Wild Wild Death

by Casey Daniels

  Oh yeah, I was getting way too poetic. And it wasn’t smart. I told myself to come to my senses and did my best to keep things light enough to prove I had nothing to hide, and serious enough for him to know I meant business. “Then it looks like you’re wasting your time and we’re right back where we started from.”

  “Yes and no. You’re right, I am getting ready to say, ‘I hear you’re looking for something’ again. And if I’m any judge of people at all—and I am, by the way—I’m pretty sure you’re going to evade me on that subject again. Just like you did the first time. Even then, we won’t be right back where we started from. Theoretically, we’ll be in the same place, sure. But at a different time.”

  Just what I needed. An Indian philosopher cop.

  It was best to set the record straight right from the start so I said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “He said that’s what you’d say.”

  “He?” I guess it was too direct a question because when I stared at him for a couple seconds and he still didn’t answer, I gave up with a sigh. I dropped down on the edge of the bed. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “As much sense as you’re making, here in Antonito, looking for something.”

  My smile was so stiff, it actually hurt. “Only I never said I was looking for anything.”

  “No, you didn’t.” He’d left a Stetson on the bed, and he picked it up and dangled it with long fingers. “You don’t have to. He told me that, too.”

  “The mysterious he again.” I threw my hands in the air and got to my feet. There was something about this guy that made me feel as if electricity had been wired to my bones, and it wasn’t just his crazy good looks. Heck, I’d met plenty of good-looking men in my time. I’d been sleeping with one before he went and got all stiff-necked and pissy when I told him I talked to the dead. I wasn’t that easily charmed, and I was never that easily fooled. Well, except by Joel, my ex-fiancé, who turned out to be a total loser. But that’s another story.

  Still, my body hummed with something that was half expectation, half need, all warning.

  For once, I listened.

  I stepped back, my weight against one foot, and crossed my arms over my chest. “You want to talk, maybe we can talk. But you’re going first. Who’s been talking about me? About what I’d say? And do?”

  “The shaman.”

  It was a word I’d heard before. But not one I’d ever paid much attention to. I leaned forward. “Sorry. I’m just a girl from back East. A shaman is—”

  “A priest, of sorts. And a healer. In my tribe, he’s also a go-between. You know, between this world and the world where spirits reside.”

  The little laugh I gave him along with a lift of my shoulders had always worked its magic on the weaker sex. And unlike Goodshot, I was not talking about women here. “You’re a cop, and I know cops. Cops aren’t big into mumbo jumbo.”

  “I’m a cop, and I’m Taopi Indian. I guess you don’t watch enough old Western movies. Indians…” His solemn expression never cracked, but his eyes narrowed just enough to make it look like he actually might know how to smile. “We believe all kinds of nonsense.”

  His voice was deep and thick, as intoxicating as brandy.

  The better to make you spill all your secrets, my dear.

  I told the voice inside my head to stuff a sock in it. I wasn’t about to come clean about the bones and Dan. Not with a total stranger. For one thing, I didn’t know if I could trust him. For another, if I admitted I was there to ransom a kidnapped friend, I’d also have to admit that I was doing it with bones.

  The bones of a Native American.

  Something told me he wouldn’t think it was cool to find out where I’d gotten the bones, or what I intended to do with them. He hadn’t said anything about the shaman seeing prison in my future, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  I tossed my head. “Sorry. I still don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  He didn’t say a word, just stood there all calm and gorgeous. Like he had all the time in the world, and he knew I’d cave eventually.

  Obviously, Mr. Philosophy had a lot to learn.

  I kept my place, too, and stared right back at him. One minute. Two. The quiet pressed against my ears. My heart slammed my ribs.

  When he finally moved toward the door, I flinched as if a gunshot had gone off.

  “The shaman knows because he threw the bones. He saw a vision of you there. And he told me all about you.”

  “Ri-ght.” I drew the word out into two syllables, and somehow, I managed to make it sound as cocky as I intended.

