by Paul W Papa
Pierce nodded slowly. His eyes were beginning to come back from the saucers they had turned into and the color was returning to his face. He loosened his tie and undid his top button, then he took another drink, sipping it this time. “What on earth was that?” he asked.
“That was the thing that killed your partner,” Mayer said. “The thing that’s coming for you as well.”
“For me?” Pierce asked, incredulously. “Why would it be coming for me?”
“Well that’s the question, isn’t it?” Mayer said. He took the poker from the chair and returned it to the fireplace. “But what I don’t get is how it was able to come into the house?”
Pierce looked confused.
“It has to be invited,” Mayer said. “It can’t just come in on its own.”
“Well, I certainly did not invite it in.”
“You must have. This is your house.” He looked over at the dead man lying by the door—the pool of blood around his neck. “Unless your hired man did it for you.”
“I don’t see how he could have.”
Mayer rubbed his hands together—a habit of his father’s he’d picked up when he was trying to think—and walked over to the open window. “Who’s come to your house lately?” he asked Pierce.
“No one to speak of,” Pierce answered. “Gardeners, the housekeeper, the cook last evening.”
Mayer watched Pierce’s eyes, for they were the key to the soul. He knew that if a man lied, it would show there. “And Vera Krupp,” he added.
“Yes. Vera Krupp,” Pierce confirmed.
“Tell me about that.”
“What’s there to tell?” Pierce asked. He picked up his smoking jacket and examined the tear in the shoulder—one matching the tear in his shirt. He reached into the inner pocket and removed a fancy silver cigarette case, the same one he’d had in the bar. He opened it, took out a single slim, brown cigarette, and slid an end into his mouth.
“She came to tell me she intended to donate her portion of the project to the Paiute Tribal Council,” Pierce continued, the cigarette bouncing as he spoke. He reached into the outside pocket of the jacket and produced a chrome Ronson cigarette lighter with the initials W. J. P. inscribed in a plate on the side. He pressed the lever with a shaky finger, produced a flame, and chased the end of the cigarette.
“Why would she come all the way over here just to tell you that?” Mayer asked.
“You’d have to ask her,” Pierce said, taking a quick drag. “Perhaps she wanted to rub it in. Wanted to see my face as she pronounced my ruin.” He took another drag, then said, “The kraut.”
That didn’t sit well with Mayer. It didn’t make sense, and he had learned long ago not to trust things that didn’t make sense—they typically aren’t true. He was about to push it when a knock came at the door. Pierce moved to answer, but Mayer stopped him. “Better let me do it,” he said.
“Who is it?” Mayer asked.
“Who do you think it is?” the voice said from the other side of the door.
Mayer opened the door slowly and poked his head around the side. He figured it was Fry, seeing as the skinwalker didn’t show a propensity to knock, but he wanted to make sure just the same. Fry pushed the door open with his palm, almost hitting Mayer in the process.
“What’ve ya got?” he asked, then let out a long, slow whistle when he saw the body spread out on the floor. “He looks worse than you,” Fry said to Mayer motioning to his face, then asked, “This your doing?”
“Not quite,” said Mayer.
Fry crouched down and examined the body. He looked up at Mayer with a suspicious eye. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Fry stood and had a look around the room. He motioned to Pierce with his thumb. “Who’s he?”
“William James Pierce,” Mayer said. “He owns the place.”
“That his man?”
Mayer nodded.
Fry addressed Pierce. “Why do you need a gunsel?”
“I assure you, Officer, Mr. Harding was no gunsel. His scruples were beyond reproach.”
“For the right price, you mean,” Fry said. “And it’s Detective.”
“My apologies, Detective. I meant no offense.”
“Forget it,” Fry said. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Not everyone is in favor of the project I am currently undertaking. Some people have objected, rather strongly. Mr. Harding was here for personal protection.”
