DOUBLE
HEART
A Will Lansa Mystery
ROB MACGREGOR
Published by Seven Realms Publishing, LLC via Smashwords.com
Copyright © 2010 Rob MacGregor
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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FOR TRISH & MEGAN
OTHER BOOKS BY ROB MACGREGOR
THE GHOST TRIBE: Peter Benchley’s Amazon (Avon, 2000)
CRYSTAL SKULL, (Ballantine Books, 1991)
JUST/IN TIME with Billy Dee Williams (TOR, 2000)
PSI/NET with Billy Dee Williams (TOR, 1999)
PROPHECY ROCK, (Simon & Schuster, 1995)
HAWK MOON (Simon & Schuster, 1996)
Six original INDIANA JONES novels (Bantam, 1991-1993)
INDIANA JONES and the Peril at Delphi
INDIANA JONES and the Dance of the Giants
INDIANA JONES and the Seven Veils
INDIANA JONES and the Genesis Deluge
INDIANA JONES and the Unicorn’s Legacy
INDIANA JONES and the Interior World
PROLOGUE
October 1, 1997
Herb and stones. Feathers and bones. Amulets and charms. A pinch of tobacco, a few dried kernels of corn.
The cloaked woman carefully arranged the objects on a piece of soft leather spread across the flat surface of a rock that lay among the boulders in Keams Canyon. Next, she tossed a handful of freshly picked herbs into her compact fire. Smoke curled up and obscured the evening sun. She gathered the smoke with a wave of her hands and inhaled deeply. With her eyes half-closed, she called upon her spirits and chanted their names. Her head slowly bobbed and perspiration beaded on her brow.
Ready now.
Eight others, her allies, her power base, rimmed the flat rock. They wore baggy black sweatshirts with hoods pulled forward, their features shadowed. They joined her as she whispered his name and their voices grew louder and louder as an image of his face appeared to her. She reached into her pouch and her fingers closed around a jagged piece of quartz shaped like an arrowhead. She held it up and stabbed at the image.
“Sending it to you, and into you. Sending it to you. Sending it…sending it.”
She jabbed again and again, and twisted the arrowhead until she saw him fall. He grabbed his knee and cursed his luck.
She knew she had delivered her dark medicine.
She hung her head and closed her eyes. She would show him what happened to someone who dared to chase witches, who wanted to expose their secrets and their identities. She would show him the power of the witching way. Her power. Her way.
She stood, smothered the fire with water from a metal canister and scooped up the leather cloth. She folded the corners inward and clutched the objects to her chest, then leapt onto the rock to seal the spell. She dropped her head back, her raven locks flowing down her back like a river of molten lava. She spun in a circle in the dusk among the boulders. The silent spirits watched and listened as she whispered his name again. The others embraced in a tight circle around her. Their voices joined with hers and chanted.
“Will...Will...Will...”
ONE
Five months later
It was strange music that had a mournful, wailing quality and a driving, thumping beat. The singer, some old black guy named Tommy Terrance, was talking instead of singing. He was saying this music came from the heart and the soul.
“Uh huh, yeah, and a lot of it comes from down by the hips, you know. Are you hip, my friends?”
Will began to laugh and now some of the kids were starting to clap along. Others, however, just sat there looking bored or annoyed because it wasn’t hip-hop, country or heavy metal. This was the blues and Will Lansa had never heard it. Judging from the looks of the kids in the auditorium, he wasn’t the only one.
The four black men on stage at Hopi High for the Friday afternoon concert picked up the beat. They moved into a song about a guy who was worried about who his girlfriend was seeing while he was seeing someone else. However, old Tommy wasn’t saying anything about ‘seeing.’ It was about doing, and wondering who his old lady was doing while he was doing someone else.
By the time the show was over an hour later several kids were dancing, laughing and waving their arms overhead in front of the stage. Will stayed in his seat, tapping his foot and holding Hanna Wesley’s hand. She was smiling and bobbing her head, and Will was certain that old Tommy was staring back at her across a dozen rows of seats. Why wouldn’t he? Hanna stood out, a redhead and the only white kid in the school.
Her flaming hair and tall, shapely physique that curved in all the right places drew looks wherever she went. She played basketball and had gotten scholarship offers from three colleges. He was still amazed that they were spending time getting to know each other.
“Hey, I’ve got to get home,” she said as they headed out of the auditorium. “Dad called. He’s worried about Kaya. She didn’t come back last night after visiting her cousin in Tuba City. It’s probably nothing, but I better get home and see what’s going on.”
Gina Watson, Will’s English teacher, stopped them in the hall. She was a Hopi woman and had only been out of college for a couple of years.
“Hey, what did you two think of that music?”
“I liked it—sort of,” Hanna said. “At first I thought it was going to be like gospel, but it was too dirty sounding.”
“It’s funky. The word is funky, not dirty,” Ms. Watson said. She turned Will for his opinion. Will shrugged.
“Like the man said, it’s down-home music. It’s just not my home.”
“Gotcha. Hey, you two want to get your picture taken with Tommy before he leaves?”
Will glanced over at Hanna.
“You go,” she said and gave him a friendly shove. “You can interview him for the paper, and ask him about those dirty lyrics. Oh, I mean funky lyrics.”
She turned and disappeared into the crowd. As Will watched her go he noticed a woman with a long single braid leaning against the wall. Her arms were crossed and she stared at him with dark, penetrating eyes. Had he seen her before? She wasn’t a teacher. Maybe she was a parent. Whoever she was, she was strikingly beautiful and held his gaze for several moments.
“Hey, you coming Will?” Ms. Watson asked at last.
“Oh, yeah.” As they headed back into the auditorium, he glanced back and saw that the woman had disappeared.
“By the way, how’s that senior thesis coming along? You’re two weeks overdue and I can’t extend it much longer.”
“Sorry about that. I’m almost done.”
“I’m looking forward to reading it. You took on a challenging subject.”
They joined a couple of teachers and several kids on stage. Too late he saw that one of them was Mosi Nakai, his ex-girlfriend. He paused on the top step as their eyes met. She quickly turned and headed off-stage in the other direction.
