Shadowrun: Spells & Chrome (40 page)

“Daniel …”

The doctor ignored the gibe. “And I’m happy to consider that our mythologies, and that includes those of the various religions, reflect those earlier epochs. Every culture and religion has its little people and boogeymen, its magical amulets and taboos.”

Okay, Daniel considered, that was true. He was suddenly conscious of the weight of Rachel’s silver and amethyst mezuzah that hung from his neck beneath his shirt. A ward against evil, yes; a focus, perhaps. So why had she left it behind … ?

He said, “So you’re sticking with traumatic amnesia.” When the doctor nodded, Daniel went on: “Will her memory return?”

“Maybe
sí
, maybe
no
.” The doctor steepled his fingers the way a professor does when lecturing to the dumbest kid in class. “The head injury’s legit, but not
that
bad. But you tell me: Just how likely is it that
six
lights malfunctioned? That their directional guidance beacons failed? That Lee Harriman’s cyber-eyes chose that moment to go completely black? If we believe her story, every single artificially-powered system—from communications to propulsion to dive computers—went on the fritz. So tell me this: How did she get from depth to the surface without a dive computer calculating her decompression stops? Hell, how did she get up without
air
? All she had was a drysuit. No gear at all.”

“Maybe it was magic.” He meant it as a dig, but the doctor frowned.

“Trust me, she’s a mundane. No bioware implants even. The CSI team had an adept check her over, and he found nothing: no astral signature, nothing in her history to suggest a latent ability. As for the whole systems’ failure stuff, land-based monitoring systems didn’t pick up a single communications hiccup or Matrix glitch that entire day. So, all we’ve got is her story and pieces of a dead guy’s suit.”

“Eifo?”

“Where did it happen?” asked Daniel.

“She either doesn’t remember or isn’t saying. The evac team touched down about a half mile west of Waipi’o Valley. There are, maybe, fifty people in the place and about half are named Dave. Anyway, the Menehune have claimed the whole place. Nasty little buggers.”

Privately, Daniel doubted that anything could be worse than a
shedu
and although the beings that oozed into this world bore little resemblance to the “no-gods” of Jewish lore and mysticism, their malevolence was identical. (Well, all except stories about the ones who studied Torah and followed the commandments … but those must be exceptionally
good
shedim. He’d never met—or bound—any of
those
.) “Anything on her boyfriend, Harriman?”

“Nope. Did a lot of tech diving, sometimes hired himself out to places like the Atlantean.”

“A relic hunter.”

“Not by choice. I got the impression that it was mainly contract work, but Harriman wasn’t working for anyone that we know of, and he wasn’t a shadowrunner.”

Daniel didn’t bother pointing out that if you knew a shadowrunner when you saw him, the guy either wasn’t very good or
you
were three seconds away from a morgue slab. “So, back to either a lie, or an accident.”

“Or a little of both.
He
could’ve gotten into trouble, and
she
might’ve panicked. But the police have closed it, and I’ve got enough work to do. So.” The doctor yawned and stretched. “We’re pretty much done here. She can leave whenever.”

“Tov, tov, good. Get her away from this godforsaken place. We don’t have that much time, Daniel. You must find it before—”

“So you have no objection if I speak with her,” said Daniel.

“Hell no, knock yourself out.” The psychiatrist eyed him curiously. “But what’s S-K’s interest in all this? I mean, she’s an
archaeologist
, for Christ’s sake.”

Daniel scraped back his chair and stood. “You’ve been very helpful, Doctor. A pleasure.” A lie, on all counts. “I’d like to see her now.”

The doctor might be a jerk, but he wasn’t an idiot. His face smoothed into a mask of professional neutrality. “Sure. I’ll have someone bring her to an interview room.”

“Lo, get her out of there.”

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I had something a little more comfortable in mind. Something outside the hospital,” said Daniel.

“What makes you think she’ll go with you?”

Daniel said nothing.

The doctor thought another moment then said, “Well, there’s the little problem of her expenses …”

Daniel was already punching up numbers on his commlink. “How much?”

III

It was late afternoon by the time they stopped in Hawi at a little restaurant, an old hotel converted into a popular eatery still going strong after a hundred and fifty years. Their waitress, a cheerful woman as round as a raspberry named “Auntie,” recommended the macadamia-encrusted ono with jasmine rice.

