《ANASAZI》


 ANASAZI, VOL 1 - CITY OF BONES / CHAPTER 1

    Anasazi Vol 1 City of Bones


    ¡°There is a battle of two wolves inside us all. One is evil. It is anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, lies, inferiority, and ego. The other is good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, kindness, empathy, and truth. The wolf that wins is the one you feed.¡±


    Native American Proverb.


    Chapter 1 ¨C Demons of the Wind


    Gulf of Mexico 1528


    By the light of candle, a Spaniard scribbles fast his notes into a journal he hopes no one will ever find or need to read. For if his words be the only remainder of his voice, their enemy indeed will have won and the world will be on fire once again. Outside, sailors yell. Their panicked voices shouting commands, their boots clomping about as canons fire. The ship takes a hit. Windows shatter. The Spaniard writes.


    ¡°We are at the edge of the new world. The Loup-Garou are fast upon us, bound for a free land and those they can enslave once again. They have discovered what I have taken and will not stop until they have it back. I have doomed all who sail with me. Touch not their evil tome and the spells within it for such dark magic will make a desert of the world.¡±


    The Spanish sailor sprinkles sawdust onto the ink, then blows it off making sure the ink is dry. He folds it, slips it under the lip of the front leather cover of the book, slams it shut. The book burns his hands. He looks at them. They''re red, fingerprints melted. He grabs a satchel and slips the book inside the burlap sack making sure to keep the cloth between his skin and the tome. The ship rocks and he''s thrown off balance. Things tumble about the cabin, bouncing over him, hitting him in the face. The sack slides away. He grabs it and stumbles to the door.


    On deck the crew hustles as the captain shouts commands. Wind blasts the Spaniard in the face. He looks up, sees the angry clouds. A storm is all around, and still evil pursues them.


    ¡°Dump supplies! All overboard! Dump it all.¡± The crew moves fast, tossing barrels, tools, food into the sea. Some jump overboard, taking their chances in the angry waves. The first mate cuts loose several sandbags. ¡°Everything!¡± he commands. ¡°Lighten the ship.¡± He looks down. Water pours out the lower hull portholes. They¡¯re sinking!


    Behind them a black ship follows, catching up fast. Blood-red clouds churn above it, move with it like an evil storm. Its sail bears the Celtic cross, with markings in the circle. Like a blade it cuts through the water. Fast upon the sea it moves like the wind itself.


    The Conquistador ships makes for the shore. It crashes into a sandbar. Panicked crewmen jump, swim toward shore. Some sink in their chainmail. A few make it. Most don¡¯t. The Spaniard crawls onto the beach gasping for air. He clutches the knapsack tightly, gets to his feet, scrambles past local natives watching all. As sailors scream, the Spaniard with the knapsack disappears over white sand dunes covered and hides in the tall weedy grass. He shivers as he watches the enemy ship closing fast to land.


    The Loup Gouru Captain eagerly watches his prey. His cape rolls in the wind. Long white braids of flaxen hair flail about his shoulders. His sailors work hard. Their long bony hands pull ropes, open sails with the Celtic Cross under a French flag. The black ship catches up to the Conquistadors still at sea. It cuts hard to starboard and comes about careening into them, sheering the Spanish ship in two. The Conquistador Captain looks up in time to see the enemy commander. His nemesis is demonic, with bony cheeks, yellow eyes that glow. A narrow jaw stretches wide as he opens his mouth. Canine teeth spike out from his jaws. He is. . .


    LAS CRUCES, NEW MEXICO


    It¡¯s dusk. The sun sinks below the horizon. An orange haze creeps across the sky. Angry clouds tumble above. A storm is coming. On the solemn streets, five dark figures walk down an empty dusty alley. They make no sound.


    In a jewelry store on a lonely street corner, all is quiet. It¡¯s hot. Flies buzz at the window, bounce off it. The glass is foggy and dirty. A sweaty Mexican clerk in his fifties sits behind the counter waiting for his shift to end. He¡¯s hungry and looking forward to a hardy meal once he gets home to his family for the night. He dabs his brow as he reads the newspaper headline ¡°Danger On The Border¡±. The clerk fumbles with the radio, spins the knob until he finds a news channel. He strains to hear the anchor¡¯s voice through static.


    ¡°. . . jewelry store robberies along the Mexican American border. And the brazen armed robbers have left only bodies in their wake. Mexican authorities have yet to comment on the grisly and bloody rampage. And the American border patrol has no leads on who the perpetrators may be. Authorities speculate the carnage is the result of Mexican cartels at war. . . ¡°


    A bell over the front door rings. Someone has entered. More flies gather outside of the window. The bugs have grown into a swarm. Now they¡¯re inside, buzzing all around. They¡¯re everywhere. The clerk swats at the bugs but can¡¯t get rid of them. He sniffs the air, smells something foul and tries to fan away the stink. But the pungent odor hangs over him.


    The clerk looks up and freezes. His eyes bulge at what he sees. Horror and disgust overtake him. Five bald leather clad men stand before him on the other side of the counter. Their skin is sickly pale-blue, the complexion of a corpse. Stitches cover festering wounds all over their bodies. But the wounds don¡¯t bleed. Thick black spidery veins wind around every inch of exposed skin. The strangers are dead-like.


    The dead-likes stare at the clerk. Flies buzz around them. The clerk, grimaces. The smell is coming from them. They stink of rotting flesh. His eyes dart from one dead-like to another, hoping against hope that they will leave. But they don¡¯t. Sweat slips down the clerk¡¯s face. He trembles and stutters as he speaks to them.


    ¡°Si-si-si, Senor. H-H-How can I help you?¡± One of them steps closer. He reaches under the glass countertop and takes out trays of silver jewelry. He¡¯s a monster of a man. He stacks the trays on top of the counter until the display shelf is empty. Outside, the dusk has turned to darkness. The tiny store is alone on the horizon below a full moon and blood-red sky. Angry clouds churn above. Then, gunshots! The store windows flash as firearms unload in a blaze. Then silence. The windows go dark.


    NAVAJO NATION, SAN JUAN COUNTY


    Rows of tables stacked with dusty relics sit beneath tented overhangs. A nearby sign UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO warns onlookers and visitors to stay clear of the excavation. Students carefully clean pottery and other ancient items. Some dust away the years with dry brushes. Other¡¯s clean the pieces with water. Clouds of dust fill the air, swirl around them everywhere. It¡¯s a filthy man-made sandstorm. Among the workers walks a tall, thin woman with long dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She¡¯s athletic, strong with smoldering blue eyes and lightly freckled skin. Her name is Kate Darby, the excavation supervisor. It¡¯s her dig.


    Kate strolls down the aisles between the many tables carrying new artifacts to be cleaned, searching the tables. Something catches her eye. She puts down the little pottery treasures in her hands and pulls a dirty and worn leather bag from her pocket, unwraps a silver Celtic cross with a hint of French design. It has a circle around the crux amid ancient markings that belie its heritage. Kate compares the odd cross to an item on the table. Unsatisfied, she wraps her cross back up and pockets it.


    She heads outside the tent and into the searing sun. Dozens of poor Native American Navajo locals and Mexican migrant workers toil in the hot sun, shoveling dirt from trenches that are roped off by more yellow tape. The make-shift barrier says ARCHEOLOGICAL DIG SITE. PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH. From afar it looks like a crime scene. Kate hops down into one of the trenches, compares the silver cross from her leather bag to another relic in the dirt. She perks up. They¡¯ve found something.


    ¡°This is good,¡± she ponders aloud as she stands over one of the Navajo excavators. ¡°Three hundred years old at least. If we uncover the Anasazi villa, we¡¯ll re-write Native American history.¡± The field hand glances up at her and nervously eyes the cross. His eyes betray his confidence as he ponders the trinket in her hands. Kate holds it up. The worker shies away from it, refuses to touch it. His gaze drops back down at the ground to the pile of dirt and sun-dried flaky clay where he stands. The dirt covers his feet up to his ankles. ¡°Good work,¡± Kate tells him. But he won¡¯t look at her. His body is rigid, his silence obstinate.


    Kate doesn¡¯t know what to say. She desperately wants him to be comfortable around her. But this silent barrier that separates her from the locals seems so impenetrable. Try as she might, Kate can¡¯t connect with the Navajo community that fuels her project with much needed labor. She had been on many digs across the United States, in Europe and had even lived in China six months through an exchange program, working on the prestigious Terra Cotta Soldiers excavation. But here, among her own countrymen she¡¯s an outcast ¨C a status based on more than cultural differences. She¡¯d dared to ask the wrong questions. And the cold shoulder treatment reached beyond disagreement between scientists and tribal councils fighting to protect Native American History. They just didn¡¯t want her there.


    From the moment she had brought her theories of the Anasazi to the doorstep of the Pueblo and Navajo communities, the Tribal Council had done all it could to undermine her. And why not? Kate had formulated a theory, upon which she had based her master¡¯s thesis, that tribes of the past in this area of North America had once practiced cannibalism. To the Native American population, the thought of it was offensive and unthinkable. Kate had desperately tried to explain that her theories in no way tainted the present-day community or reflected upon their practices in this day and age. But who wants to admit cannibalism was once a family tradition? It tainted the peaceful and loving image of the tribe as protectors of nature and sages of wisdom.


    Despite the locals¡¯ loud and boisterous objection, Kate had pushed ahead with her project. She¡¯d won permission to excavate on a technicality ¨C that the location to be explored was located just yards outside the Navajo reservation¡¯s border ¨C and henceforth beyond the reach of the Tribal Council¡¯s power to shut her down. To maintain this barrier and protect her work with legal standing, Kate and her team made sure to steer their efforts away from sacred reservation grounds and in the direction of public lands, an act that cleverly usurped any authority the tribal council might wield. But Kate had gone the extra mile, utilizing a surveyor of Native American descent employed by the state, to mark a clear boundary where Navajo land ends, and federal land begins. Her excavation hugged the line. And remaining within eyesight of the reservation came off as taunting.


    It was a pity that things had to be this way. Kate had unearthed a substantial find revealing an undiscovered city in an area previously unknown as Anasazi in Native American culture. What had started with discovering a small abode had led to a multi-family community dwelling. The more she dug, the more she unearthed the subterranean community stretching half a mile in all directions. But a large portion of the ancient villa, complete with thick clay and stone walls, an arena and even a tribal chieftain lodging, ran partially beneath Navajo land. And that¡¯s the way, Kate had decided, things would stay.


    What had started as the discovery of a small and humble abode had become multi-family, community dwellings with undertones of military design stretching up to half a mile in all directions. And if her theory holds, the discovery would be the largest in recorded history. But the most important part of the structure, Kate had discovered, runs partially beneath Navajo land rendering that part of it off limits to excavation.


    The rest of what lay beneath tribal land would require subterranean tunneling too expensive to even consider. And the legal technicalities could be argued for years in court. To attract investors to cover the cost of underground excavation, Kate must find something amazing. But playing fast and loose with the rules was an unspoken truth ruling Kate Darby¡¯s life. To her, in this endeavor as it had been in many others, the ends always justifies the means. From behind Kate and the worker, a distinct and proper Australian accent cuts through the tension.


