by Lyn Stone
How interesting. “But in retrospect, you can see what they meant? Is that how it goes?”
He nodded. “If I’m right, somehow it will come down to you, me and Hightower. No one else.” His expressive lips twisted in a wry grin. “Unless it was just a nightmare. I didn’t seek this vision. I rarely have sought one, and then only to explore the phenomenon. They’re virtually useless for any prior planning.”
“The thunder and lightning, though. Could that represent explosions?” Vanessa was buying into his vision, she realized. Maybe she had listened a little too carefully to all those tales the grandfathers told her.
“Maybe. No way to be sure about that.”
She sat forward, excited now. “Listen, what if you really prepared? Suppose you did the cleansing, fasting, sweat-lodge thing and tried again. Maybe the vision would come clear?”
He laughed. “You think I haven’t tried all that? The spirits seem to like confusing the hell out of me and it gets worse when I’m dehydrated or playing with peyote.”
But Vanessa couldn’t let it go. “Let’s get Du-da here and do it right. And we don’t use peyote. It’s the Black Drink, a kind of tea.”
“Oh great. A super-tannic acid trip.” He made a face as he reached over and took her hand. “The visions are probably just a waste of time. Maybe we should just get everyone out beating the bushes to find Hightower and put a tail on him.”
“That, too,” she promised, squeezing his hand with both of hers, ignoring the no-touch rule she had instituted herself. This was not handholding. It was only showing her support and encouragement. “But in the meantime, let’s do the other. C’mon, be a sport. You started all this about the visions and I’d like to see what comes of it. It couldn’t hurt, could it?”
“I guess not. Will your grandfather take it seriously? I found out the hard way, this is nothing to play around with.”
“Grandfather’s no medicine man, but he’s a real history buff. At any rate, I’ll bet he knows the drill or can find someone who does.”
She suddenly thought of Clay, naked, arms outstretched, rising out of the river as he readied himself to receive his vision. She wondered just what the spirits had in store for her to give her such a picture in her mind.
Chapter 8
“I’m not sure this is such a great idea,” Clay argued, wrinkling his nose at the cup of foul-smelling brew. He had already had a spate of it earlier with the correct results, according to Walker.
The stuff was brewed of yaupon holly and used in almost every ceremony conducted by the Cherokee, right down to stickball games at the festivals. The strong emetic was chock full of caffeine. And probably other things he didn’t want to know about.
“Well, you won’t upchuck again, I promise.” Walker’s grin reminded Clay of Vanessa at her most devilish. “This time you just sip it.”
Clay figured he should be pretty well cleansed by now, inside and out. “All right, but what if we’re leaving out some important steps here?”
He had fasted for twenty-four hours, bathed seven times in the stream where Mr. Walker had indicated and was about to enter the little hut they had constructed out of limbs and skins where a small fire burned to heat large stones. The steam bath planned in there ought to clean out his pores if nothing else.
The religious aspect of this didn’t trouble him. Though he had been raised Presbyterian, he understood that had nothing to do with Native American spiritualism. It was a mindset, a way of living and being that he had embraced long ago, maybe even before he was old enough to retain memories. It was a natural thing.
So far this had turned out to be a fairly simple ritual compared to the one he had undergone out in the Midwest a few years back. That had netted him nothing but a raging headache and a jumble of meaningless hallucinations.
The older man smiled at his reticence. They were both stripped. Each wearing only the traditional loincloth. Walker would pour water over the stones to get the steam going once they got things underway.
Walker took the cup from him, held it and stood back for Clay to enter first. His deep voice followed Clay inside. “I think each of us receives messages from the Spirit World. Some people hear those messages more clearly than others. These careful listeners used to become medicine men.”
“Well, I’d hardly qualify for that.”