Mayer watched as Fry gave the room the once over, his detective eye not missing a single bit of evidence—not one bullet hole or broken vase. Fry removed his lid and scratched his head at the bald spot in the back with the same hand. He rubbed the other across his stubbled chin.
“Looks like a rabid coyote jumped through that window,” he said, pointing with hatted hand. “Then your Mr. Harding started shooting, without hitting anything—except for Pierce, of course,” he said inclining his head to Pierce. “And then it attacked Harding, tearing out his pipes, before leaving the way it came in. Sound about right?”
“Sounds good to me,” Mayer said.
“Good. Now why don’t you tell me what really happened.”
Twenty-Two
FRY WANTED TO have a look at the front of the house, so he stepped outside. Mayer followed. When the two were along, Mayer told Fry everything that had happened, including his visit with the shaman and their trip to the skinwalker’s cave. He ended with the events at Pierce’s house, the appearance of Hawthorne’s ghost and the skinwalker crashing through the window.
Fry shook his head slowly. “Boy, when you step in it, you step in it but good. I’ll need you both to make a statement. You better clean up that salt, then coach your client on what to say.” He paused, then added, “And what not to say.”
Within an hour, Pierce’s house was swarming with uniforms. Pierce had also managed to get his handyman over to board up the window once the police released the scene. Pierce did as instructed, saying exactly what Mayer had coached him to say the way he’d coached him to say it. The coroner came and removed Harding’s body. Fry took his piece.
Mayer made no mention of firing his own Colt to the uniforms, as per Fry’s instructions. He’d even removed the gun and holster and placed it in his Hornet, donning his suit coat before they arrived. Pierce was offered medical attention, but declined.
When everyone finally left, taking all their equipment with them, Mayer turned to Pierce. “You can’t stay here,” he said.
“And why not?” Pierce asked.
Mayer ignored the question, picked up the phone, and dialed. After a moment, the shaman answered. “Feel like a roommate?” Mayer asked.
“It depends entirely on the nature of the roommate.”
A grin formed in the corner of Mayer’s mouth. “My client, Mr. Pierce. I’m at his home and we’ve just been attacked by the witch and Pierce’s dead partner.”
“I see,” the shaman said. “Better bring him over then. I can better protect him here.”
“Change your clothes and pack an overnight bag,” Mayer told Pierce after he hung up the phone. “We’d better leave as soon as possible.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there,” Mayer said.
Twenty minutes later Pierce was ready to leave. He had a clean shirt, a new tie, vest, and sported a double-breasted sack suit, with a matching waistcoat instead of the smoking jacket he had on earlier. In his hand was a small, striped canvas suitcase with red leather trim and a matching handle. A Knox hat was atop his head.
“You didn’t have to go all fancy,” Mayer said.
Pierce took the measure of his clothes, then said with a raised eyebrow, “I assure you, Mr. Mayer, this is far from fancy.”
“Do you have anything of Hawthorne’s?” Mayer asked. “Anything personal? Anything that might have meant something to him?”
Pierce hesitated.
“G
hosts often attach themselves to items that held importance in their previous lives. If you have such an item, it might allow Hawthorne to keep coming at you. If you want it to stop, I’ll need that item.”
“And how do you stop it?” Pierce asked.
“Destroy the thing,” Mayer said bluntly.
Pierce brought his hand absentmindedly to his suit coat where the inside pocket would be. “I don’t believe I have such an object,” he said. But he had no sooner finished when Mayer went to him, pulled the lapel of his suit, and slid his hand into Pierce’s inner pocket.
“Excuse me!” Pierce exclaimed and moved his hand to stop the assault, but Mayer slapped it away, then he extracted the silver cigarette case and held it up in front of Pierce.
“What about this?”
“I don’t know what you’re . . .”
“Can the act,” Mayer said, interrupting. “We don’t have time for tall tales and fables.”
Pierce’s face sank. “All right, I took it from him,” he admitted. “I’ve always admired it and it didn’t mean anything to him. He told me it was a gift from an old girlfriend.”
