Magic

The Wizards Series, Book Six

 

By Jack L Knapp

 

By the Author:

 

The Wizards Series

Combat Wizard

Wizard at Work

Talent

Veil of Time

Siberian Wizard

Magic

Angel (A Wizards Short Story)

 

The Darwin’s World Series

Darwin’s World

The Trek

Home

The Return

Defending Eden

 

The New Frontiers Series

The Ship

NFI: New Frontiers, Inc

NEO: Near Earth Objects

MARS: The Martian Autonomous Republic of Sol

Pirates

Terra

 

The American Southwest Series

Jacob Jennings

Edward Jennings

Edward Jennings: War and Recovery

Edward Jennings: Cattleman

The Territory

 

Fantasy

The Wizard's Apprentice

 

Magic

Book VI, the Wizards Series

Copyright © 2019, Renewed 2023, By Jack L Knapp

Original cover photo by Pixabay

 

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Disclaimer: The persons and events depicted in this novel were created by the author’s imagination; no resemblance to actual persons or events is intended.

Product names, brands, and other trademarks referred to within this book are the property of the respective trademark holders. Unless otherwise specified, no association between the author and any trademark holder is expressed or implied. Nor does the use of such trademarks indicate an endorsement of the products, trademarks, or trademark holders unless so stated. Use of a term in this book should not be regarded as affecting the validity of any trademark, registered trademark, or service mark.

 

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Epilogue

 

Chapter One

Weary eyes made out the sign, but the name didn’t register for a moment. Even when he deciphered the words, they made no sense. Was it a town? Or just a place, perhaps a bridge? No question, Bill Ames decided, he would have to stop soon or risk crashing.

No, he realized muzzily; he’d been risking that for the last four hours. Ahead, he saw lights and a sign that indicated fuel. That decided him; he’d come to the end of his rope and there was the exit. Bill slowed and pulled off, then drove into the tiny settlement called Little Dry Creek. The town, if such it was, had a main street and half a dozen side streets that appeared to simply end without really going anywhere. A few residences situated along the side streets, none particularly large, that looked well-kept from what he could see. No obvious weeds at any rate, and wooden fences seemed to be the norm.

One difference he noticed immediately; there were no toys in the yards. Older people only, then, maybe a senior-citizens community? He was too tired to care. Fill up the VW’s tank, see if there was a place he could pull over and sleep for a few hours.

He drove into the parking lot, but despite the blinking sign, the convenience store was closed. Sighing, Bill pulled back onto the street. What now? Towns in this part of central Nevada were few, and the gas gauge in the old Microbus was unreliable. Should he find a place to wait until the convenience store opened?

Up ahead, he spotted a sign: Max’s Café. According to a sign in the window, the cafe was open, although judging by the empty parking lot there were no customers. A cup of coffee would help and maybe, if the price was low enough, he could afford a hamburger? He switched off the ignition and just sat for a moment, listening to the ticking noise as the hot engine cooled. He dozed for a short time, leaning over the wheel, until a muted beep of the horn woke him. Rubbing tired eyes, he headed for the cafe’s door. The bell at the top announced his entrance, causing the man behind the counter to look up.

Average; that was Bill’s first impression of the man he presumed to be ‘Max’. Not tall or short, not muscular either, but not skinny or fat. Just average. Brown hair cut medium long, unremarkable in every way. Except attitude.

Max gave Bill a single piercing glance, smiled, and poured a glass of water. "Best chile cheeseburgers west of New Mexico, and people claim my pies are to-die-for! My coffee makes the coffee snobs swoon, and the milk is fresh enough that it might moo if you don’t drink it fast!"

Bill grinned, responding to Max’s smile as much as to the sales pitch. "How much for the burger?" His wallet held just $47 in bills, and the change in his pocket might add up to half a dollar. It would have to last; he needed his credit card to pay for gas.

"Don’t worry about it, youngster," said Max. "You look like you could use a break, and maybe I can help you out."

He began reaching for ingredients. Buns were in a glass-fronted bin, as was a selection of the pies Max had mentioned, while the hamburger patties, cheese, and milk were in a compact refrigerator under the counter. Max resumed the conversation as the food began cooking. "Come far, have you?"

Again, his glance at Bill looked more than casual. For a moment, Bill felt like his thoughts had been laid bare. "East Texas," he responded.

"Long way," observed Max. "I wouldn’t want to drive that far in one day."

"I didn’t say how long I’d been driving," Bill argued.

"Didn’t have to, Son; your eyes said it all. You’re welcome to park around back while you catch up on your sleep. Nobody in LDC will bother you. Bathroom’s down that hallway if you need to clean up, but don’t take too long, the burger will be ready soon. I just need to slice the tomatoes and onions, the potato too. My fries are always fresh-cut."

"Thanks, sounds good. I’ll be right back," said Bill, then headed down the hallway. Another surprise; the bathroom was not only modern, but clean! Not always the case, as he'd found during his trip west. Finished, he washed his hands and face, then dried off. Looking in the mirror, he decided that Max was right; he had to have sleep. He ran wet fingers through his hair and decided that would do.

"I’ll take you up on that offer to sleep here. Parking lot okay, you said?" Bill asked.

"Pull around back," Max said cheerfully. "Plenty of room back there, and you won’t be bothered by my other customers. They’ll start showing up in half an hour or so."

"You run the place by yourself?" Bill asked curiously.

"Got no choice," confessed Max as he slid the plate onto the table. "It’s hard to find good help around here. You looking for a job?" The question was accompanied by another penetrating look.

"I don’t know," Bill mumbled. The burger and fries lived up to Max’s boast. "Tell you the truth, I haven’t thought about it."

"This is the place you’re looking for, Son," said Max. "You get some sleep and when you wake up, we’ll talk."

Bill nodded, finished his burger, ate the last French fry, and washed it down with a second glass of milk. "How much?" he asked.

"We’ll talk when you wake up," Max repeated. "Don’t forget, pull around back before you crash. No traffic back there. You’ll sleep better." Max began putting ingredients away, so Bill nodded and left.

He started the VW bus—the engine still sounded good, despite his having pushed it hard crossing the mountains—and backed out just as a minivan full of women drove up. The driver, an older woman, smiled at him and the others waved as they passed.

He nodded back and drove around behind the cafe. Fully dressed except for his shoes, he stretched out on the foam pad. No question, he’d been tired when he walked in. The exhausted look and bloodshot eyes he’d seen in the bathroom mirror explained how Max had known he’d come far, but how had he known so much else? How had he known to say, ‘This is the place you’re looking for?’

Bill was still wondering when sleep found him.

***

He woke up late that afternoon and entered the cafe through the back door. He visited the rest room again, greeted Max as soon as he walked into the small dining room, then sat down at an empty table in the rear. Without asking, Max brought two cups of coffee and slices of mixed-berry pie to the table. He opened the conversation by observing that Bill looked a lot better.

Max glanced occasionally at the dining room as they talked. A table near the front was occupied by outdoorsy-looking men, another in the middle of the room by four women.

Were they the same ones he’d seen that morning? Bill wondered, but quickly realized this group was different. The older woman who’d been driving was absent. One of the young women was stunning; long, brown hair, regular features...nothing about her stood out, but Bill knew immediately that he’d never seen her equal. He suddenly realized Max had asked a question and turned his attention away from the girl.

"Sorry, I missed that," Bill apologized. "You asked me something? If it was about the charge, I’ve got enough to pay. Barely, but I’ve got that much in cash."

"No, I asked if you’d thought about that job offer," said Max. "I can’t pay much. Got a room you can use, and the job includes meals and a few dollars for spending money, but it’s a place to stay for a while. The best part is that you’ll learn a lot working for me."

"Well...to be honest, I hadn’t planned on stopping," confessed Bill, "but on the other hand, I won’t be going much farther unless I get a job."

"That young lady you’ve been watching, her name’s April," Max revealed. "She comes in two or three times a week if that will help you make up your mind." He smiled at Bill, who blushed and smiled back .

"I’ve never seen anyone like her," Bill admitted. "Are the others her sisters?"

"Sort of," said Max. "I don’t think they’re biologically related, but I’ve heard them refer to each other as ‘sister’ now and then. And they call the older lady—she’s not really old, probably a few years younger than I am—’Mom’. They live out of town a few miles. I’m glad to have them as customers! Somehow, the cowboys know when they’re here. The girls show up and within half an hour, the boys are here too."

"Not surprised," Bill agreed, "they’re all good looking. When would you want me to start?"

