A Man Without Love

by Beverly Bird

  His face hardened in a way she had never seen before. “So it’s not over.”

  “No,” she breathed. “The owl, the doll—someone’s out there. Someone knows. A part of me still believes Victor’s got someone here, watching me.”

  “Either way, you’re safe now.”

  There was something new about his voice, too. It made her feel more protected than she had ever felt in her life...and at the same time it chilled something deep within her. He would kill him, she realized. If Victor dared to come to this man’s land to try to do harm to her, she knew without a doubt that Jericho would kill him.

  Something jolted inside her, something like the horror and revulsion she had felt when she had first overheard Victor’s phone conversation. She had been trained to save lives—the thought of taking one, even Victor’s, was abominable to her. But looking at Jericho’s face, his eyes burning at something far away now, she knew that this was an entirely different situation with an entirely different man. Victor’s killing instinct had been cold and passionless. Jericho’s was the fierce, hot will of a man intent upon protecting his own.

  His own?

  She hoped she was, with an ache that hurt. But then a host of new complications rose in her head and she had to push them away because she simply wasn’t ready to deal with them.

  “Maybe it really is just your...the wolfman,” she tried instead.

  “Could be.” A muscle worked at his neck, tense and pulsing. “We’ll find out.”

  “How?” she asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know.

  He hesitated a little too long. “Because if it’s the wolfman, it’ll stop now.”

  “Why?”

  He looked back at her, his brow creasing as he tried to explain. “Ever know a schoolyard bully?”

  “Of course.”

  “Same thing. As soon as you stand up to them, they back off. You beat him, Cat Eyes.”

  She shook her head, feeling lost. “What did I do?”

  “You’re alive.”

  “But it was Tah honeesgai—” She broke off. Yes, it had been Tah honeesgai, and maybe...maybe its root wasn’t organic at all.

  She shuddered and closed her eyes, remembering how her mother’s voice had come to her, not knowing what to make of any of it anymore.

  “You need to rest,” Jericho said.

  “This time I won’t argue with you.” She felt as drained as if she had single-handedly fought the Crimean War. But her eyes flew open again when she heard him approach the bed. He looked down at her intently.

  “Paddy wants you to call him.”

  Her jaw hardened and her eyes turned guarded. There was pain there, too. “Did he say that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “What do you think?”

  Her mouth looked like it wanted to smile, but God, she was stubborn. “I think he told you to make me call.”

  Jericho thought about it. “No. He asked me if you would.”

  Yes. “I don’t know.” She closed her eyes again, leaning her head back against the pillow. “He hated Victor.”

  “You’re not married to him anymore. Bygones, and all that.”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Paddy was right about him, and he’s never been modest about that sort of thing. I’ll have to eat a lot of crow.”

  “We’ll handle it, Cat Eyes.”

  Her heart chugged, almost stopped. We?

  But his eyes were distant again, thoughtful, and she knew his mind was off on another tangent. He probably wasn’t even aware of what he’d said. He brushed his mouth over her forehead and was back at the door before her heart started beating again.

  “Where are you going?” she managed.

  “First I’m going to get someone I trust from the Res to come down here and stand guard over you. How long do you think they’ll keep you here? How many days are we talking about?”

  “I...” She felt dazed. She shook her head. “Louie was in for four days.”

  “So until about Friday?”

  “I suppose. Where will you be?” Why couldn’t he stay here himself?

  “Keeping tabs on me, Cat Eyes?”

  She flushed, then he grinned. It was a look still rare enough to steal her breath away.

  “I’ve got some things to take care of,” he said roughly. “I’ll be back.”

  The door swished on a rush of air and he was gone.

  We?

  * * *

  Jericho’s parade of dubious bodyguards began less than two hours later. Catherine reminded herself that they were doing it for him, at his request, but there was still something touching about it. It was as though the People were closing ranks around her. She felt so secure, so sheltered and...bolstered.

  Bessie’s husband arrived first. He settled himself in the chair by the window, his back ramrod straight, a hand braced on each of his knees. He wouldn’t look at her, but he seemed willing to talk.

  “How’s the ewe?” he asked.

  Catherine wondered. The last she had seen of her, she had still been tied to Jericho’s Rover. “She’s fine.”

  “Old Lady Yellowhorse has a good ram.”

  He was staring above her to the place where the ceiling and the wall came together. “That’s good to know,” Catherine allowed, following his gaze.

  “Makes good lambs with that ewe. ‘Course, the old lady knows it and wants a lot of money.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Finally, it dawned on her that he wouldn’t look at her because she was in bed. She was dressed to her chin in one of the horrendous hospital gowns they had given her and the covers were wadded all the way up to her breasts because she had been asleep when he came. But none of that mattered to this courteous Navajo gentleman at all.

  She rolled over, putting her back to him carefully, dozing off again. Just before she did, she thought she heard him sigh in relief.

  * * *

  When she woke the next morning, Louie and Leo’s father was gone. A young man of about twenty or so was sitting on the floor of her room poking at a pile of metal that laid on a horse blanket.

  Catherine sat bolt upright, staring. “Who are you?”

