Bolt

by Siena West

  Heedless of danger, Elena rushed to where Greenlaw lay. She bent over the body to check for a pulse but recognized it was useless. Lightning-strike victims experienced cardiac arrest, and sometimes defibrillation, cardiopulmonary resuscitation, and drugs could start the heart again, but Greenlaw was past that. His injuries were so grave, he could not have survived. Cole, Maggie, and Tim found her kneeling next to the body.

  “Elena, are you all right?” the kids kept asking. They were all talking at once.

  The director stood up, offering a shaky smile. “I’m fine, but I’m afraid Mr. Greenlaw wasn’t so lucky.”

  Cole was incredulous. “For Christ’s sake, Elena! How can you be fine? You were only a few feet from Greenlaw when the lightning hit him. We saw it!”

  A doctor would tell her later that it was a miracle her eardrums hadn’t broken, and there was no damage to her eyes. Because she was so near to the deadly power sparking down from the sky, it could have hurt her. But even though the others on the hilltop suffered from ringing in their ears for days, Elena’s hearing was fine. Like murderers and psychopaths, lightning strikes were violently unpredictable.

  The special grace of God must have endowed María Elena Vargas at birth. Descended from an ancient Andalusian family and gifted with special senses, she was unhurt. Dios creó un milagro, her family would say. Gracias a todos los santos for her survival.

  * * *

  Over her protests, Cole and Maggie drove Elena to the hospital.

  “We’ve got to notify the sheriff, anyway,” Cole insisted. “Might as well get you checked out.”

  So once more, they found themselves in the Mountain Regional Hospital. Maggie and Elena went to the emergency room while Cole drove to the sheriff’s station. He needed to inform them that again, the little community at Taylor Ranch witnessed violence. This time, someone was dead. The sheriff would send a team to the ranch to investigate, process the scene, and pick up the body. Cole would tell them how to reach the site and draw a sketch map for them.

  The ER doctor examined Elena with care after he heard the story—checking heart, respiration, eyes, ears, blood pressure, and reflexes. The doctor also asked questions to test her memory and cognitive function and insisted on an electrocardiogram and X-rays. Nothing appeared to be wrong, other than the contusions and scrapes she sustained when she fell.

  The doctor could not believe his own findings. “How far were you from the strike?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Not far. Ten or fifteen feet.”

  “And you saw it happen?”

  She nodded.

  “Unbelievable. You should experience temporary amnesia, perhaps eye injuries and deafness. But you have none of these injuries.” He shook his head, muttering.

  “But listen, Dr. Vargas. Lightning-strike victims can suffer lingering neurological complications even without a direct hit. You could experience confusion or depression. It’s like post-traumatic stress.”

  I saw him die. I’ve never seen anyone die until today. Will I dream of him, lying like a broken doll with the rain streaming red down his face?

  “Please watch for anything out of the ordinary,” the doctor said, “and I’ll write a couple of scripts—something for anxiety and another for sleep. If you have emotional problems, promise you’ll see a therapist in Tucson.”

  As she thought of Sander Jorgensen instead of Otis Greenlaw, a faint smile crossed her face. Elena was having emotional issues, for sure, but they had nothing to do with the lightning strike.

  When the doctor finished, it was full dark. Cole sat in the waiting room, shifting and squirming in one of the uncomfortable chairs.

  “The sheriff wants to talk to you, Tía,” he said, rising to meet them. “You’re a witness to Greenlaw’s death.”

  Elena grimaced. “Not now. Let’s go home. I’ll talk to them when they pick up Greenlaw’s body. In the meantime, they’ll just have to wait.”

  Once again, Elena called Jorgensen from the hospital parking lot. She was anxious to tell him about Otis Greenlaw and downplayed her experience on the top of the hill.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” he promised. Elena started to protest, but he shushed her. “No arguments.”

  * * *

  Since Elena had called him, Jorgensen imagined many dire possibilities. The woman wouldn’t have admitted anything on the phone because she was too proud and stubborn. When he arrived at the ranch at lunchtime, he jumped from the vehicle and went in search of her. The agent found her having lunch on the ramada. He was so relieved to see her looking whole and healthy, he took her in his arms in full view of everyone in camp. Jorgensen held her so tight she could scarcely breathe. The approving audience applauded and whistled as the tall, lean man and the director embraced.

