Very carefully and very deliberately, he cupped one hand and pulled the smoke toward him, fanning it over his head, over his shoulders, surrounding himself with the faint blue fog. Lacey saw him close his eyes as he wafted the smoke, his nostrils flaring, the line of his mouth relaxed and soft. She’d never seen him like this, and could only describe it as prayerful.
When he opened his eyes and began to set the still-smoking bundle in the ashtray, Lacey took it from him instead.
“How do I do this?” she asked, holding the bundle upright in front of her as he had. “Just fan it over me?”
“Lacey…”
Without a word, she pulled the car keys from her jeans pocket and flashed them at Sam, then shoved them back in. “I’m going, so help me do this. I want to do it right.”
She heard Sam groan softly and she barely suppressed a smile. He stepped up behind her shoulder and cupped one hand over the smoke, pulling it toward her.
“Just pull it over you, over your head, all around.”
Lacey did as he did, breathing in the sharp aroma of cedar. “Smells good,” she said as she fanned gently. “Reminds me of pencils. Do I need to say anything?”
“Just shut up and do it,” Sam said. Lacey could hear the exasperation in his voice, and something else. Approval? She smiled.
After a couple minutes of silent smudging, Lacey felt Sam relieve her of the bundle. She opened her eyes and saw him snuff the fire out, tamping and rolling the bundle in the ashtray until the embers winked out and the smoke began to dissipate. He pushed the ashtray aside, leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. He glared at her.
“Sorry,” she said to his unspoken frustration, but her voice was anything but conciliatory. “So that’s it? We can go now?” She turned for the door, jingling the keys in her hand.
“Hang on,” he said. He went to the fridge and got a couple bottles of water. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Smiling, Lacey tossed him the keys.
When he started up the dirt track toward Ben’s, Lacey began to worry. Both trucks had been gone, one each taken by Gabe or Roxanne, so her car was the only transportation they had, but she couldn’t imagine her little compact making that grade down into, and out of, the steep wash.
“Uh, Sam…?” she started.
Just then, he wheeled the car to the left, following a track the opposite way as the one to Ben’s. “What?” he asked.
Lacey relaxed into her seat. “Nothing,” she said. She saw the payback smile on Sam’s face. She ignored it.
This road stayed on relatively level ground, only dipping down marginally into shallow dry watercourses. Up ahead, tan bluffs rose above the barren ground. Lacey was beginning to wonder how far they were going when she suddenly noticed a hogan the same color as the bluff, and sitting at the base of it.
“So this was your cousin’s house?” she asked. She saw a faded rug hanging in the doorway, flapping slightly in the breeze.
“Yeah. Let me tell you the ground rules,” he said. “I’m going to search the ground around the hogan. You”—and he impaled her with his dark eyes—“are going to stay by the car. You will not—not—approach the house. Got it?” He stopped the car well back from the hogan and shut it off, pointedly keeping the keys.
Lacey recognized the grim no-nonsense tone of his voice. “Got it,” she said. She’d pushed him up to now, and he’d given her room, but she had the distinct impression she’d reached her limit. She got out of the car when he did, but instead of walking with him, she plopped her butt on the hood of the car and just watched.
Sam approached the hogan cautiously, his eyes on the ground. He surveyed the area directly ahead of him and placed each footstep slowly and deliberately. If something caught his interest, he hunkered down and examined the ground more thoroughly, but never touched the soil.
Lacey felt sure there was some design to the way he searched, but she couldn’t figure it. He angled toward the doorway first, then turned left and prowled the area there. He never got closer to the hogan than about ten or twelve feet. When he disappeared around the back, she jammed her hands into the pockets of her parka and waited.
The flapping of the blanket in the cold breeze was a little unnerving, as was the dark doorway behind it. She remembered Lou saying Harlan was buried there. Buried inside the house? Out back? Lacey looked around for any sign of a grave, but there was none, at least none that she recognized. Anyplace else, she’d expect to see a cross or a headstone, but not here among the traditional Navajo. Regardless of the markers, or lack thereof, there was no question that this was now hallowed ground. That was obvious in Sam’s silent respect.
