Wicked Prayer

by Norman Partridge

  Not wanting to frighten her away.

  She was the most beautiful woman Dan had ever seen, and she kept on coming.

  She’d see him any second. She had to. She’d see him and the—

  “Oh, shit!” she said, nearly jumping out of her skin.

  Dan had to laugh. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Actually, I was trying really hard not to.”

  They made small talk. The woman looked Dan over without being overly obvious about it, and Dan tried to do the same. She was of Native American descent. But there was a little something else in the mix, because she had blue eyes. And she looked about Dan’s age—in her twenties, anyway. She smiled at him, and the smile was a little uneven, and the skin around her eyes and mouth was finely lined, as if she’d spent a lot of time outdoors.

  And there were those eyes. A deep, deep blue, like a cool drink of water to a thirsty man.

  Pretty soon, she saw the black light.

  Pretty soon, she said, “Scorpion wrangler, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tough way to make a living.”

  “There are tougher ways.”

  “Yeah, I know. . . .” She hung on to her smile, shifted the canvas bag attached to her backpack. “But when it comes to scorpions, the competition can be fierce.”

  Dan eyed the bag. “That so?”

  “Don’t know how you see it. But if you ask me, these canyons are kind of like fishing holes. And I fished this sucker dry last night.” She had him and she knew it. But she didn’t just walk away, and that was just as well, because Dan Cody suddenly found himself wanting to hold on to her.

  She tilted her head to one side. Long dark hair fell from her face in glossy ribbons. “You don’t look like one of those university boys,” she said.

  “I don’t?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Dan smiled, but she’d hit a nerve he didn’t know he had. “I don’t look smart enough ... is that it?”

  “You said it, not me,” the woman replied lightly. “So what are you up to, gringo?”

  Dan’s expression turned somber. “Actually, I work for a pharmaceutical company,” he lied. “We’re doing some preliminary clinical trials with scorpion venom. We’re hoping to find a cure.”

  “A cure for what?”

  “Smart-asses.” Dan paused for effect. “They say even serious cases like yours seem to respond to treatment.”

  The woman stared at him for a long, deadpan moment.

  Then she burst out laughing.

  Dan did, too.

  “All right, all right,” she said. “You got me, gringo. I’m sorry. I just meant to say that you don’t look like the typical dork entomology student with the brand-new pair of hiking boots and the brand- new specimen cup and the brand-new bottle of SPF 45 sunblock. Trust me. I’ve seen enough of them to know the look. And you look. . .”

  She stopped, considering Dan.

  “You look like you belong here,” she said finally.

  Dan realized he’d been holding his breath again. “So do you,” he said, not drawing another until he got the words out.

  A moment passed between them. Dan couldn’t take it—he looked away.

  “So,” she said. “Gringo. What are you doing out here?”

  “I have a contract with one of the professors at the University of Arizona. Emily Carlisle. I round up scorpions, bring ’em in, and she uses the little suckers in her research.”

  The woman raised one coal-black eyebrow. “Don’t tell me— Dr Carlisle’s the one working on a cure for smart-asses.”

  “Actually, Emily’s kind of a smart-ass herself”

  “Uh-huh . . . and she’s the one who sent you out here tonight?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Off your usual beaten path, is it?”

  “Yeah. . . . How’d you know?”

  “Well, all I’m saying is that Cuervo Canyon’s a long drive from the U.”

  “Yeah. In fact, that’s just what Emily said.”

  “Then in this case your friend the doctor knows what she’s talking about.” The woman stretched and reshouldered her pack. “It was nice talking to you, but I really have to get going. Happy hunting.”

  She turned and started walking. Dan watched her go. He could see strongly defined shoulder muscles through that white cotton shirt, the hem of it flapping in the hot wind, and he liked the way the woman’s hair fell over her back in a long black curtain like a bird’s wing. She was smart, and funny, and just a little mysterious—

  And she was leaving.

  Dan shouted after her, and she turned.