    ¡°Anasazi is the Navajo word for enemy,¡± she hears a male voice declare. Kate looks up and sees Dr. Sabastian McEwen, her dean, family friend and academic mentor. A tag on his shirt identifies him as the excavation¡¯s historical supervisor. Sabastian¡¯s ruddy complexion hints of sunburn and rosacea. Golden ginger locks atop his head fade into long grey out of date sideburns. He looks much older than fifty-one. His Elvis hairstyle doesn¡¯t help. Years of working in the hot sun have worn his youth away. His face is leathery, dry. He blots sweat off his upper lip with the end of a wet kerchief tied around his neck.


    He smiles at his prodigy student as he joins Kate with her field hands in the pit. Kate smiles back at him. She¡¯d always had a secret crush on Sabastian since the time she was a girl. It¡¯s a secret she guarded well and never shared with anyone. Now in her mid-twenties and chasing a master¡¯s degree under Sabastian¡¯s loving wing, she can share her life with him as more than a student but less than a lover with a unique bond few people ever enjoy.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Sabastian had been a close friend of Kate¡¯s father. They served in the military together, although Sabastian never let on to exactly what their duties were. And Sabastian long ago promised to protect Kate as if she were his own. Ever since her father lost his battle with cancer, Sabastian had been there every step of the way. It was he who bandaged her scraped knees throughout childhood and inspired her to be a historical treasure hunter. He had wiped the tears from her eyes at daddy¡¯s funeral when she lost her father at the tender age of nine. And Sabastian had stepped in, keeping his promise to love and protect her as if she were his own. Now here they were working in tandem perusing historical accounts of the past, discovering history, bringing forgotten culture back to an eagerly curious world.


    Sabastian had never married, and instead had remained true to his one love in life ¨C digging up buried treasures of the ancient world. He¡¯d traveled the globe, become the head of a prestigious archeological program at the University of New Mexico that he had built from the ground up. And with all that burden on his shoulders, he¡¯d cared for Kate as her mother struggled to keep a roof over their heads after her father¡¯s passing.


    The stresses of single motherhood had driven a rift between Kate and her mother. Mom had never recovered from losing daddy. She found comfort in alcohol, medicating herself into daily stupors to quell the pain of being alone. She had loved the bottle more than her own baby girl. And Kate had come to resent her for it. Sabastian had tried many times without success to explain to Kate just why her mother drank like she did. Somehow, Kate just couldn¡¯t let go of her ire. She¡¯d watched her mother drown herself in sorrow instead of living life to the fullest. Daddy would never have wasted his life like mom did.


    Perhaps someday Kate could forgive her mother, Sabastian hoped, for he too knew the loss of a parent. He understood the impact of crossing onto the harsh reality of no return with things left unsaid, arguments left unresolved. Such is a journey is fraught with regret and cruel finality ¨C one he desperately wants to spare Kate from experiencing. For now, she leans on Sabastian for guidance in her career, which gives him influence, and in turn, allows him to protect her by steering her in the right direction. But his power over Kate is fading fast as she establishes herself in the academic world they both share. Eventually, she will trust him enough to heed his gentle warnings about mum. And secretly, Sabastian hoped that Kate¡¯s mother would not succumb to the cirrhosis building up from years of alcoholic abuse.


    Lovingly Kate looks up at Sabastian, wishing he were younger. He wears a university jacket and badge like Kate¡¯s. It flutters in the gentle hot desert breeze. His sand-colored Bermuda shorts leave his knees unprotected. This leg is full of scars ¨C battle wounds he calls them ¨C from his globe-trotting wildlife of antiquity. They look lanky and calcified like the legs of a giraffe.


    ¡°Better find something soon,¡± he quips in half-truth. ¡°The faculty¡¯ll have my head if you don¡¯t. Pulled rank to be here, you know.¡± Kate chuckles, and ignores his assertion and Sabastian continues, ¡°Who the hell wants to sit at a desk all day spanking students who don¡¯t have any manners?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re jealous!¡± Kate replies, knowing it¡¯s more than just a joke. Sabastian shrugs.


    ¡°What? Deans can¡¯t do field work? You want to keep all the fun to yourself. Well, I¡¯m not some old fart ya¡¯ know.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes you are.¡±


    ¡°Even so. I was young once, and not too long ago. What¡¯ve we got today, hmm?¡± As he speaks, Sabastian pulls a flask from his vest, drinks, then offers it to Kate.


    ¡°And still pretending,¡± she adds. Sabastian frowns, then turns serious at what he sees beyond her in the desert.


    ¡°Company¡¯s back,¡± he says. Kate looks up and sees several elderly Native Americans beyond the yellow tape. One in particular, stands out. He¡¯s hunched, bow-legged. His lower body looks like a skinny horseshoe in blue denim jeans and cowboy boots. His hair is long with salt and pepper streaks. Little wisps of silver locks dance about his eyes in the gentle breeze as he watches Kate and Sabastian. His eyes are intense, black, piercing.


    The locals working on the dig take notice of the visitors. They stare back, look away, or pretend not to notice. One by one each worker leaves. Some head to other trenches to get some distance from Kate and Sabastian. Others vacate altogether, gathering down the road at the bus stop. But the shaman pays them no attention. He¡¯s there for Kate and Sabastian who have disturbed this sacred burial ground. And he is unable to stop it. Somehow, he must, for the ground here is foul and poison. It reeks of evil.


    Here the mighty and terrifying Anasazi once ruled ¨C and according to Navajo beliefs they still do in many ways. To the Navajo and all other tribes throughout the southwest, the Anasazi are well-known. Fear of this enemy cemented allegiance amongst otherwise warring Native American nations. It¡¯s why the shaman must keep the spotted white woman from unearthing the past, and why she is here in search of it. Both seek out the Anasazi ¨C one to release their secrets and the other to destroy them.


    For years, the shaman watched as long-standing tribal tradition gave way to interest in technology and ¡°connecting¡± with the outside world. Such was the beginning of the end for the Navajo people he believed. No one to remember tradition. No one to remember history. No one to tell the history. No one to fight the Anasazi when they return.


    Tales of the Anasazi once instilled terror of their heinous crimes in all those who listened. Now they are just a ghost story laughed at by children out trick or treating on Halloween. Unlike today¡¯s youths, with their cars, college and travel, his generation had worked knuckle to the bone. He understood famine, disease, catastrophe, pain and death. This experience in turn made appreciation of life a true faith. But todays¡¯ youth had it too easy. For without suffering how could one genuinely appreciate life?


    The Navajo culture had slowly eroded through technology and the promise of magical things. But the Anasazi, the Shaman knew, were still here. Walking amongst the people, ever present and hiding in plain sight. Only an experienced seer could identify the threat. Only the shaman knew what to look for. For the Anasazi were not Native American. The Anasazi weren¡¯t even human. The Anasazi culture spawned more than devastation and warfare. Their culture spawned evil itself.


    The Shaman had tried to pass down knowledge and tradition through oral history as all his forefathers had done. But unlike in the past, today¡¯s youth had no discipline, no courage, no true measure of life. How could one appreciate the gift of life unless one were truly faced with losing it? How could they learn to sense danger without having faced an enemy? The Anasazi, he knew, will rise up against the Navajo. That time was fast approaching.


    The white woman from the university had been tenacious, unyielding, fearless. This was her greatest asset and her greatest weakness. Only a fool has no fear. She did not understand what he had tried to tell her. Now, she had placed the entire tribe in danger, along with herself and her own people. She is blind to the danger before her, as she has not faced true danger, and so does not recognize when the threat appears. This is how the Anasazi descended into the world of the Navajo so many moons ago.


    The Navajo had once been a peaceful tribe, hunting only what was needed to eat, taking of the land only what they needed to sow, welcoming trade from many strangers. This was their downfall. They unwittingly invited the curse of the Anasazi into their land and regretted it ever sense. This land is now foul, poisoned, cursed.


    Once free, the Anasazi can be controlled no more. The shaman and his tribal elders watch from afar on their side of the boundary as the interlopers near discovering long hidden secrets of this fallow land. They had no idea of the evil lurking below.


    To unearth the past meant releasing the Anasazi back into the world to feed without control. White people always do this. They make contact with new people, explore new lands, bring disease, wrath, catastrophe. It is the curse of their race. For all they had accomplished in history, they had equally destroyed.


    ¡°The white woman is closer than she knows,¡± one of the elders admits. The others nod, pray, worry. ¡°She has no idea what lies beneath.¡± From across the boundary line, Kate and the elders watch each other. This old man left a bad taste in Kate¡¯s mouth. Whenever he appeared, trouble followed. It left Kate at their mercy. She hated losing control.


    ¡°He¡¯s brought friends,¡± Kate warns Sabastian. Sabastian nods.


    ¡°They¡¯ve been watching us for days.¡± He shrugs. ¡°Locals. Par for the course.¡± Kate looks agitated by his comment. The field hand nearest to them sees the shaman and company. He leaves quickly heads across the lot to another trench at the far end where he¡¯s out of sight. The elders approach, chasing off the last of the workmen all except one.


    ¡°Why haven''t I seen them before?¡± Kate asked.


    ¡°Kate. You¡¯ll always be fighting folklore with history. It¡¯s the quintessential civil war forever raging.¡± He bends down to her and whispers into her ear to keep his words from the workers. ¡°Be diplomatic. We¡¯re not on university-owned land. We¡¯re guests here. And your mind belongs on the dig, not public relations. That¡¯s what our grant pays for.¡±


    The old shaman draws in the sand with a coup stick. His colleagues fan out and encircle the camp. Kate tries to ignore them. But the men secretly instill terror within her. She never admitted it, even to herself, that a part of her deep down believes these village elders can call upon the ancient spirits of those long ago buried here. Kate returns her attention to work. She approaches one of the few laborers who¡¯s still hanging around, and points to the onlookers drawing in the dirt around the site.


    ¡°Who is that man?¡± She asks. But the worker walks away fast. Kate approaches other workers as Sabastian watches. One after another they snub her until all but one are a safe distance away. Most of them now hover around the tables pretending to be busy, hide in the shadows watching or have vacated to other trenches to continue working. Above, the sky hints of rain. Dark clouds boil. Thunder rolls. The laborers pack up, happy to leave. Kate grabs one on his way out, gets in his face.


    ¡°Who are those men?¡± She demands, this time louder and ignoring Sabastian¡¯s good advice. The worker darts away.


    ¡°Over here!¡± someone yells. Kate follows the voice calling her toward a trench where she finds a lone man still working. He¡¯s the only one who¡¯s dared to defy social expectations. He¡¯s rugged and muscular with olive skin. He wears a large brim cowboy hat and brown leather shit-kickers that are well worn. He works without worry and has a quiet confidence about him - the kind earned by a battle-weary warrior who¡¯s got nothing more to prove.


    ¡°Hey. Excuse me,¡± Kate says as she approaches him. The man stops, looks up at her. His piercing deep blue eyes take her by surprise. She¡¯s not used to seeing that eye color with Native Americans. Bright blue eyes were a rarity here.


    ¡°Yes?¡± The field hand speaks with an unusual accent. It¡¯s a cross between Cajun and Spanish. Kate composes herself.


    ¡°What¡¯d you find?¡± she asks. He points out a stair step in the dirt beneath a tumbleweed. Kate scoops away some dirt with her foot and uncovers another stair.