"Soon as you finish your pie. I generally close about dusk or a little after, so as soon as everyone clears out we can clean up for tomorrow. It won’t take long, I clean as I go, and when we’re done I’ll show you where you’ll be staying. Not big, bedroom and three-quarter bath with a shower, but it’s where I lived while I remodeled the café. You’ll be comfortable."

"Is there a phone," asked Bill. "I had a cell phone, but I—decided I didn’t need it. I’d like to leave my parents a message."

"Sure. I don’t blame you, cell phones are more trouble than they’re worth around here. Reception is iffy, when there is any. I had one, got rid of it."

Bill chuckled. "That probably makes us the only two people in America who don’t have one. No reception out here, you say?"

"It’s intermittent at best," said Max, "but I don’t need a cell. The land line works fine and everything I need is right here. I grow a lot of my own vegetables, including the tomatoes, onions, lettuce, and green peppers that go on my burgers. None of this stuff that the big producers grow because the vegetables are easy to ship. My vegetables are selected for their taste! They’re better for you, as well as cheaper. No middle-man at all. Even the beef is locally grown and it’s grass-fed, not fattened up in a feed lot. I buy custom-ground beef, but I’ve got my own small herd of goats and a few sheep. You’ll be working with them too, if you decide to work for me. Right now, they’re boarded out to a ranch north of here. I haven’t had the time to take care of them."

"You’ve thought of everything!" said Bill admiringly. "No other vegetables?"

"I barter for what I can’t grow, that’s one reason the girls come here so often. I swap meals and some other stuff for their produce. It’s why I don’t make enough to pay a salary like restaurants in the cities do, but you never know what I’ll pick up from visitors through barter. Sometimes I can sell what I swapped for right away, other times I’ll end up swapping it away for something I can sell later, but it all helps.

"Anyway, the women have a farm northeast of here that they bought from an old-timer named Shorty, and that’s where my animals are. It’s not a bother for them, they’ve got sheep and goats of their own. Anyway, Shorty got tired of living alone—he’s in his nineties—and sold the property. Now he spends time with family when he’s not living in his house here in town. He swears he’ll never stay gone for long. You’ll meet him—he’s addicted to my pies, I got the recipe from Mona who owned the café before me—and he’s quite the character! If he likes you, he’ll talk your ear off. "But back to Maude and her girls, I swap stuff for their vegetables and they often stop in for lunch. Breakfast too, now and then."

"Sounds good," said Bill. "Got an apron for me?"

"Behind the counter," said Max. "You can start in the back room, got a couple of pots back there I haven’t got around to washing yet. As soon as they’re cleaned to my satisfaction, your supper will be ready. Beef stew with green chiles tonight, rice and beans on the side, and squash for the vegetable dish."

***

Bill’s phone call home did not go well.

"Helen, it’s Bill! Pick up the extension! Where are you, Son? We’ve been worried sick."

"Bill? Is that you?" his mother asked. "I’ve been calling the police and the hospital! When I called the bowling alley, they said you don’t work there now. Why did you quit?"

"I didn’t quit, Mom," Bill explained. "The owner hired a new manager, he showed up yesterday morning and brought in a whole new staff from his last job. He said he wouldn’t need any of us, and that we would get our final check in a day or two. Did an envelope arrive?"

"Yes, from the bowling alley. You think it’s the check?"

"Probably. Deposit it to my account in the credit union. It’s still active because I needed the credit card. The card is safer than carrying cash."

"Bill, you didn’t say where you are and I don’t recognize that area code," said his father. "Are you in trouble, Son? And who was that woman that came by and asked about you?"

"I’m not in trouble, and as for her, she’s just—someone I met. I don’t want to talk about her, and if she asks, don’t tell her I called. As to where I’m at, I’m fine, I’ve got a new job, and I’ll call again in a few days. Don’t share this number, but if you need to talk to me it’s okay to call. But don’t overdo it, okay? It’s not my phone, it belongs to the guy I work for."

"Another bowling alley? I know you liked working there, but it’s not a job with a future," said his mother.

"I know, Mom. I only took it because it gave me time to write in the evenings. I intend to get back to work on the manuscript as soon as I get caught up here. I haven’t given up; I think it just needs a few more tweaks, and it will be good enough to submit to a publisher."

"Bill, I don’t like this!" said his mother. "You don’t want to tell us where you are, and you haven’t explained that woman! She showed up at the door yesterday evening, and I must say she doesn’t look like—well, I know you didn’t have many girlfriends, but even so..." she floundered.

"Like I said, Mom, I barely met her. I told her I was a writer, and I think she got the idea I had published several books. That’s why she’s nosing around."

"She sure seemed surprised to find out you were living at home!" his father said dryly. "But when I told her you were only 19, and that you’d graduated last year, she left. Bill, there’s more to this than you’re telling us!"

"Dad, I’ll explain when I see you. I didn’t do anything wrong, at least I don’t think so, but she’s part of why I left." Bill was silent for a moment, thinking about what he wanted to say. "We both know I haven’t been contributing to the household, just adding to the expense, and losing my job was the last straw. Not just that one thing, it was everything, and it all got to be too much for me. You’ve done your share, but it’s time I grew up and got enough life experiences to make writing a career. I couldn’t do that, living at home, and Robinson—for that matter, even Waco—wasn’t far enough away. I needed a fresh start, and if I was that close I knew I’d be spending all my free time at home. Leaving wasn’t easy, but I knew it had to be done. I’m already feeling better, I like my new job, and Max, the man I work for, is really nice. I’m not making much money, but it’s a nice little town. The weather is great too. Cool mornings, warm afternoons, couldn’t be better. Mountains all around too."

"So what kind of job is it?" asked his mother.

"Little bit of everything, according to Max, but most of the time I’ll be working in the restaurant. There are regular customers who come in for breakfast, then it slows down until lunch. Not many customers after the lunch crowd leaves, not until dinner, and usually not very many then so I have quite a bit of free time during the day. Max is teaching me to bake—he's famous around here for his pies—and he promised he’ll teach me to cook later on. When I’m not needed in the restaurant I work in the garden, and later on I’ll be taking care of the animals. It’s a combination of farming, ranching, and working in the restaurant, and I keep my laptop under the counter so I can jot down story ideas as they occur to me. I haven’t started writing anything new yet, but one day the notes will help.

"Anyway, I’m learning a lot and I just might be able to open my own place one of these days. You were right about the bowling alley, it was temporary, and I found that out the hard way. I also found out that if you work for someone else, there’s never a guarantee you’ll have a job from one day to the next. Max told me how he bought this place; he needed a fresh start back then too, and after I learn enough to make a go of it I might try doing what he did. The café is small but it pays the bills, and having my own restaurant or something like it would support me until my writing career takes off."

"Well...if you’re sure," said his father doubtfully. "I still don’t like it, and Poppy misses you. She’s been whining all afternoon."

"Give her a hug for me, Dad. She’ll get over it, and I don’t need a dog, not even a dachsie out here. I’ll soon have the goats and sheep to take care of, and Max told me that the kids and lambs are as playful and affectionate as a puppy."

"You have internet, right?" his father asked. "Maybe it’s time I got my own computer."

"We could exchange emails, couldn’t we?" his mother suggested.

"We sure could, Mom, you and Dad both! I’ll call back in a few days and we’ll talk more, okay? Love you both, and don’t worry. Maybe you can take a vacation and come visit later on, after I get settled."

"Take care, son. We love you too."

Bill hung up the phone and headed for the restaurant. He paused long enough to wipe his eyes, then walked inside.

Max glanced at him, then pointed to the table near the front. "They need a coffee refill, then wipe down that table in the back."

"Right away, Max."

 

Chapter Two

Bill pulled on his gloves and grabbed a hoe from the tool shed behind the restaurant. After two months working for Max, he was familiar with where everything was stored. Not that familiarity helped him figure out what was wrong with 'his' part of the garden. New ground, but even so…

He'd used a shovel to break up the soil, just as Max had suggested. Mixed in compost from the manure pile, the gift of the sheep and goats during the previous year, then scratched out long lines for the rows. Planted the seeds, covered them and tamped lightly as instructed. A sprinkler system extension took care of the watering, and now that he’d connected the extension, his part of the garden got the same amount of water as Max’s.

The vegetables should have sprouted by now, according to the seed packets, but nothing was happening.

