Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged Page 4

  "Why don't we make a pact not to quiz each other about our sexual past?"

  "So your past with her was sexual?" My ears were getting hot and I was instantly jealous.

  "Let's enjoy the present." Callie kissed me so impulsively she knocked the attitude right out of me, a wanton, feral kiss that made me grateful for whatever had made her this sexual in the present.

  Nonetheless, I was suspicious of the timing: was she really this hot for me, or had seeing Manaba made her hot and I happened to be handy, or was she faking hot like a red herring to get my mind off the idea of her being with Manaba? Having personally done all three of those things in other relationships, I was on the lookout for them, despite being aware that the guilty almost always accuse the innocent.

  About the time I decided to erase the brain cells of my mental blackboard and focus on lovemaking with Callie, she pulled back. "You need to start writing. That's what this trip is all about. You have deadlines."

  "We could continue this in the bedroom and then I could write."

  "Sexual tension will make your writing better."

  "Then I should be Hemingway," I groaned, pulled away reluctantly, and headed for the computer. Accessing my documents I found the file entitled The Coming Out of Mrs. Carmichael and began typing the opening scene where Angelique, the young novice, is on her knees confessing her sin of sexual desire.

  She tells the priest she knows it's not right and maybe it's because she's away from home and lonely, and she intends, before God, to spend more time at her work, counseling those who need to find salvation, and less time contemplating foolish thoughts. The priest tells her she has sinned, but God will forgive all sin confessed with a true heart, and he gives her a penance of fifty Hail Marys.

  The novice crosses herself and leaves the chapel, nearly colliding with a woman fifteen years her senior, looking frail and tired, but beautiful beneath the scarf tied around her head. The woman, her taut, anxious expression indicating she is searching for something, asks the novice to help her, saying her mother has sent her to get counseling because she has an ongoing problem with her husband—she doesn't want to satisfy his needs.

  It was dusk before I looked up from the computer and saw Callie lounging on the couch staring at me, Elmo stretched out beside her, having taken my place. His big jowls on her clean shirt, a fact she'd chosen to ignore, demonstrated her love for the lightly snoring hound. I ran my hands through my hair and smiled at her.

  "Good start," I said of my efforts and read her several pages from the screenplay.

  "You shouldn't have the novice cross herself—it means she's placing a burden on herself. Crosses carry sadness and—"

  "Cal, she's a mother inferior. She's got to cross herself, it's required," I said somewhat crossly.

  "Whatever." Callie gave up, not caring about a fictional character burdened by religious luggage. "You've been writing for hours. How about a break?"

  "Depends on the kind." Stiff and cramped from sitting so long, I got up and went over to the couch and carefully helped Elmo down, then crawled in beside her. "Is it an exercise break, or a food break, or..." I rubbed my fingers across her breasts, "a lovemaking break?"

  "It's a we're-leaving-the-cabin break. I want to take you with me to the ceremony on the red rocks tonight."

  "You mean with Manaba Sasquatch?"

  "Don't use derogatory terms about women. She doesn't invite many people outside of her students to the ceremony."

  "And she's remained true to that, since she only invited you and not me."

  "She invited us both."

  "No, she didn't, but that's okay. Let's go." I shrugged, trying to hide the fact that I was jealous of a woman who looked like she shopped at a tannery and whose jewelry implied she'd had a head-on collision with a very large bird.

  I placed a dog bone next to Elmo's flattened jowls, pressed wide by the wooden floor, and whispered, "In case you wake up hungry." I kissed him good-bye.

  Driving through the red canyons, I marveled at the rock walls' mesmerizing patterns, colors, and petrified swirls, demonstrating that forces much larger than man had been at work in heaven's basin for centuries. The wind whispered past the rock striations that marked a time when the water rose halfway up their stony faces, and rays from the setting sun hit jagged angles of the cliffs, creating dramatic shards of shadow and light, a reminder that we were but a grain of sand in the cosmic picture.

