Skinwalker by Linda S. Maclaren (Mackie)
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Act II
Jim pivoted too fast and lost his balance, landing with an undignified thud in the middle of the ashes. Flushing both with anger and surprise, he scrambled to his feet and stepped up beside his equally shocked partner. "Where the hell did you come from?" he demanded. It was not the most politic of greetings, but the sudden appearance of the old Indian had caught him completely unaware. His earlier scan of the area hadn't revealed another living creature of any substantial size.
The old man, his face bronzed and deeply creased with evidence of his advanced age, ignored the question and gestured urgently. "Step away from there."
Blair tugged Jim's arm, imploring obedience, and they returned to the roadside to stand beside the stranger.
"We're sorry," Blair said. He gestured down the highway toward their car. "We had an accident. My name is Blair Sandburg, and this is Jim Ellison."
Jim studied the old man's worn jeans, scuffed boots, and plaid western shirt. A red bandanna tied across his forehead and a long, gray braid told him the man was a traditionalist. He remembered Blair's tutelage about traditionalists, who had an aversion to shaking hands with strangers, so he didn't bother to offer his own in greeting.
The Navajo grunted, an eloquent response to what he clearly viewed as irrelevant information. His eyes bore into Blair. "Didn't you sense the danger?"
Blair looked startled. "I don't know what you mean."
For a moment, it looked as if the old man was going for his throat. Instead, the gnarled hand grasped the chain Blair wore around his neck and pulled out the iron wolf charm previously hidden beneath his tee. The grip tightened around the carving, then abruptly released it to let it fall back against Blair's chest.
The Navajo scowled with disapproval. "You were given this gift by a great shaman, and yet you do not take the proper steps to use it in your world."
Jim looked at the charm. He couldn't remember where Blair had gotten it, but the iron wolf certainly hadn't come from a shaman. Then again, there was Blair's vision quest, where he claimed he'd received special gifts from some ethereal shaman council. Surely, those gifts couldn't have been manifested in the real world, could they? Either way, Blair looked stung, as if a favorite teacher had taken him to task.
It rankled. "I don't suppose you have a cell phone?" he asked, breaking the mood.
"Someone will be along," the old man said, hardly sparing Jim a glance. He led them back toward the car. "We must leave this place. It is filled with bad medicine."
Bad medicine. Jim sighed as he trailed after the Navajo.
Blair whispered rapidly at his side. "Bad medicine. The evil ones. Navajo witches are called skinwalkers, but they're seldom referred to by name because a traditionalist fears use of the name will attract the witches to visit. Bones are a very important part of their rituals."
Jim fingered the fine residue of ash still coating his fingers. "Bones. Skinwalkers."
"Do not speak of them!" the old man admonished, his stride never slowing. They reached the car. "If you have items you can carry, get them. We must perform a ceremony to rid you of the spirit sickness that invaded you when you touched the ashes."
Jim remained unfazed. "And just how far do we have to hike before we get someplace where you can conduct this ceremony?"
"Jim," Blair said quietly in a tone that reminded him to be both patient and polite.
"Sorry," Jim murmured. In the distance, he could see an approaching car. Using his enhanced sight, he saw that it was a patrol car for the Navajo Tribal Police. "I guess there really is a cop around when you need one."
The old man looked at him oddly, and Jim smiled innocently. Blair cast an exasperated glance skyward, then opened the trunk to retrieve their bags. Luckily, they traveled light.
In the desert, distances were deceiving, and it took a long time for the patrol car to finally reach them. The driver, a young man with short, dark hair and aviator sunglasses, was dressed in a crisp, tan uniform with a shiny badge pinned over his left breast. His name tag read Tsosie. He surveyed the damage with a caustic eye. "What happened?"
Jim and Blair exchanged glances, and by silent, mutual agreement opted for brevity.
"I swerved to avoid a dog in the road," Blair said. "The car broke a tie rod."
"Nearest garage is in Kayenta," the officer said. "You got insurance?"