They sat over sweating glasses of passionfruit iced tea, Daniel still a little … unsettled. When the psych tech led Alana into the doctor’s office, he’d done a double-take, his heart suddenly twisting in his chest.

Because Alana looked
that
much like Rachel: petite and bronzed, with high cheekbones, the same widow’s peak, the identical set of jaw; a narrow, aristocratic nose though Alana’s was a little off-kilter, like she’d broken it way back when. Her aura was strong: a scintillating blood-orange.

(Had Rachel’s been the same? He couldn’t remember and that made him sad.)

The main difference between the two women, though, was in the eyes. Rachel’s had been an arresting hazel flecked with green, vibrant and alive. Alana’s were dusky black pearls, haunted and drawn.

“Tell me something.” Alana traced a finger in the dew of her glass. “Why do you keep staring at me?”

“Am I? Sorry. You remind me of someone, that’s all. Your aura is … interesting.”

“I see.” Pause. “Did you love her?”

Daniel blinked. A sudden talon of grief dug at his chest, and he recognized it as the danger signal it was.

The Rebbe, silent for the last two hours, sensed his distress because he broke in:
“Careful, my son. Focus on getting the information. The rest is …”
But even
he
didn’t finish the thought.

“Very much.” Daniel tried a smile that he knew failed. “You don’t waste any time.”

“I’m sorry.” She touched the back of his hand. “It’s just that your eyes are so sad and … hungry.”

“So what made you come with such a mad and melancholy man?”

“The shrinks weren’t helping. I didn’t like being treated like a criminal.”

“Well, shrinks are paid to be skeptics.” He should know. Mossad’s psychological screening included an exhaustive battery of tests, interviews and neural scans. Not pleasant to have someone finger-walking then dissecting your thoughts and dreams. And, of course, after Rachel had disappeared and his handler tracked him to that safe house where Daniel had been considering the merits of a well-placed bullet to the brain … then he’d had to see another shrink, a dyspeptic shrew who seemed to get off on his suffering.

“Please. Did you spend any time with that doctor?” A fleeting spasm of her lips as she tried for a smile. “A good thing he kept me kind of dopey the first couple days, or else I’d have broken his nose. He thought I was faking, the asshole.” Her shirt was open at the throat, and her fingers crept to a shark’s tooth dangling from a black cord. The tooth was perhaps five centimeters long and tawny with serrated edges. She played with the charm. “But it’s the
truth
.”

“I
know
,” said Daniel, gravely. “That doctor
is
an asshole.” She laughed out loud this time, a good sound, and he grinned. “That’s better.”

“Yeah.” But she sobered, the smile leaking away. “You think you’re never going to be happy again.”

Their salads came. As he stabbed arugula and mango, Daniel chinned in the general direction of her necklace. “That looks pretty old.”

“This?” Chewing, she glanced myopically down, swallowed, said, “My gran claimed that it came from an extinct great white, but who knows. I’ve never bothered getting it dated. It’s supposed to have big-time mojo, but since no Menehune ever appeared and I still had to study my ass off to defend my dissertation … Anyway, the story goes that all the first-born daughters in my family are supposed to wear the tooth and pass it on, etc., etc. We even get a tattoo.” Thrusting her left leg from beneath the table, she pulled up her jeans to reveal a circlet of black-inked wedges lacing her ankle. “Not quite the same as the petroglyph for shark, but close.”

“That the story you told the doctor? The first-born stuff?”

Her skin flushed copper, and she found something intensely interesting on her plate. “You heard that. God, I’m so embarrassed. He was just such a … It’s just a myth, a kind of Romeo and Juliet thing: the daughter of a chief falls in love with the son of a rival chief; he gets killed; she tries killing herself. In ancient Hawaiian tradition, bones are sacred and have a lot of mana. Sometimes they were distributed to chiefs and other important people … that’s what happened to Captain Cook, actually.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I kid you not. Somewhere on this island, someone’s got a jawbone; someone else has a couple fingers. That’s how they did it. More often, though, the bones were wrapped in tapa and slotted into hidden niches along high cliffs. The way they used to do it, a volunteer was lowered over the side and placed the bones, and then the
kahuna
cut the rope.”

