by Paul W Papa
“I think we’ve gotten her involved enough in this whole thing.”
“That may be true, but skinwalkers are able to live much longer than you or I. There is no telling how long this creature has been walking the earth. You will have to do much research, and it seems to me it would be quite handy to have someone on your side who is adept at such things. Besides, didn’t Theodosia explain that you needed the help of others?”
Mayer stared at the shaman for a moment, wondering how the man knew what Theodosia had said to him—especially since she wasn’t one to talk out of school. But the shaman was right and so was Theo, so he left it alone.
“There’s one thing I don’t get,” Mayer said. “If the skinwalker is a Navajo, what is it doing on Paiute land?”
“That is a good question, but one for which I have no answer.”
“Well maybe you’ll have better luck with this one. Why would the skinwalker make Hawthorne sign over his part of the project to a person who was thwarting him every step of the way?”
“That one’s easy,” the shaman said. “Skinwalkers are pranksters. They like to play with people’s lives, cause as many problems as they can.”
Mayer wasn’t sure he bought that. Not that he didn’t believe that the skinwalker wouldn’t cause trouble wherever it could, it just seemed too much of a coincidence that a Native American—even a skinwalker—made a man sign over his portion of a project that would defile sacred land to a woman who seemed bent on protecting that very land. The bigger question to Mayer was why a Navajo would care about land sacred to Paiutes.
“Could a Paiute become a skinwalker?” Mayer asked.
“I suppose it is possible,” the shaman said. “But not likely. It is against everything we stand for. Everything that is Paiute. That said, it has been my experience that evil exists everywhere and in all forms. I suppose that if a Navajo could go against his beliefs and become a skinwalker, I imagine a Paiute could as well.”
Mayer finished the liquid and placed the cup down on the table next to the couch. “I don’t suppose you have a shirt I could borrow?” he asked.
The shaman seemed to know what was coming next. “You are in no condition to leave, and in even less condition to drive.”
“Nix that,” Mayer said. He scooted himself to the edge of the couch and made an attempt to stand. It didn’t take, but it didn’t stop him. On his second try, he was able to get his legs under him and, after the room stopped spinning, he took a step and then another. His legs were noodles and his back was a lesson in pain, but he had a job to do, so he pressed on.
The shaman shook his head, said something in Paiute and left the room. He came back with a turquoise blue pullover shirt and handed it to Mayer.
Mayer eyed it cautiously. “This all you got?”
“I believe the phrase is beggars cannot be choosers.”
The shaman had a point, so Mayer slipped his arms into the shirt and pulled it over his head. He would have groaned with the pain it caused, but didn’t want to hear it from his makeshift doctor. “I’ll get this back to you,” he said.
“Keep it. Call it a souvenir.”
Mayer thanked him, picked up his effects from the table by the couch where the shaman had placed them, and headed for the door.
“Do not go after the skinwalker alone,” the shaman said. “Its magic is far too powerful. Had I not been there, you would still be in that cave. This is better handled by the elders.”
Mayer nodded, but he didn’t intend to listen. He now knew where the skinwalker could be found and what he needed to do. Before he stepped out the door, he turned to the shaman. “Will you be okay out here all by yourself?”
“I am not ever by myself,” the shaman said. “I have my ancestors and Diogie. I will be all right.”
“But the skinwalker knows about you now.”
“Even a skinwalker cannot enter a house uninvited, and I have no intention of inviting it in.”
Mayer nodded.
“If you insist on going up there by yourself, you must take this.” The shaman handed Mayer a small brown bottle.
“What is it?”
“The gall of a mountain lion. Use it if the witch blows corpse powder at you or hits you with another bone pellet. Of course, you’ll probably die before you can use it effectively.”
“Great, thanks,” Mayer said blandly.
As Mayer stepped out the door, the shaman said, “No one will think less of you if you change your mind, Mr. Mayer. It would be better to make a plan, better yet to let the elders handle this.”
