by Brian Hodge
"Through that door," he said, pointing. She nodded and they started for it.
"You can't come in here," said a monk, stepping through the doorway. They stopped abruptly.
"We're looking for Senator Kent."
"I know why you're here," the monk said. "This is God's house. Leave at once."
"Not before we see Kent." Chato started through the doorway, but the man blocked him. "I'm sorry, Brother." Before the monk could respond, Chato grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him so vigorously that his tonsured head snapped back and forth. "Where is he?" Chato gritted. "Where's the Senator?"
"I-In the chapel," the monk said, pointing to the outside.
Chato flung the man away from him; he crashed into the piano, slumped to the ground.
"Come on."
They ran down the breezeway to the double door of the chapel, and paused. Then Chato resolutely pushed through the doors, and halted until his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the church. What light came in was filtered through stain-glass windows high above their heads on the sides. It was furnished with rows of simple wooden pews. The Twelve Stations of the Cross were crudely painted plaster-of-Paris statues, and a tortured and bloodied Christ, carved of dark brown wood, hung on a wooden cross behind the free-standing altar. Two pewter candlesticks stood atop a plain altar cloth.
In the front pew, just before the communion railing, sat a man who was facing the altar. At the sound of the doors closing, he stood and turned to the back of the church.
"I'm been waiting for you to find me," Kent said evenly, studying them as they walked up the aisle. "I'm surprised it was this quickly, though."
"We've had previous experience with the monastery," Chato said slowly.
"So you're the blanket Indian I've heard so much about," Kent said with a slight smile. Chato ignored the slight, didn't respond. "Where's your reporter friend? Or didn't she make it?"
"Oh, she made it all right. In fact, it was through her that we found you."
Kent's smile faded a little. Now that he stood close to the man, Chato thought he didn't look well. Deep dark circles lay under his eyes, and his eyes were never still—they moved constantly, as if he feared something were creeping up on him. After what had happened at the fire, Chato wasn't surprised.
"What now, Del-Klinne?"
"We want the fetish."
"It won't do you any good," the Senator said, somewhat smugly.
"I don't know about that. It helped you survive, didn't it?"
"Yes," the man whispered. "What do you want it for then?"
"I want to survive, too. Those creatures must be destroyed."
"Those creatures," Kent repeated hollowly. He turned away for a moment, shuddered, looked back at them. "Creatures of hell."
"Yes. And the fetish is the only thing that will protect me when I go against them.
"You?" the senator asked skeptically. "How can you destroy them?"
Chato glanced at Sunny, who smiled encouragingly. "I don't know. I just know I'm the one who has to do it. They've been calling me, those voices, and I have to do something."
"Voices? What voices?" Kent asked sharply.
"The ones I hear, from the shadoweyes. Look, we're just wasting time. Hand over the fetish."
"No, it's mine."
"You stole it."
"Originally. But it's been mine all these years. My key to power. I'll be President yet. I'll make it."
"Even though your friends are dead?" Chato asked.
Kent nodded, didn't speak. Out of the corner of his eye Chato could see that Sunny was moving slowly, inch by inch, away from the two men, and stopping from time to time so that she wouldn't attract attention.
"The fetish will give me all that I want."
"Maybe you don't know how to use it properly," Chato said easily. Kent shook his head. "Why don't you tell me more about it? About how you found it?"
"I took it from the archeologist at the University. He never connected its disappearance with my visit. Stupid academic bastard."
"How do you know the fetish will do all that you think it will?" Chato asked. Sunny had reached the communion railing and paused.
"Because of the papers."
"What papers?" Chato asked with interest, the woman's progress momentarily forgotten.
