“You have a lot of ammunition for that shotgun?”
“A few boxes.”
“We’ll bring more.”
“Sasha’s not on the air tonight?”
“Not Saturdays,” I said. “Maybe not weeknights anymore, either.”
“Sounds like news.”
“We’re an item. Listen, do You have a fire extinguisher out there?”
“Now You’re bragging, bro. The two of You aren’t that hot together.”
“We’ll bring a couple of extinguishers. These dudes have a thing for
fire.”
“You really think it’ll get that real?”
“Totally.”
Immediately after sunset, while I waited in the Explorer, Sasha went
into Thor’s Gun Shop to buy ammunition for the shotgun, the Glock, and
her Chiefs Special. The order was so large and heavy that Thor Heissen
himself carried it out to the truck for her and loaded it in back.
He came to the passenger window to say hello. He is a tall, fat man
with a face pitted by acne scars, and his left eye is glass. He’s not
one of the world’s best-looking guys, but he’s a former L.A. cop who
quit on principle, not because of scandal, an active deacon at his
church and founder of-and largest contributor to-the orphanage
associated with it.
“Heard about your dad, Chris.”
“At least he’s not suffering anymore,” I said-and wondered just what
had been different about his cancer that made the people at WYvern want
to do an autopsy on him.
Sometimes, it’s a blessing,” Thor said. “Just being allowed to slip
away when it’s your time. Lots of folks will miss him, though.
He was a fine man.”
“Thanks, Mr. Heissen.”
What’re You kids up to, anyway? Gonna start a war?”
“Exactly,” I said as Sasha twisted her key in the ignition and raced
the engine.
“Sasha says You’re gonna go shoot clams.”
“That’s not environmentally correct, is it?”
He laughed as we pulled away.
In the backyard of my house, Sasha swept a flashlight beam across the
craters that had been clawed out of the grass by Orson the previous
night, before I’d taken him with me to Angela Ferryman’s.
“What’s he have buried here?” she asked. “The whole skeleton of a
T-Rex?”
“Last night,” I said, “I thought all the digging was just a grief
reaction to Dad’s death, a way for Orson to work off negative
energy.”
“Grief reaction?” she said, frowning.
She’d seen how smart Orson was, but she still didn’t have a full grasp
on the complexity of his inner life or on its similarity to our own.
Whatever techniques were used to enhance the intelligence of these
animals, it had involved the insertion of some human genetic material
into their DNA. When Sasha finally got a handle on that, she would
have to sit down for a while; maybe for a week.
“Since then,” I said, “it’s occurred to me that he was searching for
something that he knew I needed to have.”
I knelt on the grass beside Orson. “Now, bro, I know You were in a lot
of distress last night, grieving over Dad. You were rattled, couldn’t
quite remember where to dig. He’s been gone a day now, and it’s a
little easier to accept, isn’t it?”
Orson whined thinly.
o give it another try,” I said.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t debate where to start, but went to one hole
and worked to enlarge it. In five minutes, his claws clinked against
something.
Sasha directed the flashlight on a dirt-caked Mason jar, and I worked
it the rest of the way out of the ground.
Inside was a roll of yellow pages from a legal tablet, held together by
a rubber band.
I unrolled them, held the first page to the light, and at once
recognized my father’s handwriting. I read only the first paragraph:
if You’re reading this, Chris, I am dead and Orson has led You to the
jar in the yard, because only he knows of its existence. And that’s
where we should begin. Let me tell You about your dog. . . .
“Bingo,” I said.
Rolling up the papers and returning them to the jar, I glanced at the
sky. No moon. No stars. The scudding clouds were low and black,
touched here and there by a sour-yellow glow from the rising lights of