Graywolf glanced up from the copy of the police report made by Mallory Wakefield the day earlier and gave the officer a deliberate look. “You mean until the body is found.” Graywolf was glad for the chance to talk frankly with George before Mallory arrived.
George Robins smiled, sighing deeply and adjusting his glasses again. “I love it when you decide to play the jaded, embittered Indian. You do it so well, so noble. It’s been too long, Graywolf.”
Graywolf rolled his eyes and peered at the report. Having roomed with Robins for four years at Arizona State, Graywolf had gotten used to his candid humor and wry wit long ago. “Come on, George. This woman didn’t just decide to drive off into the sunset and you know it.”
“Do I? Lord, Ben, I can’t even figure out whose jurisdiction it is. She lived in Sedona, worked at a school outside Flagstaff, tutors on the reservation, and it’s anybody’s guess where she was when she disappeared.” He shook his head. “My head’s spinning.”
“The fact that she’s gone should be enough. She’s a teacher. She has a job, responsibilities. She was planning a vacation with her sister. Now she’s missing.” Graywolf tossed the report down onto the desk. “Someone like that doesn’t just take off without a word to anyone.”
George gestured to the file cabinet behind him. “I hate to tell you this, but it happens all the time.”
Graywolf shook his head. “Bull.”
“Tell me, Ben,” George said, dropping his feet to the floor and sitting up. “Why are you so interested in all of this? Is it your mystical shaman’s intuition, or does it have more to do with a blonde with killer blue eyes and a nice set of casabas? Tom Layton, the Sedona cop who took her report, told me she was drop-dead gorgeous.”
“You’re a sick bastard, Robins,” Graywolf said, disgusted. He pushed himself out of the chair and walked to the window. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Well of course I am,” George agreed amicably. “I’m a cop.”
Just then a young woman opened the door and stuck her head in. “George, there’s a woman here to see you? A Miss Wakefield?”
“Well, well, well,” he said, shooting a wicked glance at Graywolf. “Speak of the devil. Show her in, Diane.”
Graywolf watched in sullen silence as Mallory Wakefield walked into George’s small office and introduced herself to him. She hadn’t been there to meet him when he’d arrived, and he’d begun to hope she’d changed her mind and decided not to come.
Wrong again, he thought darkly as George ushered her to a chair and rushed to get her a cup of coffee. The sight of her made the muscles in his stomach tighten uneasily. She was the antithesis of him, with her flowing blond hair and pale complexion—stark contrasts to his heavy, dark mane and sun-baked skin. She was the kind of white woman an Indian could look at, but never touch.
In the harsh glare of the overhead light fixture, her long hair looked whiter, and even more pristine—like pure, unsullied snow dusting the desert. He’d watched the lights of her car disappear into the darkness last night, wondering if he’d made a mistake in agreeing to help her. Her two thousand dollars would buy a lot of paint for the beleaguered legal clinic he and a few loyal friends had been working on. But even without the money, he’d been duty bound.
He thought of his vision again—the vision of a woman who looked like her, surrounded by a shining white brilliance, that faded into a galaxy scattered with crescent moons and stars. Duty bound, or just curious, it really didn’t matter. He’d been compelled by the vision to help her, and that had been enough. Still, it didn’t mean he had to like it. He was leery of her. He didn’t trust white women, and he didn’t trust reporters, and this woman was both. It would be wise to tread carefully around her.
He watched as she talked with George—her clear eyes alert and attentive, her voice soft and intense. Was she aware of the things she did, or were they really just her nature—the tilt of her head, the slight parting of her lips, the ardent, earnest way she followed your every movement with those blue-green eyes of hers? Even George, who prided himself on being such a seasoned, hard-nosed cop, was mesmerized by her—it really was pathetic.
Graywolf shifted his weight uneasily, rubbing at the tension building in his gut. The shade of her eyes changed like the color of the ocean—brilliant blue one moment, dark murky green the next. The woman made him uneasy, even though that ever-changing gaze of hers had given him only the briefest of glances since she’d walked into the room.
“But like I’ve told Mr. Graywolf here,” George said magnanimously, gesturing broadly with his hand. “We’ll do everything we can to aid him in his search for your sister.”
Mallory shot a gaze in Graywolf’s direction, then back to the ruggedly pleasant face of Lieutenant George Robins. “I appreciate that,” she said quietly.
The telephone rang loudly, and George picked it up before it had a chance to ring again. After listening for a moment, he hung up and stood. “They’ve just brought in a suspect I need to talk to.” He glanced at Mallory, and then turned to Graywolf. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes, if you have any other questions.”
Graywolf shook his head. “I think I’ve got all I need.” He extended his hand to George and the two men shook. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure, pal.” George smiled, slapping Graywolf on the arm. He nodded to Mallory. “And let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Graywolf nodded, and after a brief goodbye to Mallory, George left. Graywolf made no attempt to speak, made no effort to disturb the silence that followed George’s exit. Standing with his back to the window, he stared across the small office at George’s cluttered wall with its crooked pictures and faded reports pinned to it.
