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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

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BOOK: The Summoning God: Book II of the Anasazi Mysteries

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“So,” she said, attempting to make light of the compliment. “Tell me about the site.”

Dusty frowned. “Most of the bone fragments are tiny. I can’t identity them. There may be fragments of
odocoileus
, deer bone, but I think most of it is human.” He fiddled with a nacho, scooping up more cheese and meat than it could hold. “And there’s another thing.”

She sipped her coffee. “Why do I hear hesitation in your voice?” He shifted uncomfortably. “Let’s say I’ve got a feeling about this. Down deep in my gut.”

She chuckled at that. “Your famous gut is batting fifty-fifty, Stewart. You were right about that Iroquois site in New York. Remember, the one with the achondroplastic dwarf?”

He nodded. “Yeah, and I was wrong at Chaco Canyon. My slaves turned into murder victims.” He sobered. “This time, however, well, this one’s spooky. You were at 10K3. This one
feels
worse.”

His gaze bored into her, and a chill slipped up her spine. She said, “I don’t believe in spooks, Stewart. Let’s just see where the data take us, all right?”

“It’s a deal, Doctor.” He held out his callused hand and they shook over the wreckage of the nachos.

The physical contact lasted longer than either of them had intended. Conflicting emotions flashed in his eyes: fear, hesitation, longing.

Maureen pulled her hand away. Her fingers tingled, as though an electrical current had passed from him to her. She took a breath. “Okay, now that we’ve gotten the lunge and parry part down, tell me more of the site details.”

S
UNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH THE TOWER KIVA’S ROOF entry and illuminated Browser’s buckskin cape. He crouched and added twigs to the newly built fire. The flames warmed his round face and chin-length black hair.

To his right, old Stone Ghost and Cloudblower examined the Matron’s naked body. She lay on her back on the plastered bench that ran around the interior of the circular chamber. Every time Browser looked at her, he ached.

The tower kiva stretched about four body lengths across. Life-sized figures of the gods Danced around the tan walls. The
Yamuhakto
, the Great Warriors of East and West, stood on the west wall in front of Browser. They were the sacred Hero Twins of the Katsinas’ People, and carried lightning bolts in their uplifted hands. The katsinas surrounded the warriors, their feet raised, arms stretched out. They watched Browser with shining inhuman eyes. When he dared to look back at them, his insides seemed to shrivel.

Eight evenly spaced stone niches had been built above the bench and filled with precious offerings to the gods: polished stones, turquoise and shell beads, small bowls of cornmeal. Over each niche a sacred mask blazed in the firelight, its Spirit sleeping until the next ritual Dance.

“She is already stiffening,” Cloudblower said in a low voice. Long, gray-streaked black braids dangled down the front of her red cotton cape. She held one of the Matron’s hands as though it were an egg that might be crushed.

Gray hair fanned out around the Matron’s mutilated face. She lay with her arms at her sides, her eyes staring, as if shocked by what she saw. Her pupils resembled enormous black holes.

“It is natural,” Stone Ghost responded as he hobbled toward Cloudblower. White hair fell to his shoulders. He wiped his beaked nose
and sighed. He had bushy white eyebrows and wore a tattered brown-and-white turkey feather cape. “As the body cools, the flesh breaks down. The rigor first affects the muscles of the hands, feet, and face, then it moves to the rest of the body. At the height of the stiffness, a man becomes as rigid as a log.”

Browser walked to the body and pointed to the bluish-purple splotches that had begun to appear on Flame Carrier’s sides. “What is this, Uncle?”

Stone Ghost’s bushy brows lowered. “That is the result of blood draining from the meat and organs. When the heart stops pumping, the blood settles in the lowest places.” Gently, Stone Ghost rolled the Matron to her side. “You will notice that it spreads across her back. It takes about two hands of time for the bruising to appear, and about twelve hands before it becomes fixed.” He rolled her to her back again and tenderly patted the Matron’s arm. “Because blood seeps to the lowest points, you can tell if a body has been moved from its original location.”

Browser cocked his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean that if you find a dead person lying on her stomach and these dark purple splotches on both her stomach and her back, you know that she was rolled over between two and twelve hands of time after death. Sometimes people trying to cover up a murder move the body to confuse people like me.”

