by Andrews
Barrett yelled as a lamp missed her head and she covered Ramona with her body, and Callie stood amid it all, tall and unafraid and dealing with whatever was happening as calmly as if we were merely in a small argument. In the dim light, I realized Luther was choking the life out of Manaba, who was too exhausted to overpower his energy again.
"He's killing her!" I screamed and dove on him. Callie picked up an andiron and smashed it into his head, but it was as if she'd merely tapped him with a plastic pipe; his strength shocked me. He bled but he didn't weaken, and his rage increased tenfold. He seemed to grow twice as tall and lunged at us, this time physically connecting with me and then Callie, hurling us across the room.
I landed, momentarily too injured to walk, then crawled to Callie to see if she was alright. Then he grabbed me, and I realized I was only in the path of where he was really headed, which was Nizhoni and then Manaba, intent on killing them. Fighting him and shouting for Callie to get out of the way, I felt myself losing, crushed by some super strength beyond my comprehension.
That's when I heard the cry, a long wailing supplication from Manaba. "Shimasaniiiiii."
I cringed, thinking maybe the head wound had claimed her life.
My mind was racing, trying to figure out how we could overpower him, when in the partial dark, the wind kicked up around our feet, the power of it nearly lifting us off the ground, sending chills across my body, a wind I'd felt only in severe thunderstorms, but now somehow it was in this cabin. The air was alive, charged with electrical current that pulsed around us in waves of energy that seemingly controlled the rhythm of my beating heart. Then I heard the growl, a visceral, guttural grinding of innards. My mind flashed on Elmo, but I had never heard him sound like that.
Then the leap, the flash of fur, bared teeth, ripping and tearing and flailing and screaming and blood—it must be blood—a liquid substance splashing through the air, and then a loud groan as if the devil had relinquished its hold on something—the battle over, ended, silence.
Callie managed to reach a table lamp and turn it on. The partial light revealed Luther Drake dead on the floor—this time dead for sure, blood dripping from his mouth, his heart torn out of his chest. Beside him a huge wolf stood, tired and bloodied, breathing... panting...breathing...panting.
It turned and surveyed the room, seeming to make eye contact with each of us, then walked quietly out of the cabin and into the woods. From the looks of the faces in the room, we were all in shock.
"What did Manaba scream?" I whispered to Callie, somehow knowing Manaba's shrill cry was tied to the appearance of the wolf.
"The Navajo word for grandmother."
And for my money, it appeared her grandmother had answered the call, perhaps removing the man from this world who had removed her—if one believed in that kind of energy transfer.
"Anybody got a working cell phone?" Barrett asked. "I'll call the police."
"Let me have your cell phone," I said to Dwayne, then realized he was dead. "What the hell happened to him, not a mark on him?"
"Heart attack," Manaba said authoritatively, and I believed it was the same kind of heart attack her grandmother had suffered.
I got a signal on Dwayne-Wayne's cell phone. Calling the police from his phone was justice.
I threw a blanket over Luther Drake, not wanting to look at the condition of this particular dead guy and the mess made of his corporeal self.
Thirty minutes later, Sedona's answer to crime fighting showed up in the form of Sergeant Striker, sporting his perfectly pressed uniform and, despite the low light, aviator sunglasses. He planted himself in the doorway, legs apart, gun drawn, the Atlas of law enforcement.
"What's goin' on here?" he barked at the room in general, and before I could answer, he flipped the blanket back and caught sight of Luther Drake's body. Striker bent over for a closer look, gagged, and spewed vomit like squashed bug guts. "He's had his heart ripped out," Striker said, trying to explain his weak stomach.
"Slows 'em down, which is good," I said, mimicking his remarks to me and reminding him we'd met before.
He listened as I told him Dwayne-Wayne had attacked us, followed by Luther Drake, and while they were threatening us, a wolf came through the door and killed one and gave the other a heart attack.
