Death and Desire (10 page)

M
ac and I were having a celebratory Dos Equis. Well I was; he was chewing the squeakers out of his favorite stuffed turquoise dog. On TV, Ina Garten was making beef bourguignon for her husband's dinner. I couldn't cook worth a damn, but I enjoyed watching the Barefoot Contessa finesse a meal. While Jeffrey relished his dinner, I leashed Mac, taking him out front before bed. Mac lowered his head, raised his tail, and emitted a guttural growl. He was pointing at a black SUV parked in the cul-de-sac and tucked too far into the shadows from the streetlight for me to make out the model, much less the plate number. When Mac looked back and saw me staring at the truck, he leaped up barking. I wrapped the leash tightly around my hand, yanked Mac back into the door, and bolted it behind me. I knew I had locked the back door, but I raced through the kitchen to check. Mac continued to stare at the front door. I killed the lights and peeked through the front blinds. No car parked in the street. My news story had run tonight at six. Niyol's accusation of Dinetah, his grainy cell-phone photo, Garcia's claim of looting, and my Anasazi ladle. A lot there to anger someone. But parking in front of my house in the dark wasn't a crime.

I could call the Flag police and ask for a patrol, but I was reluctant to look silly after their visit for my open front door. Mac and I went to bed with the bedroom door locked. Shortly after one in the morning, I awoke and couldn't get back to sleep. Mac lay on the floor softly snoring.

Who left the charm? Who killed Niyol? Stealing artifacts from looted graves could be a profitable little side business to uranium mining. Yanaha swore they hadn't seen her. But had they? What was the sense of dread that came over me? Damn those coyotes! I could call Yanaha if she had cell service....

Rolling over, I punched my pillow into a ball, thinking I had to get Gage Notah to see me. He smuggled those papers out to his uncle. Why hesitate to talk to me now? I needed to talk with the dozer driver's widow. The police report on his crash was boilerplate at best, perfunctorily calling it a drunken driving accident. I kept adding to my mental to-do list. Eventually, my energy evaporated, lethargy came, and I fell asleep.

Trace called before I made it to work. His voice had that low, sexy tone as if he had just woken up, still lying in his rumpled bed. “Hey there. You got a moment?”

I sat still on the edge of the bed, clutching the phone, feeling the timbre of his voice shimmy through me. “Sure, just for you. What's up?”

“A couple of things. First, we didn't get any fingerprints off that jar we found in your closet.”

“Witches don't leave fingerprints?”

“Maybe, or maybe the guy who left the charm wore gloves,” Trace said.

“Oh.” I sighed. “What else?”

“How about I take you to dinner tonight?”

My day was looking a whole lot better. “Love it, thanks.”

“I'll pick you up at eight. Until then.”

I could hear the pleasure in his voice. I would invite him in tonight after dinner for coffee and dessert, which meant a trip to buy something wonderful from the bakery. Always bad form to poison your date with your baking.

 

Marty was waiting for me. He clamped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Damn good story. The Web site is flooded with comments.”

“Thanks, Marty.”

“Now get that environmental story,” he said gruffly.

Any praise from Marty was hard-won. I poured two cups of coffee and made a fresh pot for the poor sap after me. We bought cheap coffee financed by our meager donations to the coffee kitty, and it always tasted funky.

I handed one coffee to Louis who was busy on his computer. I scrolled through my contacts list and found Hebron's number. “Hello, Dr. Hebron, Taylor McWhorter.”

“I saw your story the other night. I bet you want my expertise on the environmental pollution from Dinetah Mining.”

“Could we meet this week?”

“Any afternoon after one o'clock. I have a grant from the National Science Foundation, so I have release time to finish my research. The university will get a lot of valuable prestige from my work,” Dr. Hebron crowed.

I smiled to myself at the size of the ego academe could support. “I'll call before I come.”

“Will I be mentioned as the expert in your story? Will you bring a camera?” He sounded like a five-year-old promised an early Christmas.

“Of course, we'll get footage of you working in your lab.”

Louis said, “I couldn't help but overhear that. You gonna want me to shoot your interview?”

“Yeah, how busy are you this afternoon?”

“I don't have anything I can't rearrange.”

He rolled away from his computer and frowned. “Eric and I are worried about you. You had any more problems?”

I hesitated.

“You always have a clear tell on your face when you're about to lie. Never go to Vegas. Spill it.”

I told Louis about the SUV.

His face creased with worry. “You shoulda called us. We would have roared up and scared the crap out of the guy.”

“I feel safe with the new locks. I think I'm overreacting.”

“Jesus, get rid of the damn spoon handle! You know what seeing coyotes mean to the Navajo people?”

“No. Is this going to be as scary as the Shumwell story?”

