“What can I do ya for, chief?” he asks.
“Any luck with the bell?”
“Not yet. But I’ve narrowed it down. When it finds a Keeper, I’ll know. I’ll be the first there. Although let me tell you, they’re gonna have to work pretty damn hard to beat your grandmother. That old lady could kick some ass.”
I nodded. Chaco often talks about Gam. He’s been through thousands of Keepers, but he keeps coming back to Gam. Sometimes I wonder if Gam didn’t have all this in mind when she gave Ana the bell. She was patient even for a Navajo, which basically put her at guru status. Me ending up here, with this gig, at this time, this is exactly the sort of long play she would drum up. The thought makes me smile, but it also worries me. Gam never did anything without good reason.
“I wonder if you could help me,” I ask Chaco.
“Maybe. That’s eighteen favors to zero now. I’m keeping track.”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen. I can’t pass through to the human plane, right?”
“That’s why you dragged me all the way here? I was in a pretty awesome beach town, my man.”
I ignore him. “But you can, right?”
He quiets.
“I know you can, Chaco. You did it with Gam. And I saw you too, back when I was Ben. A couple of times. One time you shit on my car.”
He titters in what I can only assume is a bird laugh. “Yes. Yes, okay? I can. When a Keeper is declared—”
“But what about now? When there’s no Keeper.”
Chaco pauses.
“I dunno, bro. It’s not good to mess around with the rules of this place. You don’t want to piss off what’s behind that curtain.”
“Please. I have to get these crows to the other side.”
“You mean to the girl you love and the doctor.”
I pause. Am I that obvious? I suppose so.
“You know you can never be with her,” Chaco says. “You know that, right? I mean, there ain’t no way—”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it,” I say. And I do. I think. “But I know they would be great allies of ours. Both her and Owen Bennet. I think you know this too.”
Chaco puffs up in a birdish sigh. Then he bobs his beak. “Yes. I think so too.”
“So you’ll do it? You’ll cross over?”
Chaco eyes me with cold calculation, then squawks in frustration. “I can tell this is going to be a hell of a run, with you.”
“Chaco—”
“Yes, Walker. Yes, I’ll carry the crows,” he says.
I hold them out, one in each hand. He snatches them in his claws and then takes off in a whirl. I watch him rise, rise, and then blink out of view.
Chapter 20
Caroline Adams
Imagine going to work again like it was just your typical Monday after meeting Death herself in a patient’s room.
Imagine falling in love and then watching the one you love taken from you. Not even into death, but into something else. Something just as distant, but even less understood. And then the hospital gives you two working days off to pull yourself together, and then it’s Monday and you’re back at work again, answering your phone, helping your patients to the bathroom, administering meds, all while trying to ignore the fact that your world has fundamentally changed.
Owen is a hero. I expected nothing less. He was borderline adored on the floor to begin with, and then he got himself shot in my place and that just threw the entire hospital into a frenzy. The CEO met him personally. They gave him a ceremonial key to the complex at a big dinner a week later that was attended by every C-level executive. I think I was the only nurse. It was surreal. I thought they only did that stuff in movies. In typical Owen Bennet fashion he demurred and shrugged adorably through everything, one arm in a sling, the other resting softly over it.
The aftermath of the shooting went by in a blur of police questioning, mandatory counseling, and cleanup. There was no way Owen or I could tell the truth about what happened in that room. We’d be committed along with Sitsi Dejooli, Ben’s mother, so we kept our lie simple. Two men claiming they were FBI agents barged into Ben Dejooli’s room. Owen Bennet and I confronted them, and Owen took a bullet for me. Then the two men took Ben from his bed and disappeared. The agents never showed up on camera. All the police had was our testimony, as well as that of two nurses who were the first on the code. They said they saw at least one man in a suit, which would have been Parsons, but couldn’t say what happened to him. When they turned back around, he was gone, along with Ben.
The police put out an APB for the agents, but there was no trace of them. We were told the FBI had no record of employing an Agent Douglas or an Agent Parsons, and they declined further comment on what they deemed a state matter. The bullet markings didn’t match anything on file, nor did any of the blood samples found. Not surprising.
It’s also not surprising that this series of events was finally what broke Sitsi Dejooli’s mind. She wouldn’t respond to anybody: not the police, not me or Owen, not anyone. But in her quiet, staring pondering I sensed a certain measure of peace. I could see it in her coloring, too. Her yellow is tinged with a soft pink now, barely there, but consistent. It looks like the color of a woman who has seen more than her mind will allow. Rather than fight it and make sense of it, her mind has simply decided to close itself for a time. I’d be lying if I said part of me doesn’t envy her. She recovered at ABQ General for two days. The only words I ever heard her say after the whole ordeal was her verbal consent to a transfer upstate to Los Alamos, where the Navajo Nation had arranged for her to live in a step-up care mental facility indefinitely. She turned her back on the Navajo, but it would appear that the Navajo hadn’t turned their backs on her. The Council said it was the least they could do, given her loss. She was blood, after all.
