Primordial

Chapter 15

Aston tried to keep his features calm, hoping the lawman would ignore them, but it was a vain hope. The guy strode up to the bar and planted himself right beside Slater. He sat facing straight ahead, but Aston saw him flitting glances in their direction.

“What can I get you, Superintendent Rinne?” The barman asked the question with the enthusiasm of a convict being handed his sentence.

“A mineral water,” Rinne replied, his voice deep, resonant. “I’m on duty.”

“Coming up.”

The barman moved away to get a glass and general conversation in the bar rose again. Story time was over. Before Aston could lament that fact too much, Rinne turned and pinned him with a hard gaze. The man’s eyes were the palest blue, like glacial ice. His nose was lumpy from a bad break, his brow heavy, everything about him reminiscent of an ex-boxer, going a little bit to seed now, but still proud. Aston picked him to be somewhere in his mid or late-fifties, but he had a full mop of pale hair and broad, muscular shoulders. He was a formidable man.

“Having a night off the lake?” Rinne asked.

Aston nodded and Slater said, “We decided to have a break. Bit of R and R.”

“Been working too hard making your nature documentary?” Derision hung heavy on the words.

“Not so much hard work as confined conditions,” Slater replied, unperturbed. She flashed him her most winning television smile.

Rinne scowled, unimpressed. “I don’t see what’s so special about our lake that American television audiences would care to see.”

“Really? Oh, I love hosting shows about places like this. The natural beauty, the interesting and vibrant local community. Our audience loves that stuff. It’s something a little different, you know?”

Aston worried she was laying it on too thick, but Rinne had started off unimpressed and Aston couldn’t imagine anything changing that one way or another.

The policeman snorted. “I think Americans don’t care for anything except America.”

“That’s the impression the rest of the world has, sure. And rightly so given the loudest voices in the media.” Slater made a rueful face, shrugged. “But the people who aren’t like that tend to be quiet. Trust me, we’ll get great viewing figures for our film about this place.”

“You think so? You found anything special out there, except cold water?”

Aston bristled. Clearly the Superintendent was angling for an admission that they were here for something beyond nature and the vibrant local community. Would he quickly revoke any agreements if they admitted to more? Slater wasn’t that foolish though, surely.

“Oh, we’re getting great footage,” Slater said, all enthusiasm and smiles. “Incredible bird life, for one.”

Aston wanted to ask the man if he’d seen Dave around town, but that was sure to arouse suspicions. There was nothing more likely to raise a policeman’s interest than a missing person. He hoped Rinne didn’t ask the bartender what they’d been chatting about earlier.

Rinne scowled at them a moment longer then downed the mineral water the barman had placed silently in front of him. He pulled a wallet from the inside pocket of his thick uniform jacket, but the barman silently waved it away.

Rinne nodded his thanks, gave Aston and Slater one more glare for a few uncomfortable seconds, then walked from the bar without a backward glance.

“Jesus,” Aston said. “Serious guy.”

“Hopefully I was effusive enough that he still thinks I’m just an American bimbo,” Slater said with a wicked smile.

“You’re more than just a pretty face, huh?”

They held each other’s eye for a few seconds and a moment of heat rose between them. Aston cleared his throat, looked away.

“Another?” he asked, indicating his empty glass.

Slater wore an indulgent half-smile. “Sure. I fancy a few more of these, to be honest.”

They fell to chatting comfortably as they enjoyed several more glasses of tasty wheat beer. Aston appreciated Slater’s easy intelligence and honest charm. They laughed about the differences in their upbringing, a planet apart, though realized their schooling was very similar, regardless of distance. They talked about how they had both followed their passions, determined to succeed in their chosen fields and how they had found that success to some degree, but still yearned for more. For greater recognition, bigger opportunities, fatter paychecks. Aston chose not to mention his seedier connections and gambling debts. He felt it might bring the conversation down and he had a strong urge not to say anything that might make Slater think less of him.

He was deep in a warm haze of booze when Slater said, “So we should maybe look up this Old Mo guy the bartender mentioned?”

It took him a minute to remember the stories and who the hell Old Mo was. “Yeah, I guess we should. Maybe we can ask around in the morning, see if we can find him. Character like that is probably known all over.”

Slater frowned, pointed to the bartender. “Why don’t we just ask now?”

“I’m leery of making our intentions too well known with any one person,” Aston said quietly. “That Rinne guy sniffing around and all.”

