English Lessons

by J. M. Hayes

  “I’m only going to ask you to shut the car off this one last time,” he yelled, lowering the barrel of his .38 until it was aimed at the wobbling Ford. Mrs. Walker had slouched down even farther. He could only see the top of her favorite Sunday-go-to-meeting hat, the one with the artificial rose jauntily affixed on one side. The Torino didn’t stop.

  The sheriff used his cane to get down on his hands and knees. If she suddenly put the car in drive instead of reverse, things could get seriously unpleasant for him. She didn’t, though. And he got low enough to get a bead on her oil pan at an angle where the bullet would have to pass through her flywheel without harming anyone. He was fresh out of armor-iercing rounds, so that wasn’t going to happen.

  By the time he climbed back to his feet, hot oil melted the snow under her car and the engine made unpleasant noises.

  “Best stand well back,” the sheriff said. “Might throw a rod through the side of the block.”

  The engine threw something, though not where anyone could see it, and the back wheels suddenly stopped dead. The car slid slowly back into the spot it had been trying to leave. Mrs. Walker looked frantically around the inside of her car.

  “Where’s my purse?” Her question was clear even through closed windows.

  “I’ve got it,” Eldridge Beaumont said, stepping up to the front of the crowd and showing it to her. “You left it in the church.”

  Mrs. Walker adjusted her rose-adorned hat. Pointed an accusing finger at the sheriff.

  “Mr. Beaumont, you are to sue Sheriff English and this county for the damages done to my classic antique automobile,” she said.

  Beaumont nodded.

  “Good,” English told her. “Maybe you can talk to Eldridge about that while he gives you a ride home. The two of you can also discuss restitution to the people who own these vehicles. And how you’ll plead to the charges from the book I’m about to throw at you.”

  The sheriff might have begun listing them but his cell rang. He put his pistol away and answered it.

  “Sheriff English,” he said.

  It was Mrs. Kraus.

  “We got a problem, Englishman.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m in the middle of it.”

  “Nah, that slow motion accident in the church yard ain’t nothin’. I just got a call—murder threat.”

  ***

  Mad Dog gently ran the obsidian blade across a flap of skin. The blade was sharper than a scalpel and the skin offered no more resistance than butter. But, instead of the neat buckskin string he wanted, the result was wavy, uneven, and likely to break the first time he tied a knot in it.

  Mad Dog wiped the sweat out of his eyes. The sweat probably hadn’t helped, though what should he expect while sitting in a sweat lodge? Disgusted, he put the skin and his obsidian blade back in their storage box.

  The buckskin had been a gift. Mad Dog didn’t hunt anymore. He preferred to coexist with wildlife, not kill it. Not that he would try to argue someone else out of hunting. And he was no vegan. He simply didn’t want to kill things anymore. He knew his no-kill, meat-eating lifestyle was inconsistent, but he’d stopped worrying about living a perfect life. The best he could do would have to be good enough.

  For instance, he’d attended Christmas Eve services with Pam last night. And they had a tree and a few lights around their front door. All this in spite of the fact he wasn’t a Christian. He was Cheyenne, though his bloodline was thin. Even so, he’d spent years trying to learn his people’s ancient beliefs and master the skills of the shaman. That was why he was in a sweat lodge on Christmas morning. To purify himself.

  Purification hadn’t come easily, but boredom had. That was why he’d decided to work on making a medicine bundle. Half a dozen cuts had produced not one piece of useable string.

  Everything in its time and place, he told himself. He sprinkled a little water on the stones to produce more steam and crumbled a bit of sage over the coals.

  A vehicle pulled in around the front of the house and honked its horn. Mad Dog couldn’t imagine who it might be. Pam was at work today, playing jazzy Christmas carols at the piano bar for holiday gamblers at the Sewa tribe’s casino. She hadn’t tried to get out of it. Holiday players tipped well.

