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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries (11 page)

BOOK: The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries
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Four old women had been brutally murdered that summer. None of them related. All suffering from the coughing sickness. The murderer had slit their throats and cut gaping holes in their bodies.
“Stone Ghost came to our village because my mother asked him to.”
The old man had wandered the village like an imbecile, breaking into people’s chambers in the middle of the night, brushing at walls and clothing, claiming the murderer had left a trace of red corpse powder on the dead bodies, but it could only be seen at night.
The villagers had roared with laughter.
Until another midnight corpse powder raid. Stone Ghost had leaped into a chamber and started howling. He’d acted like a foaming-mouth dog, urinated on blankets, baskets, and even a warrior’s sacred Power bundle. He’d smashed pots against the walls. And “accidentally” discovered the blood-encrusted knife the murderer had used on his victims. Naturally, the man screamed his innocence and tried to kill Stone Ghost, but by that time half the village stood peering down through his roof entry with their weapons shining in the moonlight.
“What makes you think he will come?” Flame Carrier asked, and coughed into her hand.
“He may not, Matron. And if he does, with the snow, it will take him another two or three days.”
Flame Carrier gave Browser a look that would have wilted a stout cottonwood. “Since you have already done this thing, it will do little good to counsel you on the errors of your judgment, War Chief. You were grieving, and your souls were not quite connected to your body. I will excuse you, this time, and have a chamber prepared in case the old fool arrives. But in the future you will remember that
I
am the clan Matron, and I bring all such decisions to the vote of our people. We are not—”
Feet pounded the roof.
They both looked up.
Redcrop called, “Matron? Matron! Cloudblower sent me for you. The Sunwatcher is awake!” The girl leaned down over the roof hole, her face bright red. Wet black hair stuck to her cheeks. “Cloudblower said for you to come quickly. The Sunwatcher has not spoken yet, but her eyes are open.”
Browser got to his feet, eager to leave. After Flame Carrier’s accusations, he
had
to find out what Hophorn had seen the day his wife was murdered.
The Matron waved a bony hand. “Go along, War Chief. I will come as soon as I am able.”
“Thank you, Matron.”
Browser climbed the ladder and ran across the roof. He took the rungs three at a time and hit the ground running. He passed the pitiful katsinas painted on the eastern wall of Talon Town and turned right onto the road. Hundreds of feet had trampled the snow, turning it filthy and treacherous. Mud oozed up around Browser’s sandals.
Slaves, and two guards, walked the road, carrying wood and pots of water. They nodded to him as he passed.
Browser had not taken any slaves since he’d joined the Katsinas’ People. Flame Carrier said it cost too much to feed them, clothe them, and care for them. But many of the older members of the Katsinas’ People had slaves that had been with them since childhood, cherished slaves who required little or no guarding.
Whiproot stood on top of the one-story line of rooms that formed
the long southern wall. Chin-length black hair fluttered around his buffalohide hood. He called, “Good morning, War Chief! Let me lower the ladder.”
Browser grabbed the foot of the ladder as Whiproot let it down and braced it on the muddy ground.
He took the rungs two at a time, jumped off onto the roof, and said, “Who else knows that Hophorn is awake?”
Whiproot’s scarred face tightened. “Redcrop was supposed to tell you, and our Matron, first, but I’m sure by now she—”
Browser pointed a stern finger. “Let no one enter this town without my order or the Matron’s order. Do you understand?”
“Yes, War Chief. I understand.”
Despite his youth—eighteen summers—Whiproot obeyed quickly and never questioned an order. That made him one of Browser’s most trusted warriors. He clapped Whiproot on the shoulder and reached for the ladder. “Help me pull this up.”
Whiproot took the other side of the ladder.
Together they pulled it up and lowered it into the enormous plaza. Ahead of Browser, on the curving northern wall of the town, the faded thirty-hand-tall figures of the
Yamuhakto,
the Great Warriors of East and West, stood. They carried lightning bolts in their hands, aimed down at the plaza and anyone who would dare to defile this holy ground. Browser bowed to them, then stepped onto the ladder and clambered down.
When his feet hit the ground, he trotted toward Cloudblower’s chamber. Snow had begun to accumulate and blow about the plaza. Drifts piled against the walls.
As he neared the chamber, Cloudblower softly called, “Enter, War Chief.”
Browser ducked through the low doorway and into the crimson glow cast by the warming bowl. After the icy cold of his own chamber, the heat made him shiver.
“How is she?” he asked.
