A Crown of Dragons Read online

  It seemed like hours before she replied. Don’t panic. Will alert Klimt.

  I threw the phone down and sank onto the bed. Forget reality shifts, forget dragon scales; my world was about to turn inside out right here, in my room. What if Mom broke down? What if she couldn’t cope with the truth? What if she never forgave me for deceiving her these past few months? What was she going to find in those pages? I didn’t even know what was in the file, because I’d been too LAZY and too STUPID to read it.

  AAARRGGGGHHHH!

  I had to go downstairs and see her. I had to stand in front of my mother and say I was sorry, that Klimt and the Bulldog had sworn me to secrecy and —

  The bedroom door opened. And there was Mom, the file held limply at her side. I looked into her big green eyes. No tears, just the slightest suggestion of wonder.

  She said, “Who else has seen this?”

  She tapped the file against the frame of the door.

  “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “Shush,” she said. “It’s all right. I’m not angry.” She came into the room and put the file on my desk, trailing her fingers across the folder. She hugged herself and walked over to the window. “Seriously, have you shown it to anyone else — Mr. Hambleton, for instance?”

  Mr. Hambleton? My English teacher? Why would I show it to —?

  And then I got it.

  OH MY GOD, she thought it was a story. She thought I’d invented a fictional file to explain Dad’s disappearance to myself.

  That crushing sensation of fear in my chest suddenly took a whole new random twist.

  “N-no,” I said, barely able to squeeze the word out.

  “Well, you should.” She moved closer to the window, looking but not looking at the view down the lane. “It’s very detailed. Very” — she sought a word — “inspired. The way you’ve captured your father’s voice is amazing. And that newspaper article is very convincing. How on earth did you make it look so real? If I was your English teacher, I’d be deeply impressed. You must have done a lot of geographical research.”

  “Mom —?”

  “I tried it once,” she went on, playing with an imaginary string of pearls. “Writing, I mean, as a way of coping. I wrote a letter to Thomas on the anniversary of his disappearance. I told him everything that had happened to us over the year. How Josie had cracked a tooth at the swimming pool and you’d won your first chess tournament at school, how the car had broken down in the middle of town that time. Silly, really. It’s still in a drawer somewhere” — she touched a hand to her lips — “waiting to be mailed.”

  “Mom?”

  Her head dropped and she started to cry.

  “Mom, please don’t.” I went over and stood behind her, raising my hands to the curves of her shoulders. I’d never reached out to hug her before. It had always been her who had comforted me. She felt so small as she turned.

  “Oh, Michael. I miss him so much.”

  She laid her head against my shoulder, but only for a moment. “I’m proud of you. I really am. This story, it’s an incredible piece of work.”

  “Mom —?”

  “No, shush. I don’t want you to apologize. I’m glad you’ve found an outlet for your feelings. This is your way of dealing with it, of letting go.”

  No, I ached to tell her. No, Mom, I’m not letting go. Just the opposite.

  “Did you have any help?”

  “Help? What do you mean?”

  “Did Dr. K encourage you to do this?”

  And what could I say to that? I was so desperate to tell her the truth, but what would be the point of hurting her further? Klimt was right; she’d just think me delusional. So I shrugged and said, “He was involved, I s’pose.”

  She nodded. “He’s a good man, Michael.”

  I gritted my teeth and had to look away. Klimt, good? What’s that expression people like to use? The jury’s still out on that one.

  “Hey, where’ve you gone?” Mom tugged my sweater.

  “Nowhere. Just thinking.”

  “Bad for you, thinking.” She smiled and put a hand flat against my chest. If I’d been wearing my school uniform, she’d have been straightening my tie for me now. “Listen, there’s something I want to tell you. I haven’t said anything to Josie yet. I wanted to share this with you first.”

  “Are you ill?” It sounded like that kind of speech.

  “No,” she laughed. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s … well, there’s no easy way to say this and there’s never going to be an appropriate time, so I’m just going to come right out with it: Someone has asked me out.”

  “What, like a date? A man, you mean?”

