“Where’s your gun? I’ll need to take it for evidence.”
“I don’t have one.”
Jack lifted his gaze to Robbie. “I see. You expected Trump to come search Megan’s house again, and you were waiting for him unarmed?”
Robbie lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t say I was unarmed, I said I don’t have a gun.”
Jack pulled out his cell phone with a sigh. O-kay, then. “I’m calling the state police, as they like to be in on this dead body stuff. Why don’t you go to my house and make yourself comfortable, as I imagine we’re both going to be here awhile. The key’s under the mat.”
“We need to find out if he sent Megan’s laptop to Collins.”
“I’ll check his pockets for a hotel key or receipt. If he hasn’t sent it yet, it’ll be in his room or his car. If he has, we’ll deal with that problem after we clean up this one.”
Robbie still hesitated. “I wanted him alive, Stone.”
“So did I,” Jack said, speed-dialing the state police.
With a sum total of three hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, Jack finished tying his backpack down on the rear rack of his idling sled, climbed on, and headed up the lake just as the sun was breaking over Bear Mountain. He didn’t have a clue where he was going; he simply trusted that he would recognize his destination when he got there. He wasn’t wearing a helmet because he hadn’t bothered to buy a new one, and the crisp February air would go a long way toward keeping him awake.
He still hadn’t seen Megan, and he was beginning to think the gods were waiting for him to get his act together before they let him see her again. But then, she hadn’t exactly been beating down his door, had she?
Oh, yeah, that’s right. She was otherwise occupied, doing a mysterious favor for Kenzie Gregor—like helping him give his slimy pet a bath or something.
Jack reined in his anger, redirecting his thoughts to more pleasant things, like the sweet sound of his purring engine. He checked his speedometer and smiled when he saw he was cruising at an effortless sixty miles per hour. Young Tom Cleary was fifty bucks richer this morning, and Jack was eight hundred bucks poorer but immensely pleased.
Back on the lake on a snowmobile, Jack found his thoughts once again drifted to Megan, so he mentally went over the list of equipment he’d brought. It had been difficult packing for an unknown destination, but he felt prepared for just about anything. He’d taken climbing gear, his gut telling him he was headed for high ground, along with several wool blankets and a collapsible bucket. His equipment also included snowshoes, his high-powered rifle, plenty of power bars, the knife his father had given him for his eighth birthday, and his hatchet.
Twenty minutes later, Jack let off the gas and hit the brake, bringing his sled to an abrupt stop when he noticed the solitary mountain rising up from the lake five or six miles ahead. It was almost a perfect dome, and he estimated it to be more than a thousand feet tall. He could see several sheer cliffs peeking through the dense evergreens covering it, and he let out a pained groan. Even though he was prepared, he’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to actually climb to his destination—not on three hours of sleep.
He checked the position of the sun, guessed he’d been traveling for a little over half an hour, and realized the mountain was sitting directly at the north end of the forty-mile-long lake.
O-kay, he decided, giving his sled the gas and quickly bringing it up to speed; if his ancestors wanted him to climb, he would climb.
Which is exactly what Jack found himself doing half an hour later, though he didn’t have to use a rope and harness. He’d found a faint but definitely man-made path leading up the mountain, and realized he was not the first Native American to come here searching for answers.
There was a slight hum in the air that filled Jack with a sense of peace. The higher he climbed, the stronger the hum grew, until even his bones began to vibrate in perfect harmony with an energy as ancient as time itself.
His ancestors were singing, beckoning him closer to their circle of power. By the time he reached the top, Jack couldn’t tell if he was still in his world or theirs. He stood in a small opening in the forest and looked around.
He had definitely arrived at his destination.
He slid his backpack off his shoulders with a tired groan, leaned it against a crooked old pine tree, and dug out his hatchet. He found several alder saplings growing on the edge of the clearing, apparently just waiting for someone to need them. He cut down a dozen, and carried them to the center of the opening, where he drove them in the snow in a circle about ten feet wide. He returned to his pack, got out the coil of rawhide he’d brought, and started lashing the alder tips together, forming a dome.
He pulled out the colorful, slightly tattered wool blankets next, rubbing them fondly as he breathed in their familiar scent. Vivid memories cascaded through his mind: Grand-père wrapped in his favorite blanket, huddled in front of a roaring fire, seemingly oblivious to the snow falling on and around him; three more blankets exactly like these, covering his mother and father and brother as they traveled to the afterlife; Jack’s trembling body huddled inside one of them as he fought the fever the bear attack had brought on when he was twelve.
“Stop dawdling, Coyote,” Grand-père whispered through the trees. “We’ve been waiting what seems like forever for this day. Get on with your task.”
“I’m coming,” Jack muttered, tossing the blankets beside the alder dome. He picked one up and shook it out, then carefully placed it over the structure, repeating the process until his shelter was completely covered.
Picking up his pace, he built a fire just a few feet from the tiny entrance he’d left in the dome. Then, while the roaring fire did its job of making glowing embers, he went in search of water. He found a bubbling spring just beyond the clearing and knew he was standing on sacred ground. The wise ones had thoughtfully provided every necessity for anyone seeking their counsel.
Jack knelt down and drank before plunging the bucket in the spring and lugging it back to the clearing. He set it beside the dome, crawled inside, and began tramping down the snow. He cut fir boughs and covered half the floor with them, then covered the boughs with one of the two remaining blankets. He went out and shoveled as many embers as he could into the dome, just inside and to the right of the door, well away from the fir boughs. He built the fire back up, poured the bucket of water over the wool blankets covering the poles to thoroughly soak them, then went back to the spring and refilled it.
He came back and crawled inside his cozy little lodge. Knowing he’d soon be awash in sweat, Jack quickly undressed, neatly folding his clothes and setting them in a pile. Then he stretched out on the blanket with his hands clasped behind his head for a pillow, closed his eyes with a sigh, and decided to have a little nap while he waited.
He woke up to a current of superheated air moving over his sweat-soaked body as several men entered the dome, led by Grand-père. His grandfather, Shadow Dreamwalker, followed, along with several other men Jack didn’t recognize. He thought one was a Viking, judging from his clothes. Another one wore the suit of a Crusader, and one looked to be wearing a Civil War uniform from the northern army, if Jack wasn’t mistaken.
No women, only men, and all warriors.
“Aren’t there any scholars among you?” Jack muttered, sitting up when Grand-père nudged him aside to make room to sit down. The lodge continued to fill up, and Jack realized he was the only one who was naked. Apparently apparitions didn’t sweat. He reached for his clothes, but the Viking was sitting on them.
“You are already in touch with your gentler ancestors,” Grand-père said with a harrumph. “It’s your shadow side you need to get in touch with today, Coyote.”
A spot of daylight appeared near the bottom of the dome, and Jack saw his brother, Walker, wiggle under the steaming wool wall and sit quietly behind the Crusader. Walker caught Jack’s eye, smiled, and gave him a wink.