Skin Walk (A Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Book 2)

by Melissa Bowersock

  Remembering the taboo about speaking of the dead, she dug her notebook out of her purse and wrote Harlan Firecloud on a slip of paper. She pushed the note across to the officer, whose name badge read K. Yazzie.

  Lacey watched Yazzie’s face as he read the name. His features remained impassive except for a slight hitch of his eyebrows. He looked up at her.

  “All records?” he repeated.

  She smiled at him. “Yes, please. And I know the time limit is usually five days, but I really need them, like, yesterday, so is it possible to put a rush on it? You would really be helping me out.”

  The kid looked from Lacey to the paper and back again, clearly stymied. “A rush?”

  “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.” She turned her smile up a few watts, wondering if he was going to repeat everything she said. “I’d love to be able to pick it up tomorrow, say by the end of the day. Do you think I could do that?”

  “Uh, what time?”

  “Like five o’clock,” she supplied, keeping her voice friendly. “Here’s my card. If you get the information sooner, you can call me and I’ll come get it.”

  He took her card and examined it, his eyebrows twitching again.

  “You’d really be doing me a huge favor,” she said. She waved a hand at the empty waiting room. “I can tell you’re busy, but maybe you could find the time.” She smiled again, sharing the joke with him. “I’d really appreciate it.”

  Yazzie finally moved, finding a paperclip and clipping the note to her card. “Uh, okay,” he said.

  “Yeah? Okay, thanks a lot, Officer Yazzie. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She waggled her fingers at him in a playful wave goodbye and left the office.

  Returning to her car, she couldn’t quite imagine Officer Yazzie rushing to do anything, but sincerely hoped he’d make an exception in her case.

  She stopped at the market and loaded up with root beer and peanut butter and ice cream. Nothing but the staples, she thought. She got a case of water, tossed in a box of energy bars and called it good. She was still well within her call-the-cavalry time limit.

  She turned up the dirt road toward Gabe’s place and had to immediately slam on the brakes. Her little car skidded sideways as she locked it up, but at least she hadn’t hit Bear and Sugar as they romped beside the car. She rolled down her window and called to the dogs.

  “Bear! Sugar! Go home! Go on, go home!”

  The dogs stood and stared at her, tongues lolling, not even a flicker of understanding in their bright, happy eyes.

  “Go home!” she called again. She waved them away. This time the dogs glanced at each other and took off at a dead run—in the opposite direction.

  Oh, well, she thought. At least they weren’t under her wheels. She rolled up her window and drove the rest of the way to the house.

  Sam and the boys were still throwing the football behind the house, but they came to help her carry the groceries in.

  “What’d you get?” Griff asked.

  Carson peered into the bag he carried. “Chocolate chip! I get first dibs!”

  “No, me!” Griff complained.

  “All right, guys,” Sam warned. “Cool it. No ice cream before dinner.”

  Both boys groaned. “No fair,” Griff whined.

  “Hey,” Sam said, “you don’t want to get in trouble with your mom, do you?” He looked at both boys meaningfully as he set his bags on the counter. “I sure don’t. She can be mean.”

  “But she’s not here,” Carson said, pawing the bags. “If we hurry…”

  Just then the sound of wheels on gravel came from outside.

  “Too late,” Sam said. “She’s here.”

  Carson huffed out a frustrated breath. Lacey struggled not to laugh.

  As soon as Roxanne pushed through the front door, both boys were at her. “Mom, Lacey got us ice cream!” Griff said.

  “We could have a tiny bit now, couldn’t we, Mom?” Carson asked. “Just a little bowl?”

  Roxanne set down her things and arched an eyebrow at her sons. “Did you tell her thank you?”

  “Thank you!”

  “Thank you, Lacey!”

  “Very good,” Roxanne said. “The answer is no.”

  The boys moaned loudly but Roxanne would not be moved. She patted Lacey on the shoulder. “Thank you, that was very sweet. Unnecessary, but sweet.”

  “I just appreciate your hospitality,” Lacey said.

