by Sharon Sala
“But as it turned out, you did, didn’t you, Richard?”
Silence.
Agent Joshua was making frantic hand gestures—wanting Jacob to ask Richard’s location—but Jacob had said everything he intended to. He handed the phone to Joshua.
“You ask him.”
By the time Joshua had the phone to his ear, the line was dead.
“Did you get that?” Joshua yelled to the agent tracing the call, who shook his head. “He hung up too fast.”
“Damn it,” Joshua muttered.
“What did he say?” Corbin asked.
“He knows I’m in custody. God only knows where he is, but asking would have been stupid. He’s not going to tell me anything more…other than what he just said.”
“What was that?” Corbin asked.
“To go to hell.”
“That’s enough,” Jacob’s lawyer said. “You get nothing more from him until we have all this in writing and signed by the attorney general.” Then he pointed at Corbin Woodliff. “And you. Don’t print a word of this.”
“Sorry,” Corbin said. “You can make deals with the government but not the press. The story came to me. It’s mine to tell.”
“At least wait until—”
Corbin held up his hand. “You and I aren’t negotiating anything,” he said. “And as far as I’m concerned, the sooner the American people know their sons and daughters are being shot and killed with their own countryman’s weapons, the better.”
Jacob put his head down on the table and wept.
Corbin glared at him, then at his lawyer. “Do we understand each other here?”
The lawyer looked at Jacob, then back at Corbin. “Think of his family…of his children and grandchildren.”
“Why?” Corbin snapped. “He didn’t think of the mothers and fathers who are burying their children and grandchildren, or the children and grandchildren who are being orphaned, because of the weapons these two sold to al Qaeda. It’s over. The whole ugly scheme is over.”
Then Jacob lifted his head. His eyes were swollen and brimming with tears, and he looked as if he’d aged ten years in the last two hours.
“Let it go,” he said, speaking to his lawyer. “Just get the papers drawn up. I want this over with.”
At that moment Agent Morrow entered. There were a half-dozen people behind him, one of whom Corbin recognized as the attorney general of the United States. Corbin was promptly escorted out of the room, but he didn’t care. He had his story. The details could come later, in follow-up pieces. For now, he knew warrants had been issued for the arrest of Jacob Carruthers and Richard Ponte for treason against the United States of America, and why, and that was enough.
He pulled out a phone to call in the story. The piece had already been written while they’d been waiting for the AG to arrive. All he had to do was let the editor know, then e-mail it. Even though it was a coup for Corbin, it was a sad day for his country.
Alicia was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for John to come back from his shower, when she heard him call out her name. She raced into the living room just as he was turning on the television.
“You need to see this,” he said as he aimed the remote. “I caught part of it in my room.”
Alicia gasped when a live shot of Jacob Carruthers in handcuffs came onto the screen. The news anchor was talking over the footage in a highly excited voice. Then they flashed a photo of her father. Even though she’d known this was what would happen, the physical evidence was still shocking. She grabbed on to the back of the sofa as her knees went weak.
“Oh, Daddy,” she whispered. “What have I done?”
John could have told her right then about the soul he’d been after. That with every incarnation, when the time to make choices had come, it had chosen the dark side every time. He could have told her that Richard Ponte’s fall from grace had nothing to do with what she’d done and everything to do with something that had happened centuries ago. But she’d already suffered enough shocks. Dumping a revelation like that in her lap would have sent her straight over the edge.
“It wasn’t you who committed the crimes, it was him,” John said. “And don’t forget, he was willing to kill you to keep himself safe. What kind of a father does that?”
Alicia turned, almost eye to eye with the man behind her. “Obviously mine. The issue is…if he’s that evil, then what does that make me?”
John’s anger came out in his voice. “A victim. Nothing more.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Alicia said, but immediately wished she could take the words back when she saw the look on his face. It was then that she remembered his claim that her father was responsible for killing his wife, his entire family. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid, thoughtless remark. I wasn’t thinking about your own losses. I’m sorry.”
“Let it go,” John said. “Again, it wasn’t you who killed them. It was him.”
“How?” she asked. “Were they in a war zone? Was it a bomb? Help me understand.”
John’s nostrils flared. “They died because of ignorance and greed. As for helping you understand, how can I do that when I don’t understand it myself?”
Before she could answer, something the announcer was saying caught her attention. Alicia looked back at the television, then grabbed the remote from John’s hand and increased the volume, catching the broadcast in the middle of a sentence.
“…is in custody as of an hour ago. They’ve been unable to locate Richard Ponte. Authorities have all the usual points of travel under surveillance, but with Ponte’s international connections, there are rumors that he may already be out of the country. And here’s an ironic twist that we’ve just learned. It was Ponte’s own daughter, Alicia, who blew the whistle on him. We aren’t sure what that press conference he called the other day was all about, but we have it on good authority that she was not kidnapped, nor has she suffered a mental breakdown, although after this, one could hardly blame her. We have been given to understand that she is, at the moment, under tight security and in fear for her life.”
