Seized: Book One of the Pipe Woman Chronicles

by Lynne Cantwell

Chapter 8

  I left Joseph at the door of the coffee shop – he turned right to go to the bus station, and I turned left to walk home. He very nearly insisted on walking with me, but I strong-armed him. I told him the worst thing I was likely to run across on the 16th Street Mall was a purse snatcher, which I was pretty sure I could handle myself.

  Again, I was tempted to push him, and again I resisted the impulse. This new power of mine was a heady thing, but I mistrusted it. For starters, I was still ambivalent about White Buffalo Calf Pipe Woman recruiting me, and I wasn’t yet sure I wanted to be on Her team at all. I knew for sure that I wouldn’t have joined if She’d given me a choice. Using the power She had given me seemed tantamount to agreeing to help Her.

  I was also ambivalent about having power at all. I knew there was a kink in my personality where most people kept their ambition. Brock wasn’t the only law school classmate of mine who had been mystified at my decision to work summers for Legal Aid; most of them, ultimately, wanted to practice law in order to make as much money and gain as much power as possible. I’ve never known why I didn’t want to be like everyone else in that regard – whether I didn’t trust myself with it, or didn’t feel as if I deserved it, or what. This persuasive power the goddess had given me felt like another temptation to join the world of Money/Power/Fame that I had already, instinctively, rejected. On one hand, I wondered if I could use it to have anything in the world that I desired. On the other hand, it felt deceitful – but in a weird kind of backward way, as if I would be pushing the other person into lying to himself or herself about how much he or she wanted to give me what I desired.

  Too, I didn’t really understand how it worked and I felt uncomfortable about testing it. I wondered if Shannon would be willing to be a guinea pig, and then I wondered whether it would work on her if she knew I was trying to push her.

  I also realized that some of the tension I’d felt over the past few days was overcompensation. I was being very careful not to utter anything that could be construed as a command, just in case the push took over. And I didn’t know the reach of my ability, either. It had worked on the driver ahead of me who couldn’t even hear me. Would it work over the phone? Over a distance – and if so, how far? Would it work only on humans, or on animals as well?

  Would it work on gods?

  Was that what I was supposed to do? White Buffalo Calf Pipe Woman wanted to bring Jehovah to heel – but what if my real role was to broker a peace agreement among the gods?

  By this point, I was standing in front of my door. I started trembling so hard that I couldn’t get the key in the lock. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, then tried again. Mercifully, the key slid home.

  Inside, without even turning on the lights, I unbuttoned my coat with unsteady fingers and tossed it over a chair. Then I collapsed, sprawling, onto the sofa. The exhilaration I’d felt earlier in the afternoon was gone; I was back to being the quivering heap of flesh I’d been after ushering Brock out of my office.

  Brock, the alleged Unmitigated Evil. Now there was another thing I didn’t understand. How could I have been so wrong about him all these years?

  I mentioned a while back that we’d met in law school. It was first year, and we were all feeling pretty punch-drunk over the workload, and over the amount of information we were being expected to absorb and retain. One weekend in early November, my roommates dragged me away from my books to go to a party some classmates were throwing in their apartment just south of campus. I remember I had two papers due Monday, neither of which I’d begun drafting yet, and I complained that I could not afford even a couple of hours away. But they dressed me up and took me with them anyway.

  Brock was one of the hosts. All the girls in the class had been oohing and aahing over him since the start of classes. He had that clean-cut, all-American look – steely blue eyes, short blond hair, and the body of a guy who spends hours at the gym when he isn’t out on the slopes. He also had, even then, an ego the size of Pikes Peak; he was sure he was going to get a summer associate position at one of the 100 top AmLaw firms, where he would knock the socks off the partnership, thereby assuring him of a six-figure starting salary at said firm upon graduation. Then would follow the meteoric rise and the early invitation to the partnership, followed swiftly by the condo in Vail and the beach house on Maui, all thanks to his fine legal mind and his political acumen. And speaking of politics, he wouldn’t have been averse to a run for office eventually – Congressman, maybe. Or President.

