Night Mayer: Legend of the Skinwalker

by Paul W Papa

  Vera did everything she could to try and stop the pair from building on that sacred land. When she couldn’t buy them out and playing nice didn’t work, she used her substantial influence to bring the law into play. And when even that didn’t work, she tried something else—something primal. Something that drove a wedge between the partners. And whether there were real feelings beyond protecting the land on her part or not, it had definitely worked. Mayer wasn’t sure he believed her story about Pierce making an unwelcomed pass. He thought it more likely the pass was not only welcomed, but sought after. Then, once achieved, all it took was a hint, a batting of the eyes, a proposal to keep the affair a private matter so as not to worry the other partner.

  Both men bit.

  Then it was a simple matter of rejecting one and keeping on with the other. A gift—perhaps a cigarette case—one that could be used in the open without worry, but would definitely catch the attention of just the right man. A secret message inside, a word known to both men, awoke the green-eyed monster. Mayer had to admit, she had played the part well—an actress to the very end.

  Still, there was the suicide and the suicide note. Hawthorne had definitely killed himself, and he had definitely written the note. And while it was clear the skinwalker was the one who made Hawthorne write the note, then send himself to the big sleep against his will, what Mayer didn’t know was why. It was something he was about to find out as the trio bounced down the dirt road toward the trailer. And when they arrived, Mayer was not at all surprised to find Pierce’s Cadillac parked outside.

  Thirty

  MAYER STOPPED THE car a short distance from the trailer, not wanting Pierce to hear their approach. He cautioned his companions not to slam the doors, then reloaded the Colt before exiting the car.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Cassi and the shaman both nodded and followed Mayer step per step to the trailer. They were but a few steps away when they heard two unpleasantly loud voices coming from inside.

  “That was not our agreement!” the male voice exclaimed. It was one both Mayer and the shaman recognized immediately.

  “I did what you asked me to do,” said the other voice. It was low and gravelly, yet calm. Mayer had to strain to hear it.

  “Did you?” Pierce yelled back. “Since when did we agree to R. J. signing over his portion of the project to that kraut? Do you have any idea what that will has done to me? If she turns that property over to the tribe, I’ll be ruined.”

  Mayer thought he heard laughing in response. But it wasn’t the lighthearted kind heard at a dinner party or in a theater. No, this laugh was menacing.

  “Oh, you find that funny do you?”

  The laughing continued, echoing out into the escarpment.

  “And my man,” Pierce said. “That wasn’t part of the deal either. And what was that . . . thing that came crashing through my window? That was you, wasn’t it?” he demanded. “None of this was part of the plan!”

  “Why did you hire the tattooed man? You ask me to solve your problem, I do as you ask, then you turn on me?”

  “Me ask you?” Pierce said incredulously. “You came to me and offered to take care of the problem. You’re the one who told me R. J. was seeing Vera—my Vera. It was all your idea. And it was you, not me, who complicated things.”

  “But it was you who agreed to it all. What did you think was going to happen?”

  “You’re a witch!”

  There was a silence. Then Pierce spoke again, “You’ve complicated things for the final time.”

  “What do you plan to do with that?”

  “Get rid of loose ends.”

  Mayer didn’t wait another minute. He rushed through the door, hitting it with his shoulder and slamming it hard against the wall. The two occupants inside turned and stared—eyes wide. Pierce was still dressed in the same clothing he’d been in when Mayer left him at the shaman’s house the night before. He looked worn, angry, and in need of a good shave—his hand whiteknuckled the handle of a pistol.

  The elderly woman with him was stocky enough to hold her own. Her round face was etched with the scars of life, only hers were deeper, much more pronounced. They twisted her face into a grotesque form that barely resembled that of a human. And, buried deep inside the folds, were the yellow eyes of a coyote—eyes Mayer had seen once before, when they were accompanied the voice of his long-lost mother. Only this time the woman wasn’t naked. This time she was clothed in the uniform of a housekeeper.

  She didn’t stay that way for long.

