Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged (18 page)

"A
man half Indian."

"Who
is he?"

"Luther
Drake," she breathed.

A
bolt of lightning lit up the sky and flashed above the horizon, a deafening
clap of thunder slapped the heavens, and a torrent of rain blasted our
windshield and obscured our view. Nature's energy had exploded violently and
without warning. I quickly turned on the windshield wipers and shivered at the
suddenness of the rainstorm. Neither of us spoke.

The
skies were as clear as they had been before the quick deluge, which was now
only a passing freak of nature.

"Aren't
we climbing up the rock face?" Callie asked.

"Not
now that I know about the road on the backside. I'm driving, parking the car,
and letting all the tourists on the front side of this rock wonder how I got a
car up there." I stepped on the gas and the Jeep shot up the steep cliff,
tires spinning and spitting dirt as Callie shouted for me to slow down, perhaps
certain I would overshoot the short, flat plateau and take us over the opposite
side like Thelma and Louise.

Jamming
on the brakes, I staunched her fears and we both hopped out. I took Callie by the
hand and together we walked to the ceremonial circle, our arms around each
other, breathing in the fresh air that carried the scent of red dirt and cactus
and desert flowers and, from somewhere, the smell of mossy creek beds and the
down of small animals burrowed in their nests.

Suddenly,
I felt as much a part of the earth as any of its other elements, and Callie and
I seemed to be alone on top of the world, brushed by the same desert winds that
propelled the tumbleweed, swayed by the same celestial breezes that whipped the
sagebrush. Forces blowing around us seemed to encourage us to move with the
wind, and before I knew it we were whirling in dramatic swirls and turns,
dancing in the wind, dust at our heels, the clouds moving around us kitelike as
if tied to strings anchored by our hearts.

"It's
amazing how we move together so effortlessly," Callie said, smiling up at
me, both of us aware that we had never danced together before.

"Even
when there's no music."

"I
hear music," she said, and we moved in one another's arms as if we were a
single being, and perhaps we were. "What do you vow?" she asked me.

"To
be yours throughout all time, beyond time, beyond forever. And what do you
vow?"

"I
vow to be one with you forever," she said, then paused. "How do you
know we didn't, at this very moment, get married?"

"You
love to mess with my head." I rested my forehead on hers as we spun in
circles in the wind, giddy and dizzy.

"Marriage
is merely a ceremony where a person says 'I now pronounce you'...so what if the
wind and rocks and sand are all whispering 'I now pronounce you.'"

Coyotes
howled in the distance and the wind picked up around us. Our conversation muted
by nature's sounds, my body too cold to remain still, I ran from the wind and
the rocks and the sand and any messages they might be carrying, pretending the
cold was forcing us back to the car, holding Callie's hand once we finally
climbed inside.

Callie
snuggled into me as we drove, and that odd yin-and-yang energy that had cursed
my entire life began to whir around me. The energy that guaranteed if something
spectacular happened to me, then immediately something of opposite and equal
magnitude balanced it out. Yin rear-ended by yang, like winning two thousand
dollars only to find out an hour later I needed it for a dental bill. I told
Callie about this phenomenon the minute it came to mind.

"Think
of it as a blessing preceding the need."

"Sometimes
I want random blessings that hang around without a need, but this balancing
force seems to dog me, keeps me uncomfortable. It always reminds me that
everything changes, and I feel it tonight. Tonight is simply too good to stand
on its own."

"Push
that negative energy away. Don't accept it. You can, you know."

We
rounded a tight bend in the mountain road and suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge
animal rushed our vehicle and leaped onto the hood of the car, its claws
scraping across the paint on the Jeep's hood, its bared teeth and face smashing
into the windshield as we both screamed and I slammed on the brakes.

