Wind Catche

by Jeff Altabef

  Daniels smiles thinly. “I’d sure like a glass of water. It’s been a hot one today.”

  “Of course,” I say, and Troy leads us toward the kitchen. I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with cold water from a water cooler. My hand trembles as I hand the glass to the Sheriff.

  He tries to sound casual, but a seriousness underlies his voice. “When was the last time you saw Jake?”

  “This morning. He picked me up from school.”

  “Around what time was that?” He questions me in a tone that makes it sound like he’s just making conversation, but his eyes are locked on mine, and I can tell he wants the information for other reasons.

  “Around 9:30 or so.” Daniels’s eyebrows lift, so I add, “I wasn’t feeling well, so he picked me up early.” Another lie. This one flows easily.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Juliet.” Both deputies return to the kitchen, and Deputy Johnson frowns and shakes his head.

  “Where is your mother?”

  “She’s at work.”

  He glances at Troy suspiciously, as if he shouldn’t be with me unattended, but he lets it pass. “Tell her to call me when she gets home, and if you hear from Jake, tell him to contact me right away.” Daniels’s tone of voice is deadly serious and his eyes bear down on me to make a point.

  I nod, and then my heart skips a beat. An origami swan sits perched on a white plate next to the sink on the kitchen counter. How did that get there?

  Sicheii used to make them for me. He wrote messages on the paper meant only for me. It was our secret code. Two years have passed since he last left me one.

  My jaw must have dropped because the Sheriff asks if I am all right and glances in the direction of the sink. I bite my lip. “I’m... fine. I’m just... under the weather.”

  The Sheriff gently places his glass on the kitchen table, tips his hat, and shoots me another piercing gaze. “Juliet, it’s important Jake call me. It’ll be better for him if he does. Let me know if you hear from him. You too, Troy Buckhorn.” He glares at Troy for a second, but Troy stays mute, and the Sheriff saunters out of the house. His shoulders sway from side to side while both deputies follow a step behind.

  Troy shuts the door after them. When the two police cruisers leave the driveway, I march back to the kitchen.

  “They looked serious,” Troy says.

  “Did you see the way Deputy Jackson touched his gun? They must suspect Sicheii has something to do with these murders.”

  He rubs his hands over his face. “That’s just crazy.”

  I walk to the sink and stare down at the paper swan in the porcelain dish. Coiled around the bird is the pendant and necklace Sicheii gave me when I turned seven. The pendant is made from turquoise and shaped as a slanted rectangle on its side, with a smaller silver rectangle etched inside the larger one. The slanted rectangle is my tribe’s symbol for the Wind Spirit. Sicheii called the pendant a Wind Catcher. When I wore it, the Wind Spirit would help me, protect me, guide me.

  I lift the necklace by the buffalo skinned strap. I used to wear it every day until I started school at Bartens. The leather strap chafed against the collar of my uniform, so I left it behind. At least that’s what I told myself.

  “Read the inscription on the back and tell me what you find.” I hand the necklace to Troy.

  “‘You are Chosen. Love, Sicheii.’ There’s a circle and two twisted arrows after his name. The symbol looks the same as the one after Dent’s name on his tombstone.”

  I had forgotten about the inscription and the symbol, having not looked at it in years. I take the Wind Catcher from Troy and loop it over my head. I’m not sure why. It just seems like the right thing to do.

  The paper swan beckons me, so I lift it with shaky fingers and unfold the paper to find the message Sicheii has left for me in his flamboyant cursive.

  Little Bird:

  Events are moving fast. We are running out of time. I can’t come home tonight without putting you in danger. Meet me at Slippery River on the South End where you and Troy enter the park tomorrow at noon. I’ll explain everything then. Keep Troy close. It’s time for you to become the swan you are meant to be.

  Love,

  Sicheii

  After his name, he draws a circle with what looks like two twisted vines in the center. He always adds the circle next to his name when he writes messages for me. I had forgotten about it. I assumed the symbol was some weird Native American thing and never asked him what it meant. Now I look at the circle more closely. It could be a simple version of the two twisted arrows. I hand the note to Troy.