  His hand on the doorknob, he paused. “You really shouldn’t try to act so surprised,” he said. “About the shaman. And the omens. And the spirit world. For one thing, you’re not much of an actress.” He opened the door and set his hat on his head. “For another… well, you of all people… you should know there are things some people see and others can’t.”

  His words were still ringing in the air when he stepped outside and I kicked the door closed behind him.

  I hoped he was out there listening when I turned the lock on the door. And the dead bolt, too.

  Someone was watching me.

  A chill snaked over my shoulders and settled at the back of my neck, and even though it was about one hundred degrees in the afternoon sun that baked Main Street, I shivered. While I was at it, I glanced around.

  There wasn’t much happening in downtown Antonito, and no sign at all of anybody who might want to take the least interest in me (well, except for the obvious reasons, of course). The two old guys I’d seen at Taberna a couple nights before were sitting on a bench outside the Hometown Food Market, chatting away. A late-model SUV rolled by and kicked up a cloud of dust, but the driver never gave me so much as a glance. Across the street, a couple women shuffled into Tom’s Laundromat, baskets of clothes on their hips and whining toddlers in their arms.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing fishy. Nothing weird.

  Still, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling I’d had since I left the motel that morning and started what was turning out to be the private investigator to the dead’s version of Ground- hog Day.

  Same old, same old. Same old nothing, at least in terms of finding out what happened to Goodshot’s bones or locating Dan.

  Nobody in Antonito, it seemed, was willing to talk. But as sure as I’m Gifted (and I’m not talking just about the whole dead thing here, but about how I’m above average when it comes to mixing and matching separates into fabulous outfits), somebody had their eyes on me.

  Hoping to catch whoever it was in the act and convince myself that my imagination wasn’t running wild, I looked around again.

  And saw the same no one and nothing I’d seen before.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have been so edgy if only I knew who I was dealing with. Kidnappers waiting for me to make a wrong move, and so, send Dan to his doom? Some ordinary person who hadn’t seen this much style (not to mention peep-toe sandals this cool) in the hinterlands? Or was it that cop? The one who’d been in my motel room the night before?

  If nothing else, at least that last thought got rid of the ice in my veins. All it took was the memory of that chiseled face and those eyes as deep as secrets, and my blood was boiling.

  At least until I remembered all he’d said about shamans and seeing things that weren’t there, and how had he known in the first place that I was looking for something? Delicious or not, this was one guy I had to be careful around.

  “You lookin’ for somethin’?”

  Since Goodshot was behind me, it’s not like I would have seen him when he poofed onto the scene, anyway, so of course I couldn’t help but jump. I refused to turn around, though. If anybody noticed, it would be bad enough that I was talking to myself. It wouldn’t matter which direction I was facing.

  “Somebody’s keeping an eye on me,” I said, moving my lips as little as possible. “There was this cop in my
room last night and—”

  “He’s going to help us find my bones?”

  Since I’d been standing in one spot long enough—and since standing in one spot might look suspicious—I walked a little farther down the street. I stopped at an empty storefront and peered inside.

  “I didn’t tell him about the bones,” I said to Goodshot. “I didn’t know if I could trust him. He was—”

  Trying to explain about things like the sensations that sizzled through me when that cop was near was not a good idea. Even under the best of circumstances. Trying to explain to a ghost how I spent the night dreaming about that killer body…

  “He was an Indian,” I said.

  “Good, then maybe we’ll finally have somebody with some sense workin’ with us. Unless you mean that’s why you couldn’t trust him? Because he’s Indian?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You know me better than that. I’m an equal opportunity investigator.” I moved on to the next storefront. It was empty, too, but once upon a time, it must have housed a beauty parlor. I pressed my nose to the window and looked inside at a couple chairs set in front of mirrors caked with dust. “I don’t trust him because I don’t trust him. I don’t know him. For all I know, he could have been the one who stole the bones.”

  “Seems a might odd, don’t you think? To steal them, and then to come talk to you about it?” Goodshot shook his head. “Don’t make no sense.”