Mayer waved the shaman off. When he got to his Hornet, he assessed the damaged. Scratches marred the roof, down through the paint to the metal. He walked over to the passenger’s side; it was dented from the impact. There goes the five hundred, he said to himself. It was then that he noticed a substance on the roof, like blood, only yellow. Perhaps he had hit the beast after all. He went to the driver’s side, climbed in, and started the car. He had a stop to make before he went back into the hills.
GOING AFTER THE skinwalker alone was a foolish thing to do, but the shaman could see that Mayer was set to the task and nothing would dissuade him. He shut the door and sighed heavily. Diogie pawed his leg.
“I suppose you are right, Diogie. Even Mr. Mayer deserves help, as stubborn as he is. Without me, he will likely die.”
The shaman changed his clothes, laid out food for Diogie, and prepared a satchel with the herbs and tokens he would need to face off against the creature. He adorned himself with protective jewelry around his neck and wrists and put on the chest plate made of maize. He hadn’t worn any of it when he went up with Mayer and that had been a mistake, but, then again, he didn’t really believe they would find a skinwalker; he was just appeasing Mayer for Theodosia. He knew better now. Taking a ceremonial staff, one decorated with eagle feathers and tobacco leaves, he headed for the door.
“You must stay here and guard the house, Diogie. I will be back after a while.”
He took a salt container and spread a line against the door’s threshold, just in case.
Diogie began to growl. The hair raising on the ridge of his back.
“It is okay, Diogie. I will be fine.”
Diogie barked his disapproval.
The shaman opened the door and was about to step out when a powder was blown directly in his face. He looked ahead and saw a creature, more animal than human, the palm of the hand outstretched in front of the thing’s mouth—one which formed an unholy smile.
The shaman tried not to inhale, but it was too late. He started to choke as his throat began to swell. The room was spinning. He could hear Diogie barking and thought he saw him leap for the door. It was the last thing he would see before he hit the ground.
Nineteen
MAYER NEEDED A change of clothes so he headed to his apartment behind Atomic Liquors. The parking lot behind the tavern was filled with vehicles from the lunchtime crowd. Mayer noticed Cassi’s Fairlane was not among them. At just about the same time Mayer climbed out of the car, Joe Sobchick came out the back door of the bar, carrying a large bag of trash.
“Well there you are,” he said to Mayer.
“Here I am,” Mayer said back.
Joe threw the garbage into the bin and stepped closer to Mayer. “What the heck are you wearing? And what happened to your face?”
“Some palooka took exception to what I said about his skirt,” Mayer said.
“Must have pawed you pretty good.” Joe said, then looking at the Hornet, asked, “Did your car insult her too?”
“Something like that.”
“Stella’s looking for you. She’s inside,” he said, making a motion with his thumb.
“Dandy.”
Joe softened his face. “I heard what happened with Virginia,” he said.
“That why Stella wants to see me?”
Joe nodded. “That and a Detective Fry has been trying to get ahold of you.”
“Virginia inside?” Mayer a
sked.
“No. Haven’t seen her all day.”
“Tell Stella I’ll be there in a bit. I need to freshen up first.”
Joe nodded and headed inside. Mayer went to the trunk of his Hornet and put everything back in its proper place, including the canteen and the Colt he retrieved from the floor of the back seat where each had landed. When he was done, he shut the trunk and went to his apartment.
He stepped over the threshold of salt, and flicked on the light. Everything seemed to be in order, so he headed for the bedroom, stripped down, and went for a shower. He turned on the hot water faucet and left the cold one alone. When there was enough steam for a Turkish bath, he pulled the curtain and stepped inside. He stood there, allowing the hot water to bring him back to life. After a while he tried soap. It stung at first, but he wasn’t afraid of pain. Lots of things in life hurt. Mayer had learned to live with them.
Once he had cleansed himself of the evil, he turned off the water, wrapped the towel around his waist, then stepped from the shower to the porcelain sink. He wiped the steam from the mirror on the medicine cabinet and had a look. The talons had just missed his eye and the marks were already turning a bright red.