    ¡°Found it earlier,¡± he answers. ¡°I was afraid the others would make trouble. So, I kept quiet.¡± Kate studies him. He reaches out to her, offers his hand. ¡°I¡¯m Carlton.¡± Kate notices his beautiful bronze physique. He¡¯s a powerful man in his thirties. ¡°Here. Look at this.¡± Carlton picks up the tumbleweed, shows her that there¡¯s a clean break at the base of its stem. It¡¯s been cut. She eyes it. ¡°This bush didn¡¯t grow here,¡± he explains. Now she sees that his eyes have a yellow rim around the inside of the iris. They are strangely hypnotizing. She loses what he¡¯s saying as little tingles shoot down her spine. She feels her crotch get warm, then shakes it off, tries to tune out the smooth rhythm of his voice and focus on his words instead. ¡°It was put here to hide the steps,¡± Carlton continues. ¡°Someone on this team¡¯s not your friend.¡± His last words shake her from physical desires. Cold reality sets in.


    She glances at Sabastian, then sweeps her eyes across the site, and suddenly realizes they¡¯re alone. All the other workers are gone. From afar they hear the old Indian shaman chanting ¡°Who-ye-hey-ya. Ojib-whey-hey-ya . . .¡± His hair dances in the wind as he paces around deep in a trance, his steps silent, his eyes distant. He seems to float across the desert sand. Kate¡¯s eyes dart from Sabastian¡¯s to Carlton¡¯s. Carlton understands her desire to know what¡¯s happening. He doesn¡¯t wait for her to ask.


    ¡°It¡¯s a warning to spirits,¡± Carlton explains, hoping she¡¯d take comfort in his loyalty.


    ¡°You don''t seem fazed,¡± she replies.


    ¡°They¡¯re local shaman. Everyone¡¯s afraid. This place is cursed. It¡¯s the home of the hated; the land of the forbidden. They shouldn¡¯t be working here, and they know it. The tribal Chief won¡¯t like it. It¡¯s said that he who disturbs the evil spirits buried here invites the spirits home with them,¡± he explains. Kate nods.


    ¡°Thanks, Carlton.¡± The chanting stops. All becomes still. They look over. The shaman and his minions are gone. They¡¯ve disappeared into the wind. Kate scans the horizon in all directions. The desert is flat and empty for miles. Nothing but dust, tumbleweeds, and cactus. No shaman.


    Kate stands up and puts her foot onto the step. The ground collapses. She falls through. When she opens her eyes all she sees for a few moments is a haze of swirling dusty air. She strains to see through it, espies Carlton and Sabastian standing over her, their faces in shadow as they peer down at her through a hole and into the darkness. It takes her a moment to realize that she¡¯s fallen into an underground cave. Carefully, Kate gets up off her back, sits up, dusts herself off.


    ¡°Kate!¡± Sabastian yells down at her.


    ¡°I¡¯m Fine,¡± she answers. ¡°I¡¯m ¨C ¡° but then she loses her words as her eyes make out what¡¯s before her. ¡°Oh, God!¡±


    ¡°What? Kate what is it?¡± Sabastian yells back, ¡°I¡¯m coming down!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Kate stares as shock sets in. Just feet from where she landed is a pile of mummified bodies, deformed, mutilated, and perfectly preserved in the dry arid desert climate. They are long and thin, with skin stretched tight upon the bones. And their heads are oddly shaped. Large and pointed much like the traditional head shaping of the Aztec and Mayans. Native Americans indeed, but certainly not from any modern Navajo tribe. They are dressed in torn strips of canvas linen and adorned with silver jewelry that bears Celtic cross symbols ¨C a striking resemblance to what was unearthed earlier in the trenches. Kate pulls the cross from her pocket and compares. The symbols and jewelry are identical in their design.


    ¡°Don¡¯t come down, Sabastian!¡±


    ¡°What is it? Are you hurt?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine. It¡¯s a mass grave. We shouldn¡¯t disturb anything until we have lights and the right equipment.¡± As Kate shifts her weight, she feels something crunch beneath her. It¡¯s an arm. She rolls off the bones and sees the skeleton of a child wrapped in a colorful striped blanket of Navajo design. There¡¯s a bracelet on the skeleton¡¯s wrist.


    Kate squints to see the trinket in the light beaming down from the opening above. She touches it. Her finger wipes away heavy dust and reveals an Irish Celtic Cross in a silver disk with Navajo animal symbols around it. The bones fall apart in Kate¡¯s hand. The bracelet slips off onto the ground. Kate picks it up and pockets it.


    Above ground, outside the cave-pit rain begins to fall. Carlton holds out his hand, catches some of the drops. He eyes the skies and the surrounding land, sees low-rolling clouds headed their way. Worry sets in as the light sprinkle becomes heavier. He yells down.


    ¡°Kate, we must hurry!¡± This region has flash floods. It¡¯s much more dangerous than it looks.¡± Then Carlton hears chanting. The shaman and his minions are back. It¡¯s as if they never left. The shaman works fast, chants louder, acts possessed as he works his way around the site drawing a giant double-rimmed circle encompassing the cave, with strange hieroglyphs.


    From above the heavens watch down as he slowly makes his way around Carlton and Sabastian along with it. Sabastian gets concerned as he sees the last few work trucks heading across the horizon in a dry dusty plume. He scans the landscape. One side of the desert horizon is bright and dry. The other side is dark and forbidding with angry rain clouds tumbling and churning toward them, closing in fast. Sabastian stretches his neck to get a better look at what the shaman is doing. He leans in close to Carlton, whispers.


    ¡°What is this?¡± he asks, motioning to the witch doctor. ¡°It¡¯s foreign to Native American culture. It doesn¡¯t make sense.¡± Carlton only shrugs.


    ¡°It will,¡± Carlton answers. Sabastian waits, but the worker turns his attention to Kate and the weather. ¡°We¡¯re in trouble,¡± he warns. ¡°We need to get her out of there.¡± Before Sabastian can respond, Carlton darts to the tables beneath the tent and returns with a radio handset. He calls for first responders.

 ANASAZI V1 CHAPTER 2

    San Juan County Morgue, Forensic Anthropology Unit


    The lab is cold, sterile, and heartless. Dr. Alona Murphy, forensic anthropologist in her forties, studies the mummies that Kate discovered in the underground cavern. She¡¯s part Native American, part Irish ¨C a woman trapped between two competing worlds with clear passage into neither.


    Murphy had struggled many years to climb her way to the top of her field while retaining respect of the male elders in her community. As much as the elders disliked a female with such authority, they detested the white man more. Any historic biological discovery of a human carcass, no matter how old ¨C ancient or modern ¨C comes to her. Through years of hard work, Murph had risen to become the local expert in all things dead. And she ruled the San Juan County Morgue. Murphy¡¯s opinions had even been sought by local ranchers and farmers to investigate diseased animals, poachers, and anything odd or strange that the outside world would criticize if asked. Most of all, Murphy understood that the aftermath of local traditions involving humans and animals almost always ended up in her lab. She was delicate, understanding, and fair.


    When ranchers caught poachers on their land and needed forensic identification of stolen animals, they turned to Murphy. If people were branded, scarred, or punished for their deeds in the traditional way, Murphy was drawn into it as an expert. If disease afflicted the livestock population, it was Murphy¡¯s word that was trusted to determine if the cause was punishment by the Great Spirit or simply rabies gone amok. She¡¯d even autopsied lamas imported from Chile that had all become mysteriously sick and discovered their intestines were filled with smuggled cocaine. Now she was cutting up mummified natives for Kate Darby¡¯s excavation.


    Mummies in the desert were nothing new to Dr. Murphy. Mummification was part of her expertise. Not only was she a coroner, she also had a Master¡¯s in Ancient Native American studies and had trained for a year in an exchange program at the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. That had given her world-class experience examining, preserving, and identifying cultural markers with ancient, mummified bodies ¨C a cornerstone of her purpose in returning to the San Juan County Shiprock.


    The unique background had brought with it federal and state grants to fund her expensive lab. It also ensured that the Native American community had an expert member watching out for their best interests and who had valid expertise that qualified her to be part of any archeological research. In fact, it was a county code that Dr. Murphy must oversee as a tribal representative, any and all work involving ancient finds. Too bad, many on the tribal council thought, that Dr. Murphy was a woman trying to do a man¡¯s job. Kate stands looking over Murphy¡¯s shoulder. Dried wrinkled bodies fill the room. They lie across a dozen tables and on every countertop. Some of the bodies are whole. Others are in pieces.


    ¡°You uncovered something all right,¡± Murphy explains. ¡°These bodies are recent, not ancient. Perhaps as young as a few decades.¡± She inspects them closer, uses a magnifying lamp, peels back clothing on one of the specimens to reveal a faded tattoo.


    ¡°How can that be?¡± Kate blurts out on the verge of frustration. All her hopes and dreams now wrapped up into what was fast becoming a nightmare that she couldn¡¯t shake off. At every turn she faced loss, acrimony, and never-ending frustration. All she wanted to do was finish unearthing this ancient village and publish her papers. It all stung with every revelation. But what hurt most was the thought of disappointing Sabastian.


    Sabastian had put his reputation on the line to cut through red tape for Kate to be here. Now he was stuck in the same cultural quicksand that threatened to shut everything down. But to Kate none of this was about only success. It also meant protecting her father¡¯s legacy. If dad were alive, he¡¯d be disappointed in her as well. That¡¯s what hurt her the most. Now all her efforts might be lost.


    ¡°This here,¡± Murphy says, pointing to some markings on the upper torso. ¡°These symbols are on every one of them.¡± Kate eyes the find through the lens of the doctor¡¯s magnifying lamp. On the withered skin are various symbols, some familiar, some not.


    ¡°Tattoos, rank, status, achievement ¨C all symbols marking rites of passage,¡± Kate ponders aloud. Murphy nods. She already knows. She¡¯s a Ute.


    But upon closer inspection Kate second guesses herself. ¡°Can I touch this?¡± she asks about the body. ¡°I need to see more of it.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Murphy answers. She hands Kate a pair of little blue latex gloves. Kate puts them on and gently rolls the sun-dried arm over. It snaps off. Dust poofs into the air. Quick, Kate steps away, avoids breathing it in.


    ¡°Shit!¡± Kate blurts. But Murphy is unphased. Patiently, the coroner waits for Kate to compose herself. ¡°Sorry,¡± Kate apologizes. Murphy shrugs.


    ¡°It¡¯s a mummy,¡± Murphy says. ¡°It doesn¡¯t bite.¡± Kate returns her attention to the strange markings on the brittle flesh. Some of the inkwork she recognizes as pervasive throughout the local culture and traditions. But some of the hieroglyphs don¡¯t fit.


    ¡°I recognize some of these symbols, but not others. I don¡¯t know what these symbols mean,¡± Kate says.


    ¡°Really?¡± Murphy replies. ¡°I thought you knew everything about my people.¡± Kate ignores the jab. But it cuts deep. Murphy sees it and decides to lighten her tone and switches gears, figuring that perhaps she shouldn¡¯t push it. This girl may have connections Murphy can use.


    Kate holds up the silver trinkets from the excavation, lays them on the table next to the tattooed mummy arm. The emblems are the same.