  “I didn’t say it was true. I just said it was a possibility. Until I know what he’s up to, I don’t want to say too much. He said…” I weighed the wisdom of mentioning this next bit, but let’s face it, it’s not like I had a lot of choice. I was quickly finding out that the Great Southwest was a whole other world. One I didn’t understand. If I was going to make sense of where I was and what was happening, I needed an interpreter.

  “He knew I was looking for something,” I told Goodshot. “And he mentioned a shaman. How—”

  “No mystery there.” Goodshot struck a ghostly match against the side of the building, and when it flamed, he lit a cigarette. “Shaman must have thrown the bones.”

  “That’s what the cop said. But really—”

  “You’re standin’ here talkin’ to a dead man and you’re gonna tell me you don’t believe it?” The skin around Goodshot’s eyes folded into a million little crinkles. “Shamans, they’re powerful men. They walk in the spirit world. If you ask this policeman to take you to the shaman—”

  “Not until I know if he’s on the up-and-up. Then maybe…” Even I realized my statement left open the possibility that, somewhere along the line, I would not only get to see Mr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous again, but get to know him a little better, too.

  This time the shiver that tingled through me had nothing to do with the sensation of being spied on.

  “No luck on the bones, huh?” When I glanced to my right, I saw Goodshot puffing away. “So you were lying yesterday when you said—”

  “I wasn’t exactly lying. I was…” My shoulders drooped. “Okay, I was lying. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t want to disappoint you. Or Kitty. She’s an old friend, huh? Whatever happened to Anarosa, anyway? You’d better be careful, I’ve seen ghosts who are pissed. If those two ladies—”

  “Not to worry.” He dropped his cigarette and it vanished before it ever hit the ground. “Kitty’s a professional, if you get my drift. She ain’t goin’ to get jealous over a little woman like Anarosa. And besides…” His face split with a grin. “I ain’t headed out this afternoon to see neither one of them.” Goodshot brushed his hands together and presto! he was holding a bouquet of summer flowers. “Used to be a schoolmarm in this town. Little lady by the name of Suzanna. Died in a fire at the schoolhouse, so I hear, and she’s buried up at there cemetery, but I ain’t seen her around. Thought I’d go over to where that ol’ school used to stand and see if she’s haunting it. You know how most ghosts is, can’t seem to get what happened to them there at the end out of their heads.”

  “Some of them can’t seem to get their conquests out of their heads, either.” I grinned right back at him. “You were a playboy before there was even such thing as a playboy.”

  “Oh, I dunno about that!” Goodshot headed down the sidewalk. “As long as there have been pretty girls, there have been men chasing after them. Remember that, Pepper. Next time that policeman of yours comes around.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to tell him that I didn’t know what he was talking about. Or that he’d read me all wrong.

  Then again, I guess he was tired of me lying to him.

  “What are you gonna do, Pepper?” He called one last question out to me, and I looked up to see him floating down the street on a stiff wind.

  And since I didn’t have the heart to lie to him another time, I opted for the truth. “Grocery store.” I pointed, and I didn’t try to explain about how frustrated I was feeling about getting nowhere on my investigation so I just said, “Chocolate.”

  I watched Goodshot until he sailed around a corner, and when he was gone, I went inside the grocery store and grabbed a cart. While I was at it, I wanted to pick up some drinks to keep in my motel room and maybe some bread and peanut butter, too. There were only so many enchiladas a girl could eat, even if the diner attached to the local gas station did have the reputation for having the best ones in the state.

  I wheeled up and down the aisles and I guess I was more upset about the case than I was willing to admit, because within a couple minutes, I had the whole comfort food thing just about covered: three Snickers bars, a bag of barbeque potato chips, and some of those pretzel nuggets coated with honey and mustard. Enough junk food to last me a couple days. With any luck, by that time, I’d have some idea what I could do to get Dan away from the kidnappers. After all, I liked Dan. No way he deserved to be bound and gagged and in the clutches of guys who were dopey enough to come to a handoff in alien masks.