“A healthy dose of paranoia?”

“Something like that. I reckon it’ll be easy to find the old man by asking elsewhere tomorrow.”

Slater leaned forward, closer than necessary, and put a hand on his knee. “Good thinking. So what now?”

Aston looked around the bar, much emptier than it had been. “Getting late, I guess.”

Slater pursed her lips, mock impatience. “One room or two, Sam?”

He laughed. He respected her strength of will and, though it might be the beer talking, she was surely way hotter than he had ever realized before. Of course, it’s the beer talking, he chided himself, but he thought she was hot when he was sober, so what difference did it make? “I don’t want things to get complicated…” he began.

“Screw complicated,” Slater said, slapping his thigh hard enough to sting slightly. “No strings, yeah? Just some fun. We both want it, right? Or have I completely lost my ability to read people?”

“No, your ability is strong.”

“So what do you call it in Australia? A bit of no strings attached fun?”

Aston grinned. “A casual shag, maybe. That’s what you’re talking about? There are less polite terms.”

“Like what?”

“An easy root?” He grinned, a bit too drunk, but enjoying it.

“A root?” Slater said, laughing and frowning at the same time.

“Aussie as, that is,” Aston said, turning the accent up to eleven. “Getting a good root with a top Sheila. That’s why we laugh when you lot say you’re rooting for your favorite team. It means something else entirely to us!”

Slater laughed. “Rooting for your team!” she repeated. “What a mental image that is now!”

“Hey, did you know the Kiwis invented the condom?” Aston said.

“Kiwis? You mean New Zealanders?”

“Yeah, they’re called Kiwis after their national bird.”

“They invented the condom?”

“Yep. They were the first people in recorded history to use a sheep’s intestine as a condom.”

“No, really?”

“It’s true. Except it was us Australians who refined the concept. We’re the ones who came up with the idea of taking it out of the sheep first.”

Slater tipped her head back in a genuine belly laugh. Her eyes fell back to meet his. “Woo. I’m actually really drunk.”

He stood, a little shakily and took a deep breath to steady himself. “Me too. Let’s book a room, eh?”

On the shore of Lake Kaarme, under cover of darkness, a figure stepped carefully between rocks, leaving deep footprints in the soft mud. The wind whipped his dark, cowled cape, wrapping the damp, filthy hem around his ankles. Over his shoulder he carried a small hessian sack that flexed and kicked a little as he moved. A roll of something was tucked under his arm. Hardly any moonlight shone through the cloudy sky, and even less illumination from the stars, but he avoided the deepest shadows cast by the trees. Eventually he picked a suitable spot and crouched to lay out a woven reed mat just a few feet from the water’s edge, and dropped the weakly thrashing sack to the ground. The lake lapped gently, the soft slap of wavelets on the shore strangely soothing.

The figure dropped to his knees on the mat, hands clasped together, and began to chant. His voice was deep and melodic, the words mysterious and hypnotizing.

For more than ten minutes the man continued his unbroken litany, watching intently over the water. He suddenly stiffened, attention sharp, and reached inside his cape to withdraw a strange icon of straw and sticks, a small parody of a man, arms and legs spread wide. He placed the handmade figure into the mud, pressing its feet down so it stood before him, facing out over the water. He drew back his dark sleeves to reveal well-muscled forearms, and held out his hands, basking in the night and the exultation of his dark ritual.

He found a knife inside his cape, heavy, thick-bladed, shining in the weak moonlight, and slit the ties holding the sack closed. He reached in and withdrew a rabbit, its eyes wide in shock as it kicked against him, but his grip was sure. He turned it over, holding its back legs tightly and sliced deeply across the creature’s throat. Its blood gushed, steaming in the cold air, and the man held it over the icon to drench the stick figure and the wet surrounding mud. After several seconds of bloodletting, he pitched the still-twitching carcass into the water.

The chant went on and something caused the tiny waves coming in to increase. The slap and splash got louder as a smooth hump crested only an inch or two above the surface some twenty-five yards out. The smooth hump crested again, just slightly, and a few long spines seemed to flex and flick droplets of water into the air.

Not breaking his chant, the man stood, gathered up his mat and backed away, bowing repeatedly, his eyes, lost in the shadows of his hood, never leaving the lake.

Something massive briefly crested once more as the man deemed himself safely distant and turned to hurry back toward town.

The blood-soaked stick man stood in the mud, waiting.