He found a couple of weeds near the plot's edge and hoed them down, then looked at the rest of the fenced area to see if there were others. A few yards away, Max's garden was lush and barely troubled by weeds! Bill looked at it ruefully, then returned the hoe to the shed.

He found Max quietly sitting at 'their' table, sampling small slices of the day's baking. Bill brought the coffee carafe and topped off Max's cup, then poured one for himself. "See what you think of the pies," said Max. "I might have baked that apple one a little bit too long."

Bill glanced at him, looking for a smile—if Max had made such a mistake, it would be the first—then cut a thin wedge for himself. He added thin slices of the blueberry and blackberry pies to his plate and headed for the table. "You just wanted me to taste them, didn't you?" he asked.

Max's eyes might have twinkled a bit. "Coffee's always better with pie. How's your garden doing?"

"It's not. I don't understand it; I followed your directions exactly!"

"Well, sometimes it takes a little more than that, especially out here in the desert," Max suggested. "Tell you what, why don't you talk to Maude, the one the girls call 'Mom'? She's forgotten more about growing plants than I know."

"Really? I mean, your part of the garden is as good as anything I've ever seen, even back in east Texas. Back there, when you plant something, the rule is move back quick before it sprouts! But I don’t understand what’s wrong with mine."

"Well, I've been doing it for a while," Max confessed, "so maybe I did something that I forgot to mention. But you need to have a talk with Maude. Why don't you take a run out there this morning?"

Bill's pulse jumped. Maybe he'd see April! "I'll do that. How are we set for vegetables? Maybe I should pick up a few?"

"Ask her," Max said. "She usually knows what I need before I even check the fridge." He got up and headed for the kitchen.

Bill looked after him thoughtfully. He had to be at least twenty years older, but he was always up and working by the time Bill got up, and he never seemed to slow down. Not that he had been slacking during the three weeks since he’d arrived; He'd done his share of the work and more, especially the heavier lifting and carrying. As a result, he'd lost the slight amount of belly fat he'd had when he arrived and added muscle to his arms and shoulders. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching and flexed his bicep.

Could his improved appearance have had something to do with April's more-frequent glances his way during their visits? Bill resolved to work even harder as he headed out back to finish clearing out his bus.

Most of his personal possessions had already been moved into the small apartment, all but his foam pads and sleeping bag. He’d decided they could wait at the time, but now he might need the room for vegetables.

But there was almost no spare room in the tiny apartment. Deciding it would just have to do, he laid the foam pads and stuff-sack containing his sleeping bag on the bed, and went back to the cafe for directions to Shorty's old ranch.

***

The turnoff was a simple dirt road, unmarked.

Bill realized he would probably not have noticed it, but Max's directions had been precise. "Use your odometer or you're gonna get lost. If you've got a separate trip odometer, reset it to zero before you leave. If not, write down the mileage and add in the distance from here to keep track of how far you’ve gone. Got all that?"

"Sounds simple enough," Bill agreed, "but traveling more than ten miles each way, pick up groceries, and talk to Maude...probably be sometime this afternoon before I get back."

"No hurry; take your time," said Max. Was that an extra twinkle in his eye? Surely not!

Ten miles later, Bill turned left off the highway and headed up the dirt road, the springs on the old VW bus complaining at each bounce. He crossed a small rise and as soon as the road slanted down, it immediately became much smoother. Bill looked ahead and realized that there were no more potholes; the surface was the same desert caliche he’d driven on to get here, but the difference was remarkable. Had the women done something to improve it? But they’d left the section after the turnoff rough! Were they trying to discourage casual visitors?

There was no possibility of getting lost now, Bill realized. There was no turnoff, just the one-lane dirt road leading deeper into the hills. Just over two miles later, he passed a steep cliff bordered with rubble and sand that sloped down to a small stream. Where had that come from? There had been no sign of it when he turned off the highway, and streams in the Nevada desert? About as common as fur on a frog!

Curiouser and curiouser! he thought. Maybe, after he got back, Max might have a map. Streams had names, didn’t they? Especially streams in the desert. Keeping the stream on his left, he crossed a low rise and spotted a complex of buildings in the distance. There was what appeared to be a ranch house and a barn, plus other buildings he wasn’t sure of.

Greenhouses? He wondered. Behind the buildings he spotted green, well-maintained fields. The second-largest building, what he thought might be the ranch house, stood slightly apart from the others. The road ended there, in a loop around a leveled area in front of the building, so Bill parked his bus next to the old pickup truck that the women used to deliver produce.

An open carport beyond the truck shaded three cars and the minivan he’d seen at Max’s, none new but all newer than the pickup, and behind the carport was a large barn. Well organized, he thought. Maude knows what she's doing, and that tractor looks well-maintained from here. Those must be the implements on the barn's other side. More machinery under the sheds, so what's in the barn? Animal shelter?

April met him as soon as he left the van. "Bill! This is a pleasant surprise! What brings you all the way out here?"

"Hi! Max told me I need to talk to Maude; I put in a garden behind the cafe, but it's not doing much. He also said that you might have vegetables for the restaurant?"

"And I thought you might have come to see me!" April twinkled. "Come on, I'll show you around. We're all proud of what we've done with the ranch!"

"Max said Maude bought it from an old-timer named Shorty. I haven't met him yet, he's visiting family in Las Vegas, but he's expected back soon."

"I'm sure he will," April agreed. "He's very independent, Shorty is, but LDC is his home. I've only met him a few times, and I really like him. He’s got bunches of stories to tell. Did Max tell you that he’s a veteran of World War II? And he said his granddaughter might spend the summer in LDC? She’s my age, I think."

"Max said Shorty still does barbering when he’s in town. I could use a trim." Bill unconsciously smoothed back his brown mass. "Where do you girls—uh, women—have your hair done? Not in Little Dry Creek, for sure!"

"No, but we don't really need a stylist. Mom did our hair at first, but Winter has been learning. We all have jobs, you know."

"I know. I've got several jobs myself." Bill smiled to show he wasn't complaining. "Pot-scrubber, second cook, janitor, farmer-maybe, and later on, I’ll take care of the animals too. Just as well, because I’m not much of a farmer, at least so far. But maybe your—um, mom—can help."

"You can call her Mom, she won't mind," said April. "We all do. It just seems right."

"But you're not her real daughters?" pressed Bill.

"Well, not born that way, but she's more mother than my real one ever was." A faint shadow, almost a frown, crossed April's face. "We have a lot in common, the girls who live here. We're very lucky to have found her! Or she found us, whatever. I probably wouldn't be alive now if she hadn't."

Bill looked at her curiously, so she went on. "I was in a bad situation. My mother had men friends, sort of. They moved in, stayed a while, then moved out. She’s not easy to get along with! But the last two started paying more attention to me than her, and after that she got worse, so I left."

"What did you do? Stay with family?"

"I don’t have family, Bill, at least none that cares. After I left home, and before Mom took me in, I lived on the streets for almost a year. Does that shock you?" April’s gaze was direct, almost challenging.

"No," said Bill. "I might have done something like that myself if I hadn’t stopped at Max’s. I couldn’t go back home. There have been times when I missed my folks that I wished I could, but I couldn’t. Anyway, when I parked in front of Max’s I was nearly out of options. I was down to less than $50 in cash and I had just enough remaining in my debit card account to pay for gas. I wanted to reach California, but…well, all things considered, working for Max is lots better than living in my van. And likely enough, with a lot of other people like me for neighbors, one step away from homeless and living on some Los Angeles back street while hoping I could find a job."

"I didn’t have a van," April said. If there was emotion behind the remark, it didn’t show on her face. But somehow, Bill understood.

"The streets—well. I try not to remember." She smiled and Bill felt a small thrill. No question, there was something about her, something unusual. "We’ve both been lucky, even though my luck was slower to arrive than I wanted. But enough about that, let me show you around." Grabbing his hand, she led Bill toward the barn. "You know everyone, but if you forget a name just ask. Mom’s out in the tomato patch, we’ll stop there last. This is the machinery shed."

The Farmall Super tractor was unquestionably old, but as Bill had guessed, well maintained. "This is what we use most of the time," April explained, "but for smaller jobs we’ll be using the Kubota B7100. Mom got it by swapping an old Ford tractor and some produce to sweeten the deal. It needed work at first, but now it runs great, and I replaced the glow plugs and injectors myself! Mom is good with plants, not so good with machinery, so my sisters and I do that. And not just repairs, we do all the driving. I’ll be helping this fall. The small disk and double-row plow are for the Kubota, the bigger implements need the Farmall to pull them. It’s got the power, but since it’s gasoline and was designed for leaded fuel, it needs frequent maintenance. Mom wants to get rid of it, and if she can swap for a larger diesel type she’ll do it."

