Black To Dust: A Quentin Black Paranormal Mystery (Quentin Black Mystery Book 7)

by JC Andrijeski

  I’d call Manny after I left the F.B.I., like I’d planned.

  He and Black were probably on their way to Ship Rock by now, anyway. Manny said something about wanting to go out and come back before dark, and I knew it wasn’t all that close to where he lived on the Navajo Reservation.

  I turned onto Cerrilos Road, heading south, and fought to breathe through that moment of panic I’d had when I got hit with that wave of… whatever it was.

  Aleimic light, as Black would say.

  Or maybe, since there was so much of it all at once, he’d call it a Barrier current.

  Truthfully, I’m not sure what he would have called that.

  It didn’t really fit any of the Barrier or nonphysical phenomenon he’d described to me up until now, most of which related to living beings, not to places, or anything to do with the Earth itself. He’d talked to me about timelines, about looking at the past and the future, but we’d never talked about what it meant when the Barrier as a whole went screwy in a particular place.

  New Age types I’d grown up with might have called it astral light, or maybe they’d say it was earth energies shifting, like nonphysical versions of tectonic plates.

  I didn’t really know what they would have called it either, though.

  I had friends who were into that kind of thing when I was growing up, but truthfully, I’d never bothered to learn their lingo. From what I gathered about their New Age take on the world, it was pretty clear their experiences of the nonphysical had absolutely nothing in common with mine––meaning the psychic abilities I’d been cursed and/or blessed with since birth.

  As much as I wanted those to be “my” people, I never fit with that crowd.

  A lot of their theories struck me as flakey, truthfully, based more on fantasy, wishful thinking and boredom than objective experience.

  My mind was more science-and fact-oriented, even as a kid.

  Anyway, I figured out pretty quick that most of them couldn’t actually see anything in that way, not like I could, or my sister could.

  I felt like I was back to that now, in a way.

  I was back to having no one to ask––or no one I wanted to ask.

  That pain rose in my chest at the thought, but I bit my tongue, shoving it back. I was already struggling to stay grounded in my body. The last thing I needed was to let the Black stuff into my head and into my living light.

  I looked out the window instead, watching the buildings blur by on either side of Cerrillos Road. As I did, I tried to put my finger on what I was feeling.

  When the GPS finally beeped at me, letting me know the turn was coming, I pulled onto Airport Road, then Camino Entrada before making a left into the parking lot of the detective branch of the Santa Fe Police Department. When I called Red that morning from the lobby of the resort, asking him who I should contact at the F.B.I., Red told me to meet the F.B.I. agent here, instead. Apparently they were already coordinating with the Santa Fe police on a related case.

  I found a parking spot in the visitor area and turned off the SUV’s engine.

  Then I just sat there for a moment.

  Hesitating a bare instant, I closed my eyes.

  Opening my light, I let go of a fraction of that control I’d been using to stay firmly grounded in my body.

  The instant I did, light blew out my vision behind my eyes.

  Waves of gold, orange, white, and pale blue light wove together like particles in a massive dust storm, blowing through me like waves of electrical current, shifting my aleimic body in and out of my physical body like an actual ocean wave pushing me to and from the shore.

  I watched cyclone-like twisters of light rain down more of those particles on the land, only to be blown apart by another of those massive waves.

  I gasped, then slid higher, trying to get above it, to see what it was.

  When I did, I found it didn’t originate from Santa Fe, not exactly. It felt more like Santa Fe was in its path. The largest concentration of light was northwest of us. There, the light-dust storm looked like a massive vortex, like a hurricane of light.

  An opening swirled in the center––like the eye of a hurricane, or maybe the opening of a black hole. I watched massive clouds of light move in a lumbering clockwise pattern, felt my light spark and flare as I watched the waves roil under that astral wind.

  These weren’t simply waves though, or currents.

