Though she hated herself for it, Leticia had to admit that the junkie-thin woman scared her a lot more than the man with the powerful biceps and broad shoulders. Of the two, she was obviously the one in control. Anyone could see that. Even a dead man.
But Leticia kept her eyes fixed on Johnny Church. He was the one with the weapons. The weapons Leticia could see, anyway. And he was standing right in front of her, an ugly, unavoidable fact of life.
“This doesn’t have to happen,” Leticia said. “It’s not too late. Just let me talk to Dan. He’ll leave.”
“Fuck that.”
“Then let me lock the door. If he can’t get in, he can’t cause any trouble. He doesn’t know for sure that I’m here, and he hasn’t seen me. He’ll think I’ve closed up, gone home early—”
Church spat laughter. “Do you really expect me to believe a locked door is going to stop someone like that?”
Church gestured at Dan Cody, still standing beside his Jeep. Still staring into the dark eye of the adobe’s front window.
That window was threaded with dream catchers, red willow hoops webbed with nettlestalk cord dyed red with bloodroot and wild inner plum bark. The dream catchers, which traditionally were suspended from a child’s cradle board, were good luck charms of a sort, said to trap evil forces. But to Leticia, staring at Dan through slashes of blood-red cord, the dream catchers looked more like the crosshairs of a shotgun.
“Why the hell is he just standing there?” Church demanded. “Why doesn’t he come in?”
Leticia didn’t answer.
Dan, don't come in here, sweetheart, she thought. Bad fucking medicine. Stay away.
Church swiveled neatly and stared straight into the depths of Leticia’s blue, blue eyes. He raised a .357 Magnum vertically until the barrel was parallel to his hard chiseled features. “I’ll ask you one more time,” he said. “What’s the cowboy waiting for?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“I’m not going to kill him, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Church said. “Believe me. The last thing I want is another man’s blood on my hands. Murder’s bad karma . . . the kind of shit that gets you in serious trouble with the watchdogs of eternity, and then you end up spending your next life as some penance-chasing nohope who wipes the asses of lepers or something. No fuckin’ thanks. That ain’t for Johnny Church.”
The big man lowered the .357 and smiled. Slowly, fully, as if coldly amused. He had a perfect smile, and he knew it. But his perfect smile did nothing to put Leticia at ease. The stranger’s eyes were pale and cold and gray as the dead side of the moon.
“Didn’t mean to get all metaphysical on you, Pocahontas,” Church said, and then he turned to Kyra. “I can’t fuckin’ take this, Ky. You think this cowboy knows what’s going on? You think maybe a little bird told him?”
Kyra was silent a moment, her intent green eyes trained on the man in the parking lot. “No,” she said finally. “This cowboy doesn’t know shit.”
“If you’d just let me talk to him,” Leticia said. “I can make him go away.”
“Get this straight, Pocahontas. No talk. No smoke signals, either.” Under any other circumstances Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin would have scalped a man for less of an insult than that, or so Dan Cody liked to kid her. This time, she hardly noticed the slander. She said: “I swear that I can make him leave.”
“I already told you: we’re not taking that chance.”
“Please—”
Johnny grinned pitilessly. “How ’bout ‘pretty please with a cherry on top’?”
“But—”
“Hold on, Pocahontas,” Kyra said. “Here comes your mystery date.” Leticia turned to the window, saw Dan Cody through dream catcher crosshairs. His worn leather jacket was open in the warm night air, revealing a well-toned torso.
Kyra smirked. “Will your date be a dreamboat... or a dud?” Leticia didn’t even hear the snide remark; she saw the bag of scorpions in Dan’s left hand.
The roses in his right.
Oh, God, Leticia thought, and a cold hand closed over her heart. “It doesn’t look like the cowboy’s got a gun,” Johnny said. “But it’s hard to know for sure.”
Leticia’s bright blue gaze speared the big man. “You said you wouldn’t hurt him—”
“Don’t worry, Pocahontas.” Church tapped the barrel of the .357 Magnum to the side of his head, then flashed Leticia another Ultra Brite smile. “Just do what I tell you, and this will all be over soon.”