"No animals?" Bill asked. "Max said something about Shorty having animals at one time. And his are here too, right?"

"They are, and we’ve got a few of our own, all females except for a billy-goat and a ram." said April, "Mom doesn’t like the idea of killing animals, but she’s okay with shearing the sheep and milking the goats. Her beliefs take a little getting used to, but…well, I’ve never met anyone like her and like I said, she took me in without a single question. She seemed to know somehow that I needed help. It’s the same with my sisters, she took them in too, and some had it a lot worse than I did."

"Well, I’m glad you found her and I’m sure happy you live close by!" April glanced at him, giggled, and Bill flushed. "It’s nice having others around, girls my age I mean. Max is wonderful, but…"

"Hey, I like you too! Come on, the fields are just ahead of us, and you said you wanted to talk to Mom."

***

Max finished cleaning the kitchen and poured himself a mug of coffee, then sat down to wait for the ‘lunch bunch’ to show up. He was thinking about Bill’s problem when the telepathic message interrupted his thoughts. <Max, I’ll be away for the next few weeks. Just thought I’d let you know. Shezzie and Ana Maria should be okay, but I told them to contact you if there’s a problem.>

<Sure, T, be glad to help. Back to that ranch in California?>

<Not this time. It’s the ultimate bolt-hole, but only if we don’t change things so we’re keeping it in reserve. Meantime, the staff runs things, and we check now and then, but there’s too much chance that we might alter the time stream during a random visit.

<I commed you to let you know I’ll be in Chicago, trying something new even for me, and Ray’s off to Europe looking at a stallion.>

<Something new? Sounds interesting!> sent Max.

<I’ll explain when I get back. The aquarium offered to provide a plane, but I don’t like flying when I’m not in control. Levitating would take too long, not to mention that I would arrive tired out, and what if someone spotted me? That Homeland Security analyst is still out there, still interested in us, so better not to take the chance. I could drive, but I decided it would be better to take the train. I can always rent a car if I need one.>

<Yeah, they almost caught me once.> confessed Max. <I panicked and levitated, it was the only way I could think of to get away. I guess I’m lucky they didn’t shoot me! And if Captain Jay hadn’t covered for us, they’d still be nosing around.>

<He squashed that investigation, Max, but they’re still out there,> T sent. <That analyst knows something funny is going on, even though he doesn’t understand the whole story. And if Homeland Security’s agents ever found out—well, I won’t spend my life being a lab rat for the government. Especially not with what’s happening right now! If they ever realize what we are, that’s when we bail and head into the past to be ranchers in central California! There’s room for you too, you know.>

<I know, T, and I’m grateful,> Max sent, <but I like it here, not only here in Nevada but in the 21^st Century.>

<I should be back in a couple of weeks, maybe a month depending on how things go,> T sent. <Comm me if something comes up that I need to know about.>

<Will do, T. Have fun!> The faint tingle in Max’s mind stopped.

T had dropped the connection.

***

The two guards watched the just-released prisoner walk away. Two other guards waited, behind the locked door.

The man had, using the best explanation possible to describe his period of incarceration, not been popular.

"Whatever happened to that guy, the one he did something weird to?" asked Jake Billings.

"We heard about it during one of the briefings," said Simon Taggart, the younger of the two. "Now that I think about it, you were off-duty then. Probably taking comp time."

"We get enough of that!" said Jake. "Too much overtime, not enough in the budget to pay for it. So what did the report say?"

"No overt sign of injury," recalled Simon, "but he was crying like a baby when he left here. And according to the hospital, he didn’t stop crying until one of the nurses decided to try a pacifier. That’s how they diagnosed what had happened. Mentally, he’d regressed to the point he’d forgotten everything. Literally, everything. They fed him through a bottle at first, but managed to wean him off to solid foods within two months. One good thing, he’s no longer wearing a diaper—toilet training took about six months—but he’s still learning to walk. Toddler stage, the report said. No idea whether he’ll ever get back to what he was, and anyway we’ll never see him again. His sentence will be up in less than a year."

"Some kind of mind wipe?" Jake asked. "How the hell—"

"No drugs," said Simon. "No sign of anything, just that his personality was gone. The docs tried drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis, everything, trying to bring him back. But nothing worked."

"Scary bastard!" Jake said. "I’m glad to see the last of him. The only regret I have is that we didn’t find an opportunity to settle his hash during one of the fights."

"Too many cameras," observed Simon. "But I doubt we’ll see him again. Someone else will save us the trouble."

"Maybe those two we released last month?" Jake said, thinking aloud. "They were chummy enough with him after their buddy got shanked, but I always thought that was for self-protection. The guy that was killed was the toughest, maybe the gang leader. If they even have one. Outlaw gangs are like that, I hear. Leaders change."

Jake knew what he was talking about; he’d been a rider too, before deciding that riding was nice but not nice enough to keep doing it until it killed him. Decision made, he’d straightened up his act (which took some doing; leaving wasn’t easy, or without risk), found a woman who could keep him home at night, and in time fathered a pair of twins. He’d needed a steady job to support his family and the contractor that ran the prison had been hiring. Being a guard was temporary, he’d thought at the time, something to do until he could qualify to go on the cops. Better pay, better benefits, but it hadn’t happened yet, and it might not. Meanwhile, it turned out that the ‘temporary’ job was something he could do well, and there would be opportunities for advancement in six months or a year. Turnovers among the prison's guard staff were frequent.

"Motorcycle coming," observed Simon. "Are you a betting man?"

"Not on sure things," said Jake. "It’s bound to be one of the two that got out last month."

"Here to pick him up, or off him, now that he’s out?" Simon asked

"Pick him up," said Jake confidently. "If they intended to kill him, there’d be more than one. Like I said, that bastard is scary!"

 

Chapter Three

"I didn’t expect this!" exclaimed Bill.

"I suppose it’s different," April agreed, "and while a lot of it had been done before I arrived, we’ve worked hard to make it the way it is.

The vista ahead of them resembled an English valley. The area between the barn and the range of low hills surrounding the ranch’s buildings was green with grass, and farther out there were young trees. A small flock of sheep grazed nearby, and past them a herd of goats browsed. The garden was off to their left, and there were two large greenhouses to the right. Beyond them was the shell of what would be a third.

"I thought you folks grew your vegetables in open fields," Bill said.

"We do, but we leave the fields dormant during the winter months. Mom wants us to be able to feed ourselves year-round, and when we get that third greenhouse finished, we can. Come on, I’ll show you what she’s doing now." Dragging Bill by the hand, April led him toward where Maude was working.

"Who’s that with her?" asked Bill.

"That’s May. She joined the group the year before I did. She’s nice, but she doesn’t talk much around men. I’m learning a lot from her! I’m sure you’ve met her during one of our trips to the café,"

"I suppose I must have," said Bill. "Are those tomato plants? I’ve never seen any that tall. They’re like small trees!"

"They’re tomatoes, but with the right kind of care they can grow taller than you’d think. Those are some of the smaller cherry-sized ones to the left and the Romas and medium-sized ones are past those on the right. Mom’s been preparing the soil for the bigger beefsteak types, but they won’t be ready for a few months. The ranchers prefer them, probably because that’s what their crews like. We use the salad sizes ourselves, and when Max needs more than he gets from his own garden he buys the medium-sized ones for his burgers. There’s nothing better than a tomato fresh from the vine! Come on, I’ll pick you one."

She handed Bill a small envelope of salt, the sort commonly provided by fast-food restaurants for their takeout meals. "No chemicals to worry about, you can just eat the tomato as it is. Sprinkle a little salt on it and it’s wonderful! Fresh cucumbers are good too, but I peel them first, then salt lightly before eating. But there aren’t any mature right now, you’ll have to come back in another month."

"I’ll look forward to it," said Bill, wiping his chin to make sure the juicy tomato hadn’t dribbled.

April called out as they approached the two women. "Visitor, Mom; I’ve been showing him around, but he wants to talk to you."

Maude straightened and held out her hand as Bill approached. He shook her hand, noticing that she’d been handling dirt while working. He nodded at May, who smiled back. "Give me a second," Maude said. "We’re just preparing to plant new vines. What do you think of our little field?" Bill glanced around while Maude continued with May. "Put the stakes in first and make them strong. The bigger ones need a lot of support. And make sure they’re not too close together."

