Firefly. Part 1

Piers Anthony.

Firefly.

* 1

SKIN AND BONES, literally. The skin was like parchment, crinkled and collapsed, draped over the skull, limbs, rib cage, backbone, and pelvis within the clothing. It was as if a giant snake had swallowed a man, digested him but not his clothing, and shed its skin, leaving only the bones within it.

Geode shook his head as he gazed at it. This was the same effect he had seen with animals, but on a larger scale. This time the remains were human. The figure lay supine, arms slightly spread, face turned to the side, as if sleeping. The clothing seemed undisturbed, except that the fly of the trousers was open, as if the man had been urinating when abruptly shriveled.

It was recent. The bones might have endured a long time, but the skin should have rotted away soon enough. It overlay the brown bed of pine needles beneath a leaning tree, and a few green blades of gra.s.s. On the left wrist was a watch whose time was current. Lying nearby was a modern sport rifle. A hunter, illegal on at least two grounds: this was posted property, and it was out of season.

He stooped to peer more closely at the face. It was grotesque. The skin was almost colorless, hanging in wrinkles over the nasal cavity and the gaunt jawbone and teeth. The eye sockets were glazed over, but no eyeb.a.l.l.s remained, just the glaze. It was as if some thin lacquer or fixative had been sprayed over the body just before the contents had been removed, leaving only the sh.e.l.l. What natural process could account for this?

Geode felt a reaction. He was getting an erection. Astonished, he froze in place. Did this macabre sight somehow turn him on? He had heard of this in some men, but had never experienced it himself.

He stood upright and backed away. This body would have to be reported. The unnatural death of a man was always a notable occurrence. But first he would complete his rounds. Perhaps he would be able to spot where the man had come from.

He returned to his bicycle and resumed his ride along the forest path. He was near the northwest corner of the ranch, where a development was approaching. Its lightly tarred dirt roads extended outward like the strands of a spiderweb, terminating abruptly at the fence that marked the boundary of the square mile that was known as the Middle Kingdom, after its reclusive oriental owner. Sometimes illegal hunters drove up to the blank dead-ends, parked, and climbed through the fence to poach deer.

That was one reason Geode was here. His employer regarded the ranch as a wildlife sanctuary, and wanted no intrusions. He was not, as Geode understood it, a wildlife enthusiast; it was just a pretext to maintain privacy. The Middle Kingdom was registered and managed as a 600-acre tree farm, which Geode understood cut its taxes to an eighth of what they might otherwise have been. Since intruders could build fires or damage trees, Geode's job was to patrol the property and to report anything he deemed to be worth reporting. But since his employer did not like to be bothered with trifles, Geode was supposed to do his best to resolve any problems by himself.

In short, he was to treat the ranch as if it were his own. These were his trees and his animals, and he watched constantly over them. This was in effect his kingdom. He liked it that way.

He came to the fence. Sure enough, there was a parked pickup truck. It was empty, and locked. The man had stopped here, squeezed between the strands of the barbed wire, gone on in to poach-and died mysteriously.

Geode had no sympathy for the hunter. His affinity was with the wildlife. But the death was both strange and gruesome, and it made him queasy in the stomach. Coupled with the similar corpse of the rabbit he had seen the week before, it bothered him. He had not reported the rabbit, but this he would have to put on record. He might value a rabbit more than a poacher, but others did not.

He returned to the bike and pedaled on south. In due course he intersected the entry driveway and shifted to top gear on the asphalt, picking up speed. A gopher turtle at the edge of the road gazed at him, pondered, and pulled in its head as he pa.s.sed. "h.e.l.lo, friend," he called rea.s.suringly, but he was beyond before the turtle could answer. He felt guilty about that, but there was no help for it, this time. Midday in the heat was the time for turtles, just as dawn and dusk were the times for rabbits. All of them were relatively tame, for they were not molested here. The drive was fenced on either side, but the animals could handle the fences, and claimed to like the open corridor.

He followed the road half a mile down, past young slash pines, old live oaks, mixed magnolias, and reclining palmettos, until it curved up a slight hill to the house. He parked the bike at the lesser entry to the side, and used his key to open the door. As he did so, the steady sound of the security alarm came on. He walked to the keypad set inside the main door and punched in the defuse code: 1206. It was the year that Jenghiz Khan was proclaimed supreme leader of all the Mongols. An awareness of Asian history was helpful here in the Middle Kingdom.