Jim nodded. Since he didn't carry collision insurance on his old Ford pickup, he'd bought the additional coverage offered by the car-rental agency. "Yeah. If you can get us towed that far, I'll call the rental outfit and see how they want to handle it."
"I'll radio for a tow," Officer Tsosie said, reaching through his car window for his radio mike. After he'd made the necessary arrangements, he turned to the old Navajo. "And you, Uncle. Did you see what happened?"
Again, Blair's lecture on the flight from Cascade came in handy. "Uncle" was a term of respect used by the young for their elders. It did not necessarily imply any biological kinship. The Navajo were careful about the use of proper names; to speak one too often could rob it of strength.
The old man pointed with his lips in typical Navajo fashion. "As he said. A dog crossed their path."
The officer scanned the desert in every direction. "And where is this lucky animal now?"
"We were more concerned with stopping the car safely than seeing where the dog went," Blair said nonchalantly. He didn't know why the old man had corroborated their story, but it gave him confidence to deal with the deputy.
After a long minute, Tsosie nodded, apparently satisfied that they'd been neither speeding nor reckless. "If you've got all your valuables, get in the car. I'll give you a lift to the motel. They have a phone you can use and a restaurant where you can wait until you've made other arrangements."
"We were planning to stay there anyway," Jim said. He didn't miss the sudden suspicion in the deputy's eyes.
"Yeah?"
The lie came easily to him, although for the life of him he didn't know why he didn't just tell the truth. "We want to see Monument Valley at sunrise."
It was a plausible story. The spectacular sandstone buttes of Monument Valley were best viewed at sunrise or sunset, and according to the Auto Club map the park entrance was a leisurely drive from Kayenta. Tomorrow they'd deal with finding transportation and joining up with Special Agent Portman.
"You must come with me," the old man said.
Jim remembered the healing ceremony and wondered how he could politely decline the man's obviously good intentions. "Thank you, but a cold shower and a hot meal are about all we need at the moment."
The man didn't argue. Instead, he nodded once and crossed the highway.
"You need a lift, Uncle?" the deputy called.
"Someone will come for me."
Blair was reluctant to climb into the police car. "We can't just leave him out here."
Tsosie laughed quietly. "The Rez isn't as desolate as you might think. The old man is right; someone will stop for him and get him safely home."
Reassured, Blair climbed into the back seat, relinquishing the front to Jim's longer legs. The police officer made a sharp U-turn and headed back toward Kayenta. "Why did old Herbert want you to go with him?"
"Herbert?" Jim said.
"His name's Herbert Atcitty."
"Ah." Jim didn't answer the question. "You know him well?"
"No. He was an old man when I was a kid, so sometimes I think he must be about a hundred and ten. He gets around okay, though. Someone always comes along to get him where he wants to go. He's one of our most respected Singers."
"Singer?" Jim glanced back at his partner for clarification.
"Medicine man," Blair said. "A shaman." His fingers strayed to the wolf charm and lingered for a moment before he tucked back down inside his shirt.
Jim rubbed his ash-slicked fingers again and felt a faint stirring of unease. If it hadn't been for Blair's skilled driving, they would have ended up smashing into the ditch with almost certainly fatal consequences. But it was stupid to think that Navajo witches had conducted a ceremony by the side of the road to ensure their car would crash. Why would skinwalkers be interested in a couple of Cascade cops?
Tsosie laughed. "You made a good decision not to go with him," he said. "The old guy lives in a battered travel trailer way the hell up against the foot of a mesa. Has his water trucked in, cooks over a wood fire, and has a septic tank that hasn't been pumped out since Geronimo was a toddler. He'll probably cook up a batch of rabbit stew for dinner. Not a place I'd choose over the Holiday Inn."
Blair rose to the old man's defense. "I don't know. I seem to recall the motel's restaurant has the worst food in the entire southwest."
"You've been here before." The deputy laughed again. "You could be right, but we've got a shiny new Burger King right across the street."
