by Susan Slater
“Hear, hear, to pumpkin seeds.”
The Andersons touched glasses and drank.
+ + +
“The meeting’s ready to start.” Gloria stood in the doorway with what had to be five strings of Christmas lights, three hanging around her neck and one in each hand. A week before Thanksgiving and the hospital was about to get into the holiday spirit.
“What are you going to do with those?” Sandy wanted to make certain that his office would be spared.
“The cafeteria.”
“Good.”
“I’ll probably need some more to do the reception area.”
Was that a plea for a donation? Sandy wasn’t sure. “Do you need my signature to hit petty cash?”
“That would be nice.”
“Okay. Remind me when I get back.”
A blast of Christmas music filled the hallway. Now that seemed a little early. Must be testing the new sound system.
The meeting was planned as a debriefing on the Hantavirus but had turned into a going-away party for Ben. He’d be leaving in mid-December. Sandy would miss him. The room was crowded with technicians from the lab, Ben, Julie and hospital staff.
“The quicker we start, the quicker we can tear into that cake. Who wants to go first? Nancy?” Sandy stepped to the side as she walked to the front of the room.
“Thanks to Julie’s suspicions about Mr. Chang’s lab, we were able to run tests on twelve rodents whose bodies had been left more or less intact by the fire.”
“Hey, how can I eat cake if you’re going to talk about something gory?” a young doc yelled out to an explosion of laughter.
“Okay. No gore. The fact that there was a bandicoot among the rodents sent to be analyzed pretty much points a finger at Mr. Chang being the originator of the altered virus.”
“Where does the CDC go from here?” Sandy asked.
“Well, believe it or not, it’s been a major breakthrough for us to have the virus isolated and grown in a lab. It puts us closer to developing simple diagnostic tests to quickly screen for the illness. Ultimately, we’re one step closer to preventing something like this happening again,” Nancy said.
“What about a vaccine?”
“Another thing that growing the virus in controlled conditions can help with. Right now, a vaccine would be welcomed by our military stationed in Asia. Hantaviruses still kill between ten and forty thousand people annually.”
“What about the death of this Anderson guy over the weekend? Wasn’t that attributed to the virus?”
“Yes. But we have reason to believe that it was an isolated case and does not indicate a new outbreak of the disease. We’ll know more after his son recovers sufficiently to answer questions.” Nancy walked back to her chair.
“Anything else, before we hear from Ben?” Sandy had stepped forward. “Ben, I guess the floor’s yours.” Sandy watched as Ben moved to the front of the room. He’d be an asset to any program. Too bad it would be a few years before he’d be able to come back to Albuquerque.
“As some of you may know, I’ve been accepted at the University of Illinois. I’ll start work on a doctorate in psychology next month.” Ben paused for the applause to die down and then continued to thank Sandy and other hospital personnel for helping to make his internship successful.
“Finished? I’d like to make an announcement, too.” Everyone turned to face Julie.
“As of this morning at 10:05 a.m., I’m the rookie member of the Channel Three News team in Chicago.”
Sandy watched Ben jump over two people seated on the floor to reach Julie. Grabbing her around the waist, he hoisted her in the air before her arms went around his neck and they stood oblivious to the cheers of their audience.
“Hey, one last item of business before this celebration gets out of hand, does anyone remember giving Lorenzo his flu shot before we released him last Friday?” Lost cause, Sandy thought, he didn’t have anyone’s attention.
+ + +
The sun came out about noon and quickly melted the light dusting of powdery snow, leaving wet streaks across the tops of the adobe houses. Lorenzo watched for his chance to walk to the river. For three days his granddaughter hadn’t let him out of her sight. She was in the living room right now retelling the story of Oku pin, of his bravery and how the spirits had directed him to save the life of a young woman about to be killed.
He sighed. He hadn’t wanted to be a hero. Too much fuss. He knew the spirits wanted him to do one last thing. Then it would be over. The blackness would leave his people, and they could live in harmony.
