In The Falling Light

by John L. Campbell

  Only there was no might about it anymore. Jumping Crow had violated the gravest taboo of all, committed the ultimate act of evil by killing another man. There would be no stopping the skinwalker now.

  “Journey in peace,” he said to the stink bug as it turned from the bars and wandered away. Outside the window, he heard a crunch of gravel and muffled voices. Jumping Crow stood on the bunk again and looked out.

  The sheriff was walking slowly across the yard, a tall, thin man wearing a white shirt and suspenders walking beside him, a wide brimmed hat keeping the sun off his fair skin. They were talking, although the Navajo could not make out the words. They went to the back of the sheriff’s car and opened the trunk. The tall man staggered backwards and put his hands to his face, and then the lid slammed shut once more. They spoke for a time, leaning in close together like men not wishing to be overheard, and at one point the sheriff gestured towards the jail and took several steps, trying to lead the other white man. The tall man shook his head, glancing at the jail and then looking quickly away. They talked some more.

  Thomas felt a soft tremble course through his body, felt a tingling in his arms. And so it begins, he thought, a single tear rolling down one lined cheek.

  The sheriff went into the garage and returned several minutes later with a pair of shovels, putting them in the back seat of the police car and climbing behind the wheel. The tall man hesitated, then got in on the other side and they drove away, leaving a cloud of dust which the desert wind quickly carried away.

  Look out for whites. They have something on their mind. The words of his Elder came back to him over the years. Thomas sat back down on the bunk to await the change.

  Sheriff Bybee and Bishop Johnson rode in silence for a long time, the windows of the cruiser down and air heated by a noon-day sun rushing in. It helped a little with the smell. Around them the sand and rock and scrub rose and fell. Johnson’s hat rested on his lap and he mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

  “This is a terrible thing,” he said at last.

  “That’s why I came to you first, Bishop.”

  “Such a thing…” he shook his head. “Imagine the trouble it will cause with the Navajo. We’ll have federal agents, godless bureaucrats poking through our affairs, second-guessing our business and treating us like backwards Mormon pioneers.”

  The sheriff nodded. He’d had enough contact with the feds down here to know he didn’t care for them or their way of looking down on regular people.

  “The Parsons boy’s parents are good, church-going folks. This will destroy them, not to mention the reputation of the church and the community. It’s the kind of scandal that people remember forever.” The bishop sighed and looked out the window.

  They were quiet again for a long time, and as the miles unfolded Sheriff Bybee’s frown deepened. “Can this be right, Bishop? What we’re doing? I fear what the Lord will think of this.”

  Johnson looked back at him. “A terrible thing has been done, Edgar, an evil thing. Nothing can bring that poor girl back, or excuse the Parsons boy’s behavior. Is this the right thing? I’ve been asking the Lord since you told me, and of this I’m certain. Allowing this sad incident to cause further harm to this town is the wrong thing. Do you understand, Edgar?”

  The sheriff nodded slowly, not entirely sure he did.

  “We’re shepherds, you and I,” the bishop continued. “Just because a wolf comes among us, doesn’t relieve us of our responsibility to protect the rest of the flock.” He gave the sheriff a long look with his soft blue eyes. “After today, we’ll never speak of this again. It will be the burden you and I will carry alone, as good shepherds.”

  “And what about Glen?”

  “He often spoke about leaving small town life and heading out to Alaska to look for gold.” The bishop looked out the window again. “I’m sure he’ll write, eventually.”

  The small deputy’s office was close and hot from the sun beating down on it throughout the day, and Jumping Crow was suffering from thirst. There was no water in the stained toilet bowl, or he would have gladly scooped it into his mouth. Despite the heat, however, he was chilled, and unable to control the shudders which came over him without warning as the change came on.

  Skinwalker.

  Doomed to succumb to the evil within him, and travel the earth in animal form.