  As the skinwalker let out a stream of words Mayer did not understand, the air inside the trailer grew heavy, thick with darkness. She ripped off her uniform and threw it to the ground—her body, like before, naked, except for the covering of ceremonial symbols.

  It was at that moment that Mayer knew his suspicions had been correct. The housekeeper had been the key to it all. She had worked for Krupp and for Hawthorne, and she had worked for Pierce. In fact, she was the reason his house was so clean. She also happened to be a skinwalker. Mayer was about to pull the Colt when he remembered the luck he’d had previously and decided to leave it holstered.

  The shaman appeared, Cassi close behind. He raised his arms to the sky, the staff in hand. Then he threw something powdery at the witch and started chanting. The skinwalker turned all her attention to him. They began parrying word for word. Sparks flew from fingertips and the air clashed with thunder.

  Pierce tried to run, but Mayer caught him by the shirt collar and slapped the gun from his hand. “Going somewhere?” he asked. “Someone else need killing?”

  Pierce grew defiant. “Well aren’t you the smart one?” he said. “Got it all figured out, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” Mayer said. “You left the suitcase for me to find. You know, the one you filled with Hawthorne’s clothes. And I took it from there, only, just like this little mess, it didn’t work out the way you planned.”

  Suddenly the trailer rocked to one side, sending Pierce and Mayer crashing into the wall. Cassi took hold of the door frame. The shaman seemed fixed in position, as did the witch. Pierce took the opportunity to strike Mayer across the chin, but it was a marshmallow blow. The kind thrown by a man more used to handling money than fisticuffs. Mayer sent one back, only he knew how to make it stick.

  The trailer lurched back to its original position, throwing Cassi inside the trailer. Mayer used the momentum to land another punch—one that knocked Pierce to the floor. Then he turned to the skinwalker and pulled out his Colt, figuring that if the witch was distracted, he might be able to get in a good shot.

  That was when he heard them. Snarls coming from outside the trailer. He turned and saw three sets of yellow eyes attached to the teeth-baring faces of three coyotes. Cassi saw his look, turned, and screamed. It caught the shaman’s attention and he turned as well. It was all the witch needed. She spoke the words and thrust her hands forward, propelling the shaman to the ground. Cassi ran to him.

  Mayer stepped forward, balled his left hand into a fist, and hit the witch hard in the face. It did nothing but anger her more than she already was. She raised her hand to strike him and as she did, Mayer pulled up his sleeve and exposed his tattoo. As before, it froze the witch in her tracks, and just as Mayer moved to strike her again, the coyotes leapt in front of the witch, forcing him backward.

  Mayer lifted the Colt and took aim at the skinwalker’s neck, but just as he pulled the trigger, he was attacked from behind. Pierce had found some semblance of courage and began striking Mayer. The bullet hit high and to the right of the skinwalker’s head. It was enough to pop her out of the trance the tattoo had placed her in. Mayer turned and backhanded Pierce, sending him over the desk and onto the floor. He turned back to the skinwalker and raised the weapon, just as she dashed out the trailer door.

  Mayer fired, not knowing if the bullet found its mark, then he turned on Pierce. The man had recovered and was inching his way to the door as well. Mayer took aim.

&nb
sp; “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “What are you going to do, Mr. Mayer?” Pierce said. “Shoot an unarmed man?”

  Mayer thought hard about it for a moment, weighing his options, then Cassi called out his name. “We’ve got bigger problems here!” she exclaimed.

  Mayer had forgotten about the coyotes. They were still there, teeth baring, creating a barrier between them and the exit. Worse yet, now that the witch was gone, they were beginning a slow advance. Mayer moved the gun from Pierce to the animals.

  “No!” the shaman called out. “They are in a trance, controlled by the witch.”

  “Well, if you’ve got a better idea, now’s the time!”

  The shaman spoke, as he had done before, in words foreign to Mayer. Then he took a little bit of the powder he had with him, held up the palm of his hand and blew. The powder turned to a crystal blue smoke that snaked its way toward the coyotes. The slow, slithering movement captivated them. They watched as the smoke drew closer and closer, then suddenly split into thirds and entered the nostrils of all three animals. The coyotes blinked quickly and threw their heads back, as if they had just been given smelling salts. They eyed the group, then escaped to the outside.

