Crossroads (Anna Strong Chronicles #7)

Crossroads (Anna Strong Chronicles #7) Page 34

THE HORSES GREET JOHN-JOHN MUCH MORE EAGERLY than they greeted me. He climbs into the corral, petting necks and rumps and getting gentle head bumps that make him smile. I remain outside, safely out of range of those big teeth and restless hooves. After a few minutes he rejoins me and we manage to get the horses fed and fill their water trough with an old-fashioned hand pump before starting back for the house.

"Maybe we can go riding later," John-John says.

"I'd like that, though you'd have to go slow. I've never been on a horse."

His look is one of childish astonishment. "Never? But you're old."

"City girl."

"Oh." He nods with the solemnity of an old soul. "I'd put you on Cochise, then. He's the gentlest."

We climb the porch steps and enter the living room. John-John pauses once in the doorway, looking around and I wonder if it's his mother that he's looking for. He recovers, squares his shoulders and walks right over to Sarah's loom in the corner. He reaches into a basket beside it and pulls out a skein of yarn. He cuts a length, cuts two, and plops himself on the couch, patting the seat beside him.

"Come on. I'll teach you how to make a butterfly."

I join him, marveling at how composed he is. Even at four, if I'd lost my mother, I'd be an inconsolable messnt>

He begins by tying a knot, making the length a loop. He starts it like a cat's cradle. His fingers dip back and forth on the middle string, then manipulate the top and bottom until I'm looking at a creation with the rounded body and wings of a butterfly. By opening his fingers back and forth, the damn wings seem to flutter.

I clap my hands. "That's wonderful. I don't think I can do it, though, you go much too fast."

He hands me the second piece of yarn. "Follow me. I'll go slow."

And we do. I don't succeed the first try. But soon we're fluttering our butterfly wings at each other and laughing.

"How did you learn how to do this?"

John-John pulls his string loose and quickly makes another design, this time a worm that seems to be crawling over and under the two parallel strings. "My mother taught me. But the Spider Woman taught us, the Dine'e."

Spider Woman? My thoughts turn immediately to a female cartoon character. "Who is she?"

"Spider Woman taught the Navajo weaving. We learn right thinking and beauty through her gift. She teaches us to concentrate on a task. It is said that if you think well, you will never get into trouble or get lost."

His words belie his young age. Was this one of the lessons his mother taught him? A beautiful, simple fable marrying a child's game with a life lesson? My admiration for Sarah grows.

But suddenly, John-John stops, stares at the string in his hand. "It is also said string weaving should only be done in the winter when spiders hibernate. If you do it in the summer, you may be pulled into Spider Woman's den and you will never get out."

He looks up at me, eyes wide, fingers tightening on the string. "Do you think that's what happened to my mother and Aunt Mary? Do you think Spider Woman is punishing them for breaking her taboo? Will she punish me?"

My rising anger is as powerful as his grief. I hug him, swallowing the fury back, keeping my thoughts and voice under careful restraint. "No, John-John. What happened was an accident. You had nothing to do with it. You have to believe that. Someone who taught you to make such beautiful patterns from string, who taught your mother to weave these incredible rugs is not vindictive. She is kind and good. She would be sad to think you believe otherwise."

John-John's little body shakes against my chest. I reach for a comforter on the back of the couch and wrap it around him. Sorrow is responsible for some of the shaking, but being hugged by an icy undead vampire can't be helping.

He quiets after a while and his breathing becomes deep and regular. He's asleep. I rest my own head against the back of the couch, let my thoughts tumble forth.

I haven't heard from Frey yet. I hate the idea of his hunting on his own. But it's his right. It's his family Chael attacked. I wish I could be there as backup. But I'd never leave John-John alone. Maybe if he doesn't find him today, we can get someone else to watch John-John . . .

My cell phone trills. Shit. I'd left it in the kitchen. I lift John-John carefully and lay him out on the couch. He settles deeper into the blanket, making a small sound like a mewling kitten, but doesn't wake up.

I snatch the phone from the table. "Frey. Where are you?"

"How's John-John?"

Of course that would be his first thought. "He's fine. He's asleep."