  What he was changing into was clear. Already a loose black feather rested on the cell floor in front of him, a black shape in the fading red and purple light coming in through the windows. Thomas only hoped he would not hurt anyone else in the process.

  Headlights washed across the window and he climbed back onto the bunk, seeing two cars roll into the hard-packed yard. The dead deputy’s car stopped against the side of the garage, the other pulling up near the officer door, the engine still running. The tall man got out of the first car and walked in front of the headlights, wiping at his brow and walking slowly out of view. The sheriff watched him go, then removed the shovels from his car and returned them to the garage. Thomas heard the squeal of a pump, and a few minutes later the sheriff walked in and switched on a single, overhead bulb. He carried a pistol belt in one hand and a tin cup in the other.

  “Here.” He handed the cup through the bars, water sloshing over the rim, and Jumping Crow took it at once, draining it.

  “Thank you,” he choked, but the sheriff had turned his back and was putting the pistol belt in the locker across the room. Thomas saw that he no longer wore his uniform shirt, and his white undershirt was brown with sweat and dirt, his hands and arms filthy. He didn’t smell good.

  The sheriff walked to the desk, pulling the deputy’s six pointed star from a pants pocket and tossing it inside a drawer. He moved slowly, his eyes turned down, then approached the cell and produced the handcuffs once more, passing them through the bars.

  “Put them on. Make them click.”

  Thomas did as he was told, locking the steel on his wrists. The sheriff opened the cell door and guided Thomas by the arm out to the running car and put him in the back seat. A minute later they were headed out of town, the evening sky shifting from purples to a deeper blue out over the desert.

  His chills made him tremble, and now the bones in his shoulders and arms began to ache as the transformation to wings began. He wondered if his clothing would simply fall down around him when it was over? Or would he turn into some hideous, man-sized crow creature, tearing the sheriff apart with a massive beak. He hoped not. He didn’t want to hurt anyone else.

  In the front seat, Bybee seemed not to notice the change coming over his prisoner, driving in silence with both hands gripping the wheel, eyes forward where the headlights bathed the asphalt. After half an hour the sheriff turned off onto a rough track which wound back into the hills, the springs bouncing over the rough surface.

  “We don’t harm the flock because of the wolf,” Bishop Johnson had said when they drove out here earlier. “We get rid of the wolf.”

  “But Glen Parsons is already dead,” Bybee replied.

  The sheriff’s Pontiac came to a stop near a cluster of high, sandstone rocks with clumps of rabbit brush at their base. Bybee shut off the engine, had Jumping Crow step out of the back, then took him by the arm and walked beside him through a narrow gap between the rocks. Above, starlight began poking through a deepening blue curtain, and a cooling wind rustled the sage. Still the sheriff didn’t speak, and Jumping Crow was afraid to, fearing it would come out as a screech. His entire body was shuddering now, and he knew the skinwalker was about to appear.

  Please, he asked the Holy Ones, do not let me hurt this man.

  The desert holds many secrets, Jumping Crow thought. No one knew this better than the Navajo. Beyond the rocky gap was a small sandy clearing where fresh earth had been turned in two places off to the left, and to the right a large rectangular hole yawned in the earth. Sheriff Bybee walked him to the edge, stopping him before it.

  “Yes,” the bishop had said, “Glen Parsons is dea
d, Sheriff. But he isn’t the only wolf who poses a threat to our flock.”

  Jumping Crow felt a whirlwind of energy explode inside him, a force he was powerless to resist as the skinwalker twisted away the last of his humanity and brought about the change. His clothes did indeed fall away as he unfolded his great, black wings, buffeting the air and taking flight with a triumphant screech.

  The Navajo stood still and silent before him as Edgar Bybee slid the revolver from his holster, placing the muzzle against the back of the man’s skull. He pulled the trigger, then hung his head.

  Jumping Crow didn’t feel the bullet, didn’t feel his body fall into the grave. He didn’t hear the coyote barking in the hills, making a sound like laughter.

