by David Knop
In a utility lot with fenced-in natural gas equipment and several gas trailers with Red Pine logos, a half-dozen sheriff’s Interceptors parked near three older pickups. A couple of blue-on-whites from Durango PD mixed in. From the road, I could see uniforms walking the scene, eyes on the ground. A man poured a thick substance into a depression, probably of Grizz’s prints. Three men grouped in a discussion marked by occasional pointing and head shaking. A photographer worked the area from all angles.
“Drive up the road. We’ll watch from that hill,” I said, pointing to a ridgeline just north of the lot. A dirt road offered enough separation and cover to get us behind the scene without being observed. “Up there,” I said. No Name turned left and drove up the road one-quarter mile.
Down the road, a man walked. I glanced back as we turned off the road, but he was too far away to see clearly. I couldn’t see what he was doing. I spotted a farmhouse nearby. Maybe he lived there.
No Name’s earlier comments casting doubt on the existence of a skinwalker at first pissed me off, but now they haunted me. I’d been close-up with Grizz, observed Oso and Grizz together, acting like old friends.
Skinwalker. When I was in jail, Deer insisted Oso was a skinwalker and I bought into it. Not sure I knew who the hell Deer was, anyway. There was something that escaped me, something that flickered at the edges of my mind. No matter how I tried, the more I wondered, the less I knew.
We walked through fields of scattered white oak scrub, pink wild rose, clumped black sedge, and grama grass. We settled on a rise behind some scrub and watched police activity at the crime scene.
Dark stains covered the scene of the attack in places. The bloodied victims were being lifted by gurney to ambulances idling outside the gaggle of patrol cruisers. Grizz must’ve attacked these men in broad daylight. Looked like he dented a few truck doors and busted some windshields while he was at it.
Another ambulance departed the scene without a siren and drove towards Durango at normal highway speed. The passenger didn’t need to get where he was going in a hurry.
The word, “grizzly” floated my way when the three men huddled around some plaster molds laid out by the crime scene techs below our hiding spot. One man whistled when he spotted the bear’s prints, others laughed a nervous guffaw. Deputy Lettau was among those laughing. The conversation’s volume faded.
“Can’t hear shit,” I said.
No Name cupped his ear, hunched his shoulders, and shook his head. I wanted to get closer but couldn’t. They wouldn’t try to kill me with No Name and Durango PD as witnesses, but this wasn’t the time to test that theory. No need to push buttons. Yet.
In a whisper, I said, “They don’t know you. Drive down and see what you can find out. As soon as they leave, I’ll come down to join you.” No Name nodded. He knew the risks. Then he trotted in a low crouch back to the truck.
The sun shaded the mountain slopes when No Name pulled into the crime scene. He badged the uniforms and talked to the lead, Deputy Lettau. No Name, his enormous bulk a head taller than anyone there, examined the plaster casts, acted surprised at the size of them.
Near me, the sun highlighted a bare spot on the ground between clumps of grass. Sun and shadow defined the imprint of closely spaced, round toes. A front paw. Claw marks in the soil drew interlocking circles in the sand like an animal turning around. Rear foot impressions appeared to exceed eight inches in diameter. Grizz appeared to come through here on his way somewhere.
At the scene, the uniforms headed for their cruisers and drove off. Technicians packed up their gear and took off in their van. No Name and Lettau kept talking. And talking.
No way I was going to walk over there with Lettau present. The conversation continued, but the tone seemed light. I couldn’t imagine anyone engaging in small talk with a prick like Lettau. It may have been No Name’s personal method for extracting information. Charming it out of them when beating it out of them wouldn’t do.
Three tow trucks pulled up, hooked up the victims’ pickups, and dragged them down the highway.
The breezy, evening dusk blew No Name’s words away. I strained to hear him when a sudden chuffing behind me froze me on the spot. I braced myself. I turned slowly to look for the source, expecting the worst. Nothing. I stayed put.
Grizz, I knew in my bones it was him, was close but the heavy brush hid the source. I heard his jaws chomp like the sound of boots in sucking mud. Teeth snapped and a low grumble filled the air.