Alicia’s hands were shaking as she laid down the remote. “He got away. Oh my God…this still isn’t over.”
John felt sick. The man he’d been searching for had, once again, slipped past him.
“Where would he go?” he asked.
Alicia sat down before she fell down, then leaned back and covered her face with her hands.
“Anywhere he wants.”
“Does he have a favorite—”
Alicia suddenly lost it. She bolted up from the sofa and turned on John. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes revealed all the panic and frustration she was feeling.
“Favorite? Favorite? You still don’t get it. You don’t get him. He’s running, and he has the money to do it and the whole fucking world to hide in. He’ll never be found, and I’ll never be safe.”
She strode out of the living room with her chin up and her hands curled into fists.
John cursed beneath his breath. He’d had his chance to get to the man, but he’d let it pass. He’d chosen to help his enemy’s daughter and this country first. It had come at a high cost.
He put his head down and walked out of the living room, heading in the opposite direction from the one she’d taken. The last thing either of them needed was to argue with each other, but that was what it would come down to. He was mad at himself for the choice he’d made, and mad at Alicia for getting under his skin.
Alicia knew the minute she walked out that she was wrong. She shouldn’t have lashed out at John. It was her father and the situation that had her in knots. She stood for a few minutes within the silence of her bedroom, gathering herself for the apology she needed to make.
John had gone straight to the room where most of his personal artifacts were hanging. It was all he had left of his people. Usually he felt their spirits here in this house where he had a measure of peace, but he now stood before them in mute apology for having failed them once again
.
His gaze slid to a scrap of ancient leather with a bird painted on it that he’d mounted behind glass. It had once been part of his father’s quiver, and he could remember watching his father, Red Eagle, paint it, as if it were yesterday. He’d pulled it out of Red Eagle’s burning lodge after the massacre.
The trio of arrowheads framed on leather in a shadow box were his, and had been cut out of the men who’d attacked the village. From shards of pottery to fragile shells and tiny bone beads, everything in this room had once belonged to the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya.
Then he turned to a painting hanging alone in the middle of the east wall. He’d commissioned it more than a hundred years ago. He’d sat beside the artist, watching while he sketched the face, describing every nuance of the woman’s features. The warm brown shade of her skin, the slight flare of her nostrils at the end of her nose, perfect brows and lashes framing eyes so brown they could have passed for black, lips wide and full, a mouth that was nearly always laughing, the hair, thick, black and straight with a small blue feather tied near the crown of her head…
White Fawn.
He reached a hand toward the painting, then let it fall against his leg.
“I’m still here…without you.” His voice was nothing but a whisper.
Alicia was standing in the doorway behind him and knew he had no idea she was there.
She didn’t hear what he said. Once she’d seen the painting, she’d lost focus on everything but those eyes. The life within them was palpable. If the lips had parted and a voice had emerged, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
“Oh Lord,” she whispered, and backed out as quietly as she’d come.
By the time she got into the kitchen, she was bawling. Ugly gulping sobs that burned all the way down her throat. She’d heard his story. She understood what death meant, but it was seeing that beautiful, vital woman and knowing her father was responsible for the light going out in those eyes that did her in. It was a miracle in itself that John Nightwalker could even look at her. She felt shame and guilt—so much guilt—and yet John had said it himself. It wasn’t her fault. She was a victim, too. And while she understood that, it didn’t make the shock of seeing that woman’s face go away.
She cried until her eyes were mere slits in her face, until she was numb from the inside out, then staggered to the sink and began sloshing her face with cold water.
“Oh God, oh God,” she muttered as she continued to sluice her eyes and cheeks. If only her father’s sins could wash away as easily.
As she was drying her face, she heard John’s footsteps nearing the kitchen. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Without thinking about the fact that she was barefoot, she headed for the back door and out onto the terrace.
She thought she heard John call her name, but she wouldn’t turn around, and she wouldn’t look back. She didn’t think about anything except getting away until she’d regained her sense of self.
Her stride was quick and long as she bolted off the terrace and down onto the hot sand. Almost immediately, she realized she shouldn’t be out there barefoot, but this wasn’t the first time she’d done something she shouldn’t, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
“Alicia! Wait!”
She flinched. Damn. He was already outside and headed her way. Without turning around, she waved him back.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I just want some time alone.”
“Not without shoes, damn it.”
She stopped, her shoulders drooping, her chin slumped against her chest.
Please, she begged silently, just let him go back inside. “Okay, okay. Just go away. Please.”
Silence. She waited until she heard the door open and close. Only then did she relax.
Thank God. She sighed, then turned around, only to find John still on the terrace. Her first instinct was to be pissed.
“You’re not supposed to be here. You lied.”
“I did not lie. I didn’t say I was leaving. All you heard was the door open and close, and you know it. And you’ve been crying.”