Cloudblower sat cross-legged near Hophorn’s head, washing her face with a cloth. A bowl of melting snow sat to Cloudblower’s left. The
Kokwimu
looked very tired. The lines around her slanting eyes cut deeply into her flesh, and her long gray-streaked black
hair hung about her triangular face in damp strands. Soot smudged the bridge of her sharply pointed nose and mottled her long blue dress. “Better, War Chief.”
Hophorn lay on her back to the left of the warming bowl, a red-and-blue-striped blanket pulled up to her chin. Long black hair haloed her swollen face. Her dark eyes kept drifting, apparently unable to fix on anything. When she saw Browser’s face, her right hand lifted slightly off the blanket, as though trying to greet him, but fell before she could complete the gesture.
Browser rushed to take her hand. “My heart soars to see you awake, Hophorn. Everyone in the village has made themselves sick worrying about you. Now, perhaps, we can get some rest.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and Browser felt her trying to squeeze his hand. She had no more strength than an infant. Fear and love for her swelled inside him. He clutched her hand to his heart.
Cloudblower said, “She is having trouble speaking, but I’m sure it will pass.”
“She feels hot.”
Cloudblower rinsed her cloth in the melting snow, and mopped Hophorn’s forehead. Hophorn leaned into the cloth, as though the coolness eased her suffering.
“Yes, she is fevered, but that is to be expected. Now that she is awake, I’ll begin giving her willow bark tea. That should bring the fever down and ease her pain.”
The left side of Hophorn’s skull, around the injury, had been freshly washed. Cotton stitches outlined the rough oval of wet scalp that Cloudblower had pulled back to open the skull. The flesh remained red and puffy, crusted with dried blood.
Browser smiled down at Hophorn. “You may not feel well,” he said, “but you look much better. There is color in your cheeks, and your eyes are bright. I wager you will be up in time for the Celebration of the Longnight.”
A confused expression creased Hophorn’s face. She tipped her head to look at Cloudblower.
Cloudblower said, “The celebration is in six days, Hophorn. But do not worry yourself. If you are not able to conduct the ceremonial,
I will. I have acted as your assistant often enough to know what to do. It will not be as grand as the ceremonials you lead, but it will do for this cycle.”
Hophorn smiled weakly, and her eyelids fluttered closed, then open, and finally closed again. Her head lolled to the side.
Browser looked up, frightened by her sudden loss of consciousness. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, just sleeping. I told her I was sending for you and Flame Carrier. I think she forced herself to stay awake until you came.”
Browser gently placed her limp hand on the blanket and rose to his feet. “Cloudblower, may I speak with you outside?”
Cloudblower frowned, but followed him into the falling snow.
Each of the five stories that composed Talon Town had been stepped back, giving it a stairlike appearance. Snow sheathed the collapsed roof timbers and mounded the crumbling walls, softening the appearance of the ruins.
Browser led Cloudblower a short distance away from her chamber, and whispered, “Tell me straightly. How is she?”
Cloudblower’s slanting eyes tightened. “She is very ill, Browser. Evil Spirits are still feeding in her brain. For some reason when they nest in injuries on the left side of the head they often eat away a person’s ability to speak.”
“Are you saying she may never speak again?”
Cloudblower folded her arms across her blue dress and shivered in the cold wind. “I am saying that it is possible.”
Gods. All his prayers, and now this. “I can’t lose her, too, Cloudblower. For the sake of the gods—”
“I will do everything I can to save her, Browser. But you realize, don’t you, that if she cannot speak, we may never know what she saw that morning.
Who
she saw.”
The muscles in his shoulders contracted and bulged through his leather shirt. “Has she said anything? Anything at all? A word? A phrase?”
“Browser, she just awakened, and even if she does speak again, she may not remember. Head blows—”
“Yes, yes,” he said, “I know. I, too, have seen them many times.”
An insane killer might be wandering the canyon, and he had no way to identify him.
If only old Stone Ghost were here! Perhaps he
would see something that I cannot. I am upset, grieving and frightened. What if my pain has blinded me to—
“Cutting another hole in your heart, War Chief?” Cloudblower asked in a concerned voice.
Browser gazed into her soft eyes, and said, “Forgive me. I have been praying that Hophorn would awaken and tell me who did this terrible thing. That way, I could kill the man, and it would end. Now …” He gestured to the collapsed rooftops and the snowy canyon rim beyond. “He could be watching us this instant.”
“Hophorn may yet tell you who did this thing. We must wait.”