Stone Ghost had solved some of the most grisly murders in the history of the Straight Path Nation, including the murder of his own sister—and Browser’s grandmother—Painted Turtle, twenty summers ago.

“Browser?” Cloudblower said.

“Yes, Elder?”

Her sharply pointed nose appeared bladelike in the wavering amber gleam. “Catkin told me about the torture site, about the … the stakes and bloody cords. Why would they torture her? What were they trying to find out? I have been searching my souls, but I—”

“They weren’t looking for information, Healer,” Stone Ghost replied softly. “Your Matron ignored the call. That’s why she was killed.”

“The call?” Browser asked.

Stone Ghost nodded as he lifted the Matron’s hand and squinted at her fingernails. After studying them, he eased the hand back to the bench. “Yes, Nephew. Have you ever stood at a burial and noticed
that when one person begins to cry, soon everyone is weeping? Even people who did not know the dead?”

“I have.” Browser eyed his uncle curiously, wondering what he was getting at. “Why is that important?”

Stone Ghost slowly worked his way down the bench, inspecting the Matron’s body, until he stood over her feet. “I have witnessed the same thing with newborn babies. One begins to mew, then cry, and every baby within hearing range bursts into tears. Their cries do not come from anger or fear, but because they feel the first baby’s pain. Just as the strangers at the graveside feel the anguish of the other mourners.” He held up a hand when Browser, irritated, started to interrupt. “I mean that our human instincts go far beyond the search for food or warmth, or companionship, Nephew. We respond instinctively to another’s pain. We feel it and generally wish to ease it.”

After what Browser had witnessed in Aspen village, and at the killing ground, the very idea seemed ludicrous. “You are a Dreamer, Uncle.”

Stone Ghost glanced at him with luminous eyes, smiled faintly, and looked away.

Cloudblower shifted and her red cape gleamed in the firelight. “I don’t see what that has to do with our Matron’s murder, Elder.”

Stone Ghost examined the soles of the Matron’s bare feet. “Every murder is a cry, Healer. A call for help.”

Before Browser realized it, he started clenching and unclenching his fists. Stone Ghost looked at him from beneath bushy white brows.

“You disagree, Nephew?”

“No, Uncle. I was just thinking that it would be my pleasure to ease their pain—with a few blows from my war club.”

Cloudblower gave Browser a hurt look and moved closer to Stone Ghost. “Please, Elder, finish what you were saying.”

Browser looked down at the dead Matron. She had been ruthlessly beaten in the head, her nose and cheekbones crushed, her toothless mouth turned to blue-black mush, then her face skinned. What sort of person would care if the murderer was in pain?

Stone Ghost said, “Tell me, Nephew, in the heat of battle when you are rolling on the ground, struggling to keep your enemy’s knife away from your chest, have you ever found yourself praying to the gods? Praying for strength, or that you will get away. Saying, ‘Just let me live and I will do anything you wish.’”

Browser grudgingly answered, “Yes, Uncle.” He often found himself praying to gods he did not even believe in. Or maybe, in that instant, he did.

“For the murderer, every moment of the kill is a prayer.”

Cloudblower said, “I do not understand.”

“Nor do I, Healer,” Stone Ghost granted through a long exhalation. “Apparently, the murderer has the ability to send his souls into his victim. When the victim dies, all of the murderer’s pain and guilt die, too. For that brief instant, he’s free.” Stone Ghost looked up. “That’s what makes the kill intoxicating. Unfortunately, the murderer’s souls always return to his own body. That’s why he has to do it over and over again.”

Cloudblower sat down on the bench and folded her hands in her lap. “I have heard of clans that send their evil thoughts into an animal, and when they kill the animal, they believe they have cleansed the clan. Perhaps it is similar.”

Browser, tired of the discussion, interrupted, “I saw you look at her hands and feet, Uncle. What did you find?”

Stone Ghost paused. “Oh, many things, Nephew. Her fingernails are jaggedly broken and there is skin and blood under them.”

“She fought?”

“She fought like a cornered bear.”

A huge hand seemed to close around Browser’s heart, squeezing. It would have taken little effort to overwhelm her, no matter how hard she’d fought. “And her feet, Uncle?”