“We were raised to believe in all that Western scientific method bullshit. But, hell, I've seen things down in the bayou in Louisiana I can't explain, and I don't ever want to see again. I've seen my friends terrified of shapeshifters and Chindi.”

“Are Chindi and shapeshifters the same thing, just called by two names?”

“No. The Chindi spirit is all the evil thoughts and actions of a dead person. Most Navajos want to die outside in the open so their Chindi spirit can escape from the body with their last breath and disperse into the wind. Sometimes the negative life force stays with the bones and possessions of the corpse. The Chindi torment anyone messing around a burial site and give you Anasazi sickness.” He patted my shoulder. “Ditch the ladle handle.”

“I'm working on it. A shapeshifter is a living person who is a powerful witch, right?”

“Yep, two different things.”

“What is Anasazi sickness?”

“What you get from messing around with the ancient ones' graves. Makes you dead, gal, or crazy as a bedbug. Look, I talked to Klah about those coyotes you've been seeing. He believes that seeing a coyote foretells bad things.”

“So the animal is prescient? You can't believe that.”

“I know Klah believes it, and he's trained as an engineering tech. He practices the Western scientific method every day. If a coyote crosses his path, he stops and sprinkles corn pollen in the footprints and prays over them.”

“But the desert is full of coyotes.”

“Yeah, makes it hard to be a Navajo,” he said drily.

“Louis, you don't really believe a man shapeshifted into a coyote, do you?”

“I don't believe that it
couldn't
happen. The metaphysical is an accepted part of reality in cultures all over the world,” he argued. “The ancient Greek philosophers believed the rational human mind was a reflection of
part
of reality.”

“You're arguing that even though an event isn't based on material reality and can't be verified by the yardstick of western science, it can still be part of a greater unseen reality?”

“Yep, I am. Put that yardstick up next to what's happening around you. You hallucinating? Or are you seeing a reality that you previously didn't believe existed?”

“Yeesh. I'm not good with woo-woo stories.” I raised a hand to ward off his interruption. “But I'm sure as hell not hallucinating. Something new is worming under the fence into my reality. I'll feel better if I get busy and get some work done.”

I sat down at my desk determined to cross off some of my to-do list. I deleted all the worthless e-mails in my in-box, finally stopping at one from Alison Garcia. She was effusive with her praise of the story.
Such a strike to the heart of those who would desecrate Navajo heritage.
In my response, I asked if I could follow up with her.

I shut down my computer and worried about what to wear to dinner with Trace. Nothing too fancy. Flag wasn't a dress-up kind of town. I decided on casual with panache and headed for home, hoping such an outfit hung in my closet.

I
stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wrestling with my thick hair, unruly with natural curl. Most days I piled it on top of my head, pulled out a few tendrils, and called it done. But tonight I wanted to wear my hair down. I carefully blew it out, then attacked it with a flat iron. Satisfied with the results, I stood in my underwear studying my clothes. Most days I dressed myself about as well as I cooked. Black was always good. I pulled out my short, flippy black skirt, pairing it with a Donna Karan V-neck sweater and a pair of black heels. The turquoise sweater set off my blue eyes. I finished my look with gold earrings. Mac barked madly at the sound of the doorbell. Eight o'clock sharp. Trace was right on time.

He stood in the doorway, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks, I clean up well.” I laughed. He was luscious in well-cut charcoal pants, a button-down shirt open at his neck, and a black leather jacket cropped at his waist. Trace handed me a loose bouquet of daisies. I stared at the smooth brown hollow of his throat, aching to pull back his shirt collar and kiss the soft spot. A rawhide cord around his neck held something hidden by his shirt.

“Do I pass?” He grinned.

I flushed. “Oh, definitely.” I fiddled with the daisies, still staring at the little V-shape between his collarbones.

Amusement shone in his eyes. He tapped the flowers I was holding. “Perhaps some water for those?”

“Yes.” Taking care of the daisies gave me something to do while I covered my embarrassment.

Trace knelt down and scratched Mac's tummy, which brought on doggy sighs of pleasure.

“He's a hedonist, you know. When you stop, he'll cry and whimper.”

Trace stood and Mac immediately moaned his disapproval.

“I thought we'd have dinner at the Brix.” He casually slipped his hand on the back of my neck as I stood at the kitchen sink, cutting the stems. My shoulders relaxed. I hadn't realized I was so tense.

The Brix had only eight tables, making it the most romantic place in town. He had to have made a reservation days ago. “Perfect,” I answered happily. I bolted my new locks and we walked to his truck, his hand resting on the small of my back.

 

Trace slipped his hand in mine as we walked down the sidewalk to the restaurant. Two strolling musicians were playing battered guitars in front. Worn instrument cases were open at their feet to accept tips. They wore pearl-snap cowboy shirts open from the neck to halfway down their chests, showing their gold chains.