“You could have if we still had them,” Walker argued. “People of the Longhair clan were often made medicine men even though many of them were of mixed blood or strangers adopted by the tribe. The Cherokee understood that others often see us more clearly than we do ourselves. The Longhairs were often called the Stranger clan. You are now of this clan among us.” He closed the flap and sat cross-legged on the blanket he had spread within earlier. Clay sat, too, facing Walker across the fire, and had the eerie feeling he had just been transported back to a primitive time when this event would not have been unusual.
“What if I really am Cherokee and was born to another clan and just don’t know it?” Clay asked, wondering if not knowing would affect his chance of getting any more seriously involved with Vanessa. That wasn’t something he ought to be considering, but it did occur to him and seemed vitally important at the moment.
Walker smiled knowingly, his weathered features thrown in relief by the firelight. “I do not believe you were born to us, son, but I do think you are here for a reason.”
Clay shook his head in wonder. “I still can’t believe you’re going along with this.”
“Why not? A greater understanding of the mind and the psychic connections between the human mind and the Spirit World could enable us to do greater things than we do. Things that most people consider impossible. We know of people in the past who could heal with a touch, travel outside the body, mentally communicate with others and see the future. What if each of us has the capacity to do those things but just don’t know how?”
Clay felt humbled, a little taken aback and totally in awe of this man who was granting him and his visions such acceptance. He slicked back the damp hair that had fallen over his ears and rubbed his palms over his chest. “Should I apologize to the spirits for not knowing precisely what’s expected?” he asked.
“The medicine people who might have taught us those secrets are gone so this is not your fault. To tell you the truth, Clay, I believe that you need to seek your vision using what you think will work for you. The spirits will probably appreciate your attempt, at any rate.”
He poured more water over the hot stones, almost eliminating all visibility with the steam as he rose to his feet. “I’m going now. We’ll wait for you at the house. You know the way back?”
Clay nodded. He couldn’t seem to put the guilt out of his mind. Vanessa was carrying the whole load of the investigation while he was camping out in the woods. How could he concentrate while worrying about her? Would it affect the success of this attempt? If a vision could help, even a little, he knew he had to give it his best shot. “Thank you, sir. If this works, it will be your doing.”
“So you’ll buy me a steak.” He pushed back the flap of the hut and turned. “Drink the Black Drink now. And don’t forget the tobacco.” He pointed to a small clay pot that sat beside the blanket. “The spirits like that.”
Clay downed the dark liquid, holding his breath against the god-awful smell. Then he took up a huge pinch of the sacred tobacco Walker had provided and sprinkled it over the fire.
Should he say any incantations along with this? He switched to the language of the Principal People for the sake of politeness. “Show me. Warn me. Guide my path. Keep Vanessa Walker safe.” There. “And if you have to choose one, pick that last request,” he added for good measure.
Already, he felt dizzy and a little out of it. He dipped more water and sluiced it over the hot stones, welcoming the fog that engulfed him. He felt both jumpy and exhausted. Sort of wrung out. He just hoped he didn’t fall face first into the fire. What was he thinking, doing this? But since he had gone to such lengths already
, he might as well give it his all.
He poured more water on the stones, inhaled the steam, leaned back and closed his eyes.
Twelve hours later, he crawled out of the hut, knee-walked to the nearby stream and fell in face first. His mind reeled and he still wasn’t sure what to make of all he had seen. The only thing he was certain of was that he didn’t plan to go back for the second show.
“Clay!” Vanessa cried. She grabbed the blanket she’d brought and rushed down to the stream. “Good grief, don’t drown yourself. Here, let me help you.” Thank God, he had finally come out. She had debated whether to interrupt him and had decided to follow her grandfather’s orders to leave him alone.
He pushed himself to his knees and managed a weak smile. “What are you doing here?” With a squint, he looked up at the sky through the trees. It was midmorning. “Were you here all night?”
“A few hours,” she admitted, feeling guilty for suggesting he do the ceremony thing. “Come on, let’s go get you some breakfast. You must be starved.” He hadn’t had anything to eat for at least thirty-six hours and probably nothing to drink but water and the Black Drink. His nerves must be shot from that alone. The stuff was almost pure caffeine. That, taken on top of sleep deprivation was enough to wreck anyone. “How are you feeling?”