  Twenty minutes south of town, tall rock plateaus, scattered among sage and sand, beckoned the faithful to red-rock climb. Farther on and a quarter of a mile down, where nothing lay but a trail of loose red dirt, the true natives were trekking toward the mesa that bulged out of the orange moonscape ahead of us.

  I parked the car and locked it, taking a bottle of drinking water for us, and we headed toward the plateau.

  "In the middle of these three mesas is a powerful Indian vortex. Supposedly the natives climbed the mesas and looked down on the sacred ground below and offered up their prayers to the gods," Callie said over her shoulder.

  "The climbing part's the killer piece."

  "The energy of this place was so intense that tribes traveled for days to scale the rocks and worship here, but they wouldn't stay after dark."

  "And we're going up here after dark because...?" I asked nervously.

  "Because we are gods too." Callie smiled at me in her enigmatic way, and for a moment, staring at her phenomenal shock of blond hair and her exquisitely carved features, I thought she was a goddess and I was her follower. Much like the Japanese boy trailing his pretty counterpart at the restaurant, I tagged along obediently as Callie scampered up the gradual incline.

  As rock became ground and the incline steeper, it was apparent that no path existed up this rocky ceremonial slope, only tiny footholds carved out by the shoes of other climbers more skilled than I. After several minutes, I stopped to breathe and made the mistake of looking down.

  "This is worse than flying! One wrong step and we're toast."

  "Always look up." Her warning held true for much of life, and she extended her hand. I refused to take it, afraid I would make her lose her balance in the gathering darkness.

  "Keep your hands on the rocks," I warned. "I'm right behind you."

  Moments later the footpath began to widen and level out, and I relaxed for the remainder of the walk to a large flat area. A series of medium-sized stones delineated a circle about forty feet in diameter with a bonfire in the center, small bundles of what appeared to be herbs lying beside the fire, and a painting I couldn't quite decipher drawn in the sand.

  "I think this will be a Holyway to restore health, or an Evilway."

  "Which I assume wards off evil, which you don't believe in, so this could be only an exercise in rock climbing," I muttered as Callie approached the circle and sat on the outer edge of the wheel facing north and pulled me gently down beside her.

  The darkness folded in on us and none of the women, most of whom appeared to be Native American, seemed to feel the need for introductions.

  "So is any food served..." I asked, and she gave me a look that I was pretty sure said she hoped I was kidding. "Well, how would I know?"

  "Breathe deeply," Callie ordered softly, and I took in three large breaths, which relaxed me to the point of yawning.

  I was able to gaze over the northern vista and marvel at what I was seeing. The darkness removed all illusion of depth, erasing the valley below and pulling the white clouds through the sky as if on strings, making them almost appear eye level, revealing the world according to eagles. The sky seemed as close as an old friend, the night like a soft black blanket on my shoulders, and the heat from the fire a mother's loving arms. In that moment, I saw and embraced the night sky the Native Americans knew.

  A rhythmic drumbeat began, and a sound equivalent in pitch and texture to a hundred rattles filled the air while the women chanted what sounded like a blessing. Their voices rose and fell amid the roar and crackle of the fire, the wind
shifted, and a wide veil of smoke drifted in our direction, creating strange images. The north wind caught the smoke and made it look like a huge bear rushing at me; then a horizontal gust strung the smoke out like taffy into an ephemeral band that looked like a flowing stream, and finally a new puff of smoke behind it and a wolf's head emerged—kaleidoscopic desert imagery.

  Suddenly Manaba appeared in the fire—not by the fire, or near the fire, but in the fire—standing there full form and calm and as real as Callie next to me. The flames encircled her, the embers glowed under her shoes, the smoke caressed her. Callie restrained me to keep me from jumping to her rescue.

  Her voice was strong and rhythmic and hypnotic, and I heard the drumbeat gather force and become fierce for the first time. The sound of something like rain rattles jigging to the rhythm of the drum grew louder, and Callie whispered that Manaba was asking for protection.

  After a long time had passed, words that sounded like Sa 'ah naaghei, Bik 'eh hozh filled the air, and Callie explained that if the ceremony had left out anything, saying these words was like errors-and-omissions insurance.