"All the comforts of home," Jim said, determined to remain polite but vague. He'd never been one to blab his business, not even to fellow police officers, and the other-worldly nature of the Reservation left him feeling off-balance enough to keep him cautious.
Tsosie drove fast, and they reached Kayenta a few minutes later. Located at the intersection of the highway leading to Monument Valley, it was little more than the traditional "wide-spot-in-the-road." There was the Holiday Inn, a service station next to it, then a market and the Burger King across the street. Jim could see other shops farther along the turnoff to Monument Valley. Next door to the Burger King were a new hotel and the Kayenta Visitor's Center. Equally close were a McDonald's and more gas stations. The town had grown considerably since Blair's last visit, but it was still hardly more than a wide spot in the road.
It wasn't exactly a tourist trap, but the large dirt parking area between the motel and the service station was cluttered with motor homes, their owners taking a respite from the seemingly unending miles of desert. Across the street, pickup trucks old and new dominated the parking lot of the market, although a few shiny cars and sport utility vehicles indicated that the tourist presence was being felt there as well.
Tsosie parked in front of the motel. "Stay here until they tow your car in. If they don't have a room for you, there's a newer motel just up the road. If they can't help you, call the station and I'll find a place where you can spend the night."
"Thanks." Jim opened the door and climbed out. "I don't suppose there's a car rental place nearby?"
Tsosie smiled broadly. "Joe at the garage might have something you can rent. He'll overcharge you for a wreck, but if you're crazy enough or desperate enough, he's the only game in town."
Things did not look promising. Still, maybe they could sweet-talk the Feds into a loner. "We'll check with him, thanks."
They walked into the motel. The lobby was cool and dim after the bright heat of the day, and they welcomed it despite the shabby plainness of the furniture. Jim sank gratefully into the worn-out cushions of a chair.
Blair looked at him in concern. "You okay, Jim?"
"Whatever got me earlier seems to have come back for a return visit," Jim admitted. He dug out his wallet and handed over his credit card. "See if they have a room, will you? All I want to do is grab a shower and a nap. I'll feel better after that."
"Okay."
Blair returned a few minutes later, a key dangling from a large plastic tag held triumphantly in the air. "No problems with the room. Most of the tourists are driving motor homes these days." He picked up Jim's bag in addition to his own and led the way toward the elevator. "You do what you need to do, and I'll keep an eye out for the car. You hungry?"
"Not yet, but I could use a bottle of water."
"I just happen to have another one," Blair assured him, "and the market across the street is bound to have some for wary, weary travelers. I'll make a scouting run after we get settled."
Their room was basic, but clean and air-conditioned. After the events of the day, they couldn't have asked for anything better.
Jim took his bag from Blair, tossed it onto one of the beds, pulled out some toilet articles and a bottle of aspirin, then headed for the bathroom. "I'm gonna grab a quick shower. Take the room key with you if you go out, okay?"
"Sure." After Jim disappeared into the bathroom, Blair spent the next few minutes unpacking some of his stuff and "sentinel-proofing" the room. He checked the direction of the motel window in relation to the sun, then closed both blinds and drapes against what was certain to be an afternoon glare when the sun dipped farther toward the horizon. He turned on the bedside lamp next to his bed; it gave a dim but adequate glow to the room. Lastly, he turned the air conditioner to a setting that was cool enough to ensure that Jim would crawl beneath the covers when he took his nap.
Jim's voice rose above the sound of running water. "Sandburg?"
"Yeah?"
"Do me a favor and pick up some of that over-the-counter migraine stuff when you go out, okay?"
"Sure." Blair frowned. "You getting a headache?"
"Yeah. It's probably just left over from a touch of food poisoning or something."
Blair sighed and shook his head. Jim's stomach had been bothering him before, not his head. After the antacid tablets, he'd felt fine again. Why would he be getting a headache after the stomach upset had passed? "Okay, I'm heading out now. You need anything else?"