  While he reads it, I remove my iPhone from my pocket and stare at it.

  “Who’re you calling?”

  “I’ve got to call Mom. If Sicheii’s in danger, she’s got to know. And from the look on the Sheriff’s face, he might need a lawyer soon.” I press the speed dial button and wait. Worries swirl through my mind. Am I betraying Sicheii? For some reason I’m holding my breath. By calling Mom, everything seems to become real, like clay turning into brick in the hot Arizona sun.

  Could he really be swept up in these murders? If so, how?

  Mom’s phone turns to voicemail. I groan and leave her a message to call me.

  “I guess we wait until tomorrow,” Troy says, his face long as worry clouds his eyes. His phone rings and he hesitates to answer it.

  “You better get that.” I shoot him a look. “Maybe Ella’s found a new clue.”

  Troy retrieves his phone from his front pocket and glances at the screen. My eyes beat him to it. A full screen picture of a blonde-haired girl from school named Candy smiles at him. Candy has a certain unsavory reputation for boy hopping. He shuts off the phone and stuffs it back into his pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” All of a sudden, my arms are crossed against my chest and my foot starts tapping. “Candy is probably wondering where you are. You must have a hot date planned tonight.”

  “Candy is just a friend.”

  “Right, just another one of your friends. You have so many of them.” I’m not sure where this comes from, but it gushes right out of me. I see red, and all I can think of is Candy and Troy alone—his lips on hers, her hands in his hair. “I bet she’s a lot of fun to hang out with.”

  Troy’s left eye twitches, his brow furrows, and his face turns red. He starts to say something but stops. I wish he would just say whatever he really feels. There are some things you just can’t change. I don’t have blonde hair and don’t look like a model. With my pointy nose and eyes that are not quite wide enough, I’ll never be able to compete with the blonde-haired Candys of the world.

  Instead, he waits a few seconds and mutters, “I’ll call her later,” through a clenched jaw.

  I open a closet and toss two jackets on the floor until I grab the light one I’m looking for. I’ve got to find more puzzle pieces before tomorrow. I don’t want to stay here in this house or this kitchen knowing Troy should be on a date with Candy. I need to move.

  “What’re you doing?” Troy’s hands are up. “Aren’t we going to hang out here?”

  “You can go on your hot date with Candy if you want. You don’t need to stay with me. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to disappoint her. I want some more answers before I meet with my grandfather.”

  I turn toward the door.

  My answers are out there.

  Troy blocks my path like a boulder. I think about steamrolling him but hesitate and take a deep breath instead. Candy’s perfect cheerleader face flashes in my mind. She’s the last person he should be with, but that’s his mistake.

  Why should I care anyway?

  I take in more oxygen. He’s free to date anyone he wants, just as I am.

  I breathe again. It’s just that I choose not to date anyone.

  Another breath, and steam releases from me like a teakettle.

  He must have noticed because he asks me, “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want to go back to Roundtre
e’s house and check it out.” His eyebrows bunch together, and he looks at me as if I have two heads. “Maybe he hid something in his house that’ll give us a clue about what’s going on. Roundtree has to be the key. He had the twisted arrows tattoo, he was the first in the secret society to be killed, and he stood at the center of that photo.”

  “What would we look for?”

  I’m not sure why, but I feel a little better when he says we, so my voice slows and the jagged edge in my tone smooths out. “The twisted arrows must be important. I know it sounds strange, but everything with my grandfather is weird. Maybe we can find the symbol in Roundtree’s house somewhere and it’ll lead to a clue that might tell us what’s going on.”

  “But whoever killed Roundtree probably searched his house. They’d have found anything worth finding.”

  I pull open the drawer underneath the toaster and retrieve a flashlight. “Maybe, but maybe they didn’t know about the twisted arrows. Perhaps Roundtree has a hiding spot with that symbol on it. He was tortured before he died. He might not have given away his secrets.” I shrug. “It’s worth a try. It’s better than sitting here and doing nothing all night. I need to move, do something productive. Otherwise, I’ll go crazy.”

