Blackening Song (15 page)

Whoever had killed her father had a strong motive. Was it someone who stood to gain by taking her father’s place in his church, like Reverend Williamson? According to Clifford’s notes, he’d never truly accepted her father’s role in the church, preferring to run things totally
on his own. Or perhaps it was a traditionalist, someone who benefited by Clifford’s becoming a fugitive.

Finally, Rose spoke. “You’ve seen your brother.”

“How did you know that?”

“Whenever something bothers you, or when you feel uncertain, you draw into yourself.”

“He wants me to leave the reservation,” Ella volunteered flatly, studying her mother’s reaction to see if Clifford had been discussing
strategy with her mother.

Rose was restless, toying with her iced-tea glass and silverware. “Perhaps you should leave,” she conceded, “but I know that you won’t. Everything you believed in is being threatened by what has happened in the past week. Your beliefs about yourself, about life, are all changing, and that’s hard to deal with. You’re a fighter, and you’re going to be tested to the limit.
The process has already begun.”

Ella felt a shudder travel up her spine. She wished someone around her would talk sense, not superstition. Like dominoes stacked in a row, events were tumbling down at an alarming rate. She was suddenly certain it was much too late to walk away.

“I need to run an errand tomorrow morning. Will you need Dad’s … the truck?” She couldn’t go out tonight without worrying
her mother, but tomorrow she’d retrieve the blanket. She’d also pay Peterson a visit.

Rose shook her head. “Use it as long as you’d like,” she said resignedly.

After dinner, Ella sat with her mother in the living room, listening to the Navajo radio station. The silence between them, filled only by the music playing softly in the background, left her nerves on edge. Finally she replaced the old
crafts magazine she’d been paging through on the table and stood up. “I’m tired, Mom. I’m going to bed early.”

Rose glanced up from her knitting. “I’ll be up a while longer—the nights feel too long for me alone. But you sleep well.”

Ella walked to her room, keenly feeling her mother’s sadness. Her father’s absence lay heavily over them, a tangible weight, as if the house itself was mourning
the loss of one of its own.

She sat by her bedroom window, lights off. The full moon bathed the nightscape in a soft, silvery light. The desert seemed so barren, yet life teemed within its desolate stretches. Prairie dogs scurried about, foraging for food. A jackrabbit hopped through the brush, making its nightly rounds.

Yes, tomorrow she’d return to the place where they’d seen the old man.
She’d get the blanket and try to identify the weave, the maker, and eventually its owner. Maybe she could even get Peterson or Blalock to send it out for laboratory analysis. There might be something to tie it to the murder. Ella crawled into bed and pulled the covers in around her. As the old mattress sagged comfortably beneath her, Ella closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. She tossed and
turned restlessly. Everything seemed oppressive—even the weight of her blanket against her toes annoyed her and kept her from drifting off.

When sleep finally came, it was void of rest. Eerie images haunted her dreams, making them a vivid study in terror. She was walking among the ruins of the old church, and shadows began to move on their own, transforming to people she recognized. The first
was a Navajo warrior. He held a bloody knife in one hand. From the other, dangling by its long hair, hung a severed head. The head appeared to be Ella’s father. The warrior was first Peterson, then Blalock, speaking Navajolike gibberish. He laughed, and pointed to the head. Instead of her father, however, the severed head was now Wilson’s.

The nightmare grew even more bizarre as Wilson’s head
began to speak in a soft, seductive tone, offering to make love to her. The warrior, no longer Blalock, but a stranger she couldn’t place, groaned in disgust and threw the head at her. She caught it, and looked down in terror at her own face.

Ella woke with a start, and couldn’t get back to sleep for an hour. By the time the first rays of light peered through the cracks in her curtains, Ella
felt more exhausted than when she’d first gone to bed. She got up and dressed quietly. It was barely eight o’clock, and the house was still. At least her mother had finally gone to bed. Ella had heard Rose moving around all night, as if she’d dreaded the cold emptiness of the bed she’d shared with her mate. Ella understood that particular feeling well. Although her marriage to Eugene had only lasted
eighteen months, after he’d died she’d slept on the sofa for months.