  Jorgensen released Elena at last and inspected her, his survey of her face and body comical in its intensity.

  “You are unhurt, Elena. I can’t believe it. How do you feel?”

  “Now you’re here, Agent Jorgensen, I feel absolutely wonderful.” Laughing, Elena abandoned her lunch, and they disappeared into her cabin. They did not care who saw them, and they did not reappear until cocktail hour on the porch. Not a single person in camp dared to interrupt them.

  * * *

  Jorgensen took a few days’ leave to be with Elena and intercede on her behalf with local law enforcement. The County sheriff’s deputies interviewed her the day after the incident. They had found the site, photographed Greenlaw’s body, and zipped it into a body bag. The deputies also had collected the wreckage of Greenlaw’s exploded gun and the tattered remnants of the old man’s clothes. There was little other evidence because the pounding rain had scoured the bluff top clean. Jorgensen sat with Elena through the interview, prodding her gently when her answers were confusing. The deputies spoke with kindness because they believed Greenlaw had tried to kill her, although the bizarre method he chose astounded them. Earlier, Jorgensen had talked to Elena and made notes for the file. The case was drawing to a close.

  Elena insisted on having the fiesta regardless of Monday’s horrors. She didn’t want to celebrate Greenlaw’s death, but the camp needed something pleasant as an antidote to the summer’s frightful events. The fiesta would let them end the season on a positive note. The great quantities of food that Norm had been busy purchasing while she was facing Otis Greenlaw on a hilltop in a lightning storm wouldn’t go to waste.

  “This is la comida indigena,” she told Jorgensen as she chopped and simmered, shredded and sautéed. “Remember the enchiladas I told you about, the ones made from my mama’s secret recipe with the magic ingredient that makes men fall in love?” Her cheeks were red from the heat of the kitchen, and her eyes sparkled with wickedness. “Well, beware, my friend. These are the ones. Except Norm couldn’t find blue-corn tortillas in Show Low, so we improvised with white corn.”

  “I’m not worried,” Jorgensen said, a smile lighting his eyes. “Even without blue-corn tortillas, the damage has been done.”

  Elena smiled, demure as a maiden aunt. “Here, be helpful and taste the green chile,” she said, handing him a big kitchen spoon. “Is it too hot for gringos?”

  “Not at all. It’s delicious.” Roasted tomatillos, garlic, cilantro, and green chiles melded together with chicken broth and spices gave it a fresh, addicting taste.

  “Bueno. Now be a dear and help Maggie with the margaritas. You know how disgusting her recipe is. I’ve already set out the ingredients and put my recipe with them. Just get her in line.”

  He snorted. “You don’t ask much, do you, Dr. Vargas? I’ve seldom seen a human being less likely to get in line than Maggie.”

  Soon after Jorgensen left, Norm stopped by to give Elena a hand. They chatted as they filled and rolled the enchiladas and laid them in big foil-lined pans, ready for the sauce, cheese, and the oven. She had mixed the sopaípilla dough, and it was resting on the warming shelf. She would fry the pillowy dough puffs just before dinner
. The director had modified the restaurant menu to fit the circumstances. Not pozole—it would take too long to cook. Instead, pots of red rice and pinto beans waited, ready for warming.

  She offered Norm a Dos Equis and took one herself. It was more refreshing than wine in the kitchen heat. As they worked, Elena felt brave enough to speak to Norm about hosting the field school next season.

  “It’s about time we settled our future, Norm. Are you going to let us use your ranch next summer, or have you decided to kick us out?”

  He looked at her in puzzlement, beer in hand. “I thought you’d got the idea when I told you I planned to fix up the porch and turn it into a real lab for you. I’ll admit, you guys are a pack of trouble. Ain’t never had to backfill an excavation unit full of snakes and bugs. But I’ve never had more fun in my life.”

  Elena broke down laughing. “Is that a yes?” she asked, wiping tears of laughter with her apron.

  “It’s a yes. Why are you laughing?”

  “If you’re so grumpy when you claim to be having fun, I’d love to see you when you’re not.” Norm just grumbled.

