Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged (21 page)

"What
do you believe happened to her?" Callie asked.

"With
a man who knows her," Manaba said and looked deeply into Callie's eyes.

"Okay,"
I said, drunk enough not to care, "I'm tired of you looking at Callie as
if she belongs to you when in fact she belongs to me."
There,
I
thought,
the truth will out.

Manaba
looked at me without expression. "I look deeply into her and see what she
is thinking and who she is. You look only at her surface. If you believe her
heart and mind are yours, then perhaps you will travel there more often."

The
truth of her words stung me as my head spun and I lay down, looking up at the
sky, which had become a backdrop for the stars that slashed across the dusky
darkness. Then pulsing lights and flickering images burst across its vastness:
women of long ago in native costumes dancing across the land, quick-cut images
of a white man, a struggle, the rape of a young woman, the moaning of an old
Indian woman clutching her heart, dissolving to a powerful dark-haired young
Navajo girl pressing her body to Manaba's, deriving pleasure from the earth
that breathed beneath them, breasts touching, souls igniting, transporting Manaba
to places even a shaman cannot go alone, the energy around them whirling like a
prairie fire.

The
dark-haired young woman swung her head in my direction as an animal would upon
hearing a twig break behind it in the forest. And when her eyes met mine, I
gasped, a chill ricocheting back and forth across my body. It was the
wolf-woman, then the diabolical face of the man who hit our windshield. As I
tried to see more, I blacked out. Or perhaps I was already out and the images
merely went black.

When
I woke up, I was lying beside Callie, who was sitting on a rock facing east as
the light came over the hills. Manaba had disappeared. Callie had a small fire
burning in front of her, that I imagined Manaba had set, and a lightweight
Navajo blanket draped around her shoulders. Apparently Manaba had placed a
blanket on the ground for me as well, but now it was wadded up in an
unrecognizable shape, thrashed and pummeled in the night as I must have
attempted to ward off crazy images dancing through my head.

Staggering
to my feet, I knocked the sand off my pants. Callie tilted her head to kiss me
when I approached and handed me a cup.

I
eyed it suspiciously, staring into it. "What was I slurping in the croquet
ball?

"Peyote
juice—from the cactus—induces hallucinations." When I refused the coffee
she assured me she'd made it herself. "And don't ever drink something you
haven't examined. Not that I think Manaba would ever hurt you."

"Speaking
of our hostess, where is she?"

"I
don't know," Callie replied, her mind elsewhere. "Did you
dream?"

"If
you can call it that. I remember something about the land, and then Manaba was
boffing this great-looking Indian girl. I hope the boffing part is true because
it means she's got someone on her mind other than you. What did you
dream?" I turned the question on her.

"The
same."

"What
do you mean, the same?"

"The
images were made available to us simultaneously. This spot is very powerful so
they came through for anyone here. We may have seen a few things differently but
we had the same vision. Yours was helped by the drink. I needed only to open my
mind."

"Which
would imply that not only do you think we had the same dream, but you know what
I dreamed, so what was the white guy doing in my dream?"

"He
raped a woman—an Indian woman."

I
stumbled as she said it.
Can people really have the same dream, like a
simulcast?

"It's
all out there, you merely tune in," Callie said, reading my mind.
"Words or sounds exist forever, floating in the universe. Scientific
instruments can pick up those frequencies in the atmosphere and rebroadcast
what was said over forty years ago. Images are out there too."

"We
need an image of where Ramona is," I said, changing the subject, not ready
to go down the pictures-are-forever rabbit hole.

"She
wasn't in the dream."

We
wandered away from the strange lush scenery as one would a desert soundstage
after the production is over, and I slipped my arm around Callie and held her
close as we walked to the car. Inside, I turned on the heater and warmed the car
up for her, mulling over what Manaba had said.

"She
said I only look at your surface."

Callie
smiled at my being troubled by the accusation.

"Life's
so crazy, there's no time to sit and stare deeply into your eyes, but I would
like to. However, I have no idea why I'm defending myself."

"We're
all evolving."

"That
wolf that flew onto our windshield and then morphed into a tortured face—I
think that's the white man I saw in the dream."

"Who
is he?" Callie asked.

"You
know who it is. The man whose name we don't mention." And this time I
wasn't making fun of the energy of names. This time I truly didn't want to
conjure him up.

I
backed up, then sped across the sand, heading for the goat path to retrace our
drive home.

"I
liked the shaman boffing the good-looking maiden—best part about the
dream."

"You
seem to have that on your mind. Remember that a snapshot of any two people in
the position of the shaman and the young Indian girl could have many
interpretations: were they making love, or is one giving the other CPR, or is
one attacking the other?"

I
almost thought Callie didn't want to see Manaba with someone. "Looked like
a midnight rodeo to me."

"It
could be none of those things or all of those things."

"All?
That would be interesting—being attacked, revived, and made love to all by the
same woman. Too rough a night for me."

Callie
was ignoring me now, which she often did when she felt I was bantering with
her. "There's something we're not getting. I feel Manaba is blocking my
energy because there's a piece of this she doesn't want me to know. Maybe
Ramona's not missing. Maybe she left of her own accord."

"What
if she
is
missing and Manaba killed her too?" At Callie's look, I
quickly added, "Every mass murderer in the U.S. always has a neighbor who
says he's the nicest guy they ever met—mowed their lawn, babysat their kids.
All I'm saying is that you may not know Manaba like you think you do."

