Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World Book 1)

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  I drive through the dusty parking lot to pull around to the back of the bar. To the right is an impeccably clean double-wide trailer, painted white with flower boxes in the windows and framed by a wide welcoming porch. Two people are sitting on rocking chairs in front of the trailer, rifles held loosely in their laps. They stand up and come down the steps toward us. They are twins, a man and a woman, both looking like variations of the kid at the front gate, with the same light brown freckled skin and red curly hair. The woman motions me over to a bank of garages across from the house, while the man hurries forward to open one of half a dozen garage doors. I pull the truck in, careful not to scratch the paint. Before I even get the engine off, the man opens the passenger’s side door and scoops Kai up, lifting him out of the truck like he weighs nothing. He hustles out of the garage and takes Kai back to the trailer. Just like that.

  Surprised, I jump out to follow, but the woman blocks me with a muscled arm.

  “Where is he taking him?” I ask, alarmed.

  “We’ll take care of him. Mom wants to see you.”

  I think about breaking past her and following Kai. The man has already reached the porch and is shouldering the front door of the trailer open. I watch as they disappear inside.

  “I should be with him,” I protest.

  She shakes her head, implacable. “Mom first.”

  She’s right. I’m a guest, and if the host is asking for me, I have to go. I gesture for her to lead the way, and after she pulls the garage door closed to conceal my truck, we head to the back door of the All-American bar.

  The door swings open to the perpetual twilight of all good dive bars. Straight ahead lies a wooden dance floor, and to the left, perched on a rectangle of wall-to-wall orange carpet that has seen better days, is a smattering of low round wagon-wheel tables and squat matching chairs. A long wooden bar stretches the length of the front wall, a line of barstools bellied up and waiting for customers.

  Grace Goodacre is behind the bar, as she always seems to be. She’s a small woman with a nut-brown face dotted with sunspots and freckles, and a shock of white wavy hair she wears dreadlocked and tied back in a thick braid. Her mouth is smiling, warm with welcome, but her dark eyes are wary. She looks briefly toward my escort, and her daughter falls back to guard the door, rifle held ready.

  Grace motions me forward, and I cross the empty dance floor to take a seat on one of the lonely barstools. She pulls me a beer from her tap and sets it in front of me.

  “Don’t really drink beer,” I say.

  She knocks a knuckle against the bar. “You’ll drink what I say you drink. I remember the last time you were here. Crying in your whiskey about that man of yours. Clarissa had to drag you out and let you sleep it off in your truck. From now on, you drink beer.”

  I flush, hot. Look over my shoulder at her daughter, who must be the Clarissa in question. “Don’t really remember that, Grace.”

  “Well, I remember it. And that’s all that matters.”

  We stare at each other, the tension thick between us. I am at her mercy and I don’t like it. It makes my jaw ache. But I came to her. I need her help. And she knows it.

  So I take a sip of beer. My eyes close, almost involuntarily, as the alcohol washes over me. The beer is cool and crisp and I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. I take a few long swallows before I set the glass down.

  Grace watches me, eyebrows raised expectantly.

  “It’s good,” I admit.

  She sniffs, a kind of I-told-you-so. She’s won the first round, established who’s in charge, and now she busies herself wiping glasses like we’re old friends. “So what brings you to my door, Maggie Hoskie?”

  “Might need a place to sit tight for a while. Expecting some heat from CWAG to be coming my way.”

  She eyes the blood smeared across my chest, on my hands and face. “You payin’?”

  “Don’t have much on me right now. This situation is kind of . . . unexpected.”

  Her lips twist in disappointment. She raises a hand and Clarissa slides off her stool and out the back door. Minutes later she’s back, bearing the contents of my truck. She spreads it out on the bar and Grace begins sorting through my stuff, small hands quick and efficient. Her eyes rest on my shotgun, and I frown.

  “You can’t have my shotgun,” I say.

  She shrugs. “What do I need with your pump-action piece of shit when I’ve got an arsenal of AR-15s?” she asks.

  “My point entirely,” I agree.

