Tears of the Shaman

by Rebecca Daniels

  Mallory looked at the array of silver jewelry again. The crescents and stars were various sizes and designs, but they all bore an eerie likeness to the ones she and Marissa wore around their necks. “This is very strange.”

  “Maybe.” Graywolf shrugged, blowing out the match and reaching up to switch off the light. “But then so is reading your sister’s mind.”

  Mallory had to smile. “You have a point. Has this ever happened to you before?” she asked, gesturing to the silver on the table. “I mean with the jewelry and everything?”

  With the electric light off, the small room was filled with the soft yellow glow of the oil lamp. Graywolf regarded her carefully from across the workbench, wondering absently if her white skin would feel as silky and as soft as it looked. “Not really.”

  It was obvious that he didn’t want to talk to her about the significance between the silver pieces he’d made and their necklaces, but she could understand that. Telling people about her “feelings” was something she wasn’t very comfortable with, either. “This is what you do then, for a living?” she asked, changing the subject. “You’re a silversmith?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And the rest of the time?”

  He walked slowly toward her. In the lamplight, her skin looked flawless, and her long blond hair appeared as fluid and rich as pure, thick honey. Again he thought of the incident in the bar, of his crude actions and unreasonable anger. He’d been bent on frightening her then, determined to humiliate her so that she’d never bother him again. They were from different worlds, different planets. But he was still a man, and despite his anger, the man in him hadn’t been able to ignore her softness, hadn’t been able to deny the perfect feel of her body against his.

  “The rest of the time,” he said, coming to a stop just inches from her, “I’m just a savage.”

  Mallory stared into his dark, cryptic eyes and felt her heart lurch in her chest. She remembered how he’d looked in the gloom of the tavern—wild, unpredictable, dangerous. She was suddenly aware of the darkness, of the desolation, and of the isolated location. What had ever possessed her to follow him? She was alone, helpless, with a man she knew nothing about. He was a stranger, and a self-proclaimed savage. For all she knew, he could be a madman.

  “I should pay you,” she said, her voice sounding small and faraway to her own ears.

  “Yes, you should,” he said nonchalantly. Her discomfort was so obvious, there was no need for second sight. He could see it in her eyes, could spot it in her every move. How typical of the biligaana to still fear the red man, to quiver and cower at the thought of a savage.

  “Would you take a credit card?” she asked, fumbling for her purse as the sound of her heart pounded in her head.

  He threw his head back and laughed. “What does this look like, lady? A fancy boutique?”

  “No, you’re right, of course,” she mumbled, her nervousness leaving her brain momentarily impaired. “Would traveler’s cheques be all right?”

  “Cash would be better,” he said, gazing down at the tablet of American Express drafts in her hand. “But traveler’s cheques will do.”

  “What is your usual retainer?”

  “Two thousand,” he said, purposely making the amount hefty and noticing she didn’t even blink an eye. It never ceased to amaze him how the white man took his wealth for granted.

  “Okay, so how do we do this?” she asked, fishing out a pen from the bottom of her bag. “Half now, and the rest when you find my sister?”

  “Two thousand,” Graywolf repeated solemnly. “Up front.”

  “The whole thing?”

  “The whole thing.”

  “But what if you just take the money and...”

  “And what? Take off?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “That’s just a chance you’ll have to take.”

  Mallory’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something about me you don’t like? Or are you always a bastard?”

  “Two thousand up front, lady,” he repeated, wondering why it pleased him so to irritate her. He wasn’t the kind of man who normally got a charge out of giving women a hard time. This one just seemed to make it so easy. “Take it or leave it.”

  Mallory whipped open the tablet of checks and began signing furiously. When she’d finished, she tossed the cheques onto the workbench in front of him. “Two thousand, up front. When can you start?”

  “First thing in the morning,” he said, picking up the tablet and fanning through it. “Leave me a number where I can reach you. I’ll be in touch.”

  “What do you mean, you’ll be in touch?”