Just then he emerged from the back side of the hogan and searched the north side. Still placing his feet very carefully, he returned to stand in front of the doorway. Lacey could imagine him communing with the spirit of his cousin, perhaps asking permission, perhaps offering blessings. Whichever, he stepped forward and searched the ground around the doorway.
And stopped.
He crouched down, his back to Lacey, but she could tell his arms rested on his knees. Then he put his left hand out, his palm flat and parallel to the ground, and held it just a few scant inches above the soil. He moved his hand slowly over a small area, like a metal detector, Lacey thought. Finally he stood up and walked back to the car.
She was anxious for answers but held off asking. One didn’t just call out across a graveyard. She waited for Sam.
“You got anything in your car to dig with?” he asked. When he brought his eyes up to her face, they were focused and thoughtful.
“Dig with?” she echoed. “Um, maybe. I’ve got a small tool kit in the back.”
Sam unlocked the trunk and Lacey joined him there, pulling aside the thin carpet that covered the floor. She tugged on a loop of fabric, revealing a hidden recess, and dragged out a small plastic kit of tools. She popped the latch and spread the kit open for Sam’s consideration.
He fingered the claw hammer, bypassed the crescent and Allen wrenches, paused at the screwdrivers. “No shovel, huh?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “Just this.”
“All right. It’ll have to do.” He pulled out the claw hammer and the largest slot screwdriver and started back toward the hogan.
“Can I help?” she asked, following him.
“No.” He turned and pointed to the car. “Stay there.”
Stay, she thought irritably. As if she were a dog. A better-trained dog than the ones that ran wild around here. But she kept her grumbling to herself. She knew Sam was only trying to keep her safe.
Sam returned to the spot that caught his attention and crouched down beside it. Again he held his hand over the ground, looking for all the world as if he were feeling the rocks and pebbles when his fingers were still inches from the ground. Finally he appeared to be satisfied, and pushed the screwdriver into the soil as far as it would go. Lacey was surprised at the ease with which it sank in, clear to the handle with little pressure from Sam. She toed the dirt at her feet and noticed it was packed and hard, only a few pebbles and grains of sand moving under her foot. If that ground where Sam sat was loose enough to take that screwdriver, it had been dug before. Something was buried there.
“Ulp.” A sudden thought startled the sound from her, but Sam showed no sign of hearing. She realized immediately that the body could not be there. There’s no way Sam would dig up a body with a screwdriver and a hammer. Thank God.
He was clawing the dirt aside with the hammer, then sinking the screwdriver again to loosen the deeper layers. Even as he pushed the dirt aside, he did it carefully, purposefully. He raked his fingers through the dirt, letting it sift through. Nothing there. He dug more.
After another couple punches of the screwdriver and raking the soil out with the hammer, he stopped. He set the hammer aside and carefully scooped dirt out with his hands. Then he reached for the screwdriver again and pressed it into the bottom of the hole, where it disappea
red from Lacey’s sight. The hole had to be almost two feet deep, she realized.
He levered the screwdriver, prying something loose. She knew when it popped out of the ground, saw Sam’s arm release its pressure. He set the screwdriver aside and pulled something from the hole.
Lacey stood up on her tiptoes, fingers braced against the hood of the car, but she couldn’t see what it was. Small, that was sure. Sam held it in one hand, turning it this way and that, a flash of white.
He laid it on the ground beside him and proceeded to fill in the hole. Dragging the head of the hammer across the ground, he raked the loose dirt into the cavity, then smoothed it over with his hand. When he was done, only the dark color of the soil gave evidence of the disturbance.
He walked back toward Lacey, tools in one hand, his find in the other. When he reached her, he offered his open hand to her, the small white thing cradled in his palm.