Elmo's
deep growl rose to a sharp squeal as our car careened off the rocky road. I
fought to gain control of it, knowing any moment the wolf would slide off, but
terrifyingly, its animal face morphed into a diabolical human visage smiling
hideously at us through the tempered glass. Callie and I shrieked even louder,
like teenagers on a thrill ride, and then the face morphed into that of a
corpse and disappeared. The car skidded back onto the road and everything was
as it had been, except our nerves were shattered.

"Shit,
what the hell was that?" I shouted as Callie and Elmo panted beside me.

"Shape-shifter,"
Callie breathed, hugging Elmo to her.

"Next
time we take a vacation let's stay home. This tribal thing is too
intense." My body was shaking, my nerves were jangled, I hated whoever was
dogging us, and I wanted revenge.

"The
man I told you about—" Callie began.

"The
half-Indian?"

"He
knows about the wolf visiting us, and he's appearing in similar form to try to
trick us. He's the one who showed up at the cabin and tried to entice you into
the woods."

"Did
you know who he was then?" I asked, and Callie nodded that she did.
"That's why you got so upset. And he's the one who showed up in the form
of the wolf and sent me over the canyon edge?" Now I knew who the wolf
was... and somehow I felt worse and not better. "So where are you, you
chicken sonofabitch? I want to meet you in the flesh," I shouted into the
windshield.

"You've
summoned him. He will show himself now." I could tell from Callie's voice
that she was worried, but I was anxious to get everything out in the open—in
particular Luther Drake.

Almost
as soon as we got back to the cabin, the phone rang. It was Ramona Mathers
saying she had been unable on such short notice to get permission to exhume a
body; she'd even called Cy Blackstone, who had reminded her that many people
weren't back from the holidays and it wasn't going to be possible. I thanked
her for giving it a shot and hung up.

"She
even asked Cy Blackstone, which was pretty ballsy of her. She's connected, I'll
give her that."

"I
think she's been warned off," Callie said. "She was so confident and
now, before the government offices are even open, she's declaring defeat."

"Should
we tell Manaba we can't get it done?"

"She's
meeting us late tonight. I knew it would come down to our doing it without
anyone's help."

I
wanted to ask when she'd contacted Manaba about digging up the grave, but the
air in Sedona seemed to carry messages like whispers in the wind. If a woman
could dance in the middle of a fire, she most likely could know things without
relying on U.S. Cellular.

"Wake
up." Callie shook me. It was still pitch-black outside as I yanked on my
cords, grabbed a sweater and down vest, and pulled on my mountain boots. I
crossed in front of the living room door on my way to the bathroom and halted
abruptly.

The
figure in the living room only looked up, the face stoic, the outfit the same,
Manaba sitting like an invited guest before I'd even heard the front door open.

"Did
you let her in?" I said over my shoulder to Callie.

"She
let herself in. This is her cabin, remember?"

"Forgot
about that. But she might consider knocking when it's rented."

Entering
the living room, I greeted her as I crossed to the kitchen to turn on the
coffee but saw it was already made, the pot emptied and put away. Manaba
offered me a cup she'd apparently saved for me and I took it, grateful to be
able to drink and not talk. The cabin brew, always strong and rich, was more
bitter than it had been the last time I drank it, as if it too anticipated the
thing to be done: an unearthing, a removal of a body from a grave in the middle
of the night, an illegal act on sacred ground. I hoped Manaba had said all the
right prayers before we left.

Excusing
myself, I headed back to the bedroom to see how Callie was doing. "How can
Manaba stand the idea of digging up a grave that contains her lover? How can
she be okay with that?"

"She's
trained to endure many things, some you and I could never even imagine."

I
watched as Callie applied her makeup as if she was going to a premiere instead
of an exhumation. She caught me staring at her and cocked a questioning
eyebrow.

"It's
dark-thirty outside. No one will see you, and even Sacajawea in there is
without makeup and in her only piece of wardrobe. Why take so much time getting
ready? Don't get me wrong. Personally, I think you look fabulous."

"Out
of respect." Callie shook her head.

