Ancestor (18 page)

This just wasn’t Colding’s day for making friends and influencing people. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“I been
in charge
here for thirty years, eh?” Clayton’s eyes narrowed beneath bushy gray eyebrows. “Just ’cause Danté said to take care of you don’t mean I snap to your orders like a trained dog. You got it?”

Gary rolled his eyes, as if he’d heard his father’s shitty attitude a million times before. The others looked around uncomfortably.

“Now hold on just a second,” Colding said. “We need to set a few things straight, right now.”

Before Colding could continue, Clayton looked away, up into the C-5’s rear cargo door. Colding heard light footsteps on the ramp.

“Hey, Peej,” Sara said. “Who’re your friends?”

“We were clearly having a conversation here,” Clayton said. “Who da hell are you, eh?”

“I’m da pilot, eh?” Sara said, her voice a perfect imitation of Clayton’s accent.

Clayton leaned back a bit, the scowl still on his face. “You makin’ fun of da way I talk?”

Sara laughed. “Only a little bit. I grew up in Cheboygan. Used to spend my summers vacationing near Sault Saint Marie.”

“Michigan side or Canadian side?” Clayton asked.

“Da Michigan side, of course. I’m a Troll.”

Clayton’s face lit up in a genuine, friendly smile. It made him look like a completely different person.

Colding stared, dumbfounded, as Clayton extended his callused hand. Sara shook it and introduced herself to the five Black Manitou natives. Where Colding’s intro had been awkward at best, Sara’s felt like old friends reconnecting. Her natural charm relaxed everyone around her.

Sara saw the plate in Colding’s hands. She lifted the Saran Wrap covering and pulled out a brownie as casually as you please. “Oh my, these look delicious. Who made them?”

“I did!” Stephanie said. “You can come over sometime and have some
coffee. I made those brownies and they’re my favorite ’cause it’s an old family recipe.”

The woman’s speech reminded Colding of an overly happy machine gun kicking out rapid-fire words.

Sara took a bite, chewed, then laughed. “We must be related. Tastes a lot like
my
family recipe.”

“Okay,” Colding said. “Enough with the brownies. Captain Purinam, if you could attend to your duties, I want to have a talk with Clayton.”

“Not now,” Clayton said. “Didn’t I tell you I got fuckin’ work to do?”

Colding had been through
way
too much in the past few hours to put up with this crap. He felt his temper slipping and started to talk, but Gary spoke first.

“Say, Dad,” he said. “You have to run me back to the boat anyway. Mister Colding can ride along, get a feel for the island. Fifteen minutes there and back. He is from
Genada
, Dad. You know, the guys who
pay you?”

Clayton looked away for a second. He seemed annoyed at his son’s logic. “Yah, fine,” he said. “I’ll take you, Colding, but only if Sara comes.”

“I’m in,” Sara said before Colding could manage a word. He felt like his few hours of sleep had slowed his reaction time or something—everyone was beating him to the punch.

“Captain
Purinam,” Colding said. “Don’t you have work to do?”

She shrugged. “Nope. The boys have it covered. Let’s road-trip.”

Clayton reached out and grabbed a brownie off Colding’s plate. He bit in, a few crumbs falling and sticking to his stubble. “Good stuff, Stephanie.”

Stephanie beamed. “Thanks!”

“Can you and James hang out here and show people da mansion?”

“Sure!” Stephanie said. “I’d
love
to. We can walk back ’cause it’s not really that cold out yet and we don’t mind at all, do we, James?”

James didn’t bother saying anything, because Clayton had already walked away. The old man got into the Hummer and slammed the door shut behind him.

Colding looked at Gary. “Is your dad always like this?”

Gary smiled an easy smile. Colding still couldn’t place that smell.

“Unfortunately, he is,” Gary said. “But don’t worry about it, man. He’s the hardest worker you’ll ever meet. And if you need something done, it’s done. Okay?” He asked the last word as if it were a signature on a contract,
a contract Colding would just have to accept because that’s the way it was. Gary obviously didn’t want his father catching any shit.

“Okay,” Colding said. “I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Gary smiled and nodded slowly, not just with his head, but also with his shoulders. “All right, man. For being so cool about it, I’ll give you shotgun.”

“So kind of you,” Colding said, seeing instantly that Gary had eyes for Sara. Gary turned and climbed into the back of the Humvee.

