Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  Then Odras moved to put his helmet on, and made the same discovery Petrus had.

  "I'm afraid I did," he said, and, with a brief touch of magic, transformed their three sets of pointed ears to rounded human ones.

  On the highway they watched their speed, keeping it just under 65, but it was an effort. The bike wanted to go faster. The New Mexican landscape filled the horizon around them, a beautiful desert land with a clear, blue sky, touched with one or two clouds, and a bright sun he was still getting used to.

  Ah, this is the life! Odras sent.

  Indeed, Petrus replied, but his riding euphoria was suddenly tempered by a blast of Unseleighe magic, somewhere close by.

  Yes, I sense it too, Odras said. What is that up ahead? A metal shack?

  To the left of the highway was barren scrub, but they were coming up fast on a dirt road that led to a tiny trailer. The power he sensed was not quite Unseleighe, but was familiar, and this trailer was the source of it.

  Investigate? Odras inquired.

  Yes. We're turning off here, Petrus said, shifting down and slowing Moonremere. It was a bit of a letdown, stopping already, but this was important—and it was the reason they were here.

  The black feeling became darker and stronger as they pulled up at the small trailer. Petrus parked, took his helmet off.

  "Blood," Wenlann said, getting off her 'steed. Indeed there was a large stain on the ground, and Petrus drew his sword.

  "The source is long gone. This is residue," Odras said.

  Petrus was following the trail of blood to the door of the trailer. He didn't bother to knock, sensing no life on the other side.

  The door opened with some difficulty, and looking down he saw why. Blood had coagulated at the bottom of the door, and the dark ooze dripped to the ground. Lying on the floor and looking up at the ceiling was an old Indian man, quite lifeless.

  "Wax," Odras said, examining the blood outside. "This man was killed out here."

  "Unseleighe?" Petrus said, but he knew the feeling wasn't the same. If not Unseleighe, then what?

  "Not Unseleighe precisely," Odras said. "Someone, or something, trying to emulate the Unseleighe. Peculiar." He walked over to a set of tire tracks. "It's stronger over here. Where the blood isn't."

  Petrus was convinced they were the first on the scene, and it looked like it had happened within a day, or perhaps the night before. "There's nothing we can do here," he said, and even Wenlann, looking grim, nodded in agreement.

  "I think this is going to involve us," Odras said. "I don't know how, but I think we will encounter who is responsible. It may even be Japhet Dhu. Or someone working for him."

  "We can't just leave this, can we? And what about our tracks?"

  Odras was reaching for something in his bag when he looked up, grinning. "What tracks?"

  There were none . . . not even footprints.

  "I think we should call the police," Wenlann said, glancing at the old Indian's body reverently. "We shouldn't leave him." For once Wenlann was agreeing with Petrus, and he didn't know what to think of that. This man had been around a long time, and touched the spirits more than most people ever did, Petrus saw in his face. But who murdered him, and why?

  Petrus heard an electronic beep, and looked up at Odras, who was holding a cellular phone. "Spock to Enterprise," Odras said as he flipped the receiver open.

  "You thought of everything," Petrus said.

  Odras dialed 911 and spoke briefly into the phone, then pushed the telescoping antenna back into the device and returned it to the pack. "Thank Niamh. It was his idea. And his doing. I think we should, as they say, 'get going while the going's good.' "

  In no time they had mounted up and ridden off, seeing no witnesses anywhere. It was the perfect place to commit a murder; there was absolutely nothing around.

  When 60 connected with Highway 25, they turned north, where a sign directed them toward Albuquerque.

  Chapter Eleven

  Whatever it had been, it was the kind of dream that evaporated at the moment of waking. If it had been the girl again, she was gone now. He was in an alien environment: the sheets on top of him and beneath him were clean and white as lilies.

  But where the hell am I?

  Looking through a window, Wolf he saw he was up high somewhere, and it was still daylight. And he felt strange. Bits of memory floated to the surface: Grampa, riding his beloved bike, then the horrific death, her death at his hands. . . .

  Then the pain, when he tried to move, made him catch his breath. It hurt to breathe, to move his arm, to scratch himself, even to yawn.

  Footsteps drew his attention to the door, where he saw a nurse and a doctor in white. "I'm Doctor Vaughan," said the doctor. "Do you mind telling me how you dropped a hog doing almost a hundred miles per hour, and not break a single bone in your body?"

  "Huh?" Wolf said. "Soft sand, maybe," Wolf said. Guess I didn't mess myself up as much as I thought.

  "I saw a Polaroid of the bike," the doctor continued. "What was left, anyway. Was that a Sportster?"

  "Yeah," Wolf said sadly.

  "It's okay to come in, deputy," the doctor said to someone, unseen, in the hall. A sheriff's deputy stepped into the room, holding his hat in his hand. There was something disarming about the gesture, and something wrong. The man's expression bore straight into Wolf's soul.

  "I'm Deputy Clarke," the cop said. "Are you Paul Laner?"

  Wolf cringed. His foster parents had been the Laners. "Yes, sir."