  But I didn’t learn all that until later. That night, at the party, he was still the guy whom all our female classmates drooled over, and I was the chubby Midwestern girl who hadn’t had a date in two years. But for some reason, he shed all the other girls that night and asked me to dance.

  Honestly, I never did figure out what I had that the other girls didn’t. It wasn’t that I wasn’t impressed by his looks; I was drooling right along with everybody else. It wasn’t that I played hard to get, or any of the other annoying games some women play to attract a man; the only thing I did differently, really, was to hold myself apart from his seraglio, and the only reason I did that was because I was sure there was no point in trying for him. As I’ve said before, my mother didn’t raise any self-confident children. I took one look at the uber-chic girls who were throwing themselves at him, and resigned myself to watching the action from afar.

  Then he asked me to dance. Then I spent the night. Then we were friends with benefits for a couple of years.

  His grades were not good – he kept trying to get by on charm, which had apparently worked for him as an undergrad, but our law school professors weren’t as easy to charm – so all the AmLaw firms passed him by. While I spent my summers helping the poor and downtrodden at the Colorado Legal Services clinic on Sherman Street, he schmoozed his way into a summer position at Perry’s firm, which was (and still is) one of the most prestigious firms in the Rocky Mountain West. His Plan B was to spend a few years there and make a name for himself, and then try again to get hired by a nationally-rated “Biglaw” firm.

  Perry did hire him after law school – and he hired me, too. (I had applied because Legal Aid didn’t have the money to bring me on full-time, and Perry’s firm had a good reputation for pro bono work.) At that point, Brock and I became more serious friends with benefits. And as those first painful years as associates wore on, I think we kept seeing each other out of exhaustion-fueled inertia. For me, at least, it was easier to date someone I knew well, and who knew exactly what I was going through, than to try to find somebody new.

  But was Brock, in fact, someone I knew well? I kicked off my shoes, then stretched out on the sofa and tucked my hands under my head. We had certainly had plenty of conversations over the years, and I thought I had him pegged: a ski bum from a small mountain town whose parents worked for a resort, and who wanted the glitzy life he imagined all those vacationers had.

  I could understand if he were bitter now – his Plan A hadn’t panned out, and clearly Plan B hadn’t, either, given that he was on the verge of partnership while still in Denver. Maybe that’s what was fueling his passion to jump ship to the corporate world. God knows he had little interest in being a more well-rounded lawyer; Brock had only ever been in it for the money.

  Over and over, I examined the conundrums that newly defined my life, and found myself more and more confused.

  Sighing, I got up and lit some candles, then went to the kitchen and got a glass of wine. I moved then to the balcony doors and gazed out into the cold, crisp night. City lights spread out below me for miles and trailed up the foothills. I couldn’t see the mountains, but their looming presence blocked the stars, and the rising moon limned the snow on their peaks in a ghostly blue.

  I wandered back to the sofa, leaving the blinds open to the night. I found myself staring at the flame of the pillar candle on the coffee table before me, noticing as it seemed to split int
o multiple tips – now two, now three, now one again. My mind was blank, my wine forgotten. Then a thought of Brock flashed across my mind, and suddenly I felt as if I were diving into, or being sucked into, the candle’s flame.

  I emerged, unscathed, in daylight, just off a snowy mountain trail above the timberline. I recognized the view: it was very near Brock’s childhood home. We had camped here with friends during the summer after law school. I should have been freezing now, clad as I was in a silk top, dress slacks and stocking feet, but I wasn’t.

  I heard a swishing noise and turned to find the source. Here Brock came, up the trail, in his Alpine sweater and his cross-country skis. I wanted to kick his ass, of course. But I held the urge at bay, baffled by the sweater; I knew for a fact that he had thrown the threadbare thing away several years ago, yet here it was, looking brand-new. Then I noticed he was using the skis he’d had in college. Then I got a good look at his face, and blinked in disbelief. Intense with effort as it was, still it was unmarred by ten years of long nights as a lawyer.

  He skied past me as if I weren’t there and stopped a short distance away, farther up the trail. He side-stepped up the slight rise to the rim of the ridge, where he stopped. He sighed, pulled a silver flask I recognized from a pocket, and took a long guzzle. I fancied I could smell the alcohol on his breath from here. I wanted to shout at him, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Drinking while back-country skiing is a good way to get yourself killed!” But try as I might, I could not open my mouth to form the words.

