by Paul W Papa
“You’ll live,” he said.
“That’s too bad,” Cassi said with a smirk.
Mayer gave her one of his own, then kept climbing.
Cassi was the first to make it over the edge of the cliff—atop Mayer’s shoulders—to the entrance of the cave. Mayer and Shaman Mahkah each climbed up the side of the cliff to join her. The cave was large enough for a man to walk upright—so long as he watched his head. Mayer turned on the flashlight and the three entered. They had made it about ten feet in when the shaman stopped them.
“Shine your light down at the ground,” he said.
Mayer did as told and found footprints larger than any man could have made. He whistled his surprise. “With feet that big, I’d hate to see the gams on that thing,” Mayer said. He was about to take a step when the shaman stopped him.
“No,” he said. “You must not step on these.”
“Why?” Cassi asked.
“Some skinwalkers can make themselves invisible to the human eye. But even so, it will still leave tracks. If the creature is in front of us, it is very bad to step on a skinwalker’s prints. You must step over them,” he said. “Like this.” The shaman demonstrated, stepping over the tracks with exaggerated movement.
Cassi rolled her eyes.
Mayer made the same movement as the shaman, making sure to step over the prints, not on them.
Cassi huffed, but she did as shown.
They hadn’t made it far into the cave when there was suddenly a noticeable change in the air. The damp stillness was replaced by a heaviness that filled Mayer’s lungs. He took deep breaths, but was finding it more and more difficult to take in enough air. If he’d been wearing a tie, he would have loosened it. Cassi seemed to be experiencing the same problem. He reached out for her just as an enveloping darkness encompassed them—one that even the flashlight couldn’t penetrate.
The shaman stopped, held up his arms, and began to chant. Mayer hoped the man wasn’t becoming possessed. He’d performed only one exorcism in his time and wasn’t exactly sure he could do it again without help—that is, if he didn’t pass out first. As the shaman’s chants grew louder, Mayer lost his bearings in the dark and his pulse began to quicken—his breathing shallow, his knees beginning to buckle. It was only when Cassi came up behind him and placed a delicate hand on his back that he was able to recenter himself. He turned, just as Cassi collapsed into his arms.
After what seemed like ages, the darkness began to lift. Mayer had dropped the flashlight when Cassi collapsed. Lying still on the ground, it shone anew. The shaman stopped chanting. He picked up the torch and went over to Mayer.
“Black magic,” he said and handed him the flashlight. “A protection spell on the cave.”
“A good one at that,” Mayer said.
Able to breathe again, Cassi regained her footing, but the color had left her face. Mayer felt almost normal—almost. He took the flashlight from the shaman and lit the walls around them.
It was apparent they were in the right place. Animal skins lined one wall—coyote, cougar, fox—a collection of feathers from different birds below them. Bones, looking very human in nature, were stacked against the opposite wall. Some of them were laid out in a pattern Mayer did not recognize. Almost every bit of the cave was covered in symbols painted on the walls, and just as was the case in the shaman’s house, there were various herbs and bottles of colored liquid.
“Don’t touch anything,” the shaman said, “and be sure not to step on anything that looks like it might be a symbol or a sigil, and do not touch the walls. Those symbols have been made in blood, likely the blood of its victims.”
Not far from where they stood, Mayer saw something on the cave floor that caught his attention. A painting made of sand. He flashed his light over it. The sand painting was very intricate, in the style he had seen Native Americans use. Bright colors, seamless blending. It was the painting of a man. A man Mayer recognized immediately. It was R. J. Hawthorne.
Parts of the painting were smeared, as if some type of liquid had been spilled on it. In other places there was what Mayer suspected to be feces. The smell seemed to confirm his suspicions. He called the shaman over.
Cassi came too.
“What do you make of this?” Mayer asked.
“It is a skinwalker all right,” the shaman confirmed. “They often make sand paintings of their next victims, then urinate and defecate on the picture.”
