Chaos Choreography (InCryptid, #5)(5)

“We thought it would be an old fossil with a remarkably well-preserved eggshell, but when we put it through the X-ray, we realized it was alive,” said Kim, stroking Nemo’s snout, as if to reassure herself that it was okay to tell us this. “So we smuggled it home in one of the specimen cases, and at the end of the summer, it hatched into Nemo here. My beautiful boy.”

The plesiosaur nuzzled her cheek. Kim laughed. Angie gave her a look that made it clear that Nemo wasn’t the only one who wanted to be nuzzling her. Kim didn’t notice. I felt like I was seeing their entire relationship in microcosm, and I didn’t want anything to do with it.

“When did you decide to put your pet in the reservoir?” I asked.

All three of them looked guilty. It was like I’d flipped a switch. Charlie spoke, saying, “It was my idea. Nemo was growing so fast, and we were afraid somebody was going to find him at the school. But nobody comes up to the reservoir.”

“Nobody except joggers, and teenagers, and homeless people looking for a place to camp, and birders, and whatever the ‘I like to look at butterflies’ equivalent of birders is . . .” I let my voice trail off, looking at the trio. They seemed to be grasping the seriousness of their situation.

“Oh,” said Kim, in a small voice.

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ You’re lucky no one’s been eaten yet. Which, let me tell you, is not a situation that’s going to last. Between the way Nemo went for me, and the fact that someone is eventually going to tell the city about the reservoir being full of frogs, it’s only a matter of time.” I folded my arms. “We don’t even know how big he’s going to get. You really want to see your pet on the news, being gunned down by a SWAT team? Because that’s what’s going to happen.”

“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.