Then he called 800-555-1369 (the accession of Tamerlane) to report to his employer. How many numbers Middleberry had he didn't know, but this one was reserved for calls from this address only.

He got an answering machine. No ident.i.ty was given; there was only a beep. That was standard. "I found a dead man," Geode said. "Strange circ.u.mstance. I need instructions soon." That was all; he was not supposed to waste words. Indeed, he never called unless there was something significant to report. He left routine reports on the local answering machine for Middleberry to pick up at his convenience.

He had no notion where Middleberry was; it could be anywhere in the world, the call transferred to his phone by satellite. It might be a day before he received the callback, or it might be minutes. He would remain at the house until it came; that was part of the deal, when he made such a report. His time was worth nothing, compared to that of his employer.

The phone rang thirty seconds after he had hung up. It was Mid, of course; this line had no other connection. He lifted the receiver. "Geode."

"Detail," the slightly thin voice said.

"Northwest sector, near the development. I conjecture that a hunter parked at the fence, went inside, and suffered some kind of malady while taking a p.i.s.s. He fell on his back, and something dehydrated him. The body is undisturbed, but nothing remains except clothing, rifle, watch, skin, and the skeleton. It happened within the past day, maybe at night. No evidence of violence, no tracks other than his own. I have not touched the body, and have reported it only to you."

"I will investigate. Hide the body safely. Take the car to an isolated waterfront and throw the key in the water. Do not be observed."

Geode hesitated. If this was not an illegal procedure, it was bordering on it. Yet if he refused, he would be fired. Mid did not fool with employees.

"You have a problem, George?" Now the vague oriental accent was more p.r.o.nounced, signifying the man's irritation. There was also a warning: Mid used his given name only when what Mid said was to be ignored or denied. Geode would do the same, addressing him as Middleberry only if someone were with him, overhearing the conversation, in that way warning his employer to say nothing private.

But in this case he had to skirt the warning. "Yes, Mid. The authorities may think I killed him. With my record-"

"I will protect you, Geode."

That decided him. He owed everything to his employer, including blind loyalty; that had been clear from the outset. "I will do it. Do you want a subsequent report?"

"Only in the event of a new development. Is there anything you need?"

That was Mid's way of offering a reward, which was in turn his indication of pleasure in Geode's performance. "No, Mid." What Geode truly desired, not even Mid could provide.

The connection broke. Mid did not waste time with amenities.

Geode got right on it. He put on a knapsack, donned heavy work gloves, put in a folding shovel, and went out. He had cooled off in the intermission in the air conditioning; now he felt the rising heat of the Florida day. He rode the bike rapidly up the drive and off it at the turn, shifting to a lower gear and crunching over sand and twigs as fast as he could. The bicycle had fifteen speeds and wide tires; it was made for this. Mid would have provided him with a motorcycle or a helicopter if he had wanted them, but Geode preferred the quiet and efficient bicycle. It let him be closer to nature, so that he could talk with the animals without alarming them, and it didn't require trips into town for gasoline.

He stopped at the body. He found the pocket containing the keys, and carefully worked them out without disturbing the rest. Again he experienced an erection, and he wondered about the skeleton's open fly. Had it been urination? Then he looped around to the truck, picking trails that would not show his tires. He hoped no one else had spied the vehicle.

He was in luck; there was no sign of activity. He used the key to unlock the door, then checked the back. There was a canvas bag, such as might be used to haul the stripped carca.s.s of a deer. He took it out, wadded it into his knapsack, and took that over the fence, hiding it in the concealed crotch of a twisting live oak tree.

A squirrel was watching him alertly. "Don't tell it's here," Geode said, and winked. The squirrel nodded and moved on up the branch.

He returned to the truck, put his light bike carefully in the back, got in, fastened the seat belt, and turned the key in the ignition. He wasn't much for powered vehicles, but he did know the rules of their operation. The motor caught immediately; it was a good machine. Better than its owner, he thought with cynical bemus.e.m.e.nt. It had four-wheel drive and automatic shift. He was used to gearshift, but was able to figure out the principle: R for reverse and D for drive.

