“Woo-wee,” Vernon said. “That’s mighty interesting. I sure would like to take you to dinner tonight and talk some more about eruptions and such.”
The little monk slapped Vernon on the back of the head.
“You got to pardon my grandfather,” Vernon said. “He’s old, and I’m the only one who’s willing to take care of him on account of his disposition.”
Marion looked at Vernon and then at Wayan Bagus. “Your grandfather is an Asian monk?”
“Oh, well, he’s adopted,” Vernon explained, putting his hand on the monk’s shoulder.
Wayan Bagus batted Vernon’s hand away.
“Maybe that’s what happened to my missing island,” Wayan Bagus said to Emerson. “Maybe it collapsed and sunk into the ocean.”
“You’re here about a missing island?” Marion asked. “It’s unlikely. Most mantle plumes form what are called shield volcanoes. They generally create landmasses, not destroy them.”
“Generally?” Riley asked.
Marion pointed to a map on her office wall of Pangaea, the ancient supercontinent that existed before separating into today’s seven continents. “Some people theorize that a mantle plume could cause a massive tectonic uplift, powerful enough to break apart a continent.”
Vernon opened his mouth to say something about powerful uplifts, looked over at Wayan Bagus, and decided it wasn’t worth getting slapped again.
“Is there anything of value in a volcano formed by a mantle plume?” Emerson asked. “Something somebody would want to steal?”
“Not really. Mostly just basalt and silica rock and sulfuric acid gasses. The lava does contain higher than normal amounts of rare earth elements, like osmium.”
“What’s osmium?” Riley asked.
“It’s similar to platinum, and it’s the densest naturally occurring element in existence. It’s worth about four hundred dollars per ounce but would likely cost more to extract than you could sell it for.”
Vernon picked up one of the model volcanoes and examined it. “I made one of these in seventh grade for the science fair.”
“That one’s a scale model of Krakatau,” Marion said. She turned to Emerson. “Mantle plumes also extrude some primordial isotopes from the earth’s core. They’re very rare but not valuable to anybody except an astrophysicist.”
“Why not?” Riley asked.
“It’s mostly just things like rare forms of helium. But primordial elements are materials that existed before the earth was formed. Sort of cosmic leftovers from the big bang. No one has really ever seen the earth’s core, so it’s kind of a clue to the forces of creation.”
Emerson thanked Marion for her time, and everyone trooped out of her office and out of the building.
“Now what?” Vernon asked.
“Now we go back to Washington,” Emerson said.
SEVEN
Emerson emptied the contents of his knapsack onto the table at the Organic Kitchen, a local health food restaurant halfway between George Mason University and Washington, D.C. There were two books about volcanoes, including Plumes: A Journey, three manila folders labeled “Yellowstone,” “Crater Lake,” and “Hawaii Volcanoes National Park,” a yellow notepad, and a replica of Dumbledore’s magic wand from the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
Riley set her Succulent Summer Smoothie aside, picked up the magic wand, and waved it at Emerson. “Does this work?”
“It reminds me that magic is all around us,” Emerson said. “All you have to do is believe.”
“Believe in what?”
“It doesn’t matter. Santa Claus. The power to cloud someone’s mind. Love.”
“I guess I’d like to believe in those things too,” Riley said.
Emerson looked across the table at Wayan Bagus, who was sipping on a cucumber and kale smoothie and watching Revenge of the Nerds on his iPad. “Wayan once told me that the moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease to be able to do it forever.”
“No second chances?”
“Take Peter Pan, for instance.”
Riley raised a single eyebrow.
“He had some good times on that island,” Emerson said. “Fighting pirates. Rescuing Indian princesses. Spending time with the mermaids. Good times. Good times.”
“All because he believed?”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe he just had an overactive imagination and was delusional.”
“Nevertheless, he could fly. Peter Pan, Tinker Bell, Rudolph. All excellent flyers.”
She couldn’t dispute it. They were all excellent flyers. And there was something oddly compelling about a man who, in a time of cynics and doubters, embraced the value of believing.
“What’s the next step?” Riley asked Emerson.
“Flying-wise?”
“Mantle-plume-wise.”
Emerson passed one of the manila folders over to her. “This is the file on a newlywed couple who disappeared without a trace in Yellowstone one month ago. They were staying at the Old Faithful Inn and went out to do some backcountry hiking. Search and Rescue looked for them for weeks. The bodies were never found. The Park Service speculates they fell into a hot spring and were boiled alive. Officially, it’s a closed case.”
“But you don’t think it was an accident.”
“They were experienced hikers,” Emerson said. “Worked as mountain guides in Colorado during the summer and backcountry ski instructors during the winter. No, I don’t think it was an accident.”
“What’s in the Crater Lake file?”
Emerson opened the folder. “Zachary, Taylor, and Adam Brolowski. Brothers. Have a popular YouTube channel where they stream themselves doing all manner of extreme sports. Call themselves the Bro Brothers.”
“And they’re missing too?”
“Dead. At least, Taylor and Adam. Taylor was killed during a deep dive into Crater Lake two weeks ago. Adam was killed in a car crash one week later. Zak told his parents he was going hiking in Three Sisters Wilderness three or four days ago and hasn’t been heard from since.”
