by Aimée Thurlo
“What you’ve said describes Gene at least three-quarters of the time, if not more. It takes a lot to get him riled up, but once that happens, all hell breaks loose.”
She gave him an incredulous look.
“Really,” Paul insisted. “Let me tell you about one incident that still sticks in my mind, though it was years ago. One weekend after Preston and I went to live with Hosteen Silver, Gene came to visit. While he was there talking to Preston and me, three Anglo men came to the door, looking for trouble. Hosteen Silver had treated a Navajo woman who happened to be married to one of the Anglos. The husband viewed the Navajo way as an affront to his religion and had come with two buddies to teach our foster father a lesson.
“They pushed their way into the house and tried to grab Hosteen Silver. Gene was standing beside him, and before Preston and I could even cross the room, Gene took all of them on. He punched the lead man in the gut, doubling him over, then kicked the second guy in the chest, knocking him into the third guy and tossing both back out onto the porch. I saw him pick up the one he’d punched as if he weighed no more than a sack of feed, and throw him on top of the other two, who were scrambling to their feet. By the time Preston and I reached the door, it was all over. The men ran back to their truck and we never saw them again,” Paul said. “When you push him far enough, Gene can be like a bear on a rampage.”
“I can’t even imagine Gene doing that,” she said.
“He did,” Paul said somberly.
She thought of how he’d taken on that cowboy, Duane, who’d shot at them at Two Springs Ranch. He’d done only what was necessary and had remained in control of himself all the way. He’d pulled back immediately when the man had stopped fighting.
“You see a slow-talking, laid-back rancher and he’s just that most of the time, but don’t let that fool you. There’s more to any bear than what you see at a glance.”
She was about to ask him more when Gene walked in. “The parking lot’s full and business is booming, but I couldn’t see anyone watching the place.”
They ate breakfast quickly. Paul had an appointment with a new client and needed time to prepare.
“Business is good?” she asked Paul, who kept looking over at his computer monitor.
“Yeah, it is. I never expected to be this busy. When I opened the agency I just saw it as a way to redirect my focus and move in a new direction.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” she said softly, gesturing to his shoulder.
“Yeah, you might say that, but I can’t just sit in an easy chair and watch surveillance monitors until my shoulder heals—if it ever does.”
“Are you still in pain?” she asked in a gentle voice.
“Sometimes,” he said, not answering her directly. “That’s why I decided to try a remedy Hosteen Silver used to recommend to his patients. So far it’s been working.”
“What are you using?” Gene asked. “Tsinyaachéch’il?”
“Yeah.”
“What is that?” Lori asked.
“Creeping barberry, or Oregon grape. It grows in the high country.” Gene looked back at his brother. “That might also explain the success of your new business.”
“I don’t follow you, bro,” Paul said.
“That plant is also said to remove bad luck. Remember when I flunked two physics tests in a row? He made up a special medicine pouch using Tsinyaachéch’il for me.”
“Did it work?” Lori asked, unable to suppress her curiosity.
“I got a C on the next physics test, which is as high as I ever got in that subject,” Gene said.
“Maybe I should start carrying some of that,” Lori said. “We could sure use some good luck.”
Paul smiled. “I’ll add some to my brother’s medicine pouch.” He glanced at Gene and added, “You still carry one, don’t you?”
Gene reached into his pocket and brought out a small leather bag. “Of course I do. I keep the bear fetish he gave me inside it, too.”
“What exactly is a medicine pouch?” she asked.
“It contains ritual items like sacred pollen and other collected substances. It’s meant to attract good and repel evil,” Gene said. “Hosteen Silver made one for each of us to carry.”
“It sounds like a very good thing to have,” she said.
“I could make one for you if you’d like,” Paul said.
“I’d love to have one. Thank you very much,” she said, then looked at Gene. “That’s okay with you, isn’t it?”
“Of course. I would have offered to make one for you myself if I’d known you were interested.”
Paul joined them about ten minutes later carrying a small leather pouch. “There’s some creeping barberry inside, some sacred pollen and a small rock crystal.”
“Does each mean something special, or is it the combination that’s most important?” she asked.
“Both,” Paul said. “According to Navajo teachings at the time of the beginning, a rock crystal was placed in the mouth of each person so words would have power. Pollen is the symbol of light and well-being. When placed together, their powerful medicine is said to make wishes spoken aloud come true.”
She took it from his hands, handling it carefully and with respect. “What a beautiful gift. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You just did,” Paul said. “There’s one more thing I would have liked to put in there. The hearts of our medicine pouches are the fetishes they contain.” He glanced at Gene. “Lynx is my spiritual brother, Bear is yours. What should hers be?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a match that’ll take some thought. Leave that to me,” Gene said.
After breakfast, Gene and Lori got ready to leave. Saying goodbye, Lori impulsively hugged Paul and, as she did, felt him stiffen.
“Did I hurt you?” she said, immediately mortified.
He shook his head.
Gene laughed. “My brother’s not big on shows of affection—ones that don’t include fists, that is.”
