Ghoul Interrupted (31 page)

“Because Brad has something to do with ancient Native American art,” I said, seeing Heath nod beside me. I had a feeling that Wyatt had learned about the value of ancient American Indian artifacts from his job working for Brad, and I further wondered if maybe Brad had some sort of connection to this “professor” person, or maybe
he
was the professor.

Gilley, however, seemed less than enthused, at least by the sound of his big old sigh. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“Quickly,” I told him, knowing that Gilley could procrastinate with the best of them.

“Yes, yes,” he grumbled, clearly annoyed.

Once I’d hung up with Gil, Heath and I decided to check in on his mother, who was still staying with Ari. But when we got to the Pueblo, we found Mrs. Lujan looking very sad. As we sat and talked with her, it was apparent that the loss of her brother and sister-in-law, and all the added stress from the presence of the demon, were taking their toll on her.

“What can I do, Ma?” Heath asked her, wrapping an arm around her.

“She wants to go to the workshop,” Ari said from the doorway of the kitchen.

Heath pulled his head back to look at his mother in surprise. “You do?”

She gave a meek nod. “I think it’ll be good if my hands have something to do. And maybe it’ll help mend old wounds. Maybe if I replace the urn that went missing, Rex and Vernon will finally get over the fact that it’s gone?”

Heath wrapped his arms around his mother and said, “I think that’s a great idea, Mom.”

His response disappointed me—I mean, when was there going to be a better opportunity to tell his mom what we found buried up in the caves? Still, it wasn’t my place to say anything, so I held my tongue, but grudgingly.

We drove Heath’s mother over to the Pueblo art center, which was a small building with one window. She had to get permission from one of her brothers to enter it and set to work, of course, and Rex surprised me with his enthusiasm to allow her to create something to replace the urn. I figured he might think it would finally settle the feud if a replacement urn was made.

I also discovered that since the disappearance of the old urn, small portions of Whitefeathers’ ashes had been meticulously collected and were being stored in a coffee can. Yes. You read that right. A coffee can. Rex even showed it to us, so no wonder he was happy to let his sister create a more appropriate container.

Heath and I hung out with Mrs. Lujan while she set to work. Heath didn’t want to leave her alone, and neither did I. We hadn’t told anyone what we encountered out in the foothills—well, except Brody, but it didn’t look like he’d blabbed either.

I knew that our tale of being chased out of there by the demon would’ve fallen on deaf ears anyway—and could’ve even gotten us kicked off the Pueblo for good. Still, it irked me that everyone seemed content to walk around like there was no danger. It was a situation ripe for disaster, and the reason why Heath and I discreetly kept Mrs. Lujan company all afternoon.

Heath wanted her to come back to the hotel with us, but Mrs. Lujan said she was too tired to make the trip and just wanted to crash out at Ari’s place. Heath didn’t seem happy about it, but he didn’t argue. Instead, we left all our spikes with Ari and made sure to let her know to call us at the first sign of trouble.

Heath seemed reluctant to leave the Pueblo, and I didn’t blame him, but Ari’s house was nestled in a row of six other homes, and a tall stone fence bordered the house, so it felt more protected than most. Rex’s house at the end of the row appeared the most exposed, and Heath and I talked about that on the way out to the road.

“Can I ask you something?” I said while we cruised out of the Pueblo.

“Anything.”

“How come you didn’t tell your mom about finding the original urn?”

He glanced at me. “Because if she knew we’d found it, she’d want to let everyone know.”

“Is that really such a bad thing, Heath?”

He grunted. “You don’t know my family, M. J. They’d accuse her of stealing it and getting me to pretend that I found it. It wouldn’t clear her name and it’d only add to the suspicion around us.”

“Okay, so what if you made her promise not to tell? I mean, did you see how upset she was when she mentioned the lost urn? I think it still really bothers her to know that it’s unaccounted for.”

“I know,” Heath said, and I could hear the guilt in his voice. “But if she knew that we’d found the original urn, then she might not make a new one.”

“My point exactly,” I said to him. “Why encourage her to create something that’s never going to be used?”