I skipped the part about the wolf being the grandmother; I didn't think it mattered. None of us could have inflicted the claw marks or bites on Luther Drake's body. He was clearly done in by a wolf. A wolf in what dimension was something we'd have to sort out among ourselves.
Chapter Twenty
The ride back to town in the Jeep was quiet. We were all tired and exceedingly lucky and, ironically, we were in pairs. Three couples. Manaba and Nizhoni, Barrett and Ramona, Callie and me, and of course Elmo, who was still in search of basset love. There could not be three odder couples, I thought as I glanced in the rearview mirror to see Nizhoni and Manaba asleep on one another.
"We drop Manaba off at any particular tree stump?" I murmured so only Callie could hear me.
"She wants her cabin back, now that she has Nizhoni."
"She rented us her cabin."
"And now her need is greater," Callie said calmly.
"My need is pretty great—"
Picking up on the conversation, Barrett leaned over and patted me on the shoulder. "You'll stay at my cabin. I'm staying with Mona."
"Maybe Ramona would like to stay at carrot-boy's cabin, and then we could stay with Squash Blossom the jeweler's—"
"Change in her environment makes her sarcastic," Callie said, taking my hand.
"My poodle is like that," Ramona commented in a lovesick, lazy voice that made me swivel my head around to see if it was really her. "By the way, very butch entrance into the cabin, blowing the door handle off, very exciting," Ramona said, then suddenly pulled Barrett in for a sizzling kiss and I decided, like Barrett, damned near anything could turn her on.
An hour later, we'd dropped Ramona and Barrett off and pulled up in front of our cabin, now Manaba's.
"It's the right thing to do. They've both been traumatized and haven't seen each other in weeks," Callie whispered and patted my leg.
"Are they going to sleep on our sheets?" I nearly mimed so they couldn't hear me in the backseat.
"I'll wash the sheets," Callie said.
"Because I don't want bear grease in my bed. That's all I've got to say on the subject."
I jumped out of the car and dashed inside the cabin and gathered up toothbrushes, nightshirts, makeup, Elmo's dog bowl, and our laptops, not planning on being displaced by Manaba for more than one night or I would move us to the comfort of a hotel.
When I returned to the Jeep, Manaba, her head bandaged, stood by the passenger side of the car with Nizhoni, both of them talking to Callie in what looked like a strained and awkward conversation.
When I approached, Nizhoni smiled and said, "Thank you. Balance is restored." The first words I had ever heard her speak and I wondered how Manaba had ever put the move on a woman like Nizhoni. It must have taken a really long time, since conversation didn't exactly flow from either of them.
"Truth is restored." Manaba spoke and I thought she might have added a bit more in light of the fact that she'd nearly gotten both of us killed.
Callie nodded, saying nothing else, and Manaba and Nizhoni departed as Callie got back in the car.
"Not big talkers, these Indian friends of yours."
"They say all there is to say."
"So I guess in their eyes, I'm a babbler," I said, and she took my hand.
"Say only positive things about yourself, Teague. The soul remembers every negative word."
"There's a positive word for babbling?"
"You're.. .expressive," she said and kissed me to keep me from expressing any other thoughts.
Inside Barrett's abode, I felt like a break-and-enter. All her stuff was lying around—slacks over the backs of chairs, cuff links on the dresser, leftover dinner in a plate on the s
ink. Barrett Silvers, pressed and perfect, coiffed and quintessential butch, was sloppy around the house. "I guess she didn't know we were coming," I said, clearing a path to the bedroom. "In L.A. she has a maid. Now I know why."
Callie pulled back the covers. "I'm not sleeping on these sheets."
I rummaged through the cedar closet and found another single sheet, stripped off the old one in favor of tucking in this loose but clean one, and crawled into bed, tugging Callie in beside me.
Neither of us spoke, and I knew she was squirming. "Hard to sleep on someone else's sheets," I said. Without further conversation we got up, dragging a blanket with us, and went out to the couch where we lay so close together the circulation in my arm almost stopped, but I felt so good I didn't care.