Will sighed and wondered why life was so damned complicated. He liked Mosi and wished they were still friends, but he liked Hanna, too. Ms. Watson pulled him forward and introduced him to the bandleader who smiled and shook his hand.
“Now you look like you got the blues, son. What’s wrong?”
“Nothin,’ just high school.”
“I dig it.” He laughed and slapped Will on the shoulder. A camera flashed and Will nodded to Carmen, the girl who had taken their picture. She was the editor of the school newspaper and the one who had encouraged him to write for the paper.
“I bet you kids don’t see too many black folk on the rez,” Tommy said.
“No, not too many,” Will answered as he remembered the lecture today from first period. Ms. Watson had talked about how a hundred years ago the Army sent black soldiers into the Hopi villages to steal children from their families. They took them to the government school in Keams Canyon and chopped off their long hair. They forced them to live in dorms, and punished them if they spoke their native language.
Will thanked Tommy for playing, then excused himself and headed for the parking lot. Outside of the auditorium the hallway was empty, revealing a trail of litter. It was the usual stuff—wads of paper, broken pencils and discarded food wrappers. Among the refuse was an eagle feather with a beaded leather thong attached to it. The feather was on the floor near the wall where the woman with the braids had stood. A chill snaked up his spine as he continued down the hall. He felt as if the woman was still standing there, staring after him.
Will pushed open one of the sets of double doors and stepped outside. With a groan, he remembered his truck was in the shop. His father, who had some business at the Bureau of Indians Affairs a few miles from the school, was picking him up today. The parking lot was nearly empty, and he suddenly wished he’d told his father he would get a ride with one of the guys. They were all from K-Town, or Kykotsmovi, at the foot of Third Mesa, and took turns driving. It was that or take the bus.
No sign of his father yet. He set his backpack down and leaned against the wall. He thought about the concert again and wondered if Dad had any blues albums hidden away in his country and country-rock collection. Maybe somewhere between Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash, both of whom had Native American blood as Dad had told him a zillion times. Probably not, he thought. He’d never heard any music like that from Dad’s stereo. Never on the radio, either. Not even in Colorado, where he’d lived most of his life with his mother.
Will dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. An image of Hanna came to mind and triggered a flood of warm feelings. He definitely liked being around her. He could talk to her in a way that he’d never been able to do with Mosi. She was bright as well as attractive, and when she looked into his eyes the rest of the world vanished.
Until three weeks ago, she’d remained a distant figure, a blaze of red hair that seemed to float above a sea of ebony locks. She was the daughter of a Methodist minister and lived in the village of Morovi on Second Mesa. She had several friends from basketball, her church, and across the rez. While Will was attending Hopi High for the first time this school year, Hanna had lived here all her life.
He smiled at the memory of their first conversation. She’d spoken to him as they bussed their dishes in the lunchroom.
“Hey, Will Lansa. Your bud, Hatathey, says you’re writing your senior paper on Dine witchcraft. Is that true?”
“Guilty as charged, I guess.” He had expected her to tell him to stay away from the subject as several classmates had already done. To his surprise, that didn’t seem to be her concern.
“Why pick on the Navajos? You’re Hopi, aren’t you? I know your dad is, anyway. Why don’t you write about Hopi witchcraft?”
He had studied her a moment, noticed the curve of her lips and the freckles that were sprinkled lightly across her pale cheeks. He’d found her comment humorous but was slightly annoyed that she of all people would question his heritage and infer that he might be more white than Hopi.
“I tried. I couldn’t get anywhere. No one wanted to talk. Besides, There’s a lot more information available about Navajo witches. Lots of stories, at least.”
“Stories? You mean, like old tales from the past? Why not get first-hand information about stuff going on now?”
“Like I said...”
“Do you even believe in witchcraft, Will?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve only heard stories. I know there are medicine people with powers. My grandfather is one of them. He’s an extraordinary healer, but he’s not a witch.”
“Can he grow back missing limbs?”
“Maybe on a lizard. I didn’t say he was God, after all,” Will replied sarcastically.
“You’re funny, Will Lansa. I like you. My dad knows a Hopi witch. I bet he could set something up. You know, like an interview.”
“Really?”
“Sure. You must be good at interviewing people. I see your byline in the school paper.”
“I guess. I don’t know, I’m pretty much done with my research. I’ve just got to finish writing it.”
Her pretty mouth broadened into a smile. “You’re afraid to talk to a witch,” she teased.
“I didn’t say that. I’m not afraid. Besides, I thought your dad was a minister. What’s he doing hanging with a witch?”
Hanna laughed. It was a lovely musical sound that made him smile.
“He’s trying to save the man’s soul, of course. That’s what he does...in his own way.”
“Okay, I’ll meet this witch.”
“Good. Come to my house after school. It’s next to the church in Morovi.”
* * * *
Will snapped out of his reverie as the double doors swung open. He tensed when he saw Carson Nakai and three of his Dine buddies step out. The Navajos made up about twenty percent of the students and usually stuck close together. Nakai did a double take when he saw Will.
Carson Nakai was a junior and had been a star halfback on the football team when Will first came to Hopi High. Will, who was an All-Colorado state running back at the time, had beaten Nakai out for the starting position. Then, while in practice preparing for their third game, Will had injured his knee and he was out for the season.
In fact, it was doubtful that he’d ever regain his speed and mobility. He’d undergone surgery in which pieces of broken cartilage were removed, but the knee was still tender after five months. Nakai had reclaimed the starting position and never failed to brag to Will about his touchdowns.
“Hey, look who’s here. It’s Aspen. Still slumming on the mesas, I see, but going after the rare white meat now.”
Will ignored the comment. Nakai had called Will ‘Aspen’ from the first day of football practice.
“What’s up, Carson?”
“What’s up is that I don’t like the way you’re treating my sister. She’s a good kid.”
Will stood up. “We broke up. So what? It’s none of your business.”
Nakai poked a finger at Will’s chest.