I caught a fragment of a tune that sounded familiar. “What are they singing? I think I heard that song at the mine.”

Trace didn't answer until we were inside the vestibule of the Brix. “Really? He's singing a
narcocorrido
, a ballad telling the story of a drug lord's battles and escapes.”

“What's he saying?”

“
Con un cuerno de chivo y bazuka en la nuca volando cabezas al que se atraviesa
means ‘with an AK and a bazooka taking aim at your head.' The stuff is all over the radio.”

“I've never heard it. What station?”

“535 AM. They have a huge tower and the signal points right into Mexico. The most powerful of the cartel leaders have their own
corridos
writing and performing their exploits.”

I was bewildered how I had missed an entire genre of music. “I had no idea, and I've lived in a border state most of my life.”

He shrugged. “It's not exactly marketed to your demographic.”

“Is that legal? Using the public airways to boast of your crimes?”

“Yes, it's just bad taste,” he said softly. He placed his hand on the small of my back and we followed the maître d' to the table.

We had a lovely view of the patio where trendy diners ate around a fire pit. Trace selected an Argentine Chardonnay to pair with the grilled asparagus and rabbit polpettine appetizers we had chosen.

Candles flickered on the tables and lanterns hung from the ceilings. Potted herbs scented the air with their tangy fragrance. Trace raised his glass of wine. “To a beautiful woman and a wonderful evening.”

The smooth, buttery richness of the wine loosened my tongue. “And to you, an intriguing man.” I smiled and touched his glass. “To getting to know each other better.”

He smiled and sipped his wine. “Ask anything you like.”

“Ah, you're allowing a reporter to ask anything she wants?” I teased.

“No, I want the lovely woman I'm sharing the evening with to feel comfortable around me,” he said gently.

“I do. You have the gift of putting me at ease.” I was drowning in his expressive face and acutely aware of his presence. I was tingling under his gaze, wanting to know him.

He covered my hand with his and I jolted at the intimacy of his touch. “I enjoy being with you.” Before I could answer, the mood was broken when the waiter refilled our water glasses. Trace sat back in his chair and sipped his wine.

“What was it like growing up on the Nation?”

“I had a good childhood even though I lost my parents. I lived surrounded by family, and those are some of my best memories, all of us kids playing while the women cooked and the men played cards.”

“Did you feel discriminated against at school?”

“Middle school was the usual gauntlet of hormonal taunts and pain. We went to the Flag public schools. We were culturally different and a minority. Two strikes against you in middle school. Yanaha taught me the prayer, ‘Beauty shall be in front of me, beauty shall be behind me, beauty shall be below me, above me, all around me.' Eventually, I found my balance and I am at peace.”

I admired his candor. “She talked to me about your mom.”

“I was about six when she passed. My dad died in a boating accident on Lake Powell when I was barely seven. Yanaha raised me.”

“How is she? That cough of hers is worrisome.”

“She has diminished lung function due to pleural effusion. She's older now, so it's worse.”

“I know you'll be happy when she has phone service.”

The waiter set the duck breast with Allepo peppers in front of us. I savored the first bite. “Perfect, crispy skin and moist inside.”

Trace finished a bite and reached for his wine. “I like the gamey flavor. How about you? Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Albuquerque. My parents have both passed, and I don't have any siblings. I didn't go far to college, just to UNM. Since graduation, I've worked at a couple of stations, but here in Flagstaff, I'm really satisfied with the job and my life.”

“Flag is a good place.”

“Were you with the tribal police before you joined the service?”

“No. I trained for police work in the military. After Quantico, I separated from the army and spent a little time working in Richmond. Yanaha was getting on in years and I came home. It's my turn to take care of her.”

“Do you miss Richmond?”

“No. I missed the big sky over the Nation and my people.”

“I'm happy you came back. My little corner of the world is better with you in it.”

“Mine, too,” he responded quietly.

The waiter pushed the dessert cart to our table. “Would you like dessert?” Trace asked.

“No, I have pie and coffee at my house.”

“You baked?”

“No, I've made a pact with myself not to kill anybody.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Let's take a look at the Brix's garden before we head to your place.” He took my hand in his.

Flaming torches lighted the garden. Their warmth made the air redolent with the aroma of rosemary and sage. The beds were brimming with eatable flowers and greens.

He said, “The Brix is hyper local. Only the wine isn't. I hope you enjoyed dinner as much as I did.”

I kissed him softly on his lips. “Um, duck breast with overtones of Chardonnay. My favorite.”

He laughed softly and kissed my neck. The kiss turned hot, and I hummed with expectation. I led him from the garden.