  She cracks a smile. “Take your damn gun, Maggie,” she says, and I slide over to retrieve my shotgun before she can change her mind.

  “It’s not a piece of shit, by the way,” I say. “This is a custom grip I had made to fit my hand. It cost me two days of labor bailing alfalfa. Worth every minute. Hey, you can’t have my jacket, either.”

  She pushes the leather jacket my way, not even bothering to look up. “This coffee?” she asks, tapping the metal canister that holds the precious grounds.

  I wave it away. “Take it.” Everyone wants that damn coffee. If it buys me some goodwill from Grace, it’ll be worth its weight in gold.

  “You really don’t have anything, do you? Doesn’t bounty hunting pay any better than this?”

  I think of the rug I left on the floor of the Lukachukai Chapter House. “Like I said, situation’s unexpected.”

  Sharp fingernails drum the bar. “The coffee’s just a start,” she says. “So don’t give me any lip about taking it. It’s payment, fair and square.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you’ll owe me a favor sometime. Not now. I can tell you’re ass-deep in something else I want no part of, but if you make it out in one piece, you swing back by and we’ll talk.”

  “Okay.”

  She sweeps her hand across the bar, taking in the rejected goods—a couple days’ worth of provisions, my shotgun shells, and Coyote’s bag. She doesn’t even ask about the bag. I have a feeling it doesn’t look the same to her as it does to me. “Get this crap out of here,” she tells her daughter, who rushes over to comply.

  “Careful with my crap,” I tell her as she carries it out, presumably back to my truck.

  I turn to find Grace watching me, eyes appraising. “What’s that in your pocket?”

  I pull out the Glock and set in on the bar.

  “Safety on?”

  “Glocks don’t have a safety. Just don’t pull the trigger. Safe enough.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Stupid. Never did like automatic handguns. Prefer a revolver any day.” She points with the hand that holds her towel. “That have something to do with why you’re here?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Then I definitely don’t want it.” Back in my pocket it goes.

  “Now tell me about the man with you.”

  “Law Dog got to him.”

  “Same Law Dog that ended up on the business end of that gun?”

  “It was Longarm.”

  Grace stares at me. I stare back. The silence stretches until she gives a little shudder and turns away first.

  “You want us to leave, Grace?” I ask, my voice quiet. If she does, I don’t know where we’ll go, but I don’t stay where I’m not wanted. Maybe she will take Kai at least. If he’s somewhere safe, I can handle whatever comes next.

  Grace sighs. “No, I don’t want you to leave,” she says. “But next time don’t sit at my bar drinking a beer like your worst worry is a friend who lost a scuffle. Didn’t your mother teach you that you don’t wait to tell people bad news?” She barks a laugh. “It’s my own fault for forgetting who I’m talking to,” she admits. She mutters a curse word and my name and something else I can’t quite follow, but it’s pretty clear whatever she said is no compliment.

  With a wry grin she reaches under the bar and produces a bottle of amber liquid. She pulls down two short glasses from the shelf behind her and pours us each a shot of whiskey. She slides mine over. Grateful, I push the beer to the side and ta
ke a sip of the whiskey, letting it burn down my throat. She downs her shot in one quick swallow.

  She glares at me, finger pointing. “You got twenty-four hours, and then you’re gone. Not a minute more, no matter what kind of payment you come up with. Now go check on that fella of yours. You ain’t got a lick of sense when it comes to picking men, Maggie Hoskie. At least teach this one how to fight.”

  I nod and quickly down the rest of my drink. I don’t bother to explain that Kai isn’t my fella. Clarissa is back, and I follow her out to the trailer. I look back to see Grace pouring herself another shot before the door swings shut in my face.