"I thought it was a typical fetish, nothing special, at first. Although when I dropped it, and nothing happened, I knew it was something remarkable. I could feel that it was different. When I got it back to my apartment, I took a hammer to it and battered it, and it was unscathed. I knew then we had something … magical. Richard scoffed a little. Of course, he would, because he was a young priest in those days. He didn't believe in the strength of Indian religions. Doug didn't want to believe in it, but I did. I was no fool; I knew power when I saw it, and it didn't matter to me if it came from a Christian religion or a long-dead Indian one. It was still power."
"The papers," Chato urged.
"The professor had made some notes on the fetish. I took them, too. I never told the others." He paused, licked his lips. His eyes were almost feverish. "I read them all that evening, and I knew then how strong the religion was. He had talked with old Indians, had found out a legend of a powerful fetish that could be controlled by only one person. It was black and hideous, and I knew my fetish was the one from the legends."
Sunny had reached the altar now; Chato forced himself to turn his complete attention to the Senator. "'Did you test it?"
"Of course. I was a good lawyer, not a brilliant one, and with the help of the fetish I began to win case after case. My career began to advance. But I didn't want anything to happen to the fetish, and when I wasn't using it, Richard had it, where it would be safe."
"What did he think of all of this? I mean, with him being a good Catholic and all?"
"His career began to advance, too. He became a little more favorably disposed toward the fetish. Now Doug …. " He shook his head ruefully. "He was always uncomfortable with it, loathe to use it, and his career advanced the least of the three."
"But you waited … you wanted the Presidency."
"I knew I would have unlimited power."
"The notes?"
"I burned them. Page afterpage."
"The professor never accused you of taking the fetish? Never suspected?" Sunny was grasping a candlestick in her hand now, and was heading carefully back toward the communion railing.
"He may have suspected, but he never came after me. Good God, I was a powerful attorney. Why should I have stolen it? Then he died, and there was no one left who knew about it. Except—" His expression darkened.
"'Except?" Chato pursued.
"This half-breed went to Richard's church about half a year later and was asking about a fetish. Richard sent him packing. He was an unpleasant old guy, and he said the fetish belonged to him."
"Did you ever see him again?" Chato knew who the old man had been.
"Yes. He kept coming back. He was convinced that we had the fetish, and he was determined to get it, but we were too damned clever and kept him away from
"Yeah, I guess you were clever." She was close now; so very close, and was raising her arm.
Without warning Kent whirled, saw Sunny's arm raised, the heavy candlestick poised to hit him, and he charged down the pew, away from her. Chato flung himself over the back of the pews and grabbed the Senator around the middle. Together they crashed to the floor.
Sunny ran around to the end of the pew. She raised the candlestick again, watched as first Chato, then Kent was on top. Kent kicked out, caught Chato in the stomach. In that moment Kent started to crawl off. Chato seized his foot, pulled himself up a few inches and launched himself at the other man. Once more they were knocked to the ground, but this time with Chato on top. He drew back his fist, followed through with a punch to Kent's chin. The man's head jerked back, and just as it did, Sunny brought the candlestick down on his forehead. There was a sickening thud, and he went limp. The candlestick left a
shallow depression, red and black in color. She swallowed quickly and dropped the candlestick, turned to the door.
"I hear voices outside."
"The monks."
He managed to squat, ignoring his outraged abdominal muscles, and searched Kent's pockets. Inside the dead man's coat he found a wrapped box about the size of his fist. He rattled it, and knew the fetish was in it. He didn't have time to check; they had to get out before the monks stopped them. Just to be sure, though, he rummaged through the senator's other pockets, found nothing beyond the usual contents.
So the fetish had to be in the box. He slipped it in his own pocket and stood. "Come on."
He grabbed her hand, ran toward the front doors, burst through them just as a handful of monks run toward them on the breezeway. He released her hand, got out his keys, and raced for the truck, realizing this was the second time he and Sunny had left the monastery in such a way. Getting to be a habit, he thought wryly.
They jumped in and he started the engine. He backed up wildly, not caring this time if he knocked monks down. Two tried to climb into the truck's bed, but he backed up abruptly and they fell off the bumper. Then they were speeding away, away from the monastery, and down the dirt road.
