Night Mayer: Legend of the Skinwalker

by Paul W Papa

  “What do you mean Pierce is no longer there?”

  “He called for a car this morning and left.”

  “And you let him go?”

  “He’s not a prisoner, Mayer. I told him it was ill-advised to go until we got the situation under control. He wanted to leave and there’s not much I could do about it.”

  “Dandy,” Mayer said, more than a little frustrated. “Cassi and I will be at your place in less than an hour.” After he hung up, Mayer returned to the sitting area, where Cassi and Vera were making polite conversation. He collected the photographs, returned them to the envelope, then slipped the cigarette case back into the inside pocket of his suit.

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Krupp,” Mayer said. “But we must be on our way.”

  Vera stood. “I don’t suppose you could leave those here?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that just yet.”

  Vera folded her arms across her chest and said curtly, “Well, I hope you found what you came for, Mr. Mayer.”

  “We’ll see,” Mayer said. He turned to the door and motioned for Cassi to follow him, retrieving his lid along the way. Cassi thanked Vera for her hospitality, then followed Mayer out the door. They were halfway down the walkway when Mayer stopped and turned. He stood, staring intently at the right side of the house. The stairs on the inside would have led to rooms upstairs, but the building was large enough that there should have been rooms downstairs as well, yet there was no door leading to those rooms that Mayer could see. No door on the inside or the outside.

  “What is it?” Cassi asked.

  “Nothing,” Mayer said. “Let’s go.”

  When Mayer got to the end of the dirt road, he turned and headed north, the escarpment spreading out on his side of the car. The trip to Vera Krupp’s place had left him with a pit in his stomach. One mystery was coming together, while the other . . . well, the other still had a ways to go. Mayer wondered where the photograph he found on the shelf had been taken. A house, likely, but not just any house—an elaborate, fancy, expensive house. Alfried Krupp’s house. If he was indeed in possession of the amulet, where was it now, and why did his bride, all the way in America, have a part of her house with no visible means of entry? What, he wondered, was Vera Krupp hiding?

  “Where are we going?” asked Cassi.

  “Pierce’s house,” Mayer said.

  “I thought he was with the shaman.”

  “He was, but apparently he decided to leave sometime this morning. The man’s a fool.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were parked in front of Pierce’s home. Mayer looked at the upstairs window. It was still broken out. “Wait here,” he said to Cassi. It’s not that Mayer expected Pierce to be at the house, but he needed to rule it out before he continued, so he slipped out of the Hornet, went to the door, and rang the bell. As he suspected, there was no answer. He tried twice more, and after still receiving no answer, returned to his car.

  “Now where?” Cassi asked as he got behind the wheel.

  “Shaman Mahkah’s house.”

  A HALF HOUR passed before they arrived at the shaman’s home. Mayer got out and headed to the back of the Hornet. Cassi followed. He opened the trunk, pulled out the Colt, popped the cylinder open, and, seeing that it was loaded, snapped it closed.

  “You really think you’re gonna need that?” Cassi asked.

  “Can’t be too sure,” Mayer said putting the weapon back in its holster. “The witch has already attacked here once.”

  “Yes, but the elders helped the shaman place some type of blessing on the home and property. Shaman Mahkah said the skinwalker couldn’t get near the place.”

  “Better not to take chances,” Mayer said and closed the trunk.

  Cassi sighed, then followed Mayer to the shaman’s front door.

  Shaman Mahkah let them in, shaking Mayer’s hand and giving Cassi a hug. Diogie came over to Cassi, tail wagging, then turned and growled at Mayer. He would have a scar, but it looked to Mayer as if his wounds were healing nicely.

  Mayer pulled the cigarette case from his pocket and tossed it to the shaman. “You wasted your time.”

  The shaman caught the case. “Oh, why do you say that?”

  “I don’t think it’s the case that’s drawing the ghost at all.” Mayer filled the shaman in on the events of the previous night, including the photographs he found of Hawthorne and Krupp. Then he reviewed all the places the cigarette case had been with no appearance of the ghost. “Including Atomic Liquors, where I first met Pierce,” Mayer said. “He pulled a cigarette from that very case when he was there. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But the case has made an appearance at too many places without Hawthorne’s ghost in tow. Just to be sure, I kept it in my apartment last night.”

