Ari arrived first and settled into a booth where she could watch the door. Hawkson arrived less than a minute later, his ruddy complexion, long black hair drawn back with a tie, and strong, chiseled features leaving no question about his identity. He wore a gray sweatshirt and faded jeans. Without cracking a smile, Hawkson slid into the opposite side of the booth; his deep-set brown eyes seemed to look inside her.
They ordered coffee, and while Ari explained how she got his phone number, she made a quick cop assessment, taking into consideration the clean aura of a man with little to hide. Following her instincts, she told him most of what she knew about the death of the treasure hunter, even hinting that magic might be involved. Hawkson accepted her story without a flicker of doubt.
“Here’s why I’m telling you all this. Barron’s producers said he was in Riverdale looking for an Indian artifact. I don’t know what or where, except I think he was in the caverns. Any of this sound familiar to you? Or bring anything to mind?”
Hawkson tapped his right index finger against his coffee mug. “I get the feeling you’ve taken up the hunt for this artifact. Why?”
“It could lead me to Barron’s killer. When he or she shows up to claim the treasure, I want to be there waiting.”
He seemed to think that over, his expression never changing. “If you find it, what will you do with it?”
“Honestly, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. My main concern is solving a murder.”
“Any artifact from our ancestors belongs to the tribe.” Hawkson’s jaw tightened. “I will not help you steal from my people. Enough has already been taken from us.”
“Then you know what it is,” she said, leaning forward. “If it belongs to your tribe, that’s fine with me. I assume you can prove your claim. In the meantime, I’d like to catch a killer. So help me out here. You can start by telling me what it is everyone’s looking for.”
“How do I know I can trust you to keep your word?”
Ari sighed. “I guess you don’t. What do you want me to do? Cross my heart and hope to die?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Are you familiar with the Sac and Fox tribes and a chieftain named Blackhawk?”
“Show me a river rat who hasn’t heard of Blackhawk. Anyone who grew up along the upper Mississippi has heard of Blackhawk’s War. It’s a regional legend, but I don’t remember all the details. Is the legend tied to the artifact?”
He nodded once. “Many facts have been clouded by time, but I’ll tell you the story as I know it. Chief Blackhawk fought against the white man’s expansion for years. He even helped the British in the War of 1812 in return for promises to spare his territory. When the war ended, he was forced to retreat into Iowa. In 1932 Blackhawk returned to his lands in Illinois to grow crops and establish homes, but the Illinois militia drove his band away. Men, women, and children fled up the Mississippi.” Hawkson’s hand glided forward to convey the flight up the river basin. “Everything I have said so far is in your history books. What’s not in there is Blackhawk’s visit to the Riverdale caverns. Knowing the soldiers were close and that he might be captured at any moment, he entered the caves and hid his stone of power inside.” Hawkson stopped, then added an apparent afterthought, “Blackhawk was my ancestor.”
She’d already figured that one. “What is this stone of power? What’s it look like?”
Hawkson dropped his gaze to his hands.
She leaned forward again. “If I find it, you’ll be given a chance to argue your claim.”
“I must have the stone. The future of my family depends on it.” He looked past her as if seeing a world far away. “You must hear the rest of the story. Blackhawk was captured, and his followers and their families were killed or scattered. Unable to return to Riverdale, he failed to recover his power stone, dying without power or respect five years later.” He paused, a sadness washing over his features. “My family still carries the curse of the stone’s loss. We have a rare form of genetic leukemia. My people won’t be whole again until I hold the stone in these hands.” He held them up for emphasis. Brown, callused, solidly strong.
“I’m sorry for your tribe. Do all of you have the blood cancer?”
He dropped his hands. “No. I was spared, but my sister and my mother were not. We never know who will be chosen. The stone has strong healing properties, and I believe its return will stop this.”
Ari searched his face. It was a touching story, maybe even true, but she couldn’t promise him the stone. Already she could imagine the vampires and the Magic Council staking their own claims. Maybe others, for all she knew.
“I can’t guarantee anything, except that your story will be heard.” She looked him in the eye. “Your claim would be stronger if you help me find it. What’s it look like?” she asked for the second time.
“It’s a bloodstone. No bigger than a hawk’s egg. Dark green with colored flecks. Some collectors would call it heliotrope, the stone of the sun. It was also Blackhawk’s birthstone.”