  The celebration later that evening was a success. The enchiladas—creamy, spicy, and cheesy all at once—were a hit, as were Elena’s airy sopaípillas with honey and the other trimmings. Jorgensen had somehow stopped Maggie from mixing her margaritas and used Elena’s recipe instead. It won the day. Not once did anyone mention brush fires, arson, gunfire, cannibalism, pot hunting, or Otis Greenlaw.

  * * *

  As the week drew to a close, Jorgensen spent a morning in Show Low with the County sheriff and the Forest Service criminal investigator. The agent reported that afternoon on the porch, bourbon in hand. It was late; everyone had worked long into the afternoon. Nevertheless, margaritas made the rounds, and they sipped and listened to the sad tale of Otis Greenlaw unfold as the golden afternoon slid toward evening.

  The cops sweated Caleb for hours. Withdrawal gave him a terrible headache and made him anxious, but at last, he confessed to everything he’d done. He told them he had stolen the artifacts from Mel’s room, taken the boxes of human remains, and set the lab on fire.

  “Did Caleb give them a reason for the fire?” Elena wanted to know.

  “Not a rational one. The sheriff said he was angry. Like his uncle, he blamed all his troubles on you, Elena.”

  “Guess he thought I was a witch, too.” She had told him about Greenlaw’s accusation on the lightning-struck bluff.

  “The cops charged Caleb with arson, drug manufacture, and dealing. That’s on top of the federal violation for stealing the human remains. With his confession and the fingerprints, they will convict him. Young man’s looking at a ruined life.”

  “What about the artifacts he stole from our site?” Mel asked.

  “Here’s what happened: when Caleb brought them to his uncle, the old man had a fit. They argued, and Greenlaw threw out the sherds from the pots. He didn’t want the grinding stones, either. So Caleb just dumped them. Delbert Peaches, the young Apache man who sold the looted artifacts to Tinker Reidhead, didn’t lie to us. When he was walking home, Peaches found the artifacts on the side of the road where Caleb had dumped them. He thought he might make money on them. There was nothing criminal about it.

  “When the case is closed, you guys can take them back.”

  Greenlaw’s bank records indicated that he was deep in debt, with no hope of repaying the second mortgage on the ranch. He hadn’t paid the insurance premiums on the ranch and stock, and as Elena guessed, Greenlaw hadn’t vaccinated his animals. Pot hunting was a way to make extra money. He hadn’t cared one bit about violating the rights of the ancient dead or breaking the law.

  “And the horses Greenlaw rented to me?” Maggie said.

  “Caleb told the sheriff it was just something Greenlaw cooked up to get another connection to the field school, like planting his nephew in camp as a laborer.”

  Maggie shook her head in disgust. “So that’s why Caleb recommended Greenlaw when he heard I was looking for horses. Dammit, I hate to be used like that.” She muttered darkly about goddam stupid jug-head horses.

  “You’re too trusting, Maggie,” Cole said. “I won’t say naïve.”

  “I never met a criminal,” she replied. “Cut me some slack.”

  “What about Greenlaw’s animals?” Sue asked. Trust her to think about them.

  “The County Humane Society took the horses on the ranch,” Jorgensen said, “and one of Greenlaw’s neighbors is caring for the cattle. They’ll come get the horses here. The animals will be sold along with the ranch and the other stock to settle Greenlaw’s debts. Probably at auction.”

  Maggie laughed. “Not soon enough! Those horses are eating up Norm’s bank account!”

  “You never found Greenlaw’s outlaw camp or the horse he took when he escaped, did you?” Elena said.

  Jorgensen shook his head. “Nope. As you know, the horse trailer wasn’t hooked up to his truck when he confronted you at the ruin. He must have left the trailer and horse at his camp. If Greenlaw hadn’t come to the site in the lightning storm, the sheriff may never have found him. The rez and the Forest are big places.”That poor horse. Elena remembered soft, whiskered lips searching her hands for treats.I sure hope he isn’t tied up somewhere, starving.

  “I bet a lucky Apache cowboy helped himself to a nice horse,” Maggie said, “and a trailer, too. Although they’ll need to get rid of that stupid logo.”

  Something stirred in Elena’s memory about the day she snooped around Greenlaw’s ranch.

  “Did Greenlaw have a dog?” she said.

