I can tell he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. He gives Dave another puzzled look before he returns his attention to me. I elaborate. “After your client shot Derek, your people cut off his head and brought it back here.”
“Hold on,” Dave says. “Are you talking about the bighorn Armstrong bagged this afternoon?”
Sammy shakes his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Now they’re giving the wild animals names?”
“He wasn’t an animal,” I say. “He was a ma’inawo.”
“Yeah, and I’m the president of the USA. Look, if the traditionalists think I’ll let their crazy bullshit screw up my business, they’re going to get schooled on how things work in the real world. I’m betting Morago sent you, so you go back and tell him that if he tries to run with this woo-woo shaman story, he’s going to be talking to my lawyers. See how far he gets in a court of law. And remind him that all of the tribe benefits from my business—unless he’s pocketing the money we send over to him.”
“You know he’d never do that,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“I couldn’t give a crap.” He nods to Dave. “Get this asshole out of here.”
Dave gives me an apologetic look.
“They just want the head back so they can give Derek a proper burial,” I say before he can start to usher me out.
Sammy gives me a hard look and thrusts his index finger in my direction. “My client paid good money to go home with a trophy and that’s how it’s going to play out. We’ve got all the proper paperwork. He shot an animal, not some mumbo jumbo Indian spirit. Tell Morago to save that crap for the tourists, like we do.”
I wonder if Calico’s had enough time to snatch the head, because this isn’t going well. I don’t know why I thought it would.
“Now, either you let Dave walk you out,” Sammy says, “or we throw you out with a few broken bones. The choice is yours.”
18
Thomas
After Petey finished his story, the men all gathered closer to the fire, talking about Sammy and this new business with the crazy white dude and his daughter. If Jerry Five Hawks wasn’t still leaning against the side of the community center, Thomas wouldn’t have been surprised to see the white man’s car mysteriously catch fire. As it was, the men could only fantasize about various ways to repay Higgins for his racist views.
Morago didn’t add to the conversation, but he stayed in his lawn chair in the middle of it all, and Thomas didn’t see how he could get a private word with him.
A sudden commotion in the desert scrub just past the far end of the parking lot negated any chance of talking to the shaman. His boss Reuben and a half-dozen of his dog boys came jogging in, kicking up dust. They slowed down when they neared the fire.
None were in dog shape, but Thomas could see their animal spirits floating above their shoulders like headdresses.
The men all greeted each other, punching shoulders and whooping. Reuben’s brows went up when he caught sight of Thomas. He grinned proudly and slapped a closed fist against his chest.
“Is Sammy on his way?” Morago asked when the hubbub died down.
Thomas noticed that while Jerry never shifted position, he seemed to be leaning a little closer to hear the answer.
“I don’t know,” Reuben replied. “I never saw him. Steve came along and said he’d handle things.”
“What, that old desert rat?” someone asked.
“The spirits favour him,” Morago said.
“Yeah,” Petey added with a grin, “and some of them favour him a lot.”
The men laughed, not unkindly. Though everyone grew up with warnings about the dangers of becoming involved with ma’inawo and spirits, they also knew that luck followed those favoured by their cousin neighbours. Just as bad luck followed those who spoke ill of either the ma’inawo or their chosen.
“Do we still keep vigil?” William asked.
The subtle reminder of Derek brought a silence to the group.
Morago nodded. “Steve’s not part of the tribe,” the shaman said. “But just because it’s him instead of one of us going after justice for Derek, doesn’t mean Sammy won’t still take it into his head to come down here with a show of force.”
More chairs were brought out from the community center. The fire was built up and thermoses of tea were shared around with the newcomers.
Amid speculation of what Steve would do, Reuben draped an arm over Thomas’s shoulders and led him away from the fire. “I was surprised to see you here,” he said. “Pleased, but surprised.”
“Auntie sent me.”
Reuben nodded. “Because she knows Corn Eyes men have always stood with the tribe.”
“I guess.”
“No guessing involved, Thomas. I’m still not trying to say you shouldn’t see what the world outside the rez might hold for you, but it’s good to remember that you always have a place here. People who will stand beside you if the need comes.”
“I know that. I appreciate the job and everything. The loan of the truck—it’s cool.”
Reuben clapped him on the back then let his gaze range down the slope of the hill. His nose twitched and Thomas wondered what he was seeing, or smelling, with his canine senses.
Thomas had always avoided asking his boss anything about the mystical aspects of tribal culture, but given his experiences today, his curiosity won out. “Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Anything,” Reuben told him.
“A lot of the tribe carry ma’inawo aspects—does that mean they’re all shape-shifters?”
“First of all,” Reuben said, “none of us are shape-shifters—not the way people throw the word around. We are beings with more than one body—one five-fingered, one not. We don’t change from one to the other, except physically.” He tapped his chest. “Inside, we’re always both at the same time.”
“Okay...”
“The blood runs stronger in some than it does in others,” Reuben went on, “but there aren’t many among us anymore who can change their shapes. When you see somebody’s cousin aspect floating above their head like an aura, it just means the blood is stronger in them, not necessarily that they can change.”
