Land of Echoes cb-2

by Daniel Hecht

  She awoke to find herself a hundred yards from the mouth of the ravine, lying facedown on coarse sand. It took her a long moment to regain herself, give herself a name: Lucretia Black. It wasn't sunset, it was deepest night. She sat up quickly and winced as all the pains came at once, the bruised shins and elbows and wrenched shoulder. She straightened and felt every vertebra kink and complain. She got to her feet and swayed for a moment, deeply chilled. After a moment, she thought to push the glow button on her watch, and found that it was after two in the morning.

  Two people had died on this spot. She was too battered and numb to examine the experience in detail, but she sensed they were young, a girl of around thirteen and her brother, a little older. The girl had called him Shinaai. He had gone to retrieve the runaway goats against the family's instructions, and she had followed to bring him back, also against orders. They'd been shot by someone the girl thought of as the New People and the Enemy People: men on horses, many of them, enough to make that awful, air-quivering thunder of hooves and motion and manic energy.

  She did a quick inventory and admitted that she was beat to crap, that she'd done all she could for now. She absolutely had nothing left, emotionally or physically.

  But the wrong of it! The lingering sense of the girl's last bitter instant fired her, and she sat back down, suppressed her sobs, and stubbornly ordered herself to stillness. She willed it to come again: demanded that the ghost cycle through its manifestation, commanded herself to find and tolerate the echoes of that life and death. Insisted that the rocks give up their secrets. Whatever, however the hell it worked.

  But of course you couldn't force it. You couldn't find it if it wasn't there or if you weren't ready. After fifteen more minutes, she accepted the obvious and got creakily to her feet.

  She limped up the ravine to retrieve the backpack and blanket. Climbing over the rock dam again, she thought about the spatiotemporal divergence she'd experienced on her way down, during her urgent rush to warn her brother. The rocks impeding Cree's passage didn't exist in the world of the girl whose final moments she'd experienced; clearly the avalanche that had brought this tumble down hadn't been there when the girl had lived. Her stumbling efforts to clamber over the rocks when half her world didn't contain them brought home just what Tommy must be experiencing when the entity was active in him. It explained the confusion of his labored attempts to climb through the corral fence, or to come down off the examining table: spatiotemporal double vision.

  She made it to the niche and stuffed her things into the backpack, then sat for a moment in the dead silence of the night. Not seeking or expecting anything to happen, just scraping together enough energy to walk back to the school.

  But something was happening.

  Ice crystals tingled in her veins: There was a noise. It had started subliminally and grew imperceptibly until it demanded notice and then it was undeniable. At first, a distant mosquito, and now a big, resounding noise, echoing up from the mouth of the ravine.

  She tucked herself back into the little hollow, trying to analyze the sound as it swelled and Dopplered between the walls. For a horrible moment she thought she'd slipped back, she'd lost her grip on her self and her present and was being drawn unwillingly back to that murderous past.

  But as the noise grew she recognized it. Not horses. A motor.

  A bright light panned the south wall of the mouth of the ravine, bouncing, veering, then skidding upward along the south cliff wall toward her. Two close-set, brilliant beams flashed up the cleft, straight into her eyes, and she jerked her head back. For another few seconds the lights stayed motionless, cutting the rock walls nearby into harsh light and shadow. And then they went out. The engine died.

  Someone was there. At the mouth of the ravine. On some kind of all-terrain vehicle.

  She tipped her head and peered into the darkness below. The blue transparency of the night was gone. Purple blotches and a pair of searing lavender orbs swam in her vision and she couldn't see anything until someone turned on a flashlight, panning it left and right. Somebody was coming up on foot.

  Cree slipped the pack straps over her shoulders, waited until the light vanished momentarily, and then jumped down. She landed on all fours and stayed in a deep crouch, where the rockfall below sheltered her from the flashlight's direct beam. She heard the scrape of boots and a rattle of stones as someone moved closer. The beam came up the ravine again, lighting the cliff just over her head.