  I step toward the door, but he grabs my arm and stops me cold in the foyer. He slides inches from me, and we breathe the same air. A bolt of electricity flows through me and I forget all about Candy and her blonde hair and small nose and floozy reputation. Well, not completely, but I shove those thoughts to the back of my mind when his face is so close to mine.

  “I’ll go,” he whispers, his words feathery soft and eyes wide, bright, and caring. “You stay here. It might be dangerous. Whoever killed Roundtree and Brooks is still out there. I’m sure he won’t want us to search for secret messages. I’ll tell you if I find anything.”

  I can’t let him go without me, even if a small cowardly part of me does. Sicheii is caught in the middle of this mystery, which means it’s my mystery to solve. “This isn’t a movie. Killers don’t always go back to the scene of the crime.” I pull my arm free from his grasp. “I’m going with you or without you.” I add as much determination in my voice as I can manage even though it’s all bluster. Without him, I’d lose my nerve. Whenever I shut my eyes, images of Roundtree’s bloodied body still float in my mind, and every time they appear, I shudder. He doesn’t need to know that, so I act bold, bolder than I am.

  “How are you going to get to Roundtree’s house without me?” He smiles.

  “I’ll hitch. I’ve done it before.”

  He smirks. “Okay, we both go.”

  He peeks through the glass at the front door. “I don’t see anyone, but if the Sheriff thinks Jake is involved in these murders, he’ll probably have someone watching us. We’re not going to be able to cruise to Roundtree’s house without a deputy tagging along.”

  “I don’t see anyone.” Darkness has fallen outside. “I bet they have a deputy stationed by the security gate at the main entrance, but everyone forgets about the service road. If we take the bike through the dirt road, we can escape unseen.”

  Troy groans. “I hate the service entrance. That road is nothing more than a dirt trail. We’ll kick up rocks that’ll wreck the bike’s paint job.”

  I open the front door. “Don’t worry about scratching the paint. I’ll help you fix the bike.” I’m pretty sure the paint job is going to be the least of our problems.

  I take the smelly helmet without complaint. He starts the bike with a roar, and we drive to the service road. A metal gate blocks the path with a chain secured by a padlock. The gate is meant for cars, not bikes, so we find an opening in the side and pass around it, working our way onto the dirt road behind the gate. When we reach the trail, he opens up the throttle, and in no time we leave the dirt road behind and find ourselves back on Route 100, headed to Roundtree’s house. An uneasy sensation settles over me, so I tighten my grip around Troy’s waist to chase it away.

  The quiet Reservation unsettles me as Troy stops the bike where we parked yesterday. Yellow police tape stretches across the front door and a yellow sign in front of the house reads, “Police Crime Scene - No Unauthorized Admittance.”

  We jump from the bike. “Are you sure you want to go in?” he asks, his eyes jumpy as he scans the empty street.

  “You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you?” I tease him with feigned confidence and stroll toward the side of the house. “We’ll have better luck going in the back way.” Today, it’s my turn to tug him along with an invisible chain forged by our friendship.

  Troy lopes behind me. An eerie quiet blankets us. We move swiftly, guided by the slippery light thrown off by the moon and the stars. When we scoot to the back of the house, soft river sounds fill the night air as water splashes against the riverbank. Random thoughts occupy my mind and crowd out the dread I feel when returning to the crime scene. The goats are gone. Did they leave on their own now that Roundtree is dead or did someone from the town take them away? Where would they have taken them?

  I flip on the flashlight and sweep the light across the back of Roundtree’s house. The beams catch more yellow tape around the maple tree where he was murdered. The cool night air turns frosty when the light from the flashlight sweeps over crimson streaks in the dirt at the tree’s base.

  Troy points toward an old glass door with an antique brass lock and studies it for a second, unsure what to do. He hands me a small screwdriver as he twists the tiny Allen Wrench free from his keychain. Before he goes to work, I grab the doorknob, twist, and push. The door opens without much resistance, so I pocket the screwdriver, smile at him, and shrug one shoulder as we step into the house. Sometimes you just have to try.

