Suddenly the man threw something large at them. Gun in hand, Ella dodged as Wilson jumped back. With a dull thud, the object landed by Ella's feet. The chant continued unabated, like the wailing of an animal.
Ella glanced down at the thing and shuddered. It was the head of a recently killed goat. The beast had been born deformed, without eyes. "Back away," she ordered Wilson. "I've got you covered."
Wilson started to move closer to the truck, never turning away from the old man. "We need to leave. Now," he shouted over the man's screams.
The chant echoed in the confines of the canyon. The fa-
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natical mystic reached inside the blanket and pulled out a desiccated, skeletal human hand. Ella raised her pistol; Wilson reached into the cab of the truck, groping for his rifle.
The old man held up the bony hand, continuing to chant, then abruptly threw the hand at Ella. Though she jumped back, the thing brushed her extended gun arm. Her skin prickled; she shuddered with disgust and rubbed at her skin to remove all traces of the foul thing.
"That's it. I've had it," Wilson growled. He raised the rifle and fired two rounds into the air. The sharp cracks reverberated back and forth from the earthen walls around them.
To Ella's surprise, the old man tumbled to the ground. She glanced back at Wilson, but the barrel of his rifle was still pointed toward the sky. Ella broke into a run, wondering if the man had suffered a heart attack.
"No! Don't go any closer," Wilson yelled.
"I've got to!" she yelled back.
Wilson ran to catch up with her. Ella stopped three feet away from the bundle of blanket and cloth that lay crumpled on the sand. Scarcely breathing, she studied the shape. Something was very wrong with it, she realized, heart pounding. There was no body—nothing lay beneath the blanket except ground. Before Wilson could stop her, she tossed the blanket aside and stared in mute shock at the expanse of grayish sand beneath. No prints or marks marred the smooth surface.
"What the ...," Ella whispered.
"Get away from there," Wilson said sharply, then handed her a small piece of flint from the medicine bundle tied to his belt.
She stared at the flint for a moment. "Protection from
the chindi? That man was as real as you and I." Her tone was too shaky to pass as genuine conviction, but that was just from excitement.
"You're wrong," Wilson insisted. "Only a very powerful skinwalker could have done something like this."
"Or a trickster." Like her brother. Ella looked around, searching for anything that would provide her with a logical answer. "A holographic projection of some sort, perhaps."
"Not everything can be explained rationally."
Ella clung stubbornly to logic. "He was an illusionist, a good one," she said flatly, "but that's all." She wondered again, glancing at Wilson, if he'd set her up, perhaps with Clifford's help. Wilson, after all, was the only one who had known where she'd be at this time. Maybe it was all a scheme to make a believer out of her.
"I'll take the blanket with us as evidence," she said finally. "Maybe we can learn something about the identity of the owner from hair, or cloth fibers."
Wilson grabbed her hand. "Forget it. You're not putting that thing into my truck."
"But it's just..."
"No. This isn't open to discussion. Now let's leave."
She didn't have much choice, but gave in gracefully. Silently, Ella vowed to come back for the blanket later, as soon as she could borrow the truck from her mom. Sitting beside Wilson as he slowly drove away, she could sense his disapproval. He obviously wanted her to admit that what they'd seen was a perfect example of a skinwalker's powers. The problem was, she knew better. Superstition could cloud anyone's thinking, and she had no intention of letting it affect her assessment of this case. What surprised her the most was Wilson's eagerness to believe in things that defied
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reason. Maybe it was all an act for her benefit. Maybe he was as much a con man as her brother. If not, despite the honesty and caring on his face, the gap of understanding between them would grow wider with each denial she made.
Ella stared across the cab at Wilson, who stubbornly kept his eyes on the road. She decided to give him a chance to come clean. "I'm going to uncover the truth, count on it. Someone's playing with me, and I don't like it. Whoever's behind this is about to find out what a mistake it is to take me on."
"First, consider what your brother said."