"I want to stay in bed, or 'in couch,' with you forever and do nothing...and I guess that's possible since I blew my whole scriptwriting gig." I laughed at the thought—the whole blowup with Jacowitz.
"You didn't read me your alien pages." Callie's fingers made lazy circles up my leg.
I clicked open my laptop on the table but had trouble focusing on pulling up the screen due to Callie's toying with me.
"Am I disturbing you?"
"I like being disturbed by you. In fact, your look, feel, and taste are constantly disturbing to every molecule of my body." I sat up and suddenly pulled her onto my lap. "Hmm, reminds me of chair sex. One of the first times I tried to make love to you in L.A., you were sitting on my lap."
"Yes, and it caused an earthquake." Callie grinned mischievously. "Read me what you wrote?" She trapped my hands.
"So the way I've got it worked out is that it's Halloween and the married gal is attending a costume party and she goes off to the library of this big home to keep from crying in public over her husband's infidelity, and an alien, who she believes is a costumed guest, enters the room. The alien—face oddly attractive, body androgynous—moves a little closer to her. The woman is a bit twittery, aware that something is odd about this person, but it's hard for her to be suspicious of a person in a blue costume.
"The alien, incredibly strong for its size, lifts her easily into its arms and carries her over to a couch as she protests, giggling. Whipping its head toward the door, it spies the bolt, and with that look the door locks. The woman is unable to make a sound. Lifting her hips to its mouth, the alien watches with great interest as she finds enormous pleasure in this sex act—and then it morphs into a beautiful woman from another dimension.
"Let me act it out for you," I said, and slid my hand between her legs, playfully, pretending that if the manuscript didn't satisfy her, I might.
"It's... actually—"
"Terrible. And Jacowitz knows it. He sent me a personal note bypassing Barrett to say he didn't appreciate my turning his suggestions into a farce. How can my writing this scene be any more of a farce than his suggesting it?"
Callie slid off my lap, excited now about something other than my close proximity to her body. "The characters in your story have been everybody in the world from nuns to hookers to therapists. Why can't the two lead characters be an older woman with power and position who has been around the block and a younger woman who has slept with everyone but never found love—
"Who are they? What brings them together?"
"One is on the board of a motion-picture studio and one is a development executive."
"You want me to write the story as if it's Barrett and Ramona? How prostituting is that?"
"A thought," she said with a shrug.
"But they're characters Barrett will fight for, stand up for against Jacowitz because she has a personal stake in them. Pretty smart."
"Trying to be helpful." She kissed me and I realized that might be what a mate does.. .comes up with ways to fix things for you.
I emailed a quick note to Barrett suggesting the new plot outline and sent it to her in an instant ping. "You've now become my own personal plotmeister."
"Do you realize it all turned out exactly as the chart said?" Callie changed the subject, never overly interested in screenwriting. "Venus was besieged, women under attack: Nizhoni, Manaba, you and me, and really all the Native American women who wanted that land back but didn't get it. Eyota, Manaba's grandmother, was tricked into signing over her land, like the chart said, with Mars, a man, at her back threatening her, and Neptune's disillusionment, the loss of her land, ahead of her. It said Nizhoni wasn't dead and she wasn't."
"And it said a woman would save the day and I would say that's you."
"And you," she said, kissing me.
"So when we were fighting off Luther, you were pretty damned strong. Where did that come from?"
"I'm a lot stronger than you think. Besides, it's all in my chart. Speaking of charts." She pulled up an astrological wheel with today's date at the top. I recognized the grouping of planets and panicked.
"Don't tell me we're heading into another besiegement."
"We are. But there are two kinds: malefic, as old-world astrology calls it, and benefic. We've been through the malefic one, and I thought it might interest you to see a benefic one. Mercury bounded by Venus and the Sun." At my look she elaborated. "Mercury, or communication, sitting between woman or lover and the Sun's ardor and vitality."
"I want to communicate my ardor with vitality." I tackled her and she laughed.
"Is that the only thing you ever have on your mind?"