  Staying on all fours, she scrambled as high as the shadows allowed, then froze. The shadows swayed and shifted as the flashlight moved, and then it grew dark where she was. She risked a glance back. Whoever it was had reached the lower side of the rock dam and was pointing the flashlight down. Moving it around, left and right, as if looking for footing.

  She took the opportunity to lizard-crawl twenty feet higher. Another ten feet ahead was a fallen sandstone slab big enough to keep her out of view. She leapt for it, stumbled, knocked some loose stones together with a clatter that seemed deafening. She rolled into the embrace of shadow and lay awkwardly half on top of the backpack, cupping her hands over her mouth to muffle her breathing.

  Whoever it was had climbed onto the rocks and was shining the flashlight up the ravine, panning it systematically. Looking for the source of the noise! Cree lay unmoving, shaken by her pounding heart, afraid to lift her head to check whether her feet were out of view, afraid to pull her knees up lest the movement attract attention.

  After an endlessly suspended moment, the light dipped again. She pulled in her legs, cramming herself behind the canted slab. From the scuffle of boots, it didn't sound as if the person was coming any closer, and at last she dared to tip her head out to look.

  Someone was moving around on the rockfall, shining the flashlight down at the jumbled boulders and stones. Cree was only sixty feet away, but all she could see was the brilliant circle of light and the rugged surfaces of the rocks it illuminated. Back and forth. Somebody was looking for something. A very systematic inspection.

  She watched for several minutes, trying to decide what she would do if whoever it was came higher. There would be no opportunity to run farther up without being seen, no protection from the light. She could wait behind her slab, leap up, clop whoever with a rock. Or maybe she should use the pepper spray. If she could just get the jump on whoever it was-

  The movement of the light changed. The person was coming this way again. Whoever it was came down off the rock dam on the uphill side. Cree groped in the pack for the pepper spray. She brought the can out and positioned her finger on the spray button, mentally rehearsing what she'd have to do.

  But the flashlight didn't approach. The person appeared to be inspecting the base of the rockfall, taking time, looking into cracks and gaps. With the glow of the rocks behind it now, she could see the whole black silhouette of the visitor for the first time, and she let slip a gasp of surprise as she recognized the shape. After another few minutes, the light went out and there was silence. Cree saw the flare of a match, quickly extinguished and replaced by the glow of a cigarette. In another moment, the smell of tobacco wafted up. For a time she couldn't see or hear anything, but then she heard the scrape of boots again, up and over the rock dam, fading.

  The engine of the ATV cranked and revved, the headlights washed the ravine and panned and disappeared. The retreating wedge of light swept to the right, and the red taillights zipped out of view to the north. The engine noise swelled and faded and was gone.

  North, she thought. The direction from which evil comes.

  She waited for a long time in the darkness, still afraid to move. At long last, she stood and began a limping half walk, half run back to the school and sanity. Her nerves shrieked with tension. She went stealthily, watchfully, ready to dart for cover if there was any indication Donny McCarty's thug, Nick Stephanovic, was coming back.

  40

  Wednesday morning, bright and clear, not yet nine o'clock. Cree had showered, but she hadn't sle
pt and was tired and wired beyond anything she could remember. Earlier, she had called Paul in New Orleans, deliberately dialing his office number so she'd get his answering machine, and left a message saying she'd be out of touch for a few days, don't worry if she didn't call. Then she had called ahead to the Navajo Nation Inn to let Joyce and Edgar know she was coming. It would be a short conference, and they wouldn't like what she had to tell them.

  The two of them were already waiting in Edgar's room, where the curtains were pulled wide, filling the room with sunlight. The TV was on with the sound off: some morning news show featuring clips of missiles taking off, then somber talking heads, then some more armaments doing their thing.

  "You got a coffeemaker in here?" Cree asked.

  "It's already made." Edgar poured her a cup from the little carafe and Cree took it greedily, swigged it, scalded her tongue and was glad for the pain.

  "Long night?" Joyce inquired. Deadpan understatement serving as accusation.

  "And getting longer by the minute."

  "So you haven't slept at all?"

  "Let's sit, we've got a lot of ground to cover and then I've got to get going."

  They sat reluctantly, giving each other dubious glances.