“Because throwing pottery makes her happy,” Heath told me. “My mom’s been sad for so long, Em. I think sometimes it’s the reason she’s in such bad shape physically. And if I told her about finding the original urn, she might’ve skipped making anything at all.”

My brow rose. I hadn’t considered that. “When will she be done with it?” I’d seen the new urn, which had a lovely shape, but was still dark gray with no glaze yet. Mrs. Lujan had left it on a shelf to dry when we left the workroom.

“She should be finished with it the day after tomorrow or the day after that—depending on what kind of design she wants to put on it.”

I stared out the windshield at the road. “So, do we just come back tomorrow and babysit your mom again?” I was anxious because a whole day had passed and we were still no closer to finding out how to deal with the demon.

Heath inhaled deeply and let it out slow. “No,” he said grudgingly. “Tomorrow we’ll need to focus on finding this professor and figuring out how to deal with this demon. We can’t wait for it to hit another Whitefeather and for everyone to wake up to the fact that this thing is real.”

“At least we’ve got Sheriff Pena on our side.”

Heath was quiet for a moment while he considered that. “Pena’s our one saving grace,” he said. “But he’s not one of the elders like my uncles are. If they find out Pena’s paying us to investigate this demon, they could do something drastic, like fire him.”

“Why would they fire him for hiring us?”

“Because that discretionary money he’s paying us with is really for things like office equipment and the ammo he and Cruz use for gun practice and stuff. It could look really bad for him if it got out that he’d hired two ghostbusters—especially now when so much at the station house needs to be replaced.”

“But I still don’t understand how anyone who saw that station could think anything other than a demon destroyed it!” I protested. “How can they argue with the evidence that’s right in front of them?”

“The rumor is that it was you, me, and Gilley trying to make it look like an evil spirit did it,” Heath said. I opened my mouth to protest again (really loud), but Heath cut me off by saying, “And if we didn’t do it, then they think you guys might be covering for some vandals who broke into the station when they found the Pueblo abandoned that night.”

I gave Heath a look that said, “You have
got
to be kidding,” and he simply shook his head. “What can I say? They’re only willing to believe what they see with their own eyes.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that,” I grumbled.

“You said it, sister.”

 

Later that night, Heath was moody and withdrawn. He was too worried about his family to be much in the way for small talk, and try as we might, he and I couldn’t really come up with a good plan to find and defeat the demon. I’d tried to talk him into going to dinner with Gilley and me, but he said he just wanted to order a pizza and stay in.

So, we ordered pizza, and after giving Heath his half, I took mine to Gil’s room to hang with him and Doc. “Trouble in paradise?” Gilley asked when he saw me bearing pizza and a six-pack on his doorstep.

I sighed. “Yes and no.”

Gil waved me inside and made room on the table for the pizza. “Is it more yes than no?”

“Hard to say,” I told him, opening the lid to the pizza and getting right to a warm gooey piece. “I mean, I know he’s got all this family drama to deal with, not to mention the fact that the poor guy’s just lost his favorite aunt and uncle, so if he’s a little distant and moody, I can hardly fault him.”

Gil picked up his slice and sat down in the chair opposite me. “And yet,” he said knowingly, “I feel like you are.”

I sighed again. “It’s just hard, Gil,” I said, picking at the pineapple on my pizza. “I mean, I want to be this totally supportive, understanding girlfriend. . . .”

Gilley laughed. “Oh, sugar,” he said, eyeing me knowingly. “That just ain’t your gig.”

I was a little injured by that. “What does
that
mean?”

Gil leaned in and looked me dead in the eyes. “It means that, in so many ways, you’re still the little eleven-year-old girl that lost her mom to cancer, and I’m still the four-year-old boy who lost his dad to homophobia. You can’t suffer that kind of loss and not clam up a little around people going through something similar.”

I felt my eyes well; inexplicably and irretrievably he had set off the waterworks. “I’m so ready to grow up, Gil,” I told him.

Gilley set down his slice of pizza, and took my hand. “What you’re ready for, M. J., is to let go of all the pain associated with losing your mama. And that ain’t likely in this lifetime. Some wounds just don’t heal. But you do learn to cope. It’s like someone who loses an arm or a leg. You figure out how to get around and get by, and pretty soon, no one else notices.”