  “He used to, but the dog died. He’d raised the dog from a pup, and they were inseparable. Someone told me it was worse for Greenlaw than when his wife died. He was really broken up about it.” The story was one of the saddest things Elena had heard about poor old Otis.

  “Tell us about Carl Cimelli,” Elena said. She was thinking of the wicked little animals in the witchcraft bundle he’d given her. Her first and only venture into spell craft and the midnight excursion to the spring had seemed successful. Never, ever would she divulge that adventure to anyone, certainly not to Jorgensen.

  “Cimelli seems to have worn out his welcome in Arizona. When I tracked him down after you told me he might be a suspect in the arson fire, I learned he’s moved on. He’s in Colorado or Utah, to continue his scams there.”

  Scams? Elena thought. Cimelli had conned many people for sure. But the witchcraft bundle? That was real—and malignant.

  “The artifacts you found in Greenlaw’s house, the ones that came from Bluestone Pueblo—what happened to them?” Cole asked.

  “They’re still in evidence until we conclude the case. Then we’ll donate them to the State museum. You guys should look at them and take photos before we do that.

  “Donald Potter, the Forest Special Agent, is the most satisfied of all of us with the outcome,” Jorgensen said. “Greenlaw’s death spared him a hell of a lot of time and trouble.”

  Elena nodded. “Yeah, there was a ton of evidence. He could have prosecuted Greenlaw for multiple ARPA violations.” She meant the Archaeological Resources Protection Act, a law that protected sites and artifacts from looting. “The White Mountain Apache could have prosecuted him, too.” The lightning bolt had removed a persistent and troublesome thief of the past.

  “Everything considered, it was a pretty good outcome for everybody,” Maggie said.

  “Except for Otis Greenlaw,” Cole said.

  January, a.d. 1377, East-Central Arizona

  Punishment

  The Creator had established a prescribed punishment for sorcerers. The villagers were unfamiliar with it, never having had to deal with sorcery. But the priests, village leaders, and doctors could call on custom and history to lead them through the ritual.

  Gray Dawn had identified the witches he had seen cavorting, devouring their gruesome feast, and coupling unnaturally at the witch
es’ kiva. Now, on a cold, clear winter morning, the Horn and Agave warriors dragged the witches from their houses. The warriors had given them no warning lest they escape but surprised them at their daily activities. They tied the witches’ wrists behind their backs and led them into the plaza, forcing them to sit with their backs against a plaza wall. As the day wore on, the sorcerers slumped from thirst and cold but roused themselves enough to shout lewd insults at the people who came to stare at them.

  All morning, the men who would conduct the ritual fasted and prayed in their kivas. In the afternoon, they collected what was necessary for the ritual and forced the sorcerers to walk to a clearing distant from the village. The warriors hoisted the witches onto the limbs of the cottonwoods lining the clearing, hanging them by their bound arms. If they had not died by nightfall from the strain on their hearts and internal organs, the rest of the punishment would begin.

  The sorcerers did not die. Now, the entire village had assembled to witness the public execution of the Two Hearts. As he watched the horrifying spectacle of the witches’ trial and punishment, Gray Dawn trembled, and his knees threatened to buckle. He knew the punishment was necessary if the people were to survive. But never had he seen anything so brutal. Nausea rose, scorching his throat with acid. Nonetheless, he stood firm, forcing himself to watch.

  The night was suffocating black, pierced by flashes of distant lightning. A storm was brewing. In accord with tradition, the War Chief, Black Wolf, and his assistants of the Warrior Society were the executioners. The execution began with torture in an attempt to force the twisted beings to confess.

  The witches screamed and shouted curses at the executioners, who kindled bonfires below the hanging sorcerers. The people watched in silence as the flames rose, and the skin on the dangling feet blistered and blackened. The stench of burning human flesh filled the air. Smoke rose from the flames, blotting out the stars.

  The accused witches did not cry out as their feet burned. One of the sorcerers, named Night Badger, even seemed to smile, his cruel lips curling. His eyes burned like the cold, yellow eyes of an owl intent on its prey. Those eyes could see in the night, and his talons would pierce the hearts of his victims. Night Badger stared balefully at Gray Dawn, who had identified his uncle as a powaka. Night Badger knew.