“So you slipped it out of the dead man’s suit coat?”
“Sure,” Pierce said, screwing up his courage. “Why not? He wasn’t going to need it anymore.”
Mayer slipped the case into his own suit coat. “C’mon,” he said. “We’d better head out.”
“Do you have to destroy it?” Pierce asked. “I would certainly not like to see that happen.”
“We’ll see,” Mayer said.
The drive to the shaman’s house was made mostly in silence as Mayer pondered about what type of man was sitting next to him. Someone who would steal from a dead man—a once partner—without any sign of remorse. If Pierce was willing to do that, Mayer wondered what else he might be willing to do. He also wondered why the cigarette case seemed so important to him, and why he downplayed its importance to his partner.
They arrived at the shaman’s home, parked out front, and went to the door. Mayer noted that Cassi’s Fairlane was absent. It was a safe bet she would be as well.
“Where are we?” Pierce asked.
“A safe place,” Mayer said and knocked on the door. He was surprised when the shaman answered to see him none the worse for wear. Not that he knew what to expect, but he was surprisingly spry for a man who just had a near-death experience. He shook the shaman’s hand and made the necessary introductions. The shaman offered to take Pierce’s hat and suit coat. Pierce handed him the hat, then made a bit of a face as he pulled off the coat.
“Injured?” asked the shaman.
“He took a pill to the shoulder,” Mayer said. “But it just grazed him.”
“Perhaps I should take a look. Do you mind removing your shirt, Mr. Pierce?”
Pierce looked to Mayer with concern.
“Go on,” Mayer said. “He’s a shaman. A Native American healer. He won’t bite.”
Pierce nodded then removed his tie and shirt, laying them both on the back of the nearest chair.
The shaman had a look at the injury. “Yes,” he said. “I can definitely help with that.”
“If he offers you tea, don’t take it,” Mayer cautioned and took a seat in one of the empty chairs.
Diogie raised his head, growled, then lowered it again.
“I don’t think your dog likes me,” Mayer said.
“It’s not you he doesn’t like. It’s the dark energy that surrounds you.”
“Dandy.”
The shaman mixed several herbs into a paste, then attended to Pierce’s wound.
“You didn’t tell me the skinwalker could transform into people from someone else's past,” Mayer said.
“That's because they can't,” the shaman answered casually. “They can mimic voices, but I've never heard of them transforming like that.”
“Well, it had the voice of my mother and it was a female.”
The shaman stopped what he was doing and focused on Mayer. “What do you mean it was a female?”
“I tried your trick, you know, getting it to talk while in animal form. I goaded it on, trying to make it mad, hoping it would say something and be forced to transform back into a human.”
“What happened?” the shaman asked.
“I’m afraid I did,” Pierce said.
“That’s right,” Mayer confirmed. “He yelled at me to shoot the thing and gummed up the plan. It got distracted and that was that.”
“That’s a shame,” the shaman said.
“I tried to shoot, Mayer continued, “but like before, my gun jammed. And right after that happened, I heard my dead mother’s voice and the thing transformed into a woman—or maybe that happened first, I’m not sure. It might have been my mother, or it might not have been. It was hard to tell, because it was covered in painted symbols, but it was definitely female.”
“Are you sure?” the shaman asked, forcefully.
“Look, I may not know a lot of things, but I think I know a female when I see one.”
“And you say it spoke to you in your mother’s voice?”
“Yes, had me transfixed too. I almost shot myself in the head with my own piece. I knew I was doing it too, but I couldn’t stop myself.”
“How did you stop?”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure, but I think it saw my tattoo and got scared.”
“Tattoo?”
Mayer stood and pulled up his sleeve, revealing the Helm of Awe tattoo on his forearm.
“Are you of Viking descent?” the shaman asked as he examined Mayer’s arm.
