An Artifact of Death

by Anna Philpot

  16

  Cici

  All people are the same; only their habits differ.― Confucius

  “How did you know that? About Indian Affairs?”

  Cici blushed because talking about it still felt strange. “My sister.”

  “Tell me about your sister,” Anton said.

  Cici pondered his request as she walked. He kept pace but she could feel the tension rolling off his body in a thick wave. Since she’d brought up Aci, she didn’t see how she could get out of talking about her now.

  “My twin…um, well, she can communicate with me. Or, rather, we’re getting to a point again where we can communicate certain details. The link seems tighter when my life is in jeopardy.”

  Anton shook his head again, his eyes fixated on hers for a long beat before he once again scanned their surroundings.

  “She’s dead,” Cici said.

  “You said that,” Anton replied, his tone dry.

  Cici cleared her throat. “But she seems to know stuff.” And she’s getting better at warning me. Thank goodness.

  “Omnipotent ghost who’s developed a cohort of friends here. Useful.”

  “I’m not sure she’s omnipotent. But, she does know things I don’t, and if it’s imperative…you know, like this…she finds a way to let me know. When the dude grabbed me by the hair and I started to black out…” Cici shrugged, unsure how to explain—if she wanted to explain further.

  Anton raised his eyebrow. “I’m supposed to believe your dead twin talks to you.”

  “You’re the one who angered the Chacoans. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice their response to your thievery.”

  Anton’s eyes darted around and his body tensed. He shot Cici a dark look. “Fine. Let’s say I believe you. How does this communication work?”

  “It’s not like that movie, The Sixth Sense. I don’t see dead people.” Except Anna Carmen, but Cici hadn’t seen her sister since they’d been up on Aspen Trail, months ago, after her killer was discovered.

  “It’s more like…” Cici paused, gathering her thoughts. “Like downloading new tidbits of information. Like I got an upgrade,” Cici said. “And only when I’m not completely conscious.”

  Well, that wasn’t true either. Because Cici had had a vision while awake a few weeks ago. Those moments still freaked her out. Like this one did now—or would, if she wasn’t trying to fight for her life.

  Anton shook his head, his mouth dropping into lines of disapproval—either because now he did think Cici was nuts or because this type of ESP was not part of his worldview. Like Sam, she figured Anton liked to work with the tangible, the facts and logic.

  “It would have to be a religious leader I got stuck with out here. The odds are miniscule that anyone would be out on that trail at that time of day. But a reverend? Tiny. A reverend that communes with the dead? Infinitesimal.”

  “I don’t commune,” Cici said, trying not to show how offended she was by both his word choice and his tone.

  “Oh, huff it up some more, Cecilia. That’s exactly what’s happening.”

  “Will you call me Cici? I don’t like Cecilia.” Not that she planned to tell him Cecilia was the stuffy name only Frank Gurule used. A name that was supposed to mean Cici taking over ownership of the fancy Canyon Road house and following in her father’s footsteps. He’d always wanted one of his girls to be a high-powered lawyer so he could hand over the reins of his firm. Even though Anna Carmen fell in love with a lawyer—one who did like the enticement of her father’s partnership in a renowned firm in Scottsdale—neither Cici nor Anna Carmen could stand the pretentiousness of Frank’s lifestyle.

  That’s part of why Anna Carmen became a teacher and Cici a preacher. They used to tease each other about their impoverished choices, especially compared to the house-of-plenty the girls grew up with. But Cici wasn’t willing to give up her morality, her ethics, for money that seemed ill-earned.

  Anna Carmen came up with a pragmatic solution: marry into money—or at least earning potential—without having to do those deeds herself.

  Cici hugged her arms across her chest, wishing that Sam were there to hold her instead. Funny that she ran from his attempts to talk, only to wish for his company within hours of leaving.

  “Let me guess,” Anton said with that narrowed-eye gaze that set her teeth on edge. “Your mother insisted on calling you Cecilia.”