Colding glared at Sara. “You’re just coming along to piss me off.”

“Yep,” Sara said. “But don’t worry, plenty more where that came from.”

“Fine, whatever. And what was with that whole Troll comment, and that
eh
thing?”

Sara laughed. “Clayton and the others are Yoopers.”

“What the hell is a
yooper?”

“People from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. You know, Upper Peninsula … U. P. … Yooper, get it? Yoopers have a real thick accent all their own.
Ya
instead of
yes, da
instead of
the
, and they end a lot of sentences with eh?, which is basically a rhetorical question. You’ll get used to it. And if a Yooper is from
above
the bridge, can you guess what they call people who live
below
it?”

“Ah,” Colding said.
“Trolls
live beneath the bridge. Wow. What a clever culture you have in these parts.”

A blast of the Hummer’s horn jolted them both. Clayton had one hand on the steering wheel, the other twirling in an annoyed circle that said,
Let’s go already
.

“I seriously do not like this guy,” Colding said.

Sara walked around to the left rear door. “That’s okay, he clearly doesn’t like you, either. Nobody does, really.”

Colding sighed and got in the Hummer’s passenger seat.

Clayton jammed the vehicle into reverse and squealed out of the hangar. He turned right and stopped fast, throwing everyone around in their seats, then put it in first and shot down the dirt road that ran through the center of the island like a spine.

DANTÉ’S ELBOWS RESTED on his white marble desk, and his hands held his head. How could this have happened? Every time he turned around, they were stepping deeper and deeper into a head-high pile of dog shit.

He looked up. Magnus sat in front of the desk, relaxing in a chair. He seemed not the least bit bothered by his actions.

“Magnus, how could you have done this?” Danté spoke quietly, firmly. For too long, perhaps, he’d ignored the sad truth: his brother was a bona fide sociopath.

“Relax,” Magnus said. “The problem is solved.”

“Solved?
Solved?
You killed Erika Hoel!”

“And what would you have done, given her a raise?”

Danté’s face scrunched in frustration. He felt a pain in his chest. He pounded the desk with his fist, just once. The fist stayed there like a dropped gavel.

“Danté, seriously, you need to relax.” Magnus sounded as calm as if this were a budget meeting with the board of directors. That calmness infuriated Danté even more. His own brother, a
killer
.

“I don’t see the problem,” Magnus said. “Our facility is destroyed,
including
our equipment,
including
the cows. I had Farm Girl send an email to the media—the Animal Liberation Front claimed responsibility for the blast. Gosh, they didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but as they said in the email, if you commit atrocities on God’s creatures, don’t blame the ALF if there is collateral damage.”

“Fischer knows that’s all total bullshit.”

“Of course he does,” Magnus said. “But the ALF has grown more aggressive in the past few months, so the story fits. The media buys into it. If they do, so does the G8. Everyone wants to see xenotransplantation shut down, and guess what? Now we’re shut down just like everyone else. So what can Fischer do about it?”

“He’ll look for Rhumkorrf’s project, that’s what.”

“And he won’t find it. Fischer has no idea where Bubbah and the staff have gone. As long as no one on Black Manitou gets stupid and tries to contact the outside world, we’re in the clear. It’s what you
wanted
, Danté—time for Rhumkorrf to finish the project.”

Danté sat quietly. Magnus hadn’t just made a snap reaction, hadn’t flipped out over his service buddy’s death—he’d thought all of this through. In a way, Danté wished it
had
been a reaction, a crime of passion. That would have been easier to understand than premeditated murder.

“This isn’t Afghanistan, Magnus. This isn’t combat. You killed a woman, for God’s sake.”

His brother smiled. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know what I am? Pretend you weren’t secretly relieved when Galina conveniently disappeared?”

Danté leaned back as if he’d been slapped. He hadn’t wanted Galina to
die
, not even for a second. “I had nothing to do with her death.
You
did that, not me.” He felt his heart hammering in his temples. His skin felt hot.

Magnus rubbed his right forearm. “You told me you wished Galina could just go away. What did you think I was going to do when I heard you say that? Did you think I wouldn’t come through for you?”

