Future Tense

(July 2018)


19-Bosses

After midnight, in a corridor outside a hotel room in a hotel outside the Valley:

Burnwald Punt leaned over. "Does it show?"

"Not . . . not very much, sir," said Mick Mitchell. He was not privileged to stay on the same floor—the penthouse—as his employer, and he was anxious to go down to the second floor to his own budget-rate room.

"What the hell's that mean, Mackel?" Punt snapped, straightening up into a pudgy tower of irritation. "It does or it doesn't! Is it noticeable?"

"I can see it, sir, but I know just where to look. If you carefully brush, it won't be visible. Er—there is a little blood showing, sir. Not much."

"Goddam bat!" yelled Punt so loudly that Mitchell winced. "This goddam state is the worst one in the country. Total disaster! Good thing I won't have to live here once I win on Tuesday. Make a reservation for me at the Gold Towers Resort in Vegas, starting, let's see, next Friday. My usual suite."

Mitchell fidgeted uneasily. "Well, sir—there is the matter of the bill. The resort did tell you that until you pay the past-due—"

"I'm Burnwald Punt, dammit!" Punt shouted. "You tell them that if they give me any static, my lawyers will be there tomorrow!"

"T-tomorrow's Sunday, sir."

"To hell with Sunday. All right, Monday, then. What is it?"

Mitchell had been shifting from foot to foot like a kindergartener who needed to pee but was afraid of attracting the teacher's attention. "Um—the um, wound on your head, sir. You might want to have a doctor look at it. You might need a tetanus shot, or—well, sir, you know, bats, rabies . . .."

"The damn thing didn't bite me, Murrel! It just snatched at my hair and flew right off! Anyway, I hate doctors. I'll go shower and wash my hair and put some antibiotic on the spot. Stop bothering me and go to your room!"

"Yes, sir," Mitchell told the closing door. He walked back to the bank of elevators, worrying. The bat had not attacked him—he hadn't seen it at all—but it worried him anyway. He thought back to the attack, or whatever it was.

He and Punt had stepped out of the limo in front of the hotel, and Mitchell had just handed the keys to the parking valet, when he heard his boss swear.

He swung around quickly. Punt was in a half-crouch, one hand clapped to his head near the crown. "Did you see that?" he bellowed, red-faced.

"What, sir?"

"A goddam bat big as a coffee table! It swooped down and tried to scalp me!"

"No, sir, I didn't see anything—perhaps the security camera." He had leaned down to pick up the plastic water bottle that Punt had dropped, but Punt stepped painfully on his hand. "That's mine! I'll get it." When Mitchell pulled his hand back, Punt had grunted, leaned over, and fumbled with the bottle for a minute before retrieving it.

He's crazy, Mitchell thought, and not for the first time since he'd started working for Punt. His boss knew no more about impulse control than how to operate a warp drive.

The elevator took Mitchell down to his room, and before he slipped his key card into the lock slot, he heard the phone ringing. Sighing, he sat on the bed and answered it. "Room 222," he said. "This is—"

His employer's voice screamed at him so loudly that Mitchell held the phone a foot away from his ear. "This goddam hotel! Room service closes at midnight! Damn it! Didn't we pass a restaurant just before we got here?"

"Yes, sir, Burgers and Brews."

"It looked open—"

"Yes, sir, it stays open twenty-four hours a day."

"All right, get there, get me the biggest burger they have—if they only have the quarter-pound ones, get me two—medium well, fries, and—what kind of beer do they have here?"

"I presume the national brands, sir. Most places also have a local one called Rimrock, which is a lager—"

"That'll have to do. Get me two bottles. Not cans, bottles. And extra ketchup. And get here fast, I didn't finish my dinner!"

"Yes, sir."

Mitchell went to the concierge desk and requested the car. Waiting out front, he checked his wallet: some twenties, three tens, four fives. He pulled out a ten. The valet came around and handed him the keys and Mitchell gave him the tip.

"That's a ritzy car," the young valet said, holding the door for him.

Mitchell smiled sadly. "It's not mine, son. But I'll tip you again if you can be here in ten minutes."

"Heck, I'll wait," the young man said. "Nice night." He closed the door and Mitchell started the car.