  “My mother called me Cici. Or Preciosa.” Because her mother was awesome—even when Cici was rebelling and angry and unable to feel loved or to love anyone, Sandra Gurule still made sure Cici knew she was cherished.

  Today, as the light faded beneath the thick blanket of dark clouds and scary men hunted her down, Cici missed her mother more than usual.

  “Hmm. I got the vibe you were a daddy’s girl.”

  Cici grimaced. “Nope. Couldn’t and still don’t stomach that man well.”

  She pulled out one of her protein bars and an apple. She offered one to Anton, who crunched through a bite of fruit in thoughtful silence.

  “You’re not what I expected,” he said, his voice meditative.

  Cici’s teeth broke the skin of her apple as he spoke, otherwise she would have responded. She chewed her bite, deciding this was a small miracle because the caustic words that rested on her tongue should not be shared.

  “How many of the groups are doing that?” Cici asked, circling back to what was clearly the reason they were stuck on this mesa—and might well die here soon. “Trying to find Chacoan treasures?”

  “Enough,” Anton said in a clipped voice. The wind swirled around him, like a mini dust devil so common in the area. “I’m not the only one, and I’m trying to make sure the relics stay in this goddamn part of this godforsaken country,” Anton snarled.

  The dust devil settled. Either the winds died down or the spirits believed Anton’s motives. Cici prayed for the latter. Otherwise, the rest of the time here in Chaco would become even more harrowing.

  “Apologize and promise you’ll return it,” Cici snapped back. Spy or not, he shouldn’t lift items with impunity. Just as he shouldn’t expect her to fall in line because he knew how to shoot a gun.

  Well, actually…that was a pretty good argument for doing what Anton wanted.

  At Anton’s even angrier look, Cici held up her hands. Instead of focusing on him, Cici made a placating gesture to the sky. As Anton bristled, Cici bowed, clasping her hands in front of her chest. She wasn’t sure if that was proper Chacoan etiquette, but she hoped it showed respect.

  “I’ll do my best to make sure he follows through on his promise to keep the artifacts within the native lands.”

  Nothing happened. Anton grunted in annoyance. “You believe that disturbing their burial sites causes the ghosts to want revenge?”

  “That’s one of the Navajo legends.”

  “Were the Chacoan people Navajo?” Anton asked, his voice almost hopeful. “Bloodthirsty group, from what I’ve read.”

  Cici shrugged. “I don’t know about the bloodthirsty part. But ‘Anasazi’ is a Navajo word. It means ‘Ancient Ones.’ I’ve heard the native people who lived here called that, so they could be. Or they could have been a different tribe. In this area, most of the indigenous people don’t care for the term Anasazi. It’s kind of like using the Zia symbol. That’s from a specific Pueblo. Chacoans could have been a distinct tribe.”

  “I can’t say I’m overly interested in the intricacies of the native peoples and their fight to keep their culture,” Anton murmured. “But my dossier seemed to lean toward Chaco dwellers as Anasazi, thus Navajo ancestors. Some of the other Pueblos here in the area share their genes, too.”

  Cici dipped her head in acknowledgment and refused to comment on his use of the term dossier. That sounded so…James Bond. Anton, whose damp clothes were now covered in muck, and skin covered in scratches and bruises, did not look like the iconic, debonair British spy. Granted, Bond spent most of his time in cities—at least in the movies she’d seen.r />
  And those were movies. Not real life where each blast of a gun could well end hers.

  She cleared her throat discreetly, refocusing on the conversation to distract her from thoughts of her impending death. She kept her voice soft, as she had throughout this discussion, unsure when or where the next shooter would pop up.

  “Some scholars speculate that the Anasazi, specifically the prehistoric Navajo, mixed and mingled with the Mayans and Aztecs from Central and South America—that this was an important trade route for those peoples and there were marriages and affairs between the two groups. Some scholars believe as many as seventy-five different Puebloan tribes came here to barter. One theory says that’s why there are so many different settlements here.”

