Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged (11 page)

It
turned its backside to me again, then glanced over its shoulder and slowly
moved ahead as if cajoling me, training me. The wolf couldn't have asked me
more plainly to follow if it had spoken fluent English.

Almost
involuntarily, I took a step toward it, then another. When I stopped, it
stopped and looked over its shoulder and into my eyes again. I was literally
dancing with a wolf—following its footsteps. Soon lightheaded and nearly
euphoric, I trotted behind the wolf, who had picked up the pace, heading
through the woods with me right behind it, almost gleeful like a child, when in
the distance I heard Callie shrieking my name.

Her
voice was high-pitched, loud, urgent, and terrified, and the wolf's fur
twitched across its shoulders as it looked back at me, sensing I was slowing
down. The tenuous thread between us stretched thin, near the breaking point,
and it hesitated, as if reluctantly making a decision, then turned and ran,
seeming to know I would no longer follow—our dance ended. Callie's frightened
voice interrupted the enticement, the lure, the longing to tap into something
beyond my knowing. My experience with the animal shattered in the night air
like pottery on pavers.

Turning
back, I headed for the cabin and halfway Callie raced toward me, flinging
herself into my arms, her hands cupping my neck, hugging me to her.

"What
were you doing?" she asked, breathless, her voice a reprimand and not a
question, seeming to know without my telling that I had followed the wolf.

"The
wolf—it's human and it—"

"You
mustn't follow it! Do you hear me, do not follow that. It's a spirit, Teague, a
person who has shape-shifted, but you don't know which person and you don't
know its intent."

"But
you said it wasn't evil and you didn't feel anything bad around it and that
tribal people shape—"

"Swear
to me you won't do that again!" Callie's voice came in breathless bursts
and sounded more terror-stricken than I'd ever heard it.

"Okay,
but it wants to tell me something, I know that."

"Yes,
it makes you think that. More likely it wants something else. Remember, women
have disappeared but bodies are not found and—"

"What
women?"

Callie
stopped talking, apparently unaware of what she was saying.

"There's
only the Native American woman, right?" When Callie didn't answer, I
asked, "Are there other women? Talk to me, Callie."

"Someone
else was killed...a long time ago. Manaba's high-school friend, Kai, they
called her Willow." She seemed to be pulling this information in on some
cosmic thread, saying the words slowly so as not to scare them away from her.

"By
wolves?"

"No...I
don't know." She seemed confused. "Then Manaba's grandmother died. It
doesn't make sense, does it?" Callie whispered. "The natives say they
found blood and her grandmother's torn clothing, but that could be rumor."
Callie's voice had grown soft and reverential.

"Was
it her blood or wolf's blood?" Even as I condemned the wolf, I found it
hard to believe that something so beautiful— something with soft eyes like a
human's—could be the killer.

"The
other woman, I feel a strong energy about her," Callie said, and I sensed
she wasn't talking about Nizhoni or the grandmother, but about Kai and
something that went beyond the present.

"How
did you know about her?"

"Manaba
dedicated one of her teaching classes to her and said she was killed very
young. Everyone thought auto accident or something like that, but one of the
women in the class who lives here said she committed suicide."

"You
said 'was killed.'"

"I
don't know why I said that." Her mind seemed to drift and like a cosmic
net encircle fragments of information from the universal consciousness,
plucking relevant information for comment. "He knows about the first wolf
visitation and he's mimicking it." Callie's tone was quiet.

"He
who? Who are you talking about?" I begged.

As
if orchestrated by some force beyond our knowing, the wind attacked the pine
trees and the needles whistled as if calling forth the dead; air blew up around
our bodies with an electrical charge that made my every hair stand up in fear.
Powerful centrifugal gusts seized the treetops now, and I expected to see the
pine needles part and the devil descend as climax to the electromagnetic
anticipation that rolled over me, nearly rendering me immobile.

"Quick,
get inside!" Callie ordered, and we jogged back to the cabin as I worried
what in hell we'd gotten into and what evil was bearing down on us, borne on
the wind.

The
knock at the door uncoiled me and I sprang for my gun. Taking several long
strides across the creaking wooden floors, I slung open the door where Manaba
stood smelling of smoke and tobacco and some kind of incense, looking like a
centerfold for
Northern Exposure.

Exotic
in leather and feathers, she'd apparently long ago discarded traditional Navajo
dress for native-eclectic, taking from her grandmother's culture those things
that worked for her and eschewing the rest. She stood in the doorway completely
without makeup and showed no sign she owned a hairbrush, her entire presence
sensual; yet her dark, knowing eyes seemed troubled.

Callie
entered the room and stopped abruptly, as if opposing energy fields kept them
at bay like the wrong ends of a magnet.

"I
don't want to be involved with this energy," Callie replied to Manaba's
unspoken question, and I wondered if she meant the personal energy between the
two of them or the energy of whatever was happening around Nizhoni's death.
"I cannot unearth the truth when the truth is withheld by those who know
it."

I
didn't know much about Navajo tradition but I was pretty sure insulting a
shaman wasn't a great move, and it sounded like Callie had accused Manaba of
withholding information. I also noticed when Callie was around Manaba she
started talking like a fortune cookie, and I began to fantasize how bad
foreplay would sound with Manaba.
She who takes off her clothes may
experience the pleasures of the dancing valley,
or something like that.

There
was a long pause.

"Nizhoni,"
Manaba said, then uttered something in her native tongue that I couldn't
understand, much less repeat, but I sensed she spoke Nizhoni's name with love.
Callie seemed mildly surprised and finally nodded her acquiescence. Manaba's
shoulders noticeably relaxed as if a burden had been removed.

