McCullum had urged those present "not to compound the tragedy of 9/11 with the loss of our fundamental liberties without a clear and present need to do so."
Not everything McCullum had said was popular with the association. At the cocktail party afterward, Karp had heard plenty of disparaging remarks about "bleeding-heart liberals who endanger us all."
To a degree, Karp agreed with the critics of those on the left who thought they could appease terrorists by talking to them. It reminded him of the pre-World War Two 1930s and Neville Chamberlain's attempts to appease Hitler. However, like McCullum, he was also concerned that the government seemed to use the specter of terrorism to justify tampering with civil liberties.
It was a difficult thought to deal with in front of the gaping hole across Vesey Street, and the sudden chiming of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony on his cell phone startled Karp. He pulled it from his pocket with a scowl. He hated the thing and only carried it to make Marlene happy. He looked at the number flashing on the panel but didn't recognize it or the area code: 208.
"Probably a wrong number," he muttered, but answered. "Hello?"
"Mr. Karp?" a male voice asked.
"Yeah, who wants to know?"
"Excuse the interruption, but your wife, Marlene, gave me your number."
"Who is this?"
"Mikey O'Toole. Fred's brother."
"Mikey O'Toole, what a pleasure!" Karp exclaimed. He and Fred O'Toole had been roommates at Berkeley, where they'd both attended on basketball scholarships. "This is an unexpected surprise, what's up?"
He heard O'Toole take a deep breath before answering. "Well, I'm in a little trouble out here in Idaho, and I was hoping I might ask you for a bit of advice."
Karp's stomach knotted up. Many years earlier, Mikey's brother had called with a similar request and that had ended badly. But there was a debt that remained, so he asked, "What can I do for you?"
5
When Lucy awoke the next morning she thought for a moment that she'd slept her way into a Frederic Remington painting. A barrel-chested Indian stood quietly with his face pointed toward the rising sun and the gray-blue mist of the still slumbering west beyond him. A red Navajo blanket was draped around Jojola's heavily muscled shoulders, allowing his long, dark, gray-streaked hair to flutter in the morning breeze.
In the moments of sobriety when the peyote temporarily released its grip on her mind between hallucinations, she'd been sure that she was going to wake up with a hell of a hangover. But while her body felt drained, as if she'd run a great distance, her mind was crystal clear, sharp as a tack, a steel trap. All the cliches seem apropos, she thought.
However, her dreams had been troubled. She couldn't remember them all and something told her that those she couldn't were not important. The main one remained clear, a dream about crossing the desert by the light of a full moon with John Jojola as her guide. Only he was as he might have been four hundred years earlier, dressed in leggings beneath the traditional black skirt worn by Pueblo Indian men and carrying a bow and arrows. His face was painted dark on one side and light on the other, and he said little during the dream, leading mostly by pointing or going on ahead.
On the dream journey she'd come across St. Teresa, a fifteenth-century Spanish martyr who had been her sort of "invisible friend" since childhood, showing up in times of stress or danger with a warning or sometimes as a somewhat sarcastic witness. The saint had been standing behind a rock outcropping and might have gone unnoticed by Lucy if Jojola hadn't turned his head in that direction and stopped.
In the moonlight, the saint's face looked like porcelain, except there were tears running down her cheeks. Oddly, Lucy could see that there was a red feather in her dark hair.
Me aflijo para usted y su nino, the saint said in her native Spanish.
Why do you grieve for me and my child? Lucy asked. I don't have a child.
The saint reached for Lucy, but Jojola pulled her away. We shouldn't linger with sad spirits, they want company and can sap your will to go on, he said.
Later, as Lucy and Jojola were crossing a shallow oily stream, there was a disturbance in a pool and then an apparition rose slowly. It was Andrew Kane, though he was hardly recognizable; half of his face was eaten away, and seaweed was twined throughout what remained of his blond hair. A crab skittered out of his mouth and dropped back into the water. But she recognized his eyes-the cold, malice-filled blue eyes.