“A little disoriented.” He got to his feet and she wrapped the blanket around him, patting his face and shoulders with the corner of the fabric. He pushed it away and stepped back. “I need to bathe. I smell like wood smoke and sweat.”
She shivered as she glanced at the cold rushing waters of the stream. She knew her grandfather had left nothing of Clay’s here in the way of clothing. The landscape looked totally primitive, almost primeval. “Come back to the house and soak in a hot tub.”
“No argument there,” he muttered.
Vanessa inhaled his pure maleness mixed with the wood smoke and the faint lingering essence of the Black Drink. His hair hung in wet strands to his shoulders and his eyes were bloodshot, but the effect was anything but pitiful. He looked like a warrior of old, clad only in a loincloth and blanket, his skin glowing like burnished copper. The sight, scent and feel of him next to her sent warmth rushing through her veins.
“I brought you some mocs, over there,” she said, guiding him over to the tree where she had spent most of the night waiting. When they reached her little temporary campsite, she knelt before him and slipped the moccasins on his feet. He smiled down at her and she grinned up at him. “They’re a tight fit. Du-da has smaller feet, but they should do.” Somehow, slippers hadn’t seemed right for the occasion. Though she figured Clay probably had packed some, she hadn’t wanted to plunder through his things.
Silently they trudged together back to her grandparents’ house. It was a good half mile. Clay seemed to gain strength with each step, though he kept one arm around her shoulders, both pretending this was for support.
Her grandfather greeted them from the back porch. “Bet you’re ready for some breakfast,” he said.
“A bath first to warm him up,” Vanessa said, then looked up at him to see if he agreed. He nodded and they went together up the steps and on up to his bedroom.
While he watched, seeming a little removed from reality, she drew him a hot bath. Without a hint of modesty, he dropped the blanket, toed off the mocs and unfastened the leather cord holding his loincloth in place. Vanessa couldn’t look away. She bit her lips together to keep from exclaiming. Every fantasy she’d ever had about the perfect man came to mind in that instant and nearly had her sinking to the floor in admiration. That would probably embarrass him.
He stepped into the tub and sank down with a sigh. Vanessa took the soap and began to lather his face and neck. He captured her hand before she got too familiar and smiled softly in admonishment.
“Shampoo!” she said, feeling her face flush as she turned away to get it. “I’ll do your hair.”
When he offered no protest, she poured out a bit of the gel and worked it into the soft mane. He groaned with pleasure as her fingers massaged his scalp and neck and Vanessa’s blood heated even more. Lord, she would love to crawl into the tub with him, hold him, find out what kind of love they could make together. Never had she wanted a man this way. And how inappropriate was that when he was practically in a state of fugue?
She tried to shake off the need. They had business to take care of after he had recovered a little. So far he’d said nothing about a vision or lack of one, but they needed to explore it as soon as possible before he forgot the details. If there were any details. Maybe this had been a fruitless experiment after all.
He slid under the surface to rinse his hair. Then for the first time, he spoke normally, each word succinct and not allowing for any argument on her part. “Vanessa, go and wait for me in the kitchen.”
With a sigh of regret, knowing it was the wise thing, she did as he asked.
Later, when he appeared fully dressed in jeans and a V-necked sweater, his hair slicked back and tied at his nape, she felt a little more in control of herself.
She watched as he ate, gingerly at first, then with gusto. Her grandparents smiled silently, perfectly willing to wait and let Clay relate whatever he had learned in his seclusion. He was the man of the hour just for trying to commune with the spirits. She hoped he had met with some success for all this trouble. He wasn’t talking about it yet, though. Had it been so terrible?
“Stop frowning so,” he muttered. “I’m all right, just hungry.” He finished off his last bite of toast. “And confused,” he admitted.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Did you see anything? Learn anything?”