  This really was some kind of nonphysical storm, like the red spot that drifted across the surface of Jupiter, only made of orange, gold, red and blue light.

  I clicked out, and found I was gripping the steering wheel again, panting.

  I was still fighting my way back into my body when a knock on the SUV’s driver-side window nearly made me jump out of my skin.

  I jerked, looking over, to find a thick-bodied uniform cop frowning faintly at me through the glass.

  I rolled down the window at once.

  “Can I help you?” he said, still frowning. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  Forcing a smile, I nodded, still gripping the steering wheel. Focusing on his face helped, but I wondered what I’d looked like when he first walked up to the car.

  “I’m fine, thanks. Just had a bit of a dizzy spell,” I lied. “I’m probably not drinking enough water for this climate. I just flew in yesterday.”

  The wary look instantly faded from his chocolate brown eyes.

  He nodded sympathetically, resting his hands on his hips and stepping back from the window.

  “Where’d you fly in from?” he said, in a distinctly New Mexican accent.

  “Hawaii,” I smiled. “So I’ve got jet-lag to boot.”

  He broke out in a grin, looking me over openly that time. “You live in Hawaii? Wow.”

  “No,” I said ruefully, shaking my head. “No, I don’t live there. I was only there on vacation. They pulled me back in for work.”

  “Ah. You’re here for work.” His deeply tanned skin and the black hair marked him as likely native or maybe of Mexican heritage. “You gotta be careful about this dry heat, you know, ma’am. We get 911 calls all the time here for that. It’s no joke.”

  Stepping back from the car door when I reached over to snap the latch, he lingered by the front of the car, giving me another once-over as I exited the SUV. Pretending not to notice, I rolled up the window before I shut the door, using the key fob to lock it once I had. I still stood somewhat shakily on my heeled boots.

  “You here to see someone?” he said, still lingering. “You said work, right?”

  I nodded, smiling at him more genuinely that time.

  “Detective Natani sent me,” I said. “From the B.I.A., but he’s currently out at the Navajo Rez. I work with the police in San Francisco, and he knows one of the homicide detectives I work with out there, Nick Tanaka.”

  “Ah!” He smiled. “The other SFPD. You a cop then, Miss…?”

  He trailed, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

  “Black,” I said, unthinking. “Miriam Black.” Wincing a little at the way I’d introduced myself, I held out a hand, maintaining my smile with an effort. “And no. I’m not a cop. Just a forensic psychologist, but I do contract work for the San Francisco police. I also work for a private investigator out there.”

  He nodded.

  Then, abruptly, his eyes opened wider. Still holding my hand in the handshake, he snapped the fingers of his free hand, pointing at me.

  “Black!” He grinned wider. “The private eye… Black, right? I knew you looked familiar! I was going to ask if you’re an actress or a model or something… but you’re that guy Black’s partner. I saw you on the news with him when he was in New York. He’s that rock star Wall Street guy, isn’t he? I’ve got the magazine with him on that throne at home.”

  He frowned then, as if just putting something else together.

  “You said your name’s Black? Miriam Black?” he said, still frowning. “Are you two brother and sister, or––”

  �
�Married, actually,” I said, now working harder to hold my smile. “It’s Mrs. Black, I guess, technically, but it doesn’t really matter. Call me Miriam, or Miri. Everyone does.”

  I saw a flicker of disappointment reach his eyes, but he didn’t let it show for long. Instead he widened his smile, finally releasing my fingers from the handshake.

  “Well, come on inside, Mrs. Black,” he said. “––Miri. It’s nice to have a celebrity out here, looking into one of our cases. Least I can do is make sure you don’t pass out from dehydration while you’re here.”

  “Thanks.”

  I followed him into the two-story building, still doing my best to get my equilibrium back as I listened to him chat about how they needed to plant more desert-friendly trees in the mostly-empty parking lot to provide more shade, and how there’d been a bunch of kids playing with fireworks the night before who set part of one of the local high schools on fire.