Pistol cocked, aimed at the sound, I waited for Grizz’s charge, my .38 revolver against the animal’s thick skull was as effective as a pop gun against a tank. My only chances were lucky shots to the eye sockets or the back of the throat just before he killed me with one swat.
I considered running away from an animal capable of running down a quarter horse. Stay and die. Run and die.
Stones clicked, bushes rustled, branches snapped in the faded dusk. A head poked through the bushes.
“What are you doing?” No Name asked.
“Jesus, man, you scared the shit out of me.” I tried to catch my breath, “Thought you was Grizz.”
No Name held out both palms. “Could you put that pistol down? Romero, you got Grizz on the mind. Give it a break.”
“Bullshit, I heard it. Chomping, teeth clacking, the whole deal. He was near where you’re standing right now.”
“You heard the truck, dammit.”
“Don’t tell me I didn’t hear Grizz.”
“Okay, you win. Now put the damn gun down.”
No Name’s image quivered like a mirage. Maybe I was hallucinating. I stuffed the .38 under my belt.
We headed back to the Dodge Durango. I kept a nervous eye. As doubt grew, I remained on full alert. I felt the tingle on the back of my neck like eyes burrowing in, but I could see little in the last light. Still, my instincts insisted someone, something was watching.
At the truck, No Name started up, headed for the highway.
“I want to check out that farmhouse off to the left.” I pointed toward the area where a single light glimmered a half mile distant. “Over there. Down that road.”
“What for?”
“Someone walked there earlier, I want to talk to him.”
“I didn’t see anybody.” No Name shook his head but turned and drove toward the building. When we arrived, a farm light illuminated the building from a pole. Boards covered the windows and, even at night, peeling paint emphasized the building’s lack of care. Tall weeds and dead branches added to the sad impression of neglect.
“You happy?” No Name asked me, annoyed. “There’s nothing here.”
No Name pissed me off, then something moved near the shadowed rear of the house. “See that?” I asked.
“No.” he started the engine, made tracks for the highway.
“Where you going’?”
“I’m done with this bullshit, Romero. You’re paranoid as hell. If there was a grizzly anywhere near here, you’d be dinner. Could’ve been a black bear. Could’ve been a fucking raccoon. They’re all over the place. Get over it.”
“Stop the truck, Pons’-whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is, you and me gonna come to an understanding.” I pushed my face as close to him as the seat belt would allow.
Ponsford gave me a smile that mixed doubt with a bring-it attitude and braked. I got out and walked back to where I saw the movement, pistol arm cocked at the ready. My .38 pistol was in gross violation of Marine Corps Rule of Engagement Number Six: Do not show up to a fight with a handgun whose caliber does not start with a .4.
Ten thousand stars lit the Colorado sky, but the rear of the building lay in darkness. I waited for my eyes to adjust. I listened. Ponsford killed the engine, got out of the truck. I kept my eyes glued to the backyard. His footsteps travelled to the other side of the house, around it, then toward the back.
Loud sniffing and soft grunting came from shadows within shadows. I thought I caught a whiff of
wet dog. Claws scratching in dry earth sent shivers up my back and heated my legs. This was no dog.
A circle of light appeared from the other side of the house, Ponsford behind it. He swept the beam across the ground and through the brush. A pair of green eyes glowed in the light from behind a mask. A raccoon scrambled into the scrub.
“You happy now, Jim Bridger?” asked Ponsford.
“Fuck you,” I said, hoping my comeback didn’t sound as lame to him as it did to me. I walked back to the truck.
Ponsford trailed, chuckling softly. “A racoo—”
The bushes exploded. A dark shape sent Ponsford flying before I had a chance to turn. The flashlight spiraled up and away. Grizz grabbed the man and shook him like a rag toy.
I rushed at Grizz, emptied my pistol into his head hoping to make the bear let go. The animal dropped the big man and snarled. I backed up, looked back at the truck, then at Grizz. Grizz looked at the truck and back at me. Eyes working me over, the beast lumbered toward me, confident and unstoppable.