  Mayer lowered his weapon.

  Pierce regained his composure, brushed himself off, then scuttled away.

  Cassi helped the shaman to his feet. “Quick,” he said, “we need to get to that cave.”

  Thirty-One

  AFTER A STOP at the car to discard unnecessary items, such as suit coats and hats, the three scrambled up the side of the escarpment as fast as the terrain would permit. The shaman had not been injured in his scrape with the witch, though that was likely due to the timely revealing of Mayer’s tattoo. Once they reached the ledge to the outside of the cave, they climbed up and peered into the darkness.

  “I do not think the witch is here,” the shaman said.

  “How can you tell?” Mayer asked.

  “I do not feel her presence.”

  “Then where could she be? She didn’t have any pelts or feathers, so she couldn’t transform. She’d need to come here to get them.”

  “What if she has them hidden somewhere else?” Cassi offered. “You know, in case she couldn’t make it to the cave?”

  It was a smart thought. Mayer was impressed.

  “That could be,” The shaman said. “But they would have to be hidden somewhere no one is likely to find them.”

  “Like in an abandoned building?” Mayer asked.

  “Yes, that would work. So long as the witch had access to it.”

  “Vera told me the buildings which made up the early campsite still exist on the property,” Mayer said. “The witch could come and go as she pleased without suspicion.”

  “Then we’d better get to that ranch,” the shaman said.

  “And what if she doubles back here?” Cassi asked.

  “I can place a protection on the cave that will prevent her from being able to enter.”

  “Better do it quick,” Mayer said. He waited impatiently, resisting the urge to run down the escarpment by himself, as the shaman drew a symbol in the dirt in front of the entrance to the cave with his staff, all the time chanting in what Mayer assumed was Paiute. When he finished, they headed down to the trailer. They fell once or twice in the process, but arrived in relatively one piece. They jumped into Mayer’s car and headed to Vera’s ranch.

  They had no sooner pulled into the drive, when they saw Vera Krupp and her gatekeeper, Peg Westburg, running for their lives down the escarpment toward the ranch house. They were coming from the back of the property where the old buildings Vera had described still stood—the skinwalker hot on their trail. Mayer didn’t wait. As they shot into Vera’s front door, he leapt from the vehicle and ran toward the house. The shaman yelled for him to stop, but Mayer didn’t listen. He heard a woman scream, threw open the front door, and rushed inside.

  The skinwalker was there, transformed, coyote skins draped over her back and head. Peg Westburg was standing next to the witch, a chrome-plated six-shooter with a pearl handle in her hand. It was pointed at Vera Krupp. Even from this angle Mayer could see Peg was in a trance, controlled by the skinwalker.

  “Hey, Bessa!” Mayer called out.

  The skinwalker turned and in an instant leapt to the door. Mayer dove out of the way, rolling when he hit the floor. He pulled the Colt, pointed it in the direction of the skinwalker, and fired. The front window crashed with the impact of the bullet. The skinwalker turned and faced Mayer. It took a tentative step forward, then stopped and gripped its shoulder, as a yellow substance dripped down its arm.

  Mayer smiled. While the shot hadn’t met its mark, it had hit something—at least that was a start. He took aim and shot again, but the gun jammed. The skinwalker sprung toward Mayer, picked him up and tossed him hard into the bookcase, its contents crashing down around him. His Colt slid across the floor.

  Cassi and the shaman came running in. Peg Westburg dropped the gun and collapsed. Vera ran for the weapon and snatched it from the floor.

  The shaman spoke: “Hakʼaz Asdzą́ą́ you are a skinwalker.” But it had no effect. Mayer didn’t know who was more surprised, him, Cassi, or the shaman.

  The skinwalker took quick action. It jumped at the shaman, grabbed him by the shirt, and tossed him through the broken window, all in one swift move. A shot was fired, then another, and another: each one hitting its mark and each one doing no good at all. Cassi fell to the floor, taking cover behind a chair. Vera emptied three more shots into the skinwalker, before it turned on her.

