by Jim O'Shea
“My, oh my. It’s tough for me to go four days and you do four years like it’s no big deal.”
Libby opted for a slow sip of coffee.
“Did you sleep much last night, honey?” Aisha asked. “You look like you pulled another all-nighter.”
“I fixed the convention center drawings by midnight or so, and was asleep by one. But I must not have slept well because I’m still exhausted.”
“Mentally, physically, or emotionally?”
“Yes.” Libby blew a long breath across the coffee. “Everything’s under control though,” she said, obviously not including herself in the assessment. “I sent all the files to Florich before I went to bed.”
“What’s your plan to get back in McCauley’s good graces?”
Libby took another sip of coffee and peered at Aisha through the steam. “He’ll see how great the drawings are and forget the whole thing?”
“That’s not really a plan. That’s just what you want to happen.”
Libby stared at her best friend. She could be so annoying. “How far is the reservation?”
Aisha folded arms across her chest. “You’ve got a career to worry about, honey.”
“Such as it is.”
Aisha sighed.
“She doesn’t live on a reservation, and you’d know that if you paid more attention to your grandmother or mother. I can’t believe you don’t know any of this.”
“You’re the one who’s always been so fascinated with Native American culture,” Libby said. “You and all the crazy women in my family.”
“Choctaw territory is mostly in Oklahoma, but the woman lives in Wyoming. The young lady I spoke to when I made the appointment said her family came here when the Choctaw Nation was moved from Mississippi to Oklahoma by the Bureau of Indian Affairs in the 1830s.”
“The Trail of Tears?”
Aisha’s facial features melted into a frown. “Many died along the way. When the tribe got to Oklahoma, her family kept going west. Her great-great-grandmother married a white man and they settled in Laramie in the mid-1800s.”
“Laramie?”
“Relax. Her house is not far past the town of Little America so I’ll be there and back before you know it. Her grandparents moved west from Laramie a hundred years ago and settled in southwest Wyoming.”
“Glad I’m not going. I’ve got a dog that holds a grudge if he’s not fed by five sharp.”
“Your mom and your grandmother loved this woman.”
“All the more reason to be leery.”
“Regardless, they swore by her. As long as your dad never finds out, what harm could it do?”
“Oh, trust me, Dad will never know. With Mom’s passing and all this nonsense I’m dealing with, the last thing he needs to hear is that my best friend is going to see a witchdoctor.”
“She’s a medicine woman, Libby. Her name is pronounced Ah-Pay-Ha. Sister Apeha.”
“I think I heard the name before.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t know the name means Sign of the Future. She’s a very respected woman amongst the Choctaws for her ability to see things others cannot. Look at it this way.” Aisha put her hand on Libby’s shoulder. “You’ve got Native American blood in you, so I see this as an opportunity to learn a little more about your heritage.”
“You better stop by the store before you get on the highway.” Libby grinned. “You’ll need some fresh eye-of-newt.”
A frown fell across Aisha’s face.
“So, the Choctaw don’t believe in evil spirits and all that anymore?”
“Most are actually Christian today, but I’m sure Sister Apeha still follows the old ways. According to what I read, old timers like her believe we all have an inner shadow or spirit called a shilup and an outer spirit referred to as a shilombish.”
“What’s the difference?”
Aisha began buttoning her coat. “If a person had a troubled life or died an unnatural death, the inner spirit would pass over to the next world but the outer spirit would remain around family and loved ones until the issue was resolved in some way.”
“Haunt them?” Libby asked in a weak voice.
“More like a presence from what I read. The book said the shilombish would let the living know it was hanging around by howling like a coyote or hooting like an owl.”
“How would you know it was a shim…”
“Shilombish.”
“Right.” Libby pointed at Aisha. “How would you know it was one of those?”
“Real owls and coyotes use hoots or howls to communicate with others of their kind, so you’ll typically hear a response. When it’s a shilombish, there’s no reply.”
“I guess I need to pay more attention to my wildlife.” Libby forced a grin.
“I think it would help if you paid more attention to a lot of things.”
Libby looked into brown eyes the color of molasses, but not nearly as sweet.
“You know what I’m talking about, honey,” Aisha said. “I don’t want to beat it to death.”
“Then don’t.”
Aisha fumbled in her pockets for her keys with one hand, while pointing to the cabinet next to the sink with the other. “Are you still OK with me taking the box?”
Libby groaned. “I don’t think—”
“We discussed this, Libby,” Aisha released a heavy sigh. “Grandma Meeker made a point of giving you that fancy box before she died, and told you to keep it with you until you were old and gray.”
“And never told me how to open it. So what?”
Aisha crossed her arms. “She also made you swear to never tell your parents about it. Don’t you find that odd?”
Up until this very moment, she hadn’t given the whole thing much thought. Secrets were common in her family.
Aisha opened the pantry, pushed half dozen containers out of the way, and pulled out an object the size of a small toaster. The edges of the rectangular box were gilded in silver and each of the four sides featured mythical creatures intricately carved into dark wood. The top of the box consisted of six concentric circular rings forged from silver and dotted with tiny chips of quartz—each ring larger than the one inside it, with a small solid circle at the center. The six rings could turn independently of the others in either direction, forming random patterns of quartz with each turn.