    ¡°These were unearthed within the last week. And this one,¡± she digs into her pocket and pulls out the bracelet that she found on the child¡¯s bony arm in the subterranean cavern. Murphy swings her magnifying lamp from the body to the jewelry.


    ¡°Well, they do match,¡± the coroner agrees.


    ¡°Here, see on this one.¡± Kate flips over the child¡¯s bracelet medallion, revealing etching on the back side. It¡¯s an image of a colonial warship. It says New Orleans 1812, Gen. Andrew Jackson.


    ¡°Where¡¯d you get that bracelet?¡± Murphy asks.


    ¡°They were adorned with this,¡± Kate continues. ¡°The bodies, I mean. I had this charm dated. This bracelet is an original, not a replica,¡± Kate continues, searching Murphy¡¯s eyes for some, any recognition of this strange and seemingly incoherent set of clues. But Murphy only shrugs and remains aloof. Clearly, she knows more than she is letting on.


    ¡°Family heirlooms. Who knows?¡± Murphy responds. ¡°That¡¯s nothing I¡¯ve seen around here. Looks European.¡± Kate searches Murphy¡¯s face for any hint of agreement or understanding. But the coroner gives nothing away. Kate¡¯s confused and disappointed at the doctor¡¯s lack of vigor for the unexplained situation.


    ¡°None of this makes sense,¡± Kate argues. By now Murphy is losing patience, fighting hard to maintain sympathy for the overzealous college student too big for her britches. She knows the girl is a year into the expensive research and now faces losing it all. But there¡¯s nothing Murphy will do to help out Kate. In fact, the coroner is going out of her way to avoid becoming involved.


    Kate and her expedition had already offended the community; had gotten them all riled up. Now those angry citizens were protesting outside Murphy¡¯s morgue as well. She just didn¡¯t want it following her home. Soon the media would be all over it ¨C making a bigger problem for Murphy than the ruckus that Kate Darby had already caused. She¡¯d ignited a tinder box of fury and entitlement. The Native American community would not let it go unaddressed. Their anger over Darby¡¯s implications about the past threatened to taint the entire community. They would not have it.


    But there was more on the line for Murphy. Her boss was facing re-election. Appeasing voters was more important than some buried atrocity of the past that had yet to be proven. Murphy wanted to keep her job. And she didn¡¯t want the controversy tagging along. She wanted calm, stability, comfort. She¡¯d fought too long and hard to get to her station only to have some twenty-five-year-old fuck it all up. Being Native American was a heavy enough burden out in the real world. But being female within that community was especially difficult. It had taken two decades for Murphy to finally gain the standing, trust ¨C and most of all ¨C respect as a medical authority that she deserved. If her boss weren¡¯t re-elected, Murphy would be on shaky ground. She couldn¡¯t afford to lose that standing for some white-bread spoiled college brat.


    But try as she might to discourage Kate Darby, nothing seemed destined to get rid of her. Murphy had been taking mental notes, searching for something to peddle as acceptable for Kate to walk away and refocus her efforts on some other reservation.


    ¡°Sorry, kiddo. This just isn¡¯t a priority on my plate right now. I¡¯ve got three court cases, one murder investigation, six DUI accidents and one suicide to contend with. They all need my attention right now. I¡¯ve got reports to write, bodies to autopsy. These guys,¡± she motions to the mummies, ¡°can wait.¡± Kate doesn¡¯t like Murphy¡¯s response.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious,¡± Kate blurts out, frustration welling up. ¡°You¡¯re acting like this is no big deal.¡±


    ¡°It is business as usual,¡± Murphy shoots back. ¡°People dig up things out here all the time and make a big deal of it, taking advantage of this region¡¯s history so they can publish papers, write books, teach at expensive universities. All the while giving the locals nothing from it. Apparently, we¡¯re just a vehicle for someone else¡¯s success.¡± Kate shakes her head, steps closer, looks deep into Murphy¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°That¡¯s bullshit, and you know it.¡± Kate tells her, unwavering.


    ¡°Look, my kids go to school with the people working on your dig.¡± Now Murphy gets closer, stepping into Kate¡¯s personal space. ¡°And with the people you¡¯re pissing off. You don¡¯t live here. I do. My kids do.¡± Murphy wants to say more but stops herself. A tiny part of her enjoys the air of being smarter, seeing things this college girl doesn¡¯t. But she knows she can push it too far. Darby has federal money, and the power to sway people to fund expensive digs. Murphy quietly reins herself in.


    ¡°Fine. Want something unique?¡± Murphy offers. She directs Kate¡¯s attention back to the child mummy. ¡°These people were hacked to death. Dismembered.¡±  The doctor holds up two pieces of bony leg that¡¯s covered with dried brown leathery flesh. The ends are cut clean. They fit together like puzzle pieces. Now Kate perks up. A glimmer returns to her eyes.


    ¡°Well, that fits exactly into my theory,¡± Kate replies as she takes the leg from Murphy¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Save your cannibal tale for the people you need to impress,¡± the coroner scoffs. She starts to say more but is interrupted by a loud bang across the room. Detective Brannah crashes through the double steel doors, catches sight of Kate right away, looks her up and down, taking in her soft white skin, long dark hair, round full breasts, and speckled Irish skin. He instantly dismisses her as an assistant and sets his attention on Murphy not bothering to give Kate the time of day.


    The blonde cop looks to be in his 40s. A spare tire starting up at his waist, cowboy hat and jeans. His badge doubles as a bolo. It slides down the little braided leather straps as he strides across the room toward them clomping in his heavy shit-kickers. He pushes his bolo-badge back up to his shirt collar as he reaches the slab. He¡¯s a walking regurgitation of the 70s TV cop show McCleod. But his thick yellow-white mustache and tiny chin goatee ruin the fa?ade.


    ¡°What do we got, Murph?¡± Brannah asks, Texas drawl. Murphy greets him with a smile. Kate can¡¯t tell if the coroner¡¯s reaction to him is legitimate or sarcastic. She wonders how they can be old friends with the way Murphy reacts to white outsiders. Suddenly, they seem not to notice Kate.


    ¡°Hey, Steve. Body¡¯s over here.¡± Brannah grimaces.


    ¡°Ouch,¡± he quips as he takes in what¡¯s displayed. ¡°Somebody was in a bad mood.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± Kate butts in. They eyeball her, irritated that the college student with an attitude is still here. Murphy takes the reigns.


    ¡°Kate, this is a professional friend of mine,¡± Murphy lies. Brannah is neither professional nor a friend. But she¡¯s obligated to pretend. There¡¯s something odd between them. An uncomfortable tension that hangs in the air. Brannah takes the hint, offers his hand out to Kate. It¡¯s then that Kate notices the white Stetson cowboy hat bares the symbol of a Texas Ranger just above the brim. But it doesn¡¯t match his bolo-badge.


    ¡°I¡¯m Detective Brannah,¡± he says, straightening his posture. ¡°I¡¯ll take it from here, honey. Thanks for helpin¡¯ out.¡± But Kate only scoffs. Murphy moves on, eager to get into business rather than a brawl.


    ¡°What ever happened here,¡± Murphy explains, ¡°It¡¯s for you now. This was a mass murder, not some Navajo graveyard or a college class. It was violent, and it was brutal. Whoever did this, took time to be thorough.¡± Brannah ponders Kate, taking in her dissatisfied expression as they listen to the coroner¡¯s news. ¡°Ms. Darby, I¡¯ve turned this discovery over to Officer Brannah as of this morning. Sorry hon, it¡¯s not the thesis you wanted to hang your hat on.¡±


    Kate leaves in a huff. Brannah watches her stomp down the hall, taking in her round firm butt muscles as they flex with each frustrated footstep. Brannah reaches into his pocket, pulls out Skull tobacco dip. He opens the container, pinches some off and shoves it into his mouth beneath his dusty white mustache that¡¯s stained at the edges the color of brown chew. Some of the chew gets into his facial hair.


    Out in the hallway Kate is surprised to find Carlton waiting at the other end of the corridor. He leans against the wall in the empty hallway. He sees her coming, stands up straight. Kate suddenly becomes aware that she¡¯s covered with mummy dust. She can taste it as it lingers in the air. The scent of dank cavern full of death. She hadn¡¯t even changed clothes. She¡¯d come straight here after being released from the city ER.


    ¡°Find out anything?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Yeah, my master¡¯s thesis is now a crime site.¡± She looks around. ¡°What are you doing here? Where¡¯s Sabastian?¡± Carlton only shrugs. He seems uptight and nervous. He leans over, cranes his neck, and strains to see through  the glass windows in the doors to the morgue, but he avoids leaning too far out for anyone in the lab to see him.


    ¡°Am I getting paid for the time I put in?¡± Carlton asks.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The cave. I helped get you out when everyone else left you behind.¡± His comment stings. It makes Kate feel even more of an unwanted outcast than all the drama she¡¯d fought to get here.


    ¡°Of course,¡± she answers, hoping to stay on the worker¡¯s good side. She needed a friend from the local community. She ponders a moment, then realizes that he might be privy to the local gossip. ¡°What did the police say?¡± she asks. Carlton looks confused. ¡°You know, about the cave? The bodies?¡± But he doesn¡¯t have an answer. Kate sweeps away her disappointment as another idea hits her. ¡°Want to earn extra?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Carlton obliges, all too happy to get out of there.


    Twenty Minutes Later


    Carlton¡¯s red beater pick-up pulls up to a droopy barbed wire fence at the edge of a run-down Navajo reservation steeped in poverty. It looks like a third world country. Kate sits in silence as she takes in what she sees, stunned at its dilapidated state.


    ¡°Jesus, I thought reservations weren¡¯t like this anymore.¡± Kate says.


    ¡°They¡¯re not,¡± Carlton answers. Then he ads ¡°These people aren¡¯t like other Navajo.¡± She waits for more. But Carlton offers nothing else. He stays behind the wheel as Kate gets out of the truck. She waits for him to join her. But he doesn¡¯t.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± Carlton says. ¡°They¡¯re too creepy for me.¡± Kate waits a little longer. But he won¡¯t budge. Finally, she gets it, closes the door, leans in through the window.


    ¡°Thanks for the ride,¡± she tells him. Carlton nods.


    ¡°If you get into trouble, you have my cell.¡± Carlton hesitates, then adds, ¡°Be careful of Brannah. Don¡¯t let him get you alone.¡±


    He drives off, leaving her second-guessing what she¡¯s about to do. Be careful of Brannah? Don¡¯t let him get you alone? What could that mean? And why was Carlton so afraid of the detective? Kate pushes the questions to the back of her mind, intending to pursue them another day. She can¡¯t let them cloud her judgment for now. She watches Carlton¡¯s red truck disappear into a cloud of dust as it heads down the dirt road away from her and the people he seemed to fear.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    Trepidatiously, she walks through the dusty villa of run-down trailers and moldy water holes. It¡¯s not at all like other modern reservations. Boney dogs run loose. Rusty cars litter the grounds. People stare, look her up and down. They¡¯re all old men, the ones she saw at her dig site chanting and drawing strange hieroglyphs in the sand only a few days ago. A boy approaches her. He looks to be about ten years old. Kate shows him a photo of the Shaman at her dig site.


