Bad Medicine (Healing Spirits)

by Jude Pittman

  Healing Spirits – Book 1

  Bad Medicine

  By

  Jude Pittman

  ISBN: 978-1-77145-132-1

  Published By:

  Books We Love Ltd.

  Chestermere, Alberta

  Canada

  http://bookswelove.net

  Copyright 2013 by Jude Pittman

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2013

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Prologue

  His fingers tightened against the soft brown flesh of her throat stifling her screams and forcing her eyes to bulge in terror.

  His free hand played along the neckline of her soft cotton blouse, his groin tingled and his breath came in short spurts as he savored his power.

  He gathered her blouse into a tight ball twisting and snapping the flimsy threads that barely covered her nakedness. The fabric tore and gave way, and his eyes feasted on plump brown breasts. Trembling he pressed his palm against her nipples, parted his lips and rolled his tongue across his lips and over his sharp white teeth.

  She struggled beneath his grasp, and he tightened his grip squeezing until her movements stopped. Excitement stirred him. He moved his hand along her plumb legs and slid it between her thighs. A low animal cry rose in his throat. Heart pounding, blood roaring through his veins he sank his teeth into her breast. Blood spurted against his lips and the sweetness crazed him. Crying out in a climax, his powerful fingers sank into her throat and snapped the tiny bones in her neck.

  Her grotesque death mask mocked him. He reached for a pillow and covered her face, but the pristine white case mocked him, and the salt of her blood stung his lips.

  He backed away and sank into a chair. He started to shake and whimper like a frightened child. His power was gone and fear lurked in the silent room.

  “I’ve got to get her out of here,” he whispered, and as if to underscore his fear, footsteps echoed in the hallway. His senses flashed to alert, rising from his chair he crept toward the door. His fingers groped for the deadbolt, and he nodded, satisfied that it was secure.

  He waited and listened to the silence. The footsteps sounded again and moved along the hall. Fear rose in his throat and he choked it down. He pressed his ear against the smooth wood door and crouched motionless until his legs ached and the muscles in his arms bulged and twitched. A door opened and closed again, and the footsteps drew away and then grew fainter. He waited an eternity in the silence, and then carefully he released the lock and looked out into the hallway. Now, he had to move her now.

  Chapter One

  Jesse Dancer froze with the phone to his ear.

  “We’ve got one of yours.” The disembodied voice of Detective Mark Hanson crackled through the receiver. “She’s been strangled.”

  “What makes you think she’s mine?”

  “She’s about fifteen, looks streetwise—she’s Native. How soon can you get down here?”

  “Give me twenty minutes.” Jesse set the receiver in its cradle and stared, unseeing, at the funding proposal on his desk. Had somebody killed one of his kids? His cop friends were always preaching detachment. How in hell was he supposed to do that? Jesse understood these kids. His mom was Ojibway and he considered himself Native, even though his dad was one of those Irish, Indian, French mixtures that Canadians referred to as Métis. The Native kids trusted Jesse, which was a lot more than they did most white men.

  I need a coffee. Jesse left his desk and headed for the lunchroom. Annie, the Friendship Centre’s receptionist was inside taking her morning break. She greeted him with a wave.

  “How’s it going?” Jesse noted the bulge in Annie’s cheek and the half-eaten donut in her hand.

  She flashed her eyes at him and he laughed. Even though Jesse kept his long black hair tied with a thong and made it a point to dress conservatively, he’d gotten used to the sultry looks and suggestive remarks his well-muscled body drew from female co‑workers.

  Taking the coffee back to his desk he picked up his pencil and ordered himself to focus. Twenty minutes later, he stopped at Annie’s desk with his proposal. “Dim Sum’s on me if you’ll get this typed and on the Director’s desk by three o’clock.”

  Annie giggled. “I’ll hold you to that,” she told his retreating back.

  * * *

  Vancouver police headquarters covers two blocks and finding a parking space takes fortitude. Jesse circled, made a sharp turn onto Cordova and hit the brakes. An old wino stepped in front of the Jeep and flipped the bird.

  Jesse shook his head and laughed. Yesterday was Welfare Wednesday. The old boozer would be back in the soup line tomorrow, but today he had a bottle of cheap wine clutched in his hand and change jingling in his pocket. Today he was King for a day.

  A Honda pulled away from the curb and Jesse slid into position. It took some doing to snug a Jeep into a spot left by a Honda, but he’d had plenty of practice. Moments later, Jesse locked the doors and crossed the street.

  Making his way up the steps and through the double doors, he stopped at the front desk. “I’m going up to see Hanson.”

  The desk clerk looked up from a magazine, nodded his head and went back to reading.

  As usual, Jesse bypassed the elevator and took the steps to the third floor. At the end of the hall, he stopped in front of a corner office, knocked once, and stepped inside.

  “Good, you’re here.” Detective Hanson motioned to the wooden chair fronting his desk. “You remember Carver?” The detective indicated the tall, dark‑skinned native who stood with his shoulder propped against the window frame.

  “Sure. How’s it going, Frank?”

  Carver nodded in return.

