CHAPTER SEVEN
As Hashilli Maytubby drove his black Chevy Tahoe along the Kilpatrick Turnpike, he composed a prayer to the enemies of his ancestors. He wasn’t good at music, but he did well with words, so he borrowed tunes from Paul McCartney and sang lyrics about white men’s treachery and Choctaw magic.
Grandfather would approve. Grandfather had been a Beatles fan in his youth. He’d been a lot more generous with his records than his magic. Grandfather had liked the Rolling Stones and the Dave Clark Five, all the British groups, because they were descendants of white people who hadn’t come to America to steal Indian land. He was grateful to Europeans who stayed where they belonged.
On more than one occasion, Grandfather told Hashilli, “Not all whites are bad, just the ones on this side of the Atlantic.”
He’d been so narrow-minded. Grandfather couldn’t admit that white people brought the seeds of modern magic to the New World when they came. Without things like telephones, computers, and copy machines, witches like Hashilli would be lost. He appreciated motor vehicles most of all.
His SUV carried him quickly from one destination to another. He could look into his victims’ eyes at the moment of deception, steal little pieces of their souls along with their money, and then move on. The essence of witchcraft.
He briefly considered calling Victoria Tiger to tell her he’d been delayed, but decided against it. Victoria wouldn’t complain. She was too consumed with white guilt to judge Hashilli harshly.
Indian time was something Victoria had learned about from her father. It was an integral part of the culture she’d been looking for, ever since she’d married Albert Tiger. Her husband’s obsessive punctuality was a source of bitter disappointment. Five minutes early for every appointment, as measured by his Rolex watch.
Albert was an ambitious casino manager, with an appalling lack of Indian ways. Victoria was desperate to apologize for the cultural atrocities of her ancestors. That difference in worldview made them vulnerable to Hashilli’s style of sorcery.
The Tiger estate was in a wooded area west of Oklahoma City. It was close enough to the Casino to be handy for Albert, but secluded enough to allow for the privacy both he and Victoria valued.
“A good place to raise a son,” Victoria told Hashilli the first time she invited him onto the property. Baby Andrew was the first boy child of his generation. Hope of immortality for the Tiger line.
Hashilli didn’t remind Victoria that traditional Muskogee heredity is matrilineal.
Bloodlines are insignificant in matters of the heart. Hashilli Maytubby understood the value of an only child, and in the fullness of time, Victoria and Albert Tiger would understand it too.
Within a week, Andrew Tiger would be a possession of Hashilli’s. The baby boy would fetch a hefty ransom. The magic of electronic funds transfer would make the Tiger money disappear into a bank account on Grand Cayman Island. It would jump across oceans and continents to Bermuda, Wales, Israel, and Switzerland. This magic was much more profitable than changing into an owl to frighten superstitious Indians.
Victoria and Albert would never see their son again, regardless of the price they paid. If things went as Hashilli hoped, baby Andrew would be absorbed into the Maytubby line. If not, he’d be auctioned off to the highest bidder. There was an ever-increasing number of would be parents who had money but lacked reproductive wherewithal.
Hashilli drove through the open gate. What good are gates when the owners leave them open?
Not that the Tigers’ gate would hinder Hashilli in the slightest. On his last visit, he had watched Victoria enter the code. She recited the numbers out loud as she keyed them in. Victoria Tiger trusted Hashilli. And why wouldn’t she? He was a respected antiquities consultant for the Oklahoma Western Heritage Museum. She knew this because Hashilli told her so. White women married to Indian men were such easy marks.
A small copse of red cedar trees made the house invisible from the road—the perfect place to stage a kidnapping.
Hashilli had cautioned Victoria that discretion was of utmost importance. It was best if no one, not even Victoria’s husband, knew of their plans while they were in the formative stages.
Hashilli, the respected antiquities dealer, had discovered something while authenticating museum documents, something that would make important people nervous. Especially Casino owners who wanted to stay in the good graces of federal agencies.
Hashilli knew how to set the hook. He fabricated a discovery based on Victoria’s vanity and total confidence in government treachery. Promises had been made to Albert’s great-great-grandfather by President Andrew Jackson. Hashilli found a letter. It was all hush-hush.
“The document might not be enforceable, but it is an important piece of Albert’s family history.”
That was all it took. Victoria had given her husband a son, and now she would give him part of his heritage. Enforceability didn’t matter.
As Hashilli pulled into the circular drive and parked under the port cochere at the front of the Tigers’ home, he saw a low-end, late model Subaru Outback parked beside the guesthouse. The Tigers had company. Trouble he didn’t need.
The moment he was inside the house, he reminded Victoria how easily the Jackson document could upset the political apple cart.
“Maybe we should wait until your visitor is gone before proceeding.”
“Sarah’s got other things on her mind.” Victoria repeated the story her father had told her when he arranged for Sarah to stay in the guesthouse.
Hashilli had thoroughly researched Victoria’s background. He knew all about Dr. Carson Lindsay, but he pretended to be surprised.
“She’s dad’s favorite student.” Victoria added embellishments she learned from Sarah since her arrival.
“A visiting anthropologist with a crazy mother.” Hashilli was pretty certain he could handle Sarah Bible if it came to that, but he didn’t like loose ends. “Does she know about the Jackson document?”
Victoria retrieved a rescue inhaler from her purse and took two good blasts.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I might have mentioned the letter, but Sarah wasn’t curious, and I didn’t tell her anything about our arrangement.” Her breathing became more regular as the medication did its work.
“How’s the asthma?” Hashilli didn’t need another medical emergency when the time came to snatch Andrew Tiger. His last victim stopped breathing when he blew the spirit powder into her face. The coroner called it respiratory arrest. The woman’s husband called it murder.
Dead men tell no tales, but they don’t pay ransom either. It wasn’t a total loss. Gay couples pay good money for healthy babies with no strings attached. So do middle-aged Caucasian women who waited too long to have children.
“Pollen allergies,” Victoria said.
That bit of information didn’t reassure Hashilli in the least. If this woman died, he wouldn’t even try for a ransom. If the child proved a suitable heir, he would keep him, otherwise he’d settle for a quick, clean sell.
“My source needs $2,000,” he said. The price was the clincher. Neither expensive nor cheap. The price was high enough to reflect the document’s authenticity, but not so high it would shake the buyer’s confidence.
Hashilli would front the money. “Reimburse me when I bring the document, and don’t say anything more to your visitor.” He flashed a smile copied from a presidential candidate, sincere but unenthusiastic. It was the perfect facial expression to convey the willingness but not necessarily the commitment to proceed.
He invested the remainder of his visit milking Victoria for every bit of information she had about her guest. He had to be certain no intruders would be present when he abducted the Tigers’ child.
Owl Dreams Page 7