Browser laughed, a soft desperate sound. “That is all I do these days. Wait, and hope.”
Cloudblower placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are tired. How long has it been since you’ve slept?”
He honestly could not recall. Every time he tried to close his eyes, images of his son’s sightless eyes, or the stone on his wife’s mutilated head, flitted across his souls, and he sat bolt upright in his hides, gasping for air.
Cloudblower said, “Come back to my chamber. You can lay beside Hophorn and I will keep watch over both of you while you sleep. The memories will not be as strong here.”
“I do not think—”
“Just try,” Cloudblower said. “Besides, having you close will make Hophorn feel safer. I cannot say for certain, but I think she still fears for her life.”
Browser jerked his head up. “Why?”
Cloudblower folded her arms, and snow silently coated them. “I thought she might wake yesterday. Her eyelids began fluttering in the manner of a waking person. Then, throughout the night, she tried to wake up, but each time she came close to opening her eyes, she moaned, and went limp. It was the way she did it, Browser. It made me think that if she’d been awake, the moan would have been a scream.”
“I will post a guard in front of your chamber.”
“You should return with me yourself. We will all feel better.”
“I cannot.” He shook his head. “I have duties.” After a short hesitation, he added. “Flame Carrier accused me of killing my wife. Do you think I did it?”
Her mouth gaped. “Blessed gods, of course not.”
Browser watched the snow fall. “Apparently many of our people here have gone to speak with her. They think I beat my wife … wished her dead.”
“That’s foolish,” Cloudblower said, and glanced around, as if afraid their conversation might be overhead. “Did you tell her you were nursing your sick son the entire time your wife was away? More than a dozen people came to visit you; they will tell her that.”
Browser clenched up inside, his heart like a fanged beast, ripping at his chest. He said, “It won’t matter.”
Whiproot pulled up the ladder, and slipped it over the other side of the south wall. Browser could hear Flame Carrier’s stern old voice speaking to someone on the other side.
Browser stood quietly for a long moment, then he murmured, “I must go. Thank you, again, Cloudblower.”
“When your duties allow, come back, War Chief.”
“If they allow,” he said, and walked away through the swirling snow.
T
HE BOEING 757 SHUDDERED AND DROPPED ONTO THE runway, waking Maureen from a sound sleep. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant called over the speakers, “we would like to be the first to welcome you to Albuquerque. The temperature here is a balmy one hundred seven degrees, and the time is exactly three-oh-seven in the afternoon. Thank you for flying with us today. We hope you had a pleasant flight and that you enjoy your stay in Albuquerque, or wherever your final destination takes you. We know you have a choice of air carriers and want to thank you for flying United. Please stay seated with your seat belts fastened until the captain turns off the seat belt sign. It will just be a few more minutes.”
Maureen yawned. Dressed in blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and denim jacket, she was just barely warm. She always froze on plane flights. She’d stowed her carry-on bag and purse beneath the seat in front of her. She propped a hiking boot on her bag, and looked out the window. Her long black braid fell over her left shoulder. What desolate country. The desert stretched in every direction, except one. To her left, a mountain rose into a brilliant blue sky. Already, she missed the lush green environment of Ontario.
Despite the insistent warnings of the crew, before the plane stopped rolling, people lurched out of their seats, flung open the overhead compartments, and dragged baggage out. It took less than five heartbeats for them to pack the aisles.
Maureen stayed in her seat, watching the suited businessmen stare at the ceiling, or their watches, or their polished shoes—anywhere except at the little old lady they’d pushed out of the aisle to make sure they were first off the plane.
People filed by toward the exit.
When the plane emptied, Maureen stood up, pulled her bag from beneath her seat, and made her way past the nodding flight attendants, the captain, and copilot, and two people in dark blue clothing, whom she assumed to be maintenance.
She walked up the jetway and out into the bustling airport crowd. She saw so many smiling faces and people hugging each other that she almost missed the one scowler.
Maureen stopped dead. She looked around, didn’t see Dale, and took a fortifying breath. She headed for the scowler. He hadn’t changed. Still a blond god. Tall, with a killer tan and reflective sunglasses, he wore tan Wrangler jeans, and a dark green T-shirt.
She stopped in front of him and said, “Dusty Stewart. I’d recognize you anywhere. You have a very distinctive expression. Digestive problems? Have you tried prune juice?”
“It’s a joy to see you, too, Dr. Cole. How was your flight?”
“Fine.”
“Do you have any other baggage?”