"No. It's the only thing I have on my mind when I look at you."
The following Saturday, the sun broke over the red cliffs, preparing to highlight the mall groundbreaking and surrendering the ancestral ceremonial site on which it had shone for so many centuries to the developers, poised with heavy equipment and television cameras for this, the first day of construction. Callie and I gathered with crowds of people waiting to see the ribbon cutting and wishing along with many others that this sacred earth could remain untouched.
Cy Blackstone, alive and ready for the news conference, was decked out in his black pants, white cowboy-cut shirt, and black bolo, holding his black hat in his hands and looking rugged, if not a few pounds thinner after his hospital stay.
Ramona had gone to see him and told him she'd be happy to help him halt the construction of the mall. He said that even with Luther gone, he had to press on. It would make him look bad in the community, and everyone would lose money.
Nizhoni and Manaba both spoke to him and begged him, but he wouldn't give in. Despite his blaming so much on Luther, now that he had the chance to release the land to the Indians, he wouldn't do it.
"Senator, could I see you for a moment?" Ramona Mathers extricated herself from Barrett Silvers long enough to sidle up to the senator and say something very coquettish in his ear. When she pulled back, Blackstone reared up as if he might get angry, but her large, bejeweled hand gripped his arm.
The heavy yellow dozers, skid loaders, and earth-moving equipment were taking their positions, strategically placed for the cameras to get a shot of the massive construction about to begin.
The young TV announcer addressed the camera, saying this was the big day—the moment for which all parties had waited, as they determined if the mall would or would not happen on this disputed site.
As she spoke, women began appearing over the hillside, at first dozens, then hundreds, and finally what appeared to be a thousand. So many women that the video engineer in the truck could be heard through the open door asking what the hell was going on and shouting for a wide shot.
The camera pulled back and captured the hillside teeming with women in native dress. Finally, even Cy Blackstone looked back over his shoulder and did a double take.
When the announcer asked Cy what was going on, he looked stunned and didn't say a word, so Ramona took the microphone and said, "As friend and attorney for Senator Blackstone, I want to share with you that the senator is overwhelmed by the wonderful outpouring of Native American women wanting to keep this ceremonial site as their home. He has decided to donate thi
s land to them and use this earth-moving equipment on land south of here, but not here—not where so many women have danced and prayed and sung."
The onlookers broke into wild applause as Ramona handed the microphone to Cy, who paused only a moment to assess the political landscape, then said he was happy to restore this land to the Indians because he'd always been an advocate for Native American women.
After that, Manaba took the microphone and, ignoring Blackstone, said a blessing over the land and all the grandmothers who had danced upon it. Nizhoni stood by her side, the two of them looking strong and happy.
The newspeople were so excited they forgot to be cynical, reveling in getting this scoop live.
By the time the cameras had cut and wrapped, and Cy had privately cussed Ramona, and the women had disappeared back over the hill, Callie and I were staring at each other in disbelief.
"What did you say to Blackstone?" I asked Ramona as she strolled back over to Barrett, who stood beside us.
"I told him I had gotten word from a friend of mine that Luther Drake was Cy's son, the product of his having raped an Indian woman thirty-five years ago, and that restitution for that crime looked like the mall was going somewhere else."
I smiled. "Surprised Blackstone took your word for it."
"Men have always taken my word for it," Ramona said slyly. I had no doubt her elegant charm had made men from every walk of life do her bidding, and now Barrett Silvers was in line. "Anyway, Cy's a dyed-in-the-wool politician so he knows when to retreat and regroup." Ramona leaned on Barrett, who held her as if she were the most delicate, priceless prize on the planet.
"I can't believe how many Native American women showed up. My God, where did they all come from?" I asked.
"Extras—the studio will be getting the bill," Barrett warned Ramona, who merely laughed. And I realized that Barrett, knowing Ramona was going to do a little soft blackmail on Cy, had turned the entire event into a production worthy of television cameras and had actually hired extras, which made me laugh too.
