Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged (25 page)

The
headline read INDIAN WOMAN ACCUSES CITY COUNSELOR OF RAPE. The photo caption
said "Beleaguered Counselor Cy Blackstone denies ever knowing the Navajo
woman."

"She
was a friend," the Native American woman said, and the simplicity of her
statement struck an emotional chord as I watched her retrieve the folder and
turn to go. I wondered how long she'd saved it, what she'd thought as she
clipped each of those articles, and where she'd hidden it, hoping someday someone
would care to ask.

"Thank
you," I said to her broad, tired back. "Thank you for caring enough
about your friend to save this."

But
she had already gone into another room as Callie and I walked out of the
building and into the night.

"So
Luther and Cy Blackstone share a long and sordid history," I said as we
climbed into the car and headed back to the cabin.

"More
than we know," Callie said. "Their secrets are old and dark and exist
even to this day."

"What
more could there possibly be between them?" I mused.

"A
son who covers for his father's rigged election in exchange for the father
covering for the son when he's accused of a teenage girl's death—conspirators
who protect each other yet hate each other. There's more. That much I
know."

Elmo
was ecstatic to see us, perhaps feeling bad about his previous low-key
greetings, and I led him down the porch steps for a potty break and bumped into
Manaba, who nearly scared me into the next millennium, her deerskin-clad arm in
my face as she tried to calm me.

"Manaba,
it would be spectacular if you could approach the cabin like a normal person
instead of like a freaking apparition. Terrific that you have that ability
but—"

Ignoring
me, she walked past and up the steps, as I glanced around to see if she'd been
tailed. Then I followed her inside where she paced, refusing water or food or
conversation, and Callie and I resigned ourselves to the fact we'd have to wait
until she could get the words out.

"How
did she know we wanted to talk to her? Did you call her with your mind?"

"No,
with my cell phone," Callie said dryly.

I
had never associated Manaba with a cell phone and wondered if she had a
kangaroo pouch built into her hides so she could keep her phone with her.
Glancing over at Callie, I could see her resoluteness.

She
was focused on Manaba and I had a feeling, having gotten that look myself on
occasion, that Manaba was in for it.

"Luther
Drake is Blackstone's son. You knew all along and you didn't share that with
me. You knew Nizhoni wasn't dead and you let me dig up that grave. What else do
you know that you're not telling?" Callie said, and her voice was stone.

Manaba
didn't even attempt to avoid it or spin it or refute it. At least she was smart
enough to know when she'd been checkmated.

"I
didn't know that he'd made plans to kill her, but Blackstone knew, and his
conscience forced him to come to me. On that night, Luther Drake drove
Blackstone to the ridge to meet Nizhoni. Blackstone and I arranged the net
below, strung like a hammock then, and a rope around her waist hidden under her
clothing, so in case she missed the net, she would still not fall below. Luther
thought I had killed her, which put an end to his jealousy."

"Long
way to go to dump a personal problem," I said.

"He
is not an ordinary man," Manaba said. "He was happy when Nizhoni was
gone. I had proved to him that he was more important than she. Blackstone gave
her over to an Indian man to keep her hidden until I could prove Luther Drake
was a murderer. Then you exhumed the grave—"

"How
did Luther know to show up at the gravesite?" I asked.

"The
wind carries the message."

"How
did you keep this from Nizhoni's parents? They would know animal bones,"
Callie said.

"Distraught,
they left it to Little Horse, Nizhoni's uncle. He has known all along."

Hearing
the name reminded me that carrot boy was due back with a map to Little Horse's
place. I dashed out on the porch to see if he'd been here and sure enough,
stuck under the doormat, was the map he'd promised. Her back to me, Fern was
about to disappear into the woods when I shouted her name.

"Didn't
want to disturb you. My boy said you wanted that map." She pointed to the
paper I'd retrieved on the doorstep, and I realized Fern was taking on her
son's commitments.

"I'm
sorry you had to make the trip."

"Love
walkin' the woods." She dismissed my apology. "You and your
girlfriend havin' a good time?"

"We
are," I said, and smiled.

"You
know, I was thinkin' if you find one person in this lifetime you can't stand to
be without, then you're the luckiest person alive and you better grab ahold and
hang on. Well, I got to get back to work."

Fern
gave me a little wave before hiking off into the underbrush, and for a moment I
felt like I'd been visited by an oversized angel in sensible shoes. I stood
still, taking in what she'd said. Callie was that person for me, the
one-in-a-lifetime I couldn't do without.

Absently,
I unfolded the map and sagged against the porch post, seeing a series of
intersecting scrawled lines with no markers of any kind.
Completely useless.
I started to toss the paper back into the trees from which it came but
thought of Fern picking up after everybody, and I crumpled it up and jammed it
into my jeans' pocket.

Returning
to the living room, I heard Manaba tell Callie she would not let Nizhoni be
killed, even if she had to kill Luther Drake. The words were cataclysmic; no
Navajo and certainly no shaman would ever take a life.

"Ramona
Mathers has disappeared. An arrowhead was found on her dresser at her cabin,
and now a business associate, Barrett Silvers, has gone to find her," I
interjected.

"You
mean the studio woman who searches for her new lover," Manaba said. Her
mind seemed to drift and then it appeared that she went into a trance, the kind
of leaving her body that Callie did, only worse. Her body looked almost
corpselike, she was so out of it. I sat quietly with Callie, waiting for her
spirit to return. Minutes later, she stirred, rolled her eyes back down out of
her head, and seemed to find it somewhat startling to be in a room with us.
"Two are together. The other is lost."