  He looked up from the traveler’s cheques and shrugged. “I mean, I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Oh, no,” Mallory said, shaking her head. “I’m not going to just sit around and wait for you. I’m in on this thing, too.”

  “Uh-uh,” Graywolf said, shaking his head now. “I work alone, lady.”

  “You work for me,“ she pointed out.

  He glared down at her. Her blue eyes looked green in the amber glow of the lamp. There was no trace of fear in them any longer, no apprehension or uneasiness. They were filled only with anger—anger and stubborn determination. He could push her, it seemed, but only so far.

  “I have a friend on the force in Flagstaff. I’ll be heading there in the morning to talk with him.”

  Mallory yanked the zipper of her purse closed, satisfied that was as close to an agreement as she was going to get from him. With their business concluded, she stalked across the small room toward the door. But before she could reach for the handle, it turned and the door swung wide. Startled, Mallory jumped back.

  “Yaa’ eh t’eeh,” said the old man standing in the doorway. He moved slowly across the threshold, his bent, withered frame making him look unbelievably delicate. But when he looked up at Mallory, his dark eyes grew bright, and a wide smile broke across his weathered face. “Do I know the beautiful yellow hair?”

  “Hello, Grandfather,” Graywolf said respectfully, slipping the tablet of traveler’s cheques into the pocket of his jacket. “This is...”

  He looked at her as his voice trailed off.

  “Mallory Wakefield,” she quickly added, extending her hand. From the corner of her eye, she saw Graywolf’s dark scowl, and wondered what tribal custom she’d broken with the gesture.

  “This is Hosteen Johnny.” Graywolf dispensed with the Navajo tradition of making introductions by maternal clans. The courtesy would only be wasted on the white woman. “My grandfather.”

  “It’s very nice meeting you Mr.—er...sir,” Mallory stammered, feeling heat fill her cheeks.

  “Remind me, since my memory is old and not so good anymore, but we’ve never met before, have we?” Hosteen Johnny Bistie asked, holding her hand gently in his. “I’m sure I would have remembered Hair of Sunshine.”

  Mallory smiled, suspecting that despite what he said, there wasn’t much that escaped those bright eyes that danced lively behind the careworn face. In the dim light of the lamp, he studied her carefully. “No, we’ve never met before.”

  “She’s hired me,” Graywolf said, stepping across the room. “To find her sister.”

  Hosteen Johnny’s smile faded slowly. “You must need help badly to come so far a distance.”

  “Yes,” Mallory murmured, getting the uneasy impression that the old man saw more than he let on. “Yes, I do.”

  Hosteen Johnny gestured to his grandson with a nod of his head. “You’ve made a wise choice. Ben—he’s a good tracker. He’ll find your sister.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Mallory said sincerely.

  “Miss Wakefield was just leaving,” Graywolf announced curtly, not caring if he sounded rude or not. The situation made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want the white woman patronizing his grandfather, didn’t want her smiling and winning an old man’s heart.

  “You’ve seen the beautiful silver jewelry,” Hosteen Johnny said, ignoring his grandson’s
rudeness and leading Mallory by the hand back into the room.

  “Yes,” Mallory said, aware how Graywolf watched her with such angry eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

  “For many generations my clan has worked with the earth.” He looked down at the array of moons and stars displayed across the workbench, making a sweeping gesture over them with his hand. “It is a gift to create such beauty. It is the work of my father, and my father’s father.” He stopped and looked at his grandson. “But Ben, he has a special talent.”

  “Miss Wakefield has a long drive ahead of her,” Graywolf insisted, reaching for the handle and holding the door open. “We shouldn’t keep her, Grandfather.”

  “He didn’t want to follow the road of his fathers. He ran away. He went to the city of the white man.” Hosteen Johnny shook his head, making a sound of disgust. “Washington, D.C. His work was not special there.”

  Mallory’s eyes grew wide with surprise. Benjamin Graywolf in Washington? What had he been doing there? She looked at him, standing beside the open doorway. In the dim light his face was shadowed, and his stern, rigid features gave nothing away.

