Connected (Bureau #12)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

O wen didn’t want to think about Keaton. No, that wasn’t true. He did want to think about him, but he knew he shouldn’t. He was on an assignment. There would be plenty of time to ponder the man later.

But Owen didn’t drive straight to the tipple, which was northeast of town. Instead he veered northwest, bouncing the Bureau’s fancy SUV along a couple of unpaved roads until he came to a halt outside the entrance to what had once been Angel Butte Ranch. Maybe it was still called that, although there was no sign, and the little house he’d grown up in was gray and boarded up. All of the outbuildings were decaying or had collapsed entirely. The acreage that his family used to keep in alfalfa or barley hadn’t been irrigated and was gone to weeds.

He got out of the car and leaned against the hood while he ate his muffin, gazing out at the place where he’d spent his first eighteen years. It had never been a productive ranch. The soil was poor and the butte that spread just behind it—and had given the ranch its name—acted as a sort of umbrella, blocking much-needed rain. On this ranch, wells had run dry, cattle had contracted diseases, irrigation equipment had failed, machinery had broken down. One disaster right after another until hopes withered and the only thing keeping the family going was pure cussedness.

Owen wondered what emotions Keaton would sense in him if they were together here. Owen wasn’t used to examining himself and wasn’t sure what he felt. If pressed, he’d say that there was mostly numbness inside him, with something tight and painful at the center. He prodded it a little, like testing a sore tooth with his tongue, but the angry knot hurt too much and he backed off.

For the first time in years he allowed himself to wonder what had become of his parents and siblings. His father was dead—Owen knew that—and his brother Andy lived in town. It was Andy who’d sought him out; Owen had his address. But he didn’t know whether his mother still lived or what had happened to Pete, his other brother. What had they done to survive after losing the ranch?

Did any of them ever think about him and regret casting him out?

Owen glanced up and for the first time noticed the clouds gathering to the west behind the butte. They were, as his mother would have said, as dark as sin. He needed to finish his work at the tipple before the storm rolled in.

He brushed his hands free of crumbs, got back in the SUV, and drove away.

The nearest houses to the tipple were almost a mile away from the structure. Back in the early 1900s, the railroad had purchased all the land around here, opened the coal mine and tipple, and built a company town of creaky little shacks to house the workers. Owen had learned in school that there had even been a general store and a café—also owned by the railroad, of course—although residents had needed to travel a few miles, into Rock Springs, to get drunk or conduct other business.

But the whole place had been abandoned long before he was born, and all the houses had been lost in a fire. The railbed was gone now too, either dug up or obscured by scrub. The only thing that remained was the tipple itself: a long, multi-segmented building made of concrete and steel, leaning against the hillside on rickety-looking stilts. In the bright sunlight it resembled a massive abstract sculpture.

Even though Owen had grown up nearby and seen all of this before, the landscape seemed alien to his eyes, as if he’d been transported to another planet. The slopes were terraced from mining, denuded of all but the hardiest low-growing plants. He couldn’t see or hear any birds or insects, and his own heartbeat seemed unnaturally loud.

Keaton had said that when he stopped here, he’d felt despair, pain, fear. Although Owen was no empath, he could almost sense those things too, the same way he sensed the faint breeze brushing against his skin. The pale hairs on his arms were raised—but maybe that was due to the pressure changes from the coming storm. The dark clouds were moving closer.

Since he wasn’t certain what he’d be confronting, Owen gathered his array of basic equipment. He buckled on the duty belt, which had holsters for a knife and gun—the special bullets would take down a vampire, a shifter, and other hard-to-kill creatures—and a taser. He carried some of the same gear a cop might, such as handcuffs and a flashlight, and also gear specific to his job, such as a bundle of sage and a packet of salt. It was a lot, and he was always conscious of the way that wearing the gear altered his gait, making his stance wider and his footfalls heavier.

He glanced at the storm clouds, tucked his phone into a pouch on his belt, and pushed his way through a broken section of chain-link fence. It was important to watch his footing on the rocky and uneven terrain, littered with rusted scraps of metal, chunks of concrete, and other debris. There were animal holes too, largely due to rabbits and rodents, and there were probably snakes. He didn’t especially want to step on a rattler.

From this morning’s visit, he knew he wouldn’t find anything of interest on the grounds; he needed to explore the building itself. His gut clenched at the thought, and he told himself that his anxiety was simply because the structure was likely unstable.

The easiest way into the building was at the uppermost end, and he had to scramble up the slope for several yards and then pick his way across a badly cracked concrete slab to get to the door. Although it was padlocked shut, a few blows with the base of his flashlight broke the hasp free, and then all he had to do was shove hard to get the door open.