“Yes. One suitcase.”
He pulled keys from his pocket, shook them, and peered at her over the rims of his sunglasses. In an accusing voice, he said, “You don’t want me to carry your bag, do you?”
“Not on a bet.”
“Fine. Right this way, then.” He jangled his keys as he walked.
Maureen studied him from the corner of her eye. He had his teeth clenched.
“So,” she said, trying to be pleasant. “Where’s Dale?”
“He claims he had an unexpected family emergency.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
Stewart gave her a bland look. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t believe that hooey, do you?”
“You think he’s throwing us together, hoping we’ll arrive at some mutual ‘understanding’ before we get out of the airport?”
“You know Dale. Always a rabid optimist.”
Stewart pointed to the sign that said BAGGAGE CLAIM and turned right. He walked like a man on a mission, his pace swift, purposeful.
Maureen readjusted her shoulder strap and lengthened her stride to keep up. Her long black braid slapped her back.
They passed shops filled with turquoise and silver jewelry, real Navajo rugs, imitation Navajo rugs, kachina dolls, bows and arrows, really ugly pottery in putrid pastels, cactus candy, and some great “My Life Is in Ruins,” T-shirts covered with petroglyph symbols.
They skirted the security station, and Stewart headed for the escalator. Maureen stepped on behind him. So, Dale had thought she would ride out to the site with this guy? Wrong! She considered her options as they waited for her bag to appear on the carousel. Maureen glanced at the big gleaming signs behind her.
“Look, Stewart, there’s no reason for you to squire me around like some visiting dignitary. I’ll probably have to be running in and out of town a lot. You know, to the university library, things like that. It would be better all around if I just rented a vehicle for a couple of days until I can bring this to a conclusion.”
His lips twitched, failing to hide his wan amusement. “Run in and out of town? Bring this to a conclusion in a couple of days? You are a city girl, aren’t you?”
“Ever hear of hard science, Stewart? That’s where it’s done, not out in the middle of nowhere. We need little things like electricity.”
He turned on his heel. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Avis counter, right?”
“Right.”
“Better get a four-by-four. You know, for your zipping back and forth to town.”
Grabbing her bag, Maureen trundled across the baggage area to the red-and-white AVIS sign. When she finally made it through the line to the counter a bright-eyed, pudgy woman with gray hair greeted her. Her name badge proclaimed: MARTY. She had a wide genial smile on her wrinkled face.
“I’d like to rent a four-wheel drive for a couple of days.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Well, no, this is a last-minute development.”
“I’m terribly sorry, but all of our vehicles, four-wheel drive or otherwise, are reserved. We have two conventions in town, as well as the big festival up in Santa Fe. We’re booked solid until next Friday.”
Maureen discovered the same at Hertz, National, and Alamo.
“Want to try Rent-A-Wreck?” Stewart asked.
She gripped her suitcase and leaned forward. “How far is the site from a paved road?”
“Around thirty-five miles.”
“And this is the rainy season?”
“The
monsoon
season.”
“Ah.”
The women passing by glanced casually at Stewart, then their eyes shot back to look him over more carefully, and smiles curled their lips. Tall, with sun-bleached blond hair and muscular shoulders, they probably just assumed he had a soul.
Women were such poor judges of these things.
Though Maureen had to admit he was a very handsome man. Stunning, in fact.
“Look,” Stewart said, “the crew’s coming off their four day. I don’t have time to fool around. I have to get out there.”
“What’s a four day?”
“We work ‘ten fours.’ Ten days on, four days off. When you’re out in the middle of nowhere, it makes more sense. Two days isn’t enough to get home and relax before you’ve got to drive back to the site. With four days, it’s like a little minivacation. How about I take you to the site and you and Dale can figure out transportation later.”
Maureen’s stomach churned. “It looks like I’ve exhausted my other choices. All right, Stewart.”
“This way.”
He marched to the door below the PARKING sign, and held it open for her.
“Thank you,” she said, surprised by the courtesy.
“Think nothing of it. Westerners hold doors open for everything. Horses, dogs, women.”
She gave him an askance look, but just as she’d prepared a comeback, the heat hit her like a sledgehammer. She staggered as sweat popped out across her forehead. “Good God,” she said. “How can you work in this?”
“We try not to work in the heat of the day. Which means we get up very early, and go to bed very late.”
She studied the long rows of parked cars and trucks. “Which one is yours?”
He pointed. “That blue Bronco over there across the parking lot.”