“That’s disgusting!” Cassi proclaimed, her face agreeing with her proclamation. Her color had come back and she was breathing normally.
Mayer moved his light to an adjacent sand painting that had been started, but not finished. This one was of a man as well, and just as with the first one, Mayer recognized him: William James Pierce.
“You know that man?” the shaman asked.
“He’s my client,” Mayer said.
“Well, he is in a great deal of danger.”
Mayer nodded.
“Shh,” Cassi said, then cocked her head as if straining to hear. “What’s that noise?”
“What noise?” Mayer asked. “I don’t hear anything.”
Cassi turned to the entrance of the cave. “It’s coming from there,” she said, arm outstretched.
“I hear it too,” the shaman said.
Mayer turned his light on the entrance of the cave. It started as a low rumble, barely audible. But little by little, it grew, until a menacing growl echoed against the cave’s walls and seemed to surround them.
“I think we’d better be on our way,” the shaman said.
“To where?” Mayer asked. “Whatever that is, it’s blocking our only way out.”
A set of eyes appeared in the dark in front of them at about knee level. Then another, and another after that. When Mayer shined his light on them, they all turned a glowing yellow. The trio bared their teeth, showing long, yellowish, dripping fangs ready to pierce human flesh.
Coyotes.
Seventeen
MAYER DREW HIS weapon and pointed it at the coyotes.
“No!” The shaman called out. “They are under the skinwalker’s control. They are not responsible for their actions.”
“A lot of good that does us,” Mayer said without lowering the gun. “If I shoot above their heads, it might just scare them enough for us to get away.”
“That is not a good idea,” the Shaman said. “What about ricochet?”
It was a good point—one Mayer should have thought of.
“I will take care of the coyotes,” the shaman said. “You two get out.”
“We’re not leaving without you,” Mayer said.
“I will be right behind you. Now go!”
Despite his better judgement, Mayer holstered the Colt, grabbed Cassi’s hand, and ran forward, using the flashlight to guide the way. He wasn’t sure what the shaman had planned, but hoped the man knew what he was doing. They had just made it to the opening when a large hawk swooped down, talons at the ready. Mayer pushed Cassi out of the way, dropped the flashlight and went for his gun, but couldn’t reach it in time. The hawk scraped its talons along Mayer’s face, only inches from his eye.
Cassi screamed.
The shaman came rushing out of the cave, just as the hawk was making a turn for a second run. He grabbed the flashlight and shined it into the hawk’s eyes. The beam blinded the thing, its eyes turning bright red.
“Run!” the shaman yelled, then took hold of Cassi and jumped to the side of the cliff.
Mayer, on one knee, was about to stand, when a coyote grabbed hold of his trouser leg. He drew his other leg back and sent it flying, connecting with the coyote’s snout. It whimpered and let go of his pants. But it had no sooner done so when a second coyote made another attempt.
Mayer swung his canteen, hitting the animal in the head, then scooted backwards on his bottom, pushing with his legs. When he reached the edge of the cliff, he twisted his body and rolled off, landing hard on the rocks below. He laid there on his back fo
r a moment trying to catch his breath. The coyotes looked down at him, then began their slow, determined descent, teeth baring. Mayer forced himself to an upright position, tested his legs, and, finding them fit enough, began an awkward run.
But the coyotes were much faster, and in no time, they had closed in on him. A few more steps and they would have him. Mayer pulled his Colt. It would’ve been easy to just shoot them, but the shaman wouldn’t have approved; however, he said nothing about slowing them down. He turned, took aim, and shot just below the paw of the leading coyote.
The bullet ricocheted off a rock, but the noise and the impact took the coyote by surprise. It misstepped and tumbled to the ground. The coyotes behind it were running far too fast to avoid their leader. They hit it hard and all three tumbled in a great ball.
