Stormy Weather (Storm Donovan Book 1)

by Steve Rollins

  When the collision did not come for a very long while, he risked opening his eyes. They were still in the air. It was impossible. He sat up and looked around him. Far below, he could see the traces of the canyons, mesas and the branching, treelike pattern of the tributaries that plunged down from the jagged edges of the mesas.

  He looked behind him and saw those who were chasing him plunging from the edge and tumbling down the steep slope. He had escaped, but how? He suddenly realized that it didn’t matter anymore. He had escaped, he was free and he was flying. There must be some sort of magic in the pony, because he, Parke Higgins, was flying.

  He squealed as though he was a little boy once more. All of the worries, stresses and especially the nightmare of being chased, disappeared behind him. With his arms spread and his face turned toward the sun, he let the feeling of the wind envelop his entire body, covering him like the waves of an ocean. He was alive and he was free. He closed his eyes once more and floated peacefully. And then he heard crying.

  There could be no crying in his new world of freedom. It was impossible. When he ventured to open his eyes, there was a woman. There was no doubt that she was a Native American woman by her dress and the long, jet-black hair flowing down her hunched back. Where had the pony gone? Why was he no longer flying? He looked around for the pony, but saw nothing but the chinked, log walls of an octagonal house and only the very basics for living. Why was he in a hogan? He wanted to go back to flying. A particularly gut-wrenching keening came from the hunched woman and his attention turned back toward her.

  Hesitant, he moved toward her; perhaps he could comfort her. When he placed a hand on her back, her sobbing ceased and she slowly turned her head toward him. In spite of the trails of tears which had streaked the prominent lines of her cheeks, she was stunning. Her smooth, caramel skin, her full lips, proud nose and chin were all perfectly formed as though sculpted by a master; but it was the deep, haunting, black eyes that made his heart stop and then begin again in a rhythm he hadn’t felt since he had first tried to ask a girl on a date.

  He started to speak and she was gone. He sat up in a panic. Where was he? Nothing around him was familiar. Had they captured him? Who were they? He looked at the figure lying beside him in the bed and everything came rushing back to him. No one had captured him. No one was chasing him. He was in a motel room, the Kachina Lodge, on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

  He looked at the lit numbers on the digital clock beside the bed. Its red numbers displayed 3:27. He had planned on getting an early start, but this was ridiculous. He briefly thought through the dream that he had just had. The flying, the woman, the wind, the freedom; it was all so real and yet, not real. Hoping to return to it, he settled back into the overstuffed pillow which made his neck hurt. Motel pillows always made his neck hurt. He had intended to bring his own, but had forgotten it in the rush to get out the door.

  He closed his eyes and tried to draw the painted pony back into his mind. When that failed, he attempted to place the face of the woman back into his consciousness, but that wouldn’t work either. He finally turned to look at the clock again. It had changed to 3:31. He had set it for 5:30. If I go to sleep right now, I can sleep two more hours, he reasoned. He closed his eyes and tried to force sleep to come.

  When he looked at the clock again, it read 3:47. He quickly did the math. An hour and forty-five minutes of sleep. That’s not too bad. He tried to force sleep again. He saw 3:53 pass by without sleep; 4:03 and 4:17 as well. Frustrated, he finally tossed back the covers and slipped out of bed. He glimpsed out into the darkness of the canyon below the rim where the Kachina Lodge was perched. The grand view that was there during the light of day was eerily absent when covered in a shroud of darkness. He turned toward the table and took a seat in front of his laptop; trying not to awaken his wife with the light of the screen, he turned it toward the window and repositioned himself in front of it.

  He opened the web browser and clicked on the bookmark for the Dreams Dictionary. He’d been there before and found that often times; he gained insight into things whenever he visited it. He typed in a search for flying and read the interpretation; in general, it meant that he had a positive feeling of freedom in his life. As he typed in each of the other things that he could remember from the dream, however, the interpretation became much more confusing.

  He closed the laptop and considered slipping back into bed, but noticed that the clock read 5:08. Not much point in trying to sleep for 22 minutes. He looked out the window again. This time, he saw a tiny glow from the rising sun, beyond the eastern horizon, though it would still be nearly an hour before it made a full appearance.

  He sat once more and looked over at the sleeping form. He loved her, but it was becoming more and more difficult to like her. He had hoped that their vacation to the Grand Canyon would help them restore some of the vitality which had long passed from their marriage. Initially, it had, but as the days wore on, she began to complain. Backward people, cheap motel, too dry, too dusty, the mules stink, the damned wind never stops and she hated motel beds; these were only some of the complaints that seemed to be repeated the most.

  She simply wasn’t used to a simpler way of life. She was used to being catered to by everyone. She was used to the sharp, rectangular lines of the business world in St. Louis and the predictable logic of spreadsheets and monetary facts that never changed. She hated change. He had caught the brunt of her hatred of it several times. He had aged in the past 15 years of their marriage and, like every other male in the world past the age of forty, his middle was attempting to match the width and depth of his chest.