"What do you mean?"
"This isn't the time for you to start to learn about things that have always frightened you," Wilson said softly, his eyes stammering with emotion. "You're not equipped to fight the evil that's at war with your family. Leave the reservation while you still can."
"I know you're worried, but you don't have to be," she assured him calmly, her mind rapidly sorting through various reasons Wilson might have for wanting her to leave. "I've been in some tight spots, and always come out ahead."
"It's not your courage that's in question," he insisted. "It's your safety ..."
"My family deserves my loyalty and my protection. Whoever we're fighting attacked me, too, by killing my father. I won't back away."
He nodded reluctantly. "Then we'd both better learn to be more careful." They'd reached the Destea house. Wilson walked her to the front gate, then wordlessly returned to his truck.
Ella watched him leave. Her mother's old mutt came up
to her, tail wagging hesitantly. She patted him on the head. Together, Ella and the animal walked to the front porch.
"You're back early/ 7 Rose said, opening the door. "I'm just getting ready to fix dinner/'
"I feel like I've been gone for a long, long time," she muttered, following her mother into the kitchen. Ella sat at the table, sketching a crude map of her afternoon journey so she could find the place later.
Dinner that night was a simple meal, leftover mutton stew and fry bread. Neither woman seemed in the mood for chitchat, and long silences filled the house. Ella had no intention of discussing the day's events with her mother. The last thing she needed was more mumbo jumbo, or someone else telling her to leave the Rez. Still, the kitchen felt homey, and Ella was able to relax and unwind. The dog curled up in front of the back door, and Ella briefly wondered if the animal for some reason had decided to keep a closer eye on its owner.
Thinking about the list of names Clifford had given her, Ella decided to ask Peterson do a background check on each person.
Whoever had killed her father had a strong motive. Was it someone who stood to gain by taking her father's place in his church, like Reverend Williamson? According to Clifford's notes, he'd never truly accepted her father's role in the church, preferring to run things totally on his own. Or perhaps it was a traditionalist, someone who benefited by Clifford's becoming a fugitive.
Finally, Rose spoke. "You've seen your brother."
"How did you know that?"
"Whenever something bothers you, or when you feel uncertain, you draw into yourself."
"He wants me to leave the reservation," Ella volun-
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teered flatly, studying her mother's reaction to see if Clifford had been discussing strategy with her mother.
Rose was restless, toying with her iced-tea glass and silverware. "Perhaps you should leave/' she conceded, "but I know that you won't. Everything you believed in is being threatened by what has happened in the past week. Your beliefs about yourself, about life, are all changing, and that's hard to deal with. You're a fighter, and you're going to be tested to the limit. The process has already begun."
Ella felt a shudder travel up her spine. She wished someone around her would talk sense, not superstition. Like dominoes stacked in a row, events were tumbling down at an alarming rate. She was suddenly certain it was much too late to walk away.
"I need to run an errand tomorrow morning. Will you need Dad's ... the truck?" She couldn't go out tonight without worrying
her mother, but tomorrow she'd retrieve the blanket. She'd also pay Peterson a visit.
Rose shook her head. "Use it as long as you'd like," she said resignedly.
After dinner, Ella sat with her mother in the living room, listening to the Navajo radio station. The silence between them, filled only by the music playing softly in the background, left her nerves on edge. Finally she replaced the old crafts magazine she'd been paging through on the table and stood up. "I'm tired, Mom. I'm going to bed early."
Rose glanced up from her knitting. "I'll be up a while longer—the nights feel too long for me alone. But you sleep well."
Ella walked to her room, keenly feeling her mother's sadness. Her father's absence lay heavily over them, a tangible weight, as if the house itself was mourning the loss of one of its own.
She sat by her bedroom window, lights off. The full moon bathed the nightscape in a soft, silvery light. The desert seemed so barren, yet life teemed within its desolate stretches. Prairie dogs scurried about, foraging for food. A jackrabbit hopped through the brush, making its nightly rounds.