"No, just the bottled water. Grab some cash from my wallet."
Blair helped himself to a twenty and made sure the door locked automatically behind him when he left.
In the bathroom, Jim finished a long, relaxing shower before reluctantly climbing out and toweling himself dry. The headache had started as soon as they'd stepped out of the sunlight into the dimness of the hotel lobby. Although he didn't suffer migraines very often, he'd had a couple since his senses had kicked online again after their five-year hiatus. Mostly, he had regular headaches, however intense. The migraines started differently, with his vision blurring at the edges as if he were trying to see through a window obscured by rain-snakes. Accompanying flashes of brilliant light blazed at irregular intervals, reminding him of lightning in a violent thunderstorm. He'd progressed to phase two of the migraine's course: a lightheadedness and the beginning of pain behind his eyes, as if someone had fastened a vise around his head and was slowly beginning to tighten it. If the headache continued as the others he'd had, the pain would soon become excruciating and be accompanied by nausea. Once the nausea culminated in vomiting, he'd be able to fall asleep, and by the time he awoke, the headache would have receded to a dull memory. All the same, its predictability didn't lessen his annoyance with getting one now, even if this one was probably the result of a food allergy and not something to do with his senses.
He squinted at himself in the mirror, then turned out the bathroom light and picked up his discarded clothes. A sharp prick in his finger caused him to curse mildly and drop his slacks to the floor. Examining his index finger, he saw a tiny splinter embedded in the tip. The wound was so tiny it didn't even bleed. Carefully, he used the thumb and index finger of his other hand like tweezers to pull the splinter free.
A sudden chill washed over him as he studied the splinter. It was a tiny sliver of bone, probably lodged in his slacks when he'd fallen into the ashes by the roadside. Scowling with anger at the superstitious fear that momentarily clouded his mind, he threw the bone into the wastebasket, picked up his clothes again, and went into the bedroom.
Skinwalkers, Navajo witches, shapeshifters -- whatever they were called, they were still the stuff of myth. While some Navajo of evil intent probably practiced the ancient rituals with fervent devotion, Jim held no truck with their ability to cast a spell over him, or Blair, or the car they'd been driving. Susceptibility required belief, and the simple fact was that Jim Ellison didn't believe. He was suffering a migraine from an allergy to something he'd eaten on the flight to Phoenix. No more, no less. He'd be fine in the morning.
Satisfied with his conclusions, he shoved his dirty clothes into a plastic laundry bag provided by the hotel, pulled on a clean pair of boxers, and climbed wearily into bed. The mattress was too soft and the pillow too hard, but Jim hardly noticed as he buried his head beneath the covers in a futile attempt to evade the bright flashes of light stabbing into his eyes.
Blair took the stairs down to the lobby and reluctantly assembled a list of tasks in his mind. The first thing he had to do was call the car rental agency. They were less than understanding about their wrecked vehicle, and it took some persuasion before he was able to convince them that he and Jim hadn't been speeding or traveling off the pavement at the time it occurred. A promise to forward a copy of the police report necessitated a call to the Tribal Police offices, where he left a message for Officer Tsosie. By the time he'd completed his telephoning his ear was hot and sticky from the receiver, and he hung up gratefully.
Through the glass doors of the main entrance, he saw their wrecked car towed in to the garage next door. It was time to brave the heat outside. With a sigh, he left the relative coolness of the hotel lobby.
Even though he was expecting it, the heat settled on him like a physical weight, squeezing him from all sides. Worse, the normally dry climate of the desert was turning humid from the moisture of thunderheads massing over nearby mountains. They probably wouldn't drop any rain on these arid plains, but they were sufficient to create an uncomfortable mugginess.
He hurried into the shade of the maintenance bay and found the mechanic. More necessary but boring business followed as he gave the man information concerning the rental car phone number and their insurance. He asked about the possibility of renting a four-wheel drive vehicle for the next day, but the mechanic didn't have anything available.
