Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2) Read online

  They came, gnashing razor teeth, howling like banshees, envy and hatred in their glistening eyes. That's where he'd aim, Franklin decided, the crazy gold eyes. On instinct alone he started swinging. His legs had given out but the muscles of his arms had turned to steel and he warded off the demon assault with fury.

  One of the little Indians grabbed for the statue. Though dizzy Franklin recognized the creature as the one-eyed leader, the one he'd struck with his axe. The leader who, by every law of physics, ought to have been long dead. There it was, right as rain. Franklin swung his rock and, to his amazement, the creature's skull gave way with a ferocious crack. The leader went down… again.

  It was the first time he'd done any of them any real harm; and the ranger didn't know how. Still he was delighted. Another monster came from the side. Franklin caught it with a backhand and heard ribs snap. Despite his pain, Franklin laughed. A third monster reached him, a third time he swung his rock hammer. The creature tried to block it and his arm broke. Clutching the statue for dear life, laughing like a demented circus clown, Franklin lashed out, again and again, to exhaustion. But now he was swinging at air.

  The creatures were in retreat. Howling in pain, anger and, what seemed despair, they had collected their injured leader, scooped up their wounded warriors, and were carrying them out. The room cleared and the creatures vanished.

  Franklin leaned heavily on the display case behind him, clutching the rescued museum relic to his chest. He was bleeding from cuts, punctures, and bites all over his body. He ached with screaming pain. He'd held them off, protected the park property, defended the idol with his life. Though he didn't know what it was… and didn't know why.

  Chapter 15

  The mood the following afternoon at Yellowstone's Mammoth Hot Springs administration offices, always as steaming and a-bubble as the exotic and famous travertine tiers nearby, had been heightened in the extreme by the recent tremors and the tragedy played out the night before. As the superheated rock beneath the park roiled and popped so did the emotions and thoughts of the humans above.

  Chief Merrill worried about a massive eruption in the park but his fears now had nothing to do with the super-volcano so many others dreaded. As with a pressure cooker on high heat, Glenn knew it was time to clamp the lid down. But he also recognized that, in some way, it would be necessary to release the safety valve to keep it from blowing. Facts were the only way to do that. He needed to find the facts to put everything in perspective. To that end, his primary team had already gathered in the conference room for a briefing. They would review the answers they had and explore what little they knew for the explanations that eluded them.

  Glenn and Lew made their way through a river of reporters from the chief ranger's office to the conference room. Many among them, rather than looking for information, seemed eager to press points from their own agendas. The gist: All hell had broken loose… again… on Glenn's watch.

  “What's going on, Chief?” a reporter demanded. “Seems your staff members have a shorter life expectancy than Kosovar refugees.”

  To the reporter's surprise, and Glenn's, Lew spun in her tracks nearly causing a pile-up and barked, “What kind of question is that?”

  The newshound froze. Then, realizing he had no clue who she was, he ignored Lew entirely, recovered his gotcha' grin, and asked, “Well?”

  “You've been up-dated,” Glenn calmly replied, “as information has come available.” The ranger started walking again. Impressed by the chief's professional demeanor under fire, Lew followed his example, kept quiet, and kept up. At the conference room, as Glenn opened the door to let Lew pass, the same loud-mouth had one more bomb to throw. “What about the events of three years ago?”

  “Three years…?” When it dawned what the guy was asking, Glenn sighed. “What about them?”

  “Surely you remember the mysterious deaths, three years ago, of animals and people around the park, including a park ranger? You were in charge then, Chief Merrill. Any connection?”

  Glenn shook his head slowly. “No.”

  “That's it? Just, No?”

  “Unless you need me to spell it for you. That's it.” For an evil second Glenn considered asking the reporter if he, or his colleagues, ever visited Howard Lark in prison. He swallowed the question before it escaped his lips because, one, making a situation worse was not a great way to make it better and, two, he realized he couldn't have cared less. Glenn followed Lew into the conference room and closed the door on the press.

