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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

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BOOK: Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries
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“That’s the advantage of being boss. I can ruin her weekend instead.” He glanced around. “I think I’ve got some wine here. Whoops, I mean …”
“Thanks. Coffee will be fine. I do miss it, though. It wasn’t like I planned on becoming an alcoholic. After John died it was just easier than being alone.”
He ran callused fingers through his blond hair and she watched the lines tighten around his blue eyes. “It still surprises me that you’re not drowning in men. What’s wrong with those guys in Canada? Are they uniques or something?”
“You mean eunuchs. And no, they’re not.” She could think of some Saskatchewan ranchers up in the bush that oozed more testosterone than a bulldozer. “Let’s just say that I …” His blue-eyed stare was seeing right through her. “All right, honesty, eh? I couldn’t stand the thought of touching some other man the way I did John. It would have been betrayal. Does that make sense?”
He fingered his bottle of Guinness as the coffeepot began to perk. “Yeah.” He thought for a moment. “But … I mean, you still … well, don’t you?”
“It would be like having sex on the altar, Stewart,” she answered bluntly. “Breaking the covenant his body shared with mine. A betrayal of the man I loved.”
He cocked his ear to listen to the coffeepot. “Maureen, it’s your life. Live it the way you want to. Besides, relationships are all trouble. Every time a man and woman get involved, they make a mess of themselves.”
She noticed the hardening of his mouth. “Not all men are John. And not all women are Ruth Ann Sullivan. Just because she left your father—”
“Coffee’s ready.” He rose on charged muscles and poured a cup for her. After he placed it on the table, he remained standing.
She cradled the cup and looked up at him. “Great, Stewart. I can talk about John, but you can’t talk about your mother leaving your father? Do I detect a disparity here?”
He lowered himself into the chair. “It’s all right when it’s someone else’s problem. Not so all right when it’s your own.” He stared absently into space, and in a moment of illumination, Maureen could see Samuel Stewart’s ghost climbing up onto the sink in the mental institution to finally electrocute himself.
She peered down into her coffee and could see her reflection. Her Iroquoian blood showed in her straight nose and full lips and in her long black braid. “It’s worse with men, I think. You’re all supposed to be such stoic pillars. Baggage left over from the ‘good old days’ when men modeled themselves after the Industrial Revolution.”
“I didn’t follow that.”
She propped her chin on a fist. “A cultural anthropologist once told me that culture reflects the age in which it functions. He said the Victorian age produced men like it did machines. Uniform, steel structures, mass-produced and unbendable. But when you looked inside, all you saw was the framework, girders, rivets, and nothing but empty space in between.”
“You think I’m empty space in between?” He sounded offended.
“Not at all. You’re just as fiercely protective about letting it out as I am about letting anyone in.” She took a sip of coffee. “Your mother broke your father when she left him, and you can’t allow yourself to take that same risk, no matter how miserable it makes you.”
“And you, Doctor?” he asked in clipped tones.
“Me? I’m the one who had a perfect life with a man I loved. My trouble, Stewart”—she pointed at the Guinness in his hands—“and what led me to the bottle, is that I’d do anything to keep from admitting it’s all over. That I’ve lost him.”
She thought of her empty house overlooking Lake Ontario, its windows dark, the rooms quiet with the memories of John. When she finally returned, would she still feel him there, part of the wood, plaster, and walls? Or when Elder Walking Hawk had sent him north toward the Land of the Dead, had even that trace of him vanished?
“So,” she asked softly, “just why did you ask me here, Stewart?”
He rolled the half-empty Guinness bottle between his thick thumb and forefinger. She watched the tendons in his hand, remembering how strong it was when it came to lifting broken rock out of a ruined pueblo, or how gentle and delicate it could be when he used a dental pick like a precision instrument to free a long-buried artifact.
“Thought you might need a place to sleep for the night.” He shot her a worried glance. “Why did you say yes?”
She tried to look nonchalant. “How could I turn down the opportunity to sleep on a couch that was so important that not even three different thieves dared to steal it?”
Dusty laughed.