  I listened to him with one part of my mind as we passed through the glass doors and into the swamp-cooled stucco building. He took me down a passageway and past reception, asking at the front who was handling the lab work and coordinating with the rez folks and the F.B.I.

  He was given a name and a jerked chin towards the back offices, where he led me without delay, pausing to wave and nod at a few people as we passed.

  I noticed a few of them gave me double-takes too, wondering who I was, and why I looked familiar. I felt a few of them thinking I was probably “someone,” since they had a number of Hollywood-types who had homes in the the foothills.

  I admit, it was a little disturbing how many people recognized my face.

  I hadn’t been in many of those newspaper articles, and I hadn’t taken part in the talk show circuit at all, unlike Black himself.

  If they recognized me, they would definitely recognize him.

  It was yet another unwelcome reminder as to what I was likely in for, when and if I returned to San Francisco and tried to pick up the threads of my life there.

  Pushing that from my mind, I held out my hand to Detective Fred Ramirez, a fifty-something man with salt and pepper hair, a narrow face and trim body wearing a rumpled dark blue suit with no tie. From his posture and demeanor, I guessed ex-military, which made sense, given how many military bases lived in different parts of New Mexico.

  “You’re Miriam Black?” he said, blinking at me in surprise.

  I nodded, smiling as I released his hand, straightening to stand in front of his desk.

  “I was supposed to meet Agent Lee here?” I said. “Are you working with him? Detective Natani asked me to come down and see if I could ask him, and possibly you, a few questions about the case they’re working on at the Navajo Reservation.”

  Ramirez nodded, the surprise fading from his eyes. He glanced around me then, looking at my escort from the parking lot.

  “Thanks, José. You can go.”

  I saw the cop, who was named “José,” apparently, look between me and the homicide detective, as if looking for some reason to stay. Then, giving me an imaginary tip of the cap, he smiled, backing out of the room.

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling after him. “I appreciate you rescuing me from the heat.”

  He broke out in a wider grin. “No problem, ma’am. Anytime.” He looked at Ramirez. “Make sure she drinks some water,” he added. “I found her in the parking lot with mild heat stroke already.”

  “Bring her a bottle, would you?” Ramirez said.

  José nodded, then retreated the rest of the way out, shutting the door behind him.

  “You got to be careful in this dry heat,” Ramirez said to me. “Have a seat, Mrs. Black. George… Agent Lee… is running a bit late, due to another case he’s handling. But Natani told me you would be coming.” His mouth pursed under a salt and pepper mustache. “He also said you went up to White Rock yesterday.”

  Sitting in the worn, padded chair in front of his desk, I nodded.

  “I did.”

  “Anything you’d like to share about the conversation you had up there?”

  I held out my hands, copying a Black gesture without knowing I did it until I’d already completed it. I put my hands firmly in my lap once I noticed, but not before I saw Detective Ramirez follow the motion with a cocked eyebrow.

  “I’m happy to share whatever you’d like to know,” I said. “I wasn’t there in any kind of official capacity, nor was I really there as a psychologist, so I can recount the whole interview if you like… but I don’t know how much time you spent speaking with her already.”

  The faint tension between his eyes faded.

  “What were you hoping to accomplish, in speaking to her?” he said.

  I shrugged. “Some of it was simply background for the case. My associate, Quentin Black, who is working with the B.I.A. and the Navajo Nation police, asked me to come out here to see if I could give him some insight from the psychological side of things. Given that the suspect, a man calling himself “Wolf,” as I understand…”

  The detective nodded, his eyes showing he was following me.

  “…has a kind of psychological hold on these kids, it made sense to start there.”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  The door opened behind me, causing me to turn.

  It was José, now holding a bottle of water in one hand, and a paper cup with ice in the other. He placed both on the desk in front of me, giving me another of those shocking, white-toothed smiles when I thanked him.

  He retreated back out of the room seconds later.