  It wouldn’t be his niece, Heather, either. She wouldn’t honk, and besides, she was on duty. Mad Dog and Pam had lived in this house in southern Arizona south of Three Points long enough to build a small circle of friends. But not the sort who dropped by unannounced on Christmas Day. What it sounded like was a delivery truck, but who delivered on Christmas?

  Mad Dog threw open the blankets that covered his sweat lodge. He was a big man, and though he was beginning to show his years he still had more muscle than fat. The years might have shown more clearly in his hair, but he didn’t have any. When he’d decided to live as a Cheyenne, he’d tried growing his hair out for braids. Naturally curly hair didn’t make good braids, so he shaved it all off and stuck to that look instead.

  It wasn’t cold out, not by the Kansas standards he’d grown up with. He hadn’t brought a robe, so he just slipped on his pair of flip-flops and shuffled around the outside of the house in his Speedo. It wasn’t a big house, maybe a thousand square feet of doublewide, a place to stay while they looked for something permanent.

  Finding a suitable rental wasn’t easy when one of its occupants would be a wolf. Or wolf-hybrid. Not that Hailey hung around all the time. In fact, he had no idea where she’d gone this morning.

  The vehicle that had honked was already gone by the time Mad Dog reached the front yard. Something brown and boxy disappeared in its own dust down their unpaved street. There was a package on the front porch. UPS, Mad Dog decided, though he was surprised they delivered on Christmas.

  A plain brown shoe box sealed with packing tape and without an address label sat beside his front door. That ruled out UPS or one of their competitors. But the package was for him. Bright-red, felt-tip letters covered the lid. “Merry Christmas, Mad Dog!” they proclaimed.

  A cool breeze ruffled the mesquites and reminded Mad Dog he was bathed in sweat and nearly naked. He picked up the box, opened the door, and stepped inside. The living room was on the right. The Christmas tree, a Charlie Brown special, stood in front of the window. There were still several packages under it. Pam had wrapped empty boxes to make their holiday season seem more festive and richer. Things were a little tight for them just now. She’d moved from Las Vegas after losing her job there. He hadn’t wanted to go back to Kansas. Not after his house there burned to the ground. He was still waiting for the insurance company to come through. He’d expected to have to fight them for the money, but they’d made things even tougher by going chapter eleven, their contribution to a slumping economy. He was beginning to wonder if he’d get back anything at all.

  Mad Dog knew he should shower and get into warm dry clothes, yet curiosity demanded he open the box.

  Their living room didn’t contain much furniture. A couple of second-hand recliners, a sofa, a TV, and a desk and chair over by the fake fireplace. He went to the desk. He’d emptied his pockets there last night and his pocket knife lay in the middle of a small heap of spare change. He used it to slit the tape enough to pop the lid off the package.

  A gold signet ring protruded from the center of an assortment of colored tissue paper. The engraved surface bore the image of a curving snake. A feathered one, he saw, as he bent to look at it more closely.

  He needed better light and his reading glasses. He pulled the ring out of the box. It didn’t come up as easily as expected because it was still on a finger attached to a hand that had been severed at the wrist.

  “Urk,” Mad Dog said. He dropped it. The hand fell into the Christmas tree’s branches where it seemed to grasp them just as desperately as Mad Dog tried to avoid barfing up breakfast.

  ***


  Heather’s climb to the top of the ridge above the old mining camp proved harder than she expected. The slope was steep. The rock, fractured by extremes of heat and cold, crumbled underfoot. What little soil she encountered was even less stable and full of small spiny plants. They were always in her way and tended to snag when she passed, as if reluctant to let any living creature go by without inflicting pain. When she reached the top she found her cell had only one bar. She tried a series of numbers, beginning with tribal police headquarters, but failed to get through to any. In the end, the effort wasted almost half an hour without getting the word out and added the climb down to the distance she would have to hike back to her unit.

  The only thing she’d gained was time to think about the letter and the crime scene and how all this related to her.

