WINDWALKER (THE PROPHECY SERIES) (4 page)

Wind swirled around them, brushing the length of her legs like a lover’s touch then lifted his hair until it appeared to be floating behind his back.  

The sexual pull between them was frightening. Layla wanted to feel him inside her - to take her, here – now – right where they stood. She didn’t understand it, but she couldn’t deny it. He was a fever in her blood, but a fever without a cure, and she could tell by the way he watched her that he knew every thought going through her mind.

“You are not yet strong enough for what will be. Your grandfather knows. He will help prepare you. Listen to him. Learn it well. It will be what saves you.”

Tears burned the back of Layla’s throat. “I thought you said you were going to save me.”

The wind was stronger now, and was no longer a whistle but a whine as it came barreling toward them through the canyon.

“I said I would come for you when it was time. I did not say that I would save you. This you must do for yourself.”
  

“Layla.”

Her eyes flew open. Her heart was pounding and there was a dryness in her mouth, like she’d been in the heat too long without water.

“Grandfather! You’re here!”

Even though he was shocked by her appearance, he still saw his granddaughter beneath the swelling and the bruises. He kissed her forehead; afraid to touch her anywhere else.

“I said I would come,” he said, and then kissed her again, just to make certain she was still in one piece.

Layla held tight to his hand, grateful that he was here. She had always thought him a handsome man, and still did despite his age. His features were even, his forehead broad. Long gray braids and a black hat only added to his presence, as did the turquoise and silver Conchos on the belt at his waist.

She didn’t realize he’d come with company until she spotted another familiar figure standing just inside the door and another outside the room. It was the Nantay brothers; officers from the tribal police.

She frowned. “Why are they here?”  

“To help me keep you safe.”

“But the police are-“

“White man’s police cannot help you,” he said softly, then sat down on the edge of the bed. “Give me your hands.”

Layla did as he asked, watching as he turned them palms down, then palms up.

“You are like your father,” he said. “I was not happy when my Lena fell in love with Jackson Birdsong, but I think now it was a good thing. You are taller than your mother ever was, and far stronger.”

Layla waited for him to continue, but he did not. Finally, she leaned forward, her voice lower so as not to be overheard.

“He said you would prepare me when I was stronger. Prepare me for what, Grandfather?”

The words were shocking to George. For a moment he felt as if he’d been shown her death sentence, and yet he knew it was also her fate.

“When we go back, you will no longer teach children.”

“But I-“

“No, Layla, this is so. You will revisit the old ways; hunting with bow and arrows, making fire without matches, eating less and enduring hardships; learning how to find water where there is none.

Layla’s heart was hammering so hard against her chest she felt she would faint. She was thinking back to when her father was still alive, and how obsessed he’d been about teaching her things usually left to men.

Like many hunters in Oklahoma, both white and Indian, she was proficient with a bow and arrow, could build a fire without matches, catch fish with her hands, and knew how to field dress a deer. But this was surreal; as if Jackson had known what she would need to learn and prepared her in advance.

“Why is this happening? I don’t understand. He said his name was Niyol, but he’s not from this world, is he, Grandfather? Is he a spirit? Is he one of the Old ones?”

George hesitated, answering somewhat cautiously. “I think he is a Windwalker. They move between both worlds as they see fit.”

“Why did he save me?” Layla asked.

“He saw the warrior in you. You have been chosen for your strength and courage. It is an honor, Layla.”

She thought about what her grandfather said. Nothing was ever going to be innocent or simple again. Her eyes welled.

“He said bad men would come.”

George frowned. “We will protect you. For now, all you need to do is get well.

Chapter Three

The next time Detectives Wallis and Pomeroy came by the hospital, it was to return Layla Birdsong’s personal property. With the case closed, there was no further need to retain her purse and its contents for evidence. As they approached her room, the cop stationed outside her hospital room stood up. When they started inside, he stopped them.