A moment before, in the parking lot, Dan Cody thought: This will all be over soon.
While Leticia Hardin begged Johnny Church to leave Dan alone, the object of that debate had returned to the driver’s side of his Jeep, where he’d reached under the seat for a heavy leather glove, which he drew over his left hand, buckling it at the wrist. Then Dan had bent across the seat, just as a final please crossed Leticia’s lips, and he’d gathered up the canvas bag with his gloved hand, the roses with the hand that was naked.
He’d left his pistol behind. He’d left his shotgun behind.
He figured he didn’t need them.
Not tonight.
Tonight, his business was with roses and scorpions . . . and a blue-eyed woman named Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin.
Dan headed toward the neon-lit trading post, roses in one hand, scorpions in the other. He gripped the roses tightly, so apprehensive that he didn’t even notice as a sharp thorn punctured his lifeline.
It's all right, Cody, he told himself.
This will all be over soon.
“Well color me yeller and call me Custer,” Johnny said. “No wonder the son of a bitch was holdin’ back. Looks like your cavalry man’s bringing you a boo-kay of flowers, Pocahontas!”
“Roses.” Kyra Damon let out a derisive little snort. “He should have brought Indian Paintbrush, to go with the decor.”
Johnny let loose a donkey laugh, and Kyra pulled out the Walther PPK she’d tucked under her black leather belt. The little automatic was fully loaded, and while Kyra didn’t intend to use it, she liked to be prepared.
Instant respect, Kyra thought, her finger finding the trigger. Just add bullets.
That’s what this was about. Aim a gun at someone’s head and they were markedly more open to suggestion. That’s the way it would be with the cowboy. As in: Get your ass on the floor, motherfucker. And give it a good long lick while I tie your motherfucking jack-off hands behind your back, because you and that floor are gonna get real down and dirty before we’re done. That’s better, amigo. Now don’t make a move and you won’t get hurt. Much.
Kyra’s black lips played with a smile that was definitely on the south side of sneer. She eased one of the dangling dream catchers out of her line of sight. The desert rat walking toward the trading post didn’t really look like much of a threat, but something about him made her tattoos tingle—
After all, this was the Wild West. And sure, the roses the guy was carrying were nothing to worry about . . . but there was that canvas bag, too. No reason to believe the cowboy would bring a piece along on a date—leastwise, not that kind of a piece—but he could have a .45 or two stashed in that scruffy-ass bag.
Or maybe the .45s were tucked under his leather jacket, snuggled in a pair of shoulder holsters like a couple of fat rattlesnakes warm and cozy in their burrows.
Maybe. Because in the world Kyra Damon knew, almost anything was possible.
Maybe, but not this time. No way this guy knew what was waiting for him . . . Kyra’s patented sixth sense had told her that.
No way . . . unless the Crow had warned him somehow.
Suddenly, the chromed chain around Kyra’s neck seemed way too tight, and she could hardly breathe. Get a grip, girl, she told herself. The Crow hasn’t told this guy shit. This cowboy's alive, and the living can’t hear the black bird’s music.
Dan Cody was alive, and that was Kyra’s protection. As far as she was concerned the cowboy was going to stay that
way. Let Pocahontas think what she wanted. . . . Hell, let her imagination run the fuck away with hen Whatever edged up the intimidation meter another level worked just fine for Kyra Damon—
Outside, Dan Cody’s boots rattled across gravel . . . then rapped over solid cement as he approached the trading post.
Kyra watched him come. She knew better than to choke like this . . . knew there was nothing to worry about . . . knew just as well that her heart was in her fucking throat.
Outside, a determined slap of a leather strap on leather jacket as Cody swung the canvas bag over his right shoulder as if it were packed full of ammo.
Kyra swallowed hard, trying to choke her heart back into her chest. What is it about this guy, anyway? she asked herself. It's as if he’s looking straight through me. As if he’s saying, “I know you’re in there, bitch. And in one short minute. I'm gonna open my bag, and pull out my gun, and blow you away with one well-placed shot—"
Kyra could almost hear the taunting cackle of the Crow in the distance.