  Anton wiped his hands on the bottom of his dress shirt, leaving a thick smudge of mud. His gaze darted around.

  “Like Little Italy and Chinatown. Fascinating as all this is, I’d prefer to continue our discussion somewhere less likely for us to get picked off.”

  During their walk, the fireflies had built again, forming a thick swarm, almost as if a line of lanterns or torches were leading them toward a ceremonial kiva. Cici shivered, unsure whether that meant she was a sacrifice or a celebrated guest.

  But, since she believed in her sister, Cici also felt she must believe in the thousands of dead buried in the area. If they could help… Cici veered in the direction of the fireflies, ignoring Anton’s cursing, and continued to follow the lights. She forced herself to take another step and ignore the slight wobble in her knees and the wet squelch of her socks in her boots.

  “The story said your state senator…,” Anton said.

  “Udall?”

  “The other one.”

  “Heinrich,” Cici said.

  “Him,” Anton said. “He said that the Bureau of Indian Affairs wanted to look at the cultural and religious sites in the area, to make sure none of those were disturbed.”

  Cici felt a cold sensation—a foreboding that crept up her spine.

  “So, the guys following us…the reason the Bratva were going to shoot you out at the ruins earlier today was because they found something. They took it. And you stole it from them.”

  Anton’s gaze was dark, fathomless. Much like the look Sam gave Cici each time Cici said something about his relationship with Anna Carmen.

  Anton’s gaze remained fixed on a spot over her shoulder.

  “Time to put your idea of ghosts helping the good guys to use,” Anton said.

  He grasped her hand and jerked her to the right, causing her to stumble over a small, half-buried rock. Anton’s yank saved Cici, who yelped as the first hail of bullets spat into the dirt within a few feet of their location.

  17

  Sam

  When you have faults, do not fear to abandon them.― Confucius

  Sam slumped in his seat, the shock inching toward searing fear that proved his body could be even more flooded with the emotion than before.

  “You’re sure?”

  Jeannette nodded, tears in her eyes. “Local sheriff found three bodies near Cici’s car. What was left of it. The car I mean. It was blown to bits—the wreckage covers a large swath of land. We had to close down the park.”

  Least of their worries, really. Keeping people out of the area might not be a popular decision with potential tourists, but people wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire. Cici’s life, however, depended on a lot more than closing down the roads at a few strategic checkpoints.

  “The men, Jeannette. What about the men who blew up Cici’s car?”

  “They’re dead.”

  Sam held his temper—barely. Perhaps something in his expression gave Jeannette pause because she said, “Two of the men were shot center of the forehead and in the chest. The other in the chest, shoulder, and upper thigh.”

  “By someone else,” Sam said to clarify. “Not by each other?”

  Jeannette pursed her lips, almost as if she was still to overcome to speak. “I don’t…” she muttered, annoyance flashing across her face. Jeannette tended to lash out when she missed something. Sam wasn’t sure if this was an insecurity based on her job, a past boss, or part of her personality. “Doesn’t matter.” She flicked her wrist, waving off her irritation. “Definitely someone else shot them.”

  “How do you know?” Sam asked.

  “The number of bullets left in their clips.”

  Sam startled. “You have that information already?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That was part of the report. So, I didn’t miss anything.”

  Sam sucked in a deep breath, released it. Jeannette’s need to be right mattered little. Cici’s life mattered much more.

  “So you don’t know who shot the three perps?” Sam asked.

  “No. But the dead men have been identified.” She scowled. “We think. They’re big international players, Sam. In Interpol, our CIA database. This is…they’re the big goddamn league.”

  “Who, exactly, do they work for? You mentioned KGB.”

  Jeannette hesitated.

  “So, Putin?” Sam’s heart pounded as his mouth dried. His hands clenched tight enough on the steering wheel to make the leather-wrapped circle groan in protest.

