Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2) Read online

  Curious, Glenn started down the edge of the river bank hoping for a better vantage for observing the change. Concentrating, he didn't see the lady in a khaki jumper, an insignia of import sewn above her left breast, emerge from the timber from the other direction. He didn't see her approach.

  But she saw Glenn. “Hey! What are you doing?”

  Startled, the ranger nearly fell in. He caught himself, stepped back to level ground, then frowned at the intruder approaching on the gallop. “I'm investigating a situation. Not that it's your business.”

  She arrived breathing hard. “You're not investigating any too safely. Trying to drown yourself?”

  “I'm trying to see,” Glenn said, jabbing a thumb at his gold badge. “To what extent this waterway has changed its course.”

  “Impressive,” the lady said. “Does that uniform make you Superman?”

  Glenn studied her. “What does your uniform make you?”

  “Dr. Betty Chmielewski.”

  “Shim… what?”

  Her frown matched his. “Chmielewski. It's a fine old Polish name, be careful with it.”

  Glenn let it pass with a shake of his head. “You're a doctor?”

  “Yes. And a professor of Seismology. That's a branch of Geophysics covering earthquakes and their attendant phenomena.”

  “Yes,” Glenn said, dryly. “I know what Seismology is.”

  “Great. We've made progress.”

  “You're what they sent me?”

  She puckered. “I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't been sent by anyone.”

  “I asked Headquarters for a specialist.”

  “Then they'll get around to calling me. I've been studying swarm seismograph readings in this area for days. I came down to have a look – without being called.”

  “So you do work for the park?”

  “I'm attached to the park at present. Meaning, I suppose, I'll work with you… at present.”

  The frowns continued. “I'm Glenn Merrill, Yellowstone's Chief Ranger.”

  “There's nothing I can do about that. But I hope you don't intend to make a nuisance of yourself?”

  “That would depend upon how easily you're annoyed. I'll try not to be too hard on you.”

  “Much appreciated. I'll try to return the favor.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Shim…” Glenn took a breath. “Can I just call you Betty?”

  “Not in a million years. If the last name is too much for you, Lew will work.”

  “Not Lew-ski in honor of that fine old Polish name?” It was the doctor's turn to let one pass. She did with a forced smile. Glenn went on. “The reason I called you here–” He paused, noting Lew's arched brow, and started again. “The reason I called for a specialist was that I noted what looks to be a change in the river's pattern of flow.”

  “Really?” Lew turned to the river. “Explain, please. What do you see? And how has it changed?”

  Glenn did, in detail, relaying his recent observations compared to countless prior visits. He was gratified to see that, in addition to a sharp tongue, Lew also had ears and knew how to use them. “So, doctor,” he asked at tale's end. “What do you think?”

  “I'm not inclined to speculation based on second-hand observation.” She reconsidered and lifted her hands in surrender. “I don't mean to condescend, Chief. This is compelling. As I said, I'm here because of a marked increase over the last three to five weeks in swarm earthquake activity. It's premature to assume a connection but I can't rule it out. There's certainly a potential for alterations of the landscape from seismic transformations along local fault lines. This could be one.”

  “I'm no fan of speculation, either,” Glenn assured her. “But, just for the sake of discussion, if this alteration is associated with the subject of your study, is there any cause for concern for the safety or well-being of our staff or visitors here in the park?”

  “Oh, no.” She waved the suggestion away. “Not at all. You're probably aware we experience from 1,000 to 3,000 earthquakes a year in Yellowstone and the surrounding area. Minimal changes in the landscape, even in the characteristics and timing of the geothermal features in the park, are natural phenomena here. Frankly, I'm surprised we don't document more.”

  Glenn mentally mapped the river's new course. “Then you see no cause for alarm?”

  “What I see,” she said excitedly. “Is an opportunity for study and the expansion of our knowledge. But no, Chief. I don't see any danger.”