“Listen, pretty boy, mountain rat. The crew and I all agree that no respectable Bruin should hang with a white girl, especially the daughter of a missionary. It don’t look right.”
“Says who?”
Nakai smiled, looked around to make sure they were alone, then abruptly punched Will just below the sternum and knocked the wind out of him. Caught off balance, Will stumbled and the other boys grabbed his arms.
“Says me, the guy who scored fourteen touchdowns and ran away with your game, Has-Been. That’s what I’m calling you from now on – Has-Been .”
“Screw you.” He tried to wrench away, but Nakai sank his fist into Will’s gut. This time Will tensed his muscles just in time and Nakai’s fist bounced off of Will as if he’d struck a board. Will’s leg snapped out lightning quick and his foot struck Nakai’s chest, sending him back-pedaling.
“Hold onto him!” Nakai shouted angrily just as one of the doors opened. “I don’t want him running away like a damned prairie dog!”
He grabbed Will by the collar and made a fist, but before he could throw the punch a hand snagged Nakai’s wrist as a leg tripped him. Nakai tumbled to the ground.
It was Dan Hatathey, the football team’s star linebacker. He was a mass of brawn and muscle, and was a Dine friend. It had been Hatathey who’d tackled Will in practice and ended his football days and he’d felt bad about it ever since. The upside was that they’d become good friends.
“What the hell do you guys think you’re doing?” Hatathey demanded.
The others released Will as Nakai jumped to his feet and shoved Hatathey, who barely budged. He grabbed Nakai by the collar and held him at arm’s length, pinning him to the brick wall. Nakai struggled to free himself from Hatathey’s iron grip. Hatathey was about to punch Nakai in the gut when they heard a short blast from a police siren and that ended the fight. Nakai and his buddies scattered like rats as the police cruiser moved slowly in their direction from across the parking lot.
“You okay, Sazi?” Hatathey asked. His nickname for Will was short for Anasazi, a Navajo word that meant ‘ancient enemy’. For his part, Will called Hatathey Tava, a Hopi term for Navajos that literally meant ‘head-pounder.’
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He brushed off his shirt and grabbed his backpack as his Dad pulled up. “Thanks for the help. See you next week.”
“Hey, don’t forget you’ve still got to come to Chinle one of these weekends and go camping with me in Canyon de Chelly. You’ll love it.”
“Sounds good. Let’s plan on it.”
”Ya-ta-hey!” Hatathey called out. He waved a hand towards the cruiser and walked off to his Jeep. Will moved over to the car, opened the door and slid into the front seat.
“Hey, Dad,” he said as if nothing had happened.
TWO
Will leaned back in the passenger seat, then propped his feet up on the dash and crossed his arms. Pete Lansa immediately snapped his fingers.
“Hey, feet down. Not in the patrol car. You know better.”
“Do now,” Will muttered.
Pete Lansa smiled and pushed back his shoulder-length hair.
“So what happened back there?”
“Just some jerks.”
“Hm, let me guess. It had something to do with you and a certain redhead.”
“How did you know?”
“Got an inkling the other day when I ran into your principal, Mrs. Natamaya, over at the Keams Canyon restaurant. She said there was some resentment, hurt feelings. I figured she was talking about the Dine girl.” He glanced over at Will. “You weren’t mean to her, were you?”
“No, I still like Mosi, sort of. It’s just that she was getting too territorial. I couldn’t look at another girl without her getting all jealous.”
“Territorial, huh? Well, the Dine do have us surrounded.”
Will laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“Maybe you should clear the air, explain how you feel.”
“It’s too late. Besides, Dad, I don’t think it’s...” He was about to tell his Dad that it wasn’t any of his business, but caught himself. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay?”
“Hey, just trying to help. You know, I’m pretty well informed on the topic of inter-racial relationships, for better and worse.”
“I know. But like I said...”
“Okay, fine.”
They fell silent and slipped into their own thoughts as they drove through the high desert beneath a brilliant, spacious, pale blue sky. Will felt relieved when his father turned onto Highway 87 and headed toward Second Mesa. That meant he’d already taken care of his business at the BIA office. Hopefully they would go directly home. Most of the time his Dad took forever to get anywhere. He was always stopping at different places, checking on someone, following up a lead, or just patrolling to make his presence known. The long-haired chief of police was one with the people, but also one with the law.
Will knew that his father had alienated some of his traditional Hopi family when he’d married a white woman. His mother Marion was a social worker, born into a wealthy Aspen, Colorado silver mining family. She gave birth to Will on the reservation, but the marriage ended three years later and she took Will back to Aspen. In the years that followed, Pete Lansa tried to see his son as often as possible and Will’s mother always encouraged him to visit his father. Will spent the summer here after his sophomore year, but he never thought he would live on the rez.
Will’s thoughts drifted to Hanna again. Until he’d gotten to know her, he hadn’t realized that she’d lived her entire life on the reservation. Her mother had died in a car accident when she was only six years old, and Hanna was raised by her father and a Hopi woman named Kaya. Kaya was close to Jim Wesley, but she wasn’t his wife. Reverend Wesley had vowed never to remarry, so officially Kaya was a live-in housekeeper, cook, and substitute mother. Will hadn’t pushed Hanna to tell him any more about that relationship.
Will remembered meeting her father that day after school. The reverend had greeted him warmly and welcomed him into their home. He was a tall, angular man with thick, curly, salt-and-pepper hair and a droopy white mustache. Reverend Wesley had expressed an interest in Will’s multi-cultural background and the differences between his life in Aspen and the reservation. However, when the conversation finally turned to the Hopi witch, a furrow had formed on the reverend’s brow and he’d grown pensive.
“Sorry, can’t help you there, Will,” he’d answered curtly.
“Why not Dad?” Hanna protested. “Maybe Will can help you.”
Wesley shook his head.
“Too dangerous. You can’t trust witches. You don’t know how they might react.”
“Excuse me, but isn’t it dangerous for you, too?” Will had asked.
Reverend Wesley hesitated, then shrugged his narrow, bony shoulders.
“It is, but it’s my mission.”
Will’s thoughts were interrupted and he realized his father was talking.