  “And the ghost did not come?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you haven’t seen it since?”

  “Not even a shiver.”

  The shaman walked over to his table of herbs and laid the case down. “Then your supposition is correct,” he said. “If it was attached to the object, it could have attacked you at any time, and yet, it did not.”

  “If it’s not attached to the case, then what is it attached to?” Cassi asked.

  “The house,” Mayer said, flatly.

  The shaman nodded his agreement. “There is something in that home that calls the spirit from the grave.”

  “So now what?” Cassi asked.

  “Perhaps we should locate Pierce,” the shaman suggested.

  “How are we going to do that?” asked Cassi. “We already stopped by his house and he wasn’t there.”

  “I think I know where he might be,” Mayer offered.

  The shaman gave Mayer a strange look. “Do you think we’ll find the skinwalker in the same place?” he asked.

  Mayer nodded.

  “Then I had better prepare.”

  Mayer and Cassi waited while the shaman changed into ceremonial clothing. Mayer remained by the door. A blessing may have been placed on the house and the surrounding area, but Mayer was far more familiar with black magic than any man should be and understood all too well its life-threatening power. He wasn’t about to take any chances.

  Cassi rubbed Diogie between the ears. The dog showed its appreciation, while keeping one eye on Mayer at all times. The events of the past three days ran through Mayer’s head—Pierce coming to the bar, the crime scene, Vera Krupp. Pieces of a puzzle all sliding into position, painting a gruesome and deadly picture. A love triangle with a skinwalker right smack dab in the middle. And the biggest question—the one Mayer didn’t quite have worked out—was who, if anyone, was behind the witch, pulling the strings?

  When the shaman returned, his face and hands were coated with a reddish-white ash, making him look more ghostlike than human. In his hands was a bowl filled with the same substance.

  “You fall into a fire pit?” Mayer asked.

  “Cedar ash. It will help protect against the witch. You should put on some as well.”

  Mayer was hesitant, but he knew that in times like these, it was better to listen to the experts—it was the same reason he had the rosary and the onyx around his wrists. He took the bowl and began applying the substance.

  Cassi rolled her eyes, but did so as well.

  “Could have used this the other night,” Mayer said. “Or at the cave.”

  “To be quite frank,” the shaman said. “I didn’t really expect to find anything at the cave.”

  “Not sure I did either,” Mayer admitted.

  “I didn’t know about the ash until the Navajo elder I told you about called me back,” the shaman said, looking doleful. “Though I should have, since we dipped the bullets in ash.”

  “I’s all right,” Cassi said.

  “Have you put it all together yet?” the shaman asked Mayer.

  “I might have,” Mayer said.

  “What?” Cassi exclaimed. “You know what’s going on and you haven’t shar
ed it with anyone?”

  “I don’t know that I’m right,” Mayer said. “But if I am, we haven’t much time.”

  “Then we better get going,” the shaman said, taking hold of the ceremonial staff. “If you have anything else to tell me, you can do so in the car.”

  Mayer reached for the door, then stopped. “You sure you’re up for this?” he asked the shaman. “I mean, with all you’ve been through. It could get gashouse.”

  “I’m ready,” the shaman assured him.

  Mayer turned and opened the front door and as he did, a pair of hands, cold as the grave, locked tightly around his neck. Instincts took over. Mayer grabbed icy arms and tried to twist them outward, but whatever had hold of his neck was far too strong. Darkness formed quickly around Mayer’s eyes as he fought to stay conscious.

  The man—yes it was a man—clutching his neck was missing most of the side of his head. But what caught Mayer’s attention the most was his face—a look frozen in the terrified grip of sudden death. Mayer had seen the look and the face that beheld it once before—on a slab at the morgue. It was Hawthorne, but not in ghost form. This man was flesh and blood.

  Mayer balled his fists and slammed them down hard onto Hawthorne’s arms, but it did no good. He tried the technique again from underneath with the same results. And as the breath was squeezed from him, Mayer could feel his face flush with color, his head felt light, and within seconds he was unable to make a sound.