Mayer, pleased with himself, turned to run. He’d made it only a few steps when the hawk swooped down and scraped its talons across Mayer’s back. He would have cried out, but the adrenaline rushing through him masked the pain, so he continued on, as fast as his legs would carry him. He leapt rocks, cacti, and anything else that got in his way as he scrambled down the escarpment, trying hard to keep up with the momentum of his downward progression. He fell several times, and the hawk assaulted him two or three more times—he lost count.
The coyotes had overcome their collision and were quickly catching up.
His shirt was in ribbons and he was bleeding heavily by the time he reached his Hornet, but he made it before the coyotes caught him. Cassi and the shaman were already there.
He ran up to the car and threw his hands on the hood to steady himself. “How did you get here so fast?” he asked, breathless.
“The skinwalker concentrated its efforts on you, ignoring us completely,” the shaman said.
Mayer girded his loins, pulled the Colt from his holster, and turned to face the sky.
“It’s no use,” the shaman said. “The hawk is gone.”
“But the coyotes aren’t,” Cassi said, pointing.
The three animals, breathing almost as heavily as Mayer, had reached the trailer and were closing in.
“Get in,” Mayer said. He pointed the gun at the coyotes and slid the keys over the hood to Cassi. She opened the passenger door and dove in—the shaman right behind her. Mayer stepped slowly backward to the driver’s side, keeping his gun on the coyotes. They followed—yellow teeth at the ready. He pulled the door open, just as Cassi slammed her hand on the horn. The loud noise startled the beasts, giving Mayer just enough time to jump in and slam the door shut.
He took the keys, started the Hornet, and threw it into gear. Spinning wheels sent dirt flying high as Mayer spun the car around and headed up the road. The coyotes stayed with him for only a few feet before they could no longer keep up with the automobile.
Mayer caught his breath for the first time since the cave. “What in the holy hell was that?” he said to no one in particular.
It was then that something hit the car from the side, strong enough to force Mayer off the road. As the occupants crashed into each other, Mayer quickly recovered and brought the Hornet back in line. Just in time for another hit to the side.
“What is that?” Cassi yelled out.
“The skinwalker,” the shaman said matter-of-factly.
“You failed to mention it could outrun a car,” Mayer said, just as a loud thud came from above them, then a scraping sound.
“It’s on the roof,” the shaman said.
“Ya think?” said Mayer.
The Hornet began to shake side-to-side, making it very difficult for Mayer to hold the road. The car’s rear end fishtailed repeatedly, and at one point they were on only two wheels.
“He’s trying to flip us over,” Mayer said. He knew he couldn’t keep the car on the road at this pace, and it was clear the skinwalker wasn’t going anywhere. He thought for a moment, made a quick decision, then took action. As Mayer rolled down the window, he said to Cassi, “Take the wheel.”
“Don’t roll down that window!” the shaman called out.
“If I don’t do something and do it soon, it’s going to flip us.” He turned to Cassi. “Mind the pedal,” he said and slid himself out the window to a sitting position on the door frame.
“Don’t look into its eyes!” The shaman called out.
The skinwalker was indeed on the roof. Its grotesque form hunched over—thick claws gripping into each side of the car. It wasn’t quite human, neither was it animal, but instead, a malformed mixture of both human and coyote.
It hadn’t yet seen Mayer.
He pulled the Colt from its holster and took aim at the thing’s neck. Just as his finger pulled against the trigger, the car hit a bump. The gun fired, but the shot missed by a mile. The skinwalker turned to Mayer with human eyes. It let loose of the car and took a swipe at him with long, sharp claws. Mayer took hold of the door frame and leaned backward—the claws barely missing his face. He came back up quickly, Colt in hand and shot a second time. The skinwalker waved his hand and the bullet dropped, useless, onto the hood. Undaunted, Mayer took aim and shot a third time, but the gun suddenly jammed.
The skinwalker looked at Mayer with a sinister smile.
Mayer tried again, but the Colt wouldn’t cooperate.
The skinwalker grabbed the car and rocked it hard to the right, then again to the left. Mayer grabbed hold of the top of the door frame, but as the car jumped to the left, his head slammed hard into the frame. He almost dropped the gun.
