Death and Desire (8 page)

L
ouis looked up from charging batteries for his cameras. “What did you get from the gal over at the U?”

“She knows an auction house that deals in stolen pottery.”

“When are we going?”

“The next time AAA in Phoenix has an auction. Can you find that on their Web site while I call Gage Notah again?”

“Sure.”

I needed Gage to talk to me about those long columns of figures on the Dinetah financial docs he gave his Uncle Niyol. I was sent to his voice mail again. “Call me,” I begged.

“Next auction is tomorrow. Whew, look at this impressive list of stuff. Sioux beaded cradleboard from the nineteenth century, Anasazi pottery, Hopi kachinas.”

“I'll clear it with Marty and we'll take my Rav. I don't want to show up in a news van.”

 

I left the station at five in the evening after arguing with Marty about running the Garcia interview. Marty wanted “context,” a broader perspective. He wouldn't run Garcia's story as a standalone. “Store that story in the server. When you have a recent story nailing one of these pottery hunters, break it, and I'll run both. Until then, McWhorter, you got an orphan story with no clear reason why you were talking to the broad.”

I was too tired to drive through a takeout place and pick up food. I knew I had the standby, peanut butter. If I were lucky, there was still some bread. Add a good Merlot and I'd have dinner. Damn Marty. Garcia's interview was not an orphan. She had laid out the whole story from dig to distribution of stolen goods. What the hell? I even had the pictures on my cell phone Niyol had sent me. Marty wanted video of a pothunter digging at night? I'd get one.

Mac met me at the garage door and herded me into the kitchen, joyously woofing his approval of my homecoming while staring at the jar that held his milk bones. He jumped up and took the treat from my fingers.

A light breeze ruffled my hair. Where was the cool air blowing in from? I froze. I had closed the garage door behind me. I tiptoed to the living room. The front door stood ajar. Cold fear crept up my spine and the hair on my arms stood up. I whirled around. No one was there. Mac licked the biscuit crumbs from his mouth. He would know if someone were in the house, wouldn't he?

“Mac, come here.” He ambled over with his tongue lolling out. I fumbled in my bag for my phone, then grabbed Mac's collar. I dragged him out the front door into the yard.

Frightened by a rasping sound, I darted a look around, only to realize it was me gulping in great breaths of air. I pulled Mac out into the center of the yard, speed dialing the tribal police headquarters, then immediately regretted it. Why the hell did I do that
?
I was embarrassed and sweating streams waiting to be put through to Trace's desk
.
I couldn't hang up; they monitored their calls.

“Captain Yazzie.”

“Trace it's—”

He interrupted me. “What's wrong, Taylor?”

“I came home and the front door was standing open.”

“Where are you right now?” he asked urgently.

“Standing in the front yard.”

“Get to a neighbor's house now. I'm on my way.”

I clicked off my phone and stared at the house. No one was still in there. He would have made his move while I was in the house. I took up a position with by back glued to a stalwart pine. Mac turned circles woofing at the excitement. I scanned the house and the woods. Nothing stirred. No dark shapes, no coyotes, and no dread in the pit of my stomach.

The wind sighed through the tops of the pines, and a lone blue jay chattered. I figured most of my neighbors were oblivious to my plight and enjoying an early happy hour on their back decks. I felt no need to frighten them from their belief the world was safe by showing up on their doorstep with a story of a break in.

A tribal police Tahoe nosed into the cul-de-sac and parked at the curb. Trace's long legs unfolded from the front seat. I watched the sway of his narrow hips and his long stride eat up the distance between us.

“You okay?” He placed one warm hand on my shoulder, his thumb circling into the joint. The tension poured out of me with his caress.

At the sound of Trace's voice, Mac bounded over, wriggling in doggy excitement.

“Great watchdog you have here.” Trace ruffled his ears.

“Yeah, I think he watched someone make himself at home in my house.”