    ¡°Hi there. Can you help me find this man?¡±  The boy runs away.


    ¡°Anasazi! Anasazi!¡± he yells as he disappears around a shanty house that¡¯s little more than a lean-to. It¡¯s then that Kate realizes there aren¡¯t any other children around. The place is eerily quiet. No animals. No voices of people chattering. Not even the wind blows here. Creepy.


    Despite her misgivings, Kate presses on, heading deeper into the grounds following the direction where the boy ran. As she walks through the reservation Carlton¡¯s words hang over her. These people aren¡¯t like other Navajo. As she ponders it, foreboding seeps into her bones. Maybe this is a bad idea. She should have waited for Sabastian. But the professor was nowhere to be found and Kate had felt a sense of urgency to push ahead despite having no clear path before her. Now she feels stupid.


    Eventually she comes across the elderly Navajo shaman who led the others in the mystic ceremony outside her excavation. He stands at the opened front door of a sagging trailer house, leaning on a well-used cane.


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± he says, his voice softly stressed with age. ¡°I expected you earlier.¡± Shock and confusion wash over Kate. How did he know she was coming? He goes inside. She follows him. Everywhere she sees old photos, relics, and cheap tourist crap from Stuckey¡¯s. It¡¯s a like a creepy time-capsule from the 70s. The shaman leads her to the kitchen, sits himself at a flimsy card table.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting for you. Sit, please.¡° It¡¯s an effort for him to speak.


    ¡°Why were you at my dig?¡± Kate asks. The shaman responds.


    ¡°It is sour ground that spawns evil. The spirits have been there four hundred and ninety-two years. You¡¯ve let them out.¡± Kate shakes her head. She refuses to be taken in. It¡¯s all too convenient.


    ¡°The lab results said -¡±


    ¡°And yet you¡¯re here,¡± he cuts in. She shuts up, thinks a moment, then decides to go through the motions. From her pocket she fishes out the silver Celtic cross, shoves it in his face, points out Navajo markings in the circle at its crux.


    ¡°This has meaning to you? What¡¯s behind it?¡± she says, going along for the ride. He takes the cross, runs his fingers over the symbols written in the circle, ponders the trinket and all that it implies. Finally, he speaks.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯ve done.¡±


    ¡°These markings. You copied them in the sand at my dig site. They resemble Navajo markings and artwork, but they¡¯re not. They mean something to you. What do they mean?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re Anasazi,¡± he answers. ¡°It¡¯s a warning.¡± He studies the piece, feels the carving and silver some more, decides what he should reveal. Kate pressures him.


    ¡°Translate it, please,¡± she begs, burning with curiosity.


    ¡°Anasazi is the Navajo word for enemy. Anything Anasazi speaks of danger.¡±


    ¡°They were a whole culture that preceded yours,¡± Kate cuts in, her desperation showing. ¡°An entire world unto themselves. Please. I need to know what you know.¡±


    ¡°You need know nothing,¡± he fires back in an oddly calm and soft feather-like voice. ¡°These are Anasazi letters, but not Anasazi words.¡± He lets his mind wander a moment, then finally mutters "Loup-Garou". Kate¡¯s eyes light up.


    ¡°Loup-Garou. What does it mean?¡± The shaman glares at her, this time his eyes are forbidding, dark, stern. The gentle man she entered the room with no longer is present.


    ¡°A curse.¡± He heads across the room, stirs a little stick in a glass box of white sand, tracing a symbol into it. He keeps his back to her, doesn¡¯t want to see her face. ¡°Only an experienced seer can identify the Anasazi. You have heard the tale of the horseman¡¯s wife?¡±  Kate shakes her head


    ¡°No¡±, she answers. He returns to her, takes her hand, and leads her to a set of soft chairs in the living room. He invites her to sit, then sits himself on the old rickety couch with thread-bare fabric covered in little cotton pills. Kate settles in and gives him her unwavering attention.


    ¡°You have much to learn,¡± he begins. ¡°This story is about a fool whose ambition blinds him and leads him to demise. Imagine. . .¡±


    As he speaks, Kate¡¯s imagination takes over as she listens to the Shaman¡¯s voice.


    New Mexico Desert, Night


    ¡°Long ago when the earth was colder, an old rancher lived lonely in the desert.¡± He describes a mud hut alone on the desert plains. A man in his 20s stops at the door and knocks. An old man answers. His skin, pitted and scarred, wraps around craggy cheekbones like taffy on a mill. The lines of age on his face are so deep that his eyes look like sparkly pinpoints of light peeking through slits of skin.


    The traveler by contrast is young, slim, muscular. Black stubble on his chin and dust on his face reveal the hardship of his travels. He¡¯s tired, hungry, and worst of all he¡¯s lost.


    ¡°Sir, can I pay for a meal and a good night¡¯s sleep?¡± The weary traveler asks. He has a few pesos. To the old man behind the door, this visitor seems little more than a large child. But he smiles, nods, lets the lad inside.


    ¡°Come,¡± the old man says, offering what little comforts he has. The traveler enters. The old man beckons his guest across the room to a warped wood table in a fire-lit room. At the fireplace, bubbling stew simmers in a black iron caldron hanging by a chain over flames. The stew¡¯s aroma is enticing. The young man¡¯s stomach growls. His mouth waters. He¡¯s barely eaten for days.


    The old rancher ladles soup into wooden bowls, gives one to his guest, then pours moonshine for both of them, excited to entertain this stranger.


    ¡°I don¡¯t get many visitors ¡®round here. My pleasure for you to share dinner with me,¡± he explains happily. The visitor looks around, sees only a bed in the corner covered with a fur blanket.


    ¡°How long have you lived here?¡± the traveler asks.


    ¡°Too many years to remember.¡± He thinks a moment, then decides to entertain this young man with a magical yarn. ¡°I have a story for you,¡± the old man offers eagerly. The hungry traveler nods and listens as he scoops the delicious dinner into his mouth, welcoming a break from the monotony of his journey.


    ¡°In the year of our Lord, 7940,¡± he begins, his voice straining with age. As he describes the tale, the traveler¡¯s mind imagines it.


    ¡°There once was a horseman''s wife who lived rich in a poor villa.¡± As he speaks, the traveler imagines the past. Alone on the horizon sits a small ranch house that¡¯s little better than a mud hut. It¡¯s the same sandy desert plains, the small ranch house just like the old pauper''s as the story drones on.


    ¡°The daughter of a wealthy land-owner, she was wooed by a handsome worker with dreams, to the discontent of her parents.¡± In his imagination, the traveler sees a viral handsome man much like himself, hard muscles, olive skin, green eyes, works at the stables. A lovely girl with equally alluring bright blue eyes that stand out against her pale skin untouched by the sun, peeks out at the stable worker from a second-floor window. He steals a glance at her. She hides behind the curtains, smiles.


    The old man¡¯s voice continues. ¡°Eventually she married the young man who had won her heart and he became a rancher.¡± The two lovers dance in the candlelight, silhouettes in the dark within each other¡¯s arms.


    ¡°Then one day,¡± the old man continues, ¡°the woman fell ill. Her lover brought his beloved to the church and summoned the priest, hoping for favor from God. For he had been devout and believed God would surely spare her. Distraught, he carries her, limp in his arms, down a dirt road to a church in the distance for she was too sick to ride.¡± It''s little more than a shack. Its steeple is dark against the sinking sun. Its windows glow with candlelight. Inside the church a priest takes the sick woman to a room, blesses her and prays.


    ¡°While the priest blessed his wife, the horseman burned candles and made offerings with gold.¡± He puts a small leather bag of coins on the alter. ¡°For days, the young man knelt before the alter, looking up at the cross hanging above, his hands locked together in prayer. Surely, he and the priest would be heard. But his beloved died. He became angry and cursed God. From that moment on, the skies turned angry, the clouds churning with wrath.¡±


    Outside the little chapel, clouds tumble in the sky. As they speed past, day turns into night. In the dirt, the horseman crouches on his knees crying at his wife¡¯s freshly covered grave. He shakes his fists at the heavens. Red clouds swirl around a glowing moon. They boil like acid. ¡°Overtaken with rage, he vowed vengeance against God. His anger so strong, evil seeped into his soul and turned the skies into wrath.¡±


    The next day, outside the little white chapel the priest works among a group of nuns and children. He looks up and sees the stormy clouds closing fast. A storm is coming. But it¡¯s like nothing he¡¯s seen before. The  clouds are red and ominous. The wind picks up and howls. ¡°The priest felt the air become rancid; the wind turned sour. He sent the children inside.¡±


    On the horizon, a dust funnel appears, moving fast like a red tornado. Down the road, the horseman rides toward the church. His black cape waives in the wind. As he nears, the priest looks up and sees a skeleton face covered in withered leathery skin. Evil red eyes glow from little black sockets. The horseman is no longer human. He has become a demon. The evil creature slings a large wooden cross at the priest as he speeds by. Blood sprays the white church walls as the evil rider passes.


    ¡°He came at the priest, cut off his head all the while cursing God. The demon stole the silver cross rosary from the padre¡¯s neck and took back the gold he¡¯d paid the church that he believed God had unjustly taken. He buried it with her body in a grave on sour ground marked with a warning to never disturb what lies beneath. It is said that the horseman roams the desert in dry storms that twist along the sand spun by the power of his wrath. And, that if one listens carefully, he can hear the horseman¡¯s tortured sole groaning in the wind.¡±


    In a freshly dug grave lies the horseman¡¯s wife, her skin gaunt where once her beauty radiated. Now she sleeps forever in a red velvet dress. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks tell of her sickly demise. Her bony hands are folded across her chest. A small bag of gold drops on top of her. A few coins spill out. Dirt piles spills over her. From above, the heavens look down upon him as the horseman buries his wife. Her grave lies at the center of a pentagram drawn around it. The horseman plants the wooden, cross still caked with the priest¡¯s blood, to mark the site. He spits on it. All around him, the sky churns with rage. A dry storm blowing across the empty desert.


    Back to the Rancher and the Traveler


    The traveler listens, hungry for more. The old rancher continues.


    ¡°For his wickedness, the horseman was damned to walk the earth in limbo, forbidden from uniting with his beloved in Heaven. Listen carefully. His cries are carried within the wind ¨C a warning to us all.¡± The rancher chuckles. A wide toothless grin sweeps across his face. Wrinkles bulge. In his eyes flash a sudden glint of evil. Then it¡¯s gone. ¡°Did you like my story?¡± he asks. The traveler doesn¡¯t know what to think but he nods anyway, thankful for the old man¡¯s hospitality.


    ¡°What happened to him?¡± the traveler asks. The old man shrugs his shoulders.


    ¡°Nobody knows,¡± he answers, keeping the truth to himself. ¡°It¡¯s said that he melted down the gold coins and dipped the preacher¡¯s silver cross into it, set a curse upon it, then locked the cross of gold within another layer of sterling silver to keep the horseman¡¯s evil spirit sequestered within. It burns the hands of those who harbor evil; and brings this demon¡¯s wrath upon anyone who dares possess it. A cross of gold within a gilded cage of silver that burns flesh and carries a curse of eternal damnation.¡±


    The next morning the traveler leaves. For a few hours he walks alone in the desert until he tires. He heads up a hilltop, stops to eat. As he chews the dried beef jerky, he takes in the scenery, and looks back from where he had come.