  He looked up at her. “Hey, you’re awake.”

  She nodded, managing a smile. It wasn’t difficult. He had an infectious friendliness about him.

  “I’m Eddie,” he explained.

  “Begay?” On closer inspection, she realized that the metal bits he was sorting through were pieces of a car engine.

  He nodded. “Hey, you know your Ford? It got washed away in that bad rain when you got here?”

  Catherine nodded cautiously.

  “Well, sorry to say, but it’s a goner.”

  She shrugged. She had expected as much.

  “You can borrow my Jeep, though, whenever you need to get around some.”

  She was touched all over again. “Thank you.”

  “Mind if I work on this stuff while I sit here? I take on odd jobs, you know, and I don’t get much time off to work on them. I’ll keep it real quiet.”

  “Sure,” Catherine said. “That’s fine.” She hesitated. “Have you seen Jericho?”

  He looked at her blankly. “You mean since he came by the garage yesterday to ask me to come down here?”

  Catherine nodded, and Eddie Begay shrugged.

  “Nope, but he sent this.”

  He rummaged underneath the coat he had thrown over the chair and came up with a rumpled paper bag. He carried it to her and deposited it in her lap. Catherine peered inside.

  Coffee. Not french vanilla. Mexican chocolate. And a note with a single word. Compromise.

  Something hot touched her eyes. Who needed flowers?

  * * *

  By Thursday, Eddie had been replaced by Grandmother Yellowhorse’s son, Tommy, who was apparently ghost free now. Then Tommy left and one of Angie Two Sons’ boys came. When Catherine woke on Friday morning, he was gone as well and a very old, very gnarled man was moving
slowly around her bed in a circle.

  Her eyes followed him warily.

  His voice was reedy and thin as he chanted, and when he rounded the foot of the bed and came back toward her again she saw that his face was a road map, seamed with a thousand lines that told a million tales. He was frail and boney and he wore a baggy calico tunic that hung to his knees. His hair was gunmetal gray and grizzled, tufting up in places from two long braids that were anything but neat.

  She was catching on now. This had to be Uncle Ernie. One by one, she was meeting all of Jericho’s most beloved friends, his People.

  “Hello,” she said tentatively.

  “Yutaheh,” Uncle Ernie answered, waving a gourd over her head. When he wasn’t singing, his voice was gravelly.

  “Do you speak English?” It occurred to her that it was entirely possible that he didn’t. He appeared almost old enough to have lived before reservation days.

  Uncle Ernie smiled. “As good as you do. I prefer not to.”

  “I don’t speak Navajo.”

  “You will.”

  Catherine’s heart jolted. He spoke the way he might tell her that the sun would come up again. There was something about his eyes that made her think he could see clear into tomorrow.

  She decided to change the subject. “Did Jericho send you too?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “It wasn’t necessary.” He put his gourd away, tucking it into the waistband of his too-large trousers. She wondered how the gourd stayed there, how the pants remained up. “I heard you were here and I came,” he continued.

  He took some corn pollen out of the little pouch around his neck—at least she assumed that was what it was. She had heard a great deal about the stuff since she had come here. It was sort of a cure-all.

  Uncle Ernie sprinkled his over her blankets. “He won’t come back to you now,” he said finally, satisfied.

  “Jericho?” Her heart spasmed.

  “No, the wolfman.”

  “Oh.” She breathed again. “Jericho said he wouldn’t bother me again anyway.”

  “And he is probably right. But now we can be sure.” He tucked the little pouch into his shirt again. “Jericho will be here shortly, I think. He’s on his way.”

  He went to the door, then paused, looking back at her in a searching way that reminded her of Jericho. Then he cocked his head as though listening to voices she couldn’t hear.

  “You must remember, Catherine Mary, to listen always to your spirit. You have found it, now you must use it.”

  The door swished again and he was gone. Catherine Mary? How had he known her full name?

  Paddy had told Jericho, of course, and Jericho had told him. But somehow she didn’t believe that.

  She was alone for only a few short minutes, not even time to dwell on the old man’s last words. Then one of the CDC doctors arrived to tell her that he was releasing her. By then, she had almost forgotten what solitude was like.

  She dressed in the rare quiet once that man was gone, then she spun around again when a yet another knock sounded on the door. Jericho? Finally? But she couldn’t imagine that he would knock.

  “Come in?” she invited curiously.

  Richard Moss stuck his head through the door. “Are you decent?”

  “Generally.”

  He laughed and came the rest of the way inside. “I heard they were letting you go today. Do you need a ride back to the Res?”

  Catherine hesitated. She did, but surely Jericho would reappear in time to give her one. She had no real reason to assume that he would...except for the bodyguards and the coffee and that last little “we” he had hit her with before he had left. He was a man who took care of his own.

  Besides, the old man had said he was coming—she found she believed him intrinsically, through no reason she could put logic to.

  “No.” She shook her head, deciding to take the gamble.

  “That’s too bad. I’d hoped to say goodbye in a more leisurely fashion.”

  “Goodbye?” She blinked at him.

  “I’ve been summoned back east by the powers that be.”