“Sorry, Dad, what did you say?”
Lansa laughed.
“Day dreaming again? I said, we have to take a detour on Second Mesa.”
Will groaned. “Can’t you take me home first?”
“It won’t take long.”
Sure. He’d heard that before.
The worst thing about living here was the distance between home and school. It was the driving; the endless miles of moonscape, passing smatterings of sage and juniper, isolated oil rigs pumping at the earth, and occasional rock outcroppings. The high desert of Black Mesa was flat, harsh and dry, and capped by more faded blue sky than he’d ever seen. How the Hopi ancestors had decided upon this desolate expanse as their homeland and calling Second Mesa the center of the universe was a mystery to him.
Will remembered describing the bleak landscape to a friend in Aspen once. The friend had said how terrible it was that the American government had forced the Hopi to live in such an inhospitable environment. However, that wasn’t the case at all. The Hopi had lived here long before the arrival of the Europeans. Both the Spanish and the Americans had found the land so forbidding that, for the most part, they had left the Hopi alone until well into the nineteenth century.
Even after all these months Will still felt as if he were visiting an alien world when he crossed this stark landscape. He missed Colorado’s winding roads, always climbing or descending, bordered by forests of evergreens and aspens. He missed his old friends and his old life. Unfortunately, things had gotten too crazy with drugs, false accusations, and murder. In an odd way, living on the reservation was a relief; an escape from that materialistic world of greed and excessiveness. His senior year here was like a monastic retreat—a cleansing, a healing.
“So where are we headed?” Will asked glumly.
“We’re going to experience some everyday life,” Lansa said. “A farmer outside of Morovi is complaining that someone destroyed his corn field and now vultures are circling over it. He won’t go near it.”
Corn. That was another strange thing about the rez. The stuff grew in patches and produced cobs of blue, red, and, yellow. It was a rainbow of corn, and it carried an importance that, to Will, went far beyond what any vegetable deserved. Of course, he would never say that to anyone here. He was already marked as a mountain elitist and he didn’t need to contribute to that reputation.
“Something dead in the field, you think?” Will tried to sound interested.
“Probably an animal that was hit by a drunk who ran off the road and into the corn, then drove away.”
Fascinating, Will thought sarcastically.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Take a look. Talk to the farmer. See what I can do to help. Then we’ll head home.” There was a pause, then his father spoke again.
“Actually, I’m kind of interested in seeing this cornfield. It’s something new.”
“How could a corn field be something new? Hopis have been growing corn forever.”
“Not like this. It’s a special project involving a federal grant and the University of Northern Arizona Agricultural Department. The corn was started in greenhouses in Flagstaff, then transplanted here about ten days ago. They enriched the soil, installed irrigation sprinklers, and a have a big water truck. It’s kind of controversial, so it’s possible that someone intentionally drove their vehicle through that cornfield just to cause trouble.”
“Why is the project controversial?”
“The Hopi Council approved it, but just barely. Corn is always planted in early June, when the planting dances are held in the plaza. It’s not planted in early May, and certainly not grown in greenhouses. The traditional people in the villages believe the university and the government are messing with the Hopi cycle and disturbing the natural balance.”
Will stared out the side window as the desert rushed by. In many respects, the Hopi Way baffled him. Growing corn should never be controversial.
He dismissed the thought and wished he could call Hanna. Last year, his mother had given him a cell phone. They were wildly popular among kids in Aspen. Reception was hit and miss in the mountains, but it was non-existent here. Too few people, not enough interest in technology, and not enough money to pay for it.
Lansa glanced over at him. “What’re you thinking?”
“That my cell phone probably will never work here.”
“Actually, the traditionals don’t like wires, so maybe wireless phones will become popular.”
“Yeah, but they need cell towers every few miles.”
“They’ll go right along with the oil rigs. Who would you call, anyhow?”
“Hanna, of course, to see what she’s doing.”
“Didn’t you just see her?”
“Yeah, but I think there was some problem with Kaya. She hadn’t gotten home from a visit to some relatives in Tuba.”
“Ah, well, if Kaya was drinking again...” His voice trail off and he shook his head. “I feel sorry for Hanna, dealing with that. It’s not even her mother.”
“Hanna never mentioned the drinking problem.”
Will spotted someone on the side of the road in the distance. As they neared, the figure turned to face them and stuck out an arm. Will was surprised to see someone dressed in kachina garb, complete with headdress. Instead of holding out his thumb, he was pointing across the road. Will glanced over, but didn’t see anything until they were past the figure.
“Did you see that?” Will snapped his head around, twisting in his seat to look back. The road appeared deserted.
“What?” Lansa slowed the cruiser and turned onto a dirt road as if following the kachina’s directions.
“Didn’t you see him?”
“See who?”
“That guy. Someone dressed like a kachina.”
“Sorry, I missed him.” Lansa stopped and looked back at the miles of empty road.
“Dad, he was there.”
“What did the kachina look like?”
“I didn’t get a real good look, but I think the headdress had feathers in a circle all the way around the face of the mask, and the face was divided like a pie into different colors.”
Lansa studied Will for a moment and then drove on. If he recognized the kachina, he didn’t say.
“Keep your eyes open, Will. Let me know if you see anything else.”
Even though he was more familiar with downhill skiing than kachinas, Will was acquainted with the mysteries of the Hopi world—the power and influence of the kachinas. To some tourists, kachinas were dolls carved from wood that were painted, dressed and decorated. To others they were men in kachina costumes and headdresses who danced in the plazas of the villages during seasonal ceremonies. However, at the heart of the Hopi world, they were nature spirits and supernatural beings who sent rain, bountiful harvests, and who provided guidance and healing. They emerged from the underworld in November during the Wuwuchim ceremony and remained on earth for six months. They departed in July after the summer solstice and the Niman kachina ceremony. They were the essence of the Hopi Way.
The patrol car bounced along the dirt road for several minutes, then turned onto another dirt road. With each mile Will felt more and more anxious, as if something other than a disturbed cornfield was waiting for them.