Trace skimmed his fingertips down my arms. Heat remained where his touch had been. He tilted up my chin up and said softly, “I'm here now.”

I dipped my head, too embarrassed to maintain eye contact. “Let's go in,” I mumbled. I worried about what he might think of my call to him.

“You stay here. The Flagstaff police will be here in a minute.” He must have cued them. The black-and-white rounded the corner.

“You called them, too?” Immediately, I wished I could snatch that question back. I must have been more upset than I admitted to myself.

Trace looked at me quizzically. “It's their jurisdiction.”

“Of course, I'm sorry I bothered you.”

“You didn't bother me. I want to be here.” His hand touched my arm again. When he looked at me with concern, I wanted to fly into his strong arms.

A local police officer sidled up. “Trace?” He nodded at me. “What do we have here?”

“Not sure yet. Ms. McWhorter got home and found the front door ajar,” Trace answered.

“Let's get in there.” The police officer adjusted his utility belt and swaggered toward the open door.

Mac got up to follow. “Stay, boy.” Why hadn't I called the Flagstaff PD? Or Louis? He could have been here in no time. Or better yet, why hadn't I just looked through my own house and locked the door? But the emotional part of my brain had won. Someone had gotten in my house, and I wanted Trace Yazzie.

Their shadows moved behind the narrow windows that flanked the door. Mac and I waited on the sidewalk. The Flag officer stepped out. “No one's in the house, ma'am. I'll need you to come in and see if anything is missing.” He stood aside for me to enter.

When I stepped over the threshold, my beautiful little casita felt cold and unwelcoming. Both men followed me. Nothing was missing in the living room or kitchen area. I moved into my bedroom. The low sun dappled shadows from the trees across my bed. A box of family pictures had fallen from the closet shelf and lay on the floor. My dad looked up at me with solemn eyes from an old black and white snapshot. I reached down to sweep the pictures into the box and jumped back. Tucked under a jumble of shoes near my dad's picture was a bottle. A big bottle. Something black skittered inside the translucent glass.

Trace pushed his way into the closet. “Anything missing? Do you want to file a report?”

I pointed, my finger shaking. “That's not my mine.” Damn. Whose reedy, squawking voice was that?

Trace toed my shoes off the bottle. He plucked two Kleenex out of the box in the en suite bathroom and grabbed the container with two fingers around the metal lid. He held it up to eye level. Eight black legs tapped on the side of the glass. Bulging red eyes stared at me.

“It's a tarantula!” I backed up over the threshold of the bedroom into the bathroom.

The Flag officer interrupted, “Looks like you've been pranked. Probably some kid. You sure you locked the door?”

“I uh . . .”

“You still think you want to file a report? If you have any other problems, you can call us.” He tapped his fingers impatiently on his utility belt.

“No,” I answered smoothly. “I'll take care it.”

“Trace, see you around.” The officer saluted and was gone.

Trace set the jar on the bathroom countertop. “You know what this is?”

I peered closer into the jar. “A big-ass spider. Is it poisonous?”

“Venomous, but it won't kill you.”

“Looks like a gallon pickle bottle.” I reached for it.

“Don't. We'll try to get prints off it.”

The spider tried to find his footing on the smooth glass wall. I stooped and looked closer. “There's a little pottery shard and a bunch of dust . . . and there's hair! Black curly hair, my hair,” I said excitedly.

“Where do you keep your hairbrush?”

“Right here in the bathroom.” I pointed to the counter. “Wh-what is this thing?”

“It's a charm.” Trace put his arm around my shoulders.

“A charm? To do what?” My voice rose a couple of notes. The spider's bristly black legs curved possessively around the pottery shard.

“It's from an
Ant iihnii
, Navajo witch.” The spider reared up silently tapping its front legs on the jar. Trace slipped his arm around my waist and cinched me tightly to him. “Witches use charms to curse you. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary? Been afraid?” he asked me softly.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up. “Out of the ordinary? Oh yeah, I saw something
out of the ordinary
!”