  “Yeah, we do,” Sam added. “Hey, Mom, could we borrow the truck?” Mimicking the sound of his nephews, he held out his hand.

  Roxanne crossed her arms and tapped a foot. “You’re as bad as the boys,” she said.

  “Gotta go to Grampa’s,” he said.

  She tossed him the keys. “Dinner’s at six.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  Lacey climbed into Roxanne’s truck with the weak hope it would have seat belts. It didn’t; neither had Gabe’s. She knew they were probably just down under the seat, but didn’t want to take the time to find them. She’d just brace herself against the dashboard as the truck shuddered along the road.

  Even the wash seemed less hazardous than the day before, but maybe because it was still light and her vision wasn’t confined to the cones from the headlights. Then again, when Sam started up the sideways grade out of the wash, Lacey realized she’d rather not see the ground sloping away out her side window.

  When they reached Ben’s, there was smoke coming from the stovepipe, but the old man was nowhere around. They climbed out of the truck and checked in the hogan, but it was empty.

  “Let’s look out back,” Sam said. He led Lacey around the hogan where she saw another similar structure. This one, however, had no walls obscuring its eight sides, although it had a thatched roof and a larger central hole to allow smoke to escape. There was a fire pit dug in the center, and Lacey could see the smoke rise up from a mound of wood, although the fire itself seemed to be confined to the inner depths of the mound.

  Ben rose slowly from his seat on a wooden crate and waved them over.

  Sam and Ben greeted each other in Navajo, and as soon as Lacey came close, the old man took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back gently and gave him a grin. He said something to Sam, then insisted she sit on the crate he had just vacated. She tried to refuse, thinking if anyone needed to sit, it was he, but then realized Sam was bringing two more crates to the hut. They each set their crates a comfortable distance from the glowing fire pit, Lacey’s a little closer than the others.

  Sam spoke quietly to Ben, no doubt telling him what they’d done that day, then pulled the bone from his shirt pocket and handed it to his grandfather. Ben took the object gingerly, holding it up in the fading light. He brought it close to his face and touched the feathers with a fingertip. Lacey had to wonder how good his eyesight was, but he didn’t squint, just stared at the thing for several silent moments.

  Then a litany of quiet Navajo streamed from him. He spoke to Sam, but also looked over at Lacey, pulling her into the unintelligible narrative, and touched the feathers again. When he was done, he handed the bone back to Sam and fell silent.

  Sam held the bone up to Lacey. “He says it’s a curse to cloud the thinking,” he said. “That the feathers, like clouds, seem almost invisible and without substance, but they redirect the air and the thoughts. He said this would have made my cousin doubt his normal thinking, made him gullible to the evil one’s words.”

  “So the witch was setting him up?” she guessed. “He or she was going to do things that were unusual, that your cousin would ordinarily question, but with this”—she pointed to the bone—“he would feel impelled to go along?”

  Sam translated her question for Ben. The old man nodded to them both, adding a few words.

  “That’s it exactly,” Sam said.

  “So whoever did this,” Lacey continued, “had a plan. This wasn’t done on impulse. This was a carefully thought-out plan.”

  Sam nodded. “I have to agree.”

&nb
sp; Lacey stared into the fire pit, noting the flames that licked up from the glowing red center. This was a very intelligent person they were after. Someone who took their time and plotted out their path step by step. Someone who was determined to kill, manipulated the environment and their victim to facilitate that, and struck when the time was right.

  The realization was chilling.

  Ben picked up a small dead branch and poked the stack of wood. The fire blazed up for a second, sending sparks flying toward the smoke hole. Then the wood settled and the fire calmed down again, burning hot and silent.

  “What’s this?” Lacey asked, waving a hand toward the fire pit. “When he’s got the woodstove in his hogan, why build a fire out here?”

  “He’s firing some pots,” Sam said. He spoke quietly to Ben, and got a quick answer. “You can’t see them, but there are four pots in there, underneath the wood. This is the traditional way of firing pottery.”

  Lacey was fascinated. “Really? But doesn’t the heat have to get to a certain temperature? And how does he know when they’re done if he can’t see them?”