  "You sure were riding down Highway 60 in a big hurry," the deputy said casually. Then Wolf knew where he'd seen him before; his vision, after the wreck. This was the deputy who had pulled him over yesterday. "Was there some kind of problem back at the house?"

  What was it? Hell, he had to think about that. "I just wanted to get out of there. I didn't realize I was going as fast as I was."

  The deputy's face had gone neutral, and it looked as if this had come with an effort. "Do you live with your grandfather in that trailer you rode off from?"

  "What is it?" Wolf said suddenly. "Is he okay?"

  The deputy stared at him for a long, long time. Wolf did not let his eyes drop from the deputy's. He wanted to know, now, what was going on.

  "No, I'm afraid he's not. We got an anonymous call this afternoon. Took us a while to figure out which trailer on which highway, but we found it. Your grandfather was murdered."

  Wolf wasn't listening anymore. He had drawn inside himself, fighting the tears, afraid to cry.

  "I'm sorry, son," the deputy said, and said nothing more for a long time.

  There were only about a dozen reasons why this had to be his fault, his riding off and leaving him alone being the primary one.

  "When?" was all Wolf could manage to say.

  "Late last night. It was around midnight, maybe one o'clock in the morning."

  The rest went unsaid: Yeah, happened while I was in the hospital, unconscious.

  The deputy continued, "Son, did you have any enemies? Or any harassment, because of your blood? Anything?"

  "Out there? No, not at all," Wolf said, but he had zeroed in on what the deputy had said: Your blood. For the first time, he thought of himself as a Chaniwa, on the day he had become the last surviving one. The grief pressed in on his throat, his chest, his own pain forgotten. "Who did it?"

  "We're not sure. We're following some leads. What might have been a van or a truck had pulled in and stopped. The tracks of four people were all over the place. There were signs of burning candles, in a circle, around where his throat was cut. It looked like it might have been a ritual, or something." He cleared his throat, seemed hesitant, but resigned, about asking his next question. "Do you know of any devil worshipers who would want to hurt your family?"

  Wolf shook his head. He didn't have to think very long about that one. Satanists? Here? He's got to be kidding.

  But clearly he was not, and pressed on. "Do you know any at all?"

  "No, none," Wolf
said. "What makes you think they were devil worshipers?"

  "Around the site of the murder we found traces of black wax. There were round impressions. And, there were thirteen of them. Thirteen black candles burning in a circle around the murder victim. Of course, it don't prove anything. But it is a strong sign that Satanic ritual was involved."

  Wolf shook his head, again, mystified. "It just doesn't make sense."

  "No, it don't," the deputy agreed. "That's why I was hoping you could tell us something."

  "We hardly know anyone, at least that would come all the way out there. I'd been here for about six months. Before that I was in Iraq. Desert Storm."

  The Deputy's eyebrows arched at this news. "Army?"

  "Rangers," Wolf said. "Where is my grandfather's body?"

  "The coroner will have to do a full autopsy. We can release it in a few days if nothing unusual shows up. The cause of death appears to be a shotgun blast to the chest."

  Wolf closed his eyes at the news, and felt his lip tremble. No. I'm not breaking down just yet. I'm getting out of here.

  "You can leave now, if you want to," the doctor said.

  While the nurse helped him put on his ripped-up clothes the deputy waited outside. Wolf refused the wheelchair she had in the hall. Every footstep seemed to be a bit less painful, and it felt good to be moving around on his own, even if his entire body groaned in protest.

  Deputy Clarke was kind enough to give Wolf a ride back to the trailer. It was late afternoon by the time they arrived, their shadows long and ghostlike on the red and yellow sand. Everything looked normal except for the closed trailer door. Grandfather always kept it open this time of day. The police tape had gone when the crime scene people were finished, but Wolf did find little lengths of coat hanger with little flags of plastic fluorescent tape.

  Clarke explained the scene to him. "Those markers there, that's where we found the van tire tracks. Those over there, in the circle, is where the wax was. Most of it's melted into the sand."

  Wolf wasn't looking at the wax; what drew his attention was the large black stain in the center, where Grandfather had bled. He went to the trailer and opened the door, and nearly gagged on the smell. The bloodstain at the bottom of the door had clotted, and filled the cabin with the stench of spoiled meat. Blood covered the entire floor, and had dribbled down the cavity made by the shotgun blast after it had traveled through Grampa's body.

  "You plan on staying here tonight?" the deputy asked.

  Where else would I stay? It had never occurred to him to go anywhere else, this was his home.

  "I'm not going anywhere for a while," Wolf said, estimating he had enough food to hold out a week.

  "We took the shotgun in as evidence," the Deputy said. "Do you have any other firearms?"

  "Yeah. A .357 Ruger."

  The deputy nodded, apparently satisfied he wasn't defenseless. "I'll be back in a few days to make sure you're still alive. Do you need anything here?"

  Wolf grinned, the brief amusement tempered by grief. "Coffee," he said, trying to forget that's what he'd gone after in the first place.

  "You got it," he said, and climbed back into the car. "Take care of yourself."