However, he spoke with the voice of a young boy that she recognized as Andy, one of the personalities of the schizophrenic Kane. Andy had briefly taken over from the murderous Andrew Kane during the St. Patrick's hostage crisis and revealed his alter ego's plans to Lucy that had eventually led to his downfall. He will reveal himself when the assassin strikes, Andy cried out. He bears the mark that stands wherever you throw it.
Shut up, you weakling! the sociopath Andrew Kane snarled as he took over from his weaker personality. Baring sharklike teeth, he took two steps toward Lucy but was brought up short as first one, then another of the arrows shot from Jojola's bow plunged into his chest. He clutched at their shafts and howled, then fell back into the roiling water and disappeared beneath the surface.
As frightening as that was, the next image was more disturbing. She and Jojola were approaching a path leading up a butte when their way was blocked by a swirling cloud of dark smoke. Flames could be seen inside the clouds and a menacing dark figure moved toward her. She wanted to turn around, but Jojola took her by the hand and led her into the cloud. You cannot run from the dark warrior, he said. You must face him or he will defeat you in the waking world.
Fear filled her as she felt a searing heat growing all around her. Then she lost contact with Jojola and fell to her hands and knees. Choking on the smoke, she was struggling to rise when a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. Looking up, she saw that it was S. P. Jaxon, an FBI agent and friend of the family. She felt relieved as she'd known "Uncle Espey" many years as a colleague of her father.
Then she saw his eyes. They were angry and she believed that he was the dark warrior Jojola had warned her about. The book, Lucy, he demanded. Where is the book? His fingers dug into her arm like hot nails.
Lucy looked behind her and saw in the swirling black smoke an old book lying on a rock. There was a curious emblem in gold on the front, but as she reached for it, the book was consumed by flames while a terrified voice screamed in agony somewhere back in the smoke.
Lucy turned and ran past Jaxon, who reached out to stop her but missed. She stumbled blindly, falling again and banging her knee hard on a rock. Then two hands grabbed her shoulders from behind.
Don't hurt me, Espey! she cried out. Please, don't hurt me!
The hands turned her, but instead of Jaxon's eyes, she found herself looking into the calm brown eyes of Jojola. It's okay, Lucy, he said. The danger has passed for now.
Lucy looked around and realized that the smoke was gone, as was the unbearable heat. She was standing in the bright white light of a full moon that had risen above the New Mexican desert. A shadow passed across the moon. Looking up, she saw a snow-white owl drifting over her; its golden eyes met her own before it wheeled away.
"How do you feel?" In the clear dawn, Jojola's voice brought Lucy back to the present…the sober present. She looked at him again and saw that he was smiling at her, the morning sun defining the eagle's beak curve of his nose and casting shadows in the rugged contours of his face. She returned the smile and stood up to stretch, gritting her teeth at the sudden pain in her knee. Looking down, she saw that her pants were torn and the knee bloody from a fall.
But I was asleep, she thought. She looked around and her confusion grew. She didn't recognize the campsite. Yes, there was a bed of soft cedar boughs, but otherwise nothing was the same.
"Weren't we over there?" Lucy said, pointing to a butte in the distance.
"Very good," Jojola said. "It's important to remember landmarks when traveling on foot in the desert. To the un
trained eye, the desert all looks the same, and distances can be tricky. Some things appear to be close and yet you can walk toward them all day and never reach your destination; others seem to be far away, but the next time you look up, they are right in front of you."
Lucy's jaw dropped. "But how? I don't remember you bringing me here last night. I must have really been tired. How'd you carry me so far?"
Jojola gave her an amused look. "An old Indian man carry a big strappin' white girl like you across the desert? No way. We walked here yesterday-actually, you slept all day and we walked all night. It's only about five miles, but you stopped a lot to talk to rocks and bushes and animals."