He backed it cautiously onto the road and turned. By the time he had maneuvered it to face the other way, he had a reasonable feel for its mechanism. He drove it slowly down the road, marveling at its clutchless shifts.

He took it down-country toward Inverness, then east on Turner Camp Road until it dead-ended at the river. His luck held; there were no other cars there. He pulled the truck off the turning circle, parked it close to the water, got out, locked it, and lifted the bike out of the back. He walked it beside the river, then hurled the key into the murky water. Then he got on and pedaled away.

He was thoroughly sweaty by the time he returned to the ranch, for the day was typically hot and he had expended a lot of energy riding rapidly along back roads. He had taken a circuitous route so that anyone who saw him would not realize where he had come from or where he was going. Cyclists were not uncommon here, and they did prefer the back roads so as not to be endangered by traffic. Chances were that no one would remember his pa.s.sage, if they noted it at all.

He came to the spot where the truck had been parked. There was still no sign of attention; as far as he knew, it was a clean job. He lifted the bike over the barbed wire, climbed through himself, fetched the knapsack, and rode back toward the body.

It remained undisturbed. He laid the bag on the ground and lifted the boots, putting them in. The body was both light and cohesive, no trouble at all to move. He had to fold it, which was awkward in the bag; he had to haul it out, push it into a crude fetal position, and work that into the opening. Again he found himself getting an erection, and again was repulsed. He was no necrophiliac and no h.o.m.os.e.xual, and this disgusted him.

Once the body was in, he set the bag aside and rearranged the pine needles, covering the traces. No casual pa.s.ser would realize that this site had ever been disturbed, and after the next rain it would be just about impossible to tell.

He tied the closed bag to the top of his knapsack and donned the whole. It required some adjustment, but in this manner he was able to carry the bag on his back while riding the bike. All he needed was muscle and endurance, and he had those.

He headed east, winding toward the old limerock mine pit. This was the best place to hide something, for even if a person strayed onto the posted property, he was unlikely to go in there. Geode had explored the pits as a matter of policy and curiosity, wanting to know everything about the land for which he was caretaker. He knew their recesses. Now that knowledge was handy.

He came into the young section of the tree farm. Here there were two-year-old longleaf pine seedlings, still looking much like gra.s.s. Longleaf was different from other pines; it did not form a main stem until it was ready to grow rapidly. It gathered ma.s.s below the ground, and then shot up quickly. This seemed to help protect it from the ravages of wildfires.

Near the pit was a copse of larger slash pine. Once the full tract had been slash, but the soil and moisture were wrong in this section, and it hadn't done well. Mid had had it taken down and replaced with longleaf, which was expected to do better. He had left some of the slash at the fringe of the mine, where it seemed to have better fortune.

Geode stopped at the brink and dismounted. He leaned the bike against a slash pine and started down. There was a fifty-foot drop-off, but this was readily bypa.s.sed where an old mining ramp descended. Everything was overgrown with bushes and small trees now, but it was pa.s.sable to a man on foot. The tops of grown trees were visible beyond the thickets at the verge; it had been several decades since the mine had been worked.

He wound down to the bottom, then around to a cul-de-sac sheltered by a truly formidable thicket; only a really determined intruder would come in here. He laid the bag within this. There was no need to cover it, as it would not be visible from above, and there was no strong odor; even animals would probably leave it alone, as there was nothing for them to eat. He had brought the shovel, but didn't need it, which was just as well. The job was done.

He withdrew from the thicket, and his erection finally subsided. He climbed back to the surface, making sure he had left no obvious traces.

He rode the bicycle around the mine, taking a different route back.

There was no sign of any other human activity.

The chime sounded: eight notes. That meant that someone was at the main gate, three quarters of a mile distant.

Geode pressed the admittance b.u.t.ton, then went out into the afternoon heat to see who arrived. He could have ignored it, pretending that he wasn't here, but that wasn't his way; he needed to know whatever went on at or near the ranch so that he could guard against trouble.

Soon a vehicle came into view and rolled up the slight hill to the house. Geode's stomach tightened when he saw that it was a sheriff's car. Had they traced the dead man to this property after all?