  There was no doubt in his mind that he had become fat, old and boring. Maybe that was the real problem that she had, though she would never say it out loud. She was constantly critical, but never enough to come right out and lay out the whole truth. It was like being picked apart by ants rather than being fully devoured by a wolf. In many ways, he’d rather just be devoured and get it over with.

  He was not helping the situation, either. He simply pressed it all down inside of himself and refused to confront the obvious issues which had come between them. He hated conflict and would rather wait for things to settle down. They always did after a while, though in the recent past, his waits had been longer and longer.

  So where was the freedom that the dream interpretation had given him? He certainly could not see it arriving any time soon. The chase scene of the dream was much more accurate; it and the crying woman. His mind tried to retrace the features of her face, but failed. He wanted to try to remember her face for one of his paintings. Frustrated by his attempt to recall her, he looked at the clock once more: 5:28. That was that. He headed for the shower.

  “Let the alarm wake sleeping beauty,” he muttered to himself.

  He turned on the water and let it cover up the sound of the annoying beeping of the alarm clock. He hated the damn things and only used them on the very rare occasions when he had something pressing that he needed to start early in the morning. Today’s pressing event was their return to St. Louis.

  He stepped into the shower, ignoring whatever tirade was coming from the other side of the wall. She was very likely pissed that she had to roll over and turn off the alarm. The water flowing over his body washed away the sound and he relaxed into the feeling of its warmth. It was almost like the way that the wind had wrapped itself around him in his dream. Again, he tried to pull up the image of the woman and feel the weightlessness of flight, but it had all disappeared. The opening of the bathroom door killed it completely.

  “What time did you get up?” Melissa grumbled.

  “5:28,” he replied, just for spite. He knew what would follow, but somehow the stab seemed to give him a little bit of satisfaction.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you turn off the alarm?”

  “I thought I’d let you sleep a little longer.”

  The smile spreading across his face was hidden by the shower curtain.

  “Ba
stard,” she mumbled, closing the door behind her.

  Chapter Two

  They were on their way, but a little bit behind schedule, according to Melissa’s reckoning of things and, like always, it was Parke’s fault. He had taken too long in the shower, lingered over breakfast too long, was too slow getting the car loaded; it was a never-ending rant which he simply ignored. The final straw came when he pulled into the 24-hour convenience store to gas up.

  “Why the hell didn’t you do this last night?”

  Her penetrating glare held a particular sort of venom that burned through his skin in an attempt to consume him with fire.

  “What the fuck difference does it make if we leave at 7:12 instead of 6-fucking-59?”

  He slammed the car door as hard as he could and moved toward the handle on the pump, turning to fill the car with gas. He had finally taken all of her shit that he could handle for one morning and snapped. It would shut her up for a while and might actually make the morning drive more pleasant.

  He had mixed feelings about leaving the Grand Canyon behind. He had plenty of new photos, memories and concepts to incorporate into his paintings and was eager to return to his studio, but he could also feel the tension which had been conspicuously absent while he was enjoying the sunshine and breezes of the southwest.

  A rather sharp breeze came up suddenly and swirled around him as if it was doing a scan of his body. He let the feel of it move over him for a moment, closed his eyes and let it cleanse the tension in his soul. The wind back in St. Louis had never been able to do anything of the sort. In St. Louis, it was just another irritant to go along with the noise, the smell, the humidity and the penetrating flavor of toxic smoke in his mouth. He had escaped all of that for a while. Something had to be wrong, seriously wrong with him to want to return to it.

  His mind would have wandered further if the smell and sound of fuel overflowing from the filled tank had not brought him back quickly. He fought with the pump handle to get it to shut off, but not before a fairly generous stream of fuel spilled on the concrete and created a small stream around his shoes. His hands were soaked in it as well. He swallowed the expletive that had formed in his mouth and finally put the handle back in its holder and started into the store.

  The glare that he received from Melissa when he returned didn’t need any words along with it to let him know that she was neither happy with the extra time that he spent in the bathroom trying to get the smell of the fuel off of his hands nor of the fact that he had basically told her to fuck off earlier.

  Good, he thought. That will keep her quiet for a while. Satisfied that he would at least have a few hours of peace to enjoy his last morning in Arizona, he put the car into gear and pulled back onto the highway heading south toward Interstate 40. The sun touched his left shoulder and warmed his cheek as they traveled through the desert toward the mountains to the south and west near Flagstaff. By the time they reached Williams and turned onto Interstate 40 to head east, Melissa was asleep.

  “Thank God for small miracles,” he whispered when he looked over at her.

  She was still strikingly attractive when she was asleep. It reminded him of the early years of their relationship when she was so beautiful and pleasant to be with. She was excited by his artistic skills and loved going camping. She loved nature; she loved to feel the breeze in the open spaces and the feeling of living free. He marveled at the fact that someone who hated change so much had made such a drastic one.

  She had become the darling of the accounting firm in Tulsa and had moved rapidly into a supervisory position. Her new position demanded more of her time and energy and she began to give it more and more as well. It slowly ate away at the fragile person inside of her, helping her to find strength and belonging. As she poured more energy into her work, she moved further up the ladder of success and was asked to relocate to the main office in St. Louis, where she would take on an even more substantial role in the firm. Being much more transient in his way of thinking, as well as his means of earning income, Parke had encouraged the move; something he had begun to regret almost the moment they arrived in the gateway city.