  “But he is home now,” Hosteen Johnny continued. “Where he belongs. Doing the work of his fathers as a shaman, keeping the People in harmony with the universe.” Hosteen Johnny led Mallory back across the room to the door, patting her hand with his. “He will find your sister.”

  Mallory felt her eyes sting with tears. The old man’s words sounded so reassuring, so promising, and she wanted so much to believe him. She prayed he was right, prayed that Benjamin Graywolf would find Marissa—safe and alive—and bring her back.

  Driving home after she’d mumbled a courteous goodbye and had arranged a time to meet Graywolf at the Flagstaff police department, she thought of Hosteen Johnny. Staring into the small circle of light created in the blackness by her headlights, she thought of the things he’d said. She’d gotten the strange feeling he was telling her more than just the words he had said. Did the “special talents” of his grandson have anything to do with the crescent moon and clusters of stars? And the part about D.C. had surprised her. What had taken Graywolf there?

  Mallory moved one hand from the steering wheel to the chain around her neck. Feeling the delicate gold pendant against her fingers, she wondered about Marissa’s cluster of stars and where it was at this moment.

  An almost overwhelming feeling of sadness and uneasiness filled her, and she pressed her foot down harder on the accelerator. Benjamin Graywolf had to find Marissa—and he had to find her soon.

  * * *

  “You hired him?”

  Mallory nodded, staring down at the message sliding across the face of the fax machine. It wasn’t the one she’d been waiting for and she looked up, frustrated. “To find my sister.”

  “Hmm,” Wayne Clair mused, tapping an absent finger against his lips. “I’m surprised Graywolf is doing that again.”

  “Doing what?” Mallory asked, forgetting about the fax machine for a moment.

  Wayne leaned back in his chair, the glass panels behind him showing a spectacular view of Flagstaff’s skyline. “The reports Glen is faxing should tell you everything. It’s been a few years, probably before your time at the Chronicle. Happened when he was living back in D.C.”

  Despite the long hours on the road and the late hour she’d arrived back at Marissa’s house, Mallory had awakened before dawn and called her editor at the Chronicle. Wanting to help, and sensing there might be a story in all of this, Glen Harvey had promised to fax any information he could gather on Benjamin Graywolf to his old college buddy Wayne, who was managing editor of the Flagstaff Register. He knew Wayne would make sure the information got to her.

  “Was he in trouble?” Mallory asked, speculating. “Arrested or something?”

  “No, no,” Wayne said, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. He’d assisted on a kidnapping. Helped rescue some diplomat’s kid.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Wayne shook his head. “No, really. He’s got ESP or something, I don’t know. But the press was all over him for a while.”

  Mallory digested this for a moment. That certainly explained his hostility when she told him she was a reporter. But ESP? Was that what Hosteen Johnny had been referring to when he talked about Graywolf’s “talent”?

  “You mean he’s like...a psychic?”

  “I don’t know. It was all pretty hush-hush for a while,” Wayne admitted. “No one really wanted to report much about that.”

  “Nobody?” Mallory asked skeptically, having been in the newspaper business long enough to know a story that was ripe for reporting.

  “Well.” Wayne shrugged. “Until the tabloids got a hold of it—blew it up all out of proportion. Made him out to be some kind of sorcerer or something—really played up the Indian angle. Called him a medicine man, a shaman with mystic powers—crap like that.” He sat up, resting his elbows on the desk. “The poor guy was pursued by every crackpot in the country. It got so bad he left D.C. and came back to the res. Has pretty much kept a low profile ever since.” Wayne shook his head. “Too bad, too. The work he’d been doing had really been getting some things done on the reservation.”

  Mallory gave him a quizzical look. “You mean the jewelry-making?”

  Wayne blinked. “Jewelry? What are you talking about?”

  “Isn’t that what he does? Makes silver jewelry?”

  “I don’t know about that. I know he’s a lawyer—Georgetown, I think. He’d been working for a coalition in Washington that lobbied lawmakers—Native American issues, stuff like that.” The fax machine began humming again, receiving another message. “I guess he felt the publicity didn’t do much for their cause. Here he’d been working to change the image the country had of the Native American, and he became this almost cartoon character of one. Tough break.”

