Tailed (17 page)

“Yeah, you know…” He held his arms apart and mimed shooting an arrow from a bow. “Tracked them down and killed them. They were cannibals, kept the skin of my ancestors as trophies, like the Jivaros kept shrunken heads of their enemies. They possessed special powers,
nanucanaxle
—”

“Nanoo…?”

“—that allowed them to become one with animals, some even to
become
animals in order to take trophies.”

“Please don't tell me: werewolves?”

Two Shirts answered with a shrug. “Anyway, all the Southwestern tribes got together and finally wiped the bastards out, so the story goes. If there's some spirit of a Tupelca still around—or in you—that could be your problem right there. Where are you going to get rid of this evil spirit?”

“Those guys know, somewhere near the Mexican border.”

“You know them?”

“Not really, but they saved me from some other people, the FBI…”

“FBI? You some kind of fugitive, Garth?”

“As far as I know I'm just a person of interest, one who currently would rather not be questioned again.”

“That's a drag. Best thing you can do is get rid of this…”

“Vuka. The spirit is called a vuka.”

“You sure these Tupelca know how to get rid of it?”

“They say they do. Why else would they be going to all this trouble? Why, could you get rid of it?”

“Me?” He shook his head. “This is stuff from the ancients, not my people. Only ancients or somebody who knows that shit can deal with it.”

“OK, here's another whacked-out question.”

“Have at it.”

“Someone suggested that the ancient Tupelca were aliens.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “People love aliens from outer space, the fallback explanation of the conspiracy-prone. Buncha crap, you ask me. Aliens to this continent, maybe. It has been suggested that the Tupelca were not native to North America, that they came from elsewhere, maybe even Peru or Ecuador where they shrunk heads to capture and retain people's spirits to make a person powerful. Here, hold out your hand.”

He spilled the spent sunflower shells from his palm into mine.

“Close the hand, make a fist.”

I did so, and he clasped my outstretched fist.

“Now repeat after me:
Mecca Lecca Hi
…”

“Mecca Lecca Hi…”

“Mecca Highnie Ho.”

“Wait a minute. That incantation is from that old
Pee-wee Herman Show
.”

Two Shirts smirked and let go of my hand.

I opened my hand and the seeds were gone.

Staring at my empty palm, I finally said: “So what does that mean?”

“It means you can fool some of the people all of the time and all of the people some of the time.” He opened his hand and showed me the empty seeds. “That was a stupid magic trick I learned in college. Did it in the bars to impress the girls.”

I loosed an exasperated sigh. “And the reason you did that was…?”

“Look, I can't help you, Garth. I wish I could. You have a really interesting problem. The only advice I can give is to make sure what you see isn't necessarily what you believe. Be careful, and watch out for the con. You may have this spirit and you may not. Think about it as you go on your way. And your string of trouble with powerful objects may have some other source. A rite of discovery may be the only way to find out what that is.”

“You mean something like Jason and the Argonauts?”

“Watch out for Medusa.” He chuckled softly. “She's one wicked bitch.”

chapter 21

O
n our way back to the highway, I finally found a box store and purchased some cheap new clothes: chinos, white oxford shirts, underwear, socks. The usual. They didn't have an approximation of my standard tan blazer, so I had to settle for a tan zip-up Windbreaker with a fleece liner. I also bought some toiletries to replace the race-fan brands I left at the truck plaza. A couple of four-dollar pillows and a cotton blanket rounded out my purchases.

Back in the van, we ate pizza, and then I bedded down. I had only dozed the night before. With Angie curled in my arms, my leg had fallen asleep, but not me. Now, though, even the rumble and sway of the van didn't hinder a quick slide into deep slumber.

I awoke to Angie's voice.

“Garth? Wake up, sweetie. We're stopping for dinner.”

“Dinner? We just ate.” I could make out Angie sitting next to me cross-legged on the floor of the van, Wilco in her arms.

“That was six hours ago. We're in New Mexico, only hours away from our destination.”

“We're not keeping Wilco.”

“Who?”

“Vargas's dog.”

“I named him Poochie.”

“If he were our dog, you could name him Poochie. However, he belongs to Vargas, and he named him Wilco.”

“Why don't you like him? I think he's sweet. Otto likes him.”

“It's him who doesn't like me.” Wilco gave me a sidelong look and nuzzled Angie's bosom. “He tried to bite me.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I violently and without provocation tried to pet him. Look, if you want a dog, we can get a dog. A nice, sweet-tempered rottweiler or pit bull—I'm easy. But not Wilco.”

“Garth, I want you to want a dog.” Angie raised her chin as Wilco licked it. Little bastard would stop at nothing to make my life miserable.

“Wilco's not making it any easier.”

Otto squatted next to Angie and petted Wilco.

“Doggie very nice, eh?”

Norman stuck his head around from the cockpit.

“Let's go.”

Timmy and Brutus opened the back doors and everybody piled out. Except me.

“Go ahead.” I held up my box store bag. “I'm going to change.”

Norman looked worried. “Why not change when you get back?”

