“We didn’t know what else to do,” protested Kim. “You startled him, he’s never been aggressive with any of us, he wouldn’t really . . . wouldn’t really eat people.”
“And it’s not like we can move him,” added Charlie. “We brought him here in the back of a pickup truck. He’s bigger than my pickup truck now. We couldn’t move him even if we had a place to move him to.”
“The reservoir is fresh water,” I said. “Can he handle saltwater, or is he purely a lake monster?”
I used the word “monster” on purpose, and was pleased to see all three of them flinch, Kim most of all. “He doesn’t like saltwater,” said Kim stiffly. “It tickles his nose. But he can handle it if he has to.”
“What’s his temperature range?”
“Good.” Kim continued to rub Nemo’s snout as she spoke, apparently calming both of them. “He doesn’t seem to mind the cold much, although it slows him down some. I’m sorry, but who are you people? Why are you asking us all these questions?”
“We’re cryptozoologists, and we’re here to solve your problem,” I said, and smiled.
They didn’t smile back.
Six phone calls later—including one to Uncle Mike, who wasn’t thrilled about being woken up in the wee hours of the morning just so I could talk to Aunt Lea—we had the solution.
“My dad’s coming over with an old dump truck that can be filled with water,” I said, tucking my phone into my pocket. “Kim, you’ll ride with Nemo. Dad’s going to take you upriver to an isolated spot where you should be good for a week or so while we get some old friends of ours to turn around and come back to Portland. The Campbell Family Carnival has a tank large enough for an adult plesiosaur. They’ll be able to transport him—and you, we’re not leaving you out of this—to the Cascades, where you can find him a suitable lake. Something deep and full of fish and not popular with boaters.”
“Why are you doing this?” asked Angie. “What’s in it for you?”
“One more plesiosaur in the world,” I said. “That’s pretty cool. Can I get a picture? My brother’s gonna be pissed that he missed this.”
“Sure,” said Kim, looking bewildered.
“Awesome.” I pulled my phone out again. “Dominic, hit the lights?”
He sighed and pulled out his flashlight, shining it on us as I backed up and held out my phone. “Say Cretaceous,” I said, and snapped the selfie.
All in all, not the worst night.
Two
“Love what you do. Even if it’s not what you thought you’d be doing when you were a kid, love what you do. Eventually, it’s going to kill you, and it would be a real pity if you died doing something you hate.”
—Evelyn Baker
A small survivalist compound about an hour’s drive east of Portland, Oregon
THE SUN WAS DOWN and the house was dark when we pulled up to the gate. Dad was going to be out a lot later than we were: he was transporting Nemo the plesiosaur, Nemo’s human friends, and a few hundred gallons of water upriver, and that took time. We’d be lucky to see him before lunch.
Dominic politely averted his eyes while I punched in the current security code. He’s family now—he’s even planning to change his last name to “Price,” since it’s not like he can go around using “De Luca” without attracting Covenant attention—but that doesn’t mean he’s been cleared to have full access to the house. My argument with the parents is ongoing. If Dominic is going to be living with us, he needs to be able to get into the bugout room, almost as much as he needs to be able to go to the grocery store without an escort.
Dominic says he’s willing to wait until he earns their trust. I say they’re punishing him, and by extension, me, for getting married by an Elvis impersonator in Las Vegas, rather than having a fancy ceremony for everyone in the family to attend and pass judgment on.
My parents have no respect for the classics.
(To be fair, they’re correct in assuming that Dominic and I got married the way we did in order to make it harder for them to reject him out of hand. We also did it because we really wanted to get married, and we were passing through Vegas on the way to Portland anyway, so why not? No Las Vegas wedding is complete without a chupacabra dressed as Elvis asking if you’re planning to love, honor, obey, and finish eating your banana sandwich.)
We slipped through the front door and crossed the living room to the kitchen, where not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. At this hour of the morning, most of the Aeslin were asleep, and the ones that weren’t would be preparing the temples for the day ahead. Our family colony of polytheistic mice kept a very strict calendar of religious observances, one that included every day of the year, as well as a few days they had shoehorned in there, just to get a bit of extra worshipping in. It must have been exhausting, being an Aeslin mouse.