  Who could possibly have known she’d be here? A couple of other officers had heard her volunteer to take this unwelcome assignment. She’d called Brad. They were supposed to have Christmas dinner with his folks tonight up in the foothills. It was a loose arrangement, though, since an assignment like this made it impossible for her to know when she could log out for the day. Then the drive up from the reservation and across Tucson always took forever.

  Finding Hyde had sucked all the good feeling away from her morning. She’d started with quite a lot of that, after getting laid, good and proper, last night. Brad was special. The sex, great. She’d hoped for more tonight. Fond memories and anticipation had made her morning warmer and more pleasant than reality. Until she found the skin. Now, she’d settle for a soothing hug or, better yet, contacting someone for help with this crime scene.

  Her boss, Captain Matus, could supply that help. He was one of the people who knew she was out here. He’d told her there were marvelous petroglyphs a couple of hundred yards above the old mine. No time to check them out, now.

  None of the people who knew she was here, whether law enforcement officers or the attorney she was dating, would have had anything to do with this murder. So how had the person who left the envelope known she’d be the one who’d find it? Or had he simply wanted the enclosed message delivered to her when Hyde’s remains were discovered?

  The contents of the envelope didn’t make that clear, though they seemed to indicate someone wanted her to get the message soon.

  About half way back to her car she tried her cell again and, again, had no success. She took a moment to re-examine the letter.

  You’re not in Kansas anymore.

  That made it clear the message really was for her, Kansas transplant that she was. Besides, she was the only Heather English serving on the Sewa Tribal Police Force.

  Sonora, south of the Sewa Reservation, belongs to el Perro Rabioso—the Rabid Dog. The competing drug lords on either side of him have joined forces to split his territory. Hyde promised to make the border porous for Rabioso. Hyde could have been useful to those who plan to replace Rabioso, but the bosses don’t work that way. They lack finesse, but they’re effective at achieving results through high body counts. Hyde is a message to Rabioso, and Arizona politicians profiting from the drug trade—get out of our way. In case that message is too subtle, they intend to send others. You must try to stop them as they work their way up to Rabioso. Not just because it’s your job. They’ll begin with Rabioso’s enforcers. Rabioso’s right-hand man, el Serpiente Emplumada, is a virtual certainty. Each of these men is a killer many times over. They deserve what happens to them. But you must try to save them because you and I will test ourselves against each other soon. When that happens, you must be ready, deserving of the honor of facing me. That won’t matter to you. But something else will. Rabioso knows he’s under attack, so he moved north of the border and went into hiding in Tucson. Those who are after him think they’ve found him. Someone told them Rabioso is hiding in Three Points and has shaved his head. Rabioso, translated into English, is Mad Dog.

  The letter, like the envelope, appeared to have been printed by a computer. There was no signature. Unless you counted the smiley face beneath the last line.

  ***

  Brad Cole stood in the reception area of Tucson International Airport watching the screen that showed arriving passengers descending from the security area. Niki bounced into view, paused, winked at the camera, and blew him a kiss. Every male passenger around Niki looked at his sister instead of the camera. The men beside Brad all seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Niki was pretty, but she had something more than looks. Something indefinable that made her command every stage. She was the little sister whose spunky approach to life he could never match, and yet he adored her. Everybody adored her. Before he finished the thought, she ran into his arms. Every guy in the waiting area envied him, even if he only got a sisterly hug and peck on the cheek.

  “How’s my hero?” Niki held him by the shoulders and stepped back for an appraising look.

  “Exhausted from saving the world, of course,” Brad laughed. “Otherwise, good.”

  “You look good,” Niki decided. “Happy, even.”

  And to his surprise, Brad discovered that was how he felt—happy.

  “I didn’t check any luggage,” Niki said. “Where are we parked?”

  Taking charge, as usual. That was his little sister. She probably expected to drive.

  He led the way toward short-term parking. The crowds parted for them. Well, not for him, for Niki. And, as he’d expected, she went straight to the driver’s door, holding out her hand for the key. When he didn’t hand it over right away she turned to him.

