by Paul W Papa
“Speak of the devil and he doth appear,” Mayer said softly.
“Exactly,” the shaman agreed.
“And you?” Mayer asked. “What do you believe?”
The shaman returned to his pipe. “I’m Paiute. We don’t believe in skinwalkers.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
The shaman took a deliberate puff, weighing his response. “As I said before, there is an element of truth to all legends. But I do not believe this is one I should share with you. Outsiders tend to destroy native culture, especially white outsiders.”
Mayer’s face tightened. “Then why did you agree to a meeting?” he asked.
“Call it curiosity. Plus, Theodosia speaks highly of you.”
Mayer let out a heavy breath.
“You can trust P. M.,” Cassi offered.
“Oh?” the shaman said, “and how do you know this? Have you two not just recently met?”
Mayer didn’t know how the shaman knew that and he didn’t much care. He also didn’t much like being jerked around. “Look, I’m no skid rogue, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m square and I know how to keep secrets.”
“And yet you brought a reporter to my home.”
Mayer stood. “Come on Reyes,” he said as he picked up his hat. “We’re tooting the wrong ringer.”
Diogie sat up and growled.
Cassi stood slowly. She looked to Mayer and then to the shaman.
Mayer was already three steps to the door when the shaman asked, “Why is it that you need this information? What do you plan to do with it?”
Mayer turned to the shaman. “Put all the pieces together for one. A man doesn’t generally shoot six times, reload his heater, and then off himself. He doesn’t write a death will leaving all his shares in a project to the woman who opposed him at every step. And he doesn’t die with a frozen look of terror on his face if he did indeed plan to send his soul to the great beyond, or wherever your kind thinks the soul goes.”
“That depends on which soul you mean,” the shaman said. “My kind believe in two souls.”
“Well isn’t that just dandy?”
“And what is the second?” the shaman asked.
“Second?”
“You said ‘for one,’ which implies there is a second.”
“There is,” said Mayer. “If there’s a killer on the loose, one who’s already struck down one partner, then why wouldn’t that killer attack the second partner as well? It’s my responsibility to stop the thing from killing anyone else.”
“Isn’t that best handled by the police?”
“Not if it’s a skinwalker,” Mayer countered.
“And why is it your responsibility?”
“It just is, that’s all.”
The shaman turned to Cassi. “And you, what is your role in all this?”
Cassi tried a softer approach. “I’ll admit, I’m looking for a story,” she said. “But I’m not about to print anything about werewolves, skinwalkers, or wereanything for that matter. I’d be laughed off the paper. If Hawthorne killed himself, I want to know why and if he didn’t, I want to know that too.”
The shaman fiddled with his pipe, then reached down and scratched Diogie’s scalp. The dog seemed pleased with the gesture. “Well, I suppose, if Theodosia trusts you.” He paused. “Perhaps we should start again. Please, sit.”
Mayer hesitated, but eventually did as requested, placing his lid back on the side table. Cassi sat as well.
“A skinwalker is a type of shapeshifter,” the shaman began. “A witch who uses enchanted hides and feathers to become any animal it desires. This is why a Navajo will not wear the pelt of any predatory animal.”
“So it could become a coyote?” asked Mayer.
“Yes,” the shaman confirmed. “It can also become a wolf, a fox, a cougar, a bear, or even a dog.”
Diogie looked up.
The shaman continued. “The witch uses the animal’s natural abilities to its own advantage. If it needs strength and endurance, it might become the bear. If it needs speed, grace, and stealth, it might become the cougar. If it needs to follow someone unseen with keen vision or use sharp talons, it might become the crow, the eagle, the owl, or the hawk.”
Mayer learned forward. “So you think my hawk might be one of these skinwalkers?” he asked.
“It is possible,” the shaman confirmed. “You say the bird had glowing red eyes?”
“Like coals in a fire.”
“That is one of the signs, but . . .” the shaman hesitated.
“But what?” Mayer pressed.
The shaman shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Skinwalkers are Navajo, not Paiute. I have never heard of a Paiute becoming a skinwalker.”
“Aren’t there Navajos around here?”
“I suppose there could be. The Navajo people are comprised of the Pueblo, Apache, Hopi, and Ute. Some of these are our neighbors to both the northeast and the southeast.”
Cassi interrupted. “Why do you call it a witch?”
The shaman puffed his pipe. “Spirituality is a natural part of life. It is in our history, our culture, and our traditions. We harness these powers in our medicine and for the good of our community. You do the same, do you not? Do you not pray to your god? Do you not believe miracles exist?”
“Well yes, but . . .”
“Just as with your religion, we believe there are places in this world where goodness is present, just as there are those surrounded by evil. The skinwalker is often a healer or spiritual guide who has turned. It seeks to direct the spiritual forces of nature to cause harm instead of good. It is no longer a healer, but a witch.”
“So how do I kill it?” Mayer asked coldly.
“It’s not that easy,” the shaman said. “You are dealing with powerful black magic. In order to become a skinwalker, the witch must perform an unspeakable crime—killing a relative, often a child. It is evil to the core. A person with no redeeming value, possessed by greed, anger, envy, and spite—often revenge. A blackness has overtaken its heart and soul and it must continually kill, or perish itself.”