“What is it?” she asked. She reached for it, then stopped. “Can I touch it?” She turned uncertain eyes on him.
“Sure. It’s inert now,” he said.
Lacey picked it up and turned it in her fingers. “Is it bone?” She noted the small size of it, a smooth column about two inches long, with a small hole running through it lengthwise. There was no way she could identify the type of bone as both ends had been cut off. Jutting from the hole at both ends were the tufts of feathers.
“Yeah, it’s bone,” he said.
“What do you mean, it’s inert now?” she asked. She handed it back to him.
“It’s a curse,” he said.
“A curse?” The outdated word jolted her. She involuntarily wiped her hand on her jeans.
“Yeah,” he said, still examining the bone. “But it’s specific to its victim, and he’s gone, so it won’t hurt us.”
“Well, that’s good,” she said. “Do you know what it’s for? I mean what it was supposed to do?”
Sam shook his head. “No idea. I’ve never had much interest in witchcraft, but I’ll bet my grampa could tell us.”
Lacey perked up. “Oh? Is he a—what?—shaman? Medicine man?”
“He’s not a medicine man, but he’s not far off from one. He knows a lot about it; he’s just never established himself as one.” Sam pocketed the bone. “We’ll show it to him and see what he thinks.” He went to the trunk of the car and stowed Lacey’s tools away, then climbed in the driver’s side.
“But not now?” Lacey said as she took the passenger seat.
“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “We’ll wait until Roxanne gets home and take her truck. Your little city car is safe.”
“Thank God,” she muttered as she patted the dashboard. “Poor Blanche is way out of her league here.”
Sam laughed soundlessly. “What about you?” He tossed a sidelong look at her as he pulled away from the hogan and started back down the road.
Lacey considered that. “Maybe a little,” she allowed. “Although people are still people. They may do things differently here, but they still tell the truth or lie, still act responsibly or try to beat the system. So I don’t feel too far in over my head.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re not freaking out about this,” he said. “But don’t let your guard down, either. Hand me a bottle of water, would you?”
Lacey cracked the seal on one bottle and gave it to Sam, then took a long drink from her own. It felt good on her throat. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was.
“So what happens to your cousin’s place now?” she asked. “He’s buried, where, inside?”
“Yeah. Under the floor.”
“But, then, no one else will ever live there, right?”
“Right. The hogan will just degrade over time. Eventually the roof will cave in.”
“No one will bother it?”
Sam snorted. “Nope. Not if they know what’s good for them. Anyone who bothers a death place is considered to be committing suicide. The spirits don’t take kindly to trespassers, and they take very harsh action against them.”
“But what you did—what we did—that’s okay? They won’t… attack you?”
“I don’t think so. We were respectful, and I was very mindful about what we were doing, and why. I think they understand that.”
Lacey nodded and took another sip of her water.
She certainly hoped Sam was right.
~~~
SIX
Back at his brother’s house, Sam insisted they smudge themselves again to cleanse away any residual spiritual toxins. Then he began rifling through the refrigerator and kitchen cupboards. “You hungry?” he asked.
“Starved,” she said. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Almost two. Let’s see, we’ve got peanut butter, some lunch meat, cheese, SpaghettiOs. What sounds good?”
“Got any soup?” she asked. Being out in the cold, even with the bright sun, had chilled her.
Sam revisited the cupboard. “Tomato, vegetable beef or chicken noodle?”
“Chicken noodle.”
“Done,” he said.
Lacey took the can and rummaged through cupboards until she found a saucepan, dumped the soup in and set it on the stove. Sam, meanwhile, was making open faced peanut butter sandwiches. They circled each other in the small kitchen as they carried out their tasks.
“What time does Roxanne get home?” she asked as she stirred her soup and waited for it to boil.
“A little after four, I think,” Sam said.
“So we’ll go to Ben’s then?”