He sat on the edge of his bed putting first one leg then the other into the new jeans that his granddaughter had left out for him. Their starched stiffness slipped in his grip as he tried to pull them up when he stood. He steadied himself with the help of a chair back before reaching for the warm flannel shirt, then the poncho and a blanket. Ready.
He paused in the doorway. All clear. He darted around the edge of the house to peer in the front window. His granddaughter was occupied. She was talking to four of her neighbors who sat around her at the dining room table, each in rapt attention.
The sun made the wet gravel glisten. The road sparkled and beckoned to him to follow as it unfolded to the west. But Lorenzo knew where he had to go. He pulled the poncho around him and stuck one hand deep into the left pocket. Yes, everything was there. Everything that he would need to make the spirits happy.
There was no wind this early afternoon. Trees in their winter starkness stood unmoving. The grasses along the dry irrigation ditches were a parched brown, bent, beaten down, their roots beneath the ground in limbo, waiting for the warmth of spring. Lorenzo liked the wintertime when the plants slept.
This time of year, the Winter Chief spirit might take the form of a crow and accompany him on walks. He scanned the horizon. Surely today, the spirit would be with him to give guidance.
Lorenzo saw the shadow before he saw the great black bird. It landed on a fence post just ahead of him to his right. The crow dipped its head, stretched its wings then settled to preen.
Its feathers gleamed an inky, iridescent jet in the sunlight. Lorenzo spoke to the Winter Chief thanking him for leading him to Oku pin. The chief cocked his head, fluffed his feathers and nodded.
Lorenzo laughed, then closed his mouth quickly as cold air rushed down his throat to seek the center of his being. He pulled the zipper of the poncho up to his neck. It was time to get on with their plan. With the crow fly-hopping along the fence posts in front of him, Lorenzo scuttled down the road, finally stopping where the asphalt drive met the dirt and gravel.
The skeleton casino looked forlorn. Sheets of tarpaper had pulled loose at the corners, curled and ineffective against the plywood siding. There was no glass, just empty window frames and a dome open to the sky. Lorenzo started up the long drive, the crow now hopping across the parking lot beside him.
No spirits dwelled in this shell of a building. The emptiness was complete. Stepping inside, Lorenzo looked up at the pale, clear sky and a coldness seemed to settle around him.
He drew the blanket up to his shoulders, then dug deep in the pocket of his poncho. The packet of matches had “Bernie’s One-Stop Shop” on one side and a telephone number on the other.
But what did he do now? He’d forgotten to bring something to build the fire with, like kindling. He looked around. The Winter Chief had followed him inside and perched on a sawhorse some twenty feet toward the back—on a sawhorse that straddled a pile of refuse—newspapers, insulation, wood.
Lorenzo made a pyramid out of the debris, angling chunks of wood out from the center, rolling newspaper and stuffing it at the base. Then he struck a match and laid it at the bottom of the pile. A wisp of smoke pushed up through the lattice of wood and paper but vanished. Lorenzo got to his knees, struck another match and blew gently. He breathed spirit into the fire and, with a pop, it crackled into flame.
He scuttled back, then struggled upright. The smoke was carr
ied upward through the open dome to the sky. He picked out a burning two-by-four and carried it torch-like to the north wall. The tarpaper and insulation caught fire, flames racing to the bare rafters. In ceremonial silence, Lorenzo repeated his actions holding the torch to each of the other walls. Then he walked through the double front doors and out into the parking lot. He stood in the center and lifted his arms to the heavens and offered a prayer.
Thank you for taking the time to read The Pumpkin Seed Massacre. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and is much appreciated.
Thank you,
Susan Slater
Ben and Julie return in Yellow Lies, next in this enchanting New Mexico mystery series. Salvador Zuni is a master carver of traditional Native American fetishes. He is also a cheat. He makes synthetic amber that rivals anything to be found in nature, complete down to the insects he places inside. His recipe is worth a fortune, and someone is after it. Ben Pecos, as the new resident Indian Health Services psychologist, arrives at the pueblo and finds himself caught up in the investigation of the murder of a trader and the hunt for those who are trying to drive Salvador out of his mind.
Yellow Lies is available in paperback and all e-book formats now!
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