Frustrated, Blair left the garage and started resolutely across the street toward the market. It was a short distance, no more than a quarter mile, and yet it felt much farther in the intense heat. He darted across the wide highway after a careful search for oncoming traffic -- being pasted to the pavement by a speeding RV held no appeal -- then walked more slowly across the vast parking lot of the market.
Inside, he picked up several bottles of water, some migraine medicine, a couple of bananas, and a bag of sunflower seeds. The total at the register made him wince, but he hefted the sacks without complaint and started back for the motel, detouring long enough to pick up burgers, fries, and iced teas from the Burger King. Juggling everything made good use of his experience schlepping stacks of textbooks and tests around Rainier University, and he arrived back at the room sweaty but triumphant.
As far as he could tell, Jim was sound asleep. Moving around as quietly as he could, he deposited his purchases on the small motel table and sorted them. He got a glass from the bathroom, filled it with bottled water, and shook two tablets of the migraine medicine into his palm.
He went to Jim's bedside and gently touched him on the shoulder. "Jim? Wake up a minute, man. I've got the medicine you wanted."
Jim came awake slowly, wincing as if the dim light in the room hurt his eyes. He sat up to accept the glass and tablets. "Thanks."
"Your eyes giving you problems?"
"Lots of bright flashing." Jim downed the tablets and drank the rest of the water. "I've never had a migraine screw with my vision this long before."
Blair spoke quietly, the calmness of his tone hiding his worry. "If it's caused by a food allergy like you think, the symptoms may be specific to what you ate. When you're feeling better, you'll have to make a list."
"Yeah."
"In the meantime, you feel up to a burger? It smells pretty good even to me, so I know I'm hungry."
"Thanks, but I'll pass for now. I just want to get some sleep."
"Okay. I'm gonna eat and then grab a shower. I'll try to be quiet."
"Thanks." Wearily, Jim sank back down onto his pillow. Within moments, he was asleep again.
Feeling worried and helpless, Blair sat down at the table and ate his meal. It was too early in the day to think about going to bed, but he didn't want to venture out into the heat again, and television was out of the question while Jim was trying to rest. With his options thus limited, he took his shower and settled down to read the latest issue of one of the several anthropology journals to which he subscribed.
It was one of the longest and most boring nights of his life.
Morning was a long time coming. When he opened his eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time, he saw a lightening of the view through the window, and belatedly realized that the drapes and blinds were open. Sitting up with groggy sluggishness, he saw that Jim's bed was empty, and heard the sound of the shower running.
He threw back the covers and winced as the cold air-conditioning immediately chilled his skin. Reaching for a tee shirt, he noticed Jim's still-uneaten portion of the Burger King feast of the night before and dumped it into the trash.
A few minutes later Jim wandered out of the bathroom, steam wafting behind him. "Morning, Chief."
"Morning." Blair noticed the telltale lines of tightness around Jim's eyes. "Head still hurt?"
Jim grimaced and reached for a short-sleeved shirt to put on over his tee shirt. Clean slacks and socks were already laid out on his bed. "It's receded to a dull throb. It's my eyes that are bugging me."
"How bad is it?" Although he'd done a lot of thinking throughout the night, he hadn't come up with a single explanation for the prolonged vision problems Jim was suffering.
Jim continued dressing. "Kind of like looking through a bullet hole in glass: the center is clear, but there are cracks radiating out from it that catch the light and refract it like a prism."
Blair headed toward the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth, but he paused in the doorway. "I don't like the sound of this, Jim. Maybe it's time to see a doctor."
"Where's the nearest one?"
That was the problem. "Shiprock, probably. That's a few hours from here. Whether or not they'd have a specialist...." He let the sentence trail off uncertainly.
Jim sat down to put on his shoes. "Let's get some breakfast, contact Agent Portman and see what he has for us, then grab a plane out of here. We can be back in Cascade by tonight."