  “Remember I told you my family was one of master potters?” Sam said. “He’s one of the best. He knows exactly how much dung to use, how much wood to use, and for how long.”

  “Dung?” she queried.

  “Sheep dung. It burns hotter than most woods.”

  She shook her head. “Amazing. Does he sell his pots? Like at some of the trading posts?”

  “Nah. He just makes what he needs, or he helps other potters.” Sam lapsed into Navajo for a moment, and Ben replied with a smile at Lacey and much hand-waving.

  “Be right back,” Sam said, and he padded to the hogan. When he returned, he carried two pots, one larger and one smaller. Both were the same light brown color with no other decoration. He handed them to Lacey.

  “These are his. As you can see, they’re fired plenty hard.”

  Lacey flicked the edge of the larger pot and was rewarded with a strong, dull ping. Both pots had thick walls and felt sturdy in her hands.

  “He digs his own clay, makes his own temper,” Sam continued.

  “Temper? What’s that?”

  “That’s what he mixes in with the clay to reduce shrinkage and cracking. He uses sand or fine rock, sometimes ground up sherds from broken pots. Wait; I’ll show you.” He rose again and searched the ground. Just a few feet away, he picked up something and brought it back.

  “Here’s a broken pot sherd. See inside? See the little granules in there? That’s temper.”

  Lacey examined the broken piece in the firelight. It wasn’t one smooth texture as she would have expected, but was dotted with granules of sand or rock.

  “Wow,” she said softly. “I had no idea.” She turned the smaller pot in her hands. “What’s this dark mark? Is that paint?”

  “No, he doesn’t paint his. That’s a fire cloud.”

  She glanced up at the familiar word. “Okay, what’s a fire cloud?”

  “That’s a place where something touched the pot during firing and discolored it. Probably a piece of wood.”

  “And that’s your name,” she murmured. She’d always thought Sam’s last name was striking; exotic and poetic in some primitive way. Knowing the definition only gave her a greater appreciation for it.

  Ben said something to Sam, pointing to the little pot Lacey held. When Sam answered, Ben’s weathered face split into a wide grin. He pointed to the pot again and made a pushing motion.

  “He wants you to have it,” Sam said.

  Lacey felt like she ought to refuse, but she didn’t want to. She ran a finger over the fire cloud and smiled. Looking up at Ben, she nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll cherish it.”

  Sam translated for Ben. The old man smiled.

  “I’ll put that other one back,” Sam said. He reached for the bigger pot and the pot sherd.

  “Can I keep this too?” Lacey asked, holding up the sherd.

  “Sure,” Sam said. “He’ll make more.”

  When he returned from the hogan, Sam didn’t sit down again. “We should go,” he said. “Don’t want to be late for dinner.”

  Lacey stood but noticed Ben kept his seat. “What about him?” she asked. “Doesn’t he ever eat with the family?”

  “Sometimes,” Sam said. “But he prefers to stay here.” He said something to Ben, and the old man answered, pointing at the fire and up at the stars just starting to show in the dim sky. “Yeah, he’s good,” Sam said. “Come on.”

  Lacey went to Ben and held up the little pot. “Thank you so much,” she said. Impulsively she leaned down and kissed the leathery cheek. Ben laughed, a laugh of pleased embarrassment, she thought. He patted her arm and motioned for her to go.

  In the truck, she held the pot securely in her lap, not taking any chances that the bounces or jitters would send it crashing to the floor.

  “He is so cute,” she said.

  “He’s pretty cool for an old dude,” Sam agreed.

  “Did he teach you to make pots?”

  Sam barked a laugh. “He tried. I was terrible at it. Mine would end up with the walls all wavy, or one part of the wall super thin and another super thick. He’d fire them for me, but most of the time they came out broken or cracked. I think when I was about twelve, we both agreed I should just give it up.”

  “It’s an amazing talent,” she said, holding her little pot and running her finger around the rim. “To take clay out of the ground and make something so useful, so durable. And so beautiful.”