  “Well, now that you’re here.” Hanson hoisted his 240-pound frame out of the chair, pulled open a file drawer and removed a glossy black and white. “See if you recognize this girl.” He handed over the photo and Jesse found himself looking at a bruised and bloated face dominated by sightless dead eyes.

  His stomach clenched. “She doesn’t look familiar but it’s hard to tell from this. Where’d they find her?”

  “One of the guards checking out the west-end of the Park where the bums bed down stumbled across her body. Doc says she was killed somewhere else and dumped.”

  “Raped?”

  Hanson nodded. “We figure an Indian killed her.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They found her stripped and staked out like she was an offering in some kind of a ritual. Her arms and legs had been tied with buckskin and she had this card stuck to her breast.”

  Hanson held up a pale blue card. “Carver says it’s a Medicine Card

  [1].” He turned the card to reveal a picture of a rattlesnake curled around a nest of eggs.

  “That’s a Medicine Card, all right.” Jesse took the card out of Hanson’s hand. “That still doesn’t explain why you think the killer is Native. You can buy these cards at every New Age shop in the city. Besides Indians are superstitious and messing with the Medicine Cards is taboo.”

  “Well, killing people’s taboo, too, and this bastard didn’t mind that.”

  Hanson reached out his hand for the card and Jesse held it back. “You said the card was stuck on her. How?”

  “With this.” Hanson reached into the envelope and pulled out a kitchen knife. “Carver says these Medicine Cards mean something. You know anything about the
m?”

  “No, but I know someone who does. Let me take him the card and see what he says?”

  “Are you nuts? This is evidence. If the Sergeant found out I let you take a card out of evidence he’d have me back on the street handing out parking tickets.”

  “Easy money.” Jesse chuckled at the vision of Hanson’s belly stuffed inside a uniform. Then he cut the grin. “Seriously Mark,” he said, “I’d like Spirit Water to take a look. He reads the Medicine Cards.”

  Hanson scowled. “Bring him in then.”

  Jesse shook his head. “Spirit Water’s one of the old timers. His memory goes back to the days when white cops beat the shit out of Indians for entertainment. I can’t say he’s never been inside a police station, but if so, it wasn’t his idea.”

  “Damn fools.” Hanson shook his head.

  Jesse, not knowing whether Hanson meant Spirit Water or the white cops, kept silent.

  Finally, Hanson grunted out of his chair and walked over to the photocopy machine. “I’ll make a copy for you. Take it along to the old man and see what he says. I’ll expect a report.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to take a run out there this weekend. I’ll let you know if he has any ideas.”

  Once outside of headquarters Jesse retrieved the Jeep, stopped by the Friendship Center to make sure Annie had turned in his proposal, reiterated his promise to take her for Dim Sum, and headed home.

  The details of the girl’s murder had Jesse worried. It took a lot of juggling to maintain harmony in a large multi‑cultural city like Vancouver. The way the press would play this up if they got any hint of a ritual murder could spark the kind of racial tension that would make his job even tougher than it already was. The Native community remembered all too vividly the routs of the 1950’s when the Canadian government —hell-bent on reforming savages—gave their Indian agents instructions to round-up Native kids, take them away from their families, and force them into residential schools. The divide between Indian and White ran deep. Most Natives would read about the murder in the media and immediately jump to the conclusion that yet another Native brother was being set up to pay for a white man’s crimes.

  Jesse drove along Commercial Drive to Adanac and turned into the alley behind an attractive two story colonial. The square frame and brick structure housed a Chinese grocery on the ground floor and a pair of condos on top. Jesse had purchased the property before the latest boom had sent Vancouver’s housing skyrocketing. The double garage attached to the property had sold him on the place. It was a decision he’d never regretted.

  Until recently, Jesse had lived in one of the condos and kept the other vacant. That had changed three months ago when the Friendship Center hired a young Métis woman from Quebec. Director Sandstone, mindful of Vancouver’s housing crisis, pleaded with Jesse to rent his second condo to their new associate. Jesse resisted at first, unwilling to relinquish his privacy, but then he’d met Martine.

  Silky black hair hung long and straight to her waist and Jesse’s eyes followed miles of leg from the hem of her mini-skirt to the strappy leather sandals on her feet.

  “Jesse. This is our new associate Martine LaChance. I’ve told her you might be able to help with finding accommodations.” Director Sandstone had brought Martine into Jesse’s office and stood there with a smug smile on her lips when Jesse’s face took on the startled gaze of a deer caught in headlights.

  “Hi.” Martine fixed her melting chocolate eyes on Jesse’s coal black orbs. Stunned by the fire in his belly and the tangle of his tongue, Jesse stuttered through introductions and arranged a showing of his condo.

  Remembering the rest of that day still had Jesse squirming. He’d taken Martine through the condo and they’d gone to his place to work out the details. Jesse gave her the lease and while she read it over, he admired her obvious assets. When Martine finished reading, she signed her name, and handed the lease back to Jesse. Then she let out a long-suffering sigh. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding,” she’d said. “I’m flattered by your obvious interest, but I never get personally involved with my co-workers.” The look on her face and the flash in her eyes left no doubt that she’d observed his scrutiny.