I sniffled and squeezed his hand, realizing with a burst of clarity that Gil got me like no one else ever would. “Thanks, honey,” I told him.

“Now eat,” he said, taking back his hand. “And then we’ll talk about Wyatt.”

Gil and I finished up our dinner and I huddled behind him while he typed fast and furious on his computer. I tried following along as he whizzed in and out of screens, but it was incredibly dizzying. Although soon enough he opened up a somewhat familiar e-mail and clicked the COMPOSE button.

“Hey!” I said over his shoulder. “Isn’t that Pena’s e-mail?”

“It is,” Gil said a little smugly. “I decided to hack into his account rather than continue to look through Cruz’s e-mail because our favorite deputy uses his e-mail a little too much and might notice our snooping around.”

“You mean
your
snooping around,” I corrected. “I had nothing to do with this illegal activity.”

“Shhh!” he replied. “I have to be super quick just in case Pena logs on and sees this.”

I read the e-mail while he typed, and was surprised to learn that Gil was writing to the same sheriff in Los Alamos who’d sent Cruz the info on Daryl West.

Gil wrote as if he were Pena, and asked the sheriff if he had any information on Wyatt Benoit, who might have been with Daryl at the time he was attacked by the mountain lion, and could possibly shed some light on what’d happened.

Gilley ended the e-mail by asking the sheriff to reply to a different e-mail address, as the one he’d been using had been compromised and he now needed to change it for security reasons. He then left him the new address at the bottom of the e-mail, hit SEND, then clicked over to the sent file and deleted the copy. Once he’d done that, he clicked out of Pena’s account altogether.

Gil then peered at me over his shoulder to get my reaction. “Ballsy,” I told him.

He flashed me a big smug smile and got back to work. After another hour, Gil gave up, but not without a few grumbles. “Don’t these people own computers?” he asked. He’d been searching for any electronic signature of Wyatt and couldn’t find a thing.

I thought back to Wyatt’s shabby apartment. “I don’t think the guy owned much of anything,” I told him.

Gil rubbed his eyes tiredly. “There’s no trace of him,” he said. “If he was employed by a guy named Brad, then it was under the table, because his last known employer was a McDonald’s and that was three years ago.”

I scowled. “I had the impression that Brad had something to do with selling Native American art,” I said. “Maybe coming at it from that angle will help?”

“You mean like an art dealer?”

I shrugged. “Possibly.”

Gilley got back to work, typing and pulling up screens and Internet sites as he went along. “There’s nothing here,” he said after another hour of fruitless searching. “No Brad, Bradley, or first initial
B
listed in the Santa Fe or Los Alamos area connected to art dealing.”

“Crap,” I said, eyeing the clock. It read eleven p.m. “Is there any word from your sheriff friend in Los Alamos?”

Gil switched windows. “Nope,” he said, then hacked into Pena’s e-mail one last time. “And he hasn’t replied to Pena directly either.”

“Will you stop hacking into that account?!” I snapped, fatigue and frustration catching up with me.

“Chill,” Gil said, still snooping into the e-mail. “It’s only a problem if the other sheriff doesn’t follow directions and replies directly back to Pena.”

“Gil,” I warned. I had a bad feeling we were going to get caught, and I didn’t want our antics getting back to the sheriff when he’d gone out on a limb to hire us in the first place.

“I’ll be careful,” Gil promised, holding up his hand like he was taking a solemn vow.

“All right,” I said, giving up and moving to give Doc a good-night kiss before I turned in. “We’ll wait to hear from your sheriff, and in the meantime, Heath and I’ll head back to Wyatt’s apartment and maybe ask his neighbor if she’s seen him since we last talked to her.”

With that, I headed back to my own room.

The next morning, after discovering that Gil hadn’t gotten an e-mail reply back from the Los Alamos sheriff yet, Heath and I took off to try Wyatt’s apartment again. Like the day before, he wasn’t home, so Heath tried the door of the friendly neighbor we’d met at the mailboxes. “Hey there!” he said when she opened the door to him.