  His spirit was already soaring into an evening sky filled with stars.

  SOCIETY

  When the bad news came, Deanna was at her desk in her 27th floor corner office. A view of the bay, sparkling and blue in the summer sun, stretched beyond her floor to ceiling windows. It was a large room, but a visitor would be hard-pressed to find the carpeting or even a place to sit, since it was choked with clothing racks, cardboard boxes and stacks of catalogues and advertisements. Deanna was the senior executive west coast buyer for Macys.

  Her assistant told her she had an important call, and closed the door on her way out. “Deanna Sansone,” she answered.

  There was a long pause. “D, it’s Shelly. Can you talk?”

  Deanna frowned, the tone in her friend’s voice putting her instantly on guard. “I’m alone. What’s up?”

  Another long pause. “Scotty is dead.”

  Deanna blinked, processing.

  “Are you still there?”

  “How? What happened?” Scotty was a regional vice president based in Miami. Deanna had dated him casually on and off over the years since her divorce.

  “Have you been watching TV?” Shelly asked. Deanna could tell she’d been crying.

  “I just got back from Taiwan yesterday, I’ve been completely unplugged. Shell, what happened?”

  “It’s all over. The news, the internet, papers. Scott went crazy, D.” She started crying again. “The Miami police caught him…caught him eating a homeless man’s face. While the man was still alive. He was naked and in an alley and…eating a person.”

  Oh my God.

  Shelly choked back a sob. “The cops shot him three or four times in the arms and legs, but he wouldn’t stop. They said he just growled at them and kept…doing it. They shot him in the head to make him stop. The homeless man died too.” She was snuffling and her voice was garbled. An Ugly Cry, Deanna had always called it. “Oh, D, it’s on every channel.”

  Deanna clenched her fists to keep her hands from shaking, and her eyes welled up. “Do you know anything else? About Scotty?”

  “I talked to his boss, Bill Delloite. Bill said Scotty had been missing a lot of work, and when he was there he acted strange, distracted.” Another sob. “The news said Scotty used some kind of file to sharpen his teeth, that he did it himself, probably last night or this morning. Deanna, what happened to him?”

  Deanna didn’t answer. She was still trying to figure out how she felt about Scotty’s death. They had never been a serious thing, didn’t even speak that often. It was just for fun when one or the other was in town. He’d seemed fine the last time they were together, but this? To die that way, doing that to another person while they were still alive…

  “Shelly, I’ve got to go.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but…”

  “It’s okay, I’m glad it was you. I’ll talk to you soon.” Deanna disconnected and stared out at a perfect afternoon. While she was overseas she’d heard the other stories about cannibalism coming out of the U.S. this week; a man in Montana eating his stepson, a woman dining on her own sister and a gay porn star beheading and consuming one of his lovers. The media was eating it up, and hadn’t that unintentional pun already made the rounds? Of course those victims were already dead. Scotty had attacked and tried to eat someone while they were alive. As if that was any worse, she thought. It was too bizarre to get her head around, and she felt the office walls closing in on her.

  “Lenore, I’m gone for the day,” she told her assistant on the way out, pocketbook over a shoulder. Minutes later she was on the sidewalk, sunglasses hiding her wet eyes as she headed down Geary. She needed a drink.

  The street was crowded with cars and sightseeing buses, cabs weaving among them, and the sidewalk bustled as well. There were executives from the many business towers and hotels, tourists, and the people she considered locals, both the well-heeled shoppers and the regular folk who catered to their needs. Deanna wore Gucci and Prada, and counted herself among the former. The city, infamous for its large homeless population, did a good job keeping the vagrants out of this part of downtown, for which she was happy. It was bad for the high-end image, and an annoyance for those who had to fend off their aggressive begging. Thinking of vagrants made her think of Scotty and his victim, and she wiped tears away under her sunglasses.