We
drove back to the cabin, the light a panoply of colors across the distant red
rocks, as if God's own lighting director had determined this was the stage
against which life should be played. I wondered why I happened to be here on
this stage at this time with this gorgeous woman beside me. Perhaps life was a
lottery and I had merely drawn the lucky numbers.

"You're
overthinking things again," Callie said without even looking at me, and
before I could deny it she added, "The world is full of mysteries we don't
yet understand, but that doesn't mean in the scope of things they don't make
perfect sense."

"Like
murder makes sense?"

"It's
part of...the plot," she said in an attempt to explain something in my
vernacular.

"So
God is a writer?"

Callie
let that thought dangle, taking my hand instead and kissing the palm.

When
we pulled into the driveway, Elmo was beside himself, having been given no
heads-up about our being away so long, and I apologized profusely.

"Mom
drank pond scum, Elmo, and passed out, and that's why I'm late taking you
out."

He
licked his lips in a gesture of empathy, no doubt recalling occasions when he
had drunk from a toilet. Quickly watering the nearest bush, he headed back
inside where Callie helped him up on the couch and hand-fed him bites of
leftover turkey. He had his paws on her leg and tiny slobber marks on her
pants.

"Sorry,"
I said about the drool and she shook her head slightly, letting me know it was
of no consequence. After finding a small space to snug in on the couch next to
them, I put my arm around her.

"You
put yourself in too much danger, Callie. I mean, if I weren't around, I know
you'd go right ahead and drive into danger in the middle of the night, go to
remote locations without letting someone know where you are. I feel like I have
to keep an eye on you all the time to make sure you're safe. Is that a sign I'm
insane or in love?"

"You're
a protector...and you may be passionately in love." Callie snuggled up in
my arms and I kissed the top of her head as she ran her hands up under my
shirt, massaging my breasts.

I
asked Elmo to give us a little room on the couch and had begun kissing Callie
and unbuttoning her blouse when there was a knock at the door. I got up to
answer it, and Barrett Silvers, looking worn and worried, slumped into the room
to report that she'd gone to the police station and personally taken an officer
over to Ramona's cabin and searched her belongings for a note or information
that might tell them if she'd left voluntarily.

After
a few attempts at calming her, reassuring her Ramona would be found, we were
absolutely out of conversation.

Barrett
began to fill the dead air with strange musings. "She's a painter, did you
know that?"

I
stared at Barrett, thinking her voice had a soft lilt I didn't know it
possessed.

"No,
we don't know much about her," Callie said.

"Well,
she paints beautiful landscapes of the plains with the oil derricks and cattle.
She said she's going to paint one for me..."

Barrett
sagged down into a chair with her head in her hands and I looked over at
Callie, having no idea what to say or do. This was a new Barrett, a lovesick
woman.

"You
gotta cut this out," I demanded gruffly. "I like the cocky, arrogant,
oversexed, studio shark. This lovesick thing is not attractive."

"Go
fuck yourself," she whispered.

"That's
starting to look like an option, since distraught dykes have been repeatedly
appearing on my doorstep and derailing my love life."

"What
did you find in the cabin?" Callie asked, as if she knew Barrett was
concealing something.

"Nothing,
really..." Sheepishly she added, "Something I took off her
dresser." Barrett fished deep in her pocket and pulled out a small green
slate arrowhead, obviously a trinket and not an artifact.

Callie
took the item from Barrett and rolled it around in her fingers. "Did she
buy this somewhere recently?"

"I
don't know." Barrett seemed too upset to think clearly.

"I've
seen these somewhere.. .Teague?"

I
looked at the arrowhead about the size of my thumb, and the image of a small
wicker basket full of children's arrowheads popped into my head. "Trading
post."

"Yes,"
Callie said, grabbing her coat. "We know Ramona most likely didn't carry
this around with her in Oklahoma and she'd only been here a short while, so she
either bought it at a store, or her kidnapper did, and maybe she left it on the
dresser as a clue."

"Unlikely
there would be time for that if someone dragged her away," I said quietly,
not wanting to take away all hope but wanting to be realistic nonetheless.

"Maybe
the kidnapper left it," Callie said.

"Why
would a kidnapper be that careless?" I asked.

"Maybe
he left it there on purpose to help us find her." Callie smiled, quite
proud of her theory.

"Why
do you kidnap someone and then ask to be caught?" Barrett stared at us.

"Maybe
the kidnapper was working against his will, or maybe he knew it would be us who
would find it," Callie said. "Things can look one way and be
something entirely different. Come on."

And
like a battalion commander, Callie herded us both toward the door, leaving Elmo
on the couch in a turkey-induced tryptophanic trance.

We
were only ten minutes from the jewelry store, and I smiled nervously at Callie
as we walked up the wooden steps and entered the rustic building made expansive
with its tree-sized logs that acted as beams and room dividers to separate rugs
from jewelry and trinkets.

"Over
here." Callie quickly located the basket of green arrowheads and compared
them to the one in her hand.

"Identical,"
I said, picking up a few of them.

The
beautiful Indian woman in the pleated dress and elaborate turquoise jewelry
greeted us. "You're here to make your ring purchase?" she asked me
with a broad teasing smile on her wide, open face.

"Still
getting comfortable with the idea," I said, and tried to seem casual.

Barrett
listened to the exchange and glanced down at the rings in the case for the
first time. "Are you getting married?" She looked at me quizzically
but without her usual tone of condemnation or even the slightest hint of
jealousy.