  “Yes, a man,” she said, doing her best not to smile.

  “But you can’t. You’re married — to Dad.”

  “I know.” She pressed her thumb against the back of her wedding ring.

  “You just said you missed him!”

  “I do,” she said. And now the smile had been replaced by a look of yearning. “I miss your father more than words can say — but I miss having … company as well.”

  “You’ve got me and Josie!”

  “Yes,” she said, misting up again. “That’s true, I have. And you two are the best thing in the world. You really are. But it would be nice for me to have … a friend as well.”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “A friend,” she repeated.

  “No,” I said, spinning away from her. “No, you can’t do this. Dad’s still alive, I know he is.”

  “Michael, please.” She glanced at the file.

  On the bed, my cell phone buzzed. I saw Chantelle’s avatar flash up on the screen. “He’s alive,” I repeated. “And I’m going to find him and bring him home!”

  Mom’s shoulders sank. “We’ll talk about this another time,” she said quietly. “I think you should get some rest.” And she stroked my arm and walked out of the room, leaving what felt like a huge void behind her.

  I picked up the phone and read Chantelle’s message.

  What is happening?

  I texted back. All good. She thinks I wrote a story!

  Boyfriend. No way.

  No one would ever replace my dad.

  I couldn’t let her do this. I couldn’t allow Mom to give up hope.

  Whatever it took, I would bring Dad home.

  I tapped a final message back to Chantelle. Tell Klimt I’m ready for TMP.

  My quest — my greatest UFile — had begun, and it had suddenly become more urgent than ever.

  I read the file. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. I’d had a major, MAJOR confrontation with Mom, but I needed to be sure now of what she’d seen. At some point, during some conversation, she was bound to mention the “story.” And once Josie got wind of it, it would be all over school and her social media. If I said something too far out of context, they would pick me up on it right away. Then it might be hard to cover my tracks.

  So I sat at my desk and revisited Dad in the Chihuahuan Desert. The first few pages mainly contained general information about his surroundings, the camp, the archaeology team, the injury to Hartland. A gash like a small river, Dad reported, running from the right ear down to the collarbone. It had missed the carotid artery but produced a significant amount of blood. The weapon was the scale itself.

  Things got really interesting on page three. With the eyecam down, Dad had relayed everything into his phone. This was standard UNICORNE practice: Record everything. A lot of it was boring stuff: times, dates, locations. But the active parts of the file read like the script of a spy novel, especially the part where he was tracking Rodriguez through the desert.

  Moving northeast at a steady pace. Difficult terrain. Ground still rising. Rockier now. Picking my way through boulder fields dusted with snow. Temperature okay, but night has fallen. Won’t be long before the cold kicks in. Will have to abandon if — Wait, I can hear something up ahead. Stones being moved. It must be Rodriguez. Yep, I see him
. I see the cairn, by his light. I’m circling, looking for a better position. He’s digging. Taking stones from the cairn. Talking to himself. He sounds … disturbed. I see a box that might contain the scale. Yes. He’s just lifted the lid. Can’t see the scale, but there’s a glow from the box. Green. It’s glowing green against the darkness, lighting his face. He’s taken it out and rested it on his palms. Dropping to his knees — praying, I think. A language I’m not familiar with. Not Spanish. Something more indigenous. He looks wired. Doped, as if the scale has got to him. He’s — Jeez! What was that?! Something just flashed across the stones. Snake! It’s a snake! It’s gone for Rodriguez! He’s been bitten. He’s dropped the scale. He’s rolling back in pain, clutching his thigh. He’s crying out, grasping for a knife. I can see the snake clearly now, rearing, bold. Looks like a rattler, but its head is like nothing I’ve ever seen before … It’s going to strike again. I’ll never get to him in time. It’s … Holy mother of mercy, it just blew FIRE from its jaws!

  “Dad, get out of there,” I found myself whispering. But he didn’t, of course. He tried to help Enrico.