The driver parked and got out. He was a solid man of about forty, sweaty in his uniform. He was not the one Geode knew. That might or might not be bad news.

"Hi!" the man said, approaching and shoving out his hand. "I'm Frank Tishner, deputy sheriff." He was pale of hair and eye, but evidently no one to fool with; Geode could read the little signals of toughness despite the superficially breezy manner. This was someone who didn't let go readily when crossed.

Geode took the hand; there wasn't much way to avoid it. "George Demerit, caretaker for the Middle Kingdom."

"So I've heard. Look, I won't keep you long. There's been something going on, and we're trying to run it down. Have you seen anything unusual recently?"

He knew! But that was fear rather than certainty; how could he know? "Like what?"

"Well, there've been some bones turning up, animals. Maybe a voodoo cult, we don't know. You seen anything like that?"

Geode thought quickly, and decided on a compromise. "Yes, I found a rabbit. Bones-and fur. I thought it was an old body, but I hadn't seen it there before."

Tishner nodded. "That's it. Was it where people go?"

"No. I patrol the ranch every day. I saw it beside one of my bike trails. No one else goes there; it's my business to keep them out."

"Could a cultist have sneaked in and left it there?"

Geode shrugged. "Maybe. But I saw no tracks. I don't think anyone was there." Indeed, the rabbit had mystified him; it had seemed like a natural death, yet was so unnatural.

Tishner turned to gaze at the forest ringing the house. "Any domestic animals here?"

"Several burros and ponies who run wild. Why?"

"If this thing spreads to larger animals, we want to know. Can't tell if it's a disease or what."

A disease! That hadn't occurred to him. Mid wouldn't like that on the ranch. Were there any diseases that caused erections? That was disquieting! "I'll let you know."

"Thanks. Here's my card." Tishner produced the card and proffered it. Then he returned to the car, and paused. "Oh, by the way, you seen any hunters around here?"

Geode, relaxing, was caught off guard. "Uh, hunters? No. The property's posted."

"Okay." The deputy sheriff slid into his car.

2

FRANK TISHNER STARTED the motor and pulled the car around the paved loop and back up the drive. It was good to get back in the air conditioning; the day was sweltering, especially here by the lake. This was a beautiful forest property, with the drive lined with oaks, pines, and wild magnolias and fenced throughout. Must've cost a fortune just for the paving, and more for that huge house! But the absentee owner was said to have that fortune; indeed, to be rich beyond imagining. Who knew how many such retreats he had scattered around the world, all in readiness just in case he should one day choose to make a call?

That Demerit, the caretaker-funny character. He seemed to live alone, just cruising the property, watching it all the time, and no doubt reporting the fall of every leaf to his boss. Why Middleberry would want to maintain such premises virtually unused, or why Demerit would be satisfied to go it alone like that, was beyond Frank's understanding. But that wasn't his business.

What was his business was this mysterious plague of odd animal deaths-and the disappearance of a hunter. Frank had learned to judge reactions, so he could pretty well tell when a man was speaking the truth and when he wasn't. Demerit had been nervous, but had told the truth about the rabbit. He had lied about the hunter.

Frank stopped at the gate, which had closed after he entered. He rolled down the window and reached out to touch the signal b.u.t.ton. In a moment the gate opened, as Demerit gave it the command from the house. One could only envy affluence like this! He pulled on through, and watched the gate swing closed in his rearview mirror. It was a private ranch, sure enough.

It was getting late, and he had paperwork to handle before he quit. He headed for the office down on Cooter Pond.

Frank had known there was something funny about the hunter's absence because he had questioned the woman on Turner Camp Road who had reported the parked pickup. She had sworn that the vehicle hadn't been there overnight. Now it was there, and if it belonged to a hunter, she wanted to know did the hunter have a license, because this was out of season now.

Frank had gone out immediately when that call came, because they already had a missing-person report on a camper from St. Pete. Yeah, sure-camping with no sleeping bag or tent, and a quality rifle. He had checked the truck, and it matched; it was the one. Looked as if the guy had parked at the river and gone hunting along the sh.o.r.e, fallen in, and drowned. A fairly clear-cut case, and probably served him right.