“Take a couple of deep breaths. I'll get you some water.”

I slumped on my bed and he handed me the glass, waiting patiently while I greedily gulped the water. “In broad daylight, I saw a thing running behind my Rav, then he was alongside me, breathing in my ear, and he flicked his tail as he sped up and ran into the brush. I was driving over seventy miles an hour. I'd say that qualifies as out of the ordinary! What's happening to me? I heard scraping sounds one night on my deck. And I saw a coyote in Kaih Canyon—a real one. But he left no tracks and his eyes were red.”

He sat on the bed beside me and hugged me to him. “Shush.” He stroked my hair back from my face. I snuggled my head onto his broad shoulder, welcoming his warmth, comforted by his embrace. He spoke softly above my head, “When he ran beside you, did you look into his eyes?”

“Yeah, I did, but I looked away in a hurry.”

He studied me. “Who else have you told?”

“Bidziil. Right after the thing chased me, I turned and went back to Basha's and talked to him. You don't really believe that crap about entering my body?” I asked, greedy for his answer.

“If I believe that God and his power are real, then I must also believe that evil has ways of showing himself, too.
Hozho,
” he said softly. “We all seek
hozho,
balance.”

“Why leave a charm for me?”

“Witches are attracted to people who have energy and power. They're dangerous and mercurial.”

I shivered. “Bidziil also says to speak of shapeshifters brings their evil to you.”

“I agree. It's best not to encourage their interest.”

“Louis told me to get an amulet and to get blessed. Remember, I asked you about the Singer for Ben's ceremony?”

“I can take care of getting you a blessing. Grandmother knows the Singer who is going to perform the Enemy Way.”

“Thank you.” I hugged him.

He eased me back, holding my arms. “Is it possible you left the door unlocked?”

“I lock it every night. I suppose I could have left it open, but I don't remember going out the front door this morning for any reason. Why?”

“The witch could have come through the door whether it was locked or not. The second consideration is someone breaking in to see what you have in here from Niyol and leaving the spider to screw with your head.”

“There's nothing here.” It was true. Gage's documents were at the station, and I didn't want to tell Trace I had them.

He grunted. “Someone may not believe that. You can tell me what else you have when you're ready.”

I crossed my hands across my chest and gripped my arms. I felt hollow and light-headed.

Trace headed to the kitchen. “Where's your coffee?”

I showed him and he rummaged in the cabinets and pulled out a bottle of Bailey's.

He led me to the table. “Sit down. I'll get the coffee when it's ready. He sat across from me, dangling his long arms between his legs. “You need new locks. Keyed locks. And you need to keep the key away from the glass in that front door. Your neighbors' houses are so far back on their lots, no one can clearly see or hear anything that goes on over here.”

“I'll get it done tomorrow.” The coffeepot sputtered to a stop.

He got up and poured me a cup. “I'm doing it right now. Lock the door. Keep Mac inside with you. Don't open the door to anyone you don't know. And put a jigger of Bailey's in that coffee of yours.”

I protested, “But you said shapeshifters could come in anyway.”

“I know that.” A gentle smile put his mouth between parentheses of creases. “But Niyol's killer wasn't a shapeshifter, and he may think you have evidence that incriminates him. I'll be back in an hour.” He stopped with his hand on the front door. “You hungry?”

“Peanut butter,” I blurted. “I only have peanut butter and coffee in the house.”

He laughed.

“Oh!” I recovered my wits. “I'll have a pizza delivered and chill some wine.” That sounded more like me. Decisive.

He grinned again. “I meant I would bring back food.”

“I got the pizza covered.” I waved him off.

He took the bottle with the spider with him, tapped the brim of his hat, and was gone.

Mac followed me from room to room as I walked through the house. Nothing was out of place. No drawers open. The kitchen was as I left it.

In less than an hour, Trace returned. “I bought inch and half bolt locks. All three of your doors will be keyed alike.”