Urban Shaman (8 page)

A moment later the door banged shut and I flinched upright, startled out of the first sleep I’d had in days. Morrison glowered at me from the doorway. I cast another glance at the clock. I’d been asleep less than three minutes. Just enough time to make the worst possible impression. I hoped I hadn’t drooled on myself.

“Get,” Morrison growled, “the hell. Out. Of my. Chair.”

I beamed. “Bruce was very specific,” I said in my best innocent voice. “‘Morrison wants your ass in his chair the minute you get off the plane.’”

Morrison took a threatening step toward me. I cackled and waved a hand, climbing to my feet. “I’m getting. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” I walked around the desk to the chair I was supposed to be in, and sat.

Or that’s what I meant to do, anyway. What I actually did was take two steps, tread on my shoelace and collapse in a sprawl at Morrison’s feet. I lay there
wondering why I couldn’t breathe. I could feel Morrison staring at the back of my head.

The floor was pretty comfortable, all things considered. Maybe if I stayed there, Morrison would just have me thrown in a nice quiet cell where I could sleep for two or three days. Except there were no quiet cells at the station, and I knew it. I groaned, pushed myself to my hands and knees, then sat back on my heels.

“Don’t do it, Joanie!” someone bellowed, loud enough to be heard through the window. “The job ain’t worth it!”

It took several seconds for my position, relative to Morrison’s, to sink in. Then I turned a dull crimson, too tired to even get up a really brilliant shade of red. Morrison glared over his shoulder and stomped around the desk to take his seat, all without ceasing to scowl at me. I climbed to my feet in a series of small movements, using the desk to push myself up incrementally. Eventually I got turned around and met Morrison’s frown.

“You look like hell,” he said, which wasn’t what I expected, so I blinked at him. He waved at the chair. “Siddown.”

I sat. Not, thankfully, right where I was standing: I had the presence of mind to stagger the couple of steps to the chair. Morrison watched me. He was in his late thirties and looked just like a police captain ought to: a big guy, a little bit fleshy, with cool investigating eyes and strong hands that had blunt, well-shaped fingernails. He was good-looking in a superhero-going-
to-seed kind of way, which is probably one of those things you’re not supposed to notice about your boss. I sank into the chair and closed my eyes.

Morrison leaned back in his chair. It creaked, a high shriek that made hairs stand up on my arms. “You overextended your personal leave by three months, Walker.”

“I know.”

“I hired your replacement ten weeks ago.”

“I know.” Damn, but I was a stunning conversationalist. My eyes were glued shut. I rubbed at them, and the sticky contacts suddenly made tears flood through my lashes.

“Jesus,” Morrison said in mystified horror, “don’t tell me you’re crying.”

“It’s my contacts,” I snarled.

“Thank God. You never struck me as the weepy sort.” Morrison was quiet a moment. I didn’t have the energy to look up at him. “It seems like half the department’s been by to make googly eyes on your behalf.”

I snorted into my palms, undignified laughter. “Googly eyes?”

“Googly eyes,” Morrison said firmly. “For some reason they like you.”

“I fix their cars.” It was true. On particularly bad days—of which this was one—I thought it was because I had no way to relate to other people except through cars. On better days, I acknowledged that I just loved the job, and the fact that I’d made friends because of it was a bonus. “Come on, Morrison, give me
the ritual ‘I divorce thee’ three times, and let me go home and get some sleep.” I pushed a hand back through my hair. Morrison winced. “God, do I look that bad?” I hadn’t checked a mirror. Maybe I should have.

“You look like you got hit by a truck. What happened?” Morrison actually sounded curious.

“I got into a fight.” I dredged up a little smile. “But you should see the other guy.”

Morrison snorted and stood up, coming around his desk to lean on the edge of it, arms folded as he looked down at me. I checked the impulse to get to my feet. Morrison and I were exactly the same height. I’d been known to wear heels sheerly for the pleasure of looking down on him. He was looming on purpose. “I’m moving you to the street beat.” He sounded alarmingly pleasant.

I stared at him for a long time. “What?”

“I’m moving you to the street beat,” he repeated. “Corner cop duty.”

“You’re supposed to fire me,” I blurted. I’d never done time as a cop. I didn’t really want to. Morrison grinned, and pushed away from his desk to get himself a cup of coffee.

