Whirlwind

by Charles L. Grant

  The man looked ready to bolt, and from the corner of her eye, Scully saw Mulder tense for the chase. “He told us it was personal,” she said quickly, watching them both relax as if strings had been severed.

  “It is.”

  “How personal?”

  “We hate each other, Ms. Scully. I’m an ex-con and he’s a saint. I dropped out of high school, he’s got degrees up his ass and out his throat.” Palms down, he spread his fingers on the table. After a long moment, he said, “How confidential is this? If I tell you something, you put me back in the pen?”

  “That depends,” Mulder answered.

  “On what?”

  “On whether I say so,” Scully said, holding back a grin at the astonishment on his face.

  “Let…let me think about it.”

  “While you’re thinking,” Mulder said, “tell me how you managed not to be killed by the Sangre Viento.”

  Ciola gaped, his left hand moving unconsciously to his cheek to brush over the scars. “How the hell did you know that?”

  Mulder didn’t answer.

  Scully knew, however. Now that she could examine them without fearing a knife in her throat, the pattern across his neck and face was clear; at least, clear enough to anyone who knew about the Wind.

  “I had a pony,” Ciola said quietly. “When I was very little, a man died, one of the six. During the ceremonial, no one leaves the Mesa, or goes into the desert. It’s a foolish chance. Only people like Saint Nick do something dumb like that. I was little, and I was foolish, and I wanted my pony. She had broken out of the corral, and I chased her for nearly an hour.

  “I almost had her once, but she bolted. I couldn’t figure out why until I turned around, and there it was. Right behind me. I fell over backward into an arroyo, and that’s what saved me.”

  Scully couldn’t help it: “You believe in this Blood Wind?”

  Ciola’s fingers fluttered across his face. “That’s a stupid question, chica. Do you want a stupid answer?”

  “No, just a truthful one.”

  His eyes widened at her boldness, but one of the front doors opened before he had a chance to say a word. Nick Lanaya walked in, an old man trailing behind, both of them unaware of Ciola until they were halfway across the floor.

  Lanaya stopped; the old man didn’t. He continued on to the table and took the chair on Scully’s right.

  “What do you want, Leon?” Nick demanded.

  “The FBI calls, I answer.” He grinned at Mulder. “It’s the law, don’t you know that?”

  “Get out, Leon. They need you in the warehouse.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. There are many questions left to ask.” He looked to Scully for support. “They want to know, for example, about Donna. How we loved, how we fought, how we—”

  “Chinga!” Lanaya spat, face darkening with rage. “You kill, you dare to come back here as if nothing ever happened, and now you dare to talk—”

  “Enough!” Mulder ordered, thumping the table with his fist. “Excuse me,” he said to the old man, and turned back to the others. “Mr. Lanaya, for all our sakes, let me or Agent Scully be the ones to decide when Mr. Ciola has told us enough, okay? Mr. Ciola, I take it you’re not planning a vacation or anything like that?”

  Ciola laughed as he stood. “Don’t leave town, eh, gringo? Don’t worry. I won’t. I still have to go to Donna’s funeral.”

  Lanaya grabbed the man’s arm as he brushed past him and whispered harshly in his ear. Scully couldn’t understand what was said, but it made her wonder when Ciola swallowed heavily and left, nearly at a run. Nick made to follow, but a grunted word from the old man brought him to the table, where he sat in the chair Ciola had just used.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with a sheepish smile. “The man just drives me crazy.” His hand waved in front of his face as if clearing the air of a foul odor. Then he introduced Dugan Velador. “He speaks very good English, so—”

  “Have I left, Nick?” Velador asked quietly.

  Again Lanaya’s face darkened, and he lowered his head and didn’t move.

  Scully raised an eyebrow to Mulder at the control the old man had, then sat back so she could see both of them at once. She wasn’t sure what Mulder wanted her to say, and so deferred to him when he cleared his throat, a signal that he wanted to take charge of the interview for a time.