  "What about you?” he asked. “What’s your story?”

  “My story?”

  “I mean the scorpions. You make house pets of the things?”

  “No.” She patted the canvas bag. “Paperweights.”

  Instantly, Dan thought she must be kidding. She was way too smart to be bug wrangler for some tourist trap. A woman like this, she could have worked for a pharmaceutical company or a university, minus the pocket protector

  Dan had to know the real answer, but the woman turned again. Just like the mule deer he’d seen earlier.

  She was leaving. Definitely—

  “Adios, gringo,” she called over her shoulder.

  Dan left his stuff and hurried after the woman, who had started down a different trail than the one Dan had used to enter the canyon.

  That meant that there was another entrance somewhere.

  The woman was heading for her vehicle. Maybe it wasn’t too far off.

  She was heading out of Dan’s life. Maybe forever.

  “Wait a second,” he called. “Where are you from? What’s your name?”

  The woman didn’t even turn. “If you really want answers, you’ll find a way to get them. After all, we’re in the same business. It’s a small pond. . . . Didn’t I tell you sometimes the holes run dry?”

  Dan squinted through the fading sunlight.

  He knew that the woman was right.

  The same way he knew that he didn’t want her to go.

  And then she was gone, in a flash of sunlight that burst over the top of the canyon like liquid gold.

  And there was nothing to prove that she’d been there at all.

  Paperweights, the woman had said.

  As clues went, even a straight-ahead guy like Dan Cody could run with that one. For the next two months, he stopped at every tourist trap in southern Arizona. Southern New Mexico, too, because Cuervo Canyon was near the state border. He hit every trading post, barradorio, gas station and mini-market he could think of, trying to get a line on the scorpion wrangler with the blue, blue eyes.

  But he came up dry every time. No one seemed to know who the woman was.

  So, like any good detective, Dan returned to the scene of the crime. He spent his spare time in the dry, still heat of Cuervo Canyon, hoping to find the cool oasis of the mystery woman’s eyes.

  But the desert held on to its secrets. The woman didn’t return. So Dan branched out, hit the neighboring canyons, arroyos, washes, wastelands, mountains, and valleys, still searching . . .

  And he came up dry every time.

  After two months of searching, Dan Cody figured enough was enough. If he kept this up, he’d be certifiable by summertime.

  But for Dan, metaphorically speaking, summer was already here. It was long and it was hot, and the scorching heat baked straight through his soul until his heart was as dry as an empty clay cup.

  Dry as the desert wind that blew endlessly through Cuervo Canyon.

  Though he didn’t want to admit it, Dan had never been so thirsty in his life.

  It was Emily Carlisle who finally led the horse to water, on a blistering afternoon when Dan dropped off a bag of scorpions at the primitive field office four miles southeast of Desert Station in Tucson Mountain Park.

  Emily handed Dan his paycheck, and they did a little catching up. They talked about how busy they’d both been the past few m
onths, though Dan didn’t mention anything about the scorpion wrangler he’d met at Cuervo Canyon. When they finished with the chitchat they talked shop, discussing the stretch of desert where Dan had picked up the latest batch of scorpions.

  Soon Dan said his adios and headed for the door.

  Emily said, “Mind if I ask you a personal question, Dan?”

  Dan turned. “Shoot.”

  “Why don’t I ever see you with anyone?”

  “What are you talking about?” He grinned. “I’m always surrounded by company. In fact, there are about a hundred of my closest friends squirming around in that bag on your desk. And they’re pretty anxious to get acquainted with you.”

  Emily laughed. “Hell, Dan, you know that isn’t what I meant.”

  “Yeah ... I guess I do.”

  “So?”

  “So, what?”

  “Dan, I don’t pry into your life, do I?”

  Dan hesitated. He knew what was coming, and he didn’t like it. Maybe it was time to cut out of here, anyhow. He’d saved up some money. He could quit this job, find another—

  “Dan?"