Finally, Lansa touched the brakes as they passed a small wood-frame house that was set back from the road at the end of a double-track driveway. Will leaned forward, looking up through the windshield as the patrol car came to a stop. Several vultures circled high above a cornfield.
“Is this it?”
“Do you see any other cornfields? Incredible. The stalks are knee-high in May. Come on. We’ll take a look first, then go talk to Leroy.”
They got out and walked into the field. Enormous sprinklers were set up on one side. Nearby was a gigantic water tank that looked more like a grounded blimp. This was definitely not a Hopi plan. On the rez, corn typically grew in tight clusters, separated by several feet. Here, the corn formed rows, as if they were in Kansas.
“Look at that!” Will said as they came upon an area where the young stalks were bent over. It was as if a swirling windstorm had criss-crossed the field.
“It’s a damned shame,” Lansa said, shaking his head and looking around at the damage. “The UNA ag department went to a lot of hard work and expense to set up this experiment. Now look at it.”
“What do you think happened here, Dad?”
“I don’t know. One thing’s for certain, though. No drunk driver caused what we’re seeing.” Lansa studied the ground. “It starts right here. There’s no path from the road. It’s also too uniform, almost like a design.”
“Yeah, except we’re too close to the ‘easel’ to see what it is. Do you think it’s a crop circle? You know, like in the fields in England?”
“I don’t know anything about crop circles, except that we’ve never had them here.”
Until now, Will thought.
“Dad, look over there.” Will pointed toward something blue protruding from the corn stalks. He moved closer and stopped. It looked like a denim-covered leg.
“Stay where you are, Will.” Lansa held out his arm like a crossing guard and continued forward.
“What is it?”
“Go back to the cruiser, son. Wait for me. Try to follow your steps back. We’re now standing in a crime scene.”
Will glanced up at the circling vultures, then back to his father. He hesitated, reluctant to leave, then followed orders and carefully retraced his path. He stopped near the edge of the circle and crouched down to examine a paw print in the dirt. He saw more prints nearby. The animal, possibly a large dog, had been moving towards the center of the circle.
“Hey, Dad, you should take a look at this. Paw prints.”
His father glanced over his shoulder. “Will, I’m busy. I’ll be there shortly. Don’t disturb anything.”
Several minutes later, Lansa retreated from the field, his expression grim. He slid behind the wheel, and without a word got on the radio. “I’ve got a 10-45D. The body appears to have been mauled by a wild animal. It’s located in a cornfield on Second Mesa approximately five miles northeast of Morovi, at the center of some sort of graphic design created in the corn. Possible 187.”
Will recognized the police terminology he’d learned from his father. A dead body, a possible homicide.
Lansa glanced at Will. “It’s Kaya Wesley.”
THREE
The steeple of the Methodist church protruded high above the landscape on the outskirts of Morovi like a foreign presence, lonely and defiant. Traditionals–those Hopis who were dedicated to the ancestral ways—found the steeple particularly offensive. Some of them avoided the village of Morovi altogether because of it.
Living on the rez and attending school here had allowed Will to better understand his Hopi heritage. In spite of their poverty and the crumbling stone and mud houses in the old villages, the Hopis remained proud of their traditions. After three centuries of efforts to convert them, Christianity maintained a tenuous presence, like a plant trying to spread its roots in dry, hard soil.
Before leaving the grizzly scene earlier Lansa had talked to the farmer. A few minutes later, a deputy showed up and the police chief had told him to wait for the medical examiner from Tuba City and not to disturb anything. The FBI was also sending an agent, which they did for all serious crimes on the reservation. With the crime scene secured, they had headed for Morovi to deliver the bad news.
Leroy didn’t know much. That was all Dad had told him about his conversation with the farmer.
The patrol car pulled up near the church and eased between a battered pickup and Hanna’s Ford Focus. Will figured his Dad would try to make him wait while he talked to the reverend and Hanna, just like he’d kept him out of the cornfield, but this time he was ready.
“I’m going with you. I want to be there for Hanna.”
“All right. But I’m telling you, it’s the worst part of this job.”
They got out of the car and walked over to the gray, two-story, wood-framed house. Will waited for his dad to open the gate of the white picket fence that outlined the sun-baked yard. The fence looked fake to Will, like something from a movie set. It was out of place—no sidewalk, no street, no green grass. Lansa knocked and they waited.
“Let’s try the church,” he said when no one answered.
As they walked, it occurred to Will that the last time he’d gone into a church was also related to a murder. It was the fall of his junior year and a couple of days after Myra’s death. He’d felt everyone’s eyes on him during the funeral service. Not only was his girlfriend dead, but he was a suspect. That terrible time and the aftermath eventually motivated Will to abandon Aspen, in spite of all the benefits there and the deprivations here.
The door to the chapel was unlocked and they stepped inside. It didn’t look anything like the Presbyterian Church in Aspen where his mother had taken him as a kid. Instead of alters and pews, there was a stage and folding chairs. A tattered purple banner hung from the ceiling near the front of the church with bold white letters that read “HE HAS RISEN”. On the stage nearby, a wrinkled old woman wearing a green shawl sat behind a table, carving an angular piece of cottonwood. Her tools were spread in front of her, and a couple of kachina dolls watched her work from the corners of the table.
From a distance the old woman could’ve been Will’s grandmother. She was a carver, too, but he knew that his grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead carving one of her kachinas in a church. She was from Oraibi, the oldest of the twelve villages, and traditional to the extreme. Will had no doubt she would frown on what was going on here. He remembered his father saying that kachina exhibitions and dancers had appeared in the church and it was a continuing controversy. He also recalled Hanna telling him the church was unusual, and she’d laughed at his silence.
“What, do you think I’m trying to recruit you? I don’t do that.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She shook her head and shrugged. “Just forget it.”
Lansa approached the woman and addressed her by name. That didn’t surprise Will. Dad knew everyone. He mentioned her Bear Clan and asked about a few of her relatives, then gestured toward Will.
“Alyssa, this is my son, Will. He’s been with Fire Clan for two years now.”
She studied Will with her watery eyes for a few moments, then nodded.