“Ah—” Stone Ghost shook a crooked finger. “That is interesting. Did you find her sandals or moccasins this morning?”

“No. Nor did we find the clothing she was wearing.”

His ancient brow furrowed. “Her heels and the backs of her legs are cut and scraped, but the bottoms of her feet are neither bruised from the river rocks nor torn from the brush and cactus. The murderer must have knocked her unconscious, stripped her, and dragged her to the torture site.”

Browser’s gaze drifted over the katsinas painted on the walls while he considered this. Witches often burned their victim’s clothing to assure that the dead person’s breath-heart soul had not hidden in the folds, waiting for a chance to slip out and sneak inside them to kill them, but they’d found no smoldering hearth, no ash pile.

Stone Ghost walked to the Matron’s head and parted her gray hair
with his fingers to examine her battered skull. Despite the fact that the Matron had lain in the pool for some time before they’d found her, blood clotted the hair around the wounds. “I thought we might discover—”

Stone Ghost’s hands went still. He leaned over the body. In an ominous voice, he said, “Browser, Cloudblower, come here, please.”

They both rushed forward.

“What is it, Uncle?”

“What did you find?”

The Matron’s stiffening neck would not turn. Stone Ghost had to roll her to her side before they could see what he pointed to.

Cloudblower’s mouth trembled. “Blessed gods, the skull was opened.”

Stone Ghost nodded. “Yes, and by a hand that had done it many times. Notice how carefully the murderer cut away the bone. Later, she tried to glue the scalp back in place with blood to hide the hole.”

Browser’s throat went tight. “Why would the murderer try to hide the hole? What difference would it make?”

Stone Ghost took Browser’s arm and headed him toward the ladder. “I am finished here, Nephew, and Cloudblower needs to wash and prepare your Matron’s body. Let us go and give her the silence she needs.”

“But, Elder,” Cloudblower said. “I wish to hear more. Please—”

“I promise we will speak again later, Healer. I have things I must do, too.”

“Yes, Elder,” Cloudblower said, but she looked disappointed.

Stone Ghost climbed the ladder, and Browser gave Cloudblower a helpless look.

Her dark eyes softened. “Your uncle is right. We all have duties.”

“I will speak with you later, as well.”

“I look forward to it, War Chief.”

Browser followed Stone Ghost out into the late morning sunlight. Stone Ghost walked to the edge of the kiva roof and stood quietly watching the children running through the plaza with dogs barking at their heels. In the distance, the yellow trees along the river glistened.

Stone Ghost did not turn when Browser walked up beside him, but he said, “Take me to the place she was killed, Nephew.”

“Of course, Uncle, but, first, please tell me why the murderer cut a hole in our Matron’s head.”

Stone Ghost looked up at him with remarkably gentle eyes. “It is a part of the murderer’s ritual, Nephew, and once we understand the ritual, we will understand the murderer.”

“Does that mean that you do not know why she opened our Matron’s skull?”

Stone Ghost took Browser by the arm, patted his hand, and led him across the rooftop toward the ladder down into the plaza. “I may know,” he answered cryptically. “But let us hope I am wrong.”

M
AUREEN YAWNED AND LOOKED OUT AT THE DAWN VISIBLE through the restaurant windows. The shadowed river tumbled and swirled like a thing alive.

The waitress smiled as she brought Maureen’s “Breakfast Burrito,” a wonderful concoction of eggs, onions, sausage, cheese, and green chili. The nachos she’d shared with Dusty last night had worn thin.

At least I don’t have to fight the battle with my waistline.
Air travel had its benefits around the belt. She picked up a fork and stirred the eggs into the chili. As she took her first bite, she studied her reflection in the mirror behind her booth. The restaurant made opulent use of mirrors and glass, all lit by chandeliers with brass and white globes; the effect was a mixture of modern and Victorian themes.

“Hey, lady!” Sylvia called.

“Sylvia!” Maureen stood up to hug her, then held her at arm’s length, studying Sylvia’s lean face and green eyes. She’d braided her shoulder-length brown hair. Muscle packed her shoulders. “You look great. How are you?”

“Hungover to beat hell,” Sylvia said and turned. “Washais, this is Steve Sanders.”

The slender black man smiled and offered a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Cole.” His grip was firm, professional. He wore a pale blue denim shirt that accentuated the mahogany tones of his skin.