Except for two things. No body-and that woman's claim about the truck. The call about the camper had come in at the crack of dawn; he was supposed to be home by midnight, not staying late. That matched nicely with hunting: best time to do it was dusk, when it was legal to shoot deer-when deer were in season. It also meant the carca.s.s wouldn't be visible in the darkness. So he had been out hunting, and gotten in trouble himself, and his wife had lost her nerve and called. But the pickup truck had come here later in the morning. That meant either that it was a false alarm, and the guy was just running late-or that he was gone, and someone else had driven his truck. Which in turn smelled just a bit like foul play.

If they found a body in the river, they could determine the cause of death, and have the answer about the nature of the mishap. Accident, or murder? How long before? If it turned out to have happened during the night, then they would have to decide who else had driven his truck, and why. But Frank didn't think they would find a body in the river, because why should it be there-if the truck had been driven from somewhere else after he died? He must've died at that other place, and the river was just a false lead.

Frank doubted that the demise would turn out to be natural. More likely it was an accident or a killing. In either case, the involvement of another party was suspicious. Frank felt challenged by such mysteries. They excited him. Maybe it was compensation for the dullness of his home life.

Meanwhile, there was the other matter. Dead animals, mostly small, but getting larger, turning up as bags of bones, no flesh remaining. Animals could be killed, sure, but how had these been so thoroughly defleshed? Ants could pick bones clean, but they didn't leave the skin intact. It happened fast too; he now knew that from life to bonebag occurred in less than twenty-four hours. Perhaps a lot less.

He had picked up on this about three months ago, soon after he transferred to this region. He had noted it as an anomaly, and been intrigued, and started collecting information on it, in the course of his regular duties. Data was spotty, but there seemed to be a pattern of such deaths starting several months before in neighboring Marion County and proceeding here to Citrus County. The rabbit which Demerit had admitted to was confirmation that it had arrived here. Whatever it was. Frank wished he had a pretext to drop everything else and follow it up.

But he couldn't. He was in effect on probation here, and if he messed up, he would be out of a job and perhaps out of law enforcement entirely. His hands tightened on the wheel as he thought about it; he had never been able to abolish the anger. But he had a wife to support, and he couldn't handle another major disruption. He had to tide through this one, no matter how angry it made him. So he did his job and kept his eyes open, and if he was lucky, maybe in time he'd be vindicated and have his curiosity satisfied too.

His thought was interrupted by a 25: a fire. It was in his territory. "Ten twenty-six," he said, acknowledging, and headed for it. As he did so, he smiled briefly, remembering the half-humor that crept into this efficient numerical system of cla.s.sification and response. Ten forty-two was "Out of Service at Home," so naturally when a deputy's wife was taking his time it was ten forty-two and a half. Frank never had need of that designation; his wife had no interest or involvement in his business.

Several days later Frank got another clue. The matter of the missing hunter remained unsolved; they had been unable to locate either the man or his body. Such things occurred distressingly often, though it was not gladly bruited about; the body could be anywhere, awaiting some chance discovery by kids on a picnic or a girl picking wild berries. By that time it would be impossible to track down the murderer. It could be a local property owner who didn't like hunters, so took one out and moved his truck somewhere else to divert suspicion. Or it could be a marijuana farmer: if the hunter had stumbled into his devastatingly b.o.o.by-trapped little plantation in the state forest, there might have been nothing for it but to bury the body. The illicit proprietors of such enterprises were known to use guns connected to trip-wires, or covered pits filled with punji sticks. Veterans who learned their business in the Orient during war didn't fool around. Frank had done what he could on the case, insufficient as that was, and made his report.

But his private quest got abruptly warmer. It happened unexpectedly. He went out on a routine call and struck a kind of paydirt. That was sometimes the serendipitous way of these things.

The call was from one Jade Brown, evidently a country housewife. Neighbors had played some sort of prank on her, only she wasn't laughing. They had flung a dead racc.o.o.n in her yard. Or something; she wasn't sure exactly what it was, but she was upset.

It took him forever to locate the isolated address. Asphalt degenerated into packed dirt, and thence into loose dirt. He hoped it wouldn't become sugar sand; he didn't have four-wheel drive, and that stuff could mire an ordinary vehicle.