Perfect.
He decided a shave was in order—not remembering the last time he’d performed the task—so he opened the medicine cabinet and removed his brush, cream, and razor. He lathered up, then scraped the whiskers from his face and chin, only nicking himself twice in the process. It added to the veneer.
He found a clean pair of trousers, a long-sleeve, button-down Nubby shirt, socks, and the boots he wore to the cave. He slid a belt around his waist, got his cheaters, and readied himself for Stella. He was about to leave when he remembered the small brown bottle the shaman had given him. While filling his canteen, he decided a bit of rum was in order. In the kitchenette he found a small, brown bottle of Black Heart Demerara and poured two fingers into a glass. He did it twice more before heading out the door to Atomic Liquors.
When he entered the place, Stella was tending bar, making a horse’s neck, by spiraling an entire lemon with a paring knife. She slid the lemon into a Collins glass, filled it with ice, added a jigger of whiskey, and filled the rest with ginger ale. It was a nasty drink that only nasty people drank.
She saw Mayer and motioned him over to the bar. “Well, look what the cat drug in,” she said. “You look like hell in a handbasket.”
Mayer couldn’t argue the point. “I feel even worse,” he said.
“Fry’s been trying to get ahold of you. Called here three times already.”
Mayer slipped behind the bar, picked up the blower, and dialed. When the desk sergeant answered, he asked to be connected to Detective Fry.
“Fry here,” the detective said.
“I hear you’re looking for me.”
“Bout time you showed.”
“I was detained.”
“Yeah, well, I thought you might like to know that your body’s gone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your body at the morgue, it’s gone.”
“You mean Hawthorne?”
“Yeah, Hawthorne. He’s gone.”
“What do you mean he’s gone? Did someone claim his body?”
“Couldn’t,” Fry said. “There’s nothing to claim. He’s gone, vanished, vamoosed, hasta la vista.”
“What happened?”
“Officially? No one knows. Unofficially, got a call from my guy down at the morgue. Told me the drawer opened, Hawthorne climbed out, then he up and left.”
“And no one stopped him?”
“What was there to stop? First of all, the guy’s a stiff. Second, if a dead guy doesn’t want to hang around, who are we to stop him? I figured this is your area. Find anything out yet?”
“Couple things.”
“You need my help?”
“Not yet. I’ll let you know if I do,” Mayer said and hung up.
Stella gave Mayer a disapproving look—something she’d learned from her mother. “What did you do?” she asked.
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Mayer said. “You have any coffee?”
Stella pointed to a pot. “Just brewed,” she said.
Mayer found a cup and poured himself the first coffee of the day. He slipped back around the bar and took one of the stools. Atomic Liquors was full of people who stopped in for a quick snort on their way home from work or on their way to work from home. Mayer sipped his coffee while Stella tended customers.
The phone rang.
“Wanna get that?” Stella said, busy with customers.
Mayer took another sip of Joe, then walked around the bar and picked up the receiver.
“Atomic Liquors. Home of the atomic cocktail.”
“Mayer, is that you?” the female voice asked with breathless anticipation.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“It’s Cassi,” she said. “I’m at the shaman’s house.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, I . . .”
She cut him off. “I think he’s dead!”
“What?”
“He’s lying on the floor; his tongue is black and it doesn’t look like he’s breathing.” Panic was rising in her voice. “I found Diogie in the yard, his side slashed. What should I do?”
“Did you call an ambulance?”
“Yes, but I don’t think he can wait. What should I do?” she asked a second time.
Mayer thought for a minute, then remembered the small bottle in his pocket. He pulled it out, took a glass from the shelf and poured a little inside. The greenish liquid was putrid. Stella flashed him another of her looks.
“Go to his shelf of herbs and liquids,” Mayer said to Cassi. “Look for a brown bottle, possibly small.”
