Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged (6 page)

Suddenly
Manaba appeared in the fire—not by the fire, or near the fire, but
in
the
fire—standing there full form and calm and as real as Callie next to me. The
flames encircled her, the embers glowed under her shoes, the smoke caressed
her. Callie restrained me to keep me from jumping to her rescue.

Her
voice was strong and rhythmic and hypnotic, and I heard the drumbeat gather
force and become fierce for the first time. The sound of something like rain
rattles jigging to the rhythm of the drum grew louder, and Callie whispered
that Manaba was asking for protection.

After
a long time had passed, words that sounded like
Sa 'ah naaghei, Bik 'eh hozh
filled the air, and Callie explained that if the ceremony had left out
anything, saying these words was like errors-and-omissions insurance.

A
second drumming seemed to kick off prayers for the Native American woman who
was killed by the wolf.

"Did
Manaba know the woman who was killed?" I asked Callie.

"Her
name is Nizhoni."

"I
think I drank something that sounded like that at the Japanese
restaurant." At Callie's disapproving look I added, "I'm not kidding.
It means
saki
or something like that."

"Nizhoni
means beautiful."

The
drumbeat grew louder, and the twenty or so women around the fire rose as if on
cue and formed the Indian version of a line dance, stomping and chanting in
ritual lockstep that picked up in speed and intensity. Then Manaba pulled
Callie into the smoke and danced with her—an erotic dance that made a seamless
piece of their bodies.

Rising
to separate them, I was jealous that Callie would dance with someone other than
me, aware that the two of us had never danced together and feeling even angrier
that the first time I saw her dance was with Manaba. Then Callie tugged my arm,
pulling me back to a sitting position, and I realized she was beside me,
dancing with no one.

"Were
you up there for a moment, dancing with her?"

"Not
in a real sense, it's spiritual."

"I
think she's after you."

"She's
calling on me to be one with her search."

"Yeah,
well, I don't like what she's searching for, which I think is you," I
said, sounding like some grumbling husband with a limited vocabulary.

Bright
lights swung across us like search beams and the drumbeat slapped to a hard
stop, the rattles dopplered into silence, and the dancers wandered off away
from the circle as a four-wheel-drive vehicle slowly inched its way up the
southern edge of the plateau. My mind grappled with how a car got up a hill so
steep it challenged a jackrabbit.

A
short, wiry cowboy of a man in his late sixties stepped out of the SUV and
strolled over to the fire where the dancers were breaking up.

Tipping
his hat to Manaba, he said, "Saw the fire and wanted to make sure you
women were safe up here, particularly after the wolf killing. Former Senator Cy
Blackstone." He introduced himself to a seemingly disinterested woman
attired in Navajo dress, before attempting to take Manaba's hand in a
gentlemanly gesture, but Manaba stepped back from him.

He
had his cowboy hat pushed back on his head, so the light from the fire caught
the craggy folds of his leathery face and a set jaw that bespoke a resolve
about life that neither reason nor affection could overcome. His jeans tight
fitting, belt buckle flashing silver in the flames, and his black ostrich boots
dusty but new, he was a crossover cowboy—the kind who could push cattle or
congressmen, rope steers or statesmen—a comfort cowboy who rode the range in a
Range Rover.

"Now
that the woman..." he paused to glance around him before continuing
"...was given a decent burial, I could sure use a favor."

Manaba's
face revealed nothing. In fact, if you were looking for evidence that she knew
him, had expected him, hadn't expected him, disliked him, or loved him, it was
a dry hole. Nonetheless, he seemed undeterred as he kicked up the dirt with his
toe and ducked his head, not unlike a schoolboy thinking of asking a girl to
dance.

"Lotta
the natives think this deal is like last time and they're spooked, not wantin'
to show up at the site. You go on camera and talk, it'd settle things down.
Hell, even the whites are sayin' that your grandma's callin' the wolf down on
'em. Mall means a lot of jobs—jobs for Indians too. You think about it. In
light of what you and me are tryin' to do, you give it some extra thought. It's
important to our protecting people you care about. Protection is the key to
freedom—ask any dating boy."

He
chuckled and cast his eyes around the circle at the women. "Didn't mean to
interrupt." His tone said the opposite. In fact he'd probably made a
special trip up here to interrupt and, beyond that, even delighted in
interrupting. The sly way he sank into his own hip, pulled his hat back down
over the ridge of his brow, and spat into the fire, the sacred fire, spoke all
anyone needed to hear.

"Well,
night, Ms. Manaba," he called over his shoulder with a laugh, as if
stringing Ms. and Manaba together was funny, and kept on talking as he walked.
"Oh." He stopped and turned back in bad Columbo style, acting as if
he'd thought of something. "You decided where you're gonna be movin' your
meetings? Mall construction's going to be coming right up here pretty quick.
This is going to make a beautiful restaurant, don't you think? People dining
and looking out over this cliff. They'll be standing in line for days.
Progress, Manaba, progress. If we live long enough, we collide with it. I hope
all you ladies will take care and enjoy your evening."

Manaba
stared at him, muttering something I imagined was designed to turn him into a
toad.

Callie
intercepted him. "Mr. Blackstone, did anyone ever find the wolf's
body?"

"And
who are you, other than a mighty attractive woman?" He touched his hat.

"Callie
Rivers."

"Don't
know the answer to that, Ms. Rivers, except a drop like that probably flattened
him out like a prairie pancake—might not have been much to find."

"So
did anyone actually witness the attack?" I asked.

He
looked at Manaba for a moment and then turned back to us. "Don't know that
either." He tipped his hat to her and then to several other women standing
nearby before getting behind the wheel, making a U-turn, and driving down the
backside of the cliff.