  She hoped, though, that when the Sangre Viento came up, as it surely would, Velador wouldn’t be insulted. It would be easy for him to think they were mocking him, or being condescending. And although Nick had warned them of the probability, she was somewhat taken aback when the old man said, “I want you to leave the Mesa now, please. There is nothing here to discuss or tell you.”

  He stood, the bone necklace he wore rattling softly.

  Lanaya stood as well, quickly, but Mulder only clasped his hands on the table and said, “I have reason to believe, Mr. Velador, that someone, probably one of your people, has been using either you, or the six, to establish control of the Sangre Viento.” When the old man reached out to grab the edge of the table, Mulder paid him no heed. “If that’s true, then this man, sir, has committed four murders, and Agent Scully and I don’t intend to leave until we find him, and arrest him.”

  Well, Scully thought as Velador sank back into his chair, that’s certainly being subtle.

  A small leaf danced in a circle in the air, several inches above the ground. From a distance it looked like a butterfly searching for a blossom. Seconds later it was joined by another, this one pierced by a cactus needle.

  Below them, the sand began to rise.

  Mulder hoped neither the old man nor Scully noticed when he released the breath he’d been holding. Sparring with Ciola had been bad enough, but Velador, whose posture and expression told those who saw him he was meek and too dull to be considered, had given him a start as soon as he’d walked in. He may have been behind Lanaya, but he was clearly the leader.

  When he sat, nothing about him moved, except for those black eyes.

  Mulder had no doubt that in another time, in another culture, Dugan Velador would have been royal.

  Right now, a quivering left hand covered the rattlesnake necklace, while the right hand rested on fingertips on the table. He said nothing, and Mulder kept silent. What amazed him, and puzzled him, was that Lanaya hadn’t protested either. He, too, sat with one hand against his chest, the other out of sight in his lap.

  It was Scully’s concern that broke the silence. She leaned toward Velador, a hand out but not touching. “Mr. Velador, are you all right? I’m a doctor, sir, if you need help.”

  Mulder could almost hear the neck bones creaking as the old man turned his head. “I’m fine, young woman. It seems that we are not as alone as we thought.”

  An angry look at Lanaya forced Mulder to gesture, to regain the man’s attention. “It wasn’t Nick who told me, sir. He didn’t…he didn’t betray a confidence.”

  “What do you know?”

  There was no hesitation; this wasn’t the time.

  “As much as I’m able without having been in the kiva with you.”

  “Then you know that what you say can’t be true.”

  Mulder avoided Scully’s eyes. “No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t know that at all.” Although he suspected the old man knew more than he gave away, Mulder told him about the four deaths, described the bodies, and used the same hand motion Nando Quintodo had. “It’s the only explanation, sir. Nothing else makes any sense.”

  That surprised Velador. “You think it makes sense?”

  Mulder shrugged—sure, why not?

  “And you?” he asked Scully gently. “Do you think this makes sense?”

  “I think I haven’t heard anything else yet that…that covers the situation as well.”

  He smiled then, a broad smile that nearly broke into a laugh. “You look at things differently than your friend.”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.”

  Another look to Lanaya, a c
urious one, made Mulder frown. What had Lanaya done or said that the old man should be so annoyed?

  Suddenly Lanaya bent over in a coughing fit, covering his mouth with a loose fist. “Sorry,” he gasped, tears filling his eyes. “Sorry. I—” He waggled his fingers at his throat and coughed again, much harder, more harshly. Finally, when he couldn’t stop it, he got up and, behind an apologetic gesture to carry on, left the hall, muttering about finding some water. Mulder could hear the awful hacking until the door swung shut behind him.

  “He always gets that way when I embarrass him.” Velador smiled mischievously. “One day I will have to beat it out of him. He’s too old for that sort of thing.”

  Mulder straightened.