But why had she said yes? She was still thinking about that hours later as she lay on the foldout sofa bed. Dusty called this thing comfortable? It undulated like an accordion—each of its “ups” coinciding with her “downs.” Beyond the louvered windows she could hear the wind in the trees, the pattering of little feet that she suspected were mice in the walls, and the creaking of the ancient trailer. Her gaze kept straying to the dark hallway that led back to his bedroom. This was lunacy. Tomorrow, she would have him drive her to Albuquerque where she would buy a ticket and fly home. She belonged in her little white house in Niagara-on-the-Lake, and she had work to do back in the physical anthropology lab at McMaster.
Yes, fly home tomorrow, and deal with the first day of the rest of her life.
 
 
CATKIN SWUNG HER battered war club as she walked. The sound of the stone head whistling through the air satisfied her, and lessened the turmoil in her chest. She had always been like this: driven to do something drastic when her emotions were frayed.
She had been there, in the cavern, when Browser confronted Elder Springbank; she had heard when the Elder was revealed as the legendary witch, Two Hearts. She had seen the old man, slumped against the stone, blood leaking from his lips. She had heard him calling to Browser:
“For the sake of the true gods, Browser! We shouldn’t be fighting!
You are one of us!
Join us and we will let your Made People friends live.”
Browser had been told all of his life that he was one of the Made People. She knew him well enough to understand how disconcerting the old witch’s words had been. But had he meant it, that Browser was one of the First People? Or had it been a trick, a means of distracting Browser so that the White Moccasins could kill him? How in the name of the gods could Browser pack up and go off to who knew where in search of the old beast—if he still lived?
It all smacked of lunacy. Gods knew, she’d lived enough lunacy in the last five sun cycles. Old Stone Ghost had been right about one thing, they were spiraling into a fiery pit. Every winter grew more desperate, every summer more violent and bloody. In the
kiva, Stone Ghost had asked if they knew more living than dead. She knew far more dead people.
Her resolve stiffened as she stomped toward the little camp where Browser and Stone Ghost had retired after the council session in the kiva.
“Catkin?” a woman’s voice called from one side. A dark shadow detached itself from one of the women’s fires.
“Not now, Obsidian.”
“Wait!” The woman hurried forward, her finely sewn fawn-leather cloak hanging around her. Long black hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore high white moccasins decorated with antelope-hoof rattles that clattered with each step. Defiantly she matched Catkin’s pace.
“I don’t have time right now.” Catkin looped her war club around on its thong in a suggestive manner.
“I have just heard,” Obsidian said breathlessly. “The War Chief and Elder Stone Ghost are going after Springbank.”
“You shouldn’t listen to rumor.” Catkin walked faster.
“Tell them not to go.”
The pleading in Obsidian’s voice brought Catkin to a stop. She turned, hefting the war club in her right hand. “What does it matter to you?”
“It matters!”
Catkin narrowed an eye, trying to read the woman’s expression. Obsidian’s normally superior demeanor had cracked. Desperation glittered in her large doelike eyes. Her full breasts rose and fell; shell-bead necklaces caught the light as if they rode on waves.
Catkin said, “Why did you come to me with this? Shouldn’t you take it to your Matron?”
“You have influence with Browser and Elder Stone Ghost. They’ll listen to you.”
Against her better judgment, Catkin said, “If I tell them, they’ll want a reason.”
Obsidian hesitated, her triangular jaw cocked as she tried to weigh Catkin’s worthiness. “They don’t understand what they’re walking into. This isn’t some rogue War Chief, some petty raider, they are hunting. This is Two Hearts—the most dangerous witch in the world.”
“They know that.” Catkin lifted an eyebrow. “I take it you know quite a bit about the White Moccasins?”
Obsidian took a deep breath, voice controlled as though she were speaking to a child. “You must trust me on this. Catkin, they—”
“Trust you?” Catkin asked incredulously. “I’m still not sure that you weren’t involved in our Matron’s death back at Longtail village. I’d rather reach into a jar of scorpions than trust you.”
Obsidian stiffened. “I had nothing to do with your Matron’s death.” She shook her head, the action flipping her silky black hair and rattling the turquoise beads she’d woven into her locks. “I can only tell you that you’ll be doing them a favor by stopping them. It’s up to you.”
Obsidian turned and stalked away.
Catkin watched her go, and whispered, “Insect.”