The burger place was within sight of the hotel, and Mitchell drove through, placed the order for a Whamdinger ("Half a pound of prime grass-fed beef!") plus large fires and two sixteen-ounce bottles of Rimrock beer. He stopped at the pick-up window, the girl took a twenty, everyone inside came to peer out at the limousine, then he got his change, the hot, greasy paper bag, and two frosty bottles.

The same kid leaped up when he got back to the hotel. As Mitchell handed him another ten-dollar bill and the keys, the boy said jokingly, "Midnight snack, huh?"

"For my boss," Mitchell said.

The valet rolled his eyes. "Hope he pays you good!"

Smiling, Mitchell nodded and thought silently, I hope he pays me at all.

Food in hand, he hurried into the hotel, knowing that although the whole thing had taken no more than twelve minutes at the outside, his boss was going to scream at him.


Agent Hazard was back on station, perched on the flat roof of the attic window. Stan had just dropped off Ford, Wendy, Dipper, and Mabel.

She didn't know where they had gone, but Ford had put her on high alert. She didn't mind. Hazard had developed a talent for snatching a little sleep here, a little there, and she found new situations challenging but exciting. Anyhow, the night was nice, not too cool, clear sky, beautiful moon shining down from its backdrop of night and stars.

When she suddenly spun around, it was difficult to tell which was more startled, her or the silent owl.

"Well," Hazard said, just above a whisper. "Hello there."

The owl made a soft owl sound.

"You're not a regular owl, are you?"

The owl twisted its head so it looked at her from a canted angle in a way that seemed impertinent in a non-threatening way, as if it were answering a question with a question: You're not a regular human, are you?

"Mind if I check you out?" From her cross-legged sitting position, Hazard stood smoothly up and walked right up the slope, skirting the chimney, as if she were strolling across a level lawn. The owl watched her.

She sat on the roof peak within arm's length of the bird. It was big, a black owl shape cut out of the night, only the huge green-irised eyes showing it to be a living creature. "I'm guessing we have the same job," Hazard said. "Guarding the Pines family."

The bird didn't ruffle a feather, but slowly blinked those great eyes.

Cautiously, Hazard reached out a hand. "Do you mind?"

The owl didn't seem to mind or not mind. Hazard very, very slowly extended her hand. When it was only inches away from skritching the owl's head, it opened its beak as if to say, "Uh-uh."

"I apologize." Hazard slowly pulled her hand back and the owl closed its beak and stared at her placidly.

Again the owl gave its slow blink. Hazard could imagine it was saying, "That's better."

"Dr. Pines sent me," she said. "Who's your boss?"

The owl tilted back its head and gazed upward.

Instinctively, Hazard looked up too. For a moment, a shooting star sketched its passage across the sky, the trail it left behind becoming sinuous and momentarily looking like—a Chinese dragon? A salamander?

When Hazard looked away from the sky, the owl was gone.

And without her knowing how it had even got there, in her right hand between thumb and finger she held an elegant jet-black feather.


Hazard still sat in the same place when, as the sky paled in the east with the coming Sunday morning, an Agency car pulled into the lot. She watched as Skyler got out—young agent, good man, first-rate in weapons, not a bad hand-to-hand fighter, and surprised by nothing—and opened the door for Dr. McGucket. "Thank you, young feller," McGucket said with hardly a trace of his hillbilly accent, which tended to come and go. "Come inside?"

"No, sir," Skyler said. "Thank you. I'll sit on the porch over there so I can keep watch on the car. You take your time."

Skyler waited until McGucket had gone in—the old man had his own set of keys—and then stepped back, tilting his head. He looked up at the roof and saluted. "How's it been, Commander Hazar?"

"Smooth, Mr. Skyler," she said. "Your end?"

"No trouble, Boss."

Without further words, he vanished as he went to the back porch, where a comfortable loveseat sagged and squeaked. Hazard stood and briefly scanned the surrounding trees and the lightening sky.

No sign of an owl.

But then, when she sat again, there was no sign of Agent Hazard, either.


Wendy woke up the instant McGucket opened the door. She was already on her feet, axe drawn, when he switched on the light. "Oh, banjo polish!" he said. "Sorry. I didn't go for to wake you all up!"

Wendy put away her axe. "Little jumpy," she said. "Sorry, man."

"It's OK, Dr. McGucket," Mabel said, squirming to look for her shoes. "I gotta take a potty break, and Tripper probably is ready for breakfast."