  "Here's the deal. I know where Tommy is, and I have the family's permission to see him. I've got to go, this morning. From what Joseph Tsosie says, he's losing ground fast. The state Child Protective Services people are looking for him, the doctors want to try potentially damaging drug therapies on him, Julieta's going to pieces, and Donny McCarty is eager to make some shit for Julieta and the school for reasons I don't-"

  "Cree," Edgar broke in. "Slow down. You're really wound up."

  Cree inhaled, counted to three, and went on: "Tommy's aunts and uncles and cousins are on shifts taking care of him, but they may not be able to do much. That… paralysis, or whatever the hell it is, is getting stronger-"

  "And into the breach steps Cree Black to single-handedly save the day," Joyce said witheringly.

  "Don't, Joyce. Don't even bother. I've got to get to him and try to make contact with whatever's in him, and I've got to do it immediately. I'll be leaving here and going to the sheep camp where they've taken him. The grandparents' place is two hours' drive from here, the roads are supposed to be a bitch, and the camp is some miles beyond that. So I can't go back and forth."

  "Meaning we're not coming with you," Edgar clarified.

  "I can't explain the dynamics right now, Ed! There's cultural stuff, there's racial stuff, there are family issues, it's all very complex territory and we're lucky they're letting even me see him. I will certainly ask if you can come, but I doubt they'll go for it. I'd like to put the FMEEG on him as much as you would, but there's no power source for it up there anyway."

  She took another breath as they stared at her. She inhaled again and tried to find the brake pedal and put her thoughts in order. Looking down at the half-drunk cup in her hand, she saw the ebony surface shivering with concentric rings as her jangly energy conveyed itself to the liquid. The image teased her memory, and after a second then she placed it: Jurassic Park-that glass of water, trembling with the approaching footsteps of T. Rex.

  "You want to tell us what happened last night?" Ed asked gently. He glanced at her scraped hands and broken nails.

  "I went to the mesa, and don't bother bitching at me about it! There was an event out there, at least two people died, probably more. Two teenagers, a girl and a boy, trying to retrieve their family's goats. I assume they were Navajos. They were shot by horsemen. I saw it through the girl's eyes. I didn't pick up the brother at all. But the girl called him Shinaai."

  " Shot-guns or arrows?" Joyce's legal pad had materialized in her hands.

  Seeing that, Cree's momentum stumbled. She looked from Joyce to Ed, saw the concern in their faces and their resigned readiness to support her, and abruptly she loved them so much it hurt. It took her a moment to get her breath.

  "Guns," she said.

  "Any chance either the boy or the girl is our entity?"

  "Not the girl. But the boy or another family member, I'd say a very good chance."

  "But… what's the link to Tommy?" Ed asked. "What's he got in common with those ghosts?"

  "I don't know yet. I need to get something more from Tommy, or I need some historical background that'll steer me. Have you made any headway on the mesa, Joyce?"

  Joyce shook her head. "Sorry, Cree. I kept at it after we went to the mine yesterday, but nothing. History teachers up at Dine College and UNM, the people at Gallup Historical Society-nobody knew bupkes about that mesa. I looked at a couple of old maps from the 1800s, but it isn't marked on them. I still have a few leads left to follow up, but I'm not holding my breath."

  "Okay. Well, make it top priority today. From what you've learned about the history of the area, do you have any general ideas about what could have happened, or when?"

  "Hmm. Horses would mean post-1540 at the least, and probably later. The combination of guns and horses would suggest it's something more recent, closer to the American era, like mid-1800s. Could be an event from intertribal raiding, maybe Utes or Apaches. Or a slave raid by Mexicans, or some U.S. Army action. I don't know."

  " 'The New People,'" Cree muttered. " 'The Enemy People.' That's how she thought of them."

  Joyce puzzled, made a note.

  "What can I do?" Edgar put in. "The electrical system checks out as sound, there's nothing for us to learn there. Nothing that would help you now, in any case. I'd go to the ravine and do some technical work, but we're obviously past that point."

  "Help Joyce with the mesa. Somewhere there's got to be a record of what happened there."