They didn't talk until they reached town, and then Chato lifted his foot from the accelerator and brought the pickup down to the speed limit. He glanced over at her, remembered again the first time. "Thanks."
She nodded. "You saved mine. It was the least I could do for you."
"I've got to see the fetish. I can't wait any longer, so I'm going to get off on the Wyoming exit. There’s a library a few blocks off the street and a park. No one will notice us."
Once they got to the park, he took the box out of his pocket and ripped the paper off, removed the lid, plucked away the cotton padding.
They stared, both unable to speak.
The fetish. Night-black and a little smaller than his fist, it was carved from obsidian. Volcanic glass. Smooth and shiny and cool and hard under his touch.
A shadow.
A shadoweyes.
Complete to the fangs, talons and eyes.
A shadoweyes.
Do you fight fire with fire? He smiled bleakly to himself, feeling the surge of terror inside.
A shadoweyes.
Touched.
Tag! You're it!
But I don't—
And his fingers trembled as he wrapped the fetish once more.
CHAPTER THIRTY
"I've got to do it right away," he said, after the box had been tucked into a pocket. "I can't wait."
"I know."
He ran a hand through his hair and breathed deeply, feeling the pain of fear constrict his chest. Even though he had this gift that Josanie and Tenorio had said he had what if he still didn't know what to do. But he did. He knew all right.
Feather, and stone, and seed.
Today he would test his learning, his teacher's confidence in him, his life.
"I've got errands to run. If you want, I'll drop you off at Laura's."
"I'd rather come with you, Chato," she said quietly. He nodded, grateful. "What do you need?"
He frowned for a moment in thought. "Some crystals, petrified wood, eagle feathers, rattlesnake rattles. Pollen. Silly stuff. "It was strange speaking aloud, strange to be telling this woman what he needed in his preparation. Did she think he was ridiculous, that he was playing with toys? "There's a rock shop on South Eubank, almost by Central. I remember seeing it last week. You can probably get the minerals there.
"Okay." She hadn't laughed. He breathed with relief, not wanting to think how Laura would have reacted.
He stopped for gas for the truck, filled both tanks, and then found the shop with little difficulty. He found a buckskin pouch there, too, with a long cord. The medicine bag, Josanie and Tenorio had mentioned. Most potent. It would hold what he needed to take into the mountains. He also purchased a second buckskin pouch—for the black fetish.
Back in the truck he'd stared wordlessly at his purchases. "He probably thought I was crazy," he said slowly.
"I doubt it. For all he knows, you could be an artist who needs unusual material for his work."
"True," he admitted. He glanced over at her. "You must think I'm nuts. We've only known each other for a few days, and yet all I've done is drag you all over the place, and now we're looking for stuff to put in a medicine bag, for God's sake. I'm surprised you haven't had me committed to Nazareth yet!"
She smiled. "You're not ready for the sanitarium, Chato. Not yet. Don't worry, though. I'll let you know when it's time."
He smiled and patted her hand, reassured once again by her presence. Then, suddenly self-conscious, he pulled his hand away and started the truck.
"God, where am I going to get the feathers?"
"Hatbands. For cowboy hats. They're usually made of feathers, and there's bound to be some eagle feathers there. As long as you can recognize them."
"Sure can." He grinned at her, and wished he could make love to her just one more time. Just once, that was all he asked. But he couldn't. He didn't have time, and after that—he didn't want to think about what might—or might not—come afterward.
They found a western apparel store down on Central and he searched through the racks of hatbands until he found what he needed. It took twenty bands, but he finally had enough feathers.
She frowned a little, her eyes darkening. "What about lightning struck twigs. You say it has to be that? They have more power?"
"Right. At least that's what my teacher claimed. And there's no need to worry about that. I know a place where we can get them."
