The Ties That Bind (9 page)

"For sure. 'My hot lesbian lover wants you all to know she says hi'." She kissed me. "Actually, most know. I talk about you quite a bit." She bounded down the steps with her bagel in one hand and her travel cup in the other, messenger bag draped over her left shoulder.

"Hey," I called after her. "I want full disclosure."

She air-kissed me from her car. "See you later."

I waved as she pulled away from the curb and waited until she turned the corner. I then examined the front porch, checking the security door--for what, I didn't know. Clumps of dog fur? I scanned the corners. No, no telltale Milkbones. I checked the front windows.
What the hell am I looking for?
I stood staring at the wood of the porch floor, chewing my lip. My rational brain had two explanations. One, a dog bumping against the security door and scratching at it, trying to get in. Maybe scratching at the window. Two, a person trying to get in. Or trying to get our attention. But why?

I turned and looked across the street. I had seen something disappear over there the night before. A moving shadow. No person I knew of could move that fast. Down the steps, around Sage's car, across the street, neighbor's yard. All in the amount of time it took to flip the light on and open the curtains. So...back to animal. Maybe a small dog and it darted under Sage's car. Or mine. Then it went across the street. Or maybe what I saw moving across the street was a second animal. When Sage turned the porch light on, the second animal startled. The first, meanwhile, bailed to an immediate neighbor's yard.

I ran a hand through my hair and replayed the incident in my mind. On a hunch, I rapped lightly on the window to my right with my knuckles. No way in hell that sounded like a dog scratching on glass. I knocked on the security door with my knuckles and then my fingertips. Even if a dog snuffled around the door and bumped against it, those sounds were not what we heard, which was knocking. My rational explanations hit a dead end.

Okay, how about irrational? For shits and giggles?
I went through all the ghost stories and supernatural phenomena I'd come across over the years. Poltergeists? Nah. Those usually manifested as a series of events over a long period of time. Frustrated, I entered the house and locked the security door, leaving the front door open. I turned on my computer and while it warmed up, I went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee then returned to my office. I set my cup on the coaster I kept next to the monitor and opened my Web browser.

I started with "tommyknocker," though I was pretty sure that's not what I was looking for. Of course, here I was looking ghosts up on the Internet. At this point, who knew what I was thinking? I clicked on a site that looked like it might tell me more about tommyknockers and read through the information. Early nineteenth-century Cornish miners brought the superstition of the tommyknockers to the United States. Little green spirit dudes dressed up like miners who allegedly knocked on the walls of mine shafts just before a cave-in. Miners debated whether the knocking was helpful or portentous. Did tommyknockers ever leave the mines? I scrolled through a couple more pages. Apparently not.

I sat back in my chair, aware of how ridiculous this was.
I'm looking up ghosts on the Internet
. What the hell is wrong with this picture?
Next thing you know I'll be down in Roswell waiting for the mothership
. What would the neighbors think if they saw some little green miner knocking away on our windows? I clicked out of the window and went to e-mail instead. Ellen Tsosie had written back. I opened it and started reading.

She thanked me for contacting her and yes, Sage has mentioned that I might be in touch with her. She appreciated my wanting to learn more about Navajo culture and she'd try to give me some "pointers" here, but it would probably be best if I called so here's the number. I stopped reading and opened a small spiral-bound notebook I kept next to my keyboard. I flipped to the page I'd started with regard to "Navajo culture and criminal jurisdiction" and wrote Ellen's number next to her name and e-mail address.

I turned my attention back to the e-mail and continued reading.
Hmm
. Most traditional Navajos, though not afraid of dying--it's part of the natural order of things, after all--fear the dead because the spirit of a dead person has the potential to cause great harm to the living. I'd heard that somewhere.