But he saw none of that. He was too busy turning the situation over in his mind—outlining a plan of action, designing a course of attack. When Mallory spoke, he jumped. He’d almost forgotten she was there.
“I was late,” she announced, as though he might not have noticed.
“Were you?” he said, sliding his gaze down slowly to where she sat. He’d never quite understood the white man’s discomfort with silence, and their penchant for small talk.
“Was your friend any help?”
Graywolf walked to the desk and handed her the copy of the police report she’d made at the Sedona Police Department. “Not really. But George might come in handy later on.” He turned and started for the door.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, rising quickly to her feet. She stood so quickly that her purse tumbled off her lap and to the floor.
He turned back to her. “There’s really nothing more I can do here.”
She reached down, retrieving the purse. “Where are we going now?”
“We?”
She pushed an errant strand of hair out of her face. “I told you I wanted to be a part of this.”
He studied her for a long moment, noting the determined expression and the stubborn set to her shoulders. “Yeah, right, you did,” he conceded. He opened the door, stepping gallantly aside to allow her to pass through before him. “After you.”
Mallory slipped her purse strap over her shoulder, and walked out. “Where are we going?” she asked again when they’d reached the bank of elevators that would take them to the ground floor.
“Your sister’s house.”
She looked up at him. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d expected him to be wearing—denim, maybe, like he had on last night. But he’d managed to surprise her again. He looked so different now, with his long hair neatly tied back and wearing a crisp, pale blue chambray shirt, khaki slacks and moccasin-style loafers.
She thought again of the articles Glen had sent, and the things she’d learned from them. Somehow, seeing him now, she found them a lot easier to believe. This morning he looked much more like a lawyer and a lot less like a silversmith. Still, the casual attire was a far cry from the three-piece suit a Washington lobbyist might wear.
“My sister’s house?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking down at her. “You have a problem with that?”
“No, no, of course not,” she said, shaking her head. The elevator arrived and they stepped inside. “But I’ve already looked through her things. What are you looking for?”
He shrugged, punching the button for the lobby. “I’ll let you know when I find it.”
* * *
“What’s this?”
Mallory glanced up from the bureau drawer she was looking through to the small, domed trunk Graywolf had dragged from the closet. “That’s Marissa’s treasure chest.”
Graywolf made a face. “Treasure chest?”
Mallory laughed. “Aunt Bernice sent us each one when we turned ten.” She crossed the bedroom and knelt down beside him in front of the chest. “They’re really old, and I suppose quite valuable. Aunt Bea said they were to be our hope chests.” Mallory laughed again, running a hand over the tooled leather that covered the sturdy wood frame, remembering. “But to Marissa and me they looked like something from a pirate ship. We called them our treasure chests.”
Graywolf looked quickly away, running an uneasy hand along his stomach. He had a muscle spasm again, and he slowly rose to his feet. He’d watched her as she spoke, seeing how the tension had left her face as she remembered the childhood memory. Maybe it was foolish, but watching her had moved him. Suddenly she’d become a real person—not just a reporter, and not just a white woman. He knew she had a sister, but he hadn’t really thought of her as having a life—with a family, and a past. In that brief moment, she’d become more than just a vision to him, and he wasn’t sure he liked the change.
“It’s locked,” he announced, watching her hands as they slid over the chest. “Do you know where the key is?”
“As I recall,” she said as she bunched her hand into a fist, “we shouldn’t need one.” She gave the chest a formidable rap on its side, and the shiny black hasp snapped open. Looking up at Graywolf, she slowly raised the lid and smiled. “See?”
Graywolf ignored the smile, telling himself the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach was merely a lack of food and had nothing at all to do with her clear blue eyes. He slowly knelt down beside her and peered into the chest, half expecting to find a pirate’s treasure inside.
But there was no cache, no jewels or doubloons, just a small stack of loose papers, an orderly collection of files, and a neat row of photo albums. He reached down and picked up a paper from the stack. It was a child’s drawing—a crayoned creation picturing two people with oversize heads and huge eyes, smiling and riding inside a car with a sagging roof and four undersize wheels. The name Josh was scrawled in the corner in black, uneven block letters.
“One of her students?” he asked, tilting the picture so Mallory could look.
Mallory glanced down at the child’s picture, and the smile slowly left her face. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Josh is our brother Caleb’s son.”
Graywolf fingered through the rest of the stack. “Looks like she has quite a collection.”
Mallory followed his gaze to the mound of pictures. “Yeah. Josh and Marissa used to be really close.”
Graywolf looked at her. The tension had returned to her face. “Used to be?”
Mallory shrugged, reaching for one of the photo albums. “We lost Caleb a couple of years ago—an auto accident. Josh had just turned thirteen, and it hit him pretty hard. Then his mom—my sister-in-law Penny, died a few months ago. Of course, my parents were there to help. They took Josh in, but it’s been pretty rough on everyone. I don’t think Josh has felt close to anyone for a long time.”
Graywolf returned the picture to the chest, reaching for one of the files. While Mallory sat leaning against the door and gazing at the photos, he leafed through files of tax receipts, old letters and the random papers Marissa Wakefield had found worthy to save. There was nothing useful in any of them, nothing that gave him a “feeling” for the woman.