  A second drumming seemed to kick off prayers for the Native American woman who was killed by the wolf.

  "Did Manaba know the woman who was killed?" I asked Callie.

  "Her name is Nizhoni."

  "I think I drank something that sounded like that at the Japanese restaurant." At Callie's disapproving look I added, "I'm not kidding. It means saki or something like that."

  "Nizhoni means beautiful."

  The drumbeat grew louder, and the twenty or so women around the fire rose as if on cue and formed the Indian version of a line dance, stomping and chanting in ritual lockstep that picked up in speed and intensity. Then Manaba pulled Callie into the smoke and danced with her—an erotic dance that made a seamless piece of their bodies.

  Rising to separate them, I was jealous that Callie would dance with someone other than me, aware that the two of us had never danced together and feeling even angrier that the first time I saw her dance was with Manaba. Then Callie tugged my arm, pulling me back to a sitting position, and I realized she was beside me, dancing with no one.

  "Were you up there for a moment, dancing with her?"

  "Not in a real sense, it's spiritual."

  "I think she's after you."

  "She's calling on me to be one with her search."

  "Yeah, well, I don't like what she's searching for, which I think is you," I said, sounding like some grumbling husband with a limited vocabulary.

  Bright lights swung across us like search beams and the drumbeat slapped to a hard stop, the rattles dopplered into silence, and the dancers wandered off away from the circle as a four-wheel-drive vehicle slowly inched its way up the southern edge of the plateau. My mind grappled with how a car got up a hill so steep it challenged a jackrabbit.

  A short, wiry cowboy of a man in his late sixties stepped out of the SUV and strolled over to the fire where the dancers were breaking up.

  Tipping his hat to Manaba, he said, "Saw the fire and wanted to make sure you women were safe up here, particularly after the wolf killing. Former Senator Cy Blackstone." He introduced himself to a seemingly disinterested woman attired in Navajo dress, before attempting to take Manaba's hand in a gentlemanly gesture, but Manaba stepped back from him.

  He had his cowboy hat pushed back on his head, so the light from the fire caught the craggy folds of his leathery face and a set jaw that bespoke a resolve about life that neither reason nor affection could overcome. His jeans tight fitting, belt buckle flashing silver in the flames, and his black ostrich boots dusty but new, he was a crossover cowboy—the kind who could push cattle or congressmen, rope steers or statesmen—a comfort cowboy who rode the range in a Range Rover.

  "Now that the woman..." he paused to glance around him before continuing "...was given a decent burial, I could sure use a favor."

  Manaba's face revealed nothing. In fact, if you were looking for evidence that she knew him, had expected him, hadn't expected him, disliked him, or loved him, it was a dry hole. Nonetheless, he seemed undeterred as he kicked up the dirt with his toe and ducked his head, not unlike a schoolboy thinking of asking a girl to dance.

  "Lotta the natives think this deal is like last time and they're spooked, not wantin' to show up at the site. You go on camera and talk, it'd settle things down. Hell, even the whites are sayin' that your grandma's callin' the wolf down on 'em. Mall means a lot of jobs—jobs for Indians too. You think about it. In light of what you and me are tryin' to do, you give it some extra thought. It's important to our protecting people you care about. Protection is the key to freedom—ask any dating boy."

  He chuckled and cast his eyes around the circle at the women. "Didn't mean to interrupt." His tone said the opposite. In fact he'd probably made a special trip up here to interrupt and, beyond that, even delighted in interrupting. The sly way he sank into his own hip, pulled his hat back down over the ridge of his brow, and spat into the fire, the sacred fire, spoke all anyone needed to hear.

  "Well, night, Ms. Manaba," he called over his shoulder with a laugh, as if stringing Ms. and Manaba together was funny, and kept on talking as he walked. "Oh." He stopped and turned back in bad Columbo style, acting as if he'd thought of something. "You decided where you're gonna be movin' your meetings? Mall construction's going to be coming right up here pretty quick. This is going to make a beautiful restaurant, don't you think? People dining and looking out over this cliff. They'll be standing in line for days. Progress, Manaba, progress. If we live long enough, we collide with it. I hope all you ladies will take care and enjoy your evening."