    Below in the shadow of the hillside, he spots an odd configuration on the ground. It¡¯s a grave in the center of a large pentagram with Indian markings on the rim carved into the dirt, just like in the old man¡¯s story! Quickly, he scrapes and skids down the dusty hillside, reaches the site, digs with his bare hands. Soon, he finds red fabric. He runs his hands over the sand unearthing a skeleton in a red dress, skin still upon the bones dried like leather. It¡¯s the mummy of a woman. Her boney hands clutch something silver. The traveler pulls it free. It¡¯s the priest¡¯s cross ¨C A Celtic Irish cross with odd symbols around the circle of its crux. It resembles the one Kate found at her dig site. He pockets it, shuffles around some more, finds a leather bag. He pulls it free, opens it. GOLD! He pockets it, digs a little more and sure enough finds a few loose coins. Once satisfied he¡¯s got all there is, he refills the grave kicking dirt and rocks into the hole, then heads down the path.


    Later, the weary traveler rests beneath the hot sun, wipes his brow, drinks from his canteen. He lies down, looks at the sky. Above him the sky turns red. Massive angry clouds churn, tumbling like red milk in water. They¡¯re coming toward him, picking up speed as they near. He sits bolt upright, looks around. In the distance a shadow on the planes kicks up dust, fast approaching like a tornado. It closes in.  The traveler runs. But the shadow gains fast. He looks back, runs harder as he sees a man on horseback in a leather duster. It flaps in the air like a cape. The rider¡¯s face is hidden by a sombrero.


    Now, the rider is on his heels. He looks up - a skull face, thin leathery skin, smiles an evil smile. The traveler reaches the burnt ruins of a church. The horseman stops outside it, stalks around the outer walls, won¡¯t go in. From inside the ruins, the traveler watches the horseman pace like a caged tiger. Finally, the creature leaves. The traveler doesn¡¯t move. For hours he stays put hiding from the evil that followed him here. Finally, he heads out. Later that night he returns to the old rancher¡¯s house, pounds the door. The old Rancher answers. He finds the traveler desperate and dirty. His eyes wild with terror.


    ¡°You found the grave!¡± the old man exclaimed. ¡°Fool! The curse is now yours!¡± He slams the door. The traveler stomps down, wedges it open with his foot, sticks his face in the crack.


    ¡°No! Help me, please!¡± The traveler pounds on the door. Desperate, he tries to force his way inside. But the old rancher is stronger than expected.


    ¡°I can¡¯t change anything. It¡¯s done!¡± They struggle. ¡°The curse is taken. You must pass the legacy to someone else now.  It¡¯s the only way to be rid of it.¡±


    ¡°You bastard! You did this to me!¡± the traveler yells back.


    ¡°You did it to yourself!¡±


    ¡°Legacy? What legacy? How can I be rid of it?!¡±


    ¡°You must pass the curse to another - to a greedy fool like you! The prize can¡¯t be given. Your quarry must take it of his own desire. It must be his choice and his alone!¡± The rancher slams the door shut as the traveler loses his strength. Defeated, the angry traveler tries to break it down again, but can¡¯t. His legs buckle. He slides down the door onto the ground. From inside, the old man cackles, and yells back. ¡°I¡¯m free! Be gone! The curse is yours!¡± Enraged, the traveler musters his strength and gets back on his feet. He stumbles around the rancher¡¯s cabin looking for another way inside. But it¡¯s locked up tight.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get you! You won¡¯t get away with this! I¡¯m your curse now!¡± He comes across a barrel, leans close, sniffs it. Kerosene! He uses his bowie knife to split the top seal, tips the barrel on its side and rolls it around the house as kerosene spills out from the opened plug. He strikes flint rock until he gets a spark. The fuel ignites. A ring of fire surrounds the house. The flames quickly engulf it, flowing up to the roof setting it ablaze. The old man inside is trapped as the fire outside rages, its fury matched only by the ire of the traveler who watches from a safe distance. He slips into the nearby barn and steals a horse, then rides off leaving behind the blaze on the night horizon.


    Back to the Present


    ¡°His desires uncovered the trappings of evil,¡± the shaman continues. Kate sits before him, her eyes rageful.


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± she exclaims. Fuming, she paces around him. ¡°Please! Why were you at my dig? I need more than folklore.¡± Frustrated, she goes to the wall, eyes the old photos of the reservation. The dated cars, buildings and clothing give away the era. ¡°Look past the superstition. Every legend has basis in truth.¡±  She turns to him, puts her hand on his. ¡°Help me find the truth, please.¡±


    ¡°You already know,¡± he answers. Kate runs her fingers through her hair, seething.


    ¡°How do I find this traveler?¡±


    ¡°The traveler cannot be found, Kate. Keep digging and the traveler will find you.¡± Kate rolls her eyes. Pissed, tosses him a five. His eyes widen at the site of cash. He continues. ¡°My name is Frank.¡±


    ¡°Oughtta be shameless bastard!¡± Kate replies. Frank pockets the cash.


    ¡°Want to know more?¡± Frank asks.


    ¡°No!¡± Kate stomps out.


    Later


    Kate walks through the reservation alone, heading out the way she came. She dials Carlton¡¯s number on her cell.


    ¡°Come on, Carlton.¡± But she hears only Carlton¡¯s voice message.


    ¡°Not here. You know the drill. Leave it. Beep.¡± Kate slaps the phone shut. ¡°Shit!¡± She struggles to regain control, stares at the foreboding desert beyond and the long walk ahead. Emptiness stretches as far as she can see to the base of a mountain ridge poking up through the endless sea of sand. Kate follows the dirt road, her head hung low. Eventually, she looks up and sees a house in the shadow of red canyon walls. ¡°Thank God.¡±


    After many sweaty hours she finally reaches the dwelling. But no one¡¯s home. It¡¯s abandoned. Dirty windows, a dusty porch and floorboards on the front porch warped and rippled. For a moment, she considers breaking out a window with a rock, but for some reason she doesn¡¯t. The tale of the shaman remains fresh on her mind. All she sees are parallels to the yarn that Shaman Frank had spun. The shack looks just like the one he described in the story. In fact, Kate reasons, it probably actually is. The old man had simply used it to make his tale realistic. Kate cups her hands on the glass and peers inside.


    It¡¯s indeed a tiny one-room shack. No one¡¯s been in it recently. The floor is covered with heavy dust from sand that had creeped in through the loose windows and pock marked walls. Her eyes search for a phone. But all she can make out is old dusty furniture. In the middle of the empty room is a lonely table with a plate and a cup. No chair. Across the room is an old iron stove pipe streaked red and black with rust. Beside it stands an empty set of shelves that lean to one side. The crooked floorboards beneath it are covered with cobwebs. There is a hole in the middle of the floor large enough for a small adult to crawl through. But no phone.


    ¡°Lovely,¡± she mutters. Feeling defeated, Kate turns to leave. Her eyes fill with terror. On the horizon she sees a dust trail blazing toward her ¨C just like the one in Shaman Frank¡¯s tale. She squeezes the cross around her neck.


    ¡°Oh God.¡± She dials Carlton again. Still no answer. The dust trail closes in. Motorcycle engines blare. A leather-clad gang heads across the desert in her direction. Kate runs back to the house, slips around back and kicks out a window. She crawls inside, slips through the hole in the floor and crouches in the dusty web-covered space beneath. Outside the engines get louder, grow closer. Voices yell.


    ¡°In there!¡± The cyclists circle the old building, their tires kicking up dust. From underneath the house, Kate looks past the pier and beam supports watching, wondering who these men are. The wheels roll, then stop and roll again as the bikers look around. Kate listens. They seem to be searching for her. She peeks out hoping to get a better look at the bikers. Flies start buzzing around Kate. The swarm grows, gets louder. She sniffs the air and grimaces at the foul odor. Something stinks like a dead body! She fights the urge to vomit.


    From below the floorboards she gets a clear view of one of the cyclists. He¡¯s bald, clad in leather with a shot gun quiver on his back. He¡¯s covered with stitched wounds and blue corpse-like skin. Flies buzz around him. The other riders gather around him. They crisscross each other on their bikes as they encircle where Kate hides. Finally, they come to a stand-still, gather around their leader. Outside the house, the riders avoid going beyond the walls or into the house. Finally, they leave. Kate watches, waits until they¡¯re out of site and their engines can no longer be heard.


    She slips back into the little house and heads to the broken window. As she slips one leg outside, she notices her footprints in the dust on the floor. They are too obvious not to be noticed. Briefly, she wonders if the strange and stinky men bothered to look inside. If they had, then they know someone was there. But they never came into the house to check. Odd. So perhaps they didn¡¯t spot the prints in the sand ¨C or maybe they just didn¡¯t care.  Kate decides to head home, not wanting to wait around for the bikers to return. The sun sets fast on the horizon. Out on the road Kate picks up her pace, knowing she must make it home before nightfall to avoid danger.

 ANASAZI Volume 1, Chapter 3 (Part 1)

    Anasazi Vol 1 ¨C Chapter 3


    New Orleans, Night


    People of all ages sing, shout, dance, drink as they parade past. It¡¯s Mardi Gras in full swing. Hundreds of feet clamor over the dirty pavement, passing by. The world seems to spin out of control. On the ground Carlton struggles in the mass of passing foot traffic. He gets up, pushes through the crowd, staggers, then falls again. He drops a cross amulet on a chain. It bounces on the ground. The cross is identical to the silver jewelry Kate found at her dig site. In the center of the cross pendant is the image of a Creole woman. Carlton reaches for it with clumsy hands. Feet step on his fingers. He screams. Carlton hears his own voice speak in Latin.


    ¡°. . . peccata patris . . . ¡° It¡¯s Latin for the ¡°sins of the father¡±. He bolts awake, sits up in bed panting and soaked in sweat. That Goddamned dream again! It followed him everywhere. For years he¡¯d tried to shake it but to no avail. Death, destruction, blood running down the brick-laid streets. Bodies everywhere dressed in colonial garb out of place today. It haunts him, unwavering in its fury. With each successive dream more of the nightmare revealed itself, deeper with detail ¨C all things he¡¯d like to forget. But he can¡¯t.


    His mind won¡¯t let go. In his mind, he can clearly see the details ¨C an old colonial ship docked in the port, others dotting the sea beyond. Soldiers, townsfolk running amuck with muskets and bayonets. People screaming, fleeing, hiding. Officers barking commands. Death is all around. Then a blinding white explosion and he¡¯s on the ground. Next to him lies a soldier without arms screaming as blood pours out of him. Carlton sees the severed limb and reaches for it thinking that he can somehow put it back on. Then he wakes. It¡¯s over until the next time.


    He wished he¡¯d been blessed like so many who simply forget their dreams with the morning¡¯s return. Carlton turns on the light, goes to the bathroom. His pajamas are soaked with perspiration. His hair and face are wet. He ponders himself in the mirror. Eyes, red like he¡¯s been crying, with dark circles under them stare back.  He splashes his face with water. The cold feels good on his burning skin. Again, he catches sight of himself in the looking glass, smashes it.