“Why not change now?”

He fidgeted a moment before he turned and followed the others toward some chain restaurant at the end of a shopping mall parking lot. The festive red sign on the roof said
CHIPPIES
, what appeared to be yet another insipid and unctuously upbeat chain restaurant.

I closed the back doors and put my shopping bag on top of one of the cardboard storage boxes. Snapping off tags, I quickly donned the new duds, put on my Windbreaker, and started stuffing my laundry into the shopping bag.

“Garth?” It was Norman at the back doors, knocking. “Coming?”

“Yup.” I gave him a weary smile.

“What can I say?” Norman's eyes glowed softly in the late afternoon sun. “I feel I can't let you out of my sight. Things have a way of happening to you. We've already had to save you twice.”

As we walked across the parking lot, my eye was drawn to giant banners strung across the adjacent main street of the town:
ALIEN DAYS, JUNE 21–23

On lampposts were hung vertical banners with what has become the standard alien depiction—some pale, google-eyed, doughy-looking figure holding one creepy hand up in a gesture of greeting. You'd think interplanetary visitors would be a hardy lot. These always looked like emaciated Pillsbury Doughmen to me.

We took a large round table in the corner amid Chippies' traffic signs, sports memorabilia, vintage posters, and other contrived decor. I think the menus were even more heavily laminated than those at the Pickle Barrel where I ate with Gabby. Menu planks.

“So, Norman, what's the drill?” I'd had little chance to ask him about what was entailed in the final leg of our journey, of the actual place we were going.

The three Tupelca exchanged glances, communicating something mysterious almost like ants touching antennae. When I first met them, they'd seemed exceedingly normal and drab. Brutus and Timmy had said very little on the whole trip. Norman only a few sentences more. They reminded me somehow of those Bible-thumpers who come to your door—clearly they were possessed of their creed and their mission, in a way it was difficult to penetrate. I didn't much doubt that they were fanatics.

“Our destination is a few hours south yet. And access to it is restricted, so we have to go in by a back way and drive a dirt road with the lights off, then climb the hill.”

“Restricted?”

“It's on federal lands. Fenced, but we know a way in.”

“How will we be sure nobody else is there?” Angie said. “I mean, what if the FBI or the Coyotes know we're going there and are waiting?”

“We won't be positive. But the sooner we make it there, the less chance there is that someone will have figured it out. I'm hoping that the Coyotes don't know for sure that the Javelinas are the ones who grabbed you. And even so, they may not think that our aim is to try to put the vuka back in the jar, but simply to protect you.”

The waitress showed up, a bouncy broad in an ill-fitting wig and a name tag that said
MEIGHAN
. “Y'all here for Alien Days?”

“I hope not.” I smiled, but only outwardly.

“Just what are Alien Days, Meighan?” Angie asked. She's always the one to ask strangers questions and get them talking. Me? I'm too afraid people won't shut up if you get them talking. And you'll never catch me calling a waitress or waiter by their name. It sounds too much like I'm ordering a friend around.
Bob, get me some ketchup, willya? Excuse me, Bob, I ordered the onion rings.

“Gracious,” the waitress exclaimed with a roll of her eyes. “Well, it's just about the biggest huge thing for five hundred miles around. All them peoplefolk who believe in UFOs come here for a festival party 'cause it's near all sorts of site places like Area 51, Roswell, Aztec…you know, where the zip flyin' discs smash crashed and such. Alien Days is a lot of hoot fun. Got a parade show and everything. Y'all want something t'drank?”

Hoot fun? Peoplefolk? I had been dimly aware of the Western fondness for redundancy, but Meighan's vernacular was a stellar example.

When she'd gone with our grub order, I said to Norman:

“Lemme ask you something. How and when did you find out about all this? I mean, what makes you think it's true, enough so that you leave your families, assault an FBI agent, and kidnap me for a little sojourn to New Mexico?”

“A Coyote defector to our dwelling revealed the story, with copies of the original Order of the White Geckos charter. In it were the details of the dreams the founding members had, about the appearance of the white geckos and that the spirits of the founders would be passed on until the next appearance of the white gecko, when the spirits could be freed through ritual sacrifice by
El Viajero
.”

“Can you clear that part up a little for me? Why do the Coyotes need these five spirits? What will they do with them?” If nothing else I wanted to make sure they had their story straight.

The gold flecks in Norman's eyes fairly glowed. “They can contact their planet and send for help.”

He looked proud when he said that. Timmy and Brutus stared at the table in front of them, heads bowed in what looked like reverence.

“OK, so now the Coyotes have obtained four vukas into this guy called
El Viajero
.” Angie folded her arms in thought. “Do you know who this
El Viajero
is? How to recognize him?”

“No.” Norman shook his head. “And he could be very difficult to identify. It could be anybody.”

Brutus spoke up, more animated than I'd seen Droopy since we met. “The more vukas
El Viajero
gets, the more powerful he becomes. That's how his followers believe, they see his power.”

“By now he can assume any identity,” Timmy added almost boastfully. “That's why you can't trust the FBI.”