Once she and Gene were on their way, Lori brought the medicine pouch out from her purse and held it in the hollow of her palm. “This is such a special gift.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you believe in its powers?” she asked.
“Traditionalists do,” he said after several beats, “but I’m a Modernist. I look at the bundle as a way of showing respect for ritual knowledge. It’s an affirmation that there’s a lot more to our world than what the eye can see,” he said. “It honors the unseen gifts.”
As she considered what he’d said, Lori thought of how that also applied to the attraction between Gene and her. Instead of fear, maybe she should be grateful for the gift life had brought her and stop weighing down her feelings for Gene with expectations and fear.
“We’re here,” Gene said, bringing her out of her musings.
She glanced around, suddenly aware they’d arrived at the site of the weekly flea market, a section of the fairgrounds enclosed with a high chain-link fence. “It’s time to go hunting,” she said, bracing herself.
“Wrong mind-set,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ll have to relax and play the role of Sunday shopper. The best tactic is to blend in and just talk to people. I have one of Paul’s company IDs so I can pass myself off as an investigator if necessary, but a low-key approach is best. We have no legal standing, so when we find Harrington, we’ll have to persuade him that it’s to his advantage to deal directly with us to solve the problem.”
As they walked to the entrance, Lori fell into step beside him. Soon they reached the long rows of booths, and she pointed to one in particular about twenty yards away. “They have some jewelry there and though it’s not the same type Bud sells, the vendor may know Bud by reputation.”
They approached the booth and Lori glanced down at the colorful beaded jewelry. “I was looking for silver necklaces,” she said. “By any chance do you know a man by the name of Bud Harrington? I’ve heard he specializes in modern designs.”
&
nbsp; The vendor, a sunburned woman in her fifties with stringy blond hair, made a face of disgust. “He’s here—somewhere. Frankly I don’t get what the fuss is about. His stuff is generic crap.”
“‘Fuss?’ What do you mean?” Gene asked immediately.
“You’re the second person who has asked about him in the past five minutes.”
“That’s interesting. Who was the first?” Gene pressed.
“I don’t know the guy. He was about six foot two or three, black hair, dark eyes,” she said. “Bud’s usually not far from my booth—we play off each other—but I haven’t seen him around today. He may have traded locations with another regular.” Looking around, the blonde woman added, “That’s the guy who was asking about him—” she pointed “—the one with the greasy black hair.”
Gene saw the man, who was wearing jeans and a tan corduroy jacket, end his conversation with another vendor, then move down the line of booths.
“Let’s go,” he said to Lori.
“Wait a second.” Lori glanced back at the woman. “What did that other man want with Harrington?”
The lady shrugged. “No idea, but he sure looked pissed.”
Lori thanked her, then, as they hurried down past a half-dozen booths, the man in the corduroy jacket turned the corner.
“Hurry before we lose him,” Lori said, striding more quickly now.
Gene pulled her back. “Don’t rush. If he’s involved with Harrington, we might just catch both of them if we hang back a little. If you hurry along you’ll stand out even more and he’s bound to notice a beautiful woman. Stroll, like we’re here just looking around. Then we’ll approach him casually and start a conversation.”
“If I’m right and Harrington’s involved in whatever’s going on, the second he sees me…” she said, letting her words trail off.
“That’s why I want to keep an eye on this guy and keep our distance. If Harrington doesn’t surface soon, we’ll go talk to mister greasy hair. We’ve heard he’s pissed off at Bud, so he may see us as allies—‘my enemy’s enemy is my friend’ type of thinking.”
They closed in as the man stopped at a booth that sold paintings and other decorative art. Feigning an interest in the paintings, Gene and Lori listened as he spoke to the woman behind the counter. After a moment the man reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a big plastic bag, which he laid on the crude tabletop.
“You clearly love fine silver,” he said, pointing to the multistrand liquid silver necklace she wore. “The pieces I have here were made especially for a shop near Santa Fe’s Indian Market, but the place closed before they could be delivered. The entire set was crafted by Bud Harrington—a local silversmith. You can see Mr. Harrington’s mark here on the reverse side of the blossom.”
The woman looked at the piece carefully. “There’s a green hint in some of the crevices. This is silver plate. I’ll pass.”
Gene stepped up and, following his instincts, decided to flash the ID Paul had given him. “I’d like to talk business with you, sir. Why don’t we go find someplace more private?” Gene placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.
Startled, the man stepped back so quickly he collided with Lori. Spinning around, he shoved her into Gene, then raced away, dodging around members of the crowd with the agility of a buck in the forest.
“Wait here,” Gene said, then took off after the guy.
The running man reached the end of the row, then suddenly cut left and disappeared. By the time Gene reached the corner, the guy had vanished.
Gene stood there for a moment, watching the gathered crowd. The man at the booth two spaces down was talking to an elderly couple shopping for bread. The vendor advertised a variety of fresh rolls, bread and cakes.
Sitting on a bench at the back of the booth was a small sheltie. As Gene looked over, he saw that the dog was watching him.
Gene looked around, then back at the dog, communicating without words and watching the animal for response.