He wasn't certain he liked the time delay. Then again, a hospital in Shiprock would probably run some blood tests, maybe prescribe some eye drops. If Jim's affliction was related to a bout of food poisoning, it was the strangest symptom Blair had ever encountered. If it was something connected with his senses, then no one but Blair could help him, and he'd need all his research material to do it. "All right," he agreed reluctantly. "I'll be out in a minute."
The dining room, only half full due to the early hour, was a simple affair: square tables covered with white cloths, a long buffet with both hot and cold breakfast offerings. The place desperately needed redecorating. The carpet was dull with age, and the wood paneling on the walls was dark enough to make the overhead lights inadequate to the task of proper illumination.
There was something about the smell of cooking bacon that set Blair's normally health-conscious mouth to watering. "Jim, it's a buffet. You want me to make up a plate for you, or can you manage?"
Jim dropped into a chair at one of the nearest tables. "You handle it. With my eyesight, I'd probably pick out something healthy."
Blair got the hint. "One cholesterol special coming up."
He grabbed two cups of coffee first and delivered them to their table. Then he went back and got into the short breakfast line, took a tray and two plates, and proceeded to fill them with bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, fresh melon, and two additional links of what smelled like an excellent sausage for Jim. He paid at the register and took his bounty back to the table, where he set about distributing the various plates and utensils. "Bon appetit."
At least Jim seemed to have found his appetite after refusing last night's hamburger. He dug in with relish and had consumed most of his breakfast before cocking his head alertly. "Deputy Tsosie."
Blair looked over Jim's shoulder and saw the Navajo lawman just crossing the lobby toward the dining room. "How did you know?"
"I could smell the leather and oil on his gunbelt, and the laundry detergent he uses on his uniform."
Blair grinned. "How do you know all the department's uniforms aren't done at the same laundry?"
Jim complacently munched on his toast. "Am I right?"
"Yeah," Blair admitted, "but I still think you were jumping to conclusions."
Any retort Jim might have had was silenced by the arrival of the deputy at their table. "Detectives Ellison and Sandburg." He didn't sound happy with them for not identifying themselves the day before.
"That's us," Blair agreed with a grin. "Grab a cup of coffee and pull up a chair."
After the cop had returned with his coffee and sat down, he gave them both an appraising look. "Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"
Jim smiled. "We didn't want you to think we were looking for any favoritism regarding the accident."
Tsosie didn't look especially convinced, but he apparently decided to let it slide. "I got a call from Special Agent Portman. He wants you to meet him out at the scene."
Blair put some excellent blackberry jam on his last slice of toast. Apparently, competition from the new motel up the road had resulted in some major culinary improvements at the "Horrible Inn." "And where is that, exactly?"
"An old airstrip here on the reservation. Since you don't have transportation, I'll drive you out there."
"Thanks." Jim finished his coffee. "After that, we'll get a ride with Agent Portman into Shiprock, then either rent another car or catch a flight back to Page to deal with the rental agency."
Tsosie nodded agreeably. "Fine. You got your stuff?"
"It's packed, but we left it in the room," Jim said.
Blair pushed back his chair. "I'll get it. Back in a minute."
Tsosie was driving a sport utility 4-wheel-drive this morning. They put their bags in the cargo area, then climbed inside. The air had a pleasant coolness to it, but that lasted only until a few minutes after sunrise. Within a half-hour, they rolled up their windows and the deputy turned on the air.
Jim leaned back in his seat and tried to get comfortable. His eyesight was getting worse, and he hid behind his dark glasses even though he knew the brilliant strobes of light weren't coming from outside. His field of vision had been reduced to the merest pinprick, and he couldn't even see the highway. How he was going to manage with Agent Portman at the scene of the investigation was something he'd have to figure out before they got there.
They'd driven miles outside Kayenta when Tsosie turned off the pavement onto a dirt road. Jim caught brief glimpses of square, white houses that were probably part of a government low-cost housing project for the Navajo who wanted to live there. He seemed to recall one of Blair's mini-lectures about many of the tribe choosing to live well away from their neighbors. Then again, he could see traditional hogans behind some of the houses, so not all the old ways were gone.