"Got it, Mom," said May. With a final smile at Bill and April, she headed for the nearest greenhouse to bring back the seedlings.

"I’ve never seen tomato plants that tall," Bill remarked. "Are they some sort of special variety?"

"No, just good soil and a lot of care. The girls do most of the work, snipping off suckers between the stems and branches and providing plenty of support as they grow taller. We also trim off older branches near the ground and mound the soil around the main vine, which encourages taller growth. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"I’m not having much luck with my garden, and Max suggested you might help," confessed Bill.

"Most plants are easy to grow," Maude said, thinking about possibilities. "Some are a bit more finicky. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve done so far while we take a look at the greenhouses? They’re important to our operation."

Bill explained on the way, mentioning that he’d done as Max suggested but so far, nothing.

"Max is like me," Maude said, "we like growing things. I hope you’re not one of those who were born with a brown thumb! But even they can learn, so I might be able to help. Is this your first garden?"

"Yes. We lived in town, not much room for a garden. My mother had houseplants, and roses outside, but they don’t require a lot of care."

"You’d be surprised!" Maude said. "All plants do better with care, not just providing the necessities but also putting some of yourself into the effort. Did you notice what I was doing when you came up?"

"I noticed you were barefoot; Aren’t you afraid of stickers and things like scorpions? Maybe even snakes?"

Maude chuckled. "My feet are pretty tough, and as for critters, they leave us alone, praise be! Scorpions look for places to hide, and since they feed on other insects, they're a mixed blessing. As for snakes, they look for rats and even rabbits, which we almost never see."

"I was wondering if it could be something in the water," said Bill. "Max has a well that provides his irrigation water, but I read that there’s quite a bit of calcium dissolved in it and it builds up into a hard layer. I think it’s called caliche, and if it is, it can get almost as hard as concrete. That creek I passed, does it have that problem too?"

"No, we’re doubly lucky with that; the spring began flowing again after we moved in—Shorty told us it had been dry for years—and it’s much softer than other water around here. I wouldn’t worry about Max’s water; after all, his garden does well." She continued providing advice as they walked through the nursery greenhouse. "We start our plants here, in controlled conditions. Wind is a problem in spring, and if you wait until that passes you’ve missed an important part of the growing season. But by starting the seeds inside, our plants are approaching maturity by the time we transplant, and by then the winds aren't usually a problem. Let’s go next door and I’ll show you the hydroculture greenhouse."

"Is that the same as hydroponic? I think I read about that. Growing plants with their roots in water?" Bill asked.

"We do that, but the water comes from open-air tanks that contain fish. They feed on algae, and their droppings enrich the water. The girls check daily, sometimes more often, and when a fish dies we put the body into the ground to enrich the soil."

"You don’t eat fish?" asked Bill curiously.

"I don’t eat fish, or for that matter any other meat. Some of the girls do, but not our fish or lambs or kids! They like Max’s burgers, but he makes vegetarian dishes for me when he knows I’ll be visiting."

"I wondered about the sheep and goats when April mentioned that you don't eat meat," Bill, admitted.

"We don’t kill ours. They don’t reproduce as often as other flocks do, so there’s no need. The dung enriches the soil, the wool provides us with a nice cash crop that’s enough for our needs, and the goats provide milk. If there’s excess, we make it into cheese."

"You seem very self-sufficient," Bill said admiringly.

"We are, and it’s part of why our gardens do so well. And we are not troubled in spirit, which may be part of your problem. The issue that’s bothering you, you should just put it aside. There’s nothing you can do about it now, and I suspect that over time, it will resolve itself. Be at peace, young Bill; you cannot allow the opinions of others to direct your path."

Later, on the way back to town, Bill wondered how she could know something that he hadn’t even revealed to Max!

***

T was reading when Ray’s comm interrupted him. He closed the downloaded file, part of his preparation for the trip, then responded. <How are things in Europe?>

<Not productive, at least so far. I’ll give it another week, and if nothing turns up I’ll be heading for home. You're doing something for Jay, I hear? Maybe I can help.>

<I expect to be in Chicago for a while, so sure, when you’re ready join me. Did Jay explain what I’ll be doing?>

<Not in detail,> sent Ray, <just that you’re trying something different. He wanted to know if I had my credentials with me, said we might need them in Chicago.>

<I’ve got mine, but I doubt they’ll be needed,> T responded. <I’ll be working in the Shedd Aquarium. The only issue I can foresee where we might need detective’s credentials is while we’re traveling back and forth from the hotel. If there’s an incident, well, cops treat other cops with more leniency than they do civilians.>

<By an incident, you mean something like what happened in El Paso with that street gang?> asked Ray.

<Yes. We were long gone before the police arrived, but in Chicago there are cameras everywhere! We could always leave the scene, but that would cause more trouble than we need.>

<You’re right. Nothing like a couple of guys flying away from a confrontation to attract attention! Unless it was a video of bullets bouncing off an invisible shield!> Ray’s amusement was evident, even through the telepathic connection. <So what are you doing at an aquarium?> he asked. <Talking to the fishes?>

<Close! I’m going to try to communicate telepathically with beluga whales to find out why they’re dying. No obvious explanation, no signs of disease, and post-mortem, there are no internal clues. It’s like they just get tired of living.>

<My word! What a can of worms this might open up! Have you considered the side effects? Like maybe awakening Talent in a whale, for example?>

<I did think of that,> sent T. <but we don’t know if it’s even possible. It’s only possible for humans after the change starts, when the brain starts developing that extra lobe, and for some of us even that isn’t enough. My telepathy only works with other telepaths, most of the time, and Shorty has almost none. Libby can hear him, but the rest of us usually can't.>

<So why you,> asked Ray. <Why not she-whose-name-we-don’t-mention because if we do, she’ll start listening in?>

<Hi, Uncle Ray! You can’t fool me, you know! Why do you keep trying?>

<Libby, stop snooping! You’re supposed to be graduating about now!>

<I did, Uncle T, last week, and thanks for the gift. You’re both so nice to me! I’d love to be part of your new project, but I promised I’d spend the summer with Grandpa Shorty. I can’t cancel that.>

T understood. Shorty had to be in his 90s by now. He was still active for his age, but after all, there was that heart attack—had it really been four years ago now? His paranormal abilities were obviously helping keep him healthy, but how long that might continue was anyone’s guess. And if Libby decided working with beluga whales was more interesting than a summer with an aging grandfather, he might not be around later on.

<I thought of a way you might be able to help. Suppose I linked my mind to yours when I try to communicate?>

<That’s an excellent idea, Uncle T! And I can spend the time with Grandpa when we’re not linked.>

<Little Dry Creek isn’t Las Vegas, Libby. This might keep you from getting bored, but I suggest you read up on the cetacean family before you get to LDC. That’s what I’ve been doing. No question, whales and dolphins are a lot more human-like than most people know; they can teach, they can learn, and somewhere in their past, they’ve had cetacean geniuses.>

<You’re not pulling my leg, are you?> sent Ray. <Where did you get that idea?>

<Have you ever heard about a fishing tactic they use? It requires not only communication, but cooperation, so somehow, an ancestor had to observe and extrapolate to arrive at that. The scientists who study it call it a bubble-ring or carousel feeding.>

<New to me,> Ray admitted. <Keep comming.>

<When they spot a shoal of herring or some other prey species, they spread out and surround it. They do this without alarming the herring. Then, when the circle is complete, the dolphins or whales go deeper and begin emitting bubbles from their blowholes. The bubbles act like a fence, the prey fish can't breathe the air, and as the bubbles rise, the cetaceans move in closer to shrink the ring. The fish then concentrate into what’s called a bait ball, and as soon as they do, some of the dolphins break away and swim through it, feeding as they go. Some of the herring are killed but not immediately eaten, and others are only stunned, so as they herd the bait ball along, the other dolphins or whales get a chance to feed. This is so complex it has to be evidence of higher cognitive ability. If they can do that, then it’s possible that they can also communicate as we do, mind to mind.>

<Suppose you’re right, Uncle T. What will you tell them if you can link your mind to theirs?>

<That’s something I haven’t figured out, Libby.>

 

Chapter Four

T moved the chair as close to the tank’s viewing wall as possible and sat down. Moments later, the first beluga appeared, head angled in so that the left eye could examine the strange human. Apparently satisfied, it moved slowly away. T had conducted his own examination while the animal watched. A kind of off-white in color; larger than porpoises but smaller than its relative the orca, and with no dorsal fin. Interesting, he thought.