  Chapter 3

  Backcountry patrol had always been Ranger Steve Pence's favorite part of the job. There was nothing quite like the solitude to be found sitting tall in a saddle, high in the mountains. It was unfortunate that most tourists would never experience the reality of Yellowstone, far from the boardwalks and souvenir shops that seemed to captivate city folks. Those who were not familiar with the environment seemed to experience an element of fear when too far from the sounds, sights, and smells of civilization. The wild was unknown to the vast majority of humanity and anything unknown spawned fear. It was as simple as that.

  Today's patrol was Pence's opportunity to help break that subconscious fear in his new partner. It wasn't that Mark Maltby was a coward. Nothing could have been further from the truth. But Maltby had spent his entire three years as a ranger assigned to National Parks and Monuments east of the Mississippi River. He was city folk. He'd been in Yellowstone a grand total of two weeks and, now that his orientation was behind him, he was getting his first real taste of what the wilderness experience was all about. The only thing about his job Pence liked more than backcountry riding was doing so in the company of rookies. He truly enjoyed watching enlightenment come to the eyes of neophytes.

  Maltby broke the silence. “So what, exactly, are we looking for?”

  “That's an excellent question,” Pence replied. “The answer fills two broad categories. One, we're looking for anyone who might need assistance or guidance and, two, we're looking for anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Yeah.” Maltby chuckled. “I'd say those categories are broad. Tell me, is that out of the ordinary?”

  Pence followed Maltby's outstretched arm and, above a thick patch of trees some little distance uphill, saw a flock of ravens circling. “Not necessarily,” Pence said, with more hesitation than he meant to display. “They might just be holding a council meeting or gathering over a food source. It's worth checking. But keep your head on a swivel as we get close in case a bear has cached a kill. They don't take kindly to strangers around their pantries!”

  With a light touch on the reins and a gentle nudge of his heel, Pence changed his mount's direction and headed for the area beneath the black birds. As the rangers drew near, it was obvious this was more than a birds' council, nature was having a town meeting. The calls of various species of aggressive birds filled the air and all-out aerial warfare was taking place between a single raven and two magpies. There was obviously a meal at stake between the combatants, but it was not immediately apparent what the prize was for which they were fighting.

  Pence pulled up his mount, signaled for Maltby to do the same, and pointed, sixty yards ahead, to a shape hidden in the foliage. Invisible the instant before, it had jumped out at him. Now the rookie spotted it too, a lean-to constructed of branches and boughs. “That's a man-made shelter.”

  No sooner did the words escape Pence's lips, then a coyote raced from the structure with a gray jay flapping on its tail. The jay banked up and circled the area. The coyote paused, noted the rangers, and dashed into the brush to make a getaway.

  “We'd better dismount here and approach on foot,” Pence said, his manner changed from curiosity to concern. “This is now a potential crime scene.”

  “Crime scene? What kind of crime?”

  “I'm not sure yet. But here's a lesson for you.” Pence's tone made it plain Maltby had better take notes. “A few years back a bizarre incident took place in the park. I don't know the details, few do. Some visitors were killed, a r
anger too. Word is it shook a lot of people up. What made matters worse was, early in the investigation, several rangers failed to recognize and collect important evidence. If you learn nothing else from me, learn this, and carry it with you everywhere you go because it's the bottom line, strange things can and do happen in this park. Sometimes it's just the machinations of nature. But sometimes it's a great deal more. If you find a situation that seems odd, such as a man-made lean-to where it has no business being, with scavenger carnivores in attendance, the orders from on high are that's a crime scene until the chief says otherwise. Got it?”

  “Okay,” Maltby answered with a sigh. “Not that I completely understand.”

  “There will be times when you can't, or won't, understand. Just know it. If you want to keep your job, don't screw up collecting evidence. Merrill has no sense of humor about it.” Pence chucked a thumb in the direction of the lean-to. “I'm going ahead. Call dispatch and tell them we're investigating. Then bring your camera.”

  Both dismounted and hitched their reins to nearby branches. Maltby turned to his radio and his saddle bags. Pence started cautiously on foot in the direction of the lean-to.