Stop it, Kyra. Right this fucking minute. You're being stupid. Stupid, because this guy doesn’t know shit. If he knew you were waiting for him, he wouldn’t have brought long-stemmed roses. He'd have brought a long-stemmed assault rifle. Make that a dozen long-stemmed assault rifles and a box of chocolate-covered grenades—
“Let’s get ready to rrrrrrumble,” Johnny said.
Kyra shot her partner a quick glance. “Stay cool, Johnny. Remember what we’re here for.” Then she turned to Leticia: “Don’t do anything stupid, and you and your cowboy will get to live another day. You got me? ”
The Native woman nodded, her eyes gleaming with anger. Kyra bristled. The cowboy was one thing, but this was another. No way was Kyra letting this little bitch get to her. “I’ll bet you’d just love to scratch my eyes out,” she said. “But I’ve got news for you, Pocahontas—the sweetest kittens have the sharpest claws.”
“And Ky’s got the sharpest claws of all.” Johnny laughed. “I got the scars to prove it.”
Kyra swallowed hard, and it was like she was choking down her heart. The sound of Johnny’s laughter calmed her. He had a sexy laugh. Pocahontas, sullen-faced, said nothing. In this light, her eyes didn’t look blue at all. They looked black.
Black as a Crow’s wing—
Outside, a rasping sound hacksawed the silence.
Kyra whirled toward the window. In the parking lot, the night flapped over the cowboy’s shoulders, talons raking his long dark hair.
Not the night, Kyra realized with a terrified start.
The Crow.
The motherfucking Crow.
“Damn it, get out of here!” Dan said, twisting away from the clawing bird.
Three scything flaps of its wings and the Crow was twenty feet away, on the other side of the parking lot.
Dark there, an empty landscape knotted with shadows.
Dan squinted. Wait just a minute. That landscape wasn’t quite as empty as it first appeared.
The bird flapped its wings, then landed on something that looked like a steel hunk of midnight.
Dan stopped in his tracks and stared across the parking lot.
The bird was perched on a cherried-out ’49 Merc.
“Great,” Kyra Damon said. “Just great. The son of a bitch just saw the car.” She paused, peering through the dusty glass. Then; “Looks like he’s gonna walk over there and check it out. Son of a bitch!"
Johnny Church shrugged. “So what? There’s nothing strange about a car in a parking lot. Even if it is one hot fucking rod, if I do say so myself”
“Yeah, nothing strange about a car,” Kyra said, turning on Johnny with unexpected ferocity, “but the feathered bastard sitting on the hood is something else entirely.”
Leticia Hardin’s eyes moved from the man to the woman, then back to the man. Watching. Waiting. Weighing reactions.
“Relax,” Johnny told Kyra. “The bird can’t do anything to us as long as we play by its rules. What does it weigh? A pound, maybe two? Its guts wouldn’t even fill a diaper.”
“Never underestimate your opponent.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that.” Johnny walked over to the window where Kyra stood, looking outside.
“Easy, Johnny,” Kyra warned. “Keep out of the cowboy’s line of sight.”
“Christ almighty. Would you relax already? Now that the idiot’s finally moving, he won’t be a problem. He’ll come through the door, I’ll whack him on the head, tie him up, and then—”
Behind the counter, Leticia made a small, tentative movement.
Kyra’s eyes locked on her like dead bolts while Johnny Church, who seemed not only to possess a perfect smile but perfect hearing and reflexes as well, pivoted on his heel and aimed the .357 at the center of the Native woman’s forehead in less time than it took Leticia to blink one blue eye.
Leticia froze.
“Uh uh, Pocahontas,” Johnny said. “You stay where you are. You try anything, and I mean anything, and your boyfriend will get hurt real bad. Oh, I won’t kill him. I promised you that. But what I’ll do to him will be worse than dyin’. You can believe me on that one.”