“Ouch. Talk about taking a secret to the grave. Let me guess: the daughter changed places and went over the cliff with her lover’s bones.”

“And cut the rope, yup. Only she didn’t die on the rocks. She started sinking and then all of a sudden this huge shark appears, grabs her ankle and tows her far down the Kohala coast. Lets her go near Pelekane Bay. When she tries wading back out, the shark won’t let her and she goes ballistic. The shark finally says:
Don’t you know me? It is I, Kimo, your dead love, and I tell you now that you are not done with life. Let go of my bones, my love, and live.
” She gave a rueful smile. “Silly, right?”

“I don’t think it’s silly at all. Did she? Let go, I mean.”

“Yeah. Anyway, the shark disappeared. Later, she discovered it had left a tooth embedded in her ankle.” She tapped the charm around her neck. “At least, that’s the claim. Afterward, she ordered that a shark
heiau
, a special sacrificial altar, be constructed in the bay to worship the shark-god. The altar’s gone now but wearing the tooth, having the tattoo … makes me feel connected, you know? To history, to the land.”

Their food came. The fish was very good—snowy white, firm and juicy—but in his fatigue Daniel only managed a few bites. Alana forked up the last of her rice and fish in about three minutes, looked at his plate, said, “You going to want all that?”

It was something Rachel would’ve said:
“Daniel, sharing food’s a sign of true love.” “Bullshit, you just want my French fries.”

“Please.” He thumbed his plate toward her. “Don’t be shy on my account.”

“I’m
hungry
. You ever had hospital food?”

“Not in recent memory.” He waited until she’d slowed down then said, “When are you going to ask?”

She looked up, jaws working. Held up a finger. Chased her food with the last of her tea, then said, “I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready. Or ask me, or whatever … So.” Wiping her mouth, she crumpled her napkin, let it fall to her plate. “Shoot. You want to know what happened, right? Well, I don’t remember. What’s your interest, anyway?”

“It’s my job.”

“And what—” she began, but Auntie trundled over, gathered their plates, inquired if they wanted dessert. He said, no, just coffee, and when Auntie was gone, Alana folded her arms on the table. “What’s that?”

“I’m a kind of investigator.”

“Police?”

“A private concern.”

“Occult?”

He waited for the Rebbe to interject something, but his brain was, mercifully, silent. “You could say that.”

“But not exactly.” When he nodded, she said, “Why would what happened to me be of interest to … well, I guess you’d say, your employer, right? Saeder-Krupp? Why would Lofwyr care?”

“Does it matter?”

She stared at him a good ten seconds then shrugged. “I guess not.” She scraped back her chair and stood. “I’ve got to pee. Get the coffee to go and let’s blow this crackerjack joint.”

“And we’re going …?”

Her smile was tight, with no humor in it. “To the Land of the Dead.”

•
•
•

The access road into Waipi’o Valley could only be reached from the east, which meant they had to backtrack, dropping out of the high country into Waimea before turning northeast toward the coast. Ten klicks shy of Honokaa, they headed west, following the main drag all the way to a very abrupt end. By then, the sun was slipping away, but Daniel had seen enough on the approach to realize that they were headed into a region of soaring, nearly vertical cliffs and deep, impenetrable valleys.

“Jesus, you weren’t kidding when you stressed that
dead
part.” He eyed the faraway ribbon of a waterfall. A three-hundred-meter tumble, easy. “You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack. The ancient Hawaiians called the valley
Milu
after an old chief who was the king of the dead. The valley’s one of two places on the island where you’re supposed to be able to access the shadows. Those cliffs are where a lot of the kings are buried, right in the rock. See that beach down there?” She indicated a crescent gash of black sand two kilometers long. “Water’s like glass, but the undertow and rip currents’ll kill you.”

“If we don’t peel off the road. That’s almost straight down. I’ll burn out my brakes. We’ll never get back out.”

“This is a rental, right? So, let them worry about it. Trust me, you burn out the brakes, and they’ll leave the thing where it dies. Costs a small fortune in nyuen to tow anyone out. Anyway, it’s only a twenty-five percent grade, most of the way.”

“Only, she says.”

“Well, some of it’s forty-five.” She gave him a tight grin. “Look, the answer’s down there. I’m offering to show you.”