Yes, tomorrow she'd return to the place where they'd seen the old man. She'd get the blanket and try to identify the weave, the maker, and eventually its owner. Maybe she could even get Peterson or Blalock to send it out for laboratory analysis. There might be something to tie it to the murder. Ella crawled into bed and pulled the covers in around her. As the old mattress sagged comfortably beneath her, Ella closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. She tossed and turned restlessly. Everything seemed oppressive— even the weight of her blanket against her toes annoyed her and kept her from drifting off.
When sleep finally came, it was void of rest. Eerie images haunted her dreams, making them a vivid study in terror. She was walking among the ruins of the old church, and shadows began to move on their own, transforming to people she recognized. The first was a Navajo warrior. He held a bloody knife in one hand. From the other, dangling by its long hair, hung a severed head. The head appeared to be Ella's father. The warrior was first Peterson, then Blalock, speaking Navajolike gibberish. He laughed, and pointed to the head. Instead of her father, however, the severed head was now Wilson's.
The nightmare grew even more bizarre as Wilson's head began to speak in a soft, seductive tone, offering to make love to her. The warrior, no longer Blalock, but a stranger she couldn't place, groaned in disgust and threw the head
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at her. She caught it, and looked down in terror at her own face.
Ella woke with a start, and couldn't get back to sleep for an hour. By the time the first rays of light peered through the cracks in her curtains, Ella felt more exhausted than when she'd first gone to bed. She got up and dressed quietly. It was barely eight o'clock, and the house was still. At least her mother had finally gone to bed. Ella had heard Rose moving around all night, as if she'd dreaded the cold emptiness of the bed she'd shared with her mate. Ella understood that particular feeling well. Although her marriage to Eugene had only lasted eighteen months, after he'd died she'd slept on the sofa for months.
Ella went to the kitchen, her thoughts racing as she anticipated the long journey ahead. She had no intention of getting stuck in the mud out there like Wilson had.
After a quick breakfast, she grabbed a few paper grocery bags to protect whatever evidence she found and took the pickup's key from the hook in the kitchen. Just then her mother came out of her bedroom. Rose's eyes were red and puffy, as if she'd spent the night crying.
"Mom, would you like me to stay and fix breakfast?"
Rose shook her head. "I'll be fine. I have to find my own way around this sorrow. There's nothing you can do."
Ella left hesitantly, although in her heart she knew her mother really did need time alone. Rose would have to delve deep within herself to find the strength to make a new life.
By the time Ella made it down the dirt track to the highway, it was nearly nine. As she started to pull out, she saw Wilson's familiar truck approaching.
"Where are you off to?" he asked, pulling up beside her.
"I was just on my way over. I thought you might need some wheels, so I was going to put myself and my truck at your disposal/ 7
"I appreciate the thought, but I don't think you want to come with me on this trip/'
His face immediately grew somber. "I had a gut feeling about this, that's why I came early. Let me guess. You're on your way to where we saw the skin walker, right?"
"I want that blanket," she answered simply.
"What makes you think you can learn anything from it? I saw nothing to indicate it was unique in any way."
"I've been trained to find things that convey information and lead to suspects. I want to take a closer look at it."
He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. "You won't listen to me on this, will you?" He glanced at her, and exhaled softly. "Never mind, that was a wasted question. Let's go back to your mother's house. You can leave your father's truck there. I'll take you in mine."
"I'll take my mom's truck, and go by myself. I have other business to attend to anyway." Ella wondered if he was trying to keep her from investigating on her own. Was Wilson afraid she might discover the old man's disappearance was a trick?
"If I don't go with you, I'll worry," Wilson insisted.
"Worry, then. I've got a job to do, and you're slowing me down," Ella said curtly, driving off quickly before he could answer back.
He followed her anyway, but stayed far behind, apparently hoping she wouldn't notice. Amateurs, Ella sighed to herself. Sometimes, she realized, people forgot what she did for a living.