“Okay,” she said, her nervousness coming soundly across the phone.
“You’re looking for a greenish liquid with a horrid odor. Go for the smell first, then try the color.”
“I’ll have to put the phone down,” she said.
“Just do it!”
Mayer sat in silence while Cassi, he presumed, did as instructed. The scenery blurred like the background in a photograph and the sounds of the bar seemed to drift away. All Mayer could hear was a slight beating he assumed was his heart—or maybe it was Cassi’s. Seconds passed like hours as he waited . . . and waited.
Cassi’s voice finally came back on the phone. “I think I found it,” she said, but she didn’t sound sure.
“Does it smell?” Mayer asked.
“Yes, horribly.”
“And is it green?”
“Greenish,” she confirmed.
“You need to pour that into the shaman’s mouth,” Mayer said.
“Can’t you just . . .”
“There isn’t time,” Mayer said. “Just do it, Reyes!”
“I don’t . . .”
Mayer could hear the panic growing in her voice. He changed tactics. “Cassi,” he said in a softer tone. “You’re the only one who can help him now. I have faith in you. Just take the bottle over to the shaman, pour a little on his lips and down this throat. Don’t do too much or he will choke. Just a little, now. Go ahead. Put the phone down and go on.”
“Okay,” Cassi said.
Mayer did his best to listen through the phone line. He could hear Cassi breathing and what sounded like a dog bark. Then, after a long silence, he heard a cough and a sputter, followed by another.
“He’s coming to,” Cassi said loudly.
“Atta Girl!” Mayer said, but he knew she couldn’t hear him.
Twenty
MAYER STAYED ON the phone with Cassi until the ambulance showed. The shaman had regained his voice before they arrived and told Cassi how to contact the elders for help. He also guided her to mix herbs into a liquid that he could drink, then he helped her create a paste to put on Diogie’s wounds.
Cassi related the events to Mayer, explaining that the shaman told her it had been the skinwalker who had att
acked him and that he suspected the witch blew corpse powder in his face. She said he also wanted to thank Mayer for his quick action, and thanked her as well.
After Mayer hung up, he immediately made another call. This one to William James Pierce. “I’ve got an update,” he told him. “It’s urgent I speak to you.”
“I’m glad you called,” Pierce said. “I have news for you as well. Can you come to my home?”
Mayer said he could, then wrote the directions down on a cocktail napkin. Stella tried to stop him before he left. “We need to talk,” she said, but Mayer told her it would have to wait for another time. He jumped into what was left of his Hornet and followed the directions Pierce had given him. He was at the man’s home in less than fifteen minutes.
Pierce lived in a part of town known as the Scotch 80s. His house, a modest 3,000-square-foot ranch, was on Bannie Avenue off of Pine Street. Mayer parked in the circular driveway, slipped on his lid, and got out of the car. He was about to knock on the door, then he thought it might be best to go in heavy. It wasn’t Pierce he was worried about, but the creature, so he popped the trunk and donned his shoulder holster, a freshly loaded Colt, and a knife with a silver blade. He also grabbed a large container of salt. If what Mayer saw in the cave was any indication of things to come, Pierce was going to need it.
He closed the trunk and rang the doorbell. Pierce’s man opened the door, eyed Mayer’s Colt, and put his hand to Mayer’s chest. “I’ll need that rod.” he said.
“I like it right where it is,” Mayer countered.
“Let him in,” Pierce called out from the next room.
Pierce’s man removed his hand and motioned with his head for Mayer to go in, but kept a wary eye on him.
The expansive house had a very open floor plan with the kitchen, living room, sitting room, bar, dining room, and pool table on the first floor. Pierce was in what passed for a living room, one large enough to fit Mayer’s entire apartment—and probably Atomic Liquors as well. A velvet evening jacket with black lapels covered his white shirt and tie. He had a dead pipe in his hand and was wearing down the carpet in front of a fireplace. He turned when Mayer entered the room, his eyes wide.