“Knock, then you wait and let them admit you.”

Wallis frowned. “Them who?”

“You’ll see,” he said, and sat back down.

Pomeroy knocked.

The door swung inward, revealing two uniformed men at the door and an older man sitting in a chair beside Layla’s bed. When he saw the police, he, too, stood up.

Layla recognized them and motioned for them to come in.

“Grandfather, these detectives are the ones who were working my case. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your names. Detectives, this is my grandfather, George Begay, and Montford and Johnston Nantay… officers from our tribal police.”

“Nice to meet you,” Wallis said.

Pomeroy acknowledged the uniformed officers with a nod, but they didn’t respond.

Wallis accepted that the New Orleans police department had been judged and found lacking here, but it was what it was. He handed Layla the evidence bag.

“Your purse and contents,” he said. “Sign here and it’s all yours.”

She signed her name on the release sheet, wincing when the healing stitches on the back of her arm began to pull.

“Thank you for this,” she said. “I thought for sure it was gone.”

She dug through the purse, even more surprised that both her wallet and money were still there.

How have you been?” Wallis asked.

She shrugged. “Despite the woman who snuck in my room wanting me to heal her child of cancer, and the nut who wanted some of my hair for a voodoo ritual, not bad.”

Wallis blinked. Working homicide, he hadn’t heard of the incidents.

“I’m sorry to hear that. We can-“

“There is no need to trouble your officers further,” George said. “The Dineh take care of their own.”

Pomeroy frowned. “Who are the Dineh?”

“It is what the Navajo call themselves,” George said bluntly.

Again, Wallis felt the slight, telling him they were performing a job he could not. Still, he understood how they felt. If she’d been his family, he would have been pissed at what happened to her, too, and chose to ignore it.

“So, Miss Birdsong, the swelling in your eye looks much better. Is your sight okay?”

“Yes. As soon as all my stitches come out, I will be gone. Thank you for returning my things.”

“We’re very sorry you had such an unfortunate incident in our city. Hope you don’t hold it against us,” Pomeroy said.

“It was more than an unfortunate incident, and unless I am forced, doubt I’ll ever return,” Layla said.

Wallis was done here. “Have a safe trip home.”

He left without looking back.

****

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Quantico, Virginia

A phone rang somewhere inside a brightly lit research lab. A balding doctor was entering new data into the computer to rerun a test. When the phone continued to ring, he yelled without looking up.

“Somebody please answer the phone!”

There were footsteps, and then background murmurs that faded from his consciousness. When his assistant walked up near his elbow, he frowned again.

“Not now,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Winters, but Emile Harper is on the phone. He needs to speak to you now.”

Winters couldn’t imagine what the Director of Foreign Intelligence would want with him, but he wasn’t the kind of man to put off.

“I’ll be right there,” he said, and continued to type until he was satisfied he’d gotten to a stopping point, then moved into his office and picked up the phone.

“This is Winters.”

“Dr. Winters, I sent you a link. Open it, look at it, and tell me what you see.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Okay, I’ll call you back as soon as-“

Harper frowned. “No. Open it now while we’re both on the line.”

“This better be important. I’m in the middle of something,” Winters said.

“You’re always in the middle of something. Do you have it open yet?”

“No, okay… here it is. Just a second while it loads.”

Winters watched a few seconds. “You want me to watch a tape about a woman being attacked?”

“Winters, for once, just shut the fuck up and do what I ask without giving me grief.”

Winters grinned. He made it his business to give people like the director grief.

“I’m watching a woman being confronted by a gang of men. Oh shit. They just cut her… twice. Wow, gutsy move there. Okay, she went after the guy with the knife. And they’re on the ground and I can’t see what’s going on because-  Are you kidding me? She’s on her feet! Son-of-a-bitch. That means she must have-“

There was a flash of light and then Winters forgot what he’d been going to say as he watched a whirlwind forming. When it began to move through the gang, the hair stood up on the back of his arms, and when it began picking them off one after another, he stared in disbelief. What he was seeing was impossible.