  “Mr. Velador,” Scully said, “we were told no one would speak to us. Why did you change your mind? Because of—”

  “Sometimes I am not as smart as I think I am, you know. Sometimes, sitting in the sun, there is a buzzing in my head, and I don’t hear the words everyone says to me very well. Sometimes the words I say are not the words others hear.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said the FBI must be stopped.”

  She tapped a knuckle lightly, thoughtfully, against her lips. “Are you saying that now we’re in some kind of danger. Just because of that?”

  He nodded, then shook his head. “If what this man says is true, young woman, you’re in more danger than you know. But not because of what I said.”

  “Yes,” Mulder said suddenly, getting to his feet. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re wrong.” He started around the table. “Scully, we have to leave.” He beckoned to her urgently, took her elbow when she stood, and nearly dragged her toward the door. “Mr. Velador, please stay inside. Scully and I aren’t the only ones who have to be careful.”

  The old man didn’t move.

  The necklace rattled; he hadn’t touched it.

  Once they were outside, Scully pulled her arm free. “Mulder, what’s going on? You’re acting like a madman.”

  “You got it, Scully. You hit it right on the nail.”

  “Then what’s—”

  “Look.”

  He swept his hand through the air. Showing her the empty streets. The shuttered windows. Closed doors. No dogs, no chickens, no horses in the corral.

  The pueblo was deserted.

  Nothing moved but a single sheet, flapping in the wind.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Lanaya’s pickup was gone.

  A curl of brown dust moved down the street, folding in upon itself when the wind began to pick up.

  Over the flat roofs, Mulder could see another dust cloud rising and falling like the hump of a lumbering beast, until the wind shoved it against a wall and scattered it.

  Scully took a step down, shading her eyes against the sun and blowing grit. A shake of her head when she couldn’t find what she was looking for. When she turned toward the Mesa, the wind snapped her hair around her cheeks, momentarily blinding her until she turned again.

  “How did they know?” she asked. “It’s so fast. How did they know?”

  “Someone told them,” he answered grimly, and stepped all the way down to the ground. The few vehicles he could see were undoubtedly locked, and he didn’t think pounding on doors or windows would get them any help. “We’ll have to go back in.”

  Scully was way ahead of him. She grabbed the large doorknob and tried to turn it over.

  It didn’t budge.

  “Mulder, he’s locked us out.”

  They both tried, and tried using their fists and voices to get the old man to let them in. They stopped when she cursed and massaged her right wrist.

  He returned to the street. “Okay, maybe we can find someplace else. A stable or something.”

  The first place they tried was the warehouse next door, and neither was surprised to find it locked as well. If Ciola is still in there, Mulder thought, he’s probably having the time of his life.

  They darted across the street and made their way between the two nearest houses to the next street over, saw nothing promising and moved on to the next. By the fourth, he knew they weren’t going to find shelter. Not here. And not, he thought as he stared at the Mesa, up there. He didn’t know how the Konochine got to the top, but he didn’t think they’d take kindly to his trying.

  Scully slumped against a house wall out of the direct push of the wind, using a forearm to mop the sweat from her forehead. “Why don’t we just wait it out here, whatever it is?”

  “We can’t, Scully.” He stepped away from the house’s protection and looked up and down the street. Still nothing. Shutters and doors closed against them. He stretched out a hand and beckoned. “We have to get inside someplace.”

  “Mulder, it’s only a dust storm. We’ll need a week of showers when it’s over, but it’s only a dust storm.”

  “No. No, it isn’t.”

  And he knew she didn’t really believe in the dust storm idea, either. If it were one, they’d be offered shelter somewhere in here; if it were one, the people wouldn’t have gone to ground so swiftly. Ciola had told them only a fool stayed outside when the ceremonial was in progress. But since there was no one, not now, they were obviously convinced the Sangre Viento was on its way.

  He turned in a slow circle, frustrated, growing angry, beating a hand against his leg while he tried to decide what to do next. Hide, was the obvious answer, but where?