“I remember the white woman. How is she?” Will hesitated before answering.
“Oh, my mom? She’s fine. She has a clothing shop now in Aspen.” When the woman gave Will a puzzled look he added, “In the mountains, in Colorado.”
Lansa rescued Will from the awkward conversation.
“Where would I find the reverend or Hanna about this time?”
“About this time, I don’t know. They were here earlier and I’m sure they will be back later. You can wait, if you like.”
Lansa thanked Alyssa, then motioned to Will. They walked outside and sat on a bench in front of the church.
“How do you do it?” Will asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Tell someone that a family member is dead.”
“It’s not easy. I’ve found that people want answers right away. I try not to withhold anything, except gruesome details.” He stared into the distance. “I also like to talk to the head of the household in private and allow that person the opportunity to tell the rest of the family.”
“Some opportunity that is.”
“Yeah.”
Will glanced at his watch. “How long are we going to wait?”
“Awhile longer, then I’ll take you home.”
“And then you’re going back to the crime scene, I suppose.”
“Yeah. But it’s not necessarily a crime scene.” They stood and started walking slowly toward his patrol car.
“You called it one.”
“I misspoke.”
“If this was an animal attack, why is the FBI getting involved?”
“It’s a suspicious death. They’ll be interested.”
“Do you think Kaya was murdered?”
“We’ll see what the autopsy turns up.”
“I guess the crop circle makes it suspicious.”
They leaned against the car and waited. Time, Will thought. Everything on the rez took time. He’d waited for Dad after school and that’s how he’d gotten tangled up with Carson Nakai and his buddies. He suddenly felt as if Carson had hit him again in the gut.
“How long do you think Kaya has been dead?”
“The farmer said he saw the vultures circling this morning. So I’d say it happened during the night. What are you thinking?”
“Maybe I never should’ve started hanging out with Hanna. What if Carson Nakai decided to confront Hanna last night, but Kaya got in the way?”
“Do you really think Carson would kill Kaya because his sister was upset with Hanna?”
“Maybe things got out of hand, and he tried to cover it up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mosi told me that Carson has a really mean dog that’s bitten a couple of people. She said she was afraid of it.”
“I’ll pass your story onto the FBI, especially since Carson is over on Navajo land. But I really doubt that your relationship with Hanna had anything to do with Kaya’s death.”
“I hope you’re right.” Will heard a faint drone and gazed up at a private plane flying high overhead.
The white, single-engine craft looked like a toy against the blue sky. He wondered what Morovi looked like from a couple of thousand feet up. Probably just a cluster of tiny buildings on the desert with a spider web of dirt roads. And what did that crop circle look like from, say, five hundred feet?
“Dad, you mentioned the other day that we could go on a helicopter ride sometime.”
“I said that if there was police business involved, I could take you along. But I have to justify why I can’t drive to my destination.”
“What about taking a look at the crime scene—or whatever it is—from above? You said that those bent over corn stalks looked like they created a pattern. Maybe we could see it from the air.”
Lansa remained silent for several seconds as he followed the path of the plane. “Actually, that sounds like a good idea. While the FBI is working the ground, we can take a look from above.”
“I bet we’ll see some sort of image.”
“I don’t know what the corn stalks might have to do with Kaya’s death, but it’s worth taking a look.”
Just then a white Explorer pulled into the drive and Hanna jumped out. She hurried over to Will and his father.
“I’m glad you’re here, Chief Lansa. We were over at Kaya’s cousin’s house. No one has seen her. We’re getting really worried.”
Will’s stomach knotted and his throat tightened. Hanna was worried but hopeful, and they were going to have to let her down. He realized his father was right when he’d said informing the family was the worst part of his job.
“I need to talk to your father,” Lansa replied. “I have some information.”
Hanna frowned and shook her head, blinking away tears.
“What information, what happened?” She turned to Will, talking fast, stumbling over her words. “What do you know? Where is she? Where’s Kaya?”
“Tell her, tell her Dad.” The words caught in his throat.
“We’ve got some bad news,” Lansa said as Reverend Wesley joined them.
Will awkwardly tried to hug Hanna but she pushed him away, shaking her head. He felt embarrassed and miserable, and wished he could disappear. He wished he’d never come along.
“What are you talking about? What happened to her?” Tears now streamed down her cheeks.
“We found her...” Will couldn’t finish.
“Oh no!” Hanna cried out. “She’s dead, isn’t she? I knew it. I felt it!”
Wesley’s shoulders slumped and his head hung slightly. He knew it too, Will thought. Wesley tried to put an arm around Hanna’s shoulder but she sank to the ground and wept. Will crouched next to her.
“I’m sorry, Hanna. I’m sorry.”
“Tell us, Pete. What is it? What happened? Where is she?” Wesley asked.
“She dead, Dad,” Hanna wailed. “She’s dead.”
FOUR
In the dream, he was lying in a cornfield with Hanna. They were tumbling about, hugging and kissing, and he was breathing heavily. His face was flushed, his heart pounding and his passion swelling, ready to explode. Suddenly, a bright light appeared overhead, shining down on them, and he felt exposed. The cornstalks rustled and hissed as they began to sway.
Then, Hanna was gone.
The light seemed to grow even brighter. He heard his name called. The corn stalks fluttered then folded over him and wrapped around his legs and arms. He started to struggle as he heard his name again.
“Will, wake up. We’ve got to get moving.” A hand shook his shoulder, pulling him from the dream.
He sucked in a breath and blinked against the bright light of a bulb burning overhead, then sat up and rubbed his face. His father stood by the bed, confusing him. Was he late for school? Then he remembered. It was Saturday and they were going to the Tuba City airport to meet a helicopter pilot.
“Okay, I’m getting up.” As soon as his Dad walked out of the room, Will dropped back into bed, his head sinking into his soft, warm pillow. He closed his eyes, and imagined himself in the dream with Hanna again. But she was gone. Grudgingly, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and got up.
Half an hour later, as dawn burned away the night, they raced down the empty road in the cool morning.
“We’re going to make a quick stop in Oraibi to pick up your grandfather,” Lansa said.