“The chief wouldn’t let me. You’re a woman, you’re an Indian, you’re a cop, all you’ve done wrong is not show up to work for a few months, and that was because of a personal family emergency. It’s not enough to fire you for. Not in this quota-happy age.” He opened a fridge under the coffeemaker table and poured milk into his coffee.

My eyebrows shot up. No one had ever actually mentioned quotas out loud. It was just one of those silent givens that nobody talked about. Morrison turned back, lifting his mug of coffee. “Want some?”

“Sure,” I said dazedly.

Morrison poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to me. I took a sip, burned my tongue, and clutched the cup with both hands, watching Morrison nervously.

“So I’m putting you on the street.”

“Why?”
My voice rose and broke. Morrison beamed at me. I’d never seen him smile so broadly before. It was unnerving.

“Because I figure you’ll quit. You’re a mechanic, not a cop. You haven’t got the stuff. Want to save us both time and do it now?” Morrison didn’t burn his tongue when he sipped his coffee. The bastard.

I ground my teeth together so hard it hurt. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. Not in the face of that grin. I couldn’t prove him right, especially by quitting before I’d even tried.

“No,” I said through my teeth, standing up and putting the coffee cup aside. “No, I don’t think I do. Sir.”

It took every ounce of will I had available to close the door gently on my way out.

N
o fewer than eight cops—all of whose cars I tinkered with regularly—lingered outside Morrison’s office, ostentatiously reading files or exchanging stories over their desks. Every one of them fell silent as I carefully closed Morrison’s door and stepped away from the office. Bruce, a thin blonde who had no business being away from the front desk, put on a mournful smile. “Well?”

“The son of a bitch fired you,” Billy guessed before I had time to draw breath. An uproar met his speculation, a wall of outrage entirely on my behalf. Rex, short and stout as his name, flung his hat on someone’s desk and stalked toward me. I backed up into Morrison’s door, alarmed. The doorknob hit me in the butt.

“Get out of the way, Joanie.” Rex sounded like a bulldog, low-voiced and growly. “I’m gonna give that
bastard a piece of my mind. He can’t do this to you! You were on
family leave,
for Christ’s sake!”

I edged to the side. “Um, actually…”

Rex stormed past me and flung Morrison’s door open, banging it closed behind him again. Around me, furious cops swore and waved their hands and lined up, God help me, actually lined up to be the next one to take on Morrison.

“Actually,” I mumbled, “he didn’t fire me.”

Nobody listened. I rubbed my hand over my eyes, setting my contacts to tearing again, and sighed. Bruce appeared at my elbow and guided me to a desk to sit down. “It’ll be okay, Joanie,” he promised. “You’re a fantastic mechanic. You’ll get a job in no time. Heck, you could probably keep yourself busy just fixing our cars, huh guys?”

“I fix your cars anyway,” I pointed out. “Nobody pays me for it.” Bruce had exactly one hobby: running. His wife’s car, a 1987 Eagle station wagon with a manual transmission, broke down more often than soap opera stars. I wasn’t sure he knew how to drive it, much less fix it. “Look, Bruce, I’m—”

Bruce patted my shoulder reassuringly. “Elise wants you to come over for dinner Friday. She’s going to raise holy living hell about you getting fired.”

Elise made the best tamales I’d ever had, and was convinced I was killing myself eating macaroni and cheese for every meal. “Elise is an angel,” I said, “but—”

Rex burst out of Morrison’s office, cheeks bright red with exertion. Billy marched through the still-open door. Even over the general noise I could hear Morri
son’s, “Oh, for
Christ’s
sake!” A moment later Billy backed out of the office, herded by Morrison, who stopped at the door, broad-shouldered and impressive.

“Joanne Walker has not been fired!” he bellowed. “All of you get the hell back to work!” He stepped back into his office, slamming the door behind him.

Eight officers of the law turned as one and stared at me accusingly.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” I said weakly. “He didn’t fire me. He busted me back to foot patrol.” For a moment I wondered if a mechanic could technically be busted back to anything.

Everyone was silent for about as long as it took me to wonder that, and then the cacophony began again. I tried, briefly, to explain, then gave up and let Billy defend my dubious honor as an honest-to-God cop with a badge and everything. I wasn’t sure where that badge was. I remembered they’d given me one when I graduated from the police academy, but my best guess was that it was in my sock drawer. Or possibly in the glove compartment of my car. Or maybe in the junk drawer in the kitchen. I slunk out while the debate about whether I was
really
a cop heated up.