  Enrico is down. Not moving. I’m going closer. Don’t think the snake has sensed me yet. Correction. It’s turning. Its eyes, they’re so … Damn, that was close! Just … able … to roll in time. Running for the cairn. Loose rocks there. Only chance is to — Jeez, this thing’s quick! That IS fire it’s blowing. Repeat: fire, not venom. Got an idea. Climbing the cairn. It’s weak on one side where the team has been digging. If I can coax this freak into the right position … Come on-nn … Come on-nn, you beast … Around this side. Just a little farther … [sound of clattering rubble] That’s it! I’ve got it! Top portion of the cairn collapsed with my weight. The snake’s under the rubble, but it might not be finished. Checking Enrico. He’s not breathing. No pulse. Eyes dilated. Burn marks on his chest. Smoking welts in the skin. I can’t do anything for him. Retrieving the scale from among the rocks. Wow, this is something. Weighty. Crusted. Still glowing. Warm. Feels strange to hold it, as if it’s probing me somehow, trying to connect. My heart rate’s building. This is extraordinary. I’ve never felt anything like this in my life.

  “Dad,” I said again. “Dad, get out of there.” I couldn’t help running through the worst scenarios. What if the fire snake freed itself? What if Dad was overcome by the power of the scale? What if the Mogollon monster appeared?

  And then something did appear.

  Lights, Dad reported. I see lights in the sky, panning the desert. Can’t ID a chopper. No engine sound. Possibly military stealth craft. I’m moving away from the cairn. Will bury the scale with my watch if there’s time, leave the GPS tracer on. [sound of scrabbling] That’s it, I’m clear, but the craft is overhead. They’ve lit the cairn and Enrico’s body. They’ll find me soon. Nowhere to hide. Don’t see a way out of this. I need to be a long, long way from here. If I could just — Uh! [sound of losing balance] Something … weird just happened. I’m … I’m still in the desert, but I don’t know where. Don’t recognize the mountain profile. I’m not by the cairn. Repeat: not by the cairn. It’s as though a hand just picked me up and dropped me someplace else. [sound of panting] Head spinning. Can’t focus … Trying to stand … Can’t … Can’t … [sound of a body collapsing]

  The report ended there, with no further indication of what had happened. But I knew. Dad had experienced a reality shift, brought on by the scale. I turned the page. Pinned to the back of the transcript was another report with details of how UNICORNE had gotten him home. The sudden shift in his GPS position had made them send a drone to the new location. The drone had beamed back pictures of Dad lying on the ground in scrubland close to Highway 54. Two agents were sent to find him. The scale was put into an isolation vessel and eventually transported to UNICORNE headquarters via private plane.

  The report said nothing more about Dad.

  But a newspaper article at the back of the file did. It ran the headline: HERE BE DRAGONS? Underneath was a subheading: MOGOLLON MYSTERY AT THREE RIVERS.

  Beside it was a picture of the “monster” petroglyph.

  I read the whole thing. It told the story of the petroglyph discovery and the alleged artifact found in the cairn, now missing. How there had been disagreements in the camp and Enrico had been found dead at the cairn. The official autopsy result claims Rodriguez died from a snakebite, but there are persistent rumors of unnatural burn marks on his chest. And sources close to the story have suggested that his body contained high doses of radiation. So what did kill Enrico Rodriguez? And where is Stephen Dexter, the shadowy archaeologist who reportedly followed him into the desert? No trace of Dexter has ever been found. His true identity remains a mystery. Was he planted there to steal the artifact, then airlifted out? If so, by whom? Was he captured and taken to Zone 16? Or is the truth stranger than we dare to imagine? Did whatever killed Rodriguez also abduct Dexter, taking evidence of the existence of dragons with it? What kind of monster really stalks the wastelands of southern New Mexico? We may never know.