“You’re afraid of it, aren’t you?” Aisha studied her, as if searching for something. “You can’t fool me.” She slid her hand into the crook of Libby’s elbow.
Libby wrestled her arm free. “You don’t know how to open it, Azzi, so what’s the point in bringing it?”
“Because it’s Choctaw.”
“All I know is it was G-Ma’s,” Libby replied. “It’s probably just her old jewelry box.”
Aisha’s face lit up.
“She was dirt poor,” Libby said. “There’s nothing valuable in it, trust me. Maybe a little turquoise.”
“I’m hoping Sister Apeha will be able to tell me what its purpose is, and maybe how to open it.”
“I told you, it’s a trinket box. Period. What possible—”
Aisha extended her pinky finger in a hook. “Betcha it’s more than that.”
Libby smiled. “If it isn’t, will you give up on all this?”
“Agreed.”
Libby hooked fingers and tugged. “As usual, you wore me down to a nub.”
Aisha winked and grabbed the box. “It’s a gift.”
Libby pulled the sweatshirt’s hood over her head and followed Aisha to the front door. An encroaching storm smudged the western horizon, and a raw, northeast wind swept across her yard in long, sustained gusts.
“I need to get ahead of this weather,” Aisha said.
“Take my car. It’s got all-wheel drive.”
“Nonsense.” Before wrapping a scarf around her neck, Aisha tossed the box to Libby and she juggled before securing it with both hands. Her fingertips brushed gently across the intricate carvings for the first time in years, and
something about the jagged lines disturbed her.
As Aisha pulled her coat on, Libby’s cell phone rang from the pocket of her sweater, but she ignored it. When it rang again, she pulled out the phone. “Hey, Dad,” she said after clicking the green button. “Can I call you back in a few—” Libby held the phone up to her ear as she slumped onto an old wooden pew from her father’s former church that she kept in the foyer.
It didn’t take long before Aisha sat next to her, a look of concern across her face.
When the call ended a minute later, they both sat in silence.
Aisha leaned over and put her arm around Libby. “When it rains it pours,” she said softly.
Libby hunched over and put her head in her hands. “Yeah.”
Aisha squeezed her hand. “Want to talk about it?” When Libby didn’t answer, Aisha knelt in front of her. “It’ll be OK,” she said. “Your dad just needs a little time.”
Libby sighed. Things would never be OK again. “How much did you hear?” she asked.
“Not everything.”
“Dad claims—” Libby’s voice cracked. “Dad said he found Melissa’s dog tags hanging from the hall tree in the foyer when he woke up this morning.”
Two familiar dark brown eyes softened. “He’s been under a lot of stress too lately. Maybe he sleepwalks like you? Could he have hung them there for some reason and simply forgotten?”
Libby gulped when memories of the Stockton Cemetery resurfaced, vivid images of her mother and father standing over her sister’s open grave. She couldn’t answer the question right away, but when she was able, her words were barely above a whisper. “He couldn’t have. We buried Melissa’s dog tags with her.”
12
Hunter stepped into a crowded hallway, having just witnessed Paula Anne Hart’s last chance to speak to investigators before being memorialized six feet beneath a block of chiseled granite. He slumped against the wall under a plastic sign labeled FORENSIC PATHOLOGY, and dropped a paper cup and its contents in a trash bin.
The coffee’s aroma had done little to mask the morgue’s odor, the smell of death hanging in its atmosphere like a greasy mist. The smell was bad enough, but the rows of heavy plastic cocoons on metal tables were worse.
So much death.
Hunter absent-mindedly pulled a cigarette from a full pack in his shirt pocket before realizing he was still inside the building.
Dr. Mark Jonas approached with a clipboard in his hand. “It’s like she was killed by a ghost,” he said.
“In my professional experience, Mark, a ghost has never killed anyone.”
Jonas dropped a pen in the pocket of his white lab coat and leaned against the opposite wall. “Exact same results as Schrupp,” he said. “Nothing but a single stab wound to the chest cavity.” Jonas waited for a gurney to pass before crossing the hall and standing next to Hunter. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I’d bet my pension it was the same murder weapon, Hunter, but I can keep that detail of the autopsy report confidential for now.”
Hunter put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed.
“Anything new with either investigation?” Jonas asked.
“The bloody fingerprint at the Schrupp site turned out to be hers. So far, this guy has been incredibly careful. We’ve been unable to come up with any trace evidence.”
“That’s it?”
“We know both women were shopping at malls before the murders,” Hunter said. “I believe he followed them home.”
“I suppose that means he didn’t know them?”
Hunter shrugged.
“There’s more,” Jonas said.
“Isn’t there always?” Hunter checked the heavy foot traffic in the hallway. Too crowded. “Walk with me.”
The two men navigated multiple corridors before exiting a side door of the non-descript police facility in downtown Salt Lake City. A morning mix of light rain and sleet had stopped, but the sidewalk next to the building was still wet and the few pedestrians out on a bleak Tuesday morning carried dripping umbrellas.