Gary and Marie were waiting impatiently in the lobby. “You’re a cop?” Gary demanded as I came through the turnstile.

“No. Yes. No. Shit! Why?” I flung myself onto a bench and scrubbed my eyes.

“Jeez, lady, I didn’t mean to ask a tough question. What happened in there? Why didn’t you
say
you
were a cop back at the church? Or the airport? I thought you were nuts, goin’ after some broad you saw from a plane.” Gary towered over me, hands on his hips. Marie hovered in the background, looking just as curious as Gary.

“I’m not a cop. I mean.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I am a cop. I guess I’m a cop. I’m a
mechanic.
That’s what I do. Except now I don’t. Now I write jaywalking tickets, or something. I wonder when I’m supposed to be back at work. Shit.”

Gary and Marie stared at me. After several seconds, I mumbled, “I make more sense when I’ve had some sleep.” I pried my eyes open. Tears welled up again. Gary became sympathetic all of a sudden.

“All right, all right. I’ll take you home. Tonight we’ll get together and figure this out.” He actually patted my shoulder, just like Bruce had done.

“We?” Marie and I spoke together. She sounded surprised. I sounded small and pitiful.

“What, you think I’m gonna miss out on what happens next? Crazy dames.” Gary shook his head and pushed his way out of the station, muttering to himself.

Gary dropped me off at my apartment complex. I stood on the concrete stairs and waved as he drove off, then staggered up to my apartment, navigating to the bedroom without turning the lights on. No one lived there but me; it was a safe bet that there wouldn’t be anything unexpected on the floor except four months worth of dust. I was right: falling face-first into the bedcovers dislodged dust and made me sneeze, but
nothing worse awaited me. My last conscious thought was that I’d forgotten to take my contacts out.

The apartment was empty of unexpected things. My dreams were not. Coyote was waiting for me. He looked warily approving while I frowned at him groggily. “How d’you do that?” I demanded. “Dogs don’t have that much expression.”

“You’ve never owned a dog, have you?” Coyote asked. “Besides, I’m not a dog.”

I put my face in my hands, eyes closed. “Whatever. Where are we? What do you want?” I peeked at him through my fingers. “Are you always going to be bothering my dreams?”

“This isn’t a dream.” Coyote cocked his head to the side, looking around. After a moment I did too, wearily. I had to admit I’d never had a dream that looked like this one. Even falling dreams, which weren’t big on detail, usually had a gray sky and a very long drop. This one didn’t even have that much, just dark storm clouds pushing at each other with no particular pattern or intent. I thought I preferred falling dreams.

I dropped suddenly, a sickening distance in no time at all. Coyote yipped, a short sound of annoyance and alarm. I flinched upright, back where I’d started. “Pay attention,” he said sharply.

“I am,” I protested. “What was that? Where
are
we?” There was nowhere for me to have fallen. Coyote and I drifted, in the middle of it, sitting on nothing.

“You called a dream up,” Coyote said patiently. “We’re in a place between dreams.”

“Why? I’m so
tired.
” I was whining. I made a small
sad sound and straightened up, trying to behave like an adult. Coyote licked his nose.

“You did a good job this morning,” he said. I blinked at him slowly.

“Is that why I came here? So you could tell me that?” I didn’t mean to sound like a snappy, ungrateful bitch. I was just so damned tired. Coyote let the tone blow over him.

“Partly,” he agreed. “Ask the banshee to help you with your shields. You’re going to need them.”

“My shields?” I wasn’t used to feeling this thick.

Coyote smiled. I didn’t know dogs could smile. “I’m not a dog,” he said, and, “she’ll know what you mean. Now get some sleep.” He dropped a golden-eyed wink and disappeared.

Or at least, I ceased to be aware of him. Instead I became aware of someone pounding on my door with the patience and rhythm of a metronome. I stayed very still for what felt like a very long time, hoping the pounding would go away. It didn’t. After six or seven years I rolled out of bed and crawled toward the front door.

I made it to my feet somewhere in the living room and was rewarded for my monumental effort by barking my shin on the coffee table. I reached for the doorknob and the injured shin at the same time, pulled the door open, and slammed myself in the forehead with the edge of the door. Collapsing onto the floor in a sniveling lump seemed the only thing to do, so I did it. It was only when tears started to unstick my eyelashes that I realized that I not only hadn’t, but couldn’t, open my eyes. I took turns rubbing at my
shin and my forehead and my stuck-together lashes. Somewhere up above me, Gary said, “Jesus Christ, Jo. You look like someone ran you over and backed up to see what he hit.”

