Rescue From Planet Pleasure (10 page)

An open laptop sat on his desk. Flags of the US, New Mexico, and the Navajo Nation hung on staffs behind his chair, and certificates and plaques decorated the wall.

I expected a greeting but he said nothing when Jolie and I halted before his desk. We were close enough that he towered over us, and we stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment. At least, I was uncomfortable. Yellowhair-Chavez could’ve had squirrels in his pants and I doubt he would’ve squirmed.

“Ahem,” I said, smiling. “Rainelle said you could help us.”

It was logical for Frankie here to ask what about. But he kept quiet.

“I need a rifle.”

Yellowhair-Chavez just kept looking at me. Didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch.

“You have something?” I glanced to a row of gun safes.

He stared and stared and finally spoke. “Six hundred dollars.” His voice was low and raspy.

“For what?”

“You are a friend of Coyote?”

“I am.”

Yellowhair-Chavez walked from behind his desk toward a gun safe. A braid hung down his back. “He owes me six hundred dollars. You have the money? If you do, settle his account. Then we can proceed.”

More of Coyote’s collateral damage to my wallet. I knew this mission to save Carmen and stop Phaedra would cost me, but I assumed in a purely emotional sense. I counted four Benjamins, Jolie kicked in another two, and we handed the bills to Yellowhair-Chavez. He folded them between his big fingers and stuffed the money into a shirt pocket.

He touched the buttons on the safe’s keypad. “I have AR-15, M1A, Kalashnikov, .243, .270. Six point five Grendel. Three-oh-eight. Swiss seven point five. 8mm Mauser. 30-06.”

“I need a gun with some balls.”

“Not the Swiss? The Mauser? The 30-06?”

“You got a .45-70?”

A smile barely curled his lips. “I thought so. You want serious artillery. I saw you last night. From the mesa.”

Jolie started, “You’re one of the skin—”

What little smile lingered on his face abruptly vanished. “There are no such things as skin-walkers.”

As an undead bloodsucker I’m immune to the creeps.
Usually.

He opened the safe and plucked a Marlin Guide Gun from a rack of rifles and shotguns. With practiced ease, he worked the lever action.
Click-clack!
A machine oil smell puffed out. He handed the carbine to me. The gun weighed perhaps seven pounds, but its heft implied thunderbolts of destruction and pain.

Without me asking, he reached back into the locker and grasped boxes of ammunition and a cartridge belt with carbine rounds glittering in the loops. The .45-70 cartridges were as long and as thick as a finger. You could drop a T-Rex with a .45-70 and knowing Phaedra, I might have to.

“Silver bullets are problematic,” he said. “Silver is lighter than lead, which throws off the ballistics and weakens penetration.” After the silent treatment, hearing him talk this much was a surprise. Adding to the surprise was his offer of the silver bullets. This skin-walker-who-didn’t-exist knew how to kill vampires.

He gave me the belt and Jolie the boxes of ammo. “These bullets are depleted uranium with a silver jacket and a hollow-point silver core. Fifty rounds for the Marlin. Fifty for your Magnum. Another fifty for her .45s.”

Jolie asked, “How do you know about our pistols?”

Yellowhair-Chavez only stared.

I shook the Marlin. “How much?”

“Everything? A thousand dollars.”

Who knew saving the supernatural world would be so expensive. “I’m a bit short.”

“So-kay. I take credit. I got your Visa on file.” His stare didn’t waver.

My Visa number on file? How?
“Uuh? Isn’t there paperwork?”

He blinked once. “Yeah … sure.” He scribbled on a Post-It note and gave it to me.

Note in hand, I turned around. Jolie and I started for the door.

“One more thing,” Yellowhair-Chavez said. “Some advice.”

I halted and faced him.

He tapped his chest. “From the heart of my people.”

What valuable Navajo wisdom was he about the share? “What’s that?”

“Don’t fuck up.”

***

Chapter Fifteen

On the way back to Coyote’s house, I sat next to Jolie in the front of the pickup. As I inspected the ammo for the Marlin, I cupped one of the large brass cartridges in my hand, careful not to touch the silver part of the bullet or I’d burn myself.

Where did Yellowhair-Chavez get these silver-tipped/depleted-uranium rounds? They had come disguised in a regular package though I knew he hadn’t bought them from a commercial source. And why was a shape-shifter stocking ammunition specifically designed to take out vampires?

Those questions aside, I was grateful that he had sold them to us. With these slugs and the extra range offered by the carbine, I could take Phaedra down as soon as I drew a bead on her evil little face.

I pushed four rounds through the loading gate of the Marlin and worked the lever to chamber a cartridge. Holding the carbine gave the impression I was doing something productive, when in truth, our plans to save Carmen were in chaos, like the scattered pieces of a puzzle.

Jolie drove without saying much. After we’d left the gun shop, she stopped at a 7-Eleven for a pack of American Spirits. She huffed on a cigarette, not looking too pleased that she’d given in to this vice. When I mentioned that I didn’t know she smoked, she remarked that there were a lot of things about her that I didn’t know and thank you very much for not minding your own goddamn business.