  He sighed. “No, you don’t pry. Dr. Carlisle. And I appreciate that. In fact, I return the favor, because I could ask you the same question if I wanted to. How come I don’t ever see you with anyone?”

  “Fair enough.” Emily inhaled deeply, gathering herself “I promise that someday I’ll tell you my story. But right now we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you—”

  “No, you’re talking about me.” Dan sighed again, wishing Emily would drop the whole thing, or change the subject.

  Maybe he’d try the latter himself. “Being alone’s not so bad,” he said.

  “Name me one good thing about it.”

  “Keeps me from drinking too much.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’ll tell you. Doc. You hang around people and you end up talking. Your throat gets dry, and then you need something to drink.”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “It’s simple—you don’t talk, you don’t get so thirsty.”

  “You’re not thirsty, Dan?”

  Dan held on to his grin, but it was weak around the edges—a sandstone cliff crumbling under its own weight. “I told you,” he said. “Being alone’s not so bad.”

  “That’s the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard in my life.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s my bullshit.”

  “When’s the last time you were out with a girl, Dan?”

  “I don’t see that’s any of your business.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “You can ask what you want, but that doesn’t mean you’re gonna get an answer”

  “When’s the last time you got fucked, Dan?”

  Dan actually blushed. “Jesus, Emily—”

  “Did I shock you, Dan?” She chuckled. “I bet you didn’t think a dull old academic desert rat like me could ever stumble upon a word like that.”

  “That’s not it,” Dan said. But that was exactly it. He’d had conversations like this plenty of times. They usually ended with him walking out a door and never coming back through it. But there was something about Emily Carlisle that kept him from doing that. He understood exactly what she was trying to say, in her own inimitable roundabout manner. She might not have said so in so many words, but Emily Carlisle cared about Dan Cody.

  And he cared about her. So he gave the woman an answer, and she listened attentively. He told her about the woman he’d met in Cuervo Canyon two months before. He told her how hard he’d tried to find that woman. He told Emily about all the tourist traps, trading posts, barradorios, gas stations, and mini-markets that he’d checked off his list. He told her about all the canyons, arroyos, washes, wastelands, and valleys he’d crossed.

  He told her how much he needed to see that elusive woman’s blue, blue eyes.

  When he finished, Emily said, “She wants to see you, too.”

  Dan was silent a full minute. Then: “How do you know that?”

  Emily smiled. “She told me.”

  “She—”

  “Told me. The woman you’re looking for, Dan, is named Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin. She’s a former grad student of mine.” Dan could hardly think straight. Suddenly everything fell into place: Emily’s mysterious little comment on the day she’d first sent him to Cuervo Canyon: “You’ve got a good eye, Cody. Just bring back anything interesting.” The surprised gleam in Leticia Hardin’s eyes when Dan first mentioned Dr Carlisle.

  But why hadn’t the woman said anything to him about knowing Emily?

  She probably didn’t like the idea of being “fixed up” any more than you do, idiot, Dan thought. And that’s probably why she took off like she did. I’ll bet she headed straight for a phone, called Emily and read her the riot act—

  “Emily Carlisle, you scheming arachnologist,” Dan said.

  “I didn’t almost win the Nobel Prize for nothing,” Emily reminded him.

  “So this Leticia, she’s a grad student. . . but she told me she collected scorpions for paperweights. She slumming or something?”

  “She’s a former grad student. And she does collect scorpions for paperweights. She’s been doing it since she was eight years old. Her dad casts them and sells them at the Spirit Song Trading Post. Highway 80. Outside of Scorpion Flats.”

  Scorpion Flats. Dan struck his fist to his palm. “Goddamn it!”

  “I guess you didn’t look everywhere.” Emily smiled, taking Dan’s tanned hand in her own warm brown one. For the first time, he noticed the set of thick white gold and turquoise rings on the third finger of her left hand. “I'll tell you this, Dan Cody," she said. “A woman can’t wait forever. Take it from me: I know that girl. She won’t.”