“But some can.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Well, that clears everything up,” Thomas said, the tone of his voice saying it had done anything but.
Reuben laughed. “You want some real training, talk to Morago. Or your Aunt Leila.”
19
Sadie
Until last night Sadie had never crashed outside—and for sure never in the middle of the desert like she had at Steve’s campsite. What a crazy night. First the screaming match with Reggie; then getting thrown into the car and tossed out in middle of nowhere, only to be picked up by this weird old do-gooder with the furry kink on the side.
She was surprised she’d even managed to fall asleep, but she ended up so tired that eventually she just dropped off. Not even the creepy silence broken by the distant cries of the coyotes had been able to keep her awake.
Tonight was a different story.
First off, she wasn’t really tired. Bored? Yeah, big time. It was hard to even think of going to sleep, though she did try. She changed into the oversized T-shirt Aggie had given her and stretched out on the bed, did the whole deal. But then just lay there staring at the ceiling.
She figured it was because Aggie’s guest room wasn’t a whole lot different from being outside, and who in their right mind lived with this kind of quiet? Aggie or Steve’d probably hate the city, but she was used to the sound of traffic wafting in through her windows, snatches of drunken conversation from a few houses over, distant sirens. There was something comforting about hearing life go on even while you were in your bed. It made you feel less alone.
Here, there was only the silence and the deep dark of the night lying thick over everything. She was also starting to feel a little trapped in this small room in the middle of nowhere. The paintings of all the weir
d animal/human hybrids didn’t help. She couldn’t see them in the dark, but she knew they were there. Watching her.
Okay, she wasn’t a little kid. She knew there was nothing about the paintings that could hurt her. They weren’t real. Just like Aggie’s stories about dog boys and the spirits of vegetables and crap weren’t real, though they at least had seemed a little cool until they went on and on. But the paintings still made her nervous. The longer she lay here, the tighter her chest got.
Her knife usually relieved her anxiety. She got up and pulled it out of her jeans pocket. Taking the woven Indian blanket from the bed, she wrapped it around her shoulders and quietly opened her door.
Ruby lay on the floor outside, head lifting. The dog had wanted to come in but Sadie hadn’t let her. Sure, she seemed nice enough, but what was to stop Ruby from suddenly deciding to tear out her throat in the middle of the night?
Aggie said the dog had taken a liking to her. Sadie just figured Ruby was keeping tabs on her, though why the dog would want to do that was anybody’s guess. Still, it made more sense than a dog she’d only just met liking her for no good reason. She knew from experience that everybody wanted something from you. That was the way the world worked, and she didn’t suppose dogs were any different.
“Is there any point in telling you not to follow me?” she whispered to the dog.
Ruby sat up and cocked her head.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
Tiptoeing across the tiled floor, Sadie pulled the blanket more tightly around her and went out the front door. Ruby slipped out before Sadie could stop her, brushing against her legs. Nails clicking on the tiles.
Sadie wasn’t sure what she was doing outside in her bare feet. For one thing, she knew there were more dogs somewhere out here in the darkness. There’d also be thorns, rattlesnakes, spiders and scorpions. Coyotes. Mountain lions. Pretty much a million things that would just love to have a piece of her.
She looked up.
And that sky. How did the sky get so big?
She shivered as much from the chill in the night air as from the immensity of what stretched over her head and the darkness that went on forever around her. Coming out here was dumb. It just made her feel more displaced and alone.
Looking for someplace hidden where she just could go make a quick little cut, she caught a flicker of light from the corner of her eye. It was a campfire, she realized. She looked more closely and saw there were figures sitting around it.
She remembered Aggie saying something about people coming over for a sweat tomorrow night. Tonight, actually, she supposed, since it was long past midnight. She wasn’t entirely clear on what a sweat was, but she hadn’t wanted to ask since it would’ve meant listening to yet another long story, and she’d heard more than enough of them for one day.
She got it already. Everything has a spirit. Thank the beans and corn for letting you eat them. Don’t throw stones at the little birds because they’ve got just as much right to be here as you do.
That’s probably what was going on over there. People sitting around telling endless stories to thank the wood for letting itself be burned up in their fire. Maybe a shout-out to the clothes they were wearing.
Just do what you came to do and go back inside, she told herself. You don’t need any more stories, and whatever’s going on over there is none of your business.
All true, but she still stepped off the porch to walk in the direction of the fire, her bare feet scuffling in the cool dirt, Ruby padding silently at her side.
Sadie didn’t have anything to worry about. The fire cast dark shadows beyond its circle of light, and that same darkness would hide her from the people at the fire. And maybe Ruby really was looking out for her.
She’d just get close enough to see what they were up to. She sure wasn’t going to go skulking around in the brush off the path, where everything had a thorn.
She could see the people a little better now. They wore blankets like the one she’d borrowed from the guest room, except they were pulled up over their heads like hoodies. A murmur of conversation came to her, not clear enough to make out the words yet, but they were obviously talking to one another, not telling long stories.