  Mortified. Jesse added his signature to the lease and promised to provide her with a copy back at the office. That had been a month ago. They’d developed a good working relationship, friendly, uncomplicated, and definitely platonic, at least on Martine’s part.

  Jesse unlocked the downstairs door and let himself into the foyer. Removing a couple of circulars from the mailbox, he dropped them in the trash and double-stepped up the stairs. At the top, the door on the left led to Martine’s unit, the door on the right to his.

  Martine’s door stood ajar. Right from the start, she’d been open about sharing their common areas. Too bad, she wasn’t so open about other aspects of their lives.

  Whoa! Jesse tamped his libido as he let himself inside his own condo and headed for the living room. If the lady in question knew what I was thinking, she’d have my scalp hanging alongside yours. Jesse told the hairpieces hanging from one of the antique belts in his collection.

  Jesse’s living room décor reflected his cultural heritage and his passion for traditional oddities like the scalp collection. Against the wall stood a six-foot oak cabinet with heavy doors and stained glass inserts. Inside a beat up leather case lined with faded blue velvet cloth held Jesse’s most cherished possession. Wrapped in a swatch of rabbit’s fur lay the sacred pipe that he had carved back when he’d been sweating drugs and alcohol out of his system.

  Taking the pipe out of its case and strolling out to the patio, Jesse settled into a chair and lit the pipe. He needed to offer prayers for the young girl’s spirit and remind the Creator that getting respect had been a hard struggle for his people. Vancouver was a major improvement over the small Ontario town where Jesse and his sister grew up, but the line between white man and Indian never quite went away. Having a brother accused of a ritual sex crime would be a major setback.

  After making his offering and saying his prayers, Jesse packed the pipe back in its case and stood up to lean against the railing.

  Down below an ethnic mix of Caucasians, Natives, Asians, East Indians and Africans strolled past the pasta houses, delis, coffee shops and fruit stands lining Commercial Drive. Hands of every shape and size picked through boxes of plump red tomatoes, measured sacks of onions, and pinched the flesh of red, yellow and green peppers. Pungent strings of garlic hung from wooden rafters and fresh cut flowers poked their heads out of baskets and tubs lining the sidewalks.

  Jesse’s patio door slid open and the spicy scent of Opium perfume floated to him on a current of air. He turned his head to meet a pair of eyes the color of rich dark chocolate. Jesse lost his equilibrium and stumbled back from the railing.

  “What’s wrong?” Martine touched his arm.

  Jesse shook his head and thanked his ancestors for blush free olive skin, at least it kept her unaware of the effect she had on him. Somehow she managed to reduce him to a love struck fool without so much as an intimate glance. “Hanson called this afternoon,” he quickly changed the subject from his clumsiness to the missing girl. “They found a dead girl in Stanley Park and he thought she might be one of mine. I didn’t recognize her.”

  Martine’s face turned white. “I hope it isn’t Shannon.” Instinctively she reached for Jesse’s hand.

  “Who’s Shannon?”

  “One of the girls from my circle. She didn’t show up Monday night and I called her brother Alex. He hadn’t seen her since the weekend, and the house mother at Evergreen house hasn’t seen her since Monday afternoon.”

  “Maybe she went home?” Most of the girls in Martine’s circle came from the reservation, and it wasn’t uncommon for one of them to quit the city without telling anyone they were leaving.

  She shook her head. “Shannon and Alex are alone in the world. They were in foster care on Vancouver Island. When Alex won a track scholarship to the Uni
versity of British Columbia he moved over here. Within a month Shannon followed him. He lives in a dorm so he brought Shannon to the Friendship Centre and we set her up at Evergreen House.” Martine turned back and crossed to the patio door. “I’m going to phone and see if he’s heard anything.”

  While Jesse waited for Martine’s return, he watched an old geezer in a sweat-stained cowboy hat who had stopped in front of the liquor store. The musician lifted a guitar out of a battered case and propped it open‑‑an invitation to passing shoppers to salute the tunes with coins. Then the old timer swung the guitar over his shoulder and started strumming the opening bars to Roger Miller’s King of the Road.

  Jesse leaned on the railing and listened while keeping an ear out for Martine. It sure seemed to be taking her a long time. Damn, I hope the girl has been found. However, it appeared there’d be no such luck when minutes later Martine stepped through the doorway and the look on her face gave him the bad news.

  “Alex still hasn’t heard from Shannon.” That hushed little girl voice had Jesse gripping the rail to keep from reaching for her.

  “Alex is worried sick. I didn’t tell him about the dead girl, but I’d like to see her.”

  “She’s in the morgue. It’s pretty grim down there. Are you sure?”

  “I’ve got to, for Alex’s sake.”

  “I’ll call Mark and clear it with him. Why don’t we go to the kitchen? As soon as I’ve made my call I’ll fix some coffee.”

  “If you show me where things are I’ll fix the coffee.”

  “Deal.”

  In the kitchen Jesse pointed out the coffee pot, cups and fixings then left her to it while he went to make his call.

  In the bedroom, Jesse pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and sprawled across his king sized bed.