Taking a deep breath, she resumed her way toward Browser’s fire. She could see him, his head bent close to Stone Ghost’s as the War Chief fed sticks into the tiny blaze.
Her steps slowed as she approached, attention on Browser, on the familiar set of his broad shoulders. From long practice, she could read his expression: a deep-seated worry. Gods, how many times had he come to her with that look on his face? She had always listened, considered his words, and given him the wisest counsel a friend could give, despite the aching in her heart.
Three winters ago her husband, Wind Born, had died of the coughing sickness. Two winters had passed since she had joined the Katsinas’ People. She had been lost in grief. Perhaps she had taken extra risks, or hadn’t
cared to live, but during a raid, the Fire Dogs had captured her when she took a foolish chance. That night had, in many ways, brought her back to life. She remembered the feeling of helplessness as they stripped her, the pain as they pried her legs apart. She had chewed through her lip, tasting blood as that first man thrust himself inside her. Something had made her open her eyes and look up past the grunting warrior’s head. She had seen Browser appear there, magical as the katsinas, standing in the firelight, his war club raised. Like a hero from the old tales he had howled and laid about him with that bloody war club. The memory was of a blurred, fire-streaked phantom dancing through the dying warriors. The sounds had engraved themselves on her souls: the cries of the Fire Dogs; the howling torn from Browser’s throat; and the smacking sounds as his club crushed their skulls.
Blood-smeared and spattered with gore, he’d lifted her from the ground, slung her across his shoulder, and pelted off into the night. Time had turned in on itself, her souls numb as she bounced on his shoulder like a sack of corn.
The next thing she remembered was the cool breeze on her hot cheek. His dark form hunched above her, silhouetted against the stars. At the first thought that had coalesced in her head, she had said, “A good War Chief doesn’t risk himself or his party for the sake of one captive.”
He had answered, “I could take you back.”
In that moment, she had fallen in love with him. Never, in the intervening years, had she so much as laid a lover’s finger on him. Despite the longing in his eyes, he had never encouraged her to be other than his best friend.
During the time he was married to Ash Girl, she had been his confidante and had ignored the knowledge that he had crept away to share Hophorn’s bed. In the year since Hophorn’s and Ash Girl’s deaths, she had maintained
her control, allowing him to grieve. Despite the craving she had for his touch, it was enough to be close to him.
Catkin forced herself forward, seeing him tense at the sound of gravel under her moccasin, his hand involuntarily gripping the handle of his war club. Then recognizing her familiar tread, his grip relaxed.
She stepped around and squatted opposite them, her war club on her knees as she glanced from Browser’s face to Stone Ghost’s. “I am ready when you are. Straighthorn and Jackrabbit are packing their few things.”
Browser’s face pinched. “You’re not going. Neither are they. I need you here, to help Matron Flame … Matron Cloudblower to make the move to Streambed Town.”
Catkin shook her head. “My duties as your deputy are over, War Chief. You are not my clansman and cannot order me. I joined the Katsinas’ People of my own will. I leave them of my own will. When you go, you will need me. I will be there to watch your back. You will have to make your own way with Jackrabbit and Straighthorn.”
Browser gave her a deadpan stare. The wrinkled corners of Stone Ghost’s lips twitched with amusement.
“Obsidian just stopped me,” Catkin continued. “You should know that she urged me to dissuade you from this mad scheme. She wouldn’t give me a reason why.”
“No,” Browser said wearily. “I suppose she wouldn’t. Catkin, I really don’t want you to do this. It’s not your fight.”
“If it is yours, it is mine.” She glanced out at the darkness, lowering her voice. “You don’t know that he’s still alive. I saw him, saw his color, the blood leaking from his mouth. When you struck, you broke his ribs and punctured a lung.”
“He’s alive,” Stone Ghost said soberly. “Had he died, we would have heard.”
“From whom? Obsidian?” Catkin asked pointedly. “She’s one of them, isn’t she?”
Browser’s tightening jaw muscles betrayed him. “One of who?”
“A White Moccasin. One of the First People.”
She had to give him credit, he kept his face straight when he said, “Probably.”