  The floor creaks under my feet and my breath catches in my throat. The place is a mess—upturned furniture, books and papers strewn around, bits of wood and stone artifacts, broken pieces of Roundtree’s life tossed about haphazardly. It takes the wind out of me. I feel the violence and rage of the attacker, as if a two year old had thrown a temper tantrum, only this tantrum lasted hours and was way more intense than anything a two year old could muster.

  Troy whistles and scratches his head as he steps over smashed objects. “Someone certainly trashed the place.”

  “Either that or Roundtree could have used a housekeeper.” I smirk, trying unsuccessfully to lighten the mood. “Let’s check out the living room. That’s the oldest room in the house.” Sicheii had brought me here once to show Roundtree a new artifact he had purchased for the gallery.

  I step carefully around debris, trying not to smash anymore of Roundtree’s stuff. The living room is more of the same. We don’t live in tornado alley, but this is what I imagine his house would look like after one hit.

  One item sticks out from the rest and I pick it up. “This is weird.”

  “What is it?” Troy asks.

  “Well, this is the only thing that’s burned. You can only see the edges, but I remember it. Sicheii gave it to Roundtree a few years ago. It’s an ancient piece of buffalo hide with an odd painting on it of a white ghost with purple eyes. It looked like rays were shooting from the ghost’s eyes. I once asked Sicheii about it and he told me it had something to do with Coyote, but I’ve never seen Coyote drawn that way. Why do you think they burned it?”

  Troy shrugs and looks away. “Who knows? I guess it wasn’t that important or they would have taken it with them. Where do we start looking?”

  I drop the hide and run my hands through my hair. “Let’s take a look along the walls. Maybe there’s a safe.” Dark wood paneling covers the walls. We start at the nearest one and swipe the light from the flashlight against the wall in a slow arc. Troy follows the path brightened by the beams and brushes his hand against the wood in places. He disturbs dust as he searches for the smallest sign of a safe or a hiding spot, or the twisted arrows symbol. We work quietly, but his breathing speeds up. Mine starts to match his.

  We inch our way along the wall when a lightning
bolt threatens to split my head in two. I bend at the waist. A vision of a white van, the same one from earlier in the day, flashes in my head. It’s pulling up to Roundtree’s house.

  My hand trembles, and the light from the flashlight dances unsteadily around the room. “We have to go, Troy. Someone’s here.... They’ve pulled up in a van.”

  He glances at me oddly. I can’t blame him, but he has to start moving, so I grab his t-shirt to push him toward the back door. But before we go back the way we came in, the front door crashes open.

  Bang! Wood splinters.

  Troy shoves me toward the back door. “Run,” he whispers.

  I’m not going to leave him. We’re in this together. I shut off the flashlight and hope the darkness might hide us.

  I should have known better.

  Events slow. Air freezes in my throat. A silhouette appears at the doorway, sweeping a beam from a flashlight across the room before it lands on us. The intruder’s slicked black hair glistens in the darkness. A dark golf shirt stretches taut against a well-muscled chest and arms, and he moves with the athletic grace of a dancer or a martial arts expert.

  A sinister smile twists his lips. “Gotcha!” he says.

  “Run!” Troy shouts as he leaps toward Slicked Back Hair. I try to grab his arm to stop him. This is no drunken college student, but I’m a second too late and he darts ahead before I can hold him back.

  Slicked Back Hair sidesteps him and swings the heavy flashlight forward in a short chop. It crashes hard into Troy’s face. He goes down in a thud. Blood spurts from his nose and bone breaks.

  My chest squeezes and my vision tunnels around Slicked Back Hair. I tense to take a run at him, but strong hands grab my hair from behind. A second intruder must have snuck in through the back door. He swings me in a painful circle and flings me to the hardwood floor. The flashlight tumbles from my grasp, switching on as it leaves my fingers.