The shaman took another puff. “The skinwalker can control the skin or body of man, read the mind, and use the secrets and fears that lie within to control a person. It can enter into its victim’s own body, taking possession, and, in a sense, becoming that person. It can even mimic voices from the person’s past.”
Cassi scooted to the edge of her chair. “Does the person know?” she asked. “I mean, does he know he’s being possessed?”
“Oh yes,” the shaman confirmed. “The possessed is forced to watch in horror as the skinwalker makes him commit the most debased and defiled acts. All the while helpless to stop it.”
Cassi shivered.
Mayer thought of Hawthorne, of the suicide note he left, the shot to the head ending his life, and of the terror painted on his face in the morgue. It was beginning to make sense.
The shaman continued. “The skinwalker can control the creatures of the night and use them to do his bidding. More powerful ones are able to call up the spirits of the dead and to reanimate corpses.”
“How do I spot one of these skinwalkers?” Mayer asked.
“When in the animal form, it is larger and more powerful than the animal it has transformed into,” the shaman said. “But it is not quite human and not quite animal. It is the eyes that will betray it. While in the animal form, the eyes will not look like an animal, but like a human. That is, until light shines upon them, then they turn bright red—like fire. Much like your hawk’s eyes did when they caught the sun. When they are in human form, it is the opposite—their eyes look more like an animal than a human.”
“So just look into the eyes?” asked Mayer.
“Yes, but not directly or it can control you. And if you see the face of a skinwalker, it has to kill you to prevent you from revealing its secret. This is why they are so dangerous.”
“How do I kil
l it?” Mayer asked a second time.
“That is not easy,” the shaman repeated. “A skinwalker is notoriously hard to kill. Regular bullets will simply have no effect, and of course, there’s also corpse powder.”
“Corpse powder.” Mayer repeated bluntly.
“A dust composed of dried and powdered human remains,” the shaman said. “If blown into your face, your tongue will turn black and begin to swell. Convulsions and paralysis will follow. If not treated, you will die.”
“Dandy,” Mayer said, then asked, “How does one go about making this corpse powder?”
“It is usually made from the bones of children, twins specifically,” the shaman said.
Mayer looked to Cassi, her face registering her understanding.
“There are bone pellets as well,” the shaman said.
“Do tell,” said Mayer.
“The skinwalker will grind a bone down to the tiniest of pellets. It will curse the thing with chants, charms, and spells—all black magic. The pellet is then shot at its victim, usually with a blowgun. It imbeds itself into the skin, without leaving so much as a mark.”
“And then what happens?” asked Cassi. though Mayer wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
“Social misfortune, sickness, and eventually, death.” The shaman turned to Mayer. “Navajo law is quite clear in the matter. When a person becomes a skinwalker, he forfeits his humanity—his right to exist. For that reason, a skinwalker can be killed without legal or moral consequences.”
“Great, but you haven’t told me what I need to kill it with,” said Mayer.
“Silver bullets dipped in white ash,” the shaman said, “but you have to hit it while in animal form and only in the neck. If you shoot the thing in the neck, it will go into the human head and the skinwalker will die. Of course, you must find it first.”
“And where does one find a skinwalker?”
“Someplace they can perform their ceremonial rites undisturbed. Typically in a dark cave or secluded place high in the hills. Often on or near sacred land.”
“Then that’s where I need to go,” said Mayer.
“We need to go,” Cassi corrected him.
Mayer gave her hard eyes, but eventually relented. “How do we go about getting permission to do that?” he asked the shaman.
“When would you like to go?”
“As soon as possible,” Mayer said.
“It is not good to go at night,” the shaman said. “That is when the skinwalker is most powerful. I will convene the elders. If they agree, we will meet you tomorrow, then bless your entrance onto our land.”
“Can you meet me at the proposed resort?” Mayer asked.
“We can meet you near that area. Blessing must be given before you can step on sacred land.”
“Do you think the elders will agree?”
“We shall see. Be there as the sun rises. If the elders have gathered, then they have agreed.”
Mayer thanked the man and offered his hand. The shaman took it, then escorted him and Cassi to the door. Diogie followed, eyeing Mayer purposely.
“The task you intend to undertake is not wise,” the shaman said. “It is not something you should do alone. Powerful magic is required to defeat black magic.” He paused. “I must go with you.”
“I can’t ask you to do that,” Mayer said.
“It is not something for which you can ask,” the Shaman said. “It is the path I choose to follow. The one I must take.”
Mayer nodded. He shook the shaman’s hand a second time and was about to leave when another question came to him. “If Navajos won’t speak about this, then how did you come to this knowledge?”
The shaman smiled, but did not answer.
Mayer and Cassi climbed into his Hornet and headed back down the dirt road the way they came. The dust created by the tires rose from the road and drifted high into the air. High enough, in fact, to almost reach the red-tailed hawk circling above.
Fourteen
THE TRIP BACK to Atomic Liquors was mostly quiet—Mayer thinking about all the day had brought, and Cassi—well he guessed Cassi was just trying to make sense of the whole thing. He took a spot behind the building.