According to what he’d read, dorsal fins on captive orcas often drooped. By contrast, the fins on wild orcas almost always stood upright. The result of captivity?

He briefly considered asking for direct access to where the employees worked. Would they offer enthusiastic assistance, or resent his presence? But short of entering the water himself, he had a better view of the belugas from the viewing area. Entering the water might be an option for later, he decided. Better to start slow and learn as much as could before suggesting closer contact.

He walked to the glass wall and leaned forward slightly, arms spread shoulder-width apart and hands touching the glass. If the belugas were vocalizing to each other, he couldn’t feel the vibrations, and he’d already noticed that the viewing area itself had no speakers.

But the aquarium staff likely had underwater microphones and speakers. Installation should be easy, as would wiring a microphone and speakers from the viewing area into the system, but there was one more thing to try before he approached the staff.

Opening his mind, he allowed his consciousness to drift. Dangerous, possibly, but not from the belugas; simple telepathic listening might be enough to begin the process where a human with at least a moderate amount of latent Talent might sense his questing mind and begin to wonder.

He sensed slight tickles from his friends back in Little Dry Creek, but that was all. From the belugas, nothing. He waited for a minute, slowly counting off the seconds, then straightened and took his hands away from the glass. If the big animals were, in fact, sensitive to psionic communication, they were hiding it.

Resuming his seat, he watched to see what other effects the questing might have produced. One of the animals might have realized that something about the strange human was different. Even if they didn’t communicate telepathically, the ability to sense nearby mental activity could be important. But nothing unusual happened, and two hours later he finally gave up.

Was his trip to Chicago a waste of time? But what if he did try to link his consciousness with Libby’s? No question, Surfer had been strong, but she was in a different class entirely.

<You’re kind of tired, Uncle T. Why don’t we try tomorrow? And see if the aquarium people will let you enter the water? You don’t need to dive, just hang out by the edge, but put as much of yourself as possible in contact with their medium, water.>

<Listening again, Libby?> T asked resignedly. <There might be a problem doing that. A full link means that I don’t have control. Drowning won’t help the whales and it won’t be pleasant for me either.>

<Don’t worry, Unk, I’ll protect you!> And with that, Libby dropped the connection. Leaving T to remember that teenage overconfidence had left her trapped in old-west Nevada, and if Ray had not gone back in time to get her, she might be there yet! But maybe if he had a word with one of the aquarium’s divers ahead of time? They went into the tank daily to check the condition of their charges, so asking one to remain nearby in case something went wrong would make sense.

<Libby?> he sent.

<You want me to check the staff divers, see if one will help you? Sure, I can do that. No need to contact any of the administrators, they’re likely to worry about liability issues, but I’ll find you a diver. And don’t worry about one being a latent telepath. You worry too much! The Talent will spread, there’s nothing any of us can do to prevent it.>

<You might not think that way if you’d been around before your grandfather shot Solaris! He was crazy, but he was also scary-strong.>

<So am I, Uncle T! Except that I’m not crazy. Get some sleep, I’ll comm you tomorrow.>

***

Bill unloaded his bus, still not convinced that Maude was right. Seriously, grabbing handfuls of dirt and wandering around barefoot? Didn’t that kind of silliness terminate sometime late in the 20^th Century? But there was no arguing with results, especially when the crate of tomatoes was before him as he carried it into the restaurant. Was there an imperfect one in the crate, even on the bottom layer?

Max was busy cooking. "Just put the vegetables in the cooler and check on the tables. After that, there are pots in the back to be scrubbed. We’ll talk when the rush is over."

"Will do, Max." Bill checked his clothes to make sure he hadn’t picked up dirt, then picked up the coffee carafe and began making the rounds of the occupied tables, forgetting for the moment what Maude had told him.

Later, after he’d scrubbed the pots and started mopping the kitchen floor, his thoughts turned to April. Was that really her name? After all, the group included a May and a Summer, which really stretched coincidence. Did it have to do with what April had revealed of her past?

He felt a brief surge of anger at the person or persons who had driven her to that extreme. But it did no good to dwell on the past, on hers or for that matter his own. Maude was right, it was time he got rid of his inner conflict and moved on. East Texas was only a few weeks in his past, yet it no longer felt like home. Not in the way that Little Dry Creek did!

Later that afternoon, while he and Max drank coffee and ate slices of leftover apple pie, Max brought up the subject of wages. "We’ve done a little better than I expected since you got here. No question, having help has been good for me, and you’ve done well. You don’t have a local bank account, do you?"

"The only account I’ve got is with the credit union back in Waco. It had a couple of hundred already, and my folks deposited my final check from the bowling alley. I really haven’t needed money since I got here."

"No hurry." Max laid an envelope on the table. "That’s your pay. It’s enough to get you to California and maybe even support you for a couple of weeks, but I’m hoping you intend to stick around."

"I’d like to," said Bill. "But what do I do with the money?"

"There’s an ATM, part of a network that serves most of the credit unions in Nevada, and it accepts cash deposits. That’s what I do when I have more than I need. I barter for most everything, but now and again I need to write a check. The gas company, the electric company, the phone company—"

"Not easy to barter for phone service," Bill agreed.

"The ATM, or at least the company that owns it, might be able to deposit your pay in that Waco credit union. But that brings up another issue. I never asked you to fill out any employment forms or other paperwork when you agreed to work for me."

"What you’re saying is that you didn’t deduct taxes," said Bill.

"I didn’t. Some of the ranches do, but as for the rest of us, there are reasons why we don’t bother. As far as the government is concerned, Little Dry Creek doesn’t exist, and we like it that way. I’m not exactly breaking the law—my restaurant doesn’t generate enough profit, or for that matter cash income—to owe taxes."

"Not even the state government?" asked Bill doubtfully.

"Nope, Nevada’s different. Except for the cities, a lot of us think that the less we see of the government, the better. People are independent as a rule, and we’re even more so. Like I said, we have our reasons. One day, if you do stick around, I’ll tell you what they are."

"I’d like to stay, as long as you need me that is. I like it here! Nice folks, no need to worry about your neighbors…"

"Then it’s settled," said Max. "You can hold on to your cash. It’s safe enough, and if you ever decide you want to visit Reno, maybe even take a girl on a date, you’ll have it. And you won’t have that credit union asking where the money came from."

"I’ve got my own reasons for not letting people know where I am," confessed Bill. "I hadn’t thought about it in that way, but I headed west to get away from my previous life. From now on, why don’t you just hang on to my pay? I trust you and if I need money, I’ll let you know, and you can take it out of what you owe me."

"I can do that," agreed Max. "But you hang on to that envelope. A fellow should always have a few dollars available, even here. But speaking of breaking away from whatever was back there in east Texas, are you still using the same email server? I’ve seen you doing searches on your laptop, and you should know that all sorts of people can track you through your online contacts."

"I check my mail, but I haven’t answered any. Most of it was spam anyway, so I just delete it."

"Even so, it could be a problem," Max cautioned. "I can take care of it for you, but you’ll need a new account, an anonymous one that’s not tied to Bill Ames. I’m due in Las Vegas next week, an appointment with a fellow I know, and while I’m there I’ll delete your accounts. I’ll need account names and passwords, and that might not be enough. Another thing, unless you’re really fond of that computer, you need to get yourself a new one. Your pay will cover that, and after I close your accounts I’ll wipe the disk drive. My friend will then offer it for sale on Craig’s List. You prefer Windows or Mac?"

"Mac. I don’t really need a laptop. For what I do, a small desktop unit with a separate monitor and keyboard would be better."

"Then all you need is something like a Mac Mini. Plenty of speed, plenty of memory if you fill all the slots, and unless you suddenly start downloading a lot of music or photos, more hard drive space than you’ll ever need. I’ve got a spare monitor, the one I used before I upgraded to the big one I’m using now, and an old keyboard. It works, but it needs cleaning, and if you need to see the letters on the keys you might want to repaint a couple that wore off."

"Thanks, Max. I can do that, and swapping out computers is probably best. Although I don’t really understand why the secrecy is necessary. You’ve got a landline, and that can be tracked."

"If someone wanted to bother, sure. But since I subscribe to a virtual network based in Las Vegas, they’d have to crack that first."

"So everything you do appears to be happening in Las Vegas? Pretty slick, Max."

"Ray set it up. He knows more about that sort of thing than I do. I wish I could tell you more, but…the secret isn’t mine to share. Sorry, but that’s the way it is. It’s not that we’re crooks, we just prefer not to attract attention.