At the end of the little community, the road became much rougher. Tsosie didn't appear to notice. From what Jim could tell from all the bouncing, they were going around 40 on a road that would have been bumpy at 20. "Come here often?" he asked with barely concealed sarcasm.
Tsosie laughed. "You don't get anywhere around here by driving slow. Most of the roads around the Rez are like this. You get used to it."
In the back seat, Blair muttered an expletive as his head bounced off the roof. "You say we're going to an airstrip?"
"Yeah. Nobody much uses it anymore. There's an old hangar and a pretty decent landing strip, but no one actually works out there."
Jim thought about the case. "Sounds perfect for smugglers."
"Exactly. I guess the FBI found some pretty interesting stuff out there, but if they told my captain what it was, he didn't bother telling me."
Blair grunted as he was bounced around some more. "Are you sure we're going the right way?" He sounded suspiciously close to whining.
"Yeah, I'm sure. There's another way in from the Shiprock side that's better maintained, but this'll get us there faster than going all the way around the Rez."
They traveled in silence for a while, and Jim closed his eyes in the hope that resting them would improve his vision.
The truck stopped a few minutes later, and he opened his eyes again.
He couldn't see a damned thing. "Uh, Chief, I think we have a problem."
His partner's voice was tinged with worry. "Yes, Jim, I'd say the pistol Deputy Tsosie is holding on us definitely qualifies as a problem."
Oh. That wasn't what Jim had meant, but he silently thanked Blair for clueing him in. "What's this all about, Tsosie?"
"Nothing personal," the Navajo cop said coolly. "Just doing a favor for a friend. Get out of the truck."
Frustrated that he couldn't see what was going on, Jim complied. He heard the rear door opening and Blair climbing out on the other side, closer to Tsosie. Don't do anything stupid, Chief.
Blair tried to sound nonchalant. "Now what?"
"Now nothing." Tsosie sounded confidently in control, his voice almost totally devoid of emotion. "You stay here. I drive off. Simple."
"We'll die out here without water," Blair said. "But I guess that's what you want."
With Tsosie's attention on Blair, Jim reached out and touched the truck, using it to help him navigate around the front. Despite his blindness, he moved silently, feeling every step carefully through the soles of his hiking boots.
"Yeah. No one'll come back out here until next spring, when they bring the sheep up to graze."
Jim heard the deputy move away a little farther. So much for catching him unawares. He stopped beside Blair.
"Mind telling us why you're doing this?"
"Why not?" Tsosie paused, perhaps contemplating how much he could reveal safely. Despite his obvious certainty that his two captives were going to die, he didn't seem to be a man who took many chances. "You upset a very dear and powerful friend of mine. She arranged for our little rendezvous."
Immediately, Jim's memory flashed on the image of the old woman at the courthouse. He knew without a doubt that she was the mastermind of this trap. "Esther Delgadillo."
Tsosie's laugh was low and without humor. "You're smarter than you look, detective. Then again, you're stumbling around in more ways than one. Eyesight gone a little squirrelly on you?"
"What do you know about Jim's eyes?" Blair demanded hotly.
"I know he's blind. It's another gift from Esther, with a little help from a close friend here on the Rez."
"I don't believe you," Jim said. But he did believe. How else would Tsosie have known about his blindness? Was there really some power behind Navajo witchcraft? A stab of fear that he'd been resolutely ignoring thrust upward into his consciousness.
Whatever the cause, Jim couldn't submit without a fight to the ignoble fate planned for them. Fear made him reckless, and when he lunged for the gun, he realized too late he was woefully off target.
He felt the gun barrel slash at his head, and then he was falling, tumbling and rolling down a graveled, brush-covered slope that he hadn't known was there. Above him, he heard Blair's shout, followed by a gunshot and a sudden cry of pain.
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This page last updated 11/28/01.