“Dancing?” Temi asked. “I’m picturing those talent-seeking TV shows with snarky judges, but that must not be it.”
I grinned at the notion of some Native American version of So You Think You Can Dance, but shook my head. “No, I don’t think they’re televised unless it’s on PBS. They’re powwows basically, where people from all different tribes compete doing traditional dances. I saw the one at ASU last year. They’re quite vigorous dances, especially the men’s, so it’s like an athletic competition.”
Temi nodded, though she still seemed to be trying to imagine the setup. I’d have to find some online videos to show her.
“Anyway,” I said, “the brother is the star in the family, and Simon has always been—” the sound of the shower water disappeared, so I lowered my voice, “—a little jealous. He wants to become a successful businessman to give back to his people and figure out a way to create some good jobs out there. I’m sure he wants to show up his brother, too, but I gather he truly does care about what goes on back there, even if he can’t imagine himself living there again.”
Temi offered another nod. I couldn’t decide if I’d helped Simon’s case or not. For all I knew, she was imagining this athletic brother now.
A knock came at the door. Even though I was expecting Autumn, I leaped off the bed, ready to fight or flee—probably flee. I noticed Temi watching me. She hadn’t twitched.
“Charlie horse,” I said and shook my leg for good effect, then walked to the door.
Autumn Ingalls waited outside, her fist propped on her hip, her blue-dyed hair gathered into twin pigtails that stuck out to either side. Her eyeliner was a matching shade of blue. She’d added another piercing to one of her ears since the last time I’d seen her, this bringing the total to seven on that side. The other held a mere three, though the adjacent eyebrow balanced things out with a piercing of its own, a barbell with blue balls.
“What do you think a serologist has that I don’t?” Autumn demanded.
“Uhm, a microscope?”
Autumn picked up a black case. “Like this one?”
“I apologize. I didn’t know you’d added forensics to your repertoire.”
“Historical forensics, that’s what archaeology is. Besides anyone can run a blood test.”
“I have a feeling this blood isn’t going to be typical.” I stood back extending a hand. “Come on in though. That’s my friend Temi, and Simon is naked in the shower. If you walk in on him, it’ll be just like old times.”
Autumn snorted. “He wishes.”
At Temi’s raised eyebrows, I explained, “Early morning bathroom incident when Autumn and I were roommates and Simon crashed on the couch one night.”
“Without warning.” Autumn walked inside and laid her case on top of the TV stand. “I’ll look at your blood in a minute, but let me show you your slide first. You say that came off a living creature?”
“I’m pretty sure I hit it. Unless it turned out to be a leaf or branch, in which case I’ll apologize for wasting your time.”
“How about a plastic bottle?” Autumn asked.
“I’m quite sure I didn’t hit anyone’s diet cola.”
“If you say so.”
I hovered while she set up the compact microscope. Simon strolled out of the bathroom wearing his black Inigo Montoya T-shirt.
“Hey, Autumn.”
“Hey, Butthead,” she responded without looking up.
Simon nodded to me. “I remember her now.”
“What did you mean when you said plastic bottle?” I asked Autumn.
“Look for yourself.” She pushed the microscope in my direction.
I peered through the eyepiece. The light below the slide illuminated a patch of entangled strands that reminded me of a bowl of spaghetti noodles. “This was on my arrow?”
“Yup. It’s plastic. There were a couple of crystalline structures too that I identified as salt.”
I remembered the times I’d been close enough to smell the creature and the whiffs of the sea that had accompanied it.
Simon grabbed a Mountain Dew out of the cooler he’d brought in and sat on the end of the bed. “We’ve seen it up close now. I didn’t see anything that looked nonorganic about it, unless its weird black skin is plastic.”
“Its eyes seemed oily,” I said. “Iridescent anyway.”
“Plastic is of course made from crude oil,” Autumn said, “but what you see on the slide represents a final-stage polymer. There shouldn’t have been any hint of its oily origins about it.”
“Is there any way to tell if it’s...” Alien, I wanted to say, but Autumn hadn’t seen all the strange things we had, and she’d think I’d gone nuts if I asked that. She was one of my few college friends still talking to me—I didn’t want to scare her away. “Is there any way to see what kind of plastic it is, where it might have originated?”