  “His stuff is pretty utilitarian. Some of the younger artists are doing all kinds of things with paint, with slip, with etched designs. Grampa just sticks with the old ways.”

  “Utilitarian or not, it’s wonderful,” she said.

  When they reached the big wash, Lacey held onto her pot tightly with one hand and braced herself against the dash with the other. Sam walked the truck down the rocky, sideways track, through the wash and back up the other side. As they gained the flatter, more level ground, he sped up slightly.

  Lacey was still admiring her little pot when she noticed movement outside her window. Something was running alongside the truck, probably Bear or Sugar, she guessed. She looked over. It was hard to see clearly as the light from the headlights was out in front, not sideways, but she could see well enough to know that it was not Bear and not Sugar.

  The animal was slender like Sugar, but as tall or taller than Bear. She guessed it was a coyote, but the fur on it looked matted and spiky, as if it had rolled in paint—white paint. The coat was dark, but streaked with white. Who would paint a coyote?

  Whatever it was, it kept pace with the truck effortlessly.

  “Sam, look at—”

  Her voice trailed away as the thing turned its head and looked at her. Its lips pulled up into a snarl, revealing large yellow fangs, the base of the teeth brown with tartar. Its eyes were darkish, a blood-orange color, but they glowed. Not the greenish glow of reflected light that Lacey had seen before with dogs or cats. This glow came from within. And the thing was looking directly at her.

  Sam jammed on the brakes and the thin scream that was crawling up Lacey’s throat erupted into the cab. The truck came to a shuddering halt, and the thing, whatever it was, loped away, its furred body zigzagging in and out of the headlights’ glare, its eyes flashing as it looked back over its shoulder. Finally it disappeared over a rise.

  Lacey gasped for air, not even sure when she had pressed her hand to her thudding heart. She tore her eyes from the darkness where she had last seen the thing and stared over at Sam.

  “What was that?” she squeaked.

  Sam was still staring after it, but finally shook his head and turned to meet her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “All right? Yes. No! What was that?”

  He started the truck forward again. “A warning.”

  “A warning? To what? Stop looking? Stay away from Ben?”

  He didn’t look at her.
“All of the above.”

  “But…” Fear and confusion jumbled up in her brain, robbing her of coherent thought. “It… was it a coyote? It looked… painted. Weird.”

  “Shapeshifters will often paint themselves white. Sometimes all white, sometimes with spots or stripes.” He guided the truck slowly down the dirt road. Lacey could see lights from the houses growing in the near distance. Just that sign of civilization brought some comfort.

  “So that was the witch? That was him? Her?”

  Sam looked over. “Yes.” His eyes looked sad.

  “Jesus,” she breathed.

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  She felt herself shivering, certain it was not just from the cold. She looked down into her lap and noticed with small relief that she still held her pot in one hand, her fingers curved around it like a claw. She took the pot into her other hand and willed the stiff fingers to let go, to relax and unbend. Doing so was almost painful.

  “Shit,” Sam said.

  “What?” Lacey’s head snapped up and her eyes darted about in alarm. She saw no dogs—or anything else—just the house and several vehicles.

  “We’ve got company,” he said.

  She sat up. Parked on the other side of Gabe’s truck was another, this one a one-ton with dualies.

  “Who is it?” she asked. Involuntarily, her hand strayed up to clasp her throat.

  “That’s Modesto’s truck,” Sam said. “I’ll bet Lou called him.”

  He pulled Roxanne’s truck on the other side of Gabe’s and switched it off. He turned to Lacey.

  “Are you gonna be okay? Can you act normal?”

  “Normal?” She laughed, only slightly hysterical.

  “Yeah. Like nothing happened.” He pinned her with his dark eyes.

  “But, what if he’s the one? What if that was him?”

  “They can’t be in two places at one time,” Sam said. “So if he’s been here, that wasn’t him. We’ll be all right.”

  Lacey heard the words and wanted badly to believe them, but it was more Sam’s quiet assurance that convinced her. She gulped in a breath, blew it back out and nodded.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Good girl,” he said, patting her leg. “Come on.”