Page 16 of Connected
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. Althoughthatwould 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. Allgoodscenarios, 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 changedcompletely. 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.”
CHAPTER 7
Keaton started to worry when the rain began.
He knew it was stupid. It was only a storm, one of dozens that would roll through Copper Springs this year. And Owen was hardly defenseless—he was a grown-ass man. In fact, he was a Bureau agent who probably knew a dozen ways to kill manticores using nothing but rubber bands and chewing gum. Plus, he’d grown up in this town and undoubtedly had plenty of experience with the challenges of Wyoming weather.
Keaton told himself he needed to chill.
He turned up the speakers loud enough to hear the music over the rattling windows and sang along while he stripped layers of wallpaper from the plaster. When he was a kid, his mother had insisted on voice lessons, with the intention of making him more marketable. Although nobody had ever cast him in anything that required it, he often sang as he worked, simply for enjoyment. It helped to keep him from noticing how empty his house was.
Today, though, singing didn’t help much. He kept losing track of the lyrics and finding himself staring out at the dark sky. The porch roof didn’t keep the wind-blown rain from streakingthe front windows, and in the cemetery across the street, the treetops swayed like possessed creatures trying to escape captivity.
Finally he gave up, turned off the music, and sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, scrolling through videos on his phone. Nothing on the phone particularly interested him, but then it rarely did. One of his weird quirks was that, despite his time as an actor, he didn’t much enjoy watching performances via electronic media. Because he couldn’t read the actors’ emotions, everything felt flat, a little like a sci-fi movie with terrible special effects. Live theater was much more fun—assuming the actors were talented and put genuine feelings into their work. Otherwise the experience was too discordant. In any case, Copper Springs wasn’t exactly a theatrical mecca, and it had been years since he’d attended a play.
He wondered if Owen liked the theater. The guy pretended to be hardboiled and callous, but it was just an act, and not a very convincing one. For Keaton, at least. Maybe the two of them could meet up for a few days in Chicago or San Francisco or LA and see some plays. Keaton could probably withstand the emotional bombardment of a real city for a few days at least. They could even?—
No. He and Owen had zero future and he was an idiot even for thinking about it.
And anyway, where the hellwasOwen? It was getting late, and the storm was growing stronger. Surely he couldn’t be investigating anything in this weather.