Catkin pointed to the healing wound on his forehead. “If you hadn’t taken a blow to the head and were thinking better, you would know the wisdom of taking Straighthorn and Jackrabbit with us. Straighthorn was there, in the cavern, when we faced the White Moccasins. He has told Jackrabbit everything he heard and saw. They are safer traveling with us than they would be here, where they could say anything they wished to anyone passing by.”
Stone Ghost grunted in assent, his gaze measuring her.
“I cannot ask you—,” Browser began stubbornly.
“That’s why I have saved you the discomfort.” Catkin met his eyes. “I am going with you, as you know I must.”
Stone Ghost said, “I agree. I think Catkin’s place is with us.”
Browser looked bewildered. “You can’t mean that. You know the risks as well as I do.”
“Yes.” Stone Ghost seemed unconcerned. “So does Catkin. I doubt she’d be offering to join us if she didn’t. This is not just about us, Nephew, it is—”
“Hello the camp!” a voice called from the darkness.
Catkin leapt to her feet, her war club raised. Behind her, Browser jumped up, calling: “Who comes?”
“I am called Cricket Dancer, a man of the Coyote Clan. My Matron, Blue Corn, has sent me to find the Katsinas’ People. I come with news for Matron Cloudblower. A party of Fire Dogs has come to Flowing Waters Town. They come in search of the Katsinas’ People. They wish a meeting.”
Catkin saw Browser and Stone Ghost trade a look of surprise. Blue Corn? She was a staunch defender of the old gods, of the Flute Player.
“Come in!” Stone Ghost called to the darkness. “Tell us about this.”
Catkin’s spine tingled, remembering her last experience with the Fire Dogs.
 
 
MAGPIE WALKING HAWK Taylor, better known as “Maggie,” sipped at a steaming cup of coffee as she drove her “puke-green” Park Service pickup truck over the Chaco Wash bridge. Frost left hoary patterns on the pickup’s hood, the engine having warmed enough to outline the trellislike frame under the sheet metal.
“Maggie! You’re on dawn patrol!”
Her boss, Rupert Brown, the park superintendent, had sounded too cheery as he addressed his hungover staff at the morning meeting. The man seemed to have an unearthly glow, as though possessed of a great and powerful excitement. Everyone else looked like morgue specimens. Of course, Rupert had made only a token appearance at the Halloween party early on in the evening. He’d just made it back from business in the capital, and ducked out a little after seven. He couldn’t even be found to give out the best costume prize.
Rupert was an interesting guy: one of the few Native Americans in a position of authority in the National Park Service. Tall, with a hawklike face, he was nearing retirement. His steely gray hair, long face, and probing brown eyes along with his unusual height gave him a commanding presence. As to how “Indian” he was, Maggie was unsure. Rupert looked like a typical southwestern mongrel: Anglo, Hispanic, and Indian, all rolled into one. Rumor had it that in the sixties he had
been “White.” The seventies and eighties had seen him promoted in the Park Service as a “Hispanic.” Now, with Indians back in vogue, he was “Native American.” Some said he was Navajo, others that he was of Puebloan stock. To Maggie, it didn’t matter what he was. In her book, he’d proved to be a good-natured guy, and a capable boss, and that was what really counted.
The morning sun still hung below the eastern horizon, filling the sky with a purple luminosity that cast lavender across the high sandstone canyon walls. The sagebrush, greasewood, and chamisa were softened by the pastel colors and a dusting of frost that coated their branches.
She yawned, and faint tendrils of her breath hung in the cab’s cold air. After the Halloween party last night, this was just way too early to be up and about. While Maggie didn’t drink, she did like a good party. Not only that, Reggie Brown, the park superintendent’s grandson, had been there. Reggie was tall, like Rupert, and good-looking.
She arched an eyebrow when she thought about his nice smile. He had a special power, a presence. People turned to look when he walked into a room. Maggie couldn’t help but respond to that gleam in his eye when he looked at her. And while he did drink, he’d been moderate: only three bottles of beer spaced over the five hours she had been at the party. She was leery of alcohol. Her mother had been a drunk who had ended up dead in a car wreck when she passed out behind the wheel. Living with her on the spiral down had been the worst thing Maggie had ever endured. Lord knew, she’d have ended up badly, too, but for her grandmother, Slumber, and her two aunts.
BOOK: Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries
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