  The conference room looked like you'd expect; a long table, plenty of serviceable if not comfortable chairs, the Stars and Stripes, Wyoming State, and National Park Service flags, a furled movie screen, a pin board at the front of the room, and lots of maps. The room also held Glenn's top two experienced rangers, Gloria Simpson and Steve Pence, who had more than earned their money during their careers. They grazed on Danish and coffee at a side table. With them was the new ranger, Mark Maltby. Still under Pence's wing, he stood back from the others like a satellite orbiting the planet of experience. The newbies were never comfortable enough to eat the Danish. The veterans' chatter suddenly stopped and they turned to the chief and his guest.

  “If you'd like coffee or a roll,” Glenn told Lew, “say the word and I'll throw a block for you.”

  Subdued laughter helped everyone to their seats around the table.

  Maltby threw Glenn off by sitting in the seat that had, for years, been occupied by Pete Lincoln. Lincoln, the park's last genuine old-timer, had recently retired. Glenn would see him again. The old boy would end up volunteering down at the Museum of the National Park Ranger… if and when it opened again. Those that truly had Yellowstone in their blood always did. Still, around the conference table, he'd miss Lincoln's common sense and knowledge. Glenn stared at the newbie, nervous but eager, and smiled. There was something to be said for new blood, too.

  “We'll get started,” Glenn said, turning to the pin board. The room quieted. “I realize Ranger Ron Franklin's death is on everyone's mind. However, this is one of those times when we need to put aside our personal emotions and work through the loss. We've done it before, we'll do it again, and this is exactly what Frankie would have expected from us individually and as a team.”

  Everyone nodded but there were plenty of varied emotions pent up in the room; sadness, confusion, and anger the most prevalent. Those would have to be addressed, but not just then. Glenn understood better than most that, on this particular day, diving into the job head first would be their best approach. None of them would sleep until Franklin's murderers were brought to justice.

  “As we're not ready yet to pinpoint our most pressing problem, we'll start with the most obviously unavoidable, the gauntlet of protesters and reporters you had to walk through to get in here. Reporters first. This is an easy one. Nobody gives any information to anybody about anything, period. Questions are to be directed to Media Relations or Superintendent Stanton's Office. Enough about reporters.”

  The 'all business' expressions returned to the faces of his top staff. Glenn expected nothing less. They were professionals of the highest degree and were proving it.

  “Moving on to the protesters or, more pointedly, their protest du jour. To address our current spate of seismic activity and the recently notorious super-volcano beneath the park, I've asked our resident expert to sit in. For those that don't know her, I'd like to introduce Dr. Betty Chmielewski–”

  “Nicely done, Chief,” she said with a smile.

  Glenn nodded. “The good doctor is a professor of seismology attached to the Service for the immediate future.”

  The seismologist glanced around the table. “Call me Lew, please.”

  “As you all have certainly recognized,” Glenn said. “The park has been doing a bit of Jerry Lee Lewis lately.” The table, with the exception of Ranger Gloria Simpson, returned blank stares. Simpson, in her middle thirties and thick, was now Glenn's most experienced ranger in the Mammoth District. She was a
peerless professional who could laugh with you, mother you, or push your face into dirt as the situation required. Glenn liked her the moment she arrived in the park. And she got his references.

  “C'mon,” Simpson growled. “You can't all be that young.” She waved her arms, snapped her fingers, and sang, “Shake, baby, shake!” There were a couple of chuckles but no comprehension. Simpson gave up on them, turning to the chief with a shake of her head. “I guess they're that young.” With that, there was outright laughter.

  The levity helped. Glenn hadn't realized how stressed he'd been zig-zagging through the newsies. Now he was back in his element, with people he trusted, he was starting to relax. “Lew can elaborate,” Glenn told the group. “On the seismic activity, not the song.” There were a few more laughs before he directed their attention to the map board.