The dog turned his head to the left and lowered his muzzle, staring at something behind Gene. Following its gaze, Gene saw the big white blood-services trailer, a fixture at events like this. Puzzled, he looked back at the sheltie. The dog continued looking at the same spot.
Gene crouched down and, looking beneath the trailer, spotted a pair of jean-clad legs. He recognized the shoes.
Gene nodded to the dog in silent acknowledgment and saw him lie down to watch.
Moving around so he could see both ends of the trailer, Gene waited a minute or two, then saw the guy stride out casually from behind the trailer.
The man entered a row of booths, then glanced over his shoulder. Spotting Gene, he instantly took off again, cutting between two booths and knocking over a trash can. He leaped up, then ran off, disappearing again around a booth.
Gene decided it was pointless to keep after the guy when there was another more effective solution. Unless the guy was Spider-Man, the only way he’d be able to get out was at the controlled entrance—the gate. It was time to wait for the guy in the jacket to come after him, not the other way around.
Gene reached the entrance a short time later, then stepped back behind a big concrete sculpture of a bear and waited.
Within thirty seconds, the man appeared, striding quickly toward the exit and looking over his shoulder. A private security guard in a gray uniform was also closing in, Lori at his side.
“That’s the man,” Lori said, pointing.
Gene stepped out, cutting the guy off. “Make this easy on yourself. All I want to do is talk.”
The man looked over his shoulder at the burly security guard, then back at Gene. “What do you want from me?”
Lori caught up a second later. “Thanks for your help, sir,” she told the security guard. “This jewelry belongs to the gentleman, but he didn’t realize that he’d left it behind on the booth counter. My friend ran after him, but I guess he got the wrong idea.”
Lori held out the bag with the silver-plated jewelry, and the man took it.
Gene, standing behind the guy, whispered, “If you don’t cooperate, slick, she’ll mention you were trying to pass this cheap stuff off as real.”
The man looked at the security guard and smiled. “Thanks for going to all this trouble.” As the security guard walked away, he glared at Gene and Lori. “You’re a P.I. Why are you bugging me, and what the hell do you want?”
“Easy. We’re not out to bust you for selling fake silver jewelry. We’re looking for Bud Harrington,” Lori said.
“Welcome to the club,” he snapped. “That sleazeball sold me this fake crap. I’ve been trying to find him for two weeks now. I know he works out of his home, but he hasn’t been there and he’s been ducking my calls.”
“So what’s your name, pal?” Gene said, finally taking his hand off the man’s shoulder in a gesture of cooperation.
“Denis Sosa.” The man brought out a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Gene. “I buy jewelry here at the flea market and at yard sales, then sell the merchandise on the internet. But I don’t deal in junk. Did Harrington rip you off, too?”
“Something like that,” Gene answered. “If you see or hear from him or get any leads, give me a call.” He pulled one of Paul’s business cards from his wallet and wrote down his cell number on the back.
“Sure, but if I catch him first you’ll have to visit him at the hospital.” Sosa jammed the bag of jewelry back into his pocket, then strode back into the Sunday bazaar and disappeared into the crowd.
“Now what?” Lori asked Gene.
“I’m going to check him out. After that, we’ll sit down and figure out our next step.”
Chapter Sixteen
Once they were back in the truck Gene called Paul, but found out his brother was still with his client. He called Daniel next and was about to leave a message for him when he picked up.
“I know your Sundays are family time these days, but I need a favor. Can you run a quick background
check for me?” Gene said, then gave him Sosa’s name.
A few minutes later Daniel put the name through his computer. “Small-time merchant of odds and ends, suspected of fencing stolen merchandise. He’s careful, though. He’s been arrested twice but beat the rap both times due to lack of evidence.”
“Thanks,” Gene said. “I appreciate it. Now I know why he took off when he thought I was an investigator.”
“I heard from Paul that you’re still scrambling to get the guy who’s after your lady.”
Gene smiled. His lady. He sure liked the sound of that. “Something like that, yeah.”
“Sounds to me like Bear’s found a mate.”
He started to deny it, but never got the chance.
“I better get going. I promised Holly I’d help her check out new home listings on the computer today, but before I go, there’s something you need to know. Preston called Sergeant Chavez from Quantico and asked if he’d go speak to Harrington again. That was a no go, but Chavez sent a cruiser by his residence about thirty minutes ago just to check things out, and it looks like Harrington was there. I just got the word a few minutes ago and was about to call and let you know.”
“Thanks. I’ll head over there.”
“Let me know if you need me,” Daniel said, then hung up.
“Where are we going?” Lori asked as he got the truck started.
He told her what Daniel had said. “I want to drive by Harrington’s place and see what’s up.”
They reached Harrington’s home sometime later and, as they drove past it, they could see the mailbox was empty, and it looked like the pickup had been moved recently.
Gene circled, then parked by the curb one house down. “Wait here,” he said. “I’m going to walk over and knock on his front door.”
Lori reached for her door handle. “I’m going with you.”
“No. Let me confront him. I want you to stand by with your cell phone in case things get ugly,” Gene said, then walked off.
As Lori opened the door, he turned and shook his head. “Wait. That’s the best backup you can give me.”