  “I want to drive your new convertible. Top down, of course.”

  He used the button that popped the trunk and tossed the key to her as he stowed her carry-on luggage in a way that would let the trunk accept the top. His car was a three year old BMW hardtop convertible. Bright red, and perfect for Niki. Not what he would have chosen for himself, but what his father had decided a young up-and-coming attorney should drive. He’d handled a divorce for one of his dad’s golfing buddies and this had been the payment his father negotiated for him. It was a great car, but Brad would have preferred something less ostentatious. The old Jeep he’d been driving since high school, for instance. The one his father insisted no one with any self-respect would be caught dead in.

  The motor roared to life and the top began folding itself into the trunk before Brad could reach the passenger door.

  “I love it,” Niki said, but her grin faded as he crawled into the leather bucket seat beside her. “But you don’t, do you? This is Daddy’s idea, right?”

  She whipped the Beemer out of the parking lot and had it up to fifty in the twenty-five-mile zone well before the red light at Valencia. “Well, at least he didn’t insist on something dull.”

  Brad had to admit that. Given their father, it might have been some huge black limo, complete with pinstripes.

  “I’m making myself live with it.”

  “But you’ve still got the Jeep, right?”

  He smiled. “Don’t tell Dad.”

  “Never.” She got rubber in three gears as she headed north on Tucson Boulevard, past the ever-increasing sea of identical cracker-box houses, part of the mindless expansion that was Tucson’s chief industry, even in the middle of the worst hard times most people could remember.

  “So Daddy hasn’t mellowed. Still telling you how to live your life and forcing awful things like this BMW on you,” Niki teased. “And yet you’re happy. You must have a girl.”

  Niki could read him like a book.

  “Yeah, actually, I do. Or I hope so, anyway.”

  “Cool. Tell me. And has Daddy met her yet?”

  “No.” The grin left Brad’s face. “Though she’s supposed to come to dinner with us tonight. I’ll need your support.”

  “You’ll have it if she’s good enough for you.”

  “Now you sound like Dad.” />
  “I trust your judgment, big brother. But you know what they say—trust but verify. Tell me more. Who is she?”

  “She’s a cop,” Brad said.

  Niki whipped through the turn from Benson Highway onto Kino Parkway. “You’re going to need more than my support. Senator Albert Ellis Cole’s scion dating a cop? I hope she’s made deputy chief at least.”

  “Not hardly,” Brad admitted. “But she’s an attorney, too. Passed the bar and everything. Just working in law enforcement instead.”

  “And you haven’t told Dad the cop part, right? Well, at least there’s room for a woman to advance in TPD or the sheriff’s office these days. Which is it?”

  “Sewa Tribal Police, actually.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Niki said. “Bradley Ellis Cole, if you bring some lowly Native American maiden into our father’s house, even your baby sister won’t be able to help. Not unless that sister is prepared to admit she’s been dating a black guy. And she is certainly not prepared to do that. Besides, it wouldn’t help. Daddy’d just put me straight into a convent while arranging your lobotomy.”

  ***

  “Why are you in the office today?” the sheriff asked Mrs. Kraus. He had sent Mrs. Walker home in the “custody” of her attorney, arranged to have her car impounded, documented the crime scene with a couple of digital photos, and asked the congregation of witnesses to write up their testaments and leave them with their pastor. Then, rather than carry on a conversation about a murder threat in front of an audience, he’d gone to the courthouse to confront his office manager. The building was a block away, and he found it empty of creatures stirring, with the exception of Mrs. Kraus.

  “I’m playing a computer game, if you must know.”

  Mrs. Kraus’ face glowed as bright as Rudolph’s nose with the admission. Her recent addiction to cyberspace gaming was not widely known.

  “Surely not…”

  “Well, sir, I got to admit it. That War of Worldcraft game really hooked me, even after….”