Half an hour later, as she drew near the spot, Wilson's
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pickup closed the gap between them. She reluctantly slowed to a stop.
Wilson pulled up alongside, smiling grimly. "I had to make sure you could find the place."
"There's nothing I can do about your being here, but if you really want to help, stay out of my way. Better yet, stay in your truck." Ella wasn't about to be led around or misdirected by Wilson.
"I'll stay out of your way," he grumbled. Ella noticed that despite his grufmess, Wilson was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles had turned a pearly white.
"Don't worry, it won't be long."
"No," Wilson said, swallowing. "We'll go together, and I'm taking my rifle, just in case."
They went down into the narrow canyon. Ella glanced around, perplexed. There was no sign of the blanket. "If memory serves me, it should be right around here." She walked a slow circle around the area, looking for signs of gadgets or wires she might associate with trickery.
"Yeah, I thought this was the place too." Wilson gripped his rifle tightly.
"Stay here, and keep a sharp lookout.
He gave her a long, speculative look. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to search a little further down the wash. Since we're on higher ground here, you should be able to keep me covered."
He nodded in agreement.
Ella walked away slowly, studying the ground and listening. As far as she could tell, the only footprints around were Wilson's and hers, from the day before. She crouched, searching for the old man's tracks, but only the vaguest of impressions remained on the soft sand. Thinking back, she
142 It AIMEE & PAVIP THURLO
couldn't remember having seen his feet; they'd been hidden beneath the blanket. Maybe he'd worn moccasins and the dragging blanket had wiped out his tracks.
The goat's head was still on the ground. She stared at it. If the old man had only been a projection, or an illusion, where had this very real goat's head come from? She stared at the bloody remains, now crawling with maggots and flies. Not far away lay the bloody hand, covered with ants. Opting not to touch either, at least for the moment, she continued searching for the spot where the man had fallen.
She couldn't find it, only vague sugges
tions of where footprints might have been made. Where had the blanket gone? No one could have removed it, not unless they'd floated there.
"What's wrong?" Wilson called out.
"I can't find the blanket," she answered. A skillful tracker like Clifford, or one of a dozen Navajo hunters, could walk without leaving obvious tracks. But she couldn't conceive of her brother, or Wilson for that matter, digging up somebody's hand.
Wilson looked around slowly, then jogged toward her. "Maybe someone came and took it." He studied the ground. "No, forget that."
"It's got to be here. Maybe we're not looking in the right place."
"Let me help you look."
They walked on. Suddenly Wilson crouched on the dry, sandy ground. "What've you got?" Ella asked.
"I'm not sure."
She bent over him. A thin layer of gray ash covered the sand. She reached out to touch it, but Wilson grabbed her hand.
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"To scatter ashes in daytime is an insult to Sun."
"I remember," Ella said. She decided to humor Wilson, drew back her hand, and added thoughtfully, "It also leaves a trail for Poverty to find you." She stared at the ground pensively. "This is where the blanket was."
"Yes. But all that remains are these ashes."
"Someone seems intent on using fear to confuse our thinking. There's no trace of a fire, and no footprints." She pursed her lips. "Of course, a skilled tracker could have obliterated his trail." She stood up. "Who do you know who could have concealed his passage like this?" Ella asked bluntly.
"I could do this, if I was very careful. So could your brother, and a few of the old hataaliis. Your father-in-law, the police chief, used to be quite a hunter, but he's put on some weight." Wilson was pensive.
"How about cops, like Peterson Yazzie, for instance? Or some of the deer hunters you've gone hunting with?" Ella probed, eager for names.
"Peterson isn't as crafty as he'd like you to believe. You could lose him in a closet. But, now that you mention it, Samuel Pete and Herman Cloud have done some bow-hunting. You've got to be good to try that," Wilson concluded. "Paul Sells, Loretta's brother, is supposed to be a very good hunter too."
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