Will groaned. His grandfather was eccentric and Will didn’t know if he wanted to be in a helicopter with him.
“Why?”
“He’s never flown in a helicopter, or an airplane, for that matter. Besides that, I want to take him along for his expertise.”
“What expertise?”
A silence followed and Will wasn’t sure if his father was ignoring him or if he hadn’t heard the question. Finally, he answered: “Let’s see what he thinks of this cornfield. He always has a different perspective on things than either of us.”
That was definitely true. Virgil Lansa, medicine man, or shaman as the New Age folks in Aspen called people like his grandfather, used to frighten Will when he was young. On one visit to the rez, when he was nine, Virgil had shouted at him in Hopi, as if by raising his voice he could make Will understand. It had only made Will wish he were back with his mother in the mountains. Virgil also talked to himself a lot, or—as Will’s father said—to invisible beings.
In spite of his grandfather’s odd behavior, Will had grown to respect him as a healer. When he’d started school here in the fall, a couple of teachers had asked if he were related to Virgil Lansa. He was surprised to find out that his grandfather was as well known and respected on the rez as Will’s father.
When they reached Oraibi, they turned off the highway. The car bounced over a rugged dirt road and stopped in a parking lot outside the village.
“Can I just wait here?” Will asked.
“What, you don’t want to walk with me to the house?”
“You know I don’t. She’ll be there.”
“Yeah, I know your grandmother has never fully accepted you.”
“Accepted me? I don’t think she’s ever said more than two words to me. She’s a mean old lady.” The door to a shop adjacent to the parking lot opened and Virgil Lansa stepped out.
“There he is!” Will said, wanting to change the subject.
His father laughed. Virgil Lansa was tall and rangy with long, black hair, streaked with gray. His wrinkled, leathery face broke into a smile as he moved toward the patrol car. He wore boots, jeans, a cowboy-style shirt with thread-bare elbows, and a straw hat with a brim that folded up. As he ambled over to the patrol car, Will got out and asked if he wanted to sit in the front. Virgil’s dark, penetrating gaze fell on Will.
“No, no. I’ll sit in the back where the criminals ride.” As the car pulled back onto the highway, Will turned in his seat.
“Are you excited about flying in a helicopter, Grandpa?”
Virgil adjusted his aviator sunglasses, then cleared his throat.
“I don’t get too excited about things any more, Will. Besides, I’ve done a lot of flying.”
Will glanced at his father, then back to Virgil. “I thought you’d never flown before.”
Virgil laughed. “There are ways to fly that don’t involve airplanes or helicopters. Our people, your people, were flying long before there were flying machines.”
“You mean in their imaginations?”
Virgil stared out the window and didn’t immediately respond. Just like Dad, Will thought, and realized where his father had picked up the annoying habit.
“You can call it imagination if you want, Will, but I have flown places. Distant places. And I didn’t have to buy a ticket or put on a seatbelt.”
Will nodded. He knew from his research for his senior thesis that flying in the form of a bird was a mystical talent attributed to some medicine people in addition to witches.
“Then this will be a different kind of flight. Do you know about crop circles?”
Virgil stared out the window again as if the passing desert landscape fascinated him.
“You sound like a white person, Will,” he replied after a few ticks.
Coming from his grandfather, the comment was benign, a gentle admonishment. The same words from his grandmother would have sounded like a curse.
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Questions.”
“What?”
Virgil laughed. “There you go again. White people come to the reservation and ask so many questions. It hurts my head.”
“What kind of questions do they ask?”
“See, you can’t stop.”
Lansa punched Will softly on the shoulder. “Give your grandfather a break.”
“I was just curious.”
“You didn’t ask me any questions after I talked to the farmer yesterday.”
“That’s because I didn’t think you would tell me anything.”
“You never know if you don’t ask.”
Will sighed, frustrated. He felt as if his grandfather was pulling him one way and his father the other. “Okay. What did he say?”
“Leroy Tomasi, that’s his name, told me he saw a bright light out there during the night.”
“He did? You mean, like a UFO or something?”
“Or something.”
Will closed his eyes and slid down into his seat as they drove on. It wasn’t long before the drone of the engine lulled him into a half-sleep. He tried again to recreate his dream from earlier and dozed off. The next thing he knew his father was shaking his shoulder and waking him, this time from a dream in which he and Dan Hatathey were walking through downtown Aspen. He blinked, sat up, and looked out onto a gritty Indian town that was about as far from the wealthy world of Aspen as he could imagine. As they stopped at a red light in the center of Tuba City, a dust devil swirled in front of a row of rundown buildings where several young men idled on the corner.
“I guess the people here are pretty poor,” he said.
“Actually, in spite of appearances, the Indians here are relatively well off,” Lansa said. “The average income is considerably higher in Tuba City than other places on the Hopi or Navajo reservations.”
Will wasn’t sure what to think about that.
They continued through town to the airport and found the pilot waiting for them at the office. Lansa shook his hand and then introduced Will and Virgil to Jason Begay. Will was surprised to see that Begay wasn’t much older than him. He was a Navajo in his mid-twenties with short-cropped hair and a wispy mustache that didn’t add any age to his youthful features. When Will asked him how long he’d been flying, the pilot smiled.
“Don’t worry. I know how to fly. I joined the Army when I was eighteen and I trained as a helicopter pilot. I was flying missions in Iraq when I was twenty.”
“Really? Ever get shot at?”
“Almost every day. Once right through the windshield.”
Lansa touched Will’s shoulder as they headed across the tarmac, leaned toward him and spoke in a low voice. “If he survived that, I think he can fly us over a cornfield.”
Twenty minutes later they were crossing the rez at five hundred feet. Lansa sat in the front with the pilot, while Will and Virgil were seated behind them. When they passed over Oraibi, Will marveled at how the village was built on the edge of the mesa. No wonder they sometimes considered themselves the sky people. They literally lived in the sky.
People in the plaza looked up at the helicopter and one man waved, but not in greeting. He motioned for them to fly on. He heard his father’s voice in the headphones they all wore.