"What's
she saying?"

"Nizhoni,
the woman she says was recently killed...was Manaba's lover," Callie said,
finally revealing the truth Manaba had withheld. Now my mind really took
off—the Indian maiden and the shaman in a lesbian affair—wow.

"I
do not believe Nizhoni is dead." Callie directed her words to Manaba.
"Not like your friend, Kai. This is different, she is alive."

Nervousness
in her body, Manaba shifted her weight. "Nizhoni's grave is in the valley
vortex, I know that. I need the truth about Kai."

"Ignore
the recent death and focus on the old one?" I asked.

"New
is but the old revisited," Manaba replied in that circular way she had of
answering questions.

Silence
ensued as if Callie was trying to make a decision, perhaps a decision about
whether what she was thinking was right or wrong. Finally, she said quietly,
"We must dig up Nizhoni's grave."

"We
do not desecrate the dead!" Manaba's voice showed its first signs of
having any range above middle C, and I remembered reading years ago that
ancient Navajo culture feared the dead, so maybe Manaba did too. I wasn't so
hot on dead people myself, but apparently the Navajos went to a lot of trouble
to stay away from their ghosts, and most certainly their graves. Manaba's
nervousness was picking up speed as she paced, fretted, and appeared as if
merely talking about the dead might suddenly bring the entire cemetery over for
a ghost bust. "Proving my young friend was murdered, that is the
long-buried truth that must be unearthed, not this fresh grave."

"Do
you want my help?" Callie challenged, ready, it appeared, to remove
herself from Manaba's drama if she would only say the word.

"Digging
up the grave will tell you nothing." Manaba's tone was sharp, perhaps to
cover her dread of digging up the person she loved.

"It
will tell us if Nizhoni is buried there, if anyone is buried there."
Callie seemed to be standing up to Manaba for the first time, as if being drawn
into this mystery meant she would somehow take charge.

"I
will talk with her family," Manaba said and left the cabin, slipping into
the darkness.

"She's
not in the grave, I just know that."

"You
heard Manaba," I reminded Callie. "She was there, she knows the
family, they buried the woman. How are you going to get a grave dug up?"

"You
have to help me get permission because I don't think it's on official Indian
land. You were a police officer, what do we have to do?"

"Grave
digging wasn't my specialty. What makes you so sure the grave is empty?"

"I
don't know."

"Good.
That will give me lots of ammunition for whoever I have to convince at the
Public Works Department or some tribal chief to let us dig up the dead. So the
woman we're looking for who's not supposed to be in the grave was her lover,
Nizhoni, who was killed after knowing Manaba, like Kai, who most likely was
also her lover. Maybe Manaba killed them both—"

Seeing
Callie's startled expression, I quickly apologized. "Hey, I barely know
Manaba. But it's odd that bad luck strikes twice and she's the common
denominator."

I
immediately dialed the 918 area code and number for Wade Garner, my old police
buddy—the only person I could call from anywhere on the planet and get help.
Wade never acted surprised to hear from me and enjoyed exhibiting no reaction
to what I told him, even if it sounded outlandish.

"You're
in a cabin? Did you get kicked out of your rental house? I want to talk to
Callie," he rambled on, filling all the dead air space.

"Listen
to me, Wade, I need—"

"Nope,
I talk to the blonde or I talk to no one." He'd first met Callie on the
Anthony murder case and had liked her then. Now he enjoyed pretending he was
closer to her than me, to tick me off.

I
handed the phone to Callie, and her sweet voice took on an even more playful
tone when she spoke to him. She said everything was fine with us and that I was
writing a script and she was visiting friends.

"She
is
a little difficult," Callie said, tossing me a smile to let me
know I was the one being referenced.

"I'm
not the one who wants to dig up a dead body," I shouted loud enough for
Wade to hear. There was apparently a response on his part, and Callie confirmed
my statement and then, grinning, thrust the phone into my hand.

"Tell
me she's kidding," Wade said.

"Dead
people: she sees them, she talks to them, she digs them up."

"Any
particular reason, Boris, or are you both just bored?" Wade said.

"Yeah,
'cause the body's not there," I said flatly.

"And
the body that's not there, did the family think it was there when they told it
good-bye?" Not waiting for my answer, he gave me an exasperated follow-up.
"Why would the body not be there?"

'"Cause
the woman's not dead."

"And
we know that because..." Wade dragged out the words.

"Because...we...do."
I grinned at Callie, aware my devotion to her had me not only accepting cosmic
craziness but also looking like a nutcase in front of my police buddy. Wade let
out a big snort, the kind that always preceded a rude remark, so I stopped him
in his derisive tracks.

"If
you've got no pull in the human-excavation department, say so and can the
comments," I ordered brusquely.

"Hey,
Captain Marvel, I was about to say you're going to need someone in that part of
the world who can run interference with the local government officials, or the
Indians, and fill out the paperwork, and it might even take—hey, was she
murdered, because that's a—"

"Attacked
by wolves."

"Where
the hell
are
you?" Wade's voice rose two octaves.

"Sedona."

"That's
right, because I talked to your mom and she said she's brokenhearted you didn't
invite her there for Thanksgiving—"

"Okay,
cut it out," I said in response to his teasing.

"She
said you called her the other night to complain about having to write dirty
scenes in a movie, is that true? Are you writing a porno movie?"

"Jeez,
Wade, why do you call my mother and have these little talks? Is it to torture
me? You know she gets every conversation upside down, and you egg her on. I
told her the director I worked for wanted—never mind, I got bigger fish to fry
here."