  “There's been increased seismic activity throughout the park, the Greater Yellowstone Area, and beyond. We've noted a course change of the Firehole River at the Cascades, a slide at Obsidian Cliff and, yesterday, another tremor near the Lodge making Old Faithful temporarily unfaithful. Hence the screaming protestors and reporters wanting the inside scoop on doomsday. Lew?”

  “The first thing to know is,” the doctor explained, “there is no catastrophe. While the recent activity has been dramatically visual, and slightly more violent than the norm, the reality is that seismic events of these types are well inside the boundaries of what we could consider normal for Yellowstone. It's also important to note this activity is not isolated here. Recent seismic events, some of significance, have been recorded for hundreds of miles in every direction outside this immediate area.”

  Simpson sat forward and cleared her throat. “Pardon my interruption but I've had a lot of visitor questions about anticipated duration. Will this shake-up end anytime soon?”

  “That's actually an excellent question. The fact of the matter is the “shake-up,” as you call it, has never truly ended. While blatantly noticeable tremors are not common, this part of the country is always undergoing movement to one degree or another. There's no expectation that will ever end. We experience thousands of events a year here. Give them that to chew on; thousands.”

  The team exchanged looks running from grave concern to stoic acceptance and back again, made notes on the pads on the table in front of them, and returned their attention to the shock doc.

  “Insofar as major events are concerned,” Lew continued. “The quake swarm might be over already or it may continue indefinitely. We do not and cannot know. The important thing to take away, and to pass on to those with whom you speak, is that we do not anticipate anything approaching a super-volcano eruption within our lifetime or that of our progeny.”

  The rookie, Maltby, raised a hesitant hand. “If this is nothing out of the ordinary why have we been overrun by protesters?”

  Lew looked to Glenn. “One thing you will come to realize,” the chief said, fielding the question, “is there is more grumbling above ground in and around the park than there will ever be rumbling going on beneath our feet.”

  “Never ends,” Pence chimed in.

  “This is a special place, Mark,” Glenn said. “Its resources are admired around the world and it makes a wonderful backdrop for nearly any kind of protest, whether it be to save trees, critters, or the future of mankind. We wouldn't have entered the Park Service, any of us, if we weren't already Environmentalists in heart and mind. And many protesters are good people with good intentions. But you must never forget there are three 'Ps' that are always attached to Environmentalism and lead to protests: power, politics, and the purse. Get used to it.”

  “My goodness, Chief,” Simpson said. “Are the Greens making you blue?”

  Chuckles broke the tension again.

  “You have no idea.” Then Glenn raised his voice to announce to the room, “Just so you're all aware, Priscilla Wentworth and Yellowstone Forever are once more among us.” Mumbles and grumbles circled the table. Glenn held up a hand for quiet. “More on that when it becomes available. For now, we'll leave a subject I don't want to talk about and, instead, take up a subject that I don't want to talk about.”

  The room fell silent. Nobody wanted to talk about it.

  “The Museum of the National Park Ranger,” Glenn said. “And what happened to Ranger Franklin last night.”

  Chapter 16

  “We've all heard whispers,” Glenn said. “Now we'll talk facts. Ron Franklin was found early this morning at the Ranger museum by curator Natasha Balasan. The museum had been broken into by vandals and Frankie died in the line of duty trying to preserve and protect. Natasha called us and Ranger Simpson was the first to respond. Gloria?”

  Glenn sat. Simpson considered rising as was custom, hesitated, afraid her knees might let her down, and opted instead to deliver her report sitting. “Right now we have many questions and few answers.” She took a deep breath. “The museum was part of Franklin's patrol so he had every right to be there. But why he went inside, we're not certain. That isn't routine and he did not report a problem. Why the museum was found in the condition it was, who was responsible, what happened to Franklin, these are all questions that need to be answered.” Sharing the details, Simpson found a returning strength. She moved to the front of the room. “The museum was wrecked from one end to the other. Priceless and historic pictures had been knocked from the walls, display cases blasted to shards, relics and rocks hurled around the rooms. The windows were shattered all around the building, the doors had been hacked at as if the site had been under siege, and for some reason a hole, roughly eight inches in diameter, was chopped through the rear-facing roof and into the museum's theater. Someone wanted in badly. It appeared Franklin put up one hellacious fight but…”

  The word hung in the air. “But?” Glenn repeated, urging her on.