Leticia didn’t move.
Johnny lowered the gun. “There’s a good little Indian.”
“Fuck you,” Leticia spat, unable to still her tongue.
“Anytime, Pocahontas. Your teepee or mine?”
“Shut up, both of you,” Kyra hissed. “Johnny, if the cowboy looks inside the car, we’re gonna be in serious shit.”
“Oooh, my Spidey senses are tingling,” the big man said. ‘‘Can't— seem—to—think—"
“I’m telling you this, Johnny; if the Crow gets a message to this cowboy ...”
“And I’m telling you this; the guy doesn’t even know when to get a haircut, for fuck’s sake. He sure as hell doesn’t know how to talk to a fucking bird, even one that made the trip from the far side of eternity. And the bird can’t talk to him, ’cause he ain’t dead.”
“But you know the bird will try. The Crow’s not stupid, Johnny. It knows what we’re doing, and it won’t go gentle into this good night. Not without a fight.”
“As long as we don’t give it a corpse to work with, the bird can’t do shit.”
“A bird?" Leticia interrupted. “You’re worried about... a bird?"
Kyra Damon turned and regarded the woman with cold eyes. For a moment, she’d almost forgotten the little piece of meat was there.
Pretty little thing with pretty little blue eyes.
Blue eyes that couldn't see a thing.
“You’re part Indian, right?” Kyra said.
“What the hell business is it of yours what I am?”
“What tribe do you belong to?”
“What kind of question is that?”
Kyra, losing patience, abruptly cocked her gun and aimed it in Leticia’s direction. “I said what tribe."
Leticia stared down the short barrel of the PPK. “Crow,” she said quickly. “I’m half Crow. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Then birds must be kinda sorta sacred to you, huh?”
Leticia didn’t answer, but that was all right with Kyra. “Let me tell you a thing or two, Pocahontas. Your mother was Julia Dreams the Truth—a full-blooded Crow of the Mountain Crow Nation. Born in Montana, just a burning eagle feather away from the Valley of the Little Bighorn.”
Leticia said, “If you know that, then why—?”
Kyra cut her short. “Your daddy, of course, was a white man. A white Irish-American with blue eyes that he passed on to you. And an Irish temper, too, if your smart mouth is any indication. And that’s as close to an answer as you’re going to get right now. The rest you’ll just have to wait for.” Kyra took a little breath, smiled nastily. "That is, if you think you can stand the suspense.”
“Look, if this thing is about race ... If you two don’t like the color of my skin, then take it out on me. Leave Dan out of it.”
Johnny la
ughed. “This ain’t about race, Pocahontas. Not unless you’ve got bird blood runnin’ through your veins.”
“You’re both crazy,” Leticia said. “Flat out crazy. You come in here with guns in your hands, but you say you don’t want my money. Then you demand to know what tribe I’m from, but you say this isn’t about racism. If you’re not on some kind of trans-American ethnic-cleansing road trip, then just what the hell is this about?”
The bitch was way past terrified, Kyra could tell, and that terror was giving her strength.
“Better watch it,” Kyra warned.
“Is it Dan? Is he the one you’re after?”
“I think you’ve asked enough questions for now.”
“You’re right. I have asked enough questions. Now I want answers.”
The blue-eyed Crow woman stared at Kyra, waiting for answers, defiance burning in her eyes.
Kyra shook her head.
Defiance.
Kyra wondered if she’d still see that when she cut those blue eyes right out of Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin’s pretty little head.
Outside, the Crow cawed a warning, but it was a warning the man could not understand.
This came as no surprise to the dark messenger. The man was not dead—not in the literal sense, though the Crow knew the man had counted himself among the walking reanimated for many years—and only the dead could truly understand the rasping music of the Crow.
Still, the bird had to try to warn the man. Its beak parted, and its brittle cry tore at the silence, but the man only smiled.
“All right,” Dan Cody said. “I give up. Which one are you— Hekyll or Jekyll?”
This isn’t about me, the Crow called. Don’t look at me. Look at the car. Look closely. . . .
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