A moment later she tapped my arm in apology. “You must have a plan.”

“A couple. The best case is that we return to Coyote’s and find him ready to go.”

Jolie withdrew the cigarette and worried at something in her mouth. She spit a piece of tobacco. “And the not-so-best-plan?”

“We try using the Sun Dagger on our own.”

Jolie glowered at the cigarette butt, then tossed it onto the highway. “Worth a try I suppose. Do you think Phaedra knows about the Sun Dagger?”

“Better to assume that she does.”

We reached the turnoff for the mesa and followed the dirt road. After reaching the top of the mesa, Jolie steered through the open gate into the fenced yard behind the doublewide. Marina waited for us on a plastic crate by the door of the large shed. What I thought was a mourning shawl was draped over her head, shoulders, and arms. At the sight of the shawl, my kundalini noir quickened.
Not more bad news.

Jolie parked close to her. When Marina stood, I saw what she wore was not a shawl but a black hoodie. The front was unzipped and revealed the top of a
low
-cut gown in siren red—a party dress, not a getup for prowling the river’s edge and scaring people. Then again, if she intended to lure men into the water, her cleavage was sufficient bait.

I got out of the truck, carbine in hand, gun belt slung over one shoulder. “How is Coyote?”

“The same, unfortunately.” Marina strutted on CFM designer pumps as she opened the shed door. The side of her gown split scandalously to mid-thigh.

The inside was gloomy, lit only by narrow blades of sunlight knifing through gaps in the siding. Dust motes swirled in the sunrays.

The shed was large enough for a pickup. Assorted car parts—fenders, tires, bumpers, seats—leaned against one wall. Farm implements—shovels, hoes, rakes, wheelbarrows, pick axes, jumbled coils of hose and rope—rested against the other wall. All the items looked ancient, rusted, or weathered—much like everything else in this part of New Mexico.

At the back of the shed, long wooden planks rested on a pair of saw horses to create a makeshift table. A cheap wooden coffin lay on top.

A faint and troubled aura glowed from the open coffin. Stepping close, I saw that Coyote lay inside, on his back, hands folded over his belly. He was fully clothed. Thankfully. Made sense Marina had put him there. The best place for a vampire to recuperate was in a coffin.

The outside of the coffin was marred with scrape marks and caked with dirt. It smelled of worms and decayed human, confirming it had been recently dug up for reuse. I didn’t ask about its former occupant.

I studied Coyote, the deep wrinkles on his face and neck, his sunken eyes in their darkened sockets, the way his bony hands appeared made of crooked brittle sticks. Seeing how death gnawed at my friend made me slide into a depressed funk.

Jolie glanced back to the door. “Where’s Rainelle?”

Marina picked up an unlit votive candle from several that stood on a shelf behind her. “She’s getting medicine.”

Jolie tightened her brow. “What kind of medicine?”

Marina ignited a disposable barbeque lighter and lit the candle. Starting a fire—however small—didn’t seem wise in this tinderbox. “Why don’t we trust that Rainelle knows what she’s doing? My son suffered a gruesome wound to his kundalini noir,” Marina explained. “His
chi
is hemorrhaging. If we don’t stop his life force from draining, he will die.”

She lit all the candles, a total of seven, and arranged them across the shelf. The flickering light dancing across Coyote’s face seemed to animate him.

“Is there any significance to seven candles?” Jolie asked.

Marina grasped a ceramic to-go mug labeled
World’s Best Mom
and gulped a drink. I smelled scotch. “Certainly,” she answered. “That’s all I could find at the Dollar Store.” She parked herself on a rickety barstool (complete with duct tape) and watched her son. The reflected candles shone as points in her eyes.

A grim solemnity settled across us, a heavy soulful silence that lasted until Marina slurped from her mug.

Jolie looked at her. “How are
you
doing?”

“Not well.” Marina took a sip. “He’s the last of my babies.”

Coyote as a baby?
Well, once, long ago it had been true. Now he appeared decades older than his mother.

“I don’t want Coyote to die.” Marina teetered on the barstool. “So you know, I never drowned any of my babies.”

“I know you didn’t,” Jolie replied.

“In fact, I never drowned anyone.” Marina’s words slurred together. “I just have to go through the motions. Forever. And endure. Eternal damnation sucks.”

The door creaked. Rainelle entered. She carried a wicker picnic basket. She entered, closed the door behind her, and approached us. She set the basket on the table by the foot of the coffin.

Marina slid off the barstool and wobbled a bit. She placed the mug on the shelf and joined Rainelle behind the table. They each grasped a coffin lid that had been resting against the sawhorses and placed it over the coffin, Rainelle at the feet, Marina at the head.

Rainelle moved the basket to the top of the coffin. She reached inside and withdrew corn cobs still in the husks, assorted flower blossoms, and a bundle of sage and desert weeds. Both women silently arranged the corn and blossoms along the top of the coffin.