  As the ranger approached the makeshift shelter the birds, with the exception of the gray jays, sounded deafening alarms and took flight. The jays, fearless and intent, merely flitted up to the low-hanging branches above the scene, there to perch watching and waiting.

  The unique and indescribable stench of rotting flesh reached Pence. No other smell on earth could match it. He backtracked for his horse, met Maltby on the way, and signaled his partner to hold his ground. Returning a moment later with a jar of Vapo-Crème from his saddlebags, he applied a dab, then passed it to the newbie. “Put some under your nose. It won't kill the smell but it will probably keep you from vomiting.” Maltby did as instructed then, wide-eyed with apprehension, followed as Pence led them into the lean-to.

  As expected a body lay in the center of the structure commanding attention. But it didn't really look like a body, not anymore. To the rangers it looked more like hamburger rolled roughly into the shape of a human and stuffed into dirty shredded clothes. It lay on a bedroll with a backpack beside it. Scattered around were odds and ends of personal effects.

  Pence took a breath through his mouth. “Call dispatch again,” he whispered. “Tell them we need a chopper for…” He needed another breath, again through his mouth. “…body recovery.”

  They backed out, both of them, to wait on their support and to clear their heads and sinuses.

  Twenty minutes later a metal bird, one of the park's helicopters, chased away the circle in the sky above and the tenacious jays overhead, landing in a clearing close by. The arduous tasks of evidence collection, scene photography, and the bagging of the personal items began. Copious notes were taken. And, finally, the body was removed.

  As the stained bedroll was collected and bagged for evidence, Ranger Pence found a new riddle to add to the already engaging mystery. Like the excellent instructor he was, he pointed it out to his junior partner, but kept it from the others. A second blanket lay under the bedroll. Beneath it was a hand-dug pit which, despite the cliché, was about the size of a bread box. Inside the pit lay a pine box secured with a padlock.

  “What the heck?” Maltby asked. “What's that? His safe?”

  Pence shook his head. “No clue. But our chief has first dibs. Bag it and let's get out of here.”

  Chapter 4

  You've seen a similar emotional scene in plenty of marauding dinosaur movies; camera focused on a puddle of muddy water as Tyrannosaurus Rex made his approach. Each footfall shook the ground and sent ripples dancing in circles out from the center. Had you been flying high overhead this particular day, looking down at Hebgen Lake as the puddle, the view would have looked much the same. But, at four miles wide and fifteen miles long, Hebgen Lake was anything but a puddle and the ripples racing across its surface were nearly two feet high.

  It had been forty years since a massive earthquake had last disrupted that area. Aftershocks were neither uncommon nor unexpected. Most weren't noticed at all, except by sensitive equipment designed to study the earth's movements. This particular disruption was going to be noticed.

  As there was no echo of monstrous footfalls to act as a warning, the first wave caught Richard Reynolds by surprise. He and his grandson had been fishing near the west end of the lake when he happened to glance over his shoulder and saw it coming. Responding quickly, he maneuvered his boat to face away from the rushing wall of water. It picked the boat up and pushed it westward like a surfboard. Little Bobby thought it one heck of an adventure. His Grandpa, on the other hand, nearly soiled his britches. But Reynolds' years of operating watercraft saved the day and, with his head on and his heart out of his mouth and back in his chest where it belonged, he rode the wave, guiding the boat to the shoreline where the momentum pushed it well inland.

  As the wave subsided, the two were left dry-docked and done fishing for the day. “Can we do it again, Papa?!”

  Two hundred fifty miles to the southwest in a tiny hamlet called Paris, Idaho, Delores Banes was enjoying a nice cup of tea in her living room. At 68 years of age, she was quite content to relax in her quiet little home and reminisce of days gone by with her ever dwindling family and friends.

  A subtle tinkling caught her attention above the background ticking of her grandfather clock. Then she noticed a finely painted antique cup and saucer, displayed on a small handmade shelf across the room, that had belonged to her mother. The china set sparkled in the light as it danced slowly across the shelf, toppled over the edge, and fell to the floor. There it smashed to a hundred tiny shards.