This is a difficult thing for you to understand, given the emphasis on using the dead in your culture to help solve violent crimes and to help with medical research. But in my culture, when a person dies, he or she must be buried as quickly as possible, to prevent the spirit from wanting to stay in the world of the living and cause trouble. We believe that the spirits of the dead go to another place--you might think of it as an "underworld." It is a spirit-land, and we must take every precaution to ensure that the spirit is not tempted to return to the living. Traditionally, a dying person was taken from the house to another structure and the family selected items that the person owned to bury with the body. Because of the danger from spirits of the dead, we Diné either hired attendants to keep the death watch, or two men who took careful precautions would deal with the body. When the person died, the attendants would bathe and dress the body and they might place a fine blanket with it. Then it is very important to perform purification rituals. Once the body is buried, the tools that dug the grave are destroyed and tracks must also be destroyed, because a spirit might be able to follow them back to a place where the living are. Another precaution is to return home taking a different route than you arrived on. Diné will not speak someone's name once they are dead, because even saying the name of someone who has left us could call its spirit back.

Wow.
I thought back to all the Tony Hillerman books I'd read. Some of what Ellen wrote was familiar, but the academic skeptic in me preferred that she confirmed it rather than relying on murder mysteries for my knowledge about Navajo culture. I read further.

"The spirits of the dead are not the only spirits to fear. The world can be a treacherous place, and as Diné, we must try to keep balance so that these spirits do not cause bad things to happen. Some Diné have chosen a path of witchcraft--not in the sense you might be familiar with. These are bad things in our culture and to speak of them openly is dangerous. I
can
tell you more about death rituals and how even though modern times have brought some changes, the old ways linger, especially where death is concerned, but I think a phone call is a better way for me to explain these things to you, if you're interested in more information. Thank you again for your interest."

I sat back, tugging on my chin. "Keep balance," she'd written. Sage had mentioned that the night before. She'd said that something was "out of balance." On a whim, I clicked back into my Web search window and typed "Navajo witches." I pressed "enter" on my keyboard and waited. Seconds later, my screen filled with a variety of sites. "Skinwalkers" figured prominently and the term jogged something in my brain. Of course. One of Hillerman's mysteries was called that. I remembered now. Navajo witches who could attain the shape of an animal by donning its skin. I clicked on what appeared to be a more scholarly discussion of Navajo witchcraft and studied the information.

In Navajo, a skinwalker is called
yee nadlooshii
, which means, roughly translated, "he who travels on all fours like an animal." I stopped reading, a strange little tingle traveling up my back. I turned toward the doorway, half-expecting to catch somebody--
something
-- looking at me. Nothing. Just the late morning light splashing across the thick hallway rug.
Jesus. I'm creeping myself out
. I stood and picked up my coffee cup in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I thought again about Tamara Kee. Had she been warning us about something? Crazy. How would she know?

Exhaling, I flipped my phone open and dialed Ellen's number with my thumb. She didn't answer, but after five rings I reached her voicemail and a generic female voice told me to please leave a message.

"Hi," I said. "This is K.C. Fontero in Albuquerque calling for Ellen Tsosie. I got your e-mail. Thank you so much for taking the time to write. If it's all right with you, I'd really like to talk with you about these matters. Please let me know what's best for you either by e-mail or phone." I left my number, thanked her again, and hung up, setting the phone back on my desk. Time for more coffee.

I headed for the kitchen, where I poured more half-and-half into my cup before adding coffee and I stood leaning against the counter, thinking.
Strange incident on porch, take three.
A Navajo skinwalker just happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to mess with us. I took a drink from my cup. Like a skinwalker had nothing better to do than screw with a couple of
gringa
lesbians in Albuquerque. Jesus. I returned to the office and speed-dialed Chris. No answer. I left a message on her voicemail about a pizza party tomorrow, since Kara would be in town.

I then settled into my desk chair.
It was just a dog.
Some stray wandering around that ended up on our porch and we were already on edge because of the situation with Sage's dad. Almost convinced, I clicked out of the web and set to work on my syllabi for the fall semester.

