Death and Desire Page 9

  “I’m getting the blessing. Maybe things will get better.”

  “Trace helping you with that?”

  “Yeah, he’s taking me to a Sing for his friend.”

  “You two becoming an item?”

  “Define item.” I looked at him and smiled.

  “Means you have the hots for him and you’re not looking for a replacement. I’m a guy married to a guy, but most of us have had a little experience with a woman.”

  I threw my hands and up and said, “Louis!”

  “Hey! You look surprised. I can prove it to you. Five minutes after a woman gets in bed, if nothing good is happening, she’s thinking about what’s downstairs in the frig.” He hooted with laughter. “Right? Be honest.”

  “I live in a one-story house.”

  He was still enjoying himself when he turned into the crowded parking lot of AAA.

  “I wouldn’t have thought there would be this many people here on a weekday,” I said.

  We finally parked at the edge of the lot and hiked in. Louis slipped the camera in his jeans pocket and I pushed the barn doors open into a converted warehouse. The high, open ceilings and concrete floors echoed our footsteps. Lines of folding chairs filled the space. Huge Jumbotron screens flanked all four walls to give bidders close-up views of the items. We slipped into a row where we could see the front platform and a video screen.

  “Looks like a megachurch, doesn’t it?” Louis whispered, pointing to the speakers hung by each video screen.

  “Looks more like they make a ton of money here.” The crowd streamed in. Most were dressed in high-end casual clothes, the kind that gave off the vibe, “I’m hip and cool and really so like you.”

  A fanfare of music blared out of the speakers and the auctioneer welcomed us. He ran through the rules for bidding.

  “You gonna bid on something?” Louis asked.

  “Yes. We’ll have an opportunity to go up front and talk to these guys if I buy something.” I leaned in close to his ear. “Start recording.”

  The auctioneer moved through the items in the program quickly. He had several people working for him, getting the piece on camera before he started the bidding, writing down the number of the winner, and passing the item to the sold area. Several people bought five or six expensive pieces, perhaps acting as the go between for a well-heeled collector.

  After an hour of steady bidding, the auction was down to the dregs, shreds of ancient fabric, little pieces of broken this and that, and intricately painted pottery shards. The auctioneer held up the handle of an Anasazi drinking ladle. “What am I offered? Opens at two hundred dollars. Do I hear two hundred? Nobody wants this piece of antiquity? Come on! Give me a bid! Give me a bid on something older than Greece,” he wheedled.

  I raised my hand.

  “You gonna buy that broken spoon handle?” Louis hissed.

  “We got a bid of two hundred. Two hundred going once . . .” the auctioneer chanted.

  A distinguished silver-haired man to my right nodded his head at me and raised the bid.

  “Two-fifty, any bidders, two-fifty going once . . .”

  I raised my hand. “Three hundred. Three hundred going once . . . going twice . . .” No one stirred. The silver-haired man smiled and saluted me. “Sold for three hundred to the tall brunette.”

  We joined the crowd around the payment table. “Do you know where the ladle handle was found?” I asked the auction employee.

  He stopped in the middle of wrapping the pottery and stared at me. “Private land.”

  “Do you have the paperwork on the provenance of the piece?” I took the bundle out of his hand.

  “You’re the second owner to hold it since the gal who made it a thousand years ago. You good to go?” he asked impatiently.

  “Yes.” I widened my eyes. “I will treasure it.”

  “You will treasure it,” Louis snorted as we got to my Rav. “You just paid three hundred dollars for a spoon handle!”

  “He can’t supply provenance for those artifacts. Did you see the amount of pottery that went out those doors?”

  “How you gonna prove it?”

  “I just bought an antiquity with no certificate of provenance. That’s a felony under federal law—both the selling and the buying. The feds require owners to return illegally held artifacts to the tribe’s descendents.”

  “Maybe that came from private land like the guy said.”

  We pulled onto the highway headed for Flag. “If it did, the pottery still can’t be sold without a certificate of provenance, including the former owner’s name and the site where it was found.”

  “So we got ourselves a hot pot?”

  “Lame, Louis, really lame.”

  He motioned to the wrapped and taped package lying in the console. “That thing is a problem. You ever hear of Shumwell?”

  “No, who’s he?”

  “Dead guy. In the nineteen eighties and nineties, he was a legendary pot hunter. He stopped looting graves before he died because he felt surrounded by evil. All kinds of bad shit happened to him. He dug into an Anasazi burial site and a rattlesnake bit him.”

  “Rattlesnakes are everywhere out here.”

  “That’s not all.” Louis wagged his finger. “He dug into another burial site and found a mummified baby girl. When he pulled her little body out, he was stung by a nest of scorpions.”

  “I’m still not hearing anything that couldn’t be a normal by-product of his activity.”

  “Normal by-product of his activity,” he mimicked. “You sound like a scientist. After he dug that baby up, he had recurring dreams. The same nightmare over and over. Long knives rose out of her grave slashing his body. He went back out to her burial site and a dirt wall collapsed on him, breaking his ankle. That’s when he quit, claiming the Chindi were too powerful. You got a shapeshifter after you! You got to get rid of that spoon handle.”

  “I’ll take the ladle handle to Yanaha. She’ll see to it that it gets to where it belongs.”

  “Got you going with Shumwell’s story, didn’t I?” Louis smiled.

  “Did he see shapeshifters?”

  “Never heard anything about that. But he damn sure believed in evil spirits before he died.”

  I pitched the auction-house story to Marty and waved the ill-gotten ladle handle in front of him. I raved about what a great story it would be.

  “I hired you because you won an Emmy for investigative reporting. You got shit until you correlate the pottery is coming out of the Flag area and the mining company is digging pots. Until then, we just have a couple of random incidents with no relationship to our viewing audience. So get out there Mc Whorter and pull it all together.” He balanced the spit-soaked cigar on the rim of his favorite ashtray. The one with a picture of a man standing on top of his desk pissing on all his papers on his last day of work with “I’m so outa here” scrolled around the perimeter.

  Marty was more pleasant to talk to when he was smoking those damn things than when he was sucking on them. “You’re forgetting the police report Niyol filed with Officer Nez. Couple that with Garcia’s interview and my story of buying pottery with no provenance. The evidence is all there. You’re touching part of it. Correlation made, Marty.”

  “Edit it and let me see it before you log it in the server,” he growled.

  I raced back to my desk thinking the words “apology” and “you’re right” had been missing from Marty’s vocab.

  Satisfied with my story, I e-mailed it to Marty, then walked down to his office. I wanted it to run tonight. Marty was already reviewing it when I walked in. He looked up over his cheaters and said grudgingly, “Nice save, McWhorter. I wouldn’t have expected any less from you. Leads tonight on the six and ten.”

  Chapter 13

  Mac 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 din
ner 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.

  Chapter 14

  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.