And all the while I had a decision looming. I had entirely forgotten about it until I received the papers in the mail. My five years were up. My debt was forgiven. If I wished to stay at ABQ General I was to notify my nurse manager in writing by the end of the week. If not, they wished me well, thanked me for my service at the CHC, and would be happy to write a reference on my behalf wherever I decided to go.
Check the box yes or no. Sign your name. Drop it off with your supervisor. Three simple steps that will define the trajectory of my life. It’s enough to make you laugh out loud. They clearly don’t know me. I am not good with decisions. I sweat over dinner plans. So I made lists: a pros list and a cons list. The old high-school approach.
Pros:
The job is pretty good. Not wildly good. Not something I wake up every morning super jazzed for, but pretty good. Good enough, I decide.
I’m already here. I’m settled. I have an apartment and a car, and I know the city.
I can work at the rez. Which makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. And I like the Navajo. For the most part.
Owen Bennet.
I’ve avoided thinking about my feelings for Owen, because they’re all wrapped up in crazy right now. But the bottom line is he would give his life for me. He proved that much back when Parsons tried to shoot me. I know what that means. Ben told me that he loved me. Owen showed it. To think that the world was within two inches of swapping him out for me is insane. It makes me go beet red and feel slightly ill at the same time. Let’s be honest, of the two of us, he is the one you want on your team. He’s Owen Bennet. I’m just…me. I put x2 next to his bullet point. Then I crossed it out and put x3. He deserves to be weighted more heavily.
Cons:
If I keep it up here for much longer, there’s a good chance this is where I’ll play out the rest of my days.
I’m nearly thirty. All the girls say it gets harder to make stupid choices after thirty, even if they might make your life better in the long run. Things like travelling or nursing abroad. ABQ is okay, but let’s face it, it’s not exactly Paris.
Ben is dead. And it’s hitting me way harder than I thought it would.
I knew he was going t
o die. I knew the second the chemo regimen didn’t stick. I had weeks with him to prepare myself, but it still hit me like a dump truck because I loved him. I hope I let him know that, but the more I think about our time together, the more I’m afraid I fretted so much about whether or not he loved me that I missed a chance to tell him I loved him. Typical.
Ben isn’t gone.
I put this on as a con because it’s an argument against me staying here. I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes and for a split second I think I can still feel the soft pressure of his hand. I have to tell myself that whatever happened to him, he is beyond me now. I am slowly coming to peace with that—but I still want to know what happened to him. What it means. What the bell is. And I don’t think I can do that if I stay here.
So there you have it. I stare at the list, two columns. It’s hard not to call it what it is: Ben vs. Owen. Ben’s dead. Owen is alive. So why is this so hard? At three in the morning it’s easier to convince myself that I need to go. Nothing seems right around me anymore. The shadows of that day haunt me. The Ben factor has a heavy weighting, too. So heavy I’m not sure it can be measured. In the end, it’s enough to make me check the ‘No’ box. I decide to pack it up. But then, the next day, I run into Owen as I’m about to hand in my resignation. I think he knows what I’m doing. I think he was on the lookout for me.
“Caroline,” he says. “Wait. Please.” He reaches out for me, and his fingers flutter briefly towards my hand before he drops his arm and looks at the ground. “You’re leaving, aren’t you,” he says.
The Bennet x3 flashes in my mind. He looks so sad. Like the resignation letter in my hand is a personal rejection, when it’s not. This place is all screwed up for me, now, that’s all.
“I wish…” He grits his teeth and shakes his head. “I wish I was better at this. I wish I could stop you. Ben could have. I know that.”
“Owen, please…” My mind is already full up on regrets. If Owen throws his hat in the ring, I’ll never sleep again.
“No, I understand,” he says, smiling sadly. “He…he was special. I just hope that I let you know…” He stutters and smooths at his white coat. “I hope I was able to make myself clear, that you are special too. I know he thought so. But so do I. I hope you know that.”
I can’t take this. These men have ruined me. I want to do the cowardly thing. I want to run away.
“I can’t stop you. I know that,” he says. “But I also can’t help but think that if I had more time. If we had more time…maybe I could.”
I’m crying as I push the letter through the slot. He watches it like it’s the tail end of a train carrying his life away from him. It clinks inside the box with a hollow ping. I want him to shake his head and shuffle away. I want him to get mad at me, give me a disparaging look, even. But instead when I look back up at him he’s still there, smiling sadly.
“Can I at least walk you to your car?” he asks.
Dammit, Owen. Of course you can walk me to my car, you beautiful man.
We’re quiet on the walk out, our hands shoved into the pockets of our coats against the first real winter wind of the season. I turn to him, and the wind cuts at my face and streaks my tears sideways. “I wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye to you. You know that, right? I owe you my life, Owen.”
He shrugs. “I believe you,” he says. At my car we pause. “I was thinking,” he says, struggling. He puffs his coat out from the pockets.
“What?”
“I was thinking of doing something crazy and stupid. But I’m not sure I can.”
I want to draw more out of him, but there’s a subtle ringing in the distance, just barely sounding above the wind and a ripple in the sky draws our attention to the horizon at the same time. He steps closer to me, so we’re shoulder to shoulder. I know he feels it too: something broke through.