  Mayer got to his knees and tried to catch his breath. He pulled up his sleeve to expose his tattoo, but the skinwalker was not looking at him. Instead, its eyes were locked with Vera’s. He called out, “Bessa!” but the skinwalker did not turn. Vera’s eyes were saucers as she brought the weapon to her head and cocked the hammer. Her pleading eyes locked with Mayer’s.

  “Do something, Mayer!” Cassi yelled.

  Mayer struggled to collect his thoughts. Why hadn’t the name worked? He was sure what Cassi had uncovered was the answer. Hakʼaz Asdzą́ą́ had to be a skinwalker. And then it hit him. This skinwalker’s name wasn’t Hakʼaz Asdzą́ą́, but he knew what it was.

  “Thocmentony!” he yelled.

  The witch turned to face him.

  “You are a skinwalker!”

  The witch’s face twisted with pain and she began transforming, only this time it was involuntary. They all stood, transfixed by the savagery, as the witch fought the process—her face shifting from human to coyote and back again. The arms and legs doing the same, until it was impossible to tell if the thing was human or creature.

  The witch let out a torturous cry, the pain unbearable. Or maybe it was her fate finally catching up with her. Either way, when it was all said and done the witch knelt on the floor, naked and sobbing.

  Vera dropped her pistol.

  Mayer picked his up. He walked over and stood above the witch. She glared up at him.

  “This is not over,” she said.

  “You’re mistaken,” Mayer said and pointed the gun at her.

  One last shot echoed through the canyons.

  Thirty-Two

  MAYER’S FIRST CALL was to Detective Fry. The incident was out of his jurisdiction, but Fry would know who to call. Luckily, Vera Krupp was deputized as well. Mayer also needed someone to pick up Pierce and take him in, and that was something Fry could do.

  Peg Westburg had regained consciousness and was resting in a chair as the brown boys got to work. Cassi attended to the shaman. She had managed to set him upright against a post, and while he protested the calling of an ambulance, she was fairly sure his arm was broken and didn’t know what other injuries he might have.

  Vera Krupp stood against the fireplace with a look that was either shock or annoyance, Mayer couldn’t tell. A portly man with a cheesy mustache and two bars on each of his brown collars spoke to her first and when finished cam
e over to Mayer.

  “I’m going to need that bean shooter,” he said, smelling of coffee.

  Mayer pulled it from the holster and offered it to the deputy. “So long as I get it back.”

  The deputy took the gun and looked it over. “This that new Colt?”

  Mayer nodded.

  He held it up, testing the weight, then tucked the barrel inside his duty belt. “You the one they call ‘Night Mayer?’”

  Mayer didn’t answer.

  “Fry says you were involved in the Sloan Canyon incident.”

  “I suppose I was.”

  He raised a single brow. “You as barmy as they say?”

  Mayer let out a light chuckle.

  “Seems like this ran along those lines.”

  Mayer nodded.

  “Gonna put me behind the eight ball, you know?”

  “I know.”

  He remained quiet for a moment, scraping his hand across his chin, then spoke: “Housekeeper goes crazy and tries to take out her employer. Luckily a stranger with a new Colt just happens by.”

  “Something like that.”

  The deputy let out a humph. “Guess I’ll figure out something.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Call me in a couple days. Once ballistics comes back, I’ll return your piece.”

  Mayer nodded and thanked the deputy. He walked across the room to where Vera was standing, alone, arms wrapped around herself. “You okay?” he asked.

  She looked at him blankly.

  “What happened?”

  “Peg and I were walking the property, as we do weekly,” Vera began. She rubbed her arms lightly as she spoke, “and Peg thought she saw someone go into one of the old buildings on the upper part of the property. I thought she might be seeing things, but she insisted, so we went to have look.” She paused and stopped rubbing her arms. “She was naked, covered in . . . in markings of some kind. We surprised her, and then she . . .”