  He thought he heard Cassi scream.

  Diogie shot over and took hold of the man’s leg and began violently shaking his head.

  The shaman began chanting, “Kwaddü üü tühiwipü.”

  Mayer tried kicking Hawthorne in the shins and knees, but nothing seemed to help. Then he remembered the gun. He pulled the Colt from the holster and fired three times into Hawthorne’s chest. The bullets shot through the man, slamming into the wall behind him. Mayer held the gun up to Hawthorne’s head and tried again, but met with the same the results. He took the barrel of his piece and slammed it against what was left of Hawthorne’s head—over and over again—as hard as he could. Thud, thud, thud. And as the darkness took over, and Mayer’s body fell limp, he thought he saw his mother standing by the door, arms outstretched.

  Twenty-Nine

  MAYER AWOKE TO find himself splayed out on the floor. Cassi was kneeling by him on one side, the shaman on the other, holding something pungent under Mayer’s nose. Diogie was at his feet with a look that Mayer could have sworn was concern.

  “Thought we lost you there,” the shaman said.

  “You and me both,” Mayer replied. He went to sit upright and made it as far as his elbow before the hammering in his head stopped him. Shaman Mahkah took him by the forearm and helped him the rest of the way.

  “Sit here for a moment while I make you something to drink,” the shaman said.

  “If it’s that cactus tea, I’ll pass.”

  The shaman ignored him.

  “Are you all right?” Cassi asked, her face steeped in concern.

  “I’m right as the mail,” Mayer lied, rubbing his temple. After a moment the fuzziness in his head began to dissipate and he could see that Hawthorne’s lifeless body was lying motionless on the floor next to him. Mayer also noticed something he had missed before. Hawthorne was completely naked. “Well ain’t that a bite,” he said.

  The shaman returned with a cup of hot liquid. “Drink this,” he said. “Slowly.”

  Mayer brought the drink to his nose. The dark liquid smelled like turpentine. “You trying to poison me?” he asked.

  “If I wanted you dead, I would have let this man here finish his task,” he said, motioning to the body with his head.

  “What stopped him?” Mayer asked and took a sip. The liquid tasted worse than it smelled and it showed on Mayer’s face.

  “The shaman,” Cassi said. “He just kept chanting and suddenly it dropped to the floor. And not a minute too soon!”

  “I just encouraged the body to return to the grave from whence it came.”

  “Except it didn’t come from any grave,” Mayer said. “The witch stole it from the coroner’s slab.” He took another sip at the shaman’s encouragement, wrinkling his face again in the process. “How did it get in here?” he asked. “I thought you blessed the place.”

  “Against the living,” the shaman said. “Not the dead. The skinwalker could not get in, so he must have sent Hawthorne in his steed.”

  “Talk about the perfect hatchet man,” Mayer said. “How d’ya charge a stiff with murder, especially when he’s already been chilled off?”

  After several minutes Mayer was able to stand without seeing stars. The shaman made him choke down another cup of the black liquid, and when he was done, the three of them stood in a circle looking down at the body.

  Cassi wrapped her arms around herself and gave the body a sneer. “Can’t we cover him?”

  “Which part?” Mayer asked, and it was then that he noticed the forefinger on Hawthorne’s right hand was missing.

  “So that’s how the witch did it,” Mayer said.

  “Did what?” Cassi asked.

  “Got Hawthorne’s ghost to haunt Pierce in his home. She must have cut off the finger and placed it in the home somehow.”

  “Now how could she do that?” Cassi asked. “Besides, you don’t know that he wasn’t just missing the finger. Maybe he lost it in the war.”

  “Hard to pull a trigger with no forefinger,” Mayer said. “Plus there was nothing in the coroner’s report about a missing finger.”

  “Do you want to call the police?” the shaman asked.

  Mayer rubbed his cheek. “I’d rather just take care of the body here,” he said. “That going to be a problem?”

  The shaman shook his head. “Best to get rid of black magic when it appears. Bring the body outside. I’ll prepare the fuel.”