  “Oh.” She tried to regret it, but she’d barely gotten to know him, after all. “Well,” she said finally, “you said you didn’t like it here anyway.”

  “But you’ve added immeasurable pleasure to my stay.” A strange look touched his face. It was so serious, so out of character, she stared. “You’re a very lucky woman, Lanie McDaniel.”

  “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “I wonder why. I wonder how I caught it, and how I fought it off. But I assume someone from the CDC will be around to grill me sooner or later. Maybe, with my training, we’ll be able to figure it out this time.”

  “I wonder. You know, I would have hated to have seen you die.”

  What an odd thing to say, she thought. But before she could reply, he, too, was gone.

  She sat down on the bed, plucking thoughtfully at the blanket, waiting for Jericho. Uncle Ernie had been right. She scarcely had time to breathe before he pushed open the door. She had been right, too. He didn’t knock.

  “Kind of hoped you’d still be in that funny little gown. They really hang open in the back?”

  Catherine pushed quickly to her feet, impossibly glad to see him, irritated by the way he had obviously assumed she would wait for him. And she had.

  “You snooze, you lose,” she snapped.

  He cocked a brow at her. “Temper again?” He shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

  “I imagined as much.” Suddenly she realized that he wore a strange expression too, an odd mixture of regret and satisfaction and concern. “What’s the matter? What is it?”

  “Victor’s dead.”

  Chapter 17

  The color seemed to fade from everything in the room. Catherine didn’t so much sit again as she sank, slowly and carefully, back onto the bed.

  “Dead?” she echoed.

  Jericho came to her, hunkering down in front of her. His shaman’s eyes probed, intruded, tried to get behind her own. “That’s right.”

  “Did you...” She couldn’t finish.

  His eyes sharpened even more, then they cleared as he understood. He wanted to be enraged, but the truth of the matter was that he had thought about it.

  “Did I kill him? Is that what you’re trying to ask me?”

  Catherine nodded, her face white.

  “No. I didn’t have the pleasure.”

  Life returned to her limbs again slowly, tingling. “How then?” she asked.

  “Do you want my theory or the official FBI version?”

  “You talked to the FBI?”

  “They have a field office here in Albuquerque, too. That’s where I’ve been, for the most part. Straightening this out, or trying to. I figured that if Victor was still a threat, we were going to disappear for a while, but I wanted up-to-date facts.”

  We again. She trembled.

  “By the way, your Schilling is a jackass.”

  “They all are,” she responded absently. “They’re clones and they do everything by the book.” Then she remembered Schilling’s promise not to tell the cops where she was. “Schilling’s not as bad as some of the others,” she amended.

  “Frightening thought.” Jericho hesitated. “Victor went over the Storrow bridge. His tire blew out and he lost control of his car.”

  Catherine looked at him carefully. “That’s what the FBI says?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did they kill him?” Was such a thing possible? But Jericho shook his head.

  “I doubt it. A fellow identified as Johnny Maverick was fished out of the bay this morning back in Boston. There’s another body in the morgue with a bullet in the temple, name of Sly Camarrati. Know them?”

  Catherine felt cold. “I knew a Johnny, but I never heard his last name. He...always wore a suit.” Odd that she should remember that now.

  “Well, it looks like the hits came from within the organizati
on. Too many bodies. Are you going to cry or something?”

  “Or something,” she reflected. In truth, she didn’t know how she felt. She didn’t know how she would feel when the shock wore off.

  Jericho watched her closely. Presumably, she had loved the man once. She had married him. And he was dead. She would have to be going through some kind of hell right now. But of all the things he knew he could stand, watching her cry for the bastard was not one he thought he could handle.

  Catherine slid carefully off the bed, lowering herself to his lap.

  “Ah.” She sighed finally, vacantly. “Dead.”

  He held her and found that it was easy after all, even if she was mourning a man who made rage and jealousy slash through him like vicious, angry animals with unspeakable claws.

  “It’s over,” he continued, as much to assure himself as her. “It’s done.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  He stiffened. “Why?”

  “Did the FBI ever charge him?”

  “Three days ago. That’s what started the bodies dropping.”

  She began shaking uncontrollably. “And now everyone who was involved is dead. Except...for me. I’m next, then.”

  Her words were so simple, so accepting, they drove ice into his soul. It took him a moment to fight free of it, to drag logic to the forefront past his fear.

  “Why bother to hit you?” he growled. “Even if you talked now, who would you implicate? They can’t put a dead man on trial. And you’re not a threat to the organization in any other respect, Cat Eyes. Unless I badly miss my guess, Victor probably assured them up and down and six ways to Sunday that he didn’t let you know anything else. He wanted to placate them. He didn’t want to die.”

  She trembled worse, trying to accept that. It was true. Who was she going to squeal on? It was over.

  That was when she cried.

  She did it so quietly he didn’t notice at first. “They mopped up their mess, Cat Eyes, and you were only a speck on the wall.” Thank God.

  Catherine nodded, sniffing.

  Finally, he looked down at her. “Ah, hell,” he muttered. “You are crying.”