  He stood there a while longer, until I thought for sure he must be freezing, despite the booze. Then he slid one ski, tentatively, closer to the precipice. Then the other.

  The tips of his skis now hung over the brink by several inches.

  I couldn’t move. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

  Then I heard bells. Down the path from the mountain’s summit came a man in a blue robe. He wore a floppy, broad-brimmed hat atop his long, white hair; an eye patch covered one eye; and he had plaited his beard in what I thought was a somewhat affected manner. “Ho, fellow!” he called out to Brock in a voice I was sure would trigger an avalanche.

  Brock flinched, as if the man had startled him; he looked around, then slid his skis back, away from the precipice. I sagged in relief. Ready as I still was to kick Brock’s ass, I didn’t want him to die.

  “Whoever she is,” the man said, “she is not worth an ignoble death.”

  “It’s not about a woman,” Brock said, admitting – just like that! – that he’d been contemplating skiing over the brink. I was surprised that he hadn’t tried to tough it out, as he had when Shannon and I had caught him in his office with his pants down. This was a much younger, and much less callous, Brock.

  He continued bitterly, “I just can’t seem to get anywhere in my career. None of the big law firms will hire me. The best I can do now is a job at some crappy little firm in Denver.” He spat the city’s name as if it were an epithet. “I’ll never get out of here. I’ll never get to New York, or Hawaii, or Tuscany, or any of the other places I want to go. I’ll have to slave away for decades to pay off my law school debt.”

  Now I knew what I was witnessing – or at least when. I’d spent a good bit of the fall semester of our third year of law school listening to variations on this theme. Usually I patted him on the head, figuratively, and hoped he would find a way to placate his demons on his own; I didn’t have the power to do much else.

  This guy, however, didn’t seem the type to just pat anybody on the head. He gestured to Brock with his walking stick and said, “Scoot a little farther back from that edge, man. You’re making me nervous.” With a self-conscious grin, Brock complied. “That’s better,” the man boomed. “Now, I understand frustration, and I understand having goals. But I also understand the meaning of hard work and self-sacrifice. What have you sacrificed, that I should grant you this boon?”

  Boon? Brock seemed as speechless as I. Wordlessly, he shook his head.

  “As I thought,” the man continued. “Then hard work it will have to be. There’s a war coming, man,” he said, lowering his voice a bit, as if imparting a confidence to Brock, “and you are to be my lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant?” Brock stammered. “I’m sorry, sir. I have no interest in joining the military.”

  “I’m not giving you a choice,” the man said, the threat evident in his tone. A flock of ravens swooped in out of nowhere, and two landed near him. He continued, his voice deepening, “Countless opportunities will be presented to you over the next several years. Take them. Take them all! You will fight battles and do great deeds. You will drink well and wench well, as befits a great warrior. And eventually, you will have your heart’s desire. This I swear!” The mountains seemed to shudder at his words. The ravens cawed.

  “But,” he said, “you must do one thing for me.”

  Brock swallowed. “Name it,” he said.

  “There is a woman with whom you are acquainted,” the man said. “In fact, you know her well. She has a well-rounded figure and long, dark hair.”

  Brock slid back another step. “Naomi?”

  “Never did understand what modern men see in women who are built like sticks,” the man muttered. Then, louder, he said, “Yes, the very one. You must keep her near you at all times. The enemy will seek to turn her to their purposes. You must not allow it. Keep her on your path with you. Do not allow her to stray.”

  “I’ll stick to her like glue,” he told the old man earnestly, “if it will get me out of this Goddamned state.”

  The man stared at him silently with his single eye until the silence grew uncomfortable. Finally, he said, “Be careful Who you call on.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brock said in a small voice.

  The ravens, screaming, launched themselves into the sky.

  “Accompany me,” the old man said. “I have a long way to go before I may gain the wisdom I seek – and so, it seems, do you.” He gestured with his free hand toward the trail. Brock skied onto it, headed back the way he had come. I watched him ski past me again, down the trail and out of sight around the bend. Then I looked back up the trail for the old man in the blue robe. He was gone. But a wolf, which I could have sworn wasn’t there before, rushed after Brock. It turned as it passed me and gave me a feral grin.