“I’m Maureen to my friends. Would you care to join me?”

“Sure thing, Washais.” Sylvia slid into the booth and moved over to allow room for Steve. “God, I need coffee. Where’s the waitress?”

As Sylvia took a deep breath, Maureen said, “It looks like you had a hard night.”

“Understatement of the year.” Steve groaned. “I suffered a bout of memory loss last night.”

“You did?” Sylvia glanced sidelong at him.

“Yeah. I forgot how much I hate tequila.”

Sylvia chuckled, and Maureen smiled and took another forkful of burrito. “I hear you’re about finished with your degree, Steve.”

“About,” he said and grinned as he caught the waitress’s eye and made a pleading motion with his coffee cup. She immediately brought a pot and filled the cups that Steve and Sylvia cradled as if in worship.

“The burrito,” Sylvia ordered, “for both of us. Right, Steve?” He nodded and Sylvia continued, “Heavy on the jalapeños, please.” She narrowed an eye. “You do have
fresh
jalapeños, right?”

“Right. Got it.” The waitress walked away writing in her book.

“Fresh jalapeños?” Maureen asked.

Sylvia nodded. “You bet. The rule of thumb on Mexican food is that if they have fresh jalapeños, then the food is almost always super. If the peppers come drowned in a can of vinegar, the food will probably gag a maggot.”

“Oh, God. Don’t mention gagging.” Steve gulped his coffee.

Sylvia grinned. “Yeah, we had a great time. I half expected Dusty to drag you along, Maureen.”

“Well,” Maureen said with a shrug. “A teetotaler isn’t much fun to drag along.”

Sylvia nodded. “Yeah, I forgot the ‘Mary the Hun’ thing.”

“Mary the Hun?” Steve asked, frowning. His eyes were the color of a buffalo’s coat, a deep shining brown, almost black.

“You had to be there,” Maureen told him. “It’s part of the ongoing battle between Stewart and me.”

“Washais doesn’t drink,” Sylvia translated, and paused to give Maureen a penetrating look. “Speaking of which, Boss Man said he’d catch up with us last night. We never saw him. What happened?”

Maureen gestured with her fork. “Got me. We called it quits at about ten-thirty. I’d been flying all day, and to be honest, I was beat. Stewart said he’d see me for breakfast at seven.” She checked her watch. “It is now seven-thirty-two.”

Sylvia frowned. “That’s odd. Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, but he didn’t spend the night in your room, did he? I mean, not that it’s anybody’s business—”

“Good Lord, no!” Maureen blurted, surprised. “What could possibly make you think that Stewart and—”

“Whoa!” Sylvia raised her hands defensively. Steve Sanders was watching with bland amusement. Sylvia gave Maureen a crooked smile.
“I asked because the three of us figured we’d share a room here, you know, split the cost three ways for a nice room and shower with all the fixins. But Dusty didn’t show up last night. So I just kind of figured—”

“At all?” Maureen said as she cut up her tortilla.

“Nope.” Sylvia tried to look mild. “That’s why I thought that, well, you know, maybe he crashed on your chair, or something.”

“He didn’t.” Maureen washed the last bite down with coffee. “But, to tell you the truth, he didn’t look good when we left the bar. He said he was going for a walk. Maybe he’s got friends in town? As I understand it, he knows just about anybody who is anybody in archaeology. Isn’t there a college here?”

“Fort Lewis, and yeah, they have a really good anthropology department. There’s a lot of archaeologists around, too.” She gave Steve a sidelong look. “I just hope it isn’t the spook.”

“The spook?” Maureen asked.

“Maybe we’d better let Dusty—” Steve began.

“Naw, this is Washais. We’ve been witched together, and cleansed, and fought evil at 10K3. Washais is cool.”

Maureen stiffened in spite of herself. “Just what ‘spook’ are we talking about?”

Sylvia sipped her coffee before replying. “Dusty was sleeping in the camp trailer. Or, I should say, trying to sleep.” Sylvia made a face suddenly, turned slightly green, and placed a hand to her stomach. “Uh-oh.” She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and squinted until her stomach relaxed. “Sorry. Breakfast better get here quick or that waitress is going to have a really nasty morning.”