“Not a bit,” Mayer said. “I found the symbol in my mother’s diary. I did some additional research and discovered that it protects against injustice and evil. Thought it might come in handy some day.”
“And so it has,” the shaman said. “The symbol protects the bearer by striking fear into his enemy. It is associated with the power of the serpent who paralyzes its prey before striking.”
“That explains it,” Mayer said.
“What does it explain?” the shaman asked.
“The creature froze when it saw the thing. After a few moments, it let out a hellish scream, then transformed back into its coyote form before it blew.”
The shaman nodded. “Probably screamed to break the hold the symbol had on it,” he said, then added, “You got lucky this time. I thought I told you not to go at it alone.”
“It’s not like I had a choice,” Mayer said. “It came to me, not the other way around. Mayer glanced at Pierce. He sat, looking distant, a strange expression on his face. “That reminds me,” Mayer said and pulled the cigarette case out of his pocket. “You got any way of separating a ghost from an object?”
“Destroy it,” the shaman said and returned his attention to Pierce.
“No soap,” Mayer said. “Pierce wants to keep the item.”
The shaman tore a scrap of cloth and placed it over the paste, then told Pierce he could get dressed, but suggested he might be more comfortable without the tie. Mayer handed him the cigarette case. The shaman examined the outside, then opened it and did the same with the interior portion.
“Why is this so special?” he asked Pierce.
“It’s not that it’s special, per se,” Pierce said. “I’ve just grown partial to it is all.”
The shaman gave Pierce suspicious eyes. Mayer couldn’t blame him.
“There is a ceremony,” the shaman admitted, “but I cannot guarantee its effectiveness. It would probably be best to just destroy it.”
“I’d prefer that you didn’t,” Pierce said.
“Try it,” Mayer said. “I’ll take the case with me. If Hawthorne comes back for it, I’ll know what to do.”
“Very well,” The shaman said. He took the case over to his table of herbs, lit the sage, and let the smoke encompass the case. He said several words that neither Pierce nor Mayer understood, then placed the case between his hands, brought them to his mouth, and blew. When he was done, he h
anded the case back to Mayer.
“I’ll keep it warm for you,” Mayer said to Pierce.
“What are your plans now?” the shaman asked. “Please don’t tell me you are going after the witch.”
“Not tonight,” Mayer admitted. “I need some shuteye and time to think.”
“You’re welcome to stay here,” the shaman offered.
“I appreciate the offer. But I’m partial to my own bed,” Mayer said and walked to the door.
Diogie growled.
“As you wish,” the shaman said.
“How long must I stay here?” Pierce asked.
“Just until I kill the thing,” Mayer said. He took hold of the doorknob and asked the shaman, “Will you be safe here?” Mayer asked. “We don’t want another corpse powder incident.”
“We will be safe,” the shaman assured him. “The elders have helped me place protection spells on the house and property. If the witch comes, it will not make it to the front door.”
“You up for this?”
“When the time comes, I will be ready.”
Mayer nodded. He opened the door and stepped outside. The shaman followed. He was about to get into his car when a thought occurred to him. “Didn’t you tell me the skinwalker can’t come inside a house unless invited?”
“Yes, that is true,” the shaman confirmed.
“Then how did one jump through the window of William James Pierce’s home?” Mayer didn’t wait for an answer. He climbed behind the wheel and headed to Las Vegas. He had a stop to make before the night was through.
Twenty-Three
MAYER DROVE STRAIGHT back to Pierce’s house, parked in the circular drive, and got out. Then he reloaded the Colt with the silver bullets he kept under the front seat—just in case. He took off his suit coat and lid, placed them on the front seat, and rolled up his sleeves, making sure the tattoo was exposed. If the skinwalker came back, he wanted to be ready, though, to be honest, he was far more worried about Hawthorne’s ghost. He wasn’t sure the tattoo would have the same effect on the ghost that it had had on the skinwalker—what, after all did the dead have to fear—but he did it all the same.