Chapter Five

"NO SHIT?" CHRIS said incredulously over the phone. "Sage's dad?"

"Not definitively. But Sage has a feeling." I rubbed the back of my neck as I stared out the window of the office. Sage's desk fronted it. Our neighbor's massive lilac bush blocked most of the sunlight, which helped keep this room cool during the summer. I had just returned from a two-hour workout and was getting ready to pull the futon-couch into a bed for Kara's impending arrival. I still had to put sheets and blankets on it.

"I'll call the Medical Examiner," Chris said, businesslike. "See if I can get any info for you. But they might not release it to me because if they've identified the body, they're looking for the next-of-kin. Which in this case--"

"Sage and River," I finished. "Unless he's got other kids elsewhere. I wouldn't put it past him. But Chris--don't call. Sage doesn't want that."

"Okay..." she said, hesitant.

"She wants this to unfold the way it's supposed to." I ran a hand through my hair.

Chris exhaled, a soft sound over the phone. "Hey, if that's what she wants, there you go." Chris changed the topic. "So what's this Tonya have to say? Has Sage talked to her?"

I chewed my lip a little. "No. But River said that Tonya went to the police after Bill's work called looking for him to sub a shift. So they do have a missing person report on file for him. If the feds are handling this case, they've got that information..." my voice trailed off as I thought about the body on the reservation.

"You okay,
esa
?" Chris asked after a long moment.

"Yeah. It's just weird. I mean, if that guy
is
Sage's dad, it's just really weird that I was already poking around in it. That creeps me out."

Chris made a noncommittal noise. "How's Sage?"

"Not sure. Sort of brittle. She wasn't a fan of her dad. But when stuff like this happens, it gets you thinking about the past and brings up a lot of crap. Not to suggest Bill's the dead guy on the Rez." I chewed my lip, thinking. "She talked to her mom after she told me about what River said. Her mom's been keeping Bill posted on what Sage and River are up to, including contact info."

"That might bring shit up."

"To Janet's credit, she told Bill if he wanted to contact his kids, it was up to him. She wouldn't be the go-between."

"Good for her. That seems like a healthy approach."

"Yeah. Shit, Chris. I don't know what to do or say. It's totally weird. Sage is sure the Rez guy is Bill. So she's basically waiting for official notification. I hope it's not him. I hope he just went on another damn bender and ended up in jail somewhere. Or detox. Something." I exhaled, frustrated.

"Where is she now?"

"On campus. She's doing a workshop for senior citizens. They love her. She has people who take that damn thing three or four times."

Chris chuckled. "Can you blame them? It's like
Abuelita
always says about her.
Todos quieren la estrellita, quién arde con la luz de vida."

"That's poetic. So all those senior citizens want the little star burning with the light of life? Should I worry? Maybe those older men are turning on the charm as we speak."

She snorted. "
Abuelita
also says that you're an excellent match for Sage."

"Geez," I muttered, embarrassed.

"
Esa
,
Abuelita
loves you as another grandchild. She's had over a decade to get used to you."

"Damn, are you that old?" I teased.

"Kiss my ass, Fontero," she retorted, laughter in her voice.

"You'd
so
like that. How is
Abuelita
, anyway? Sage is working on another empanada recipe she wants her to try."

"She's excellent. Thank God for
Abuelita
. She's really helped both Mom and Dad deal with John's coming out, like she helped with mine. But I still think it was harder for my dad to deal with John being gay than it was for him to deal with me."

I wandered into the hallway to the linen closet and braced the phone on my shoulder as I pulled sheets from a shelf. "That might be typical. I've noticed that dads tend to be a little better about daughters coming out than about sons coming out. That male heterosexist thing. Are Mike and Pete still weird about it?"

"A little. But I think
Abuelita
talked to them--recently--and I think they're going to be the over-protective brothers now. It's not
easy
, but it's getting a little better. Plus, with John leaving in January for L.A., it might give them all some time to cool off and get used to the idea."