  I guess that’s what I was thinking about as I stood in the snack-food aisle juggling a bag of tortilla chips while I decided if I wanted mild or spicy salsa. I’d just grabbed a jar of spicy (okay, Dan wasn’t the only thing I was thinking about; I might have been obsessing about the hot cop, too) when I heard a commotion in the aisle that backed up to the one I was in. Grunting. Like somebody was trying to reach something on one of the upper shelves and couldn’t. I was just about to go over there and see if maybe I was tall enough to help, when I saw a man’s hand groping for a bag of Chips Ahoy.

  “Damn,” I heard him grumble. He made another stab and caught one corner of the package and the bag of cookies tumbled from the shelf. I heard his satisfied “Yes!” when he tossed it in his cart.

  But I never moved a muscle.

  I was rooted to the spot. Surprised. Angry. Completely blown away.

  See, when he reached for that bag of cookies, the man’s sleeve rode up his arm.

  And that’s when I saw it—a red and blue tattoo in block letters on the underside of his wrist. the tribe will rise again, it said, right above 1948.

  The same tattoo ghostbuster Brian and his friends showed me the night Quinn and I went to the baseball game.

  “Brian? And his Indians fans friends?” The words whooshed out of me at the end of the breath of surprise. At least I had the good sense not to talk to myself too loudly. I heard the guy in the next aisle push his cart on ahead and snapped to. I couldn’t let him know I was there—or that I’d seen the telltale tattoo.

  With one last regretful look at those Snickers bars, I left my cart right where it was and zipped out of the store. Lucky for me, I’d left my car in the Hometown parking lot when I started my pointless trek around town earlier that day, and now, I hopped in and slumped down in the driver’s seat so I could watch the door of the grocery store and not be seen.

  Then I waited.

  Sounds easy enough. It might have been, too, if I wasn’t so angry, I thought my head was going to pop off.

  I remembered that ballgame and how Brian and his bud
dies had said something needed to be done about the curse Goodshot had put on the city and, hence, on its sports teams. They were rabid fans, sure, but I never imagined…

  Automatically, my hands curled around the steering wheel, so tight, my knuckles were white.

  Okay, I got it. I understood why people supported their favorite sports teams and why they wanted them to win. But would anybody actually go through the trouble of kidnapping someone (aka Dan) to make that happen? Would those same people then ask another someone (me, specifically) to mastermind a body snatching to win the kidnappee’s freedom? Had Brian and his friends risked Dan’s life and my spotless criminal record in the name of ridding the city of a curse they thought was keeping the Cleveland Indians from winning a championship?

  It wasn’t possible. I knew it in my heart, and not because I was all that well acquainted with Brian or his friends. I just couldn’t imagine that anyone would be that bold. Or that desperate. Or that brainless.

  Then again, the kidnappers had worn alien masks to our meeting.

  Denial is a wonderful thing. I went right along believing no one was stupid enough to risk a person’s life for the sake of a sports team for another five minutes or so. That is, until I saw Brian walk out of the grocery store.

  Coincidence? I thought not. There was no way Brian and I would be visiting this godforsaken part of the world at the same time. Not unless he’d engineered my visit in return for Dan’s life.

  When Brian loaded his bags into a dark green Jeep parked on the street in front of the store and slid behind the wheel, I started my car and waited for him to make his move. And when he took off, heading north on Main Street, I stayed a couple car lengths behind him.

  With any luck…

  I sucked in a breath of dry desert air and told my brain not to get ahead of itself, but it was already too late for that; my mood brightened and my heartbeat sped up.

  With any luck, Brian was about to lead me right to Dan.

  Up ahead, the Jeep turned left, and since there was no traffic around, I waited a few seconds to follow. When Brian disappeared over a rise, I made the turn and trailed along after him, and within another minute or two, I had him in my sights again. He drove on, and I held back.