“You've got to be kidding,” Angie protested. “You mean, like a shape-shifter kind of thing?”

I reflected on what Two Shirts had told me about
nanucanaxle.

“He can now assume any identity,” Norman assured us. “You saw what Garth did back there. With just one vuka he created a tornado—imagine having four times that power.”

“Any identity?” I cleared my throat. “Even one of you?”

They exchanged glances, and Norman answered. “Why would we be taking you to return the vuka if one or all of us were Coyotes?”

I almost asked the werewolf question, but held my tongue—partially because it sounded idiotic.

Angie and I exchanged a glance. She squirmed slightly in her seat, a bit of body language I knew meant that she would let the matter drop for the present but that she wanted to discuss it with me privately later. Just as if we were faced with a plumber telling us our entire junction transfer drain is shot and will cost ten thousand dollars to replace.

Two Shirts's admonition came back to me:
look out for the con
.

If these Javelinas were lying to us, it was because they thought we wouldn't like what they had to say, which might result in a lack of cooperation. Should there be some ulterior motive for this adventure that would cause me to bail out, I would rather Angie, Otto, and I had the opportunity to ditch them on the sly. Best not to tip my mitt, to play along until I had some idea which way to turn. If we did part ways with them, we'd need some form of transportation, which didn't as yet present itself. My nascent plan was that if it came to that, we'd have to lure the Tupelca away from the van, then drive off and strand them somewhere so they couldn't follow.

I was mindful of a certain mechanic of football offense: keep running and passing to the right, and when you've suckered your opponent to shifting his defense almost entirely to that side, go left. I was a running back without blockers, without a hole to run through.

Otto, sitting across from me in his boxy suit, had been gulping his milk like a ten-year-old. He wiped away his white liquid mustache. In his hand was some flat piece of metal he'd been admiring, probably picked it up in the parking lot. “Please, gentlemen, I thinkin' that maybe be very careful. Dogs like wolf, waiting for us come to them. I dunno. We careful to toe tip, making eyes seeing, yes? Not lookink. Garv, is possible
El Viajero
is
vurdalak
like Oz?”

He can't pronounce Angie's or my name correctly, but he was dead-on with
El Viajero.
Maybe you could chalk it up to the commies in Cuba. Go figure.

Norman looked to me for a translation.

“He says we should approach this hill very carefully to make sure the Coyotes aren't there waiting for us. He thinks they'll be there waiting for us.”

I left off answering Otto's question. He may seem like an idiot sometimes, but he understands more than he lets on.
Vurdalak
is Russian for “werewolf.” The only reason I knew that word was because he used to be hooked on
Buffy
reruns and would always loudly applaud the wolfteen character named Oz.
“Vurdalak much to love Willow, yes? But Willow to love Tara. Not lookink.”

Our food arrived, and I took the opportunity to go wash my hands. And make a quick call.

“Nicholas?”

He cleared his throat. “Oh, hi, Mel, what's up?”

“It's not Mel. It's me, Garth.”

“What now, honey? I'm kind of in the middle of something.” Then I heard him say to someone else: “I have to take this, it's the bride-to-be, excuse me.” I could hear some scuffing for a few moments before he came back on the line. “Make it quick. Where are you?”

“Better not say, but I'm with those three Tupelcas we saw at the arena, and I'm with Angie and Otto, too.”

“So it was
those
clowns who grabbed you. No more Fowler sightings?”

“Nope.”

“Angie and that Russian runt are there, too?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Yeah, and the dog.”

“What dog?”

“Vargas's mutt. Look, I'm not sure of anything, and this whole adventure is giving me the creeps. We're on the road, headed for a certain place. I may decide to make a break for it with Angie and Otto. Keep your cell on, I may need help in a hurry. Plane tickets or something.”

“Can you give me your current location? Frick Frack me.”

I had to think a moment.

“
Fracka fricka, spatta fooza thatta gabbaspye
…umm…
mickavulo jutala yaka spamulatosadim
. That's it. Oh, and
ipso croon,
of course. Got it?”

“I've got company a lot of the time. Bricazzi and Stucco. But I'll keep it on, see what I can do. Did you say Wilco is with you?”

I heard footsteps coming down the hall and hung up. I started walking back to the table and sure enough, Norman turned the corner. We just smiled at each other in passing.

Back at the table, Otto was showing our waitress one of his tricks where he can make a spoon dance across a lattice of string between his two hands. What parking lot or trash can the string came from was open to conjecture, but as I noted, his pockets were full of little odds and ends.

I sat back down next to Angie—Norman's seat to my right was vacant. Brutus and Timmy were eating, watching Otto's lame attempt at wooing our waitress, Meighan. I was taking in all these details as my mind started the process of considering escape, toward following my own agenda. My brain hadn't passed a verdict on the plan of action, but my unconscious mind was making its case before the court of my conscious mind. The judge was grumpy: just a lot of loose circumstantial evidence.

Angie squeezed my hand under the table and we locked eyes for a few beats.