Lucy's brow knitted in disbelief. "We walked here? I mean, I dreamed we were walking in the moonlight, but it didn't seem real."
Jojola shrugged. "What is real? You were still under the influence of peyote, if that's what you mean. Lots of first-timers think that the journey is over after the first period of hallucinating. Occasionally, there are moments of sobriety, or in your case, you slept until I woke you to continue your journey. But sometimes it is so subtle when it decides to take hold again that you don't even know that you've stepped back into the otherworld. What do you remember from your dream that was more than a dream?"
Lucy recounted what she could remember. When she was finished, Jojola nodded. "Yes, there are good and bad spirits that take the form of people in the otherworld, just as there are good and bad spirits that inhabit human beings in this world, too. But that is the natural order of things-the balance of dark and light."
"Like the way you had your face painted," Lucy noted. "Black on one side, white on the other."
"I did not paint my face," Jojola responded. "However, under the influence of peyote you were able to perceive that within all men there is the potential for both good and evil."
Lucy nodded. They'd had the conversation before about the duality of the universe. Yin and yang. Right and wrong. Her father and Andrew Kane. One dependent on the other to provide context and meaning.
Tears came to Lucy's eyes as she recalled the angry look on Jaxon's face. "How will I ever face him without seeing that or hearing those screams when he reached for me?" she asked after describing the vision.
Jojola's face clouded for a moment. "I did not see what you saw," he said. "I heard you cry out." He was quiet for a moment, a frown on his face. "It is important to remember that some of what peyote chooses to show you can be taken literally, but more often it can't. Or, what seems to mean one thing in a vision quest may not mean that on this side of the otherworld. Even someone who seems to be doing evil may just be acting out a role that in the end accomplishes great good. And it can be unwise, even dangerous, to jump to conclusions."
"What about the owl?" Lucy said. "Aren't owls harbingers of death? Like the vision I had of being buried alive."
Jojola nodded. "Sometimes. But whose death is not always known, nor do they necessarily represent one's own doom. Remember, too, they also are the animal that can see in the dark, which means that they represent the ability to see what might not be revealed or clear to others. And if the owl is your totem, it has been since you were born, yet here you are more than twenty years later, a healthy, beautiful young woman."
"Yes, but the death of others has often been a major part of my life," Lucy pointed out. "Maybe I'm like the owl. Maybe I'm a harbinger of death." The lingering tears now fell from her eyes.
Jojola walked over and wrapped her in the Navajo blanket. "Lucy, listen to me," he said. "If you're going to mix your own spirituality with American Indian beliefs, then you should know that we believe that this life, and our deaths, are preordained. We are born into a life that has been laid out before us like the path leading up this butte, and we die when the path alters course and leads us into the next world."
"We're all just actors, right?" Lucy said. "The thought is not encouraging."
"Yes, Shakespeare knew that universal truth when he wrote it," Jojola said. "But that doesn't mean we just sit back and let fate come to us. A warrior goes out to meet his, or her, fate."
Lucy was quiet for a time, letting the sun warm the blanket around her shoulders and the light, cool breeze refresh her. "So am I done with the peyote?" she asked at last.
"I think for the most part, peyote is done with you," Jojola responded. "However, you may notice the presence of the spirit for several days in small ways. Sudden clarity of mind. A subtle difference in how you perceive colors or sounds. But we will hurry the process now by sweating it out of you."
Lucy clapped her hands. "You built a sweat lodge?" she cried happily.
Jojola pointed to a hunched-over pinon tree, the drooping branches of which formed a natural cave. He'd covered the branches with blankets and had a small fire going near the entrance. "It's a wickiup, more like my brothers to the north, the Utes, used instead of teepees or adobe buildings. I prefer the kivas of my people because they offer a place to sit while we sweat, but this will do."
Lucy understood. Kivas were pits dug into the earth, some of them quite large, and had been used for thousands of years. The Anasazi, a Navajo word meaning "the ancient ones," who had once lived in the American Southwest, had built kivas in their cliff dwellings before they'd abandoned their homes.