  I sat back in my chair, tossing an imaginary basketball into a hoop. Reading the article had suddenly identified a whole new conundrum, one I’d never thought about till now. Since joining UNICORNE, I’d been so preoccupied with bringing Dad home that I’d never stopped to think about the implications of it. The questions in the press, for instance. Where have you been, Thomas? Were you imprisoned? Why have you not come back or been released by now? Dad’s picture would be everywhere, the TV news, the papers, the Internet. How long before someone began to speculate that Thomas Malone was Stephen Dexter, bogus archaeologist, Three Rivers thief? Come to think of it, why hadn’t anyone thought of it three years ago? My heart skipped a beat. Maybe they had. Maybe Lynton and Marie were shown photographs of Dad but both had denied that he was Dexter. It wasn’t difficult to see how UNICORNE could swing that. Lynton and Marie were dedicated archaeologists, and Lynton had even suggested on camera that he wouldn’t want the scale in the hands of the government or Zone 16. I closed the file with a sinking feeling. Bringing Dad back might be the worst thing I could do for him. What hope would he have for a normal life? I picked up my paper chain of dragons. In my mind I plucked them like daisy petals. He comes home, I let him go. He comes home, I let him go. I didn’t make it to the end of the chain. I didn’t need to.

  I knew their number was even.

  I slept surprisingly well that night but woke earlier than normal because I thought I heard someone tapping at my door. “Josie, get lost,” I said into my pillow. But the sound wasn’t coming from the door; it was above me.

  I rolled out of bed. Outside, the rain was pelting down. Some had worked its way into the roof space, it seemed. On the ceiling above my desk was a dull yellow stain. Every few seconds came the splap of dripping water. “Great,” I muttered, and got back into bed.

  I told Mom at breakfast.

  “Oh, no,” she groaned, and immediately ran upstairs to look. She was back moments later with the phone to her ear. “Mr. Grewitt? Yes, it’s Darcy Malone. Havenhold Cottage, on the outskirts of Holton? Yes, you painted that wall for us last year. We’ve got a leak in the roof. Is there any chance … ? Oh, really? As long as that? Oh, dear. I don’t think we can wait a week. I don’t suppose there’s anyone else you could —? … Oh, just a minute. I think we had a leaflet through the mail slot from them.” She scrabbled through a box where we kept our telephone books and other bits of information. “DH Roofing? They’re okay, are they? I — Yes, perhaps something temporary, until you can get here. Excellent. You’ll call me? Or should I —? I will. Thank you so much. Thank you. Good-bye.”

  She ended the call and quickly made another. “Oh, hello. My name is Darcy Malone. We have a leak in our roof. I wonder if you could give me a call as soon as you possibly can, please. Thank you.”

  She clicked the phone off and put the leaflet on the table.

  “Dennis Handiman?” I said, reading it over my cereal bowl. “You can’t have someone called Den
nis Handiman looking at our roof. You’ll be having Postman Pat delivering our mail next.”

  “If you’ve got any better suggestions,” she said, digging around in the cupboard under the sink, “you’re welcome to air them.” She plonked a bucket down in front of me.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Cornflake challenge. I thought we’d fill it and see how long it takes you to eat a whole bucket load. What do you think it’s for?” She dusted a hand over the top of my head. “That walk across the hills was supposed to have blown the cobwebs out of your brain, not put it to sleep. You know how to operate the attic ladder. Go on. You’ll be quicker than me.”

  “You want me to go up into the attic?”

  “No, I want you to lie on your bedroom floor with your mouth wide open in case any water falls through the ceiling! Just find the drip and put the bucket under it. And be careful where you put your feet. The space above your bedroom isn’t boarded so you might have to stand on the joists. On second thought, maybe I should —”

  “I can do it.” I wrested the bucket from her. This would have been a task for Dad. Entrusting me with it made me feel like the man of the house. Besides, I’d never been in the attic.

  “Oh, and give Josie a hurry-up, will you?”

  I paused at the door. I was about to say something mean along the lines of Am I allowed to kick her? when I noticed Mom running what looked like lipstick around her mouth. She saw me looking and dropped the stick into her bag.

  “It’s a moisturizer,” she said. “My lips get chapped in the cold. I’ve used it for years. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  All the same, I couldn’t help but make a dig. “Maybe your boyfriend could fix the roof for us?”

  “Don’t,” she said, a tiny word that seemed to cover a multitude of larger possibilities.