"Why
didn't you tell me this cliff was drivable?"

"Because
it's mostly for jeep tours," Callie replied.

"Hello,
I have a Jeep." My voice rose.

"Part
of the ritual is to climb the face of the rock like the ancestors," she
said as our eyes were simultaneously drawn to the tall, broad-shouldered
Manaba, her back to us as she stood overlooking the cliff, watching the SUV
drive away.

The
wind whipped around her shoulders, her long black hair as captivating as the
tail of a wild mustang, her leather trappings billowing away from her body. I
had never seen such pride and strength and old-world power all in one place. If
on top of all that, she was spiritual and cosmic and otherworldly, and Callie
was attracted to her, then as the country singer said, I hated her and I'd
think of a reason later.

It
crossed my mind that I didn't like Blackstone much either. "The senator
gives me the creeps," I said.

Callie
seemed to be only half listening and broke away, striding toward Manaba. With
the wind picking up in the opposite direction, I could hear only fragments of
the conversation as Callie and Manaba exchanged words that seemed to drift from
inquiring and responding to something short of arguing.

"What
do you want me to do?" Callie asked her.

"Unearth
the truth," Manaba replied.

Then
suddenly the discussion was over, both turning and striding away, the duel
aborted, or so it appeared.

The
ceremonial dancers dispersed and Callie and I clambered down the steep slope to
our car, slipping here and there despite the moonlit night as we clung to each
other. She was intense and preoccupied, but I was inexplicably exhilarated by
the night air and the dancing. Once inside the car, I was so hot I rolled the
windows down and sat in the cool breeze, catching my breath.

"So
what deity were they dancing to up there?" I panted as I slumped back
against the seat.

"They
pray to the earth, the plants, the animals. Their religion is the act of being
one with all things—staying in balance with nature and the creator."

"I
like that," I said, contemplating the simplicity of seeing the ground and
all it grew and supported as holy.

"The
Navajo people live amid the four sacred mountains stretching from Colorado to
New Mexico and Arizona, and they believe they have always lived here and must
never leave."

"Is
that what Manaba was telling you?" I asked, knowing it wasn't, but not
wanting to come right out and express my jealousy again.

"She
believes her ancestors will answer her call for help, but she's also asking me
to help her fight a force as powerful as she."

"Sounds
like a comic-book plot: us against the forces of evil. Besides, why does
someone with her power need yours?"

"She
may believe that she's lost hers."

"Looks
to me like all her powers are working. How did she learn to stand in the flames
like that without burning her ass off?"

"Mind
over matter. Believe you're protected and you will be."

"So
her mind pulled you into the flames with her?"

"It's
only a ritual—joining me with her needs."

"I
don't like the way she looks at you. I want to be the only one who looks at you
like that. Of course I know I can't control other people's looks—short of
killing them—which may be why I'm so—I don't know—insanely jealous."

"I
didn't like what I saw between you and Barrett over dinner," she said
softly, and there she was again admitting a cosmic wiretap into my evening with
Barrett and confessing her jealousy like any ordinary lover laying claim to her
territory. I could have sworn she demanded I tell her everything, although the
words never came from her lips. Nonetheless, I began confessing like a
televangelist with his advertisers pulling out.

"She
attacked me," I said, using the dialogue I'd rehearsed with Elmo. My mind
wanted to spin it, but Callie meant so much to me—
I can't keep giving her
partial truths if we're going to live together
—and before I could stop
myself I went venti, in a few tawdry sentences revealing everything from
Barrett's touching me to the frightening fish-panty episode and the paramedics'
arrival.

Callie
was silent. I was silent, realizing once again my future with her might be in
jeopardy. Trying to maintain some bravado and minimize the impact, I said,
"You claimed you saw it anyway so why make me tell it. It was
horrible."

"I
see images, get feelings, pieces here and there, not everything blow by
blow."

And
like that time in Vegas when I told Callie's dad I'd rather sleep with her than
eat, I'd said too much. "What about you and the smoke dancer?"

But
Callie wasn't receptive to a redirection of the conversation, and we rode in
silence—so much silence that a black hole would have sounded like a rock
concert compared to the lack of sound between us.

As
if I could read her mind, I believed she wanted to know why under pressure I
delayed the truth, or only partially revealed it, or worse, might think it
overrated.

If I
thought about it, my cop training valued one-way truth. If I had to lie to get
a perp to confess, the truth was I did a good job. If I had to dodge the truth
to protect my cop buddies, the truth was I could be trusted. If I was sleeping
with two women and neither of them knew about the other, the truth was I was
under a lot of pressure and simply behaving like one of the guys. Truth was
subjective.

Back
home, we moved about the cabin as if the cord between us had been severed
irreparably. My truth and Callie's truth were not aligned. Mine consisted of
shades of gray, it was truth I could spin, it was an artful truth, while
Callie's was naively, overtly crystalline, the opposite of black, the prism
through which she viewed, perhaps secretly judged, every person, every action,
every essence of life.

Before
she could head for the bedroom, I blocked her with my body and grabbed her arm
to stop her and force a discussion. "Look, I'm sorry if I—"

"It's
all energy, Teague. Truth is energy. You have to keep it pure."

"You
can't live that purely, Callie, no one can."

"I
have to live the truth and only add things to my life that enhance it."

"Then
I don't know if you want to add me," I said truthfully and walked into the
bedroom feeling hollow. I lay down on the box-spring mattress whose creaking
coils now sounded forlorn, like a lone clarinet at the end of a New Orleans
funeral after all the mourners have been paid; and I looked up at the ceiling
and contemplated this strange crossroads in our relationship, brought on by
something as seemingly esoteric as the energy of truth.