They turned into a brick alcove behind the building housing three large trash bins, the only area not covered by the building’s security cameras. With the calmness of a snake handler, Hunter pulled a flask out of his breast pocket, took a short swig, and offered it to his long-time friend and colleague.
Jonas shook his head. “I didn’t think you drank anymore.”
Hunter saluted Jonas with the flask. “I also don’t drink any less.” Hunter returned the flask to his coat pocket and pulled out the fresh pack of cigarettes. He lit one, pulled in a deep drag, and exhaled the smoke from his nostrils in twin gray streams.
“Do you think you’ve got a serial killer on your hands?” Jonas asked.
“The Redhead-Big-Knife-Murderer?”
“Catchy, but the press has already jumped on the similarities and referred to him as the Ginger Killer in this morning’s paper. You’d think they could be a little more creative than that.”
“We both know they can be very creative when they want to be.” Hunter took a long drag on the cigarette. “Speaking of which, get anything yet from the skin under the Schrupp fingernails?”
“Turned out to be her DNA, so she must have had an itch or something. Any theories yet?”
Hunter shook his head. He’d debated a possible ritual significance to the murders in his head, but decided they were ritual only in the sense that they were somehow important to the killer. “I found an interesting case that was opened up just a few days ago by a cop in Tooele City.”
“My in-laws live near there,” Jonas said, while shuffling his feet and rubbing his hands together vigorously. “I hadn’t heard anything.”
“You wouldn’t have,” Hunter said. “It was a minor incident. The father of a young woman living in Tooele reported a break-in at his daughter’s house, but nothing was stolen.”
“So?”
“It sounded strange, so I looked up the description of the woman and guess what?”
“Red hair?”
Hunter nodded.
“Thirty-ish?”
He nodded a second time. “Just turned the big three-oh. It gets better.”
Jonas turned toward him.
Hunter extended his index finger over his head. “If you drew a line from Farmington to Magna,” he said, moving his finger down slowly, “and continued in a straight line, guess what town that line goes straight through.”
“That is interesting,” Jonas said.
“Tooele’s officially out of my jurisdiction, but I talked to a friend this morning and he got me the OK from the local blue.”
“It’s likely nothing.”
“Agreed, but eventually this guy will stick his head out of his hole.” Hunter snuffed out the mostly un-smoked cigarette on the side of the metal trash bin. “And when he does, I’ll be there to bite it off.”
~*~
He found her in seconds.
Elizabeth Meeker’s Utah DMV address matched the one provided by the Tooele cops. She had a regular Class D license, renewed within the past week. Ms. Meeker had indeed just turned thirty, was five feet four, one hundred fifteen pounds, her middle name was Lynett, and she was an organ donor.
Hunter clicked on the link, the screen flickered, and the young woman appeared wearing what looked like a very pretty, practiced smile. Hunter printed the entire two-page report and read it while Elizabeth L. Meeker stared at him from the computer screen.
He slid the report into the case file folder and pulled out notes from his conversation with the Tooele cop. The only surviving daughter of twins born to Nicholas and Marilyn, Elizabeth “Libby” Meeker was an unmarried architect working in Salt Lake City and had lost her only sibling—an identical twin—in the infamous U.S.S. Girardeau disaster the year before.
He slid the file folder into his briefcase and was rubbing bloodshot eyes when the phone on his desk rang. He picked up the receiver, listened without saying a word, and told the caller he was on
his way. Hunter’s destination was Tooele City, Utah, where a third murder victim awaited him.
A thirty-year-old female with red hair.
13
“Try to relax, Dad.”
Libby fluffed a decorative pillow and pushed it gently under her father’s head.
“Nothing seems out of place,” she said gently. “I don’t see Melissa’s dog tags anywhere.”
Nicholas shifted on his office sofa and let out a soft groan. “They were there.”
“You’re getting yourself too worked up and it’s not good for you. Did you take your heart meds today?”
Nicholas nodded as he rolled over on his side.
When he tried to sit up, Libby pushed against his chest and he didn’t resist. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
Nicholas buried his face in the pillow. “It can’t be,” he said, almost to himself.
During the ensuing silence, the only sound in Libby’s ears was her heart hammering at a steady drum. She left for the kitchen and returned with a half dozen ice cubes wrapped in a thin towel. She shivered while pressing it on his forehead, but knew the chill had nothing to do with the ice, and that turning up the heat in the house would do no good. “You’re scaring me, Dad.”
“I took a nap this afternoon as you suggested,” her father said in a weak voice. “I’m not sure what woke me up, but the first thing I remember hearing sounded like a light tapping. I didn’t think anything of it and was falling back asleep when I heard the footsteps.”
Libby stared at her father. The blood had drained from his face and he looked much older.
He pushed up from the prone position and sat hunched over, breathing slowly. “You’re the only person left who has a key to this house. I checked out the upstairs window thinking it might be you. When I saw the driveway was empty, I went downstairs to make sure the door was locked.”
Libby looked at her father’s scared expression, and pushed back an uncomfortable feeling creeping over her.
“I smelled her the minute I got to the bottom of the stairs,” His voice trembled. “The perfume she wore all the time.”
Libby winced. Vanilla orchid.