The dog woofed politely. McGucket stood aside to let them out. "He in there?" he asked, nodding toward the door that led to the sealed lab.

Dipper was just tying his shoes. "Yeah. I hope he got some sleep."

"How you feeling this morning?"

"Aches," Dipper admitted. "Seat-belt bruise, little bit of a headache. No black eyes or anything. Wendy?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said. "Dr. McGucket, they'll probably come with a tow truck for the car this morning."

"That'll be fine," McGucket said, stepping over Mabel's sleeping bag and hesitating at the inner door. "I don't hardly like to knock—"

Dipper used the door code and silently opened the inner lab, the shielded one. McGucket whispered, "He's asleep. I'll try not to wake him up."

Dipper saw that Grunkle Ford was slumped in the one armchair, a pillow under his cheek, his feet propped on one of the straight chairs. McGucket tip-toed in and left a folder of printouts on the lab table. When he came out and softly closed the door, he said, "Reckon I'll hang around a little while till I'm sure he's got them. Everything quiet?"

"Oh, yeah, we got some sleep ourselves," Wendy said. "What time is it? Well, five o'clock isn't my favorite for a Sunday morning, but we might as well make a start of it. Want to come up and help me make some breakfast, Dip?"

"Sounds good." Wendy went out and, hesitating, Dipper asked, "Professor McGucket, do you want to come with us, or—"

"Thanks, but I'll pull up a chair and set out in the hall beside the door," he said. "Jest till Ford wakes up. Oh, let me tell you what I found—the hair was from the same person that drunk out of the water bottle. Burnwald Punt, only that can't be his right name. DNA's all wrong, and I found out his blood type is O-negative, real rare type. Ford told me a black owl left that hair sample, that right?"

"Yeah," Dipper said.

"Huh," McGucket said. "Where I was born, there was a good many Cherokee livin' back in the hills. They were the ones, their ancestors escaped from bein' rounded up an' herded off like cattle along the Trail of Tears. You ever learn about that in school?"

"Andrew Jackson," Dipper said. "Yes, I learned about it."

"There was an old woman, everybody called her Bonnie," McGucket said in a soft, slow voice, as if his mind were visiting the past. "Don't know what her right name, her Cherokee name, was. When I was jest a little shaver, my grandpappy took me to see her. I had some sickness, don't remember what, and Miss Bonnie brewed old-time remedies. Grandpappy left me with her all day once, and she made some kinda bad-tastin' tea. But I drunk it, and by and by I got real woozy. She laid me on her bed—it rustled, her mattress was stuffed with dry corn shucks, you could smell them like a memory of fall. Anyhow, she set there in a rockin' chair beside me for some hours, a-talking to me. 'You can't go to sleep,' she kept tellin' me. 'I heard Tsgili moanin' last night. You'll get well if you keep awake a while.'"

"What did she hear?" Dipper asked.

"Tsgili." McGucket spelled it. "Oh, she told me all about Tsgili. It's the great horned owl. The Cherokee had a heap of beliefs about them. Miss Bonnie, she told me, 'Ever you see a black great-horned owl, you treat it with respect. That's a—'" McGucket broke off. "I disremember her words, but they meant something like witch or sorceress or maybe wise woman. Not evil, anyways, but the spirit of a dead conjure woman that held great magic powers. Hard to say it right in English. Anyhow, you meet such an owl, you don't ever offer any harm. Sometimes one comes to protect people what needs special protection. Only their enemies need to be a-scared. So you always speak respectful to a black owl. And them that don't act respectful—let me see, Miss Bonnie sung me a song."

After a few seconds, McGucket began to croon a sort of chant. In his cracked voice, it gave Dipper the feeling that the words barely managed to contain something powerful, something dangerous:

"My name is Night.

I am the black owl

Dark is my flight

As I hunt for your soul.

Your name is Despair.

When you hear the howl,

Death comes from air,

The black owl of Night

Comes for your soul."

They heard noises from inside the lab, and McGucket said, "He's awake. You run on up to help with breakfast. I'll see if the boss needs any help, and I'll try my best to get him to come up and eat."

"Thanks, man," Dipper said.

He walked up the steps with the chant running in his mind, keeping time with his footfalls.


To be continued.