  Though Delores did not feel the subtle trembling of the house, she did feel, and simply knew, that things were not right. The feeling remained and grew stronger and, by dinner that evening, the poor old dear had come to the unsettling conclusion, and told everyone who would listen, that her house was haunted and that an unhappy poltergeist had been throwing dishes at her that very day.

  Two hundred miles to the southeast of Hebgen Lake, in an area that could be officially categorized as the middle of nowhere, the rolling hills and jagged rock faces above Cottonwood Creek began to shake. It started gently, at first, but seconds later grew more violent. Little known except in the world of archeologists, Legend Rock was a relatively small escarpment overlooking that small waterway. Upon its face were petroglyphs carved by ancient Indians dating back thousands of years.

  The etched faces of wildlife and human forms looked down and across the creek to see a change in the landscape as the far bank lifted in a growing bulge from the valley floor. Grouse took to the air and antelope grazing along the base of the slopes dashed out across the sagebrush at breakneck pace to get away. Accompanied by the thousand-fold magnified sound of ripping cloth, the sand and rock began to split on this long, narrow uplift. Sagebrush, willows, and prickly pear cactus disappeared inside as the growing crack stretched along the uplift for several hundred feet paralleling the creek.

  As quickly as it started the tearing of the ground came to a halt. No one saw and no one heard this temper tantrum of the earth except the creatures carved into the rock. Their facial expressions didn't change. But the face of the land now carried a new scar, a grimace five feet across, two hundred forty feet long, and ten feet deep; a new Grand Canyon in miniature.

  Then all was quiet again.

  One hundred thirty miles straight south along the banks of the Hoback River near Jackson, Wyoming a natural sulfur spring spilled its contents from the side of the mountain near Poison Creek and drained into the river, as it seemingly always had. The occasional tourist, stopping in the turnout nearby to stretch their legs from the interminable drive from anywhere, would stand in wonder as the milky water mixed with the cold clear river. And they would wrinkle their noses at the accompanying stench of rotten eggs.

  While no one noticed the tremor, so slight was its effect, the stink suddenly was magni
fied enough to make climbing back into the car, sore legs or not, the more pleasant experience. The area already bore the name Stinking Springs. But it would have an entirely new meaning from that day forward.

  It had been a torturous week with these clients, a group of businessmen on a corporate retreat, and Johnny Two Ravens was anxious to get them to their final destination at the Old Faithful Lodge where his responsibilities as tour guide would end and they would be on their own. They'd been riding horseback on the Fawn Pass Trail in some of Yellowstone's backcountry and, while they paid well for his experience and knowledge, Johnny was satisfied that he'd provided what they paid for and he was ready to put this contract behind him.

  Two Ravens was a full-blooded Shoshone; the son of a tribal sub-chief named Oscar Eagle Feather. Two Ravens owned an outdoors shop and outfitting business. If you met his healthy price, he'd take you anywhere in the greater Yellowstone area or Wyoming. His regular clients knew they would find game and fish aplenty, they'd have a good time and Two Ravens would get them back in one piece. His reputation was his best advertisement and he made a fair living at what he did. The events of three years earlier, referred to infrequently and in whispers as “Apparition Lake,” had nearly done that reputation in. But, having been part of the solution, Two Ravens found the determination to get it back.

  Two Ravens drove his pickup pulling a loaded horse trailer. Ten Trees, his part-time wrangler and camp cook, drove a van behind. In the van with Ten Trees were his clients, the bunch of them saddle sore and restless for the adult beverages that signaled the end of their long day. Thoughts of relaxation ran through Two Ravens' mind as well, until a dark cloud forced them aside.

  Something was wrong.

  The last thing in the world Two Ravens wanted was another unplanned stop. But he couldn't help the feeling. He knew the difference between want and need; that wasn't the problem. The problem was he'd grown up learning to heed his instincts and they were screaming. The cloud, whatever it was, would not be ignored.