  Nowhere.

  At least, nowhere in the pueblo.

  Apparently Scully had reached the same conclusion. She left the wall’s protection and started up the street toward the road, purposeful urgency in her stride. He hesitated before following, hoping she wasn’t thinking what he feared she was.

  When he caught up, she said, “How far do you think it is?”

  Damn, he thought.

  “Too far to run. There’s got to be someplace closer.”

  “I have no intention of running, Mulder. At least not yet.” She pointed to the fields, and the desert beyond. “If it comes from out there, we’ll be able to see it, right?” She gave him a tight smile. “When we see it, then we’ll run and see what happens.”

  “What if it comes from somewhere else?”

  “Then we won’t have to run, will we.”

  More leaves, dancing.

  When they were close enough, they gave the illusion of a funnel; when they separated they were butterflies again.

  Until the sand joined them.

  Then they become a cloud.

  What Mulder desperately wished he knew, what he couldn’t deduce from any of the information he had, was how long it took the whirlwind to form. If it took six men to create one only once in a while over the course of a week, surely a single man, no matter how skilled, couldn’t create one with just the snap of a finger.

  “Oh God,” he whispered as they passed the last house and angled westward toward the road.

  Not with the snap of a finger, but after sufficient preparation. Which meant—

  Scully, staying on his left, unabashedly using him as a windbreak, picked up the pace as she said, “It’s Lanaya, isn’t it.”

  “Yes,” he said, more convinced now than he had been that morning.

  “Why? Ciola’s too obvious?”

  “No. Ciola didn’t know we were coming today. Lanaya did. He’s had time, Scully, to get ready. He took that old man literally. He’s going to stop us.” He held up a hand before she could interrupt. “He’s going to try to stop us, okay?”

  She ran a few steps, slowed, ran a few more.

  The wind died abruptly.

  He couldn’t help glancing to the right every few feet, grateful when the fields blocked him, a little apprehensive when he could see all the way to the mountainous horizon. He had no idea what the Wind would look like, or if he’d be able to hear it coming.

  He caught up with her when she paused to shake dust from her hair, and grinned when a sudden gust blew it back in her face. “It’s a nowin, Scully.”

>   “Tell me about it.”

  They walked on.

  Ahead, above the road, curtains of shimmering heat hung in the air. He took off his tie and jammed it in a pocket. What the hell was he thinking of, wearing a suit on a day like today? And why, he thought further, turning around to walk backward a few steps, didn’t he just take his gun, walk up to one of those doors, and threaten to blow the lock off if they didn’t let him in?

  Because, he answered, they’d probably just shoot back.

  Swirls of sandy soil snaked across the blacktop when the wind returned. Rustling made him jump until he realized it was only the corn in its field. A tumbleweed rolled between them, tangling in Scully’s feet until she kicked at it savagely and it broke apart, and was blown away.

  “Tell me something, Mulder—if this man is so well-liked here, and he can cross successfully between this world and the one out there, why did he do it? Why risk it all?”

  They had no water.

  His throat was dry, his eyes felt gritty. When he breathed, it was like taking in clouds of fire to his lungs.

  They weren’t walking nearly as rapidly now.

  “He kept saying ‘they,’” Mulder answered, licking his lips to moisten them, finally giving it up as futile. “When he gave us that big speech about the Konochine and their dislike of the outside world, he kept saying ‘they.’”

  He had been one of them until he’d left to go to school. When he came back, he had changed. It was inevitable. And for reasons they might never know, or understand, he hadn’t been able to change back, or to adapt as he had adapted to the outside. Mulder suspected it was unfocused anger that forced him to attempt to steal what belonged to the six. They were…Dugan Velador was the wise man, the leader. What he did, what the others did, was accepted without serious question.

  How could he not want that respect, too?

  What he hadn’t understood was that the power the old men had came from the respect they were given, not the other way around.