  She loved this part of the city, and just walking in it made her feel a little better. Before reaching the enormous Macys up ahead, she crossed at the light and turned down Powell, the trees of Union Square Park to her right. There was Victoria’s Secret and the Westin St. Francis, and across the park was Louis Vuitton. Neimans, Fendi, Donna Karan…temples of the elite. She was known in all of them as a customer to be given special attention. Deanna might have worked in the world of retail, but her private life was one of money and exclusive privilege. A hefty divorce settlement from her ex – a senior partner in one of San Francisco’s top law firms – ensured she would never go without the finer things. It made her Macys salary feel like pocket change.

  She considered Scala’s Bistro another block up, but decided she needed more privacy. Before reaching the end of the block she stopped at a dark mahogany door with polished brass fittings, flanked by a pair of dark leafy plants. A discrete bronze plaque over the door read simply, Society. She started towards it but was cut off by an Asian woman tugging on the arm of a wailing and uncooperative five-year-old. Deanna’s frequent overseas announced that the woman’s strange, barking language was Vietnamese, though she couldn’t understand the words. Kids were difficult in any language, and she was happy never to have had any. She let them pass, and the pair went through an adjacent doorway. Deanna pushed through the mahogany door and into darkness.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Sansone.” An attractive young woman in a tight black dress and heels greeted her from a small podium set with a brass reading lamp. She was pretty enough to be a Vicky’s model herself.

  “Hi, Cassandra,” she said.

  “Tough day?” the girl asked, linking arms with her and walking her inside. A sitting lounge with enormous chairs and a fireplace was off to the right, a room which would be at home in a gentleman’s club, and the clack of billiards came from somewhere beyond. Cassandra steered her down a dark paneled hallway.

  “You can tell?” Deanna asked, and the girl nodded with a sympathetic smile.

  “Probably too early for dining,” Cassandra said, “but I’ll bet you could use a cocktail.”

  “Or four.”

  A soft laugh. “Main room, or the back?”

  Deanna took off her sunglasses, the red of her eyes and smudged mascara mercifully hidden in the low light. “Ladies room first, then I’ll go on back.”

  The hostess gave her arm a reassuring squeeze and left her in the hall, retreating to the podium. Minutes later Deanna had fixed her makeup and felt at least presentable. She continued down the hallway, passing a luxurious dining room and a long polished bar, stopping at another mahogany door neatly tucked in a corner. An electronic card reader was mounted beside it, and over the reader was a brass plate, again with the word Society. From her purse Deanna extracted a small card wallet and flipped through her black and platinum plastic, pulling out one which was midnight blue, Society in raised silver l
ettering down one side. The reader accepted it, and the door clicked open.

  Exclusive, the operative word in Deanna’s life. She was known and welcome in every VIP boutique, nightclub room and private club worth visiting in the city, and recognition alone was usually enough to get her past whatever discrete attendant or security watched the door. The inner room of Society was beyond exclusive, a members-only club where would-be entrants had to be referred by a current member in good standing before being subjected to an in-depth pre-screening and background check. It was the kind of place which, if you didn’t know it existed, you weren’t their kind of person to begin with.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Sansone,” said Dimitri, a handsome thirty-something in a five thousand dollar suit, waiting just inside the door. They exchanged a friendly kiss on the cheek, and he also took her by the arm in the comfortable way of old friends, leading her inside. “Are you joining anyone?”

  “No. I think I’ll just sit at the bar.”

  “Of course.” He took her past the tables, and held a high-backed barstool for her while she sat. The bartender, a man who could be Dimitri’s twin in youth, good looks and rugged sex appeal, appeared at once.

  “Peter, I’ll have a cosmo.”

  “Right away, Ms. Sansone.”

  Deanna pulled her iPhone from her pocketbook, toyed with it for a moment, considering, then shut it off and dropped it back into her bag. She didn’t want to look at the news reports. She’d heard enough. The drink appeared, and Peter moved away to give her some privacy. She raised the glass a little. “Anthropophagy,” she said softly, and sipped.