Alicia threw her arms up in the air as she started to weep all over again. “So what? It’s not against the law. Give me a break. I’m a woman. We cry when we’re happy. We cry when we’re sad. And sometimes we cry when we’re mad. Right now I’m so mad at the situation and at my father that I can hardly think. So don’t come out here with that look on your face and tell me I can’t cry.”
John sighed. Now she was crying all over again. Damn, but that ate through every defense he ever had.
“I never said you can’t cry. I just pointed out that you’re doing it.”
Alicia choked on a sob as she swiped at the tears running down her face. “You’re making me crazy,” she said, and then kicked at the ground in frustration.
Sand flew in every direction as her toes cut through the loose grit; then she felt a sharp, burning pain and grabbed at her foot.
“Oh, oh…owww.”
John leaped off the terrace as she dropped onto the sand. Within seconds he saw what had happened, and his heart sank. He ground the black scorpion she’d unearthed beneath his boot, then scooped her up in his arms and headed inside.
“It burns,” she mumbled, and then licked at her lips, because they suddenly felt numb.
“Are you allergic?” John asked.
“I’m…”
John was running down the hall with her when he realized she hadn’t finished her sentence. Every breath she was taking sounded like a whistle, which meant her throat was closing up. Not only that, but she was now unconscious.
“No!” he yelled, and clutched her tighter as he ran. “Don’t you do this, woman. Don’t you dare die on me.”
His head was spinning as he laid her down on the bed, then made a run for his room. He had a first-aid kit, but he didn’t know if there was anything in it that would counteract an allergic reaction.
“Sweet Lord…help me,” he muttered as he tore through the contents of his medicine cabinet and the first-aid kit without success. Just when he thought all was lost, he heard something odd.
Through all the years that he’d owned this place, he’d never had an uninvited visitor, and yet the doorbell was ringing—over and over, as if someone was holding a finger on the bell.
He straightened abruptly and dashed back across the hall. Alicia was barely breathing, and what breaths she was taking were labored and shallow. It wouldn’t matter how fast he could get the chopper up and running to get her into Sedona. She would be dead before they got there.
He dashed toward the front door and then flung it open. An old Indian man was on the doorstep with a small black bag in one hand and a wide-brimmed straw hat in the other. He was wearing bright blue shorts and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. His long gray braids had small turquoise beads interwoven between the strands, and there was an enormous turquoise ring on his right hand.
“Where is she?”
John looked past the man toward the yard. It was empty. No car. No horse. Not even a motorcycle.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?” John asked.
“I asked first,” the old man said, and then pushed past John and headed toward Alicia’s bedroom as if he’d been there before.
John slammed the door shut and then followed on the run. By the time he got back to Alicia, the old man already had his bag open and was in the act of giving her a shot.
“Epinephrine,” he said shortly, then tossed the used syringe into his bag. “White man’s medicine.” Then he pulled out a thick bundle of twisted sage and struck a match. The sage caught. The old man let it burn for a few seconds, then blew out the blaze, leaving the tiny brush ends to smolder. “Indian medicine. Just covering all the bases,” he added, then began waving it above Alicia’s body as she lay motionless on the bed, chanting words John hadn’t heard in centuries, speaking the old language of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya.
“Who are you?” John asked, his voice thick with tears.
“The answer t
o your prayers,” the old man said, then pointed to a nearby chair. “You’re messing with my vibe. Go sit.”
John backed up without taking his eyes from the old man, but he sat and watched—and remembered such rites performed back in the village before the world as he’d known it had come to an end.
Time passed. Finally the old man stopped chanting. He turned, caught John’s gaze and nodded.
John stood abruptly and moved toward the bed. Alicia’s breathing was steady, but she was still unconscious.
“Is she going to be all right?”
The old man shrugged. “She has all the medicine she needs.”
“Then why isn’t she waking up?” John asked.
“She has not yet decided if she wants to live.”
John felt as if someone had shoved a knife in his gut. “What do you mean?”
“I cured her illness, but someone else has broken her heart. That is out of my hands. She has to decide for herself if life is worth living.” The old man shrugged again. “It is up to her. So I will go now,” he said, and gathered up his things and headed out of the room.
John looked back at Alicia, afraid to leave her, but needing answers the old man wouldn’t give. He followed him through the house, then out the front door.
“Where are you going?”
“Back where I came from,” he said. “I know what you are, time walker, and I know why you are still here. You don’t need me, but you need her. She’s part of your path. I have done all that is necessary. The rest is up to her.”
“But—”
“There are no buts. My job is done here. I go now.”
John had known from the moment he heard the chanting that this man was one of the Old Ones. He didn’t understand why the Old Ones had suddenly decided to interfere in his fate now. There had been countless times before when he could have used their help. Then he remembered what the old man had said. Alicia was part of his path. He needed her to fulfill his vow.
The old man put on his hat and stepped off the front steps. Within moments of clearing the yard, he disappeared.
John grunted as if someone had just kicked him in the gut, then remembered Alicia and hurried inside. She hadn’t moved since he’d laid her on the bed. The only positive thing was that she was still breathing.