  “Sam, I…” Jeannette shook her head.

  She didn’t have to say more—they’d both read the stories about the nerve agent given to the former Russian spy turned British informant and the Kremlin critic whose neck was crushed. Sam’s entire body convulsed; an attempt to cleanse itself of the images his brain tried, unsuccessfully, to force upon him.

  Images of Cici, lying in a pool of blood. He didn’t have to imagine hard—he’d studied the forensic photos of Anna Carmen, trying, even then, to distance when his mind turned Anna Carmen’s body to Cici’s lying there, lifeless.

  “How good is the man Cici’s with? Based on what we know, we are currently going to assume he’s the one who took out three of Putin’s operatives with…” Sam counted, then whistled. “Seven bullets.”

  “Well placed,” Jeannette said. “He’s one hell of a marksman.”

  “But does he care if Cici lives?”

  Right now, the man currently known as Anton Vasiliev was the only defense Cici had—the only chance for her staying alive long enough for him to get to her.

  Jeannette shrugged, but her lips flattened and she didn’t even try to meet his gaze. No doubt because she, too, read the odds: Cici, an unarmed, untrained person of God and her would-be captor/savior against a multitude of well-trained, determined assassins. Those men hunting Cici were ruthless, the type of predators who wouldn’t stop until their job—and her life—ended.

  18

  Cici

  Ability will never catch up with the demand for it.― Confucius

  Cici and Anton scrambled down a sharp ravine and veered through the fresh rush of water trickling at its bottom. A clump of junipers grew at the end, no doubt where the run-off was highest. Cici and Anton ducked behind the scraggly bushes, their chests heaving and their breathing harsh in the cold quiet of the night.

  When she envisioned a short overnight trip up to Chaco, Cici expected a quiet place to pray, much as she’d imagined some of the prophets of old did during times of transition. But perhaps she should have expected the trials and almost-certain death stalking her: the Judean desert was a harsh, hostile land—not unlike the New Mexican landscape.

  Long moments later, the sound of footsteps pounded toward them, along with the sloshing of water. Anton shoved Cici down and she bit her lip against the sharp pain flaring from her skinned knee. Bullets slammed into the branches of the juniper, splintering the wood, while others hit rocks and shot debris into the air. Some of the pieces hit Cici’s skin, tearing at her shirt and flesh.

  The footsteps slowed, became more cautious. Anton crept forward, his weapon drawn.

  A cool flash of wind caused the hairs on Cici’s nape to stand up. She wrapped her fingers around a jagged piece of rock just as the man rounded the bush, m
ere inches from Cici’s hiding spot.

  On instinct, Cici raised the rock and slammed it into the back of his hand. The man grunted as the gun clattered from his grip and blood poured out of a deep wound. Using the momentum of the swing, Cici brought her arm back around as the man lunged forward, catching him in his cheek. He spun backward, his head hitting the rock wall with a nauseating sound, like a watermelon splatting on concrete.

  Cici stared down at the wreckage she’d created. Her throat burned in revulsion.

  She’d promised to protect all creation. Yet, here she stood, the cause of multiple deaths in this once-pristine country. Cici swallowed down the lump building in her throat.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. She wasn’t sure to whom she spoke. The man on the ground couldn’t answer and her sister never did. At least not directly.

  Anton stepped around her. Cici saw his knife glint silver before she slammed her eyes shut. After another long moment, Anton took her hand and steered her away from the body.

  Cici forced her eyes open as she followed Anton back out into the ravine’s narrow creek. After a few long moments in which Cici replayed the last events in her mind on a continual loop of regret and revulsion, they reached the ledge where the fireflies had disappeared earlier. Anton peered over the edge and dipped his head once in acknowledgment. Of what, Cici wasn’t sure. Maybe her ability to be as heartless and cruel as he was.

  Finally, he ushered her away from the lip of the plateau. Cici continued to walk in a daze. Her vision grayed. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Was this how Elijah felt?