“You were saying about Stewart?” Maureen prodded, hoping to distract Sylvia and buy the waitress, and everyone else in the restaurant, a more pleasant breakfast.

Sylvia sipped cautiously at her coffee. “Yeah, well, I think you as much as anyone can relate to this. Dusty was crying out in his sleep. I mean, wow, this was a really bad nightmare. He was groaning and moaning—”

“Stop it, you’re getting me excited,” Steve growled. “Just get to the point.”

“The point,” Sylvia rubbed her stomach, “goes back to the 10K3 site in Chaco Canyon. Do you remember that pit that Mrs. Walking Hawk had us dig?”

“The one outside the impact area?” Maureen remembered. They
had uncovered a female skeleton. A young woman in her twenties with a rock on her head and a three-month-old fetus nestled in the arc of her pelvis: the “Haze child” of Elder Walking Hawk’s vision. And on the woman’s breastbone …

“Dusty was saying, ‘Shut up, you little son of a bitch.’ He sounded really scared. So I said, ‘Who’s a son of a bitch?’ you know, just smarting off in the darkness. I only caught two words: he said ‘witch’ and
‘basilisco
,’ and went silent.”

Maureen remembered the gorgeous black fetish, a red-eyed serpent coiled in a broken eggshell.

“I thought Dusty buried the basilisk, as Mrs. Walking Hawk asked.”

“Well, Dusty’s funny,” Sylvia said. When she tilted her head, her shoulder-length brown hair caught the morning light. “I mean, he’ll do some pretty unorthodox things, but he’s still an archaeologist. He slipped out when no one was looking, dug it up, and bagged it. He curated it with the rest of the 10K3 collection. By now it’s on the shelves at UNM.”

“Sounds like he should have done as Mrs. Walking Hawk asked,” Steve said.

Maureen shook her head. “Sorry. I’m with Dusty on this one. You can’t start biasing science to please religious fundamentalists. Spiritual beliefs change with each generation. If you give in to one religion now, somebody in the future is going to hit you for showing a ‘preference. ’ You can’t do it, Steve.”

Steve ducked, as though dodging a punch. “In this part of the world such a politically incorrect statement can call down lightning strikes, the ACLU, even the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act advisory council, not to mention Indian lawyers in three-piece suits.”

“I’m an Indian,” Maureen said dryly. “We’re not all antiscience.”

Fortunately, breakfast arrived. Sylvia’s color seemed to return as the waitress set her plate in front of her and she got the first bite down.

Maureen watched Sylvia and Steve eat for a while, then sat back in her chair with her coffee cup and said, “So, the basilisk is disturbing Dusty’s dreams?”

Sylvia swallowed a mouthful of food and let out a relieved breath. “I guess. I’d be careful mentioning it to him, though. He’s really sensitive about being cowardly. You know, it’s a macho thing.”

Maureen looked up when Dusty walked around the glass partition
and strode toward their table. Across the restaurant, women’s heads turned, their eyes following him as he crossed the room.

He did look good in his worn Levi’s, khaki shirt, and cowboy hat. The light glinted in his blond hair, and his beard shone. Those broad shoulders and narrow waist would catch any woman’s eye. Maureen couldn’t help admiring him herself.

He pulled out a chair and sat down, and Maureen saw his red-rimmed eyes. He didn’t look like he’d slept well. “Good morning.”

Sylvia gave him a sidelong glance before asking, “What happened to you last night?”

He lifted a hand to hail the waitress, and when she waved back, he turned around and answered, “Let’s just say that when the devil wants to destroy you, he first makes you pray.”

Steve replied, “Really? He makes me horny. How about you, Sylvia? Maureen?”

Sylvia choked on her food, then squinted one eye, as if her stomach had started to rebel again. After a difficult swallow, she said, “Mine makes me yearn for the worm.” When everybody shifted to stare at her, she added, “Mescal! You dirty-minded dopes.”

Maureen laughed. “I’d forgotten how much fun you westerners can be.”

“Us? Fun?” Dusty said.

“Absolutely. Where else could I get this kind of stimulating theological debate over breakfast?”

Dusty laced his fingers on the table. “And you’re not even on site yet. Just wait.”

BOOK: The Summoning God: Book II of the Anasazi Mysteries

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