"Good. He was restless last night."

"What'd you find?"

"Nothing yet. Went to the hotel that's closest to the reservation. Asked for Chael and Williams at the front desk. Neither registered, though it was long shot that they'd use their real names now. No one seems to have seen a Middle Eastern man, either. I'll hang around another hour or so, see if I pick up any supernatural activity. Then I'll head out."

His voice is ragged with fatigue. "Why don't you come back? Let me look for them."

"No. You stay with John-John."

No hesitation. "Where will you go next?"

"There's one hotel on the res. The View. Maybe I'll have better luck there."

His tone indicates he's ready to end the call. "Be careful," I say after a moment of silence stretches to fill the void. "John-John needs his dad."

All I hear from the other end is a long, slowly released breath.

JOHN-JOHN IS STILL ASLEEP ON THE COUCH. I TAKE A chair opposite him and watch his chest rise and fall. It's remarkable how attached I've become to the kid. I haven't felt like this about anyone since-Trish. My niece. She's safe with my parents in France. Who will John-John be safe with? Frey is the logical choice. But that means uprooting him unless Frey decides to stay here.

And then I will lose them both.

I should be used to the feeling.

I shake off the gloom. My feelings don't count in this situation.

The sound of a car approaching brings me out of the chair and to the door. I step out onto the porch, closing the door softly behind me. Kayani's police vehicle is winding its dusty way toward the house.

He climbs the steps to meet me. His face still bears the marks of sorrow, grief pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

"I'm sorry." I can't think of another thing to say.

He bobs his head. Once. "John-John?"

"Inside. Asleep. I don't want to leave him alone too long."

"I thought I'd spend some time with him."

"I think it's a good idea."

I hold open the door and we go inside, walking quietly into the kitchen. "Can I offer you some tea?"

He shakes his head, the hint of a smile flickering for the instant it takes him to say, "I can't stand the stuff. I tried to get Sarah to keep coffee around, but-"

We stare at each other. Finally, I motion to the chairs around the table. "Want to sit?"

He sinks into the chair as if his body weight is suddenly too heavy for his frame. He lays his car keys on the table. He's in civilian clothes. Jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, boots.

"Day off?"

"Week off," he replies. "I took personal time. In case I'm needed here."

"You will be.en Should I ask about yesterday? I don't know anything about what happened. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand. But where were Sarah and Mary buried? Is there a Navajo cemetery? Frey mentioned a communal meal. Is that part of the ritual?"

At first I think Kayani is not going to answer. His eyes grow dim and introspective. But he recovers. "There is a cemetery. But most don't use it. The Navajo have a real fear of ghosts. If one does have relatives in the cemetery, he often doesn't know exactly where they're buried."

He speaks slowly, thoughtfully, as if translating his people's beliefs from his native tongue to English as he goes.

"Sarah and Mary were buried in a secret spot in the desert. They were buried in Navajo dress; one of Sarah's blankets was placed in each coffin. They were buried with trinkets of their life. The purification rites were performed, then we, the parents and I, returned to the house each following a different path. So the dead could not follow."

"And Frey?"

"Frey destroyed the tools used for the burial and took care of obliterating all footprints left behind. When we returned here, another cleansing ritual was performed. This time by a medicine man to bless the house and make it a place of peace and happiness again. After, we shared a meal, to assure the success of the ceremony."

He challenges me with serious eyes. "Does that sound foolish to you?"

If only he knew. I have experienced more than my share of ancient rituals. None of which made as much sense to me or were as benevolent as these beautifully simple ones. "No. Not foolish. I wish I had such beliefs."

He gives me another searching glance. "You are not a religious woman?"

"You say it as if surprised."

"I am. You have an energy that radiates strength. Most often that comes from strong religious beliefs."

Or from being vampire.

I pick up a sound from the living room. "John-John is waking up."

We rise as one. Before we join him, I tell Kayani, "Thank you for explaining your customs. It's important to me to understand."

"It is important for all to understand." He pauses. "When the time is right, I expect you to show me the same courtesy."

With that not-so-cryptic remark, Kayani follows me into the living room.