The smell hit him first: coal, grease, old metal, rocks. Those he expected, but there was also a reek of decomposition. Something—or some things—had died in here. Possibly something large. Maybe a cow or sheep had somehow blundered in, or it could have been a wild animal such as a deer or pronghorn.

Despite several large windows up near the high roof, their glass long gone, not much light managed to work its way inside. Odd shadows shrouded the interior beams, railings, and metal chutes.

When the tipple had operated, the din would have been terrible. Rattling metal, chugging steam engines. Large bins of coal crashing as they were emptied into the train hoppers. Gears and chains turning. Voices raised in instruction, heavy boots tromping along the walkways. But now everything was so silent that he might have thought himself deaf if it weren’t for the noises his body made. He became aware that he was breathing hard.

“Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs,” he bellowed in his most authoritative voice. “Is there someone here?” Because the reported noises and lights could be squatters, even though he knew in his heart that there were no squatters here.

Nobody answered.

He held the flashlight tightly, almost more to serve as a potential weapon than to provide light, and started to explore. There was a lot of square footage here, with machinery and devices bolted to the floors and hanging from the walls and ceiling. It was clear that a thorough investigation would take more time than he had. But he explored with the flashlight beam wherever possible, under and around things, and he even tested the walls and floors to make sure they were solid.

Before too long, the sunlight through the windows faded and then disappeared, and the metal roof sang as the wind began to pick up. He wasn’t going to make it out of here before the rain started. He wondered what would happen if a tornado hit the tipple, then decided it wasn’t worth worrying about. Nothing he could do to control the wind. Although that would be a handy power—the ability to manipulate the weather. As far as he knew, nobody could do that, although his time in the Bureau had taught him that surprises were always possible.

Sometimes over the years he’d envied those with special talents. He would have loved to turn into a dragon and fly, for example; and he might like to live for a very long time, as had Grimes. But of course many of those talents came with a price. Grimes couldn’t smoke, drink alcohol, or eat meat; if he tried, he became violently ill. Many NHSs and humans with unusual abilities lived in near isolation, afraid of what would happen if their natures became widely known. Like Keaton, who’d exiled himself to the armpit of nowhere because everyone else’s emotions were too intrusive.

Owen picked his way down a deteriorating stairway into the next section of the building, silently cursing the ache in his knees and hips. The floor here rang hollow under his footsteps: this was the part raised on stilts, where train cars would have been driven underneath and then hoppers full of coal opened to fill the cars. Efficient, but filthy. The coal dust was still thick on all the surfaces, making him filthy too. He’d need to shower again before meeting up with Keaton. Or maybe he could just stand outside in the rain, which was beginning to pelt the leaky roof.

Now that his thoughts had strayed to Keaton, Owen couldn’t redirect them. His brain was like a particularly wayward steer, and Owen didn’t have a lasso.

It was good that Keaton could read his emotions. Yes, it meant that Owen had less privacy. But it also meant that he didn’t have to play games, pretending one thing while meaning another. He’d never been good at that anyway. This way, Keaton knew that Owen wouldn’t sic the Bureau on him. And that Owen still had the hots for him after all these years. Maybe even more so.

In a way, it was a little like picking up men in a bar or using an app. No need to beat around the bush… so to speak. Both parties knew the other’s intent. Well, except that this was sort of a one-way situation, in that Owen might be an open book to Keaton, but not vice versa. Owen didn’t know exactly what Keaton wanted. He supposed he could ask, though.

He imagined how that conversation might go, playing different scenarios in his head. All good scenarios, because while he was fully aware that tomorrow he’d be heading back to LA, he could at least pretend for a little bit that everything was going to be good and easy. Could fantasize that?—

He came to an abrupt stop and looked around. He didn’t remember leaving the second segment of the building and descending to the third, but his surroundings had changed completely. The coal dust was gone, and all the surfaces gleamed as if they were brand-new. Shiny steel tables. Huge cabinets with imposing-looking doors and heavy handles. Pendant lights that burned bright even though the tipple hadn’t had electricity in decades.

What the fuck?

Outside, the wind screamed.

Or… no. That wasn’t the wind.

Soft footsteps sounded behind him. Owen spun, right hand on his gun while the left still clutched the flashlight.

A man stood there, smiling. He was white and fortyish, average height and build, with deep-set eyes, a narrow face, and a hairline that had receded almost to nonexistence. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and red tie.

“Hello,” said the man in a somewhat reedy voice. “We’re glad you’re here, Agent Clark.”