“Not again,” he says.
“No. Look.”
There, on the horizon, is a black speck. And it’s growing.
Still, Owen pulls his hands from his pockets and angles himself in front of me, even after we watch as the speck grows into a bird, a huge bird, with a dull glint of red upon its head. A bird I recognize. A bird I saw die.
“How the hell?” I begin, but then I know. Somehow Ben is behind it.
The bird flies in near silence. Slowly, languorously flapping its wings like an ancient beast, which I suddenly know it is, in one form or another.
“My God, it’s huge,” Owen says. “Is it coming after us?”
“No. Not in that way. I don’t think it’ll hurt us.”
Now it’s careening out of the sky, slowing, and dropping down straight for us, and I’m rethinking what I just said. But in an instant it flares its wings and pulls up before flopping rather unceremoniously on the hood of my car. It sort of tumbles down the windshield and then manages to stop itself on the bonnet by gripping a windshield wiper in its beak. It shakes its head, and I swear if I could hear it talk it would be telling us to keep that landing between the three of us. I can’t blame it, though, because I see it’s got something in both claws. Something it deposits on the hood after a preliminary, twitchy look about itself.
With one final glance at both of us, it lets out a deafening trio of caws and swoops up into the sky. I can feel the wind from its wings on my face as it’s up, up, and out. I feel that distortion again, like a popping bubble: the world’s cabin re-pressurizing. And it’s gone. In its place are two crow totems, side by side, touching wing tips.
We stare at them, dumbfounded. Owen is the first to speak. “Well, that’s about all the providence I need.”
He picks up one in his gloved hand, and tucks it in his pocket. “I believe the other is for you,” he says.
I pick mine up as well. It seems to hum, in a way only I can hear. It feels right. I grasp it tightly, protectively, then I tuck it away. When I look up again, Owen is watching me carefully.
“That stupid thing I was thinking,” he says. “I think I can do it, now. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I can’t stop you from leaving,” he says. “But I was wondering if you’d let me leave with you.” He cringes a bit, looking slightly ill with anticipation. “It doesn’t have to be like that, or anything, of course. I’d just…it’s just that I have this strange feeling. And it’s been growing stronger. And it’s that Ben, or whoever he is now after all that happened to him…I don’t think he’s gone. He’s just changed. And I think he’ll be needing our help. Am I weird in thinking that? Am I going insane?”
I shush him by basically running into him. Before I know what I’m doing I’ve thrown myself into his arms and am hugging him. No passionate kiss. No longing look into anyone’s eyes. The last time I expected that to happen things didn’t work out. I’m done with perfect moments. From here on out, I’m just going to work on taking advantage of whatever moments I’m given. Perfect or not.
Owen puts his arms around me in delayed shock, and even that thought makes me want to giggle like a teenager. But I compose myself and step away from him, holding both of his hands in mine like I’m physically keeping him here with me. If things are about to go down, there’s nobody on earth I’d rather have on my side than Doctor Owen Bennet.
“No,” I say.
His face falls.
“No no no. I mean no as in ‘no, you’re not crazy.’ Yes to everything else.”
He looks back up at me with a wry grin, still hesitant.
“Sorry. I always screw these kind of things up.”
He lets out a big laugh. I’ve never heard him laugh before, I realize. And as he does, a flock of crows flies by overhead, an enormous flock—hundreds of them, blotting the sky like dribbled ink. They seem to catch his laugh as one, and all of them call out against the winter wind together.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence. But I doubt it.
Acknowledgements
Several people helped me out at various stages of this novel, and I’d like to take a m
oment to give thanks. First and foremost, to my wife, Emily, whose experience as an oncology nurse proved invaluable in crafting the perspective of Caroline Adams. I’d also like to thank Emily in general for her patience and fortitude in being married to a writer. That can’t be easy.
I’d like to thank my editor Laura and the editing crew at Red Adept Publishing, along with Kit, my beta reader, for their work in polishing the story. They all have eagle eyes.
In writing the Navajo lore, I drew in part upon the research and essays of Leland C. Wyman (“Navajo Ceremonial System”) and R. W. Shufeldt (“Mortuary Customs of the Navajo Indians”). I also learned from Tony Hillerman’s work; his Joe Leaphorn novels are an education in the Navajo culture in and of themselves.
Finally, I’d like to thank you, the reader, for taking a chance on my book. Whether or not you liked Follow the Crow, please leave a review to help others decide on the novel. There’s more to come, and if you’d like to be notified when I have another book out, you can join my mailing list here: http://eepurl.com/SObZj.
It is an entirely spam-free experience. I promise.
I can also be reached over at my digital home:
www.griffithpublishing.com
Feel free to drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you.
Happy reading,
-BBG
About the Author
B. B. Griffith was born and raised in Denver, Colorado. After graduating from Washington University in St. Louis with a degree in English and American Literature, he wandered the world a bit before returning to Denver to set up shop with his wife.
He is the author of the bestselling Tournament series, which includes Blue Fall, Grey Winter, Black Spring, and Summer Crush. He is also the author of the Vanished series, of which Follow the Crow is the first.
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