Marina handed the lighter to Rainelle who lit the sage and weed bundle. The flame shrank to red embers that unwound curls of pungent herbal smoke. Rainelle closed her eyes and waved the smoldering bundle, chanting softly, and stamping her feet. Her ceremony appeared profoundly sincere and magical in spite of her UNM Lobos jersey.

Eyes still closed, Rainelle placed the bundle on the edge of the coffin. She opened her eyes and gazed at the basket. The twists of smoke angled toward the basket and were sucked in.

Something rustled inside. The lid cracked open and out crawled three Kachina dolls, each about a foot tall. All appeared made of gray suede with outsized heads and were decorated with zigzags and stripes of bright colors. They moved in jerky stop-motion, and I had to blink repeatedly to shed my disbelief.

One had deer antlers and carried a staff. Another had a green face, shook gourd rattles, and wore a skirt. The third had a fan of feathers around its head and feathers trailing from its arms like wings.

Jolie whispered, “More Navajo magic?”

“No,” Marina whispered back, “Hopi.”

The lid of the basket lifted and dropped. It boomed like a drum. The lid lifted and dropped again to repeat the sound. Again. And again until a pounding beat filled the shed.

The three dolls rocked and bounced to the rhythm. Slowly at first. Then faster to match the quickening cadence of the drum. They danced on the coffin, circling the basket, kicking, skipping, and pumping their arms. The sound of rattles and bells accompanied the drumming. An ethereal green aura trailed behind each dancer. With every lap around the basket, the auras became denser until they formed one continuous translucent hoop that undulated like a halo of emerald smoke.

Marina had draped a brightly colored shawl over her shoulders. She handed an identical shawl to Rainelle, who placed it around her neck. They turned their backs to Jolie and me and clasped hands. Their auras simmered and fused together.

I nudged Jolie that we should go.

Marina turned her head and beckoned Jolie. “Stay. Coyote has a mother and a wife, but he could use the power of a daughter. You can be that daughter.”

Jolie brightened and put a hand on her chest.
Me?
Marina handed a new shawl to her. She put it on and walked between the other two women. They joined hands and faced the coffin, their auras blending into a wall of yellow, orange, and red flames.

I stepped forward. “What about a son? That could be me.” A force, like a giant invisible hand, stopped me. When I tried to move, it pushed, insistent until I was walking backwards. The shed door opened behind me, I was shoved through, and I found myself in the yard, bathed in bright sunlight and surrounded by curious goats and chickens. Coyote’s dog Che stared at me.

The dance music echoed out the open shed door. Then the door closed, muffling the sound.

Stung at being excluded, I blinked at the door, mystified by the Hopi ceremony. Just when I thought I’d seen enough weird, something even weirder happens.

I returned to the doublewide and dropped the gun belt on the kitchen counter. After fishing a bag of Type O Negative from the fridge, I searched the pantry for booze, found a bottle of blue corn Don Quixote vodka, and made a cocktail. Carbine on my lap, I plunked down on the sofa and sorted through Coyote’s papers. When my glass was half-empty I topped it off from the bottle. Getting loopy made Coyote’s scribblings start to make sense, so if I got good and ripped, I might be able to decipher his notes.

Soon I was hammered, and Coyote’s writings still made no sense. Stretching out across the sofa, I let the alcohol dilute my misgivings and I drifted into a hazy slumber.

Someone kicked my foot and I was startled awake.

Jolie stood beside the sofa and tapped her boot against the carbine I’d let fall to the floor. She tossed the gun belt onto the sofa. “Some goddamn guard you are.”

I sat up, my head still swimming from the vodka.

She handed me a cup of coffee, which I sipped. It was hot, black, and strong.

“At least you got some shut-eye.” She picked up the Don Quixote and guzzled what little remained in the bottle.

“How’s Coyote?” I could feel the coffee mercifully rearrange the molecules in my brain.

“Hard to say. Rainelle says that even Hopi magic needs time.”

I was getting sober and my fears floated up from my subconscious. I glanced at my watch. 5:22 p.m. “We better get ready to leave soon. At this point, rescuing Carmen is a fool’s errand, but we have to try.”

“Don’t be so glum. Our chances are better than what they were.”

“How so?” My head still wobbled.

“Give it a minute.”

My mind remained too fuzzy to quiz her.

Marina stepped through the back door and into the living room. She had exchanged her red dress for capris tailored like green military fatigues and her pumps for stylish trail runners. Pink pompoms dangled from the backs of the shoes.

I squinted at her. “Where are you going?”

“If my son can’t help, maybe I can.”

She plucked the rubbing of the Sun Dagger from the coffee table and eased into the armchair. She squinted at the picture of the petroglyph, and her large brown eyes roamed over Coyote’s notes. “I think I can get you to D-Galtha. That might be the easy part.”

I might still be boozy but I guessed the hard part. “Don’t tell me th—”

Marina cut me off with a smirk. “You got it. The best I can do is a one-way trip across the galaxy.”

***