    That Night At Murphy¡¯s Forensic Lab


    Kate¡¯s on the phone, agitated. She pours out her frustrations to Sabastian.


    ¡°You were right, Sabastian. It¡¯s just a bunch of bunk. A dusty old legend. It¡¯s -¡± Kate catches a glimpse of something across the room. Yellow eyes flicker from the dark. They look like the Horseman¡¯s evil eyes in the Shaman¡¯s tale. Then they¡¯re gone. She looks around, suspicious, fearful. Sabastian¡¯s voice squeaks through the phone.


    ¡°Kate, what is it?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    ¡°All this has put you on edge. It¡¯s not healthy Kate. Why don''t you come home, just for a little while? Give yourself a break. Get a little distance from all this.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need a baby-sitter!¡±


    ¡°At least take a break. Start fresh. You¡¯re not safe there. Anyone could get through those doors.¡± She eyes the steel doors across the room. No locks!  In the metal¡¯s reflection, she sees the little yellow sparkles again. And then they disappear.


    ¡°I gotta go,¡± Kate says.


    ¡°But Kate -¡± Sabastian calls out as she hangs up the phone. But Kate¡¯s gone.


    Kate heads to the door, dims the lights and then turns back one more time to view the room behind her. She blinks, lets her eyes adjust to the darkness. In the shadows, she makes out a figure across the room hovering in the corner. She bolts out the door, runs down the hall. Through the glass window in the door a shadowy figure watches her flee. It¡¯s eyes glow like little yellow jewels.


    Two Weeks Later


    A full moon glows behind angry clouds. The wind blows. Leaves twirl past a quaint little house. Empty tree branches tap the window glass. Inside in her bedroom Kate wakes, eyes wide. She gasps, fights for air then sits bolt upright, pants and looks around. Her heart pounds. But the room is cold, quiet, empty. Curtains ruffle at an open window. Outside, crickets chirp. A gaslight hums. Shadows of tree branches stretch across her room like twisted fingers. She takes a moment to compose herself, working to force back all the bad memories building up in her mind lately.


    Across the room a pair of eyes glow in the dark. Kate freezes, holds her breath. The eyes move, get closer. A cat jumps onto the bed, meows. Kate sighs. ¡°Raffi.¡± She turns on the light. She¡¯s soaked with sweat. Under the lamp on the night table is a photo of Kate with an older man, arm in arm. The frame says, ¡°IN LOVING MEMORY¡±. Kate turns it face down, gets out of bed.


    This was just one more sleepless night in a succession of many. Try as she might, Kate couldn¡¯t rid her mind of turmoil, panic and guilt. Curiosity mixed with terror-fueled fantasies had become her new norm. Nothing she did brought clarity or could distract her. Only questions loomed. Questions that led to more questions and never to an answer.  She had been dreaming again of that incident in the desert at the abandoned shack. In her dreams, they were chasing her. Running, running until her lungs burned and she reached the little abandoned house with the hole in the floor. Motorcycle engines roar, grow louder, get closer. Dust stirs up into the wind and blinds her. She can see only shadows of the blue dead-like men. They are pungent, frightening, reminiscent of demons fresh out of hell.


    The creepiness of her life in recent weeks ¨C a cave full of mummified bodies, those stinking bikers in the desert, unearthing antiquities that didn¡¯t belong where she found them. She felt overwhelmed, gripped in panic, her mind in constant turmoil. What would happen next? Her thoughts turn to Detective Brannah and how he cut her out of his investigation. It had been three weeks since she fell into that underground cavern, and no phone calls. But he¡¯d promised.


    Kate felt stupid, even useless. Depression swirls around her. Brannah seemingly had no need for her beyond the initial statement she¡¯d given him. And now her excavation was lost. She looks at the clock. It¡¯s 1:27 am. Kate gets out of bed, heads down the hallway. As she passes her father¡¯s picture, she kisses her fingers and then pressed them onto dad¡¯s image.


    On the way to the kitchen, she turns on the TV thankful for the distraction. In the kitchen she brews herself a fresh cup of coffee, then goes to her desk, sifts through piles of paper. She sips her coffee, rubs her face. She can¡¯t concentrate. Chaotic piles of paper surround her. All of it a reminder of her recent failure. Her grant had paid for housing for herself and her team ¨C all of whom had left town last week after fourteen days of stonewalling from the local police and Brannah. None of the rent could be recovered. Nor could the funds she¡¯s spent on a dig site that hadn¡¯t even gotten six feet below the surface. Only Sabastian remained by her side, ever vigilant and loyal. Finally, she gives up and gives him a call.


    ¡°Hi. Yeah. Can¡¯t sleep.¡±


    ¡°Again?¡± Sabastian asks, not really surprised. ¡°A lot''s happened, Kate. You need a break, love. Let¡¯s let it go and move on, hmm? There are plenty of sites yet to be discovered.¡± His soft Australian accent comforted her. He¡¯d tried to gently prod her into refocusing her efforts onto something tangible like returning to her father¡¯s dig site at the Chaco Canyon ruins. It provided him the only viable option that might sway Kate into leaving town on a new venture.


    ¡°Right. You¡¯re right Sabastian. Can''t even get my mind wrapped around this new grant.¡±


    ¡°Paperwork¡¯s already done.¡± Kate smiles. She could always count on Sabastian.


    ¡°You¡¯re an angel.¡± As she listens to Sabastian describe where she¡¯d be traveling to next, she looks out the window. Her face twists into horror. A shadow figure crouches down on the neighbor¡¯s roof. It stares back at her, then darts off. Then footsteps pound across the roof above her. Kate screams and drops the phone. On the other end Sabastian hears it.


    ¡°Kate? Kate? KATE!¡±


    Later That Night, 2:47 Am


    Kate sits on her couch wrapped in a blanket staring at a house swarming with police uniforms. Everyone is sleepy, pale and exhausted. Kate stares with blank eyes. Her face is pale. She shakes. Cops mill about, all Navajo descent. They stare at Kate - the outsider with milky white Irish skin and freckles.


    She feels out of place. For the first time in a long time it bothers her to be different. She thought she¡¯d gotten used to being among native people all different from herself. Now the impact seemed overwhelming. One cop questions her.


    ¡°And you said he was black?¡± the cop asked.


    ¡°Well, he was dark.¡±


    ¡°Was he African American? Can you describe him?¡±


    ¡°His eyes,¡± Kate searches, ¡°They were, well, they were yellow.¡±


    The cop looks out the window to the empty roof where the shadow man stood earlier, about thirty yards away.


    ¡°Yellow eyes.¡± He jots notes. ¡°But not his face. That¡¯s what you remember?¡±


    ¡°Big yellow eyes,¡± Kate replies. The cop looks at her, doubt in his face.


    ¡°Can you describe him to our sketch artist?¡± he asks. Kate shudders.


    ¡°Uh, I don¡¯t know. I mean he very well could be -¡± she stumbles, ¡°African American. Or not.¡± The cop frowns. Embarrassment washes over Kate. She feels like a child describing a bad dream to a disgruntled parent who has no interest in believing her.


    Sabastian shows up at the door as some of the officers are leaving. He bumps shoulders with one on his way in, sees Kate across the room and heads to her. As she looks up at Sabastian, a memory washes over her. He¡¯s years younger, same comforting smile, same kind eyes. But he looms huge above her. A child¡¯s perspective. Kate was only eight and it was early in the morning of the day of her father¡¯s wake. Uncle Sabastian struggles to look confident behind teary wet eyes.  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°Everything¡¯s gonna be alright lass, hmm? Daddy¡¯s safe in heaven.¡± But Kate wasn¡¯t safe. Not then, not now. After her father¡¯s death she¡¯d been sent to live with her grandmother, who always seemed on the edge of rage from the day Kate stepped into her home as a permanent occupant. Kate pushes the awful thoughts and feelings from her mind. The cop¡¯s voice stirs her to fresh thought. She looks up, sees Sabastian at the door. He enters, heads to her.


    ¡°How tall was he?¡± the cop asks. Before she can answer, Sabastian settles down next to her on the couch. His body warm and comforting next to hers. As soon as Kate set eyes on him, she loses her words, all too relieved he¡¯s there. The police officer gives up, hands Kate a business card. The name on it says Officer Whitesnake. She looks into his deep brown eyes hoping to find some comfort. But they only remind her that she¡¯s not one of them. She doesn¡¯t fit in.


    ¡°Call me if you remember anything.¡± The sheriff¡¯s deputy tells her, then leaves. Kate turns to Sabastian, taking in his kind and gentle pale blue eyes. They were always with her, watching over her, keeping her safe, offering protection and guidance.


    ¡°Sabastian. What are you doing here? You didn¡¯t have to come.¡±


    ¡°Of course, I did, love.¡± Kate moves across the room and locks the front door after the last officer has left. She heads to the wet bar and pours a couple of drinks. She keeps her back to Sabastian.


    ¡°I don''t need a baby-sitter,¡± she tells him, knowing she sounds harsh and unappreciative. Somehow, she can¡¯t help herself. Sabastian was like a comforting parent that every teenager is embarrassed to admit is someone they secretly look up to. As is their familiar custom ¨C Kate needs help, Sabastian shows up, Kate gets defensive and tries to convince them both she doesn¡¯t want him there. The old professor ignores her spite. They both know why here is where he needs to be.


    ¡°Promised Doug I''d watch over you.¡±


    ¡°You sound like my dad.¡±


    ¡°You act like him,¡± he tosses back. She has her father¡¯s spirit. Kate downs her shot, pours herself another, keeping with her back to him. ¡°Once a Marine, always a Marine. It''s in the blood I ¡®spose.¡±


    ¡°What do you know about it? Oh, yeah that¡¯s right. War buddies,¡± she replies sarcastically. But secretly she¡¯s glad for it. Nothing like having a combat soldier around for protection, even one dressed in Bermuda shorts and a goofy Aussie hat.


    ¡°Served with him four years. Or did you forget that little tidbit.¡± Kate scoffs, then turns to meet his gaze.


    ¡°Ha! War sucks.¡± She moves across the room again, this time back in his direction. Sabastian opens his mouth to speak. But Kate cuts him off. ¡°Please. Let¡¯s not.¡± Sabastian nods.


    ¡°So, what happened?¡±


    ¡°The boogieman.¡± She gulps down her drink. ¡°A bad dream, that''s all.¡±


    Sabastian gets close to her.


    ¡°You''ve been through a lot this last month, Kate. Take a break hon.¡± She shrugs.


    ¡°Work''s what I have. Or, had.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not all you have.¡± They lock eyes. Pain in Kate¡¯s say that she believes otherwise. Sabastian knows that she¡¯s shutting down. Briefly he wonders if Kate is having the same troubles as her mum. She sits beside him on the couch, puts the whisky bottle on the coffee table.


    ¡°Not open to discussion,¡± she says gently. Sabastian shrugs, pours himself a drink and eyes the bottle.


    ¡°Nineteenth century? Good stuff. Where''d you find it?¡± She only glares. ¡°Never mind, he says as he swirls the whisky in his glass. ¡°So, what''s it you''ve uncovered this time, my dear? Hmm?¡± Kate hesitates. Should she show him?