  I poured myself some of the water while Ramirez sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his chest, his eyes shrewd.

  “We figured him for a kind of Charles Manson type,” he said, watching me drink. “That he got them on some quasi-spiritual political mission. Talked those kids into doing the killing themselves, while his hands remained clean.”

  I nodded, swallowing a few mouthfuls of the cold water and setting the cup on the edge of the desk.

  “It’s a definite possibility,” I confirmed, clearing my throat. “I would need to talk to more of his kids, of course. And, preferably, to him.”

  He frowned a bit at that last.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “We’d like to have a chat with him, too. Especially now.”

  “You haven’t been able to find him?” I said. “Have you ever questioned him? During Birdy’s trial, or any time before or after that?”

  Ramirez shook his head.

  “No. He disappeared not long after the kids were all brought in for psychological evaluation and testing. We’d intended to bring him in, too. A few wanted to do a full-fledged manhunt to find him, bring him in by force… but it’s a bit touchy, when an Indian Reservation is involved. Technically, that makes it federal.”

  “Did the Feds express an interest in the case?” I asked. “Before now, I mean.”

  He shook his head again, more slowly that time.

  “Interestingly… no,” he said, giving me another of those shrewd looks. “They did not.”

  “You find that odd?”

  “I do a little, yes.” He shrugged, still watching me with those sharp eyes. “They just got new leadership down in Albuquerque though, so maybe that’s why they’re looking into it now. It can be touchy, as I said. On the reservation.”

  Still gauging my face, he exhaled, refolding his hands in his lap and leaning back in the chair so that it let out a low squawk.

  “We called them, let them know the issue. Usually they’re a bit tetchy regarding anything that might have the taint of terrorism. Given the violence of the crime, the age of the girl, the political motives described by some of the kids… and the fact that this ‘Wolf’ was actively organizing them in those hills… we expected a lot of interest, frankly. Possible kidnapping. Indoctrination and recruitment. Terrorism. Murder. Disappearing tourists.”

  He shrugged, holding out his hands.

  “But they told us it sounded like a local matter to them,” he said.
“Not their jurisdiction. They suggested we cooperate with the tribal authorities and respect their sovereignty.”

  I was frowning now, too.

  “That is… odd.”

  He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.” He leaned over the desk, resting his clasped hands on top of a spread of papers scattered there. “What was your impression of what Birdy told you? Did it strike you as political, in terms of the ideological component? Or more ‘run of the mill murderous and crazy,’ like my F.B.I. counterpart more or less said?”

  “Definitely a political component,” I said, frowning at his description of the F.B.I. agent’s assessment. “Quasi-religious. Highly dogmatic. It’s unlikely to be a personal fantasy, given her age and the nature of it… as well as its correlations to aspects of traditional Navajo belief systems. Anyway, she openly professed her loyalty to Wolf.”

  He nodded. “Political. That’s what we thought, too.”

  “She absolutely believes what she told me,” I added. “The ideology was firmly imbedded. There were no noticeable conflicts in her as she described those beliefs to me. Moreover, the timeline on that belief system is still live. She very much seems to be waiting for something. I tried to find out what, but I never got beyond symbolism with her.”

  Those shrewd hazel eyes were aimed at me again.

  “You think he’s planning something? Wolf?”

  Hesitating, I nodded, even as I held up a qualifying hand.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I think she believes something big is coming, related to what Wolf taught her. He may have been lying, of course… to give her and the other children a sense of urgency, and to convince them they’re a part of something greater. Or she could have added this belief to the beliefs he’s already fed her. Clearly, it gave her a measure of comfort, to think something momentous was about to occur, something that would prove Wolf right.”

  The detective nodded, thoughtful.

  Then he looked up, his dark hazel eyes sharp once more.

  “What’s the clothing got to do with any of this? That sample Red sent up here?”

  I held up my hands, hoping I looked sufficiently clueless.