“And you think they were murdered?” Riley asked.
“Three brothers die or go missing within weeks of each other in separate incidents. And, it all happens in one of our death parks.”
“You said yourself they were into extreme sports. It could be just coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Emerson said. “I do believe in conspiracies.”
Wayan Bagus looked up from the iPad, having heard something that interested him more than the Nerds getting revenge on the Jocks.
“How we explain coincidences depends on how we see the world. Is everything connected or do things merely co-occur? It’s all in how you think.”
“Well, what do you think?” Riley asked.
Wayan Bagus went back to watching the movie. “I am one with the universe. So are the Nerds. And so are the Jocks. The Nerds will never know the Jocks’ world and the Jocks will never know the Nerds’. And yet, we are all connected by the Tao, Nerds and Jocks alike.”
“In-ter-est-ing,” Riley said, and she turned back to Emerson. “What about Hawaii Volcanoes National Park?”
Emerson tapped the folder labeled “Hawaii.” “I think this one is the key. Half a dozen missing persons or deaths in the past three years. The local police just found a mutilated body near one of the volcano’s vents, Puu Oo, on the east side of Kilauea. He was chopped to pieces.”
“And you think Yellowstone, Crater Lake, and Hawaii Volcanoes National Park are all connected to the missing island?”
Emerson put the files back into his knapsack. “It is a statistical impossibility for all of this to be random. It might be explained by many things, but my favorite explanation is that these are not accidents, but murders. More importantly, I believe these murders are being committed by one person or group of people for some purpose we do not yet know. The same person or persons who stole Wayan Bagus’s island.”
Riley was willing to enter
tain the possibility that at least some, if not all, of the murders were the work of one person. Emerson lost her on the island connection.
“Our next stop on the day’s agenda is the United States Park Police,” Emerson said. “Everyone drink up.”
—
Riley, Vernon, Wayan Bagus, and Emerson stood outside the massive gray stone fortress with DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR chiseled above the entrance. They walked through the middle of five doors and made their way to the U.S. Park Police Office.
On their way, Vernon read from a tourist brochure he’d picked up from the information kiosk. “The U.S. Park Police was founded in 1791 by George Washington and is one of the oldest uniformed federal law enforcement agencies in the United States. The U.S. Park Police shares law enforcement jurisdiction in all lands administered by the National Park Service with a force of National Park Service Rangers. The Park Police is a unit of the National Park Service, which is a bureau of the Department of the Interior.”
Riley paused at the large glass door leading to the Park Police offices. “We’re going to look like a bunch of crazies announcing to the police that we’ve uncovered some conspiracy to murder tourists at national parks.”
Emerson pushed the door open and motioned everyone through. “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “Three things cannot be long hidden. The sun, the moon, and the truth. And if we were to add a fourth thing it would be missing islands.” He approached the police sergeant manning the front desk. “We’re here to report a murder.”
Wayan Bagus nodded. “Also a stolen island.”
“And, I’d like to talk with someone here about the government’s war on coal,” Vernon added. “America!”
Five minutes later they were escorted out of the building by two uniformed police officers.
“In retrospect, I suppose it probably wasn’t the best idea for a monk, a blogger, a known conspiracy theorist, and his amanuensis to march into a police station,” Emerson said.
Riley was taking deep, calming breaths. Thank goodness she didn’t see any reporters hanging out because if this got into the papers she would be a complete laughingstock in the legal community. She would be working for this nutcase forever, because no one else would ever hire her.
“You think?” she said to Emerson.
“On the positive side, we made our concerns known.”
Riley stared at him incredulously. “They threatened to get a restraining order against all of us!”
Emerson shook his head and smiled. “I’m rich. You have to do a lot more than that to get a restraining order when you’re rich. Wayan Bagus is just a harmless little monk, and Vernon gets a restraining order at least once a week.”
Vernon waved his hand dismissively and blew a raspberry. “Restraining order, shmestraining order.”
“So, there you have it,” Emerson said. “Nothing to worry about.”
Riley stuck her thumb at herself. “What about me?”
“Oh, you’re definitely getting a restraining order,” Emerson said.
“Seek not to contend. Where there is no contention there is neither victory nor defeat,” Wayan Bagus offered.
“All this not contending is making me hungry,” Vernon said. “Being as this is Little Buddy’s first time in our nation’s capital, let’s show him the sights. Little Buddy, you ever touch a genuine moon rock?”
Emerson turned to Riley. “Every time Vernon visits Washington, D.C., he makes a pilgrimage to the National Air and Space Museum to get an ice cream sandwich at the cafeteria, touch a moon rock, and take a nap at the planetarium.”
“Yup,” Vernon said. “Planetarium naps are just about the best kind of naps there are.”
They walked along the National Mall, past the Washington Monument to the National Air and Space Museum. As soon as they were inside, Vernon made his way to the cafeteria, and Emerson, Riley, and Wayan Bagus headed for the second-floor exhibit halls.
It was late in the day, and the museum was emptying out. Some school groups and clumps of tourists were still wandering around, but the earlier crowds had disappeared.