  “So,” said a voice at my elbow. I jerked my head around. White Buffalo Calf Pipe Woman stood beside me, her white buckskin dress blending into the snowy landscape. She was nodding at the spot where the old man had recruited Brock. “I had thought He was with Us. But He has ever marched to His own tune.” She turned to me. “Again, I am pleased that you were Chosen.” She raised Her hand...

  “Wait!” I cried, hardly noticing that I had regained the ability to speak. “I need to know…”

  ...but I was back on my sofa.

  The candle I had been staring at had melted through on one side, and the spilled wax had made a good-sized puddle on the top of the coffee table. I blew out all the candles and sat for a few minutes in the dark, more muddled than ever.

  Was it real? Had I truly gone back in time, or merely seen the shadow of things that had happened? Or was it a peyote flashback? Did peyote even cause flashbacks? Or was my subconscious making it all up?

  I thought hard about that last year of law school. Yes, it did seem as though Brock came back from winter break with a different attitude. I had thought he’d resigned himself to his fate. In any case, we grew closer once he quit whining. That was, in fact, about the time that we began dating seriously.

  Not so seriously that he didn’t drink and “wench,” of course. But it was certainly true that he kept me tethered pretty close to him, once our last semester started.

  I glanced at the clock on the DVD player and did a double-take. I’d apparently been sitting in the same spot for the better part of two hours.

  I sipped at my
wine, grimaced, and went to the kitchen for some ice, flipping on lights as I went. I seemed to know more about Brock now, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who the old man was. He didn’t fit the profile of any Native American gods I could think of.

  Not that I could think of much right now besides sleep. My head was spinning – and not because I was chugging the wine before the ice melted and diluted it. I’d just had too many revelations for one day.

  I dumped the rest of the wine into the sink and went to bed, praying to...Somebody...for dreamless sleep. I must have reached the right Somebody, because I slept soundly and unmolested until morning.

  Brock didn’t come into the office the following day. Around noon, I stopped by his secretary’s desk to try to find out where he was. Not that I had any intention of confronting him, mind you. But it had occurred to me that tongues were probably already wagging about us, and the more normally I acted, the quicker the rumor mill would quit churning.

  In any case, I learned that he had been out of the office at a meeting all morning and might not be in at all that day. “He’s at Durant Development, is he?” I asked – casually, I hoped.

  “That’s where he was this morning,” she confirmed. “Do you want me to have him call you?”

  “Nah, that’s okay. I’ll send him an e-mail. Thanks, though.”

  Back in my office, I speculated on what Leo Durant might have cooking that would tie up Brock all day. None of the answers I came up with were at all good for Looks Far.

  I remembered, then, that I had asked Joseph for documentation of his grandfather’s lease, and that I hadn’t heard from him since then. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and texted him: “Any luck with the lease?”

  Minutes ticked by. No response. I sighed and put the phone on my desk. Any number of things could be keeping him away from his phone: he could be in the sweat lodge, or working elsewhere and unable to reply. Or, I supposed, he could be in some shape that didn’t allow for a pants pocket for a phone. Or opposable thumbs to text with.

  It occurred to me that I had no idea how Joseph typically spent his time.

  I sighed again and turned back to the computer. Maybe I could scare up some information on my own. The Boulder County tax assessor’s office would know who owned the land – and conveniently, their records were online.

  After half an hour or so of searching, I sat back in my chair in disbelief. “Really, Brock?” I muttered. “Did it not occur to you to do any sort of due diligence?”

  There, plain as day in front of me, was the title history for the parcel that included Looks Far’s home. The name Charlie Frank of Rifle was on it. But he wasn’t the current owner; he was the trust administrator. The owner was the Northern Ute Tribe of the Uintah and Ouray Reservation in Fort Duchesne, Utah.

  Oh, Charlie had owned the land to start with. But a few years back, he had transferred the deed to the tribal trust. I couldn’t be sure, of course, but I suspected he had set up the transfer around the same time as Durant Development started nosing around the property.