  Manaba stared at him, muttering something I imagined was designed to turn him into a toad.

  Callie intercepted him. "Mr. Blackstone, did anyone ever find the wolf's body?"

  "And who are you, other than a mighty attractive woman?" He touched his hat.

  "Callie Rivers."

  "Don't know the answer to that, Ms. Rivers, except a drop like that probably flattened him out like a prairie pancake—might not have been much to find."

  "So did anyone actually witness the attack?" I asked.

  He looked at Manaba for a moment and then turned back to us. "Don't know that either." He tipped his hat to her and then to several other women standing nearby before getting behind the wheel, making a U-turn, and driving down the backside of the cliff.

  "Why didn't you tell me this cliff was drivable?"

  "Because it's mostly for jeep tours," Callie replied.

  "Hello, I have a Jeep." My voice rose.

  "Part of the ritual is to climb the face of the rock like the ancestors," she said as our eyes were simultaneously drawn to the tall, broad-shouldered Manaba, her back to us as she stood overlooking the cliff, watching the SUV drive away.

  The wind whipped around her shoulders, her long black hair as captivating as the tail of a wild mustang, her leather trappings billowing away from her body. I had never seen such pride and strength and old-world power all in one place. If on top of all that, she was spiritual and cosmic and otherworldly, and Callie was attracted to her, then as the country singer said, I hated her and I'd think of a reason later.

  It crossed my mind that I didn't like Blackstone much either. "The senator gives me the creeps," I said.

  Callie seemed to be only half listening and broke away, striding toward Manaba. With the wind picking up in the opposite direction, I could hear only fragments of the conversation as Callie and Manaba exchanged words that seemed to drift from inquiring and responding to something short of arguing.

  "What do you want me to do?" Callie asked her.

  "Unearth the truth," Manaba replied.

  Then suddenly the discussion was over, both turning and striding away, the duel aborted, or so it appeared.

  The ceremonial dancers dispersed and Callie and I clambered down the steep slope to our car, slipping here and there despite the moonlit night as we clung to each other. She was i
ntense and preoccupied, but I was inexplicably exhilarated by the night air and the dancing. Once inside the car, I was so hot I rolled the windows down and sat in the cool breeze, catching my breath.

  "So what deity were they dancing to up there?" I panted as I slumped back against the seat.

  "They pray to the earth, the plants, the animals. Their religion is the act of being one with all things—staying in balance with nature and the creator."

  "I like that," I said, contemplating the simplicity of seeing the ground and all it grew and supported as holy.

  "The Navajo people live amid the four sacred mountains stretching from Colorado to New Mexico and Arizona, and they believe they have always lived here and must never leave."

  "Is that what Manaba was telling you?" I asked, knowing it wasn't, but not wanting to come right out and express my jealousy again.

  "She believes her ancestors will answer her call for help, but she's also asking me to help her fight a force as powerful as she."

  "Sounds like a comic-book plot: us against the forces of evil. Besides, why does someone with her power need yours?"

  "She may believe that she's lost hers."

  "Looks to me like all her powers are working. How did she learn to stand in the flames like that without burning her ass off?"

  "Mind over matter. Believe you're protected and you will be."

  "So her mind pulled you into the flames with her?"

  "It's only a ritual—joining me with her needs."

  "I don't like the way she looks at you. I want to be the only one who looks at you like that. Of course I know I can't control other people's looks—short of killing them—which may be why I'm so—I don't know—insanely jealous."

  "I didn't like what I saw between you and Barrett over dinner," she said softly, and there she was again admitting a cosmic wiretap into my evening with Barrett and confessing her jealousy like any ordinary lover laying claim to her territory. I could have sworn she demanded I tell her everything, although the words never came from her lips. Nonetheless, I began confessing like a televangelist with his advertisers pulling out.