A coyote cried out in the darkness and Sadie started. It sounded so close. But then one of the figures lifted an arm as though in greeting to the wild dog’s call. The blanket fell away from where it was shadowing his features. Sadie sucked in a quick breath and put her hand over her mouth before the scream inside her could burst out.
A bird’s head was on the man’s shoulders. He was like Aggie’s paintings.
She must have made some kind of noise because they all turned in her direction, animal features showing under their blankets. Dogs, deer, a lizard, a rabbit.
Sadie ran as fast as she could back to Aggie’s house.
20
Steve
Dave’s still looking apologetic, but I don’t doubt for a moment that he’s going to physically toss me out if I don’t figure out some way to stall him. Because I can’t go yet. I know Calico’s going to grab Derek’s head, but that only solves the immediate problem. There’s a bigger issue at stake here. I have to make Sammy realize that some of these animals his clients are hunting are cousins. That the ma’inawo are real. And I guess there’s only one way to do that.
“Calico!” I yell, hoping she can hear me from wherever she is. “I need you right now!”
My shouting startles Dave enough that he takes a step back. Sammy shoots him a withering look. “Who’s this Calico?” he asks. “How many of them are there?”
Dave looks confused. “He’s the only one I saw,” he says.
“Calico!” I yell again.
“Shut the fuck up,” Sammy tells me, rising out of his chair.
All I can come up with is a juvenile response as I try to buy some time.
“Make me,” I tell him.
“Make you? Do you think we’re in kindergarten, asshole?”
But then Calico steps out of nowhere to stand at my side. She’s holding Derek’s head by a horn, dripping blood and gore all over Sammy’s fancy pine floors.
“Yeah, make him,” she says.
I think Dave might have pissed his pants when she just appeared out of nowhere. But while Sammy’s eyes widen, he takes it in better stride. He slides open a drawer and pulls out a handgun. Before he can lift it to fire at us, Calico drops Derek’s head and leaps on top of Sammy’s desk, scattering papers and shoving his laptop to the edge, where it balances precariously. She bats the gun out of his hand and he’s suddenly looking into the face of a seriously pissed off fox, its head sitting on the shoulders of a woman, open jaws mere inches from his face.
When he tries to back away she grabs his shirt and pulls him right up to those jaws. There’s no use in him trying to break her grip—I know how strong she is—but that doesn’t stop him from trying.
I clear my throat. “So this is Calico,” I tell Sammy. “One of those ma’inawo you say don’t exist.”
Calico’s face returns to her human features, but now she’s got antelope prongs lifting from her brow.
“And I don’t like you,” she tells him.
She shoves him back into his chair, but stays crouched there on his desk. His gaze slides to where the gun landed, then back again.
“Oh, please,” Calico says. “Make a try for it.”
He lifts his hands, palms out. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Too bad. You already started this party.” She glances over at me. “Can I kill him?”
I’m pretty sure she’s not serious, but whether she is or not, the words have their desired effect.
“Wait, wait!” Sammy says, all his bravado gone. I might not be sure of her actual intentions, but it’s plain he thinks his life is hanging from a very slender thread.
“Tell me what you want,” he adds. “Tell me what I can do to make this right.”
Dave shifts his position and Calico’s gaze lands o
n him like a pair of lasers. He holds up his hands like Sammy did.
“I just…I just…” he says. “Can I sit down?”
I look at the wet stain on his chinos. Damn, the poor bastard’s bladder really did let him down.
Calico waves a hand, a casual gesture that says both, what do I care? and don’t try anything. She frowns at Sammy.
“You can start with not killing any more ma’inawo. And beyond that, have some respect for the poor animals you idiots feel you have to shoot. But I’m telling you, the next time you, or any of your clients, kill a cousin? That same night it’s going to be your head dripping here on the floor of your office.”
He looks to me for help, but I keep my face impassive.
“How am I supposed to tell the difference?” he asks Calico.
“That’s not my problem,” she says. “This is your piece-of-shit commerce.”
She hops down from the desk and picks up his gun. Ejecting the clip, she lets it fall onto the desk where it makes a dent in the previously unblemished surface. Then she points the empty gun at Sammy.
“Bang,” she says.
She grins when he flinches. He swallows, licks his lip.
“Look—” he starts.
“Ask Morago,” Calico says. “Maybe he’ll teach you.”
“Morago?”
He says the name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Calico pretends not to notice.
“You know. The woo-woo shaman guy who lives in the past and is deluded enough to think that ma’inawo like me actually exist. But I can see why you wouldn’t want to get advice from him since he’s not a modern Indian like you.”
“It’s not like—”
She cuts him off with a wave of her hand and drops the gun down on the desk. That’s got to have made another nasty scratch in its perfect finish.
“Just remember,” she tells him. “We. Bite. Back.”
Then she hops down from her perch on the desk. Picking up Derek’s head again by a horn, she takes my hand and steps us away.
The Wind in His Heart Page 11