  Mayer bent down and took hold of Hawthorne’s arm at the shoulder. Then he squatted, pulled Hawthorne’s dead body up and onto his back. He struggled at first, but managed to get to his feet and carry the body outside. He took it far enough away to ensure the odor of burning flesh wouldn’t permeate the shaman’s home.

  When the shaman arrived with the fuel, Mayer suggested that Cassi might want to wait inside the home with Diogie. “It’s not a pleasant smell or a pleasant sight,” he said.

  “I’ll go with you,” the shaman said to Cassi. “It is not something I wish to see either.” He turned to Mayer. “Be careful with that. It is a mixture of my own that will definitely reduce the body to ash.”

  Mayer nodded, wondering just exactly what the shaman had put in the fuel and why a healer would know how to disappear a stiff. He reasoned it was probably best not to ask.

  After everyone left, Mayer went to his car. He placed his suit coat inside and took out a handkerchief, which he tied loosely around his neck. Then he returned to the body, built a small pyre, and laid Hawthorne on top. After applying a generous helping of the shaman’s fuel on everything, Mayer, lit the pyre, and stepped back as it burst into flames. He pulled the handkerchief up over his mouth and nose, as dark smoke filled the air and sparks shot upward, releasing the black magic.

  WHEN IT WAS all said and done, Mayer returned the handkerchief and retrieved his suit coat, then he went back into the house. There he found Shaman Mahkah, Diogie at his feet, and Cassi sitting and drinking tea like a couple of sophisticates.

  The shaman looked to Mayer. “Is it done?”

  Mayer nodded. He was about to ask if anyone knew the whereabouts of his Colt and lid, when he saw them resting on the end table next to the shaman’s chair.

  “I’ve been catching up Shaman Mahkah on what I found about the skinwalker,” Cassi said.

  “And?” Mayer asked as he moved over to the end table.

  “It is interesting.” The shaman placed his cup on the table to his left and stood. “And you believe this woman, Hakʼaz Asdzą́ą́ is the skinwalker?” he asked, pronouncing the nam
e much different than either Mayer or Cassi had.

  “I think it’s a good bet,” Cassi said.

  “Right now it’s the only bet,” Mayer added. “Besides, Cassi could find no other record of a killing on Navajo land that would lead to the Paiutes in any way.”

  “I’m not sure I agree that a skinwalker would protect sacred land,” the shaman said, “especially land sacred to another tribe.”

  “That was my concern as well,” Mayer admitted.

  The shaman rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, as one would when searching for holes in reasoning. Having found none, he said, “The dates do seem right.” He looked to Mayer, “but when the time comes, you’d better let me pronounce the name.”

  Mayer chuckled.

  “I suggest we get going,” Cassi said.

  Mayer picked up the Colt and put it where it belonged. “Let’s go,” he said, donned his lid, and went to the front door. Cassi and the shaman followed. This time when Mayer opened it, he did so slowly, using the door itself as a shield. It wasn’t that he really expected anything to be there, he just thought, after all that happened, it was best to be cautious.

  They took Mayer’s car and headed toward town. As the trio drove down the road, one thought bounced around in Mayer’s head. It was something that had been pestering him like a frayed thread on the arm of a suit coat—something he couldn’t make work out. Why had Pierce left the protection of the shaman’s home? The man had been attacked by the very thing that sent his partner to the great beyond, yet he left the one place where he was likely the safest. It didn’t fit. Unless, of course, Pierce wasn’t really afraid of the outcome, wasn’t truly worried about being attacked. But if Mayer was right—and he was pretty sure he was—Pierce was operating from the wrong side of the boat.

  Pierce would’ve had the time to go back to his own home by now and, seeing the damage, would likely have put two and two together. But it wasn’t to Pierce’s house that they were heading. No, Cassi’s research and their little talk with Vera Krupp had begun to help put all the pieces in order. Words can be used as misdirection, lies delivered with a steady tongue. But the body did not always go along with the fancy line of gab. Unconscious moments—the straightening of a shirt cuff that didn’t need straightening, the biting of a lip, a certain placement of the hands—could betray the liar, without her even knowing. Over the years, Mayer had learned to trust the body, not the words.