Grizz stopped and snorted, stood on hind legs, glared down at me, seven feet of killing machine. He yelped, recoiled as if stung, then disappeared into the brush.
I ran to Ponsford. Kneeling. His left thigh was deeply punctured and torn. Through a tear in his pants, his right shin showed shredded skin, pink muscle, and white bone. Blood soaked both pant legs. His left arm, a shredded mass of tissue, splayed out at a weird angle.
I reached for my phone and called 911, then pulled off my shirt and wrapped the wound. Blood patterns darkened the cloth as soon as I tied it off.
Through lidded eyes, Ponsford said, “You’re blue.”
“Funny man.” I swore at the ambulance to get here faster, before shock set in. I had no way to help him. “Just breathe. The EMT’s are on the way.”
Ponsford choked the words. “Blue.”
“Okay, it’s a little cold. We’ll get through this. You’re gonna be fine.” I held his head in my arms. My blue arms. Blue. Blue as sky, blue as sapphire, blue as a fucking peacock.
No Name stiffened, went limp.
“Hey. Stay with me, buddy. Hang in there.” I smacked his face. His eyes slitted. No Name had saved my life.
“Come on man, we got work to do!” I slapped him. Hard this time. I wanted to get his attention, take his mind off his wounds, piss him off, make him focus on me and not his injuries.
While my fingers checked for a pulse at his neck, a form emerged shapeless and ghost-like. It hovered above, then floated up and away. I yelled at him. “Wake up, damnit!”
Sirens grew louder. The sound boosted my energy. “Ambulance is almost here. Stay with me.” I pushed his chest with both hands, blue hands, pumped hard, then inflated his lungs with my own air.
When my arms finally gave out, the ambulance pulled up and EMTs ran over. One pushed me out of the way. “Sorry, need room,” he said, the man interested only in his patient. I moved back, grateful, exhausted, out of words. I had strength for only one word, “Grizz.”
Another EMT, looking worried, handed me a blanket. I took it, my skin turning back to the color of caramel. My flesh. Indian flesh. I wrapped myself in the blanket and collapsed, too shocked to think about blue skin or what it meant.
The EMTs attended to No Name, the lead barking commands to his people. They bandaged his damaged legs and arm, heaved him on to a gurney, strapped him down, and pushed the rig toward the ambulance. I grabbed an EMT by the arm and told him No Name had the truck keys in his pocket. He fished them out with a gloved hand and handed them over.
In the back of the van, someone said, “clear”. The sharp thud of a defibrillator followed, then the rear door slammed shut. The ambulance sped away, siren at full warble.
I walked toward the pickup. The silence was off-putting. I remained stumped by the temporary discoloration of my skin. Blue, my skin had been colored blue. Long ago, Grandfather told me the wearer of that color became strong, important. Blue meant power, wisdom, and confidence. Vast things were blue: the ocean, sky, or distant mountains. Things blue were beyond perception like the heavens.
Grandfather also said that the color blue was an invitation to become a person of power, instead of a victim. Grizz must’ve seen something in that color because he fled from it.
Spirits call only when they have messages to deliver and it is possible the blue was a message. I prayed it was and hurried to the Durango. A hospital visit to No Name was out of the question, but I had to tell Reel that he had been attacked and injured.
A La Plata County Ford Interceptor swooped in to block my path to the pickup.
“Fuck.”
Deputy Lettau stepped out from behind the wheel and said, “Well, now. How did I get so lucky?”
Chapter 27
Lettau pushed me into the back of his cruiser, handcuffed and blindfolded, cracking my head on the doorframe in the process. The hard, backseat plastic insert did not give any comfort. Lettau chuckled to himself as he drove. We travelled highways. I tried to memorize every bump or change of road noise. The smooth surface revealed none, so I counted twists and turns, but every road in this part of Colorado snakes though valleys and hills. Only the downshifting of the automatic transmission told me we were headed uphill.
“Where you takin’ me?”
“To your happy hunting ground, Injun.” Lettau laughed.
He didn’t understand my culture and I wasn’t going to educate the prick. My final resting place, according to the ancients, was Shipap, a realm below, the place we inhabited before and after life on Earth.