Ella went to the kitchen, her thoughts racing as she anticipated the long journey ahead. She had no intention of getting stuck in the mud out there like Wilson had.

After a quick breakfast, she grabbed a few paper grocery bags to protect whatever evidence she found and took the pickup’s key from the hook in the kitchen. Just
then her mother came out of her bedroom. Rose’s eyes were red and puffy, as if she’d spent the night crying.

“Mom, would you like me to stay and fix breakfast?”

Rose shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I have to find my own way around this sorrow. There’s nothing you can do.”

Ella left hesitantly, although in her heart she knew her mother really did need time alone. Rose would have to delve deep
within herself to find the strength to make a new life.

By the time Ella made it down the dirt track to the highway, it was nearly nine. As she started to pull out, she saw Wilson’s familiar truck approaching.

“Where are you off to?” he asked, pulling up beside her. “I was just on my way over. I thought you might need some wheels, so I was going to put myself and my truck at your disposal.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t think you want to come with me on this trip.”

His face immediately grew somber. “I had a gut feeling about this, that’s why I came early. Let me guess. You’re on your way to where we saw the skinwalker, right?”

“I want that blanket,” she answered simply.

“What makes you think you can learn anything from it? I saw nothing to indicate it was unique in any
way.”

“I’ve been trained to find things that convey information and lead to suspects. I want to take a closer look at it.”

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. “You won’t listen to me on this, will you?” He glanced at her, and exhaled softly. “Never mind, that was a wasted question. Let’s go back to your mother’s house. You can leave your father’s
truck there. I’ll take you in mine.”

“I’ll take my mom’s truck, and go by myself. I have other business to attend to anyway.” Ella wondered if he was trying to keep her from investigating on her own. Was Wilson afraid she might discover the old man’s disappearance was a trick?

“If I don’t go with you, I’ll worry,” Wilson insisted.

“Worry, then. I’ve got a job to do, and you’re slowing me down,”
Ella said curtly, driving off quickly before he could answer back.

He followed her anyway, but stayed far behind, apparently hoping she wouldn’t notice. Amateurs, Ella sighed to herself. Sometimes, she realized, people forgot what she did for a living.

Half an hour later, as she drew near the spot, Wilson’s pickup closed the gap between them. She reluctantly slowed to a stop.

Wilson pulled
up alongside, smiling grimly. “I had to make sure you could find the place.”

“There’s nothing I can do about your being here, but if you really want to help, stay out of my way. Better yet, stay in your truck.” Ella wasn’t about to be led around or misdirected by Wilson.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” he grumbled. Ella noticed that despite his gruffness, Wilson was gripping the steering wheel
so hard that his knuckles had turned a pearly white.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be long.”

“No,” Wilson said, swallowing. “We’ll go together, and I’m taking my rifle, just in case.”

They went down into the narrow canyon. Ella glanced around, perplexed. There was no sign of the blanket. “If memory serves me, it should be right around here.” She walked a slow circle around the area, looking for signs
of gadgets or wires she might associate with trickery.

“Yeah, I thought this was the place too.” Wilson gripped his rifle tightly.

“Stay here, and keep a sharp lookout.

He gave her a long, speculative look. “Where are
you
going?”

“I’m going to search a little further down the wash. Since we’re on higher ground here, you should be able to keep me covered.”

He nodded in agreement.

Ella walked
away slowly, studying the ground and listening. As far as she could tell, the only footprints around were Wilson’s and hers, from the day before. She crouched, searching for the old man’s tracks, but only the vaguest of impressions remained on the soft sand. Thinking back, she couldn’t remember having seen his feet; they’d been hidden beneath the blanket. Maybe he’d worn moccasins and the dragging
blanket had wiped out his tracks.

The goat’s head was still on the ground. She stared at it. If the old man had only been a projection, or an illusion, where had this very real goat’s head come from? She stared at the bloody remains, now crawling with maggots and flies. Not far away lay the bloody hand, covered with ants. Opting not to touch either, at least for the moment, she continued searching
for the spot where the man had fallen.