  Ed nodded. Cree drained her cup, then stood and went to the coffeemaker. She poured the last splash and gulped it, trying to remember what else she needed to tell them.

  Joyce looked up from her notes, frowning. "What about the idea of the entity being Garrett McCarty? Is there anything Ed and I can do to verify or exclude that possibility?"

  "I don't know how, just now. But I had a disturbing moment yesterday afternoon. Julieta told me she's thought other kids at the school might be hers. That doesn't mean Tommy isn't her kid, but from where I sit it shoots a lot of holes in her… reliability as a witness. If it turns out he isn't her child, I don't see how the Garrett McCarty idea would hold much water."

  "Can we do something to determine, definitively, who Tommy is?" Edgar asked.

  "His birth records won't help. I'm hoping I can ask the relatives whether he was adopted. If they'll tell me anything. But we really need to look hard at the Keedays-Tommy's parents, adoptive or otherwise. Have you got any more on that, Joyce?"

  Joyce bobbed her head. "A little. Found the medical examiner's report. Thomas and Bernice Keeday, killed in a car crash up near Tuba City. Both had been drinking, but the father's blood alcohol was through the roof, like one point eight, so his last hours and moments would have been pretty cloudy. He was speeding, tried to avoid some cows on the road, drove into a boulder. Death was instantaneous for both of them-severe head injuries."

  "Night? Day?"

  "Night. Time of death ten fifty-eight p.m."

  Cree filed the information away. "Any theories about why one of them would come into Tommy at this point, at this place?"

  They both shook their heads.

  Cree was pacing aimlessly, frazzled and jittery, but stopped as Edgar stood and took her arm.

  "Cree. Before you go blasting out of here. Stop for one second. Stop and tell us, tell yourself, what you've got going for you out there. What you're bringing to the situation in the way of a plan or information. You don't know who the ghost is or what it wants, you don't even know who Tommy Keeday is."

  Of course he was right, she wasn't thinking clearly. All she had were a few vague ideas batting around in her head, moths swarming a porch light. But you had to have a battle plan. Ordinarily, an investigation would entail a lot of brainstorming with Ed and Joyce,
going over the details, conducting a microanalysis, sifting what they'd learned for clues about the ghost's actions, motivations, historical period, anything. This whole situation had been so headlong from the first moment. They hadn't taken the time.

  She dropped onto the bed, bounced, sat, chewed her lips. They watched her.

  "If we're thinking the ghost is stuck reliving its last moments, we've got to look at its narrative. That's all I'll have if you guys can't come up with any historical data. What is it trying to do? What is it reliving?"

  The entity in Tommy was probably reliving a memory or a fantasy of some action. If a memory, it was most likely one from the period just before and during its death, or a crucial event in its earlier life. Memory or fantasy, knowing it would help Cree discern the ghost's core motivation, its unfulfilled urge.

  "What does it do that supports the perseverating narrative idea?" Ed prompted.

  Cree tried to recall every moment. "Well, the first night I was there, it went walking. And it seems to attack or… fight. There's a period of convulsions every time, too. Some stereotypical movements, too, the arm pushing out and snapping back."

  "Is there a predictable sequence to its actions?" Joyce asked.

  Cree thought about it, trying to picture it. "Maybe. I don't know. The problem is, you can't tell whether it's the entity or Tommy who's at the wheel at any given moment. You see what I mean? And we don't know how much of what we're seeing is just a… a bad fit, a neurological short-circuiting caused by two beings trying to occupy one body. And whatever the ghost is trying to do, it can't very well because Tommy fights it. We fight it. We sit on Tommy so he doesn't hurt himself."

  "Hmm." Ed turned away, folded his arms across his chest, dropped his head. Turned back. "What would happen if nobody fought it? If you just let it go so you could observe the whole cycle of its actions?"

  "I've considered that. So far, I've been too afraid Tommy could hurt himself-walk off a cliff or something. Afraid if we don't interrupt it, it'll take him over completely. But you're right, I'd get a better idea of what's going on if I let it play out. It'd have to be a last resort, though."