Cassi screamed.
Mayer’s nose was bleeding. He threw the colt into the back seat and pulled out the Chief’s Special. “Any suggestions?” he called out.
“I don’t suppose you have any salt?” the shaman asked.
“Glove compartment,” Mayer answered.
As the shaman opened the glove compartment, Mayer popped back up with the second gun, and as he pointed it at the skinwalker, he was met with the business end of a blowpipe. He saw the projectile coming and pulled his own trigger, just as the tiniest piece of bone fragment lodged itself into Mayer’s neck. As he fell backward, he thought he saw the shaman throwing salt at the skinwalker and the creature jump from the hood, high into the air—far higher than any coyote could ever jump. Then Mayer’s world went black.
Eighteen
WHEN MAYER CAME to he was on the couch, bare chested, in the shaman’s home. His neck was throbbing and his back felt like it had been passed over a cheese grater. He reached up to the spot where the pellet had penetrated his skin and found it covered with some type of foul-smelling paste.
“It’s a mixture of corn pollen, cedar ash, and juniper berries, along with the gall of a mountain lion,” the shaman said. He was holding a cup of steaming liquid. “Drink this.”
“Prickly pear?” Mayer asked.
“No, Earl Grey,” he said with a smile.
Mayer didn’t know what the gall of a mountain lion was, but he suspected it was likely the source of the smell. When he sat up to take the tea, the room began to spin. He braced himself against the couch.
Diogie growled at him.
“Slowly,” the shaman said. “We almost lost you. The poison is still in your system.”
Mayer took the cup; the aroma wasn’t much better than the paste on his neck. “This isn’t Earl Grey,” Mayer noted.
“No, but you must drink it all the same.”
Mayer took a sip. The acidic taste was strong and sour and reflected on his face.
The shaman chuckled.
Diogie growled.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a rum chaser?” Mayer asked.
“Better stick with the tea.”
Mayer took another sip. It wasn’t any better than the first one. “So why isn’t my melon splattered all over the road?”
“Your Miss Reyes managed to pull you into the car.”
“And still steer the thing?”
“Yes,” the shaman said. “People have been known to perform extraordinary feats when the ne
ed presents itself.”
“I guess so,” Mayer said. He brought his hand to his neck. “What hit me?”
The shaman walked to a nearby table of herbs and liquids and produced a small pellet. “We had to cut this out of you,” he said, holding the thing between his thumb and finger. “Then we had to treat the poison.”
“We?”
“Miss Reyes and I.”
Mayer looked around, but it was just the two of them in the room. He hadn’t realized that Cassi was not there. “And where is Miss Reyes?”
“She’ll be back. I sent her to town to do some research.”
“What kind of research?” Mayer asked.
Shaman Mahkah moved a chair over to Mayer. “I called and spoke with a Navajo elder about our little situation,” he said. “He knew a bit more about the skinwalker and once I was able to confirm its presence, he was willing to tell me what he knew.”
Mayer noted the shaman had changed the subject, but let it pass. “Great,” he said. “Did he tell you how to kill something that can run faster than a car, stop bullets in mid-air, and make guns jam?”
“Actually, he did. He said that if you can get it to talk to you in its animal form, then it will turn back into a human and be unable to transform ever again. That, however, will not stop it from seeking its revenge upon you and since it will still be able to perform black magic, it doesn’t seem like much of an option. There is, perhaps, one better.”
“I’m listening,” Mayer said.
“You can call it by its real name,” the shaman said. “But you must say it’s full name, followed by ‘you are a skinwalker.’”
“And that will kill it?” Mayer asked, suspiciously. “All I have to do is say ‘you are a skinwalker,’ and it will just up and die?”
“You must call it by its real name first, but, yes, after a period of three days, it will become sick and die as a result of the wrong it has committed.”
“And how am I supposed to find out its real name?”
“That is what Miss Reyes is researching.”