"For
Nizhoni? You said she wasn't in the grave."

"For
myself."

I
realized Callie's principles trickled down into the smallest details of life,
and for a moment I saw her as a beautiful warrior applying war paint—preparing
to do battle with a form yet unseen.

"I'm
not too excited about doing this," I said.

"It's
her family's burial place. Nizhoni's uncle is going to help."

"That's
even creepier."

When
Callie came out of the bedroom, Manaba made eye contact with her for an instant
and then went outside, further annoying me with her constant attempts at
unspoken conversation with Callie.

As
we headed for our car, Manaba was gone. Was there a Manaba-mobile? I didn't
know. All I knew for sure was she didn't ride with us and I didn't see another
vehicle for her. Perhaps she'd mastered the art of disappearing and
reappearing. We'd find out when we got to the cemetery.

"Something's
not right," I fretted as Callie navigated, directing me around curves, up
hills, and back down the other side. "Manaba's too damned calm." We
topped a hill and emerged on a short stretch of two-lane with nothing on either
side but sand. "Navajos don't want to see, touch, or talk about the dead
because they're afraid the ghosts of the dead will attach to them," I
said, turning back toward rockier terrain and thinking that getting lost took
on a whole new meaning out here.

"They're
very smart. That can happen."

"So
why would Manaba and the uncle agree to dig up Nizhoni's grave?"

"I
don't care why. I know we have to do it. Could we make it a little warmer in
here? You've got the AC so low that snow is coming out of the vents,"
Callie said and I rolled my eyes at her. "I got you something to take for
the hot flashes." Callie pulled a small tin container out of her pocket.
"It's all natural." She handed me a capsule and gave me a sip of her
Coke to slug it down.

"Where
did you get this?"

"It's
an Indian remedy."

I
noted she didn't answer the question directly, meaning she'd probably gotten it
from a local source I wouldn't even visit, much less buy drugs from.
"Great," I said, wondering what in hell I'd swallowed.

As
the road inclined again, Callie punched a button on her penknife and shone the
light on antiquated-looking hand-drawn directions; I was almost certain Manaba
had drawn them.

"Left,"
she instructed as we approached an opening in the road that looked like a goat
path. I was grateful for four-wheel drive as she continued with her
instructions, pointing this time. "Up that hill with the tree and then
down over there."

About
two hundred feet in front of the car, a cluster of graves dotted the landscape.
Closing the car doors softly, to avoid rattling the spirits, we walked to the
dirt graves and knelt down among the modest wooden markers. Beside them,
stabbed into the dirt, a few crooked cradle boards that once held babies safely
against their mothers' strong backs now marked the end of life, graphically illustrating
the phrase "cradle to grave" and creating an even greater sadness
about death—that this is what was left.

Manaba
appeared out of nowhere. Beside her walked a man— short, muscular, with a piece
of cloth across his forehead at a slant concealing his face. Assuming he was
Native American from his build and stance, legs slightly arched at the thighs
as if he constantly rode horses, I thought tonight he looked sentrylike, as if
he should be brandishing a rifle rather than a shovel. Could this be Nizhoni's uncle,
here to break open his niece's grave? If so, he was more peaceful than I.

"If
I am wrong—" Callie's tentative voice was interrupted by Manaba's loud
wail that filled the night air and sent goose bumps roaming across my flesh: a
chant of forgiveness perhaps. Never had I heard anyone make those kinds of
sounds—of sadness, and longing, and love.

If
we’re trying to do this in secret, we’re screwed,
I thought. The volume was making me nervous but the
sound was hypnotic. It dawned on me that the chant was one of the most ancient
sounds on earth, used by mankind for eons to call people to a common
purpose—and now we were called to this most unpleasant of tasks. Despite the
gravity of the event, I felt powerful, almost proud, anxious to get this done,
certain if anyone showed up I could take them down, and I wondered if the
coffee or the Indian estrogen contained an upper.