    ¡°That''s just it. Someone doesn''t want us finding out.¡±


    ¡°You believe that this someone snooping around outside your window has to do with this?¡±


    ¡°That''s exactly what I think.¡±


    ¡°Well, it certainly wouldn¡¯t be the first weird thing that¡¯s happened on this little adventure of ours. Beginning to miss boredom. It¡¯s much less disappointing.¡± Kate finds comfort in his smooth Australian drawl. ¡°And you¡¯re sure it wasn¡¯t a dream,¡± he continues. She glares at him. He backs off. ¡°Right¡± he says to himself.


    Sabastian gets up, grabs a throw blanket, and kills the lights on his way back to the couch, then settles in, knocks his shoes off and curls up under the blanket. But Kate can¡¯t go back to sleep. She needs to get out of there, can¡¯t bare seeing again any hint of disappointment in her cherished guardian¡¯s eyes. That she might hurt Sabastian was a cross she couldn¡¯t bear and refused to burden. Her guilt is tinged with the nagging embarrassment that she¡¯s glad he is there. The urge to leave drums up anxiety within her. All she can think of is to flee, to find a safe haven if only for a moment away from all this madness. Away from any pity she imagines that Sabastian might have for her.


    Kate strolls across the room, keeps her face turned away hiding her embarrassment. She gets a black leather jacket from the closet, slips it over her tank top and heads to the door. She doesn¡¯t look at her guest who¡¯d gotten up in the middle of the night to be at her side. Instead, she lets emotion rule her. Kate keeps her eyes on the door as she heads to it. Shock washes over Sabastian as she leaves.


    ¡°Where the hell are you going?¡± he asks. But she slams the door. Outside, he hears her motorcycle start up. ¡°Like father, like daughter¡± he grunts, pissed and powerless. Outside, Kate zooms off below a full moon and an angry sky. The clouds are thick, and hint of a brewing storm.


    Her bike cuts through the damp night air, makes her feel alive, in control. She travels down a winding road. It snakes around one hair-pin turn after another. Light from the car behind her appears in her side-mirrors. After a while, the road opens up a little wider. Kate pulls her bike to the side to let the car pass. But it doesn¡¯t. It had been behind her in the distance for some time now. And she¡¯d assumed it was just a motorist waiting for a chance to pass her up. But maybe not.


    She continues on her way, keeping an eye on the driver behind her, pretending not to notice. Eventually the canyon road gives way to the edge of town. She pulls up at the 24-HOUR TOPANGA BAR. It¡¯s the place she had spent the last 6 months at every day after work in-field. She¡¯d established a comfortable presence there.  She parks her bike, keeps her helmet on. The car approaches the edge of the tiny parking lot. It slows down. The man behind the wheel watches Kate as she stands in shadow near the establishment¡¯s front door. She now recognizes the driver. It¡¯s Det. Brannah.


    Brannah drives on, abandoning his surveillance. He¡¯s been noticed. A few moments later, Kate sits alone in the bar nursing a sour-whisky. It''s a dive. She feels stupid for her tantrum with Sabastian after he¡¯d come to her aid in the middle of the night, but for some reason does nothing to rectify it choosing instead to drown her embarrassment in the booze. A drunk approaches her. He has long black and grey streaked hair, a greasy beard that reaches past to his collar and stinks of vodka.


    ¡°Wanna make a bet?¡± he asks, hot stinky breath wafting into her face. Kate ignores him. ¡°Bet you¡¯re good in bed.¡± She tosses her drink in his face, pushes him off the bar stool. He lands on his ass.


    ¡°Smoooooth,¡± The bartender says.


    ¡°She¡¯s my wife!¡± the drunk yells back. Kate moves to an empty stool at the other end of the bar and signals the bartender.


    ¡°Keep it coming!¡± she says. He obliges, serves her.


    ¡°Got some demons to kill tonight?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s more like they¡¯re killing me.¡± She downs the drink, then spies Carlton through the crowd. Worn leather jacket, haggard, a day¡¯s growth on his chin. He doesn¡¯t look happy. They lock eyes. Carlton¡¯s are intense, lustful. They hint of rage. The bartender pours Kate another and nods at Carlton.


    ¡°Compliments of your admirer.¡± She approaches Carlton, unsteadily.


    ¡°You¡¯re a terrible stalker.¡± She slurs, woozy. ¡°What do you want?¡± Carlton looks away and shrugs. ¡°Oh, that aloof thing. Well,¡± she says, then bends close and whispers into his ear. ¡°It¡¯s not working.¡± Kate sits, sees a chain around his neck with a Celtic cross like the ones she found at the dig. It¡¯s the same one in his New Orleans dream. She frowns at the sight of it. Carlton slips it under his shirt.


    ¡°Where¡¯d you get that? Did you take it from our site?¡± He doesn¡¯t answer. Instead, he leans close, nose to her ear. His hot breath on her neck. Kate closes her eyes, feels it, savors. Carlton whispers


    ¡°You¡¯re drunk. I¡¯m lonely.¡± He pulls back. Kate frowns.


    ¡°You haven¡¯t answered my question.¡±


    ¡°Trouble sleeping?¡± he says. ¡°Are thoughts of me I keeping you awake at night?¡± Shock washes over Kate. She glares back. Fear sweeps into her eyes. Then it¡¯s gone. She shrugs off her embarrassment. It¡¯s not lost on Carlton. He sees it, knows he¡¯s getting to her.


    ¡°Keeping an eye on me? Or just looking out for yourself?¡± She spits back at him. He stays quiet. Kate plays with her empty glass, stacks it on top of the other empties. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s right. You¡¯re cursed. I remember now.¡± Carlton perks up.


    ¡°I said your excavation site was cursed.¡± Carlton glances around, takes notice of who¡¯s still there, finishes his drink quick and then glances at his watch. ¡°It¡¯s nearly dawn. I should go,¡± he says. ¡°Those relics you uncovered, don¡¯t carry them around.¡± He gets up. ¡°I''ll be watching. And Kate, be careful.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± she shouts. But Carlton heads to the door. ¡°Coward!¡± She yells. He stops and glares back at her. All eyes in the bar fall on them. Tiny muscles flex in his jaw as Carlton grinds his teeth. He returns to her, grabs her hand and pulls her up over his shoulder. He heads to the door. The drunk gets in his way.


    ¡°Wait! She¡¯s my wife -¡± Carlton shoves him into a window face first. He smashes through the glass and tumbles outside onto the sidewalk.


    ¡°Goddamnit, Jerry,¡± the bartender yells. ¡°I told you to quit causing trouble.¡± The patrons watch Carlton carry Kate through the door into the parking lot outside. No one intervenes.


    ¡°Who the hell do you think you are!¡± Kate yells at him. He drags her to the bike.


    ¡°A friend. A real friend.¡± He puts her down, rifles through her pockets and fishes out the keys to her bike.


    ¡°Hey!¡± she yells, as Carlton shoves the helmet onto Kate¡¯s head. ¡°Some friend! Where were you when I needed you at the reservation?¡±


    ¡°Closer than you think.¡± He gets onto the bike. She follows. ¡°Hold on.¡±


    She barely has time to wrap her arms around him as he takes off. They speed through the canyon road, above the river past buildings. The road climbs further into the hills. Soon the jagged rocky terrain reveals the city scape below, looking down on the night lights sparkling in the distance. Finally, Carlton stops at a turn-out. He takes in the view, then looks around. Satisfied they¡¯re alone, he slips off the bike. Kate drops her helmet, dizzy from the ride. Carlton escorts her to the brush. He finds a clear spot with a good view, plunks Kate down, and pulls a buck knife from his belt. He plants the blade into the hard clay ground with one powerful thrust. Kate¡¯s eyes get big.


    ¡°What¡¯s that for?¡±


    ¡°Unwelcome company.¡± He sits beside her. ¡°You seem rattled.¡± She looks away.


    ¡°Bad dreams. Why do you care?¡±


    ¡°I find myself drawn to your work,¡± he quips. ¡°You reached out to me. Now I''m reaching back.¡± Kate doesn¡¯t buy it.


    ¡°Well, I don''t need you.¡± Carlton leans closer.


    ¡°Hell isn¡¯t just a figment of our imagination. Don''t underestimate its power. The distance between good and evil¡¯s not so far as the church would like us to believe.¡± He dangles her key chain in front of her. It has a photo of her with the man in the nightstand picture. It¡¯s her as a child with her father. Kate looks away. ¡°We all have demons Kate.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for the lecture. You gonna tell me I can¡¯t take care of myself, that I''m just getting into trouble?¡±


    ¡°You like trouble. Its why fate draws us together.¡± Carlton stares. His eyes wash over her, taking her in. He studies her smooth light skin dotted with freckles. Then his gaze moves to her long black hair. His face melts into gentleness as he reaches out and feels the silky locks cascading down her tiny shoulders. ¡°What¡¯d the shaman say?¡± Kate starts, quells her surprise. How did he know?


    Carlton turns his gaze back to the city below them. Kate hesitates, deciding if she should own up to it. She tries to hide her discomfort that this man seems to know what she¡¯s been up to. Her mind turns to Brannah slowing down outside the bar to get a look at her. She fights to keep calm. What exactly was she getting into? Who was this man and how did he know so much about her activities? ¡°He sold me a dusty old story about a curse.¡± Carlton ponders her answer.


    ¡°Sometimes what we think are demons tearing at our soul are really angels lifting us up. And it¡¯s our fears that turn it into a battle.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Like I said, those shamans aren¡¯t normal Navajos.¡± Carlton reaches into his shirt, pulls out the Celtic cross she¡¯d seen in the bar earlier. He shows it to her. It has the same markings as Kate¡¯s Anasazi cross. ¡°You need to find out if you¡¯re battling angels or demons, Kate. The Hellmen are always near. I can be too if you let me.¡± Kate ponders what he just said, then looks at him.


    ¡°You really want to help me find the truth?¡± she asks. ¡°I need you to retrieve something for me.¡± Carlton¡¯s eyes darken.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°That day we saw the shaman at the site. That day I fell into that subterranean cavern with the bodies...¡± Carlton waits. ¡°The police confiscated everything at the dig. I need some of the items the police took.¡± Carlton¡¯s face turns to confusion. Kate continues. ¡°That jewelry on the mummies. Those artifacts, I need another look at them. I need time to study them.¡±


    ¡°Where are they?¡±


    ¡°City morgue,¡± Kate answers. Carlton wrinkles his brow.


    ¡°You want me to break into the morgue and ¡°steal back¡± relics that have been classified as evidence in a crime? From the police?¡±


    ¡°Not evidence. Artifacts. I need more pieces of the jewelry found on the bodies,¡± she explains. Carlton scoffs, thinks things over, searches for an option.


    ¡°You¡¯re not as far from the truth as others would have you believe,¡± he continues. ¡°I know someone who can help.¡±


    He dangles the cross from his fingertips, twirling it, watching it spin. On the back side of the pendant is a small image of a creole woman taped to the center of the crucifix. He eyes it. Disappointment washes over Kate. She feels jealous of the mystery woman Carlton carries so close to his heart.


    ¡°I have a friend. You should talk to her. She can give you answers,¡± he finally says. ¡°But you need to have the right questions.¡±


    ¡°Who is she?¡±


    ¡°Her name is Rosario.¡±