Anthropologists believed that the Anasazi were the ancestors of the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico, and Lucy figured that they must have shared a similar belief that kivas represented the hole from which they'd emerged to inhabit the earth in their creation mythology. The tribes clung tenaciously to that belief, which made them truly Native Americans, despite the efforts of scientists who contended that they were the descendants of people who had crossed into North America from Asia.
A few minutes later, Lucy and Jojola were sitting in the sweat lodge as he poured water on the rocks he'd been heating in the fire outside. There was an immediate rush of steam filling the lodge.
Lucy giggled at the thought that she was sitting naked next to a fifty-five-year-old man, a fact that would have thrown her conservative cowboy boyfriend, Ned, into a jealous pique, though he, too, adored Jojola. She'd felt a moment's embarrassment when she first stripped down outside the wickiup. But Jojola had kept his back turned until they were inside and then he busied himself with the preparations of bringing in superheated rocks from the fire and pouring water over them slowly. Soon, her body was drenched with sweat and she could almost feel the toxins from the peyote leaving through her pores.
"If you like, I can tell you a story about the owl," Jojola said. "It is from my cousins in the Zuni tribe. It is a sad story in the end. But it is also a love story and shows that the owl is a compassionate totem."
"Yes, I'd like to hear it," Lucy replied.
"Okay, then, once upon a time," Jojola said with a smile, "there was a young warrior whose beautiful and much-loved wife died. He was so devastated that he decided to follow her into the land of the dead and find a way to return her to the world of the living. The spirit of the young woman helped her husband by placing a red feather in her hair…"
Lucy's eyes flew open at the memory of St. Teresa with the feather in her hair. But Jojola continued with his story and in the comforting rumble of his voice, her eyes closed again.
"Spirits gradually grow invisible as they approach the land of the dead," Jojola continued. "So the feather was to help him keep track of her."
The spirit of the young woman and her faithful husband eventually came to a dark lake. She plunged in, but he could not follow. "As he sat in despair on the shore of the lake," Jojola said, "Owl Man saw how much he loved his wife and took pity on him. So Owl Man brought him to a cave in the mountains where his people lived and gave him a sleeping potion. 'When you awake, you will be with your wife. Take her back to your village, but do not touch her until you reach the village,' the Owl Man warned. As promised, when the young warrior woke up, his wife was there, waiting for him to guide her back to their village and the land of the living."
They almost made it, Jojola said, but as they drew close to the village, the warrior's wife grew tired and lay down. Soon she was fast asleep. As she rested, the warrior could not resist touching her. "Whereupon she woke, but instead of continuing on, she had to go back to the land of the dead, leaving her husband to grieve all the more."
"That's so sad," Lucy said. "If he'd just waited a little longer, they could have been together. What's it supposed to mean?"
Jojola shrugged his shoulders. "Different things to different people. Some might say it is a parable that love cannot exist without the physical side. Or maybe it is simply a reminder never to take those we love for granted because when they are gone, they are gone forever and no amount of wishing to touch them can bring them back."
Outside of the wickiup, an owl hooted. "See," Jojola said solemnly. "Your totem agrees with me."
6
Butch Karp stopped pacing long enough to glance out of the big picture window of the loft at the apartment across Crosby Street. A strikingly attractive dark-haired woman painted at an easel, stopping every so often to look southwest as dusk settled over Lower Manhattan. Dabbing at the canvas with her brush, she tilted her head in an odd way that indicated that she saw better from one eye than the other.
The painter, his wife, Marlene, finished a long stroke and then turned in his direction. Seeing him, she smiled and gave a little wave before returning to her project. He responded by raising his hand, and with a sigh turned back to his own work, which was laid out on the kitchen table across the room. He walked over and picked up a yellow legal-sized notepad on which he'd written a series of names formed into columns.
Malice kac-19 Page 8