“Across the parking lot” translated into as far from the front doors of the airport as a person could park.
Hitching up her suitcase, buffalohide purse, and backpack, she leaned into the effort. “How long will it take us to get to the site?”
“Providing it hasn’t rained, about three hours.”
“Well, I’m starved. I had a feast of pretzels for lunch. Where can we eat?”
Dusty glowered. “I’m driving straight to the site. Either you ride, or you don’t.”
Maureen stared at his reflective sunglasses. “I’ll bet you wear those things so people can’t see how brown your eyes are, don’t you?” She added, “Look, let’s make this easy. Drop me at a hotel. Draw me a map and I’ll steal a car and meet you at the site tomorrow.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ll never find it without me.”
“My, goodness.” Maureen’s eyes narrowed. “Have you thought about seeking professional help for these delusions of grandeur?”
She fought the urge to pant, both from the effort of carrying her luggage and the heat. Sweat had begun to dampen her armpits and the collar of her T-shirt. The effect was like walking through an oven.
“Forget it. I like my delusions.”
“And I like to have my stomach full. Where’s the food?”
“There’s a town called Crownpoint a few miles up the road. You can grab something lavish there.”
She glanced at him suspiciously. “Are you lying to me?”
“No.”
But he looked oddly stoic. She hesitated, then said, “Oh, all right. There’s no sense in fighting this. Tell me about the site. It sounds rather spectacular.”
The sensation of the hot dry air on her face made her certain her skin would eventually crack like old leather. She gave in and panted, sucking the hot air into her lungs.
“This site is fascinating. We call it 10K3. I’ve never seen anything like it. For years we’ve been arguing about whether or not
there was warfare in the southwest. I think this is pretty persuasive evidence.”
“Really? Why?”
Stewart walked nonchalantly, as if the heat had no affect on him whatsoever. “Puebloan stories, for one thing. They talk about warfare. History for another. We know that when the native peoples fought, they’d go in, kill the warriors—who were usually male, although not always—then they’d steal the women and children and turn them into slaves. I—”
“So you believe the cranial depression fractures are the result of slavery?”
“That’s what it looks like to me.” He gestured with a tanned hand. “Slaves are often beaten to get more work out of them, or keep them in line. I think these women were worked hard, beaten frequently, and when their owners had no more use for them, they hit them in the head and threw them in a pit.”
Maureen watched the other cars driving by in the opposite direction, and considered the idea. “What does the stratigraphy indicate? Were all of these women killed at the same time? Have you processed any C-14 dates yet?”
“No. Our Indian monitor is supposed to arrive this afternoon. In the U.S., we can’t process samples at a burial site without approval from a duly appointed tribal representative.” He lifted his blond brows. “And this monitor is interesting, to say the least. Her name is Hail Walking Hawk. Her own people call her ‘Ghost Talker.’ Anyway, you’ll meet her tonight. That’s one of the reasons I can’t wait around to find you a set of wheels. As to the stratigraphy, that’s another intriguing thing about this site. It looks like the bodies were interred one by one, but within a short time frame. One body was thrown in”—he turned to peer at her over the rims of his glasses again, and his blue eyes glinted—“a thin layer of dirt was shoveled over her, and another body was thrown in, and so on. This may be a slave burial ground.”
“Artifacts?”
“A few, mostly trash. Broken bits of pottery, lithic debitage, and a lot of stone slabs.”
Maureen frowned. “Stone slabs?”
“Um-hum,” he turned to face her. “Over the heads of several of the victims.”
Maureen huffed her way to the back of his faded blue Bronco, and dropped her suitcase to the cement. “What does that mean?”
“Well, in this part of the world, that’s how people handle witches. They place a stone over the head to keep the evil person’s soul locked in the earth forever.”
“Why would you do that to a slave?”
He shrugged. “Maybe they thought the slaves were witches, and that’s why they killed them. Maybe—”
“Maybe it’s a witches’ burial ground.”
“Possibly, but several of the victims don’t have stones over their heads.”
Stewart jangled his keys, found one, and inserted it into the tailgate. A motor whined tiredly as the window slid down. Actually, grated and squeaked its way down. She saw coolers, a couple of wooden-framed screens, shovels, what looked like olive-drab military ammunition boxes, two red gas cans, pin flags in assorted bundles of color, and the ugly end of a “handy man” jack. With one hand, Dusty picked up her suitcase and tossed it effortlessly onto the thin space between the roof and a mound of accumulated junk.
BOOK: The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries
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