In the mountains, not far from where he'd been chased by the unnatural lightning, he found what he wanted. Then he stopped off at the motel and threw a few articles in a bag before they returned to Laura's apartment. She wasn't back yet.
While Sunny fixed them lunch, he studied the various items. Suddenly he felt foolish. It was like being a little kid again and collecting pretty rocks and unusual shells. Only this time it wasn't a game.
The front door slammed; he looked up, caught Sunny's eye on him from across the kitchen counter.
"When do you get the sandbox?"
Laura stood there, hands on hips, and she wasn't smiling. Sunny had come out of the kitchen and was standing well away from the other woman. But she was there for support, he thought, if he needed it.
"What?"
"You're going through with it." She hadn't asked a question.
"Someone has to."
"I can't believe this!" Laura laughed harshly. "It's so stupid. You don't have to do it. No one appointed you savior of the human race. Maybe those things will go away and never bother us again."
"And maybe they won't," Sunny said softly. "Maybe they'll decide to come down out of the mountains and kill everyone here." Laura looked at her, hatred and jealousy in her eyes, but didn't speak.
He said nothing, continued sorting his purchases. "Please let someone else do it. You'll just get hurt—or worse."
"I told you, Laura," he said with a calmness he did not totally feel, I have to do it. I was the one who was touched by the shadoweyes. It's my responsibility. It was my responsibility a long time ago, but I put it off. I tried to pretend it wasn't important. But it is, and only I can do it…" He finished putting the shells and twigs into the pouch. He closed the opening tightly, set it down on the table. He took out the fetish and carefully slipped it into the other pouch. "Excuse me." He got up and headed toward the bathroom to change. Laura laughed again, just once, a high sound, and turned away, but he thought he saw tears in her eyes.
"You talked him into it," Laura accused, staring at Sunny. The blonde woman shook her head, remained silent. "You're just a scheming Texan bitch, who—"
"Laura,"' He stood outside the bathroom. "That's enough."
She turned away, walked to the balcony, the balcony from which he'd seen the shadoweyes that night they'd made love.
He f
inished changing and came out. Laura was still on the back porch. Sunny was waiting for him.
"I'll drive you," she said.
He nodded his thanks, slowly gathered together all his stuff, then paused by the sliding glass doors.
"Laura—"
"Go away. Go up there and get killed." Her voice was muffled and she wouldn't face him.
"Get out."
He gathered up the pouches and walked out of the apartment without looking back. They said nothing as they drove away from the complex. When they reached Juan Tabo, Sunny reached out and her fingers stroked his, giving him some comfort, and yet the fear balled coldly in the pit of his stomach and his mouth tasted bitter.
I am going to die.
No. I can't be pessimistic.
I'm not. I'm being realistic.
I'm going to die; I'm not going to be able to defeat the shadows, and they'll take over, and—
No, no, no.
His head ached, and the beckoning voices grew stronger the closer they came to the mountains. Overhead dark clouds formed as they approached the Sandias, collected above the mountain slopes, and rain was now an awesome threat. Some clouds had settled, mantle-like, onto the uppermost regions of the high peaks, and he hoped he would not have to climb that far, not into the midst of the storm clouds. Jagged lightning arched through the clouds, and he heard a faint rumble. He shivered as a cool, gusting breeze hit his shoulders.
Yet, though it looked as if it would rain any moment, the air was hot and thick and still, and his tongue seemed swollen in his mouth. He needed a drink, but wanted to save the water he'd brought for later.
They drove past the Piñon Flats picnic grounds, or rather what remained of them. The entire area, still cordoned off, lay blackened from the ravages of the fire. They stared at it silently, remembering Laura's account of that night, and then Sunny was taking an unpaved road eastward to the mountains. Behind them, far away now, were all the houses of the city, all the artificial signs of man, and as they rumbled down the rough track, farther and farther into the wilderness, he stared morosely out the window of the truck. A jack rabbit bounded past them, then was gone with a white flash of its tail.