“Yeah. That’ll get us out of Roxanne’s hair while she’s fixing dinner.”
“We should do something for them,” Lacey said decisively. Sam looked up at her with eyebrows raised in question marks. “They’re feeding us, cooking for us,” she explained.
“Eh,” he said with a shrug. “She enjoys it.”
“It’s still extra work,” Lacey grumbled, more to herself. Typical male, she thought.
They’d barely gotten their food ready and sat down at the table before the front door burst open and twin tornadoes roared in.
“Uncle Sam! Uncle Sam!” Griff and Carson ran across the living room and each claimed one of Sam’s arms, hanging on to their prized possession.
“Hey, guys,” Sam said. “All done with school?”
“Yes,” Griff said. He looked shyly at Lacey, at her soup, but then stared with interest at Sam’s peanut butter. “Aunt Katy picks us up,” he added.
“Mom said if you were here, we could hang with you, though,” Carson said.
Sam explained to Lacey. “Katy lives a few houses down. A family friend.”
“Can we have some peanut butter, too?” Griff asked. He continued to tug on Sam’s shirt, even when he already had his uncle’s attention.
“You want some?” Sam asked. Griff nodded enthusiastically, and Carson agreed. “Okay, come on.”
Lacey watched with undisguised pleasure as Sam made up one open faced sandwich for each boy, the kids pushing in to watch or supervise as necessary.
“I want chunky,” Griff complained.
“I like smooth,” Carson said.
“Okay, then this is yours, Carson. Griff, I’ll do yours next.” Sam juggled both boys and both jars of peanut butter with apparent ease, as well he might, being used to his own two kids every weekend. Lacey just shook her head, unsure if she could ever be so patient.
By the time all three males joined her at the table, she was almost done with her soup. She scraped the last noodles from the bottom of the bowl, a plan already forming in her mind.
“Would you play catch with us?” Griff was asking Sam. “We have a football.”
“You do, huh?” Sam asked. “Okay, we can do that.”
Perfect, Lacey thought. She took her bowl to the kitchen and rinsed it, then put it in the dishwasher.
“You know what?” she said, keeping her voice casual. “I’m going to run to the store and pick up a couple things. While you guys play. Anybody need anything?”
&nbs
p; “Ice cream!” Griff called.
“Root beer!” Carson added.
Lacey laughed. “We’ll see.” She looked in the fridge and noticed a liter of root beer, three-quarters gone. When she checked the freezer, there was one carton of ice cream, but room for more. She’d get both of those, peanut butter—both kinds—and more bottled water.
“You can find your way?” Sam asked when she scooped up the car keys and her purse.
“No prob,” she said. “I saw the market when we went to Lou’s. You guys have fun, and I’ll be back shortly. If I’m not back in an hour, send out the cavalry.”
She drove the dirt road carefully, apologizing again to Blanche, and breathed a sigh when she reached the paved highway. When they got home, she was going to have to get Blanche a full wash and wax.
She turned toward the commercial center of town, but went right past the market. There was something else she wanted to do first. Luckily she’d also noticed the police station this morning, and she now guided her little car into the parking lot.
She’d never dealt with Tribal Police before and wondered briefly if she should have brought a packet of tobacco, or if that could be considered a bribe. Well, she didn’t have any, so it was a moot point.
She pushed through the entry and glanced around the front office. It was small and spare, an empty waiting room and one officer behind the front desk. Quite a change from the busy LAPD stations she was used to.
She approached the desk and the lone officer looked up. He was young, not more than twenty-five, she guessed, with close-cropped dark hair and a round face. A big kid, she thought. She smiled to him.
“Help you?” he asked. He lumbered to his feet and met her across the counter.
“Hi, my name is Lacey Fitzpatrick and I need some public records,” she began. “It’s all within the Freedom of Information Act,” she added to let him know she knew her rights. “I’d like to request all police records for one person.”
Skin Walk (A Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Book 2) Page 6