She couldn’t find it, only vague suggestions of where footprints might have been made. Where had the blanket gone? No one could have removed it, not unless they’d floated there.

“What’s wrong?” Wilson called out.

“I can’t find the blanket,” she answered. A skillful tracker like Clifford, or one of a dozen Navajo hunters, could walk without leaving obvious
tracks. But she couldn’t conceive of her brother, or Wilson for that matter, digging up somebody’s hand.

Wilson looked around slowly, then jogged toward her. “Maybe someone came and took it.” He studied the ground. “No, forget that.”

“It’s got to be here. Maybe we’re not looking in the right place.”

“Let me help you look.”

They walked on. Suddenly Wilson crouched on the dry, sandy ground.
“What’ve you got?” Ella asked.

“I’m not sure.”

She bent over him. A thin layer of gray ash covered the sand. She reached out to touch it, but Wilson grabbed her hand.

“To scatter ashes in daytime is an insult to Sun.”

“I remember,” Ella said. She decided to humor Wilson, drew back her hand, and added thoughtfully, “It also leaves a trail for Poverty to find you.” She stared at the ground pensively.
“This is where the blanket was.”

“Yes. But all that remains are these ashes.”

“Someone seems intent on using fear to confuse our thinking. There’s no trace of a fire, and no footprints.” She pursed her lips. “Of course, a skilled tracker could have obliterated his trail.” She stood up. “Who do you know who could have concealed his passage like this?” Ella asked bluntly.

“I could do this, if
I was very careful. So could your brother, and a few of the old
hataaliis.
Your father-in-law, the police chief, used to be quite a hunter, but he’s put on some weight.” Wilson was pensive.

“How about cops, like Peterson Yazzie, for instance? Or some of the deer hunters you’ve gone hunting with?” Ella probed, eager for names.

“Peterson isn’t as crafty as he’d like you to believe. You could lose
him in a closet. But, now that you mention it, Samuel Pete and Herman Cloud have done some bow-hunting. You’ve got to be good to try that,” Wilson concluded. “Paul Sells, Loretta’s brother, is supposed to be a very good hunter too.”

“Thanks. That’s food for thought.”

What bothered Ella most was knowing she was being manipulated and led astray. She couldn’t quite shake the spidery sense that
someone was looking over her shoulder. She had learned, in her years as an FBI agent, that when things got risky you hedged your bets and waited for backup. In this situation only friends and family could be counted on for help—and she didn’t have many friends on the Rez. Her own brother was wanted by the law. She had to plan her counter moves carefully.

“Don’t tell anyone what we’ve seen. It
will only play into the hands of those who want to use confusion and superstitious fear to their advantage,” she said.

“Agreed.”

“I will not allow these people to defeat me this easily. If I go down, it’ll be fighting them every step of the way.” She saw Wilson smile. “What the hell are you grinning about?”

“You haven’t changed a bit. You have more courage than any ten people put together.
And it’s still based on sheer, undisguised stubbornness.”

Ella laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am a bit stubborn. But in my line of work, that’s a real asset.” It felt good to laugh, even at herself.

“I’ve always admired that in you, Ella—your courage, that is. I could do without the stubbornness. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my side in a fight.”

“Except maybe Clifford,” she mused.
“You know, he may hold the solution to all this. Once he clears his name, we can use him to counter any fear tactics the skinwalkers use. People trust him. That’s undoubtedly a big part of why they want to get him out of the way.”

“Let’s hope people around here don’t find out what we’re really facing, at least not yet,” Wilson said softly. “The last thing we need is a pack of vigilantes on a
witch-hunt. Innocent lives could be lost.”

Ella nodded somberly. “You know, to find out who’s involved, I’m going to have to learn more about skinwalkers. The bad guys are obviously putting a lot of effort into making people believe they’re truly magical. What do you know about skinwalker practices and rituals?”

“Probably more than most,” Wilson admitted quietly. “I’ve studied the subject for
years. But speaking of the unspeakable will invite their attention.”

“I don’t think we need to worry about it. It’s pretty obvious we already have their attention.”

Wilson nodded slowly. “I suppose you’re right.”