I ignored him. Reel told me she had the renegade deputies under surveillance. I was certain the feds tailed us now, tracked our every move, waited in the bushes to arrest my abductor at the right moment, and catch Lettau with the goods—me—red-handed.
We followed a truck for some time. It sounded like a big diesel, when we finally passed it. The fact that a tuck would be driving in the middle of the night into the San Juans, a place remote and unpopulated, was strange, but I had other things to occupy my mind.
Lettau signaled arrival with a shower of gravel against the cruiser’s underside as the road roughened with potholes and ruts. The deputy had not bothered to fasten my seat belt, so I slid around on the prisoner’s insert until I lay down to stabilize myself by pressing my head and feet hard against the car’s sides.
The door rattled softly, just a couple of clicks. On a sharp turn, I pushed with all I had. As I’d hoped, the lock released and spit me out headfirst. I landed hard against a cluster of scrub, then rolled to the ground.
Lettau braked and opened his door. He ran toward me through a cloud of dust glowing red. The fall had ripped off my blindfold. I got to my feet and ran.
Dodging between boulders and scrub, I gained yardage on burning lungs. Lettau had the altitude advantage: his steps pounded hard behind me. Then came his hand on my shoulder. I tucked and somersaulted. The man flew over me, then lay face down against a boulder he’d met with a crack.
Sucking air and staring at the unconscious man, my options narrowed to one: cut and run, but I needed to get his cuff keys out of his pockets. Backing up to Lettau, I sat, twisted, and stretched until I located a lump in his right front pocket, a lighter, as it turned out. His other pockets were beneath him. I stood, puffing like an old man, and rolled the deputy over with my foot.
Lettau moaned and moved a leg. He groaned, grabbed his head, and curled into a fetal position. He coughed, then directed one eye to me. “You son of a—” He pulled himself up and lunged. I dodged, countered with a kick to his knee. The joint buckled. He screamed and grabbed at it. I finished with a low roundhouse kick to the chest that laid him out. The impact stole his air and he gasped like a dying fish. A kick to the head ended the fight.
I sat again and fished around his left front pants pocket and found the rough edges of keys and slid them out with numb fingers. A ring held a fob and numerous keys, but none for handcuffs.
Deflated, I grabbed Lettau’s pistol, shoved it under my belt, the steel frigid on the crack of my ass.
I started for his cruiser, the very model I had recently lobbied my pueblo’s governor and council to buy. I rifled through the vehicle as best I could with hands cuffed behind but found nothing. The cruiser’s radio, its signal masked by the San Juan peaks, crackled with static.
No keys for cuffs. My sigh sparked a last-chance idea. I trotted back to Lettau and fingered behind his badge. Sure enough, a small key was attached to the back; the New York Tuning Fork.
As I removed it from the back of the badge, Lettau made a grab for my neck. He squeezed, I twisted, got on top, but cuffed as I was, I could not break the hold. His fingers crushed away my air until I jammed a knee into his nuts. He released my neck and I head butted him back to neverland.
Fat-fingered, I managed to unlock the cuffs. Lettau had not moved since I had knocked him out, but I checked his pulse. It beat strongly. I cuffed his right hand and left ankle together. Awkward, yes, but it would make it that much harder to get around once he revived. I didn’t want the man to get too far.
My FBI rescue hadn’t arrived, so I drove the cruiser to the highway, parked it with the light bar on, and called Durango dispatch. Without identifying myself through the static, I gave the cruiser’s location, reported the driver lost nearby, and hoped Reel’s people were listening.
This model of Interceptor can run with the keys pulled. I pulled them from the ignition and stuffed them in my pocket.
Grabbing blankets from the trunk, I covered Lettau with one after dragging him closer to the road, then I headed up the nearest hill to hide and wait for my FBI tail to show. Reel had promised she had me covered. I found a small area behind rocks and stunted pine. From here, I could view the road in both directions, the place where I had left Lettau, as well as the cruiser on the road below. If anyone used the highway, I would see them first.