Double sacred to Blackhawk then. Rather large for an amulet, about the size of a lemon, but inside the voluminous caves it would be like looking for a whisper of wind. She studied her coffee cup. Was Hawkson aware of Spirit Cave? Had he been one of the intruders? Someone had shot an arrow, a traditional Indian weapon, to keep others away. If Hawkson’s family believed the stone could heal them, it would be priceless to them, worthy of any effort necessary to recover it. Until she knew if that included murder, she needed to tread carefully.
“Do you know its exact location? There are miles of underground caverns.”
He nodded slowly. “Very recently I learned of its hiding place, but I have not been able to recover it.”
Ari straightened, trying not to appear too eager. “Where is it? Have you seen it?’
“I only have directions to its location, but they are from the words of Blackhawk himself. An old man of our tribe in Oklahoma recently went to meet his ancestors. When preparing his belongings for the journey, the family found a letter written by the old man’s grandfather, a shaman of our tribe, a hundred years ago. A copy was sent to me. In the letter the shaman had set down the words that had been passed to him—Blackhawk’s dying words to his son. I cannot prove yet the accuracy of the contents, but I believe the letter itself is genuine.”
“So what did he say?”
“Blackhawk told his son to seek the stone at a spot within the caves ‘where worlds meet and time stands still.’ That he should go there and look for a sign.”
The vortex. It fit the description. Hawkson’s confident face told her he also understood. But how had he found the ley lines? Had he used graphs and maps to plot the possible placement and intersection? Or could he see what should only be visible to an Otherworlder?
She took another furtive glance at his face. Perhaps Native Americans were more spiritual than other humans. She’d known humans with minor psych abilities, usually latent, even unknown to the bearer. Those people were typically in counseling professions, but none of them would be psychic enough to view ley lines. If Hawkson could see them or feel them, he was in a new category.
Hawkson crossed his arms. “If you’re wondering if I have an inner eye, I do. I am a shaman among my people.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve found the lines of life.” It wasn’t a question.
“You shot an arrow at the vampires,” she countered.
His bushy brows climbed, then he laughed. “No one was hurt. I’m an excellent shot, and I wasn’t aiming to hit anyone. But it has kept their young ones away.” He frowned but dropped his arms in a less defensive posture. “I’m not worried about the vampires, but something else has been in the caves. Hunting. I can feel it. Demonic beings or skinwalkers. They left an evil spirit, a chindi, behind.”
“The ghost, you mean. I saw it.” Interesting he hadn’t known it was magic and not a true spirit of the dead. Since he’d mentioned skinwalkers, the Indian term for evil witches, why hadn’t he considered the possibility of a magical spell? Perhaps he was more affected by the ancient beliefs than she’d thought. “When did this chindi appear?”
“A week ago. I have not been back since then.” Hawkson sighed and answered her unspoken thoughts. “I may live in the twenty-first century, but the old beliefs are in my DNA. I won’t go back until I can do a cleansing ceremony. But the evil ones must not be allowed to take the stone of power.”
“I’m with you there.” Since she didn’t want his interference inside the caves, she didn’t mention she’d cleared the passage of the ghostly spell. He’d probably find out for himself soon enough. She had no illusion that Hawkson would stay away permanently. “I presume you’ve searched Spirit Cave without finding the stone. Do you still believe it’s there? And what about this sign he spoke of?”
“The stone is there. I felt its presence. The sign is on the floor, a foot-length south of the lines of life. I scattered dirt and debris to cover it.” He drew a figure on his napkin of zigzag lines that looked like a Z with a tail on the bottom and another mark going up from the top. “It looks like this.”
“What does it mean?”
Hawkson shrugged. “I wish I knew.”
Chapter Eight
Once her meeting with Hawkson was concluded—with a mutual agreement to keep one another informed—Ari hurried to the caves. She intended to check out what Hawkson had told her and was too eager to wait for Andreas. She called his cell and left a message about where she was headed and briefly detailed her meeting with Hawkson. Andreas would receive it as soon as he awoke within the next hour.
The same dwarf greeted her at the entrance. Today he wore bib overalls and smoked a pipe. Same axe and club. He made no comment about her being there without a vampire escort, and she hurried on. Quickly reaching the Chamber of Ages, Ari found two of Andreas’s weretigers sitting near the tunnel to Spirit Cave. They rose to meet her as she entered the chamber.