"Right after I bought the café, we had a few weeks of unusual weather. Not a big deal, actually pretty nice for us. We had a lot more rain than we usually get. But within a few days, I had half a dozen motor homes and vans full of portable weather stations parked out front. I fed more meals during that two-or-three-week period than I did the rest of the year! I’m happy that things have settled down since then."

"You hang on to the money for me. Spend what you need on that computer; I’ve still got the cash I had when I got here. But if you can spare me for a while, I want to try a couple of Maude’s suggestions."

"The garden? Sure, go ahead," said Max.

Bill sat down at the edge of his garden and pulled off his shoes and socks. Did Maude’s beliefs have something to do with her vegetarianism?

But suppose her wacky idea was based on something besides new-age mysticism? Nutty, but if it worked…

And anyway, what could it hurt to try?

Barefoot, he took his first cautious steps into the garden. No thorns. Bill realized he hadn’t felt the same sense of lightness, of freedom, in years! He walked along between the rows, stopping now and then to pick up a handful of soil. It didn’t smell unusual, just the scent of freshly-turned dirt. The texture was crumbly, moist but not wet…so why hadn’t the seeds sprouted?

Later that night, while getting ready for bed, he realized that he felt more relaxed than he had since he lost the bowling alley job. Did it have something to do with his friendship—not a relationship, not yet!—with April? Or was it the money Max had offered, or what he’d said about avoiding attention from the government?

The villagers might be paranoid, but nowadays, that wasn’t an unusual state of affairs for many. And Maude and her girls had more reason than most to avoid attracting attention.

Or was it the time he’d spent walking along the rows, just feeling the contentment of having done his best to bring life from barren dirt? Whatever it was, he liked the feeling. Better to simply enjoy his new sense of tranquility than question why he felt that way.

***

The doctors at Cook County General Hospital, aware that there was nothing further they could do to help the two young women, petitioned the court to authorize their transfer to a long-term facility. Permission was granted, and the two vacant-eyed victims were duly sent to Sunshine Care & Rehab, one of several whose bid the county had accepted.

The nurses, assistants, and orderlies soon grew accustomed to their presence. Their names, and how they’d come to be where they were, was an old story, not something to excite curiosity until a new nurse was hired to replace an older one who’d retired.

Lucia Drennon, RN, the Chief Care Nurse, took the new hire around the various wings and introduced her to the patients, those who realized that there had been a change. Not that there were many; most of the patients were elderly. They would not leave Sunshine C&R alive. And in the wing where the two girls shared a room, none noticed the new presence. Most were comatose, as were the girls.

"Wards of the state," explained Lucia. "Victims of a crime, and part of the evidence against that nut-job who claimed he was a wizard. Janet and Janice Doe, those are the names assigned by the detective division when they worked the case, not that those two wil ever complain. Just two more runaways, living on the street. The parents, assuming they had living parents, might not even have reported them missing. As we’re finding out, abuse is a lot more common than most of us knew. If they had something to hide…" she shrugged.

"What happened to the nut job?" the new hire asked curiously.

"Five years for multiple convictions of animal cruelty. Nothing, for what he reportedly did to the girls; there was no evidence to show that he’d actually done anything, other than what you see here.

"And they can’t tell us anything. They’re locked inside for the rest of their lives, the—I really shouldn’t tell you what I think of him. I don’t know you that well. But he’s out, according to the Trib." Her tone reflected her bitterness.

"Persistent vegetative state?" asked the new nurse curiously.

"More or less. Sometimes, when their eyes are open, they try to follow you. The sad part is that sometimes I think they’re almost aware, like they’re trapped in their own minds. They’re not, of course, or at least I hope not! That would be terrible, worse than simple paralysis. Paralyzed people can at least be wheeled outside in the spring and summer, although in the summer it’s mostly late in the afternoon. But at least they understand what’s going on. These two? I hope not."

"Drugs?" asked the new nurse.

"No evidence in their blood or urine samples, no needle tracks or other signs of prior usage. Unusual, because according to what the detectives found out, they were street kids and no idea where they came from. But they’re here now, and probably a long time from now, they’ll die here."

"I’ll make sure they’re properly taken care of, Ma’am."

The CCN nodded and they went on their way.

"Now in this wing, we have…"

 

Chapter Five

T had been away from the aquarium for three days.

It had taken that long to find a diver’s drysuit, have it adjusted to fit, then undergo minimal training on how to use it. He and the instructor had agreed that diving in an aquarium tank should be safe enough, but he cautioned T not to try an Arctic dive beneath the ice.

T assured him that he had no intention of ever doing that; he was content to leave it to the professionals.

Despite the spacesuit-like dome that was part of this latest-model suit, allowing himself to sink beneath the water had been a struggle, greater than anything he’d faced recently. Every time he did so, despite knowing that the pool’s bottom was no more than a few centimeters below his feet, he’d had to fight down panic. Drowning, after all, was one of the recognized ways an esper could die.

The protective bubble that had saved him more than once wouldn’t be needed, not to mention that it couldn’t be used without shredding the drysuit and destroying the helmet! Levitation was out too; the bottom appeared clear, but when he attempted to focus on it, nothing happened. Iron determination had suppressed his unreasoning fear, but it had been no easy thing and the ordeal wasn’t over yet. He found himself wishing he’d told Captain Byrd to go piss up a rope when he’d first brought up this crazy idea.

"Let’s see it," said Sandy, holding out her hand.

"I assume you want the certification paperwork," T said sourly.

"You’d better believe it! You might die, you might get frostbit, you might lose a hand or a foot due to freezing, but you won’t do it while I’m responsible for your safety!"

"I’ll try to make sure none of those happen," growled T. "Want to inspect the drysuit too? What about my underwear?"

"I’ll check the suit, that’s part of the job," Sandy snapped, "but if you’re stupid enough to dive in freezing water without a thermal undersuit, you deserve what happens to you!"

She inspected the suit carefully. It passed, and with it T’s spate of bad temper. After all, he reasoned, she’s only doing her job. "Here’s the way this is going to work," Sandy said. "There will be no deviations from procedures. One mistake, and out you come. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant!"

That caused her to crack a smile. "I was one, a long time ago. You served?"

"I did." T hoped she would drop it, but she wasn’t ready to stop. "Where?" she asked.

"The sandbox, very briefly after I arrived in the Middle East, then the rockpile. You?"

"Sandbox. I caught some kind of bug, they medevacked me back to Walter Reed, and after I recovered it didn’t seem worthwhile to send me back over there. I got an early discharge."

"Me, too," said T. He decided it was better not to mention the irregular nature of his ‘early discharge’.

"Might as well get on with this," said Sandy. "I checked out that special microphone and speaker system you wanted, the recorder too. Not a bad idea, actually; I should have thought of it myself, putting high-sensitivity wide-range microphones everywhere in the tanks that the belugas can reach. And recording the sounds, everything from deep subsonics all the way to high-range ultrasonics. We’ve done recordings and analyzed them, but nothing like what we can do using the equipment you provided. We’ve never had anything like that computer you had shipped in!"

"Getting that supercomputer-in-a-box was a stroke of luck," agreed T. "It’s only available because one of my friends is working with DARPA. He’s part of a special investigation they set up about a year ago, and there’s not much they won’t do to keep him happy."

"Well, I’m glad he’s on our side!" Sandy said.

"He is, and so am I," T said "but there’s another reason they’re being cooperative. Sooner or later, we’re going to run into an intelligent species out there in space. They won’t speak our language, and we won’t speak theirs. Mathematicians consider math to be universal, but ask yourself how many humans understand higher-level math? Or for that matter, even understand the symbols mathematicians use to represent concepts? Anything beyond trig and elementary calculus is Greek to them, no pun intended. Will that extraterrestrial species see it in the same way we do? Take something simple, a triangle for example. The symbol is common, but it doesn’t always represent a triangle. The Greek letter delta, which is shaped like a triangle, can mean change in one equation or it can identify the discriminant of a quadratic equation in another. The mathematical concepts might be universal, although I have my doubts even about that, but the symbology?"

"Greek to us common sorts, right?" she chuckled.

"Got it in one. The computer they loaned us, powerful as it is, won’t do what DARPA wants, create the basic framework for a universal communication system. For that, you need software, and to develop it you need a different style of thinking. Try to think of something so abstract that we don’t even have the words to describe it and you’ll see what I mean. That’s where I come in; I’m one of the very few who can think about things that others consider unthinkable. And that’s as far as I’m willing to go with my explanation."