  “But we don't know who or what he fought with. There's no evidence– Strike that, we've yet to find clear evidence of Franklin's attackers. There were no tracks, no prints, no blood outside of Franklin's. There were no signs of any weapons. Which makes no sense as Frankie has… had… many wounds; contusions, lacerations, punctures, and bites.”

  “Bites?” The question came, in a shout, from Maltby. Everyone turned to stare and he went instantly red. Still he asked, “What kind of bites?”

  Simpson frowned. She wasn't keen on being barked at by rookie rangers. “The body had a number of small bite marks in a number of areas.” She turned to the chief. “All yet to be identified.”

  “The reason I asked,” Maltby blurted.

  Pence laid a hand on his junior partner's arm and signaled for calm and quiet. Maltby got the message and eased back into his seat.

  “We'll come back to the specific injuries in a minute. Go ahead, Gloria.”

  “There isn't much else, right now. The curator was beyond upset. She hadn't had time to do an inventory but, off-hand, didn't believe anything had been taken. The place was just wrecked. Franklin died mumbling in a pool of his own blood and it looks like he was the only one there.”

  “Mumbling?” It was Pence's turn to interrupt and feel embarrassed. He couldn't help himself. With a ranger, and friend, dead things had gotten personal. “He was still alive when–”

  “According to Natasha, he was still alive when she found him. He was gone by the time I got there.”

  “What was he mumbling?” Maltby asked.

  “We'll get to that too, gentlemen,” Glenn interjected. “Let's all take a deep breath. There's another item we need to discuss first; a connection to an earlier case. I should say possible connection. It could be…” He looked at the seismologist. “How would you say it, Lew, 'A co-inky-dink'. Could be a whole lot of nothing. But we'll have to examine it. Which means we'll need to back up to move forward.” He pointed to Steve Pence. “Tell us about John Doe.”

  Pence looked confused.

  “Don't worry,” Glenn said. “I'll make the connection when we get there. Fill us in on the case.”

&n
bsp; Pence traded places with Simpson. He pointed at the map to a spot in the southeast quadrant of Yellowstone. “Maltby and I were on horseback patrol when we discovered a man-made shelter in the timber here. Upon investigation we found the remains of an adult male inside. The body…” Pence shook his head, trying to recall an image he'd tried to forget. “The body was in bad shape. The subject had been long dead and had been in large part consumed by predators of a wide variety. That has made identification very difficult, perhaps impossible; we're calling him John Doe for the present.”

  “Do we have a cause of death?” the chief asked.

  “Not yet. The medical examiner is working on it but, again, the condition of the body has impeded the process. The scene offered no clues as to cause. Time of death is likewise up in the air. There are no obvious signs of violence or foul play. He may simply have pitched over from natural causes. The M.E. says patience and luck will be needed for those answers.”

  “No physical evidence other than the body?” Simpson asked.

  Pence shot a questioning look at their chief ranger. Glenn leaned back, crossed his arms, and nodded. “Tell them.”

  All eyes followed the exchange and a good many fannies slid forward in their chairs.

  “A scant few personal effects, clothing and materials consistent with the guess John Doe was a transient or, maybe, a squatter. Nothing we found gave the slightest indication of who he was or where he came from. There was one item…” Pence looked the question again, wanting to be certain. Glenn nodded again, then closed his eyes.

  “There was a padlocked box,” Pence went on, “buried in a shallow hole we discovered under a blanket beneath the guy's bedroll. The body lay on top of this hidey hole. Inside the box was… We don't know. Some kind of doll, or statue, or idol…”

  “Chief!” Simpson exclaimed.