“Now what?” Cassi asked.
“Now, you go home and go to bed. Meet me here before the cock crows and we’ll go up into the hills and have a look-see.”
Cassi nodded.
“You all right with all this?” Mayer asked.
She tried to show courage, but her face betrayed her. “I’m not sure. It’s a lot to process. Is this what the Sloan Canyon incident was about?”
“Something like this, but not exactly.”
Cassi moved her hand to the door handle. “What do you expect to find up there?”
Mayer shrugged. “I don’t know. Could be a trip for biscuits for all I know.”
Cassi nodded a second time. She opened the door and stepped out.
Mayer threw his arm over the back of the seat and leaned toward her. “If you’re not here, I’m not waiting for you,” he said.
“I’ll be here,” Cassi assured him, then shut the door harder than she should have.
Mayer watched as Cassi climbed into her own vehicle, a Ford Fairlane, powder blue on the top, white on the bottom, with whitewall tires and a hard roof. Quite a car, he thought to himself, noting that they must be paying better at the Morning Sun than he realized. He waited until she pulled out, then he headed west on Fremont Street, taking another left onto Second Street, crossing both Carson and Bridger Avenues. He pulled into the vacant lot behind a small church.
Las Vegas was deceptively quiet at this time of night. The summer air still. Off in the distance a train whistled and people, suitcases in hand, waited to board a bus headed anywhere out of town—longing for the life they once knew, or one better than they found here. An owl hooted from atop a perch on a worn telephone pole as shadows moved in a nearby alley. A lone streetlamp lit the church’s parking lot and its single occupant.
Mayer got out of the car and closed the door behind him. He surveyed the area. Not that he was expecting to find anything, but it never hurt to check. In fact, it was one of the first things Mayer did every time he entered a building, or came to a new place. It was important to know how to escape if the need presented itself—which it often did.
Mayer opened the trunk and took out the diary. He slid it into his suit pocket and closed the trunk. Then he walked to the back of the modest church whose roots went nearly to the beginning of Las Vegas itself, starting as a wooden one-room building in 1909 and growing through the years to its current incarnation and its current pastor, Monsignor Devlin. It was he who gave Mayer the rosary he kept on his right wrist. “The right hand of God,” according to the monsignor, was the place one should strive to remain. Mayer wrapped the rosary around his wrist to remind him where he was supposed to be, especially since he very seldom found himself there.
He made his way through the gate under the flagstone arch to the peaked wooden door at the rear of the church. He knew the monsignor would still be there, dressed in his black robes, on his knees, reciting his nightly prayers, and lighting a candle for people like him.
It took three knocks before the monsignor answered. “Prometheus,” he said when he opened the door. “What brings you to the Lord’s house at this time of night?”
“Hello Monsignor,” said Mayer. “I have something for you to see. Something I hope you can tell me a little more about.”
“Come in,” the monsignor said and stepped aside.
Mayer removed his lid and went in. The monsignor took a last look around before closing the door behind him. “Come, have a seat,” he said.
The diocese provided its priests with a small room to the rear of the church, a place where they could rest and do such things as ponder the meaning of life between services. Mayer walked over to the decorative wooden table that held an ornate lamp—a woman dressed in the full garb of a knight, sans helmet, held a torch high in her left
hand, a shield to her back, and a dagger in her right. The patron saint of the church. A chair rested on each side. On the table in front of one of the chairs a book of poetry sat at the ready; a worn marker peeked out somewhere near the middle.
Mayer took the other seat and placed his lid on the table.
“I see you’re still wearing the rosary around your wrist.”
Mayer glanced at the prayer beads, then nodded.
“Well, will you have a smell from the barrel?”
“Sure, got any rum?” asked Mayer.
The monsignor chuckled. “No, but I do have some good Jameson I might share with you.” He opened a cabinet and removed a well-used bottle, along with two small glasses. He poured the golden alcohol into both, added a bit more just for good measure, then pushed one of the glasses over to Mayer. Lifting his own glass, he said, “May you be in heaven a half an hour before the devil knows you're dead.”
Mayer lifted his as well, then took a snort, enjoying the burn. “You know you’re not Irish,” he said.
“No, but the whiskey is,” the monsignor said as he refilled the glasses.
“Do you ever drink anything but Irish whiskey?”
“Only on Sundays, my son.” The monsignor took the seat across from Mayer. “Now what have you got for me?”
Mayer pulled the book from his pocket, opened the diary to the same place Virginia had earlier in the day, and set the book on the table in front of the monsignor. On the page was a drawing of a seven-pointed star encased in a double-bordered circle. Seven names, Mayer assumed where the archangels—Gabriel, Raphael, Simiel, Michael, Uriel, Iophiel, and Zachariel—were written around the circle, between the two borders. He did not recognize the other names and symbols, though many of them carried labels in his mother’s handwriting.
“The Seal of the Seven Archangels,” the monsignor said. “And quite a nice rendering of it, I might add.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“May I?” the monsignor asked, motioning to the book.