  It was a bit strange to see the cop car, which only a day before had filled his rearview mirror on the Harley, drive slowly off. The world was truly fucked up in a lot of ways, but people like this deputy gave him hope.

  Wolf wanted to sleep, but he had work to do. With the few hours of sunlight left, he moved everything that might have some use out of the trailer, starting with the small twin bed in Grampa's bedroom. The coffee pot was high on the list as well, along with an old tortoise shell rattle that was at least two hundred years old. The old knife was still on the table, and he checked to make sure the coin was back in the bone handle. There were odds and ends including the TV and portable lights. He even discovered a whole pound of coffee stashed away behind some flour and sugar. Everything went into the shed. It would become his new home, and sharing it with the old Indian motorcycle warmed his soul somewhat.

  The electric meter was barely connected to the trailer as it was, so it came off easily. Inside it were four 120 volt outlets, all he would ever need. He removed it from the trailer, and for the time being he propped it in the shed's tiny window. A corner of the shed used the power pole for support, so he took up the slack of the power line by wrapping it carefully around the pole. With a huge monkey wrench he turned off the water to the trailer, leaving the outside tap over the crumbling water trough as his only supply. Without a second thought, he poured what was left of the precious gasoline throughout the trailer, and with his Bic lighter set it ablaze.

  Wolf watched the flames consume the trailer; it went quickly, as it was old and there wasn't a bit of fire retardant material in it. He watched in grim satisfaction the result of his work; the Chaniwa always burned the home of the dead, to eliminate all bad spirits lingering there.

  And there are bad spirits indeed, Wolf thought, wondering if he would ever know who killed his grandfather. Yes, I will know. As certain as this trailer is burning right now.

  The trailer burned down to the thin skeleton of a steel frame; there wouldn't be much for him to deal with. As he was about to turn and collapse on the bed, he saw a vague image forming in the flames.

  He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the image. Tobacco smoke would bring the truth out, whatever the truth might be.

  But he really needn't have bothered. Grandfather was determined to talk to him. From coals of the simmering trailer, Fast Horse stepped forward, his image thin and transparent. He looks pretty good for being dead, Wolf thought, drawing on the cigarette.

  So much I have left to teach you, Wolf heard in his head, as if his grandfather were talking to him from across a formica table as they drank their morning coffee. No more time left, so I must tell you the important thing. Ha-Sowa is near. You did well to burn the home of the dead. That is the first step. But you must return to the ways of the Chaniwa, as that is all that will save you.

  Something popped loudly in the flames, but he hardly noticed it.

  But how will I learn the ways when you are gone? Wolf asked.

  The glimmer of a smile passed over the image. I will not be gone, not as you think. You will have my knowledge. My memories. My soul will continue, but you will have everything else.

  You will also have a gift, a red Indian gift . . .

  The image flickered, seemed about to disappear. Then, with the speed of a striking rattlesnake, the image shot toward Wolf and drove itself directly into him. Wolf wasn't ready for this. The impact of Fast Horse's soul colliding with his own knocked him backwards. Then, Grampa was gone.

  Or is he? Wolf wondered, sitting up. He was still in pain, but there was something different about himself. Monkakchi! Kika wama mi Akaniwa . . . Goddamn, I'm thinking in Chaniwa!

  "Foyimi okchaa afo si!" Wolf shouted, lying on his back. "Grandfather still lives!" he repeated. "Foyimi akshocki, avi bavanamai: or at least his memory is still alive."

  Do I know everything? he wondered. Or just what I should know. . . . I don't understand. There must be more than just the Chaniwa tongue. Something new, something that . . .

  Before his thoughts took another excursion, Wolf got up and hobbled over to the ground where Grampa's blood had stained it, the place where these murderers had cut his throat.

  The images came fast, and sharp, and painful. He fell over on his knees, and with his right hand, held himself up. With his left hand on the bloodstain, he closed his eyes.

  . . . Headlights filling the window. They turn their brights on. This is a bad sign. Fetch the shotgun from the bedroom, open the door, see who it is.

  Just some foolish people looking for Mountainaire. Put the shotgun down. Big black van, a man standing behind the door. His hair is deep black, like an Indian's, but is not Indian. Get a good look at his face. This is not an honest face. What's that . . . behind him. Awwrfmmmmmph. . . .

 
Four people, standing around. I'm hearing their voices. . . . They say, "The ritual has begun!" Doesn't look like a ritual to me. Looks like they're just kicking an old Indian's ass.

  Knife cuts throat, hard, blood flows. They're drinking my blood. "In the name of Satan our master, I do sacrifice thee!" they say. It's getting dark. It's getting so dark, great Hand hold me . . .

  Then nothing. A light, a voice. Too dim.

  Wolf opened his eyes, blinking back the tears.

  "I saw them," he thought, amazed. "God dammit, I saw them!"

  The sun had set, and the chill of the night had begun to move in. Have to get up, have to get under the blankets. But he wanted to stay here, by the stained ground, he wanted to know everything his grandfather had given him, all of it, right now.