“Don’t fly directly over the villages, Jason. They don’t like it.”
“Yeah, one of my neighbors might take a shot at us,” Virgil said in his hoarse voice.
“I don’t need any more of that,” Begay said, lifting higher as they moved away from Oraibi.
Several minutes later, Morovi came into view and Will spotted the spire of Reverend Wesley’s church. From his new perspective, the church looked even more intrusive and out of place, like an oversized grapefruit in a basket of tangerines. They continued on, avoiding the village and flying toward the cornfield.
Will suddenly wished Hanna was with him. When he had called her last night, Wesley said she wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t talk.
“Give her a couple of days, Will. She’s very upset about Kaya.”
It had occurred to Will how odd it was that he had been involved in the discovery of Kaya’s body. He knew it was mere chance. Yet he felt manipulated, as if he were meant to be present for the discovery. It was as if a dark, mysterious force was at work, and it gave him the creeps. He wondered if researching and writing about witchcraft was starting to get to him.
No, don’t go there, he told himself. It was all just a coincidence.
“There it is!” Pete Lansa leaned forward and pointed out the side window. “You want to take the photos, Will?”
“Sure. I’ve never taken aerial shots before.” Lansa passed him his Nikon with its 55-200 millimeter zoom lens.
“Nothing to it. It’s automatic. Just point down and shoot.”
Will was fascinated by the camera and had spent hours messing around with it. He leaned close to the glass and spotted the enormous irrigation sprinklers. They were connected by a hose to a pump and the huge water truck. Beyond those was the circle of bent cornstalks. The chopper lowered to a couple of hundred feet and hovered. Will stared down, caught a glimpse of the yellow crime scene tape near the edge of the field, and started shooting as the crop circle came into focus. After several shots, he lowered the camera and stared.
“Wow! Do you see it?”
The folded cornstalks formed a majestic feathered headdress above a geometric face.
“Tawa!” Virgil shouted into the mike. “Tawa!”
“What are you saying?” Will stared through the viewfinder again and adjusted the zoom lens.
“It’s a sun kachina,” Virgil answered. “I want to go down there.”
“Can you land on the road?” Lansa asked the pilot.
Begay nodded and circled around, then slowly brought the chopper down to the deserted road. After the engine shut down, they all climbed out except for Begay.
“You don’t want a closer look?” Will asked.
“Not if a body was found there.”
Will remembered that Navajos tended to avoid death scenes at all costs. They often refused to live in a house where someone had died. He wondered how that had worked out for Bagay in Iraq.
Virgil took the lead and headed for the circle.
“You can’t go in there Dad,” Lansa said, hurrying after him.
Virgil reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. “I’m not going to walk on the Tawa. I’m going to walk around it.”
With his back to Will, Virgil opened the pouch and took something out. He set off around the crop circle and began speaking in Hopi using a conversational tone. Will started after him, but Lansa took his arm.
“Let him go on his own.”
Virgil’s voice faded then grew stronger, as if he were arguing with someone. When he completed the circuit, he turned toward the circle. Still holding the pouch, he clasped his hands overhead, shook them, and began chanting in a singsong voice. Will snapped a couple of photos then lowered the camera. As Virgil carried on, Will closed his eyes, listened, and swayed slightly from side to side. He felt the dry heat wrap around him like a cocoon, and smelled the faintly musty odor of growing corn. His mind drifted and he imagined he was floating above the crop circle, looking down again.
Finally, Virgil fell silent and slowly backed away from the circle, as if he were afraid to turn away from it. A screech like an angry animal erupted nearby and Will tensed. The huge sprinklers suddenly sputtered and spurted, then showered and drenched them. They scrambled away from the cornfield to the chopper and Begay laughed as they climbed inside, dripping wet.
The chopper lifted from the road and hovered. Below them, water particles from the spray formed a rainbow that arced over the crop circle. The nearby wood-frame house came into view and the farmer stood in front of the door, shading his eyes and staring up at them.
“Maybe I’ll get another call from Leroy about a strange craft above his field,” Lansa said with a laugh while Will snapped a couple more photos.
As they flew off, Virgil slowly nodded as if he were falling asleep. The return trip seemed to take half the time and before long the airport appeared in the distance, a black stripe in the brown landscape. Next to him, Virgil raised his head, his salt-and-pepper hair partially covering his face. He pulled off the headphones and muttered as if he were arguing with himself.
Will was glad when they landed. As they walked across the tarmac en route to the parking lot, Virgil gripped his upper arm.
“You want to know what I think about the circle in the cornfield?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I don’t know anything about these crop circles, how they are made or who makes them. But Hopis do not push over growing corn to make pretty designs. To place a murder victim inside a kachina...” Virgil shook his head. “That could only be a witch’s deed, an enchantment. Bad medicine. Maybe one that called upon aliens or ghosts to create this image.”
“Really? What’s the sun kachina about?” Will asked.
Once again, Virgil acted as if he didn’t hear the question, and Will figured Virgil thought he should know the answer. However, once they were seated in the patrol car Virgil leaned forward from the back seat.
“Tawa is about life; growth, strength of spirit, abundance.”
“The opposite of taking life,” Pete Lansa added.
“Very true,” Virgil said. “It’s an unusual kachina. We rarely see it in the dances.”
Will was still assimilating Virgil’s comments when the old man spoke up again.
“I can see you have another question.”
“Yeah. What did you do when you were walking around it?”
“I was healing the land and placing a spell of protection.”
“Why did you need to protect that place?” Will asked.
“Because others are coming there. Many will come. You will see soon enough.”
* * * *
When they arrived in Oraibi, Virgil insisted that Pete and Will accompany him to the house. Reluctantly, Will joined them as they walked through the dilapidated village. Oraibi, amazingly, had been continuously inhabited for twelve hundred years, longer than any other settlement in the Americas. It should be a national monument, but instead it was slowly deteriorating. If no one lived here, it would look like an ancient ruin.
“Wait,” Virgil said as they reached his house. Even though it was made of stone and mud like the others on either side of the road, Will thought his grandfather’s abode looked sturdier than most.