That
phrasing jolted me. Did she mean that her lover and Ramona were together and
Barrett was lost, or perhaps Barrett and Ramona were together and her lover was
lost? And what did "lost" mean: missing, dead, unsaved by the blood of
the lamb?

"What
do you mean?" I finally asked.

"I
don't know what I say or see," Manaba replied. "I do not allow myself
to recognize the location, only the feeling and the voices and the
information."

Great,
she takes trips and doesn't know where the hell she’s been,
I thought.

A
whirring sound ensued outside the cabin, like a wind had picked up in the few
trees along the creek bed and was blowing tales of evildoings around us. Manaba
looked up at the ceiling, as if contemplating something unseen, then said she
had stayed too long and left immediately. I had a feeling that staying too long
had less to do with guest courtesy and more to do with her safety.

"What
in hell was that about? Now she tells us Luther Drake killed her first lover
and would kill this one if he could get his hands on her, and she threw her
lover over the cliff in a mock murder to muddy the trail. On top of everything
else, Nizhoni's nice uncle took Ramona, but God knows where." I stopped my
tirade long enough to try Barrett's number again, then tossed my phone onto the
couch.

"I
talked to Wade. He says Ramona knew the Indian man she went off with. So does
that mean she knows Nizhoni's uncle or is it a different Indian guy?"

While
Callie contemplated these scenarios, I added, "I got the map from
carrot-kid—well, Fern, actually." I pulled it out of my pocket and Callie
stared, rotating it ninety degrees and cocking her head to look at it. "I
know, absolutely useless. And what's-his-name's feathers are falling out,"
I said, picking up the crow feather Luther had left on the floor.

"Throw
it outside," Callie said.

When
I asked her why, she was suddenly upset. She would only say that birds can mean
death, and sometimes their feathers portend a similar end. Tossing the feather
out the door, I didn't respond, unwilling to allow every errant feather to
become a death knell. Life was complicated enough.

In
the dark, we burrowed into the downy comforter and soft sheets, and I put my
arms around Callie's soft middle and whispered, "I want to make love but
I'm exhausted. Maybe this is the time I should learn to have a cerebral
affair."

"Maybe,"
Callie said, snuggling into me but not taking the bait.

"Okay,
teach me how to do it."

"It's
not like that, you evolve into it."

"Evolve
over the course of the evening, over the course of dating—"

"Over
centuries."

"It
took centuries for you and she-who-has-one-dress to have a cerebral affair? So
that means I'm not evolved or—"

Callie
suddenly placed her forehead against mine and closed her eyes, pressing her weight
against me. It calmed and quieted me. My eyes immediately closed and I was
silent, feeling an energy buzz that ran through my head, then trickled down my
extremities the way children describe an egg breaking over their heads. The
connection was electrical and spiritual...and sexual, the rippling sensation
moving up my legs and inside them. Then Callie's hand followed that energy
between my legs and I kissed her.

"This
last part doesn't feel like a cerebral affair," I murmured.

"None
of this is a cerebral affair. It's a way, as the song says, to get you to shut
up and kiss me."

I
awoke from a lovesated nap to Callie's warm hip and leg pressed up against my
still-sleepy form and the sound of her fingers clicking on the keyboard as she
sat in bed beside me, making me grateful for battery-powered laptops and
wireless. She glanced over as I stirred and then patted me through the covers.

"Hi,
honey," she said, and I swooned upon hearing her words. I would always get
to hear them as long as I could keep her loving me. She belonged to me now, and
it was hard to believe this fabulous creature had chosen me.

"Do
you think you own me now?" she said without looking up, and I could see
her reading glasses propped up on her thin, angular nose that looked so
beautifully Greek.

"I
do," I said, and she smiled absently about the matrimonial phrase that
continued to come out of my mouth by accident.

Feet
scraped across the cabin porch and Elmo let out a large bark. So far this trip
had been anything but relaxing for the nervous basset, and now we had more
uninvited guests.

Barrett
Silvers staggered onto the porch looking tired and gaunt, saving us the trouble
of hunting her. We helped her inside and she sagged into a chair, her
Esquire
good looks only slightly less elegant than when she left, her shirt loose
but still bearing her trademark cuff links. I was amazed at the way she managed
to look good regardless—it had to be her tall, trim figure that overpowered any
inelegance.

Callie
brought her a glass of water, and Barrett asked for a Bloody Mary instead. For
a non-drinker, Callie was a good bartender, and Barrett was soon stirring her
drink with a celery stick and describing how she had driven through hell trying
to find anyone who knew Little Horse's whereabouts.

"I
don't think there is a fucking Little Horse, or if there is, then his friends
have warned him I'm looking for him and he's laying low."

"Little
Horse is Nizhoni's uncle," Callie said.

"Who's
Nizhoni?" Barrett seemed weary.

"Nizhoni
is the girl who went over the cliff," Callie said.

"So
why would Little Horse kidnap Ramona?" Barrett asked.

"Callie
thinks Ramona went voluntarily, and my police buddy Wade Garner said before you
ever met Ramona she had dealings with a Navajo man. He'd asked her to come and
see him because he was in trouble. So maybe she's on a business trip."

"That's
insane," Barrett said, and I could see she was in no condition to absorb
information. The plot wasn't going the way she'd expected so she was rejecting
the script.

"We
tried to call you but there was no reception," I said. "I tried to
call Ramona the entire time I was driving—nothing. Either her cell phone's dead
or it's not on her or.. .I don't know."

"The
military locates people. Hell, there's a company that collects data on
everyone's cell-phone location and creates a detailed view of their life
patterns—when they're working, sleeping, traveling, and of course who they're
doing," I said. "All that based on phone calls. We might be in the
middle of nowhere, but there has to be a way to find Ramona through her cell
phone."