GEORGE LIVES IN A SIMPLE CLAPBOARD HOUSE about five miles from Sarah. Like Sarah's, there's no landscaping to speak of, just a simple fence of low juniper that snakes around the property. Unlike Sarah's, the paint is sun-blistered and peeling, a porch holds two rocking chairs and a battered couch that face out toward the yard. The house projects a feeling of neglect.
Kayani stops a half mile away and takes out a pair of binoculars. George's tour bus is not in sight. Neither is any other vehicle.
Kayani holds the binoculars out to me. I take them for form's sake, but I see everything I need to without them. I hand them back after a few seconds.
"What are you going to be looking for?" Kayani asks.
"Well, I suppose it would be too much to hope for a workshop with a petroglyph assembly line."
Kayani grunts.
"Pictures of the cave walls, maybe? Paint? Whatever might connect him to the smugglers." What I don't add is that I also plan to be on the lookout for a blowgun. I wish I knew other signs of a skinwalker's presence, but I'm not sure Kayani would be any more receptive to the idea that George practices curse magic than Frey is.
I climb out of the passenger seat, lean back in to ask, "Are you going to stay here?"
A weird expression passes over his face. A hint of humor mixed with a bit of concern and a healthy dose of knowing it's "cover your ass" time. "I'll take a little drive. Better if you get caught for me to answer the call legitimately instead of trying to explain why I happened to be lurking nearby."
I ignore the "if you get caught" part. "Aren't you supposed to be off this week?"
A shrug. "If we catch the counterfeiters, no one is going to care. Besides, I'm a cop. We're on duty even when we're not."
I push the door shut. "Give me fifteen minutes. Won't take longer to search a place that small."
"Meet you right back here."
He pulls away. Refreshing to be set loose without the usual admonitions to be careful or watch your back. Kayani takes it for granted that I can handle myself. And he thinks I'm human.
I turn to study the house. It's set on the top of a gently sloping piece of land. Take away the background of that magnificent mesa, and it could be any other remote cabin far removed from civilization. No neighbors within my line of sight. Not even the hum of traffic or buzz of an airplane breaks the silence. "Lonely" and "isolated" are words that spring to mind.
Perfect if you're up to no good.
Frey had a different take, thouh. What did he say? The Navajo have a close connection with the land.
So why would George choose to break it?
There's no cover between where I stand and the house. I have no choice but to sprint the distance, moving faster than a human is capable of moving and hoping Kayani hasn't pulled over somewhere to watch me through his binoculars.
Once I reach the house, I don't head for the front door, but race around to the rear where I expect to find a back way in. There's no door, only a couple of windows. Still, that's no problem. The windows are open and without screens.
However, the lack of security makes the possibility of my finding something incriminating highly unlikely.
But I'm here and all is quiet inside. No sight or sound to indicate anyone's home. I climb in.
The room is a small bedroom. Unfurnished except for a couple of boxes. When I peek inside, the musty smell of old blankets wrinkles my nose. The closet is empty, too.
The door of that room leads to a short hallway, then a bigger bedroom and a bathroom. The bed is made, a beautiful handwoven blanket thrown over it like a spread. The room is clean; the furniture smells like beeswax. The feeling of neglect I experienced outside does not reach into the interior of the house.
Once again, nothing in the closets except what one would expect. Jeans, skirts, vests, boots, blouses. There are a couple of beaded outfits under plastic, resplendent with feathers and colorful headdresses. Nothing to implicate George in a crime or in the practice of curse magic. Nothing to suggest anything other than a traditional Navajo couple.
The living room and kitchen are as neat and clean as the bedroom. I make quick work of opening cupboards, peeking in drawers. Like Sarah, George's wife has a loom and on it, a half-finished rug awaits completion. A basket of yarn lies beside it.
The living room furniture, a couch and two chairs, is old but spot free. The tables and chairs gleam with polish. A hardwood floor has been swept and waxed. There are no pictures on the walls or on the table surfaces. Only a paperback, another Tony Hillerman novel, adorns the squat table near a reading lamp.
I blow out a breath and look around.
Nothing.
A glance at my watch says I've wasted ten minutes.
I go out through the same window I came in. When my feet touch the ground, I look around. George doesn't seem to have horses or livestock of any kind but there is a small lean-to some distance from the house. I'm there in an eye-blink.
The lean-to is more substantial upon closer inspection. Made of wood, recently constructed judging from the feel and smell of it, and about twelve feet by twenty.
The door is heavy and has a good-sized padlock securing it.
Thank you, George. Most people don't realize that if they need to keep something secure, size does matter. The smaller the lock the better. A large padlock, like this one, is easy to pick because there's more key space to work with and bigger pins.
Now, to find what I need. A quick trip back to the kitchen and a revisit to the ubiquitous junk drawer. Something to use as a torsion wrench. A long, thin screwdriver. Something to use as a pick tool. A paperclip.
Now, as a vampire, I could pull that lck apart and not break a sweat. But if there's something important inside, it'd be a good thing to have Kayani and his deputies open it officially instead of trying to explain how it got broken. Better, too, not to alert George that someone broke into his shed.
Besides, the human in me wants to see if I still have the touch.
I do. The point of the screwdriver slips easily into the bottom of the lock. The straightened paperclip fits into the top. A little pressure on the screwdriver, a little pressure on the paperclip, and I get the satisfying click of an opened padlock.
Less than three seconds.
A new personal best.
David couldn't have done it faster.
No time to gloat. I push open the door, slip inside, close the door behind me.
The first thing I'm greeted with is the strong musk of animal. It's dark and close inside. Vampire smells predator and springs to the surface. With a growl, I crouch and peer around.
The pelts of a bear, coyote and wolf are splayed on a table in the back of the shed. Vampire retreats when she realizes there is no threat. She stays close, though.
On the side wall, a blowgun hangs from a leather thong. Beneath it, another table. This one holds small, rounded beads in one pottery jar and a white powder in another. I recognize the beads. Bone charms, Frey called them, as he pulled one from my arm.
Next to the jars, pieces of broken pottery. One has something wrapped around it. I bend close. Pick it up. Hair, soft, smelling of grass and sunshine. My heart jumps. I recognize the scent.
It's John-John's hair.
What are they planning to do with it?
Nothing. Now.
I stick it into the pocket of my jeans. I will take this with me and the threat of discovery be damned.
A sound from outside. A car pulling up to the house.
Kayani? Why would he come to the house? I still have a few minutes left.
I peek through the door. An old sedan, gray from sun and weather, is parked at the side of the house. A woman stands beside it, midfifties, dressed in a long velveteen skirt and cotton smock. Her waist is cinched by a conch belt of large silver disks each with a stone of turquoise and agate in the center. She wears a squash blossom necklace and bangles of silver. Her face is soft, rounded with age but her back is straight and she stands tall, commanding respect.
She looks toward the shed.
George's wife? Can she see the door slightly ajar from where she's standing?
She takes a step in my direction. Then stops, turns back toward the house. The sound of another car approaching has drawn her attention.
Kayani's police vehicle pulls behind her car.
She and Kayani exchange greetings. I don't waste a second. I take another quick look around the shed, recording to memory what I see. The screwdriver and paperclip are shoved into another pocket. Then I close the door softly behind me, relock the padlock, and slip like any other desert creature into the bright midday sun.