  There was no way Durant would ever convince the tribe to sell him a parcel of sacred land, no matter how many faux Indian encampments he set up on the site. No wonder he was pursuing the eminent domain route. It was the only possible way for him to get his hands on the land.

  I printed the information on the screen. Then I reached for my cell phone again, but it rang before I could pick it up to dial. “Naomi,” Joseph panted.

  “Joseph! Did you get my text?”

  “Yes. You’ve got to get up here. Something bad is happening.”

  His urgency was infectious. I took a deep breath. “That’s not much for me to go on. Where are you? And what exactly is happening?”

  I heard him take a deep breath of his own. His next words were less rushed, but no less dire. “I’ve been up at Grandfather’s since last night. I came up to ask him about the lease. This morning, the short man and your co-workers arrived with a land surveyor. They said they’ve made a deal with Charlie Frank and the land is theirs now. They told Grandfather to pack up his stuff and get out, because a bulldozer is coming in this afternoon.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I said bluntly. “Charlie Frank doesn’t own the land. The tribe does.”

  “It does?” Joseph said. Apparently Looks Far hadn’t told him, either.

  “It does,” I said. “I’ll explain when I get there. Hold them off, okay? Call the cops if you have to, but don’t let them touch anything. I’m on my way.”

  I ended the call and dropped the phone into my purse, then cast a last look around my office. I retrieved the printout from the printer in the hallway and dropped it into the top box of the stack of five next to the door – the box with all my personal stuff in it. The others held files I intended to take with me when I left the firm. I put on my coat, and grabbed my purse and the box I’d put the printout in.

  I’d have to get my files later. Somehow. I was pretty sure Perry wasn’t going to be cooperative.

  Somebody appeared to be looking out for me. I got a taxi right outside the office, so I didn’t have to run the five blocks home with my twenty-pound box full of coffee mugs and knickknacks. I had the cabbie drop me at my car, tossed the box in the back, and hit the road. The Cube and I didn’t see a single cop on Route 36 – which was a good thing, because I kind of stepped on it. A little over a half-hour later, I was bumping up Looks Far’s driveway.

  The rough road was a good sign, I thought as the Cube chugged up the rise. If the bulldozer had beaten me there, the narrow lane would already be much wider – if no smoother.

  Perry’s black Navigator sat menacingly close to Looks Far’s wickiup. He and Durant appeared to be in a heated discussion with Looks Far and Joseph. That is, Durant was beet red and yelling, Perry and Joseph were glowering at each other, and Looks Far was doing a pretty good imitation of a stoic Indian. The surveyor stood to one side with his equipment, looking as if he would rather be somewhere else.

  They all turned to me as I hopped out of the car. For a moment, I felt slightly ridiculous: the posse had just arrived in a ginger Cube. Then I saw the look on Joseph’s face and snapped out of it. He was grateful I had come. Grateful.

  And Brock looked murderous.

  Grinning evilly to myself, I grabbed the manila folder from the box and stalked toward them.

  “Naomi?” Perry said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Representing my client,” I said.

  He looked at Looks Far, and then back at me. “You can’t represent him,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “You work for me.”

  I handed him my office keys. “Not any more. Mr. Guzmán needs an advocate in this matter, and I am it.” I turned to Looks Far, purely as a formality. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Guzmán?”

  Looks Far, still playing the stoic Indian, nodded once.

  I turned back to Perry. “I’ll arrange with Tess to pick up my files tomorrow,” I said, pushing him a little. “Now as to my client....”

  Perry nodded, looking shell-shocked. But Durant was anything but. “This is an outrage!” he yelled, bobbing up and down as if looking for the best place to land a punch. “She’s not allowed to switch sides! She knows too much about the case! You told me so yourself, Dorfman!” He turned his murderous glare on Perry.

  “Actually, Mr. Durant,” I said, more calmly than I felt, “I know next to nothing about your case. I’ve been included in no meetings, other than the one here on Sunday. All I know is what you’ve told me yourself – that your firm is interested in purchasing this parcel of land from the owner. And I also know that you’re not above intimidating a tenant to get what you want.” I looked sternly at him.