"Classified military stuff again!" Sandy was angry and the only target for her ire was T. "Dammit, does everything have to somehow relate to killing our fellow humans?"

"Take it easy, Sandy. In this case, military-think and defense dollars are funding research into how cetaceans think. Your whales and dolphins almost certainly communicate, and if there’s any way to translate their cetacean thoughts into something humans can understand that computer will find it. The hope is that they use higher-level thinking, but do they? If they do, are there common elements between their system of thinking and ours?"

"I don’t need all this stuff!" rejoined Sandy. "I’m just trying to take care of my animals!"

"Sandy, the belugas may have been trying to tell you what’s making them unhappy all along," soothed T. "But you haven’t understood, and I may not understand, but if understanding is even possible I might be able to help you find out. I’ll also do what I can to help your program while I’m working on my investigation, including leaving most of the hardware behind, and sharing as much of my findings as possible with you before I move on. But I can’t do that standing on the sidelines. It’s time I took the plunge myself."

"Okay." Sandy visibly shook off the troubling thoughts and moved on to doing what she understood, preparing a swimmer for a hazardous, albeit routine, dive into lethally-cold seawater.

"Something you should know about before we go any further," said T. "I have unusual powers of concentration. I can concentrate to the point that whatever is happening around me might not be noticed, and that’s something you need to watch for. If I don’t respond immediately when you say something, don’t worry. But if I’m about to run out of air or my body temperature starts to drop, then get me out of the tank. Whether I respond or not, get me out!"

"Count on it! And screw your concentration, if you don’t respond immediately when I say something, out you come!"

"Exercise your best judgment, Sandy. I’m ready."

Sandy donned her own helmet and checked the seal, then backed down the steps leading into the tank. T followed, gloved hand holding onto hers. <Libby? I’m about to enter the tank. You should be able to follow my thoughts, and if you think you can help contact the whales, link your mind with mine.>

<Will do. You didn’t tell me about all that DARPA stuff, Uncle T; is that contact you mentioned Captain Byrd? Is he really working with the government now?>

<It is, and he is, but since you’re not supposed to know about it, you keep your nose out of it! He’s willing to be their sort-of lab rat, something the rest of us won’t do. The genie is out of the bottle, Libby. Homeland Security has that prisoner we captured to work with, which means they already know more about us than I’m happy with.

<Jay and I talked, and I can’t disagree with his conclusions. We have to work with them. But if the cooperation agreement starts to break down, Ray and I will extract him, whatever it takes. We may need your help too, if it comes to that.>

<No problem, Uncle T! I’m spending my summer in LDC with Grandpa Shorty, so if you need me I’ll be ready. And speaking of ready, I’ll link with your mind as soon as you enter the water.>

***

Bill looked proudly at the rows of seedlings, the rows slightly uneven but beautiful despite that. But he couldn’t help wondering. Were they just slow to develop, possibly because of the difference in soil? After all, Max’s garden had been Mona’s before he bought the cafe. Max had added compost at the end of the growing season, just as Mona had done, and he continued to rotate the crops as she’d done. The alfalfa growing in that section to the south would be tilled in at the end of fall, adding nitrogen to the soil.

Could it conceivably have to do with what he’d done, clear his mind of concerns that he couldn’t do anything about anyway, and put more of himself into the garden? By direct contact through his hands and feet? Surely not! New-age mumbo-jumbo! But somehow, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the seeds were just waiting for him to do his part before they did theirs.

His thoughts turned to something commonplace among desert plants: they might remain dormant for years until conditions were ideal for growth. Then, when the rains arrived, they would sprout and race through their life cycle, producing seeds in weeks that in turn would wait until the rains came again. As for the catclaw, smoke tree, and others, their seeds required scarification, damage to the seed's protective coating, before they could germinate. Which typically happened after a rough flash-flood journey down an arroyo; Little Dry Creek, source of the settlement’s name, was lined with mesquites.

But if his seeds had indeed been waiting, they had finally sprouted, and there had been one more change since his visit to Maude’s ranch. Unlike the satisfaction he felt tending his growing plants, Bill found the new change worrisome.

His thinking was clear, but somehow, his thoughts seemed to echo. Weird! Was he turning into some new-and-recycled version of a hippie? Bill smiled at the thought as he leaned down to pluck a weed from his garden. The gloves helped, but were not proof against the aggressive thorns of some. Unlike his reluctant vegetables, the desert weeds were prepared to defend their right to grow where they would. Pulling the weeds early was the best solution. Max was determined to never use weed killer, an attitude he shared with Maude. Which meant that physical labor had to substitute for the lack of chemicals.

Did organic vegetables taste better? Bill didn’t know, nor care. Maude’s and Max’s vegetables were undeniably tasty, better by far than what the supermarket chains sold. Finished, he headed for his small apartment. He decided he had time to change the sheets and make his bed, then do a quick sweep and put away odds and ends. This left him with a few minutes to check his computer for messages. There were none, not surprising because the only persons who knew his new email address were his parents. The usual collection of spam was there, plus a selection of news clips from several daily services he subscribed to. The spam he deleted, the news articles could wait.

He shaved, not that he really needed to, showered, and dressed. Soiled clothes went into a hamper, which, now that he’d added sheets and pillowcases, was approaching full. Later, after the noon rush, he would need to run a couple of loads through Max’s machines. But by now, Max would have pots waiting for him to scrub, and there would be other chores too. He headed for the kitchen, picking up an apron and tying it on before running hot water into the sink.

The only good thing about scrubbing pots was that the act required almost no thinking, so his thoughts turned to April. Was holding his hand a first step toward a relationship, or was she only being friendly to the visitor? Was she interested in him as a person, someone who might be more than an acquaintance? Bill uneasily recalled a number of incidents where his efforts in the past had been rebuffed, often embarrassingly so. Sober, he tended to be shy. The one time alcohol had loosened his tongue had gone better, but was that because he had lost his self-consciousness? Or had the girl he’d talked to so freely believed he was more? He would never know.

Just as well, he decided. From now on it’s just me, not the beer.

Which brought up the next question: how to tell? Should he ask April for a date, or wait until he’d gotten to know her better? Too soon to tell, he decided, but something to explore in future. There were the other girls who lived at the ranch, May, June, Summer, and the others, but all were at least a year or two older. There also hadn’t been the same instant attraction he’d felt when he first saw April.

Finished with the pots, Bill checked the tables. He refilled salt and pepper shakers, added napkins to the holders, and swapped out ketchup containers for freshly-filled ones. Finished, he sat down with a fresh mug of coffee and a slice of blueberry pie. He’d added a scoop of vanilla ice cream, which complemented the taste, and the snack was welcome after his busy morning.

Max smiled at him, then headed back for his own apartment, mentioning that he wouldn’t be gone long.

"No problem, Max. I’ve got it. Depending on what the customer wants, I’ll either handle it or if it’s not something I know how to do, I’ll call you."

Later, after he’d served the first two customers, he felt a chill.

No question, he’d heard what Max had said. But thinking back, Max’s lips hadn’t moved. Somehow, he’d spoken without using his mouth, and Bill had understood every word.

 

Chapter Six

Faint ripples, not quite waves, stirred the water. Eyeing it, and remembering that it was maintained at near-freezing temperatures, T used the power-inflation valve on his chest to add more air to the drysuit’s chamber. And smiled, as he waddled down the steps; was this how the Michelin Man felt?

Sandy noticed, but decided that if he preferred more air than she did, that was his prerogative. She had her own ‘insulating layer’ of fat, which caused her to briefly consider losing that troublesome extra few pounds. But he wasn’t carrying a lot of weight on that belt; was it enough to compensate for the extra air?

Unnoticed by her, this was the moment when Libby linked her consciousness with T.

He halted briefly, then continued jerkily down the steps into the water. Waist deep, he paused, then tipped forward as his balance failed. Realizing what was happening, Libby withdrew from the link; her presence was no longer necessary. She sent one final thought his way: <This is a bust, Uncle T. I’m not getting anything.> During that brief period while he walked down the steps she’d scanned around T, her mind open and questing. But there had been no sense of response; if the belugas were using telepathy, it was nothing she could recognize. She’d also realized that maintaining the link might be dangerous. T needed to be aware of his surroundings.

That was a preview of Magic: Book 6, The Wizards Series. To read the rest purchase the book.

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