  He contemplated the changes to their lives, their relationship and, most of all, the bitterness that seemed to cover them just like the darkness over the canyon during the night. The impossibly blue sky, the mountains, the different shades of red in the landscape and the feelings of isolation, even while being surrounded by a moderate amount of traffic, mostly semis, as they traveled along I-40 seemed to soothe him and his thoughts wandered up the long canyons and into the mountains.

  Each mesa top drew his eyes as he wondered if the thrilling ride of his dream had taken place on any one of them. In such a state of bliss, Flagstaff, Winslow and Holbrook all passed by before he was interrupted by a comment from the passenger’s seat.

  “We are now in the middle of fucking nowhere,” she announced. “Who lives here?”

  He tried to ignore her comments as they cut into the peace that he’d been having.

  “I mean, would you seriously ever consider living in a place like this?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  He regretted the answer, but was too late to stop it.

  “Seriously? You would live out here with absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go? Oh yeah, I forgot, you love nature. You’re just a painter.”

  The stab at him hurt. Rather than allow it to lead them into another confrontation, however, he decided it was better to diffuse it all.

  “I’m sorry that I yelled at you and slammed the door earlier.”

  The absence of a reply made him turn and look to see if she had heard. When he looked at her, she forced half of a smile to her face and then turned her face toward the window.

  She used to love wide open places. What had happened to her? What had changed her so drastically? Would she ever be able to break free of whatever had claimed her soul and had her entire being in chains?

  “You used to love nature too.”

  He broke the silence, still hoping the old Melissa might have a chance to break free and return to him.

  “That’s before I discovered the real world, Parke!” she snapped. “It’s about time you discovered it too.”

  Being turned away once more, he remained silent all of the way into Gallup, New Mexico, where they stopped to get something to eat. As they sat through their silent lunch, he studied the mountains to the northwest. Something about those mountains was drawing him to them, though he wasn’t completely certain what it was.

  He made another decision when they were back in the car and on their way. A decision that, once again, drew the wrath of Melissa as he turned the car onto US Highway 491 and started north. The sound cursing that he received died away as she turned away to sulk once more; something she did often whenever he decided to stand up for himself and refuse to allow her to bully him into doing things her way.

  The draw of the mountains, known as the Chuskas, had his heart pounding in a rather strange and completely inexplicable way. The further north and nearer to Chuska Peak he drove, the stronger the pull. The combination of emotions from the dream that he had the night before were vivid once more and he was suddenly able to recall the features of the beautiful woman’s face. “Naomi,” he said without realizing that the name had left his mouth.

  “What?” Melissa snapped.

  “Nothing,” he replied, hoping that she wouldn’t press further.

  Why had he spoken the name? At the eastern base of Chuska Peak, he could see a small town beginning to form along the highway in front of them. As he traveled along, a sign letting him know that they had arrived in Tohatchi went by; quite obviously, they had reached the lands of the Navajo Nation, though the sign which had announced it earlier had little effect on his consciousness. He attempted to pronounce the name as he slowed upon entering the town, well aware of the 4x4 Navajo Police vehicle waiting for someone who was in a much bigger hurry than him to pass through the quiet town.

 
Off to his left, he noticed a sign above a gray, cinder block building that read, “Tohatchi Trading Post.” Something stirred inside of him, calling him toward the rugged-looking building. He turned the wheel toward the pothole-rich, hard-packed space that served as a parking lot out in front of the store.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  The urge to stop and enter the store had completely taken over.

  “This is Indian territory, idiot. We’re probably not safe here.”

  “Then stay in the car.”

  He unhooked the seatbelt and reached for the door handle. Melissa didn’t budge.

  “Why do you insist…”

  Closing the door behind him cut off whatever rant she had begun. He focused on the front door of the building and the pull the trading post had on him. When he entered, it appeared pretty much the same as any ‘Trading Post/Souvenir Shop’ in the Southwest. Genuine Navajo rugs were for sale, though these appeared to be much better crafted than many that he’d seen and the price listed on them told him that they were indeed “the real thing.” He browsed for a few moments among the goods offered and then made his way toward the glass counter where jewelry and such was displayed.

  “Ya-tah-ay,” the heavyset man behind the counter said as he approached.

  The greeting was spoken in the sharp, interrupted way in which the natives said it, rather than the way white people tried to mimic it.

  “Hello,” he replied, taking the large, offered hand. He was too intimidated to even attempt to return the same greeting.

  “If you want a closer look at anything, let me know.”

  His voice had a deep and powerful quality to it and his face beamed. He has a happy spirit, he thought, though never in his life had he ever had such an odd thought cross his mind. His throbbing heart had not settled in the least; in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse inside of the trading post. His eyes looked through the glass at the assortment of handcrafted silver and turquoise jewelry on display. The art was exquisite and the prices on the pieces were well beyond anything in his budget, but he continued to allow his eyes to move over them feeling a mysterious bond to them.