Kevin Hearne - Tricked

Frank wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know. I can still see ’em dodging around ’em or something like that. What about trying a net?”

“They’ll see it coming and dodge. Or they’ll tear through it. Come on, they were chucking trucks around last night. Caltrops are easy to make and tough to avoid. We could finish this up tonight.”

Sophie was chewing on a piece of toast and nearly choked. Frank pounded her on the back to help her out. She took a drink to clear her throat and then she said to me, “You just got done reminding us that they were throwing trucks around, and now you think you can finish them tonight with caltrops?”

“The poisoned caltrops only slow them down so we can pop ’em with a gun. Or my sword.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” she said, “so thanks for bringing it up. Why do you have a sword?”

“In case of the zombie apocalypse. You never run out of ammo with a sword.”

Granuaile snorted in amusement, and Sophie flicked her eyes at her in annoyance before returning to me. “Look, I don’t know what you are, but you’re more than a geologist, if you are one at all. I’ve met lots of geologists on different projects like this, and they’re all tiny sunburned men with fetishes for geodes. They wear floppy hats and carry baggies for soil samples around with them. You don’t look or behave like a geologist, and Frank doesn’t treat you as one. Neither does Mr. Benally. And geologists don’t make rocks disappear like you did the other night. They keep them and build little shrines to them. So stop patronizing me and tell me what you really are.”

Since she was already in a state of disbelief, it was difficult to think of something she would accept. She wouldn’t buy the truth, and I didn’t want to give it to her anyway. I wanted to say, “I’m the Doctor and this is my companion,” but I doubted Sophie was a fan of the long-running BBC series. Forget the TARDIS and the sonic screwdriver, the Doctor’s best gadget was the psychic paper. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I had some. In absence of that, one of my favorite strategies to deflect attention from the fact that I’m a lying bastard is to accuse someone else of being a bigger one.

“Sophie, you may have noticed by now that Mr. Benally is full of shit,” I said.

In a voice as dry as the mesa, she said, “Yeah, I noticed that.” Frank’s shoulders jiggled up and down as he laughed silently.

“Well, he never should have introduced me as a geologist. I’m more of a project troubleshooter.”

“No kidding?” That earned me a wry twist to her mouth. “I’d say the project is in some pretty deep trouble at this point.”

“Hence the reason Mr. Benally has left everything up to me. Since your part of the project cannot continue until we get the area stabilized, I suggest you enjoy a day or two off. That is, if you can help me get this straightened out tonight, Frank?”

Frank looked up from his omelet, surprised. “Who, me?”

“First, we need to get a buttload of nails.”

“A buttload? How much is that?”

“Uh …”

Granuaile rescued me with her superior knowledge of indefinite units of measurement. “I believe that’s slightly more than a shitload but much less than a fuckton.”

“Precisely, thank you.”

“What?” Frank put down his fork, lost.

“Then I’ll need you to take me to a drugstore to pick up the poison.”

“What are you gonna use, rat poison or something?”

“No, nothing like that. I can combine several pharmaceuticals to make what we need. We don’t have time to go out and gather the proper plants to do it from scratch.”

“I wouldn’t think so. But ain’t you gonna need a prescription?”

“Nah, I just need a getaway car. Can you lay hold of a ride for us?”

Frank smiled and rediscovered his appetite. “Sure, I got a nephew in town. He’s sittin’ over there on his ass,” he pointed with his fork across the dining room to a table full of middle-aged men, “because the coal mine’s shut down.”

“Oh. Has he seen you sitting here?”

“Yeah, he’s seen me.”

“Why hasn’t he come over to say hi?”

“He’s bein’ polite. Sees his uncle talkin’ to a stranger, probably thinks we’re doin’ business.”

“And so we are. Don’t let him get away, though.”

“I won’t,” Frank assured me. Filled with a new sense of purpose, I downed half my coffee at one draught. It was good, strong stuff, the kind that Louis L’Amour used to say could float a horseshoe. Nobody ever drank weak coffee in his books. It was probably why they were so anxious to shoot people at high noon. Which reminded me …

“Think you can get hold of a gun, Frank? Might come in handy.”

He studied me and took his time chewing. “Yeah, I have an old six-shooter tucked away somewhere.”

“Attaboy.”

“I think it’ll give you all the chances of a mouse against a sidewinder,” he said, “but you’re welcome to it. I think some antipersonnel mines would work better.”

“Or horny toads with frickin’ lasers strapped to their backs,” Sophie suggested, and I smiled. No wonder Oberon liked her.

Frank called over his nephew after we finished eating and introduced him to us as Albert. He had his hair cropped short in a crew cut and wore a blue-and-gray flannel shirt tucked into his jeans.

“Say, their car is in the shop,” Frank said, pointing a finger at us and admirably skipping the details. “Wouldja mind drivin’ us around a bit?”

Albert shrugged a shoulder. “Sure, I don’t have nothin’ else to do.” He flashed a grin past Frank. “Hey, Sophie.”

“Hey, Albert.”

“You out of work too?”

“Yep. For the day, anyway,” she said.

“Aw, that sucks. Man,” Albert shook his head and held his hands half clenched in front of him, picturing someone he’d like to strangle, “if they catch the damn hippie who gunked up all the engines, I hope they haul his nuts backward and yank ’em out of his—” He stopped midsentence as he saw Granuaile clutch at my arm and heard her make a tiny noise. “Oh. Sorry, miss.” He took in my tattoos and his eyes lingered on the triskele on the back of my hand. Then he spied my necklace and noticed my hair, which admittedly can look a bit unkempt at times. “Are you a damn — I mean, are you guys hippies?” Granuaile’s fingernails dug painfully into my arm at his question.

“No,” I assured him. “But we are frequently mistaken for hippies. No worries, happens all the time.” Granuaile was now pounding at me with her fist. I glanced at her and beheld an expression of barely restrained mirth. Her face was blushing red because she neither dared take a breath nor release one, convinced she would laugh inappropriately and embarrass Albert. I rose from the table to make way for her to get by. “Will you excuse my sister? She really needs to go to the restroom.”

Granuaile nodded somewhat manically, her lips pressed tightly together and a tear welling up in her left eye as she stood.

“Oh, sure.” Albert scooted over to stand next to Frank, and Granuaile hurried away toward the rest-rooms, hand over her mouth and making wee whimpering noises. “Is she going to be okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, she’ll be fine,” I said, brushing away his concern with a wave. “These episodes just happen sometimes.”

The entire restaurant heard her when she closed the door — a long, sustained high note followed by a gasp and another long note.