  A man can't wait forever, either, Dan thought.

  But he said: “Scorpion Flats?”

  Emily Carlisle smiled, patting the back of his hand before she released it. “Right. Scorpion Flats. Now get out of here. I have work to do.”

  Dan got.

  First date: Dan Cody brought Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin a bag of scorpions, and she laughed and said she’d get more use out of them than a fistful of roses. They went for a drive, and they hiked down into the twisting sandstone heart of Cuervo Canyon. There they built a fire and cooked dinner over it: rare mesquite-grilled steaks and roasted corn and sweet peppers. To this they added prickly pear salsa and something Leticia called Bacheeitche bean cakes, which she said were handed down from a traditional family recipe.

  Dan just said the cakes were damn tasty. They washed down the meal with a six-pack of Mexican beer

  Leti explained that she was half Crow Indian on her mother’s side. The blue eyes she’d inherited from her dad. “He’s just a plain old paleface from Tucson,” she said with a loving smile. “But man, can he cook some mean Bacheeitche bean cakes!”

  Dan opened another bottle of beer for each of them, and they talked and laughed like they were long-lost friends who’d met up on a lonely trail ride. For his part, Dan had never wanted to tell anyone as much as he told Leticia. Everything he told her, it was like emptying some place inside where things had lingered much too long. Everything she told him, it was like filling that place back up with something fresh and new.

  Leticia talked about her mother, a nationally renowned Native American painter, Julia Dreams the Truth. She talked about her father, who’d seen an exhibition of Julia’s paintings at the Desert Rose Gallery in Tucson and decided right there on the spot that he had to know the woman behind the “Spirit Dance” watercolors. She talked of her parents’ great love, explained how they’d opened the trading post together, told Dan how wonderful it had been growing up in a place like that.

  And then she spoke of her mother’s death, and her father’s despondency in the years that followed. Dan learned that Leticia had dropped out of grad school to take the reins of the Spirit Song when her Dad’s old bronc-bustin’ rodeo injuries forced him
into semiretirement.

  “Listen to me go on,” she said finally. “I must be boring you to death.”

  “No,” Dan said. “It’s great listening to you. I really love it.”

  And then he fell silent. She’d told him so much about herself, and her family. He’d told her things, too. Things he’d done, places he’d been, disappointments he’d endured. But when it came to family . . . and to love ... he didn’t know what to say.

  When it came to family . . . and to love . . . Dan worried that he had nothing to say at all.

  “You know,” Leticia said softly, warm firelight painting her face, “my mother’s people made their shields from rawhide. But the Crow warrior’s shields were stronger than the animal skins from which they were fashioned. The strength came from spiritual power, the same power that created the earth.”

  Dan laughed uneasily. “Yeah . . . well, maybe sometime you could paint up one of those shields for me. I seem to go through a lot of them.”

  “Maybe I could do that, Dan. Or maybe I could teach you how to do it yourself Sometimes young warriors painted symbols on their shields, things they’d seen in visions . . . Have you ever seen anything in a vision?”

  “Only you,” Dan said, and on impulse he took her in his arms, and he kissed her, and her kiss was as sweet as mountain spring water to his thirsting Ups.

  When the night grew cold they wrapped themselves up in an old Navajo blanket and stared at the full white moon. They held hands like two shivering little kids, and Dan felt Leticia’s warm body next to his, her head leaning against his shoulder, and he couldn’t remember a time when he’d had anything like this, anything close to this.

  If this were fate, he’d take it. . .

  Dan held Leticia now.

  Held her close, wrapped in a Navajo blanket, even as his arms ached from shoveling hard, dry dirt, ached from carrying her cold, stiff body . . .

  But he couldn’t let go of Leticia. Not now.

  Not yet.

  He sat at the heart of Cuervo Canyon, in the place he’d first met Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin. He sat by her open grave, where night-shrouded spires speared the silver eye of the moon, where that very same moon wept silver teardrops that splashed down the rocks to the dry canyon floor.