  “Your ‘client,’” he told me, voice dripping venom, “is a tenant here no longer. We have reached an agreement in principle with Mr. Frank. He has agreed to sell to us, provided one or two minor conditions are met. T
herefore, we are here today to begin site work for the casino.” He gestured toward the surveyor. “Mr. Lockwood is going to begin the preliminary survey today, and a bulldozer is scheduled to arrive this afternoon to clear this area.”

  “I understand your intent, Mr. Durant,” I said. “But there’s something I don’t understand. Perhaps you can clarify it for me.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t understand, sister,” Durant muttered.

  Perry cut him short. “What’s your question, Naomi?”

  “Mr. Durant told you he has an agreement in principle with the owner. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Is there any sort of paperwork to confirm that? A contract? An offer of intent signed by both parties? Something on the back of a napkin, even?”

  Perry’s mien grew steadily darker. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that any agreement with Mr. Frank to sell this parcel is null and void, because he doesn’t own it.” I gestured at Durant. “What I’m trying to figure out is who’s bullshitting whom here. Are you taking Durant’s word for all of this, or are you in on the scam?”

  Perry looked daggers at Brock. “Mr. Holt,” he said evenly. “Please show Ms. Witherspoon the title abstract.”

  “It’s back at the office,” Brock said, not meeting Perry’s eyes.

  “You never looked it up, did you, Brock?” I said. His head snapped around to me. “You never did the due diligence. You just took Leo’s word for everything because you wanted him to hire you.”

  “What?” Perry exploded.

  “Didn’t he tell you, Perry?” I said sweetly. “Brock’s leaving the firm, too.”

  “I hadn’t decided for certain yet,” Brock told me, his ears turning red.

  “That’s not what you told me,” I said. “Anyway, I know you didn’t check the tax records, because if you had, you would have found this.” I handed the manila folder to Perry. I knew better than to hand it to Brock; I figured he would stamp it into the mud.

  Perry took a quick look at the printout, then closed the folder. “She’s right,” he said tightly. “This is Ute tribal land. Frank’s just the trustee.”

  Brock’s whole face was pink now. He wore the same expression I’d seen on him when Shannon and I had walked in on him and Carrie.

  “She’s lying!” Durant yelled.

  I ignored him. “That’s why you were looking up cases on eminent domain last week,” I said to Brock. “Leo told you to. I want to believe that he told you it was insurance, in case you couldn’t talk Charlie Frank around. I want to believe Durant didn’t tell you he would have to have the county condemn the land. Please tell me that’s what happened, Brock.”

  I didn’t push. And he didn’t give. Just like Sunday night, the witness took the Fifth.

  “She’s lying!” Durant yelled again. Then he lunged for me.

  As swift as thought, Joseph was in front of me, his hands fisted in Durant’s coat. He lifted the little man up so that only his toes touched the ground. “You will leave,” he growled. “Now.” I couldn’t see his face, but from the expression on Brock’s, Joseph’s teeth were bared.

  “Let him go, Joseph,” Looks Far said. Slowly, Joseph lowered Durant to the ground. Then he backed up until his arm touched mine. I looked at Brock, who was looking between Joseph and me with dawning comprehension. I was in no mood to tell him his conclusion was wrong; I figured he deserved to stew in his own juices for a while.

  “Let’s go, Leo,” Perry said. “Don’t make me carry you this time.” He gestured to the surveyor and took two steps toward his Navigator, then looked back. “Brock,” he ordered.

  Brock turned to Durant. “Come on, Leo,” he said.

  “This isn’t over,” Durant said, fist raised toward us, as they trudged away. “We’re getting the county involved. I’ll have this land if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Don’t forget to call off your bulldozer,” I called after them. Brock waved without turning around.

  The three of us did not move until the sound of the Navigator’s motor had faded. Then I sagged into Joseph. He wrapped his arm around me to steady me.

  “Brock thinks we’re an item,” I giggled.

  “Let him,” Joseph said fiercely. “He deserves more pain than that, for what he has put you and Grandfather through.”

  “Joseph,” Looks Far said mildly. Joseph gave me a small squeeze and let me go. “Come inside, both of you,” the old man continued. “We have much to discuss.”