Slowly, he nodded and sat back in his chair, one long arm resting on the tabletop. “The vision was the same as before but with more clarity. Thunder, lightning. This time torrential rain.” His eyes had a faraway look as if he were recapturing images. “The animal he is was not one 1 recognized, not real. Part wolf, part something else. Long arms. He ran upright and carried…bolts of lightning. Waved them like a threat.”
Vanessa dropped her voice to a near whisper. “Were we there again?”
“The panther,” he said. “It appeared, but I don’t think it was me, not like you said it was. I should have been afraid of it, but…” He shook his head.
“Your spirit guide,” her grandfather said with assurance.
Clay continued. “Hightower kept hiding things, the bombs maybe. Couldn’t tell what or where he was, but there were many stops. We were rushing, never quite catching up.”
“We?” Vanessa asked, leaning forward, excited. “Me, as the fox and you as the panther?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. I sensed you there. And I was, but the panther was ahead somehow, leading the way. The chase was long. Grueling. Frustrating. And in the end, there was a falling away of earth. I felt a sense of.. .failure.” His eyes were red-rimmed and his voice halting. “It’s still not clear.”
Then he turned abruptly and faced her grandfather. “The phrase kick bird or kill bird. Does it mean anything to you?” It kept running through his mind with urgency, an almost gleeful urgency. “Could the bird be Vanessa?” he asked her grandfather.
No, she knew what it meant. But Clay placed a hand on her wrist when she started to get up. “Wait. There’s something else right at the beginning, that was new, that I didn’t see in , the other vision. His eyes.. .strange, even for him.”
“James?”
“Yes. It was…like a madness overtook him. Suddenly he twisted something and killed it. Elation. Power. Then resignation. Dead resignation. I sensed he hadn’t meant to do what he did, but it was done and he couldn’t undo it. After that he began with the phrase running through his mind. Kill…bird. The only way. Kill…bird. What could it mean?”
Vanessa couldn’t wait. “I know what it means! Killbird Mountain. That’s where he’s gone!”
“The death,” Clay said. “It was a man, someone he had trusted. He felt betrayed.”
Vanessa pulled out of his grasp and went to the phone on the counter and quickly dialed. Six rings and she got the answering machine. She hung up and dialed again. “Michael? Get over to Maggie Valley and check out Tim Sauk’s place. See if he’s there. If he’s not, find him. I need to talk to him right away.”
She replaced the receiver. “Sauk’s his lawyer. I think we should warn him.”
“You think James is planning to go up Killbird? That’s some rough terrain. Why would he go there?” her grandfather asked. “Surely there are better places to hide.”
Vanessa knew. She leaned back against the kitchen counter and looked out the wide picture window that faced the mountains. “I think it’s probably a straight shot, perfect line of sight from the mountaintop down to Cherokee. No interference,” she said, her worried gaze sliding back to her grandfather, then to Clay. “If he’s planning to use a remote-control device to detonate the bombs, what better place to be?”
While Clay slept, Vanessa found and studied the terrain maps she had collected when she had worked as a camping guide. Her grandfather, guessing her intent, was busy making up backpacks with the necessary items. The only problem was he was making three.
She made it very clear he was not coming with them. “You have to stay here, Du-da. Keep the family safe.”
He argued that Dilly was safe enough with her aunt and uncle in Asheville and her grandmother would want him to go along and look after Vanessa.
After a while, she convinced him he couldn’t go. Or maybe he realized he would only slow them down. She brought up the vision and reminded him that neither he, nor his spirit guide, the bear, were present in it.
An hour later, she knew Clay’s vision was true. Michael called. Tim Sauk, James’s attorney, was dead. Michael had found him at his home, lying on the patio with a broken neck, ostensibly caused by a fall from the balcony above. Vanessa knew she would never be able to make Michael believe what had really happened. At least not until he had an autopsy report in his hands that would indicate homicide. They couldn’t wait.