Danté looked away. Magnus was wrong. It hadn’t been like that. It
hadn’t
. Danté had just wanted the project to continue, to benefit all of humanity. Of
course
he’d wished for Galina to go away, but he’d said as much in front of Magnus. Said it … seen the cold look in his brother’s eyes … and said no more.

“Danté, you know I love you, but let’s be honest, you really don’t have a lot going on in the balls department. You have Dad’s skill at running a company, the fund-raising, the public panache, all of that good stuff. When I watch you do your thing at board meetings or the media, it blows me away. I
can’t
do those things. But when it comes to the other stuff? The
off-camera
stuff? You just don’t have Dad’s stones. I do. Together, we make a great team, wouldn’t you say?”

Danté felt that pain in his chest again. Sharper this time. His brother’s eyes, so cold, not a shred of emotion.

“Get out, Magnus. Just get out of my sight.”

Magnus stood and walked out, leaving Danté alone with his stress and his shame.

CLAYTON’S HUMVEE FOLLOWED the same road they’d flown over. No surprise, since it was the only road. Arching trees walled up either side. Brown, half-bare branches dripped from their inch-deep coat of melting snow. Many trees had black-flecked white trunks with peeling, paperlike bark. Pine trees stood out the most, thick and full compared with their anemic hardwood cohorts.

Almost no sign of man … It was achingly beautiful. Unkempt dirt roads branched off from time to time, leading to the small, dilapidated houses Colding had seen on the way in.

They passed by what had to be a road to the old town with the big church. Not far after that, the forest thinned a bit. The road quickly crested at a steep dune spotted with tall grasses. The dune’s downslope led to the island’s small harbor.

Beach smells filtered into the open window, complete with a strong odor of dead fish. Up and down the shore, heavy purplish-gray rock outcroppings led right up to the water, some sliding in at an angle, others standing as small cliffs. Patchy, dry orange lichens covered the top of the rocks, adding texture and depth. In the long spots between the rocks, there was nothing but sand, grass and a few scraggly trees reaching out from twenty-foot-high sloping dunes. Thick logs dotted the beach. Some had gnarled roots still attached, white and stripped free of bark. They looked like the bleached bones of desert animals unable to survive an endless sun.

The road ended at the blackened wooden dock, which ran forty feet into the harbor’s calm waters. A small black metal shed sat near the base of the dock. At the end of the dock, Colding saw Gary’s boat. A thirty-six-foot Sharkcat cruiser with a flying bridge. The perfect boat for deepwater fishing or a dockside party with fifteen of your closest friends. Black and gold script spelled the words
DAS OTTO II
on the boat’s aft.

Gary hopped out of the Hummer, as did Colding. They both walked down the dock to the boat. This close to him and in the sunlight, Colding
saw that Gary’s irises looked dilated. Colding finally placed the smell, the sleepy look, the constant half-smile … the guy was baked.

“Gary, have you been smoking marijuana?”

The man giggled a little, a soundless thing that made his shoulders shiver. “Yeah. I’ve been
smoking marijuana
, Mister Narkie Narkerson. Why, you want some?”

“No,” Colding said. “Just how stoned are you?”

Gary shrugged. “I don’t know, man … how high does the scale go?”

Goddamit.
This
was their only support on the mainland?

Gary’s smile faded. “Listen, brah, don’t sweat it. Just because I boof a bit doesn’t mean I can’t handle my business.”

“I’m not a fan of drugs,” Colding said. “Or people who do them.”

Gary rolled his eyes. When he did, Colding seemed to hear his own words through Gary’s ears. When the hell had he started talking like a high school guidance counselor? Still, he had to probe a little, see just how much of a liability Gary Detweiler might be.

“Magnus tells me you can take care of yourself.”

Gary shrugged. “I do what Magnus tells me. That’s why I’m always carrying this stupid thing.” He unzipped his coat and opened it a bit, allowing Colding to peek inside at a handgun—Genada’s preferred weapon, a Beretta 96—nestled in a shoulder holster.

Colding nodded. “You ever had to use that on the job?”

Gary laughed. “Do I look like Clint Eastwood? My preferred weapon is a bottle of single malt. I get more done drinking in the bars at Houghton-Hancock than I ever would with this stupid gun. I talk to strangers. I ask questions. I find out why people are in town. I see if people have any interest in Black Manitou, which they shouldn’t, because only locals even know it’s out here. The only shooting this kid does involves tequila and bourbon.”