“This isn’t real. It can’t be real. Someone has tricked this out,” he muttered, and then gasped when the woman and the whirlwind disappeared before his eyes.

“So, have you seen it all the way through?” the director asked.

“Yes,” Winters said, as he dropped into the chair behind him and then hit Play again. “It’s interesting, but it’s obviously not real.”

“But it is,” the director said.

Winters felt everything he knew about physics shifting gears without him on board.

“Impossible.”

“I have the original tape. Every expert at Quantico has seen and examined the tape and to a man, swears it’s pure. So given that’s a fact, what am I looking at?”

“You’re asking me? Find yourself a mystic. He’d have as good a guess at it as I would.”

There was a moment of silence and then the director cleared his throat before speaking again – a subtle hint as to how uncomfortable he was with the subject.

“What do you know about Native American lore?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding, damn it.”

“I’m a scientist. I work with facts, not fairy tales. If you want to talk about witch doctors and shamans, call Lydia Foster. She has an office at the Smithsonian.”

“We never had this conversation,” Harper said.

Winters went back to the lab, but he couldn’t get the image of that whirlwind out of his head. Later, he realized he hadn’t asked what happened to the woman, and assumed she was no longer alive.

****

Lydia Foster was out of the office when Harper called. He left a message, asking her to view the link that he’d sent and then to call him ASAP.

When Lydia returned and sat down to check her messages, she frowned. She didn’t like Emile Harper, but he was the Director of Foreign Intelligence, which meant protocol ruled.

She opened her email, clicked on the link that he’d sent, and was watching absently while digging through her desk drawer for the Hershey bar she’d tossed in there yesterday. All of a sudden she stopped and leaned forward, her blonde hair sliding over one eye as she stared at the screen in disbelief. She watched it four more times straight through and then called Harper’s number. He answered on the second ring.

“This is Harper.”

“Lydia Foster, here. I got your message. I’ve seen the tape. Is it verifiable?”

“Yes. Untainted in any way.”

“Oh sweet Lord,” Lydia whispered, hit loudspeaker on her phone and headed for the bookshelf behind her desk.

“Hello? Lydia? Are you still there?” Harper yelled.

“Yes, yes, sorry. I put you on loudspeaker so I could get to my bookshelf.”

“What is it on that tape? We already know it’s not a tornado. In fact it’s not anything the National Weather Service has ever seen.”

“That’s because it has nothing to do with weather,” Lydia said, then found the book she was looking for and hurried back to her desk.

Harper gave a nervous laugh, as if embarrassed to be saying this aloud.

“I have someone here in the office saying it has something to do with a Native American prophecy.”

“Yes, yes, sort of… here, here it is,” she said, running her finger down the page of the book she’d just opened. “Windwalker:  Man/spirit that can exist both in the world of the living and the world of the dead. It’s something like a Guardian and appears only when The People, and in this case it’s referring to the indigenous people, not people in general… when The People are about to experience great deprivation, or are in danger, say from something that could threaten their extinction.”

Harper frowned. “So how does that connect to the woman who disappeared?”

“What happened to her afterward?” Lydia asked.

“They found her in her hotel room, naked and bloody as hell from the fight with the gang, but alive.”

Lydia jumped up and began pacing. “Oh my God, that means she’s been chosen.”

Harper rolled his eyes. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Something is coming that will be of great danger, maybe to this country, maybe to the world, but the Windwalker’s appearance would pertain only to the Native American people and what would happen to them. She’s been chosen to lead them to safety.”

Harper snorted. “So what are you saying… that she’s going be some kind of female Moses and lead her people through a wilderness?”

Lydia heard the derision in his voice and was immediately insulted.

“You called me for information. I gave it to you and now you decide to be a smart-ass? Go to hell, Harper.”