“Nice to see you, too, Gary.” Not that I could see him. I put a hand over my throat. I sounded like a bulldozer had dumped a load of gravel into my chest. “What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.” He crouched; I could tell by the location of his voice.

I pried one of my eyes open. “No way. I just went to sleep.” I turned my wrist over and tried to focus on my watch. I couldn’t, but that was okay, since it was wrong anyway. “No way.”

“Yep. Seven-thirty. We’re supposed to meet Marie in half an hour at her place.” Gary straightened up again. I got my other eye open, and blinked tearfully at him.

“Okay. I guess, uh. Let’s go.” I swallowed, trying to loosen my voice up some, and worked on getting my body moving in a direction that felt like ‘up’.

“Uh,” Gary said.

I could only do one thing at a time. I stopped trying to stand and squinted at him. “What?”

“You might wanna think about taking a shower and changing clothes.”

I looked at him without comprehension for a while, then looked down at myself. And, in growing horror, looked some more. After a while, I said, “Oh yuck.”

I wouldn’t have thought sleeping in bloody gory clothes could be beaten for general yuckiness, but adding in a layer of dust over all that made me a fine
imitation of a desiccated corpse. “Come in,” I grated. “I’ll shower.” I crawled away from the door without waiting to see if he came in.

The reflection in the mirror was marginally kinder fifteen minutes later. My hair was clean and slightly gelled into spikes. I was still pale, but only from lack of sleep, rather than from blood, dust
and
lack of sleep. I’d managed to unstick the contacts from my eyes and was wearing an old pair of glasses, thin gold wire frames with long narrow oval lenses. The gold did cool things to my eyes, or at least it did when I wasn’t still suffering from bloodshot-from-hell eyeballs.

I stared at my reflection, fingering the thin white scar on my cheek. It began just behind the glasses lens, next to the corner of my eye, and ended in the faint smile line above my mouth. It wasn’t exactly detracting, but it sure as hell wasn’t something I was used to. Bumping my fingers over it didn’t make it go away. I finally looked away from the mirror and wove my way into my bedroom to find clothes.

The first T-shirt I found was black, probably the worst possible color to wear when I was one step paler than death, but it was clean, and the V-neck didn’t mess up my hair as I yanked it over my head. Sometimes that’s all a girl can ask for. It would’ve shown off my new necklace well, except I’d had to abandon that until it spent some quality time with silver polish and goo remover. Blood did not go well with silver.

For a girl who didn’t wear jewelry, I felt weirdly naked without the necklace. I dug up the only other
piece of jewelry I owned, a copper cuff bracelet my father’d given me for Christmas while I was still in high school. It went on my left wrist, having left the dysfunctional watch on the bathroom counter. The etchings around the outer edges of the bracelet were Celtic knots, which I’d never realized before. For the first time, I wondered if Dad had done that on purpose. I stood there staring mindlessly at the bracelet for far too long, tracing a fingertip over the line etches of various Cherokee-favored animals between the two bands of knots, then shook myself. I was supposed to be getting dressed. I could handle a task like that. Really.

I clawed through my sock drawer and came up with socks, a G-string and the police badge. I threw the badge back in the drawer and pulled the G-string on. Not my favorite kind of underwear, but slightly better than going without. I tugged a pair of jeans on and went out to the living room with my socks in one hand.

Gary was on the couch with one of my secret weaknesses: an entertainment magazine, now four months old. I sat down on the love seat and pulled a sock on. “Are we going to be late for Marie’s?”

“Nah.” Gary looked over the edge of the magazine. “She doesn’t live too far from here. Hey, you don’t clean up so bad.”

It took a minute to work my way through that. “Thanks. I think.”

“Sure,” he said, and went back to the magazine. I got my socks on straight and went looking for shoes. All my favorite pairs were in my luggage, at the airport. I snagged a pair of boots that weren’t too repre
hensible, went back into the bedroom, got a pair of skinnier socks that would fit better under the boots, and left the ones I’d had on in the middle of the floor. Such are the joys of living alone. No one can yell at you for doing things like that. “Okay, I’m ready when you are.”

“Just a sec.” Gary didn’t look up from the magazine.

“You can borrow it.” I grinned and went into the kitchen for a drink of water. When I came back Gary was on his feet, waiting.