Riley was drawn to the special World War II Aviation traveling exhibit. Emerson and Wayan Bagus’s interests took them elsewhere.
This was nice, Riley thought, browsing through a collection of photographs and documents. She lived in Washington, D.C., but she didn’t take advantage of the culture. She didn’t visit the museums. She worked during the week, and on weekends she did laundry and food shopping.
She walked to the railing to look at the large prop bomber. The plane was suspended from the ceiling and hung just below the second-level balcony. She was looking down at the plane, imagining what it must have been like to be part of the war effort, when she was grabbed from behind, lifted off her feet, and pitched forward. Her knees hit the top of the railing, someone cursed behind her, and shoved her over the edge. She went into a free fall with arms flailing and eyes wide open, looking at the cement floor thirty feet below. There were no thoughts in her head. Just raw terror.
The plane was directly beneath her. She hit it square on the fuselage, couldn’t get a grip, and tumbled down onto a wing. Her momentum carried her off the edge of the wing, but she was able to grab on to one of the large propellers.
She dangled precariously, holding tight to the propeller. She felt the blade slowly rotate from horizontal to near vertical, and her grip started to slip. She looked down at the floor, felt panic sweep over her, and shouted for Emerson.
She looked from the floor to the balcony and saw Emerson launch himself over the guardrail and drop onto the wing. He stabilized for a moment and then grabbed her wrist from above and held tight.
“If you want to avoid situations like this in the future, we’re really going to have to work on your unagi,” Emerson said.
“S-s-sure,” Riley said. “Whatever. Just don’t drop m-m-me.”
Emerson pulled her onto the wing and held her tight against him.
“Don’t move,” he said. “We aren’t entirely secure.”
Riley had no intention of moving. Her heart was pounding, and she could barely breathe. She had her eyes squinched closed and her fingers curled into Emerson’s shirt. She thought she might have wet her pants a little. She hoped he couldn’t tell.
“My unagi tells me you’d like to be kissed,” Emerson said.
Riley opened her eyes and looked at him while he kissed her softly on the lips.
“How was that?” he asked.
“It was nice. You’re a good kisser.”
“I enjoyed it,” he said. “We should do it more.”
“And it helped to take my mind off our problem.”
“What problem is that?”
“The plane,” Riley said. “We could slip off and die.”
“That would be unpleasant,” Emerson said.
People were scrambling below them. Museum guards, Park Police, curious tourists. Sirens from first responders could be heard in the distance. EMT trucks, fire trucks, police cars.
“This is a nightmare,” Riley said.
“Perhaps, but a brush with death is always interesting. And the kiss added a certain something.”
Riley didn’t want to be ungrateful, because, after all, Emerson had risked his life for hers, but criminy, explaining their kiss in terms of “a certain something” was just about the most unromantic thing she’d ever heard.
“A certain something?” she asked Emerson.
“Je ne sais quoi,” Emerson said.
Okay, Riley thought, it sounded better in French, but it wasn’t going to get him another kiss anytime soon.
There was a loud SPLAT, and someone shrieked in another part of the hall. A school group was rushed out of the area, running underneath Riley and Emerson.
“What’s going on?” Riley yelled down.
“Someone fell,” a guard said. “Not as lucky as you, I’m afraid.”
Riley locked eyes with Emerson. “Where’s Wayan Bagus?”
“I
don’t know,” Emerson said. “He went off on his own. I believe he was interested in the planet exhibit.”
First responders arrived. Half ran to the area by the front entrance, and half stopped under the prop plane and looked up at Riley and Emerson.
“Hang on,” a museum employee called from the floor. “We’re going to lower the plane.”
Riley heard gears turning overhead. The cables holding the plane jerked, and the plane slowly inched down. Riley strained to see what was happening on the first floor. A lot of people were clustered around something lying on the ground. It was difficult to see from her vantage point, but she supposed it was a body. Not Wayan Bagus at least. No orange robe. And not Vernon. No white T-shirt.
Hands reached out to her, easing her off the wing. She set foot on terra firma and stood on shaky legs. She took a couple deep breaths. Emerson climbed down next without assistance.
A paramedic offered aid, but Riley dismissed him. She had a skinned knee and some leftover fright, but no other damage had been done. A museum PR person and a guard had questions. The information Riley could provide was brief. She was pushed from behind. She heard a man swear. She didn’t see him.
Emerson didn’t see the man either. He’d been in an adjoining room that had been set up to resemble the quarterdeck of an aircraft carrier. He’d run to the railing when he heard Riley call his name.
Riley and Emerson shared a moment of relief as they spotted Wayan Bagus standing quietly off to one side next to a uniformed police officer.
A few feet away from Wayan Bagus an overweight middle-aged man wearing a shirt he’d obviously just purchased from a gift shop was talking with a homicide detective.
“Never saw anything like it,” he said. “That big goon, who’s splattered all over the floor, bum-rushed the little monk in the orange dress and, poof, the little monk just sort of disappeared for a second.” He gestured a second time at the dead body. “His momentum kind of carried him right over the balcony on the second floor.”
Riley looked at Emerson. “Nobody can disappear.”