  Chapter 21

  Grace’s daughter leads me to that impeccable trailer out back. She points out a bathroom where I can wash Kai’s blood off, hovers until I’m done, and then escorts me to a tidy living room and commands me to wait. I look around at Grace’s private home, somewhere I’ve never been allowed before. Two oversize couches dominate the space, decorated with bold lavender floral patterns and small matching throw pillows, scattered tastefully between two white wicker sitting chairs. Another handful of pillows is piled in a heap at the foot of the sofa, as if groups of people often gather and the pillows serve as extra seating. The walls are painted a pale purple and clusters of white-framed photographs punctuate the empty spaces. The first photo that catches my eye is that of a woman, her deep brown skin freckled by the sun, her hair pulled back in a dreadlocked braid and a smile on her pretty, younger face. Grace is hugging a very pale man with a mess of red curly hair and friendly blue eyes.

  I move closer, drawn to the picture. I’ve never seen a picture of Rick, Grace’s husband. She doesn’t talk about him, at least not to me. I know he died shortly after the Big Water. Rumor is that he was murdered outside his franchise sandwich shop in Tse Bonito for the change in his pocket. People say that there were a couple of Law Dogs there who saw it all and stood around and watched Rick bleed as the thief rummaged his pockets. That certainly would explain Grace’s hatred for Law Dogs.

  I lean forward to look more closely. How happy they seem. Like a family. The rest of the pictures are similar. One of Grace with all her kids—the twins, an older boy I don’t know, and a big-eared baby who has to be Freckles from the gate. Another of Rick and the twins as toddlers, and then one each of the twins’ high school graduation pictures, back when there were real high schools and formal education. I only made it to freshman year before the Big Water hit, so that makes the twins at least a few years older than me.

  The rest of the house is just as neat and orderly as the living room. I spy a nice open-seating kitchen decorated in the same shades of lavender and white as the rest of the house. There’s even a tabby cat sitting on a windowsill. In this place, time seems to have stood still, as if the horrors of the Big Water never happened. Except, of course, for Rick.

  I hear a door close and see Clarissa coming back from down a long narrow hallway. “You can come on back now,” she says, and waves me forward.

  “So, Clarissa,” I start.

  She cuts me off. “It’s Rissa. Only my mom calls me Clarissa. You call me Rissa.”

  “Okay, Rissa,” I say as I follow her broad back down the hall. I’m not a small woman, but Rissa has a good three inches and thirty pounds of muscle on me. It’s impressive. “I heard you carried me to my truck one night a few months back.”

  She flips a thick auburn braid over one shoulder. “It happens sometimes. You were no trouble.”

  “I didn’t rant and rave? Call you names?”

  “Not me, anyway. Although that Neizghání sounds like a real dick.” She clears her throat. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  We stop in front of a closed bedroom door. “Your friend’s in here. Last I checked, he was asleep, but if you want to go see him, it should be okay.”

  “How is he?”

  “You saw his face. Broken nose, black eyes. Likely concussed. Surprised he’s in as good a shape as he is, considering how badly he got his ass kicked. He’ll probably piss blood for a few days.” She flushes red across her freckled cheeks like she wasn’t supposed to say that. Moves to open the door, and suddenly I can’t. I reach out to stop her. She pauses, looks at my hand on her arm, then at me.

  “No,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. “I don’t need to go in. Let him rest.”

  “You sure?”

  “If you’re sure he’s okay.”

  “A few days of bed rest, but otherwise . . .” Another shrug, and she watches me, her hazel eyes no more than curious.

  “Yeah. Sounds great.” I let go of her arm and turn to walk back down the hall. Away from Kai. Hesitate before I say, “Tell him I bought him twenty-four hours with Grace, and after that he’ll have to work out his own deal.”

  Rissa frowns, curiosity turned to confusion. “Why can’t you tell him yourself?”

  “Because I’ll be gone.”

  Chapter 22

  And I plan to go. I load up the truck, slip on my leather jacket, and shrug into my shotgun holster. Then I decide not to risk the truck breaking down through the heat of the day, so I think to head east on foot, despite the heat, until I have an opportunity to relieve someone of their more reliable vehicle. Or make it to Crystal on foot if I have to. It’s not so far, maybe fifty miles as the crow flies. I could cover it in a few days.