  Mallory’s head was spinning. She tried to picture Benjamin Graywolf in her mind—lawyer, psychic or savage? She glanced at the paper slowly crawling out of the machine. The cover sheet indicated it was from Glen, and she pulled each sheet free as it passed out.

  The copies were downsized and not very clear, but Glen had faxed enough articles and information to fill in Wayne’s brief outline. Mallory read through everything, from the Chronicle’s straightforward reporting of the kidnapping, to each lurid tabloid account, trying to picture the man described in print as the one she’d met only the day before. But it was impossible—she could no more picture Graywolf as a Washington lobbyist than she could as a sideshow medicine man.

  Yet as amazed as she was to learn of Graywolf’s background, she couldn’t deny it all made an odd kind of sense. From the moment she’d met him there had been something about him—something different, something she couldn’t quite explain. For some reason she knew she could trust him—with the job of finding her sister, and with two thousand of her hard-earned dollars. Maybe it was the anguish she’d seen in his eyes after he’d attempted to humiliate her in front of his friends in the bar, or maybe it was the careful detail he’d shown in his work with the silver. She wasn’t sure. She just knew there had been something more to him than the tough-talking, cold-hearted barbarian he tried so hard to be.

  She tossed the last of the articles on the stack in front of her. And now she knew.

  “Thanks, Wayne,” she said finally, gathering up the papers from his desk and stuffing them into her purse. She reached across and offered him her hand. “You’ve been a lot of help.”

  Wayne stood and took her hand. “Good luck with your sister.”

  “Thanks.” She turned and started for the door, but before she had a chance to open it, he stopped her.

  “Oh, and Mallory?”

  “Yes?”

  “If there happens to be a story in all of this,” he said carefully, “keep me in mind.”

  Chapter 3

  Mallory checked her watch. Ten after one. She was late. She’d told Graywolf she would be at the Flagstaff police headquarters
at one o’clock to meet him, and she doubted he would be pleased with her tardiness. That is, if he bothered to notice at all. In her mind she imagined his face, the dark eyes and the deep frown lines showing his dissatisfaction better than the curt comment he would no doubt make.

  Stepping down hard on the gas pedal, she sped through the intersection just as the signal changed from amber to red. Glancing quickly over her shoulder, she changed lanes and sailed past a slow-moving transit bus. By the time she’d made a sharp left turn into the parking lot of police headquarters, she had her explanation for him planned and rehearsed in her head.

  She thought again of the newspaper reports she’d read, and what she learned about Benjamin Graywolf in the last few hours. She’d been trying all morning to digest it, but it hadn’t been easy. Still, it had explained a lot—the hostility, the suspicion, the anger and even the “feelings.” And it had helped her justify the trust she’d put in him. It made her feel better to know that he seemed to be a responsible person who’d had some experience in finding missing persons, rather than just a con man with an attitude who would abscond with her two thousand dollars and do nothing to find Marissa.

  Marissa. Thinking of her sister, Mallory struggled to suppress a hopeless feeling of panic. She slipped the car into the first available stall, then leapt out and started across the parking lot on a run. In the final tally, she thought as she took the stairs to the lobby two at a time, what Benjamin Graywolf’s background was or wasn’t didn’t really matter. All she needed was for him to find her sister. She didn’t care if he used bloodhounds, deductive reasoning or second sight. She just wanted Marissa back as soon as possible.

  * * *

  “There really isn’t much else we can do,” Lieutenant George Robins said, lifting his feet up and resting them on the end of his desk. Leaning back, he adjusted his hornrimmed glasses across his nose and cradled his head in his hands, watching Graywolf across the desk through slitted lids. “You know as well as I do that if an adult wants to drop out of sight for a while, there’s no law against it. And since there’s no evidence to suggest this is anything other than that—no sign of a crime or foul play—our hands are tied.”