t mend. She needed new batteries for her hearing aid and a ride to work every day.”

“Mend her. She’s not a busted tap.”

“She’s not a busted anything. Astrid, we’re gonna go over Saturday and clean up her house and garden, okay?”

“Fine,” Astrid said, wondering if she and Albert had ever worked Mrs. Skye’s yard. “Thanks for looking out for her, Sahara. I was worried.”

“You worry about everyone.”

“You can count me out of your little rehab project—I’m going rock climbing with Saje and Kevin,” Jacks said.

“I didn’t invite you, Eligible.”

“How was Ev?” he asked pointedly.

“Okay. She was playing amateur detective again, but I got her to focus on her shrink appointment. Whatever I did to her, it was wearing off. I don’t think I’m that good with our Siren yet.”

“What about the jeweler?” Astrid said. “Doesn’t that mean he’ll spill the beans about the gold dust?”

“I convinced him he needed me to build him a webpage. Nobody will wonder if I’m at his store a lot.” Sahara fiddled with the collar of her new dress. “I ran into Eineke Glassen on the way home. Gave her a hard time about skipping our party at the Mixmeander.”

“How’d she take it?” Jacks said.

“I never realized before that she hates me.”

“She’s jealous,” Jacks said. “She has a thing for our girl.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Sahara leaned over the counter, her expression sly.

“Don’t I wish,” Astrid said.

“Ooh, you’re blushing. You date her, Astrid?”

“I went out with her brother.”

“They dated for eight weeks,” Jacks said, grinning.

“And what was wrong with him?”

“He was lovely,” Astrid said. “But he wanted to move to Florida.”

Sahara laughed. “I guess the homebodies win. A rolling stone gathers no Astrid.” She and Jacks were still eye to eye, not quite glaring. “Home team advantage.”

A quiet thump at the front door broke the staring contest: all three of them jumped.

“Could be your dad,” Astrid said.

Glancing at his magic watch, Jacks shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Chickenshit,” Sahara said.

Jacks’s gray-green eyes narrowed just a little, glinting with anger. Astrid put a hand on his, intending it as support—and suddenly she sensed how deep the anger ran. Jacks was furious with his father.

“Hey, Sahara,” he said. “Since you’re mending everyone else in the Springs, you want to take him on?”

“No can do,” Sahara said. “Chief’s a force of nature.”

“Ah. Still shying away from the tough jobs.”

“You saying I’m lazy?”

The thump at the door came again.

“I’ll go,” Astrid said, crossing the still-vacant living room and tugging open the door. Nobody was there.

She glanced down. Henna was stretched out on the porch, washing one bloody paw with slow licks of a crimson tongue. On the doorjamb at Astrid’s feet lay a  dead rabbit. It was—thankfully—only minimally mangled.

“What is it?” Sahara called.

“The great fluffy hunter got…lucky.”

“Oh gross, dead mouse. It’s my cat, I’ll clean it up.”

“No, I got it.” Astrid knelt beside the furry corpse. Then she froze. Dark certainty flooded her, knowledge as familiar as her name or hair color. She would follow someone out onto this porch one day, into a glare of artificial brightness, light so blinding, it baked her skin.

Lights—TV cameras? A haze of strangers’ voices would greet her. “Where’s Mrs. Skye?” they would shout. “Is anyone still in there?”

Bile scorched the back of her throat. It’s the vitagua exposure, she thought. Dad said it can make you crazy.

The panic ebbed, leaving her with the smug cat and rabbit corpse.

“Head sick,” she murmured to Henna. Astrid thought of the splash of vitagua across Sahara’s face, the stain on her own hand. The cat was exposed too….

Got to get it out of us, she thought. Fetching the shovel, she scooped up the rabbit quickly and took it out back to the garden. She quickly dug a hole.

Voices floated through the open door: “Basically you’re hiking out to the middle of nowhere to climb rocks with the same guys you’ve been camping with ever since high school. Sounds exhilarating.”

Jacks’s reply was frosty. “I could spice it up by seducing one of them, then running off to the other side of the country with someone else.”

“And your shiny new day job is also hiking, am I right? Could you be more one-dimensional, Eligible?”

“Why did you come back, Sahara?”

“Am I interfering with some plan of yours?”

Hastily Astrid pushed the corpse into the hole and kicked dirt over it, trotting loudly up the steps and silencing the argument. “What else did you buy today?”

Cheeks pink, Sahara upended a bag on the table.

House hold necessities tumbled out—boxes of pencils, a tape measure, a red towel, a picture frame, batteries, an icepick, plastic drinking glasses, a soapdish, a deck of cards, CD-ROMs, fruit-shaped fridge magnets, lightbulbs, a screwdriver, duct tape, shower curtain and hooks, scissors, a memo board, a cutting board, hard candy, a windup mouse for the cat, and an egg timer.

Astrid poked through the pile, looking for Albert’s sparkle. There…“Want to see me make a chantment?”

“Are you kidding?” The edge in Jacks’s voice softened into curiosity.

“Nope.” She reached for the soapdish, a ladybug-shaped disc of rubber bristling with flexible nubs designed to keep the soap raised and dry. She gripped it in her left hand. The nubs pressed against her palm.

“Assuming we can make chantments, who would we send them to?” Sahara asked.

“We’ll work it out,” Astrid said. She scratched the point of the icepick across the back of her hand. Vitagua bubbled from the cut, spilling off her wrist and vanishing into the soapdish, which sucked it up thirstily.

It was just as Albert had said—strength filled her, buoying up muscles tired from hours of digging, filling her with vitality she could barely contain. The headache spread across her right temple, but the surge of energy made it less significant, suddenly bearable despite the tears dribbling down her cheek.

“You okay?” Jacks said.

“Yes.” The scratch began to sting and blood came to the surface.

Sahara leapt up, digging a box of bandages out of another shopping bag. “Can I learn to do that?”

Astrid shook her head. Her awareness of the vitagua within her body—a diminished presence now—was keener. “It’s just me.”

Jacks was staring at the soapdish. “This is a chantment now? What do you think it does?”

Astrid already knew. She set it on the kitchen counter, squeezing the tiniest drop of liquid soap onto it. Bubbles foamed from between its nubs, a drift of soap that churned across the curry-splashed counter. Then it withdrew, leaving the tiled surface bright and clean.

“Sorcerer’s apprentice.” Sahara clapped her hands, and Astrid chilled. She’s going to say we need to keep it, she thought, and I’ll have to change her mind. Are we going to fight now?

But her friend scooped up the ladybug. “I know who to send this to.”

“Who?”

“One of my crisis junkies.”

“Pardon?” Jacks said.

“She means her fan club,” Astrid said.

“Woman with three kids,” Sahara said. “Grubby apartment. No money, no time. She mentioned once she can’t keep up with cleaning their place.”

“Couldn’t someone trace that?” Jacks objected. “We’re trying to be sneaky, and this is someone you know—”

“That’s just it: I don’t know her. She posted her address in a newsgroup so one of the others could mail her something…astrological charts for her kids, I think. I’ll scoop it out of the archives. We write some basic instructions in an anonymous note, wrap up the package, ship it—”

“We can’t mail it from town,” Astrid said. “Ma.”