  For Tah. I tell myself I’m leaving Kai behind for Tah. Because I promised I’d keep his grandson safe. But part of me knows that’s not true. It’s for me, too. Because seeing Kai beaten and bleeding did something to me. Stirred feelings I don’t want to feel. And it’s like I told Tah at the beginning. All I can show Kai is death.

  But as twilight gathers and the lights come on around the All-American, signaling that the place is open for its nightly business, I find myself still on the porch, parked in a rocking chair and sharpening my Böker.

  And that’s where Grace finds me.

  She stands over me, all five feet of her. Not exactly towering, but the woman has presence. She plants her hands on her hips, narrows her eyes, and lets out a bark of a laugh. “You are looking grim, girl. Who you planning to kill with that big knife of yours?”

  “Whoever needs killing, Grace.”

  She stares at me a minute. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Maggie. I was kidding.”

  She falls into the chair next to me. Slaps her ever-present bar rag against the opposite hand and mutters something I can’t quite catch under her breath. I’m pretty sure she’s cursing me again. I let the silence stretch.

  “Heard about what happened to Tse Bonito,” she says. “Customers coming in. Saying there was a fire. That the old medicine man—”

  “What do you want, Grace?” I say, cutting her off.

  She stops. Keeps her eyes on the horizon. “Everyone mourns different,” she says quietly, her voice thick with compassion. “When I lost my Rick, people thought I should wail and tear my hair out. But I didn’t even cry, not once. I poured myself into my work, my kids. I let purpose eat up all those tears instead.” She sighs, heavy with memory. “But when I lost my baby, my firstborn, Cletus, I’d like to cry enough to flood the whole of Dinétah, I was wrung out so bad.” She wipes at her brow with her rag. “Don’t think I’ll ever stop crying for that child.”

  I know what she’s trying to do. Tell me it’s okay to mourn for Tah.

  “We don’t know for sure that he’s dead,” I say.

  She doesn’t say anything, just rocks in her chair.

  “I’m okay, Grace,” I tell her. “I’ve seen a lot of death. Lost family before, and Tah wasn’t . . . We weren’t related. We hadn’t even talked since last spring. It’s okay. So if you’re waiting for me to break down and cry on your shoulder or something . . .”

  She sniffs. “Heaven forbid.”

  “Yeah. Well.”

  She’s quiet for a while before she says, “That Neizghání really messed you up.”

  I look at her, startled. For t
he first time in days, I’m not thinking of my old mentor. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “Sure he does. A man like that. Being raised up by a man like that. Loving a man like that. He’s got everything to do with it.”

  I flush. Grace just nods. “I’ve raised four children, Maggie. Three I still got with me, though God saw fit to take my eldest.” She sucks on her teeth, looks out at the sunset with me. “I know a hurting child when I see one.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “We’re all God’s children.”

  “And I don’t need a mother.”

  “Everyone needs a mother,” she spits, cocking an eyebrow at me. “Even a hardass like you. But I’m not volunteering for the job. I got enough trouble keeping my trigger-happy children alive. I got no idea what I’d do with you.”

  “Then why are we sitting here talking?”

  “I’m just telling you that just because that Neizghání taught you there was one way to skin a cat, it don’t mean it’s the only way to skin a cat. Or that a cat’s gotta be skinned at all.”

  I grimace, but she’s dead serious. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re kind of shit at giving folksy advice. Probably better to stick to pouring drinks at the bar.”

  A short burst of laughter. “Such a hardass.”

  “I’m glad I amuse you.”

  “Oh, you don’t amuse me, Maggie. You scare the shit out of me. I’ll be glad to see the back end of you.”

  I sigh, feeling deflated. One more person who doesn’t want me around. “Soon enough, Grace. Soon enough.”

  “Well.” She stretches her legs out, taps a foot against the wood deck. “Well.” A long exhalation. “Old Chuck Begay said that the roads are all barricaded by police checkpoints coming in and out of Tse Bonito. Main highway’s closed right down, and the Law Dogs are riding people like the devil, fit to tear Tse Bonito apart. Chuck thought it was due to the fire, but you mentioned Longarm before . . .” She lets it hang in the night air.