From one of the files, a loose photograph fell. Picking it up, Graywolf stared down at the two identical faces. Mallory and her sister looked to be about ten in the photo, sitting together on a huge, iron-framed bed with a dainty pink comforter and frilly, ruffled pillows. They smiled into the camera, their pale curls tousled and disheveled, and their blue eyes sparkling and full of mischief.
He thought about the two of them—growing up a matched set, two perfect little dolls. He suspected they could have melted the hardest heart. Was it any wonder their father had wanted to give them the moon and the stars? What parent wouldn’t want to pamper such flawless little beauties?
He looked at the room with its frills, and bows, and bright colors. So different, he thought. So different from the narrow mattress tossed on the floor and the drab brown cardboard that lined the walls of the small room he’d shared with his brother. He’d bet the Wakefield twins had been indulged, spoiled and catered to all their lives. They came from a different world, a different existence.
Mallory Wakefield and her sister wouldn’t understand about going to bed with an empty stomach, or walking miles in the harsh, winter wind in shoes too small and a coat too worn to offer any protection from the cold. They wouldn’t know about a father forced to labor too many hours for too little money, or a mother so weary of struggling against the hopelessness of life that she lost the will to live. But he knew.
Graywolf thought of his own family—his parents and younger brother Billy. Life on the reservation wasn’t easy, but he remembered the good times. His father had never been too tired to toss a ball with Billy and him, and his mother would sit for hours, holding them in her lap and telling them beautiful stories of the Navajo—the People—and their journey from the underworld. His parents had been good, hard-working people who had deserved a better life, and as a kid Graywolf had vowed to give them one. But the years of constant struggle and crushing poverty had taken their toll. When Graywolf was twelve, his father had died of a massive heart attack, and his mother had literally died of grief a year later.
Hosteen Johnny had taken them in then, giving them a roof over their heads and teaching them the way of the shaman. But Billy had no patience for study. As soon as he could, he left the reservation and joined the Army, making it a career. They still kept in touch, but the military had bred most of the Navajo from him. He was a white man now, hidden beneath a red skin.
Graywolf slipped the photo into the pocket of his shirt, telling himself he’d keep it as a reminder, something he could take out and look at just to help him remember how different he and Mallory really were.
He reached down into the chest for the last file. When he opened it up, a large manila envelope slipped out onto the floor. He reached down to pick it up, but when his hand touched the faded, golden paper, he suddenly was struck with an unexpected, helpless feeling of sadness.
Graywolf immediately became alert. Feelings like this usually meant something, and he’d long ago learned to pay attention to them. Slowly, he opened the envelope, and looked inside.
“Certificate of birth,” he read, slowly unfolding the official-looking document to full length.
Mallory looked up, letting the photo album she’d been browsing through slide down her lap to her feet. “What?”
“It’s a birth certificate.”
“Marissa’s?”
Graywolf shook his head.
Mallory lifted herself up to her knees. “Let me see that.”
Graywolf handed her the document. “Why would your sister have a birth certificate for your nephew?”
Suddenly angry, Mallory folded the paper closed and slipped it back inside the envelope. “Is all this really necessary? These are my sister’s private papers, her personal business. They’re not going to tell us where she is.”
“But they might tell us why your sister is listed as Josh’s mother.”
Mallory sank back to the floor, leaning her head back against the door frame. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, using sheer willpower to stop the
sting of tears. “I already know why.”
“Then, why don’t you tell me.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Because it’s none of your business. Because it’s nothing that’s going to help you find her.”
“Let me decide that.”
Her eyes narrowed. He was purposely being hard. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in being a bastard to her. She pushed herself away from the wall and rose to her feet. “I don’t know how this could help. You’ve probably figured it out already.” She walked to the bedroom window and gazed out at the red mountains in the distance. “Marissa had a baby when she was in high school. Caleb and his wife Penny couldn’t have children so they adopted the little boy.” She turned back around and gave him a deliberate look. “That’s it. Are you satisfied?”
Graywolf was hardly satisfied. He suspected there was much more to it than that, but he decided not to push. He thought of the picture in his pocket, of the two perfect little faces smiling up into the camera. Maybe even in a perfect life, things weren’t always so perfect. “Why the birth certificate?”
Mallory felt chilled, and she crossed her arms over her chest. How many times in the last fifteen years had she held Marissa in her arms and cried with her? “It nearly killed my sister to give up her baby, Mr. Graywolf. She loves her son very much, and she did what she thought was best for him—just like now. She hopes to file for custody of him, now that Caleb and Penny are both gone. Josh knows he’s adopted, but he has no idea Marissa is his birth mother. She told me she’d kept it—the original birth certificate, I mean—to remind herself that Josh really had belonged to her once.”
Graywolf watched Mallory’s face as she spoke. She’d been right, of course. There was nothing in all of this that would help him find Marissa Wakefield. But it had done one thing. It had helped him understand a little better, helped him appreciate that special communication Mallory had tried to explain. Graywolf had felt the pain of a young woman who’d been forced to give up her son, and he’d seen that pain on the face of her sister.
Tears of the Shaman Page 4
