FREY LETS HIS HANDS DROP TO HIS SIDES. "WHAT do you mean? What kind of accident?"
George tightens his grip on Frey's shoulders. "Sarah. And Mary. Coming back from the tribal council. Their truck went off the road. Sarah must have been driving too fast. It flipped. Neither was wearing a seat belt."
I watch Frey try to process what George is telling him. His body is so still, his face so expressionless, it scares me. I step closer, drop my voice to a hoarse whisper, asking the question I know Frey is afraid to ask. "What about John-John?"
Frey looks at me, drawing a shaky breath.
George never takes his eyes from Frey. "John-John wasn't with them. He's all right. Did you hear me? John-John is home with my wife."
Frey's stony expression finally breaks. I sense his pain. His jaw quivers, his eyes widen, brows draw together with the effort to keep from howling. His body shudders, racked with emotions he has no words to express.
I know what he's feeling. I've felt it myself.
I don't know how to console him. I do the only thing I can think of. I step between Frey and George and wrap my own arms around my friend's trembling body.
"What do we need to do?" I ask George, holding Frey tight, supporting him as he leans into me.
"The four who are to prepare the bodies are with them now. They are friends of Sarah's and will take care of the ritual bathing. Daniel will have to choose what items are to be buried with them and how they are to be dressed. He will also have to choose where they are to be buried."
From his answers, it is obvious the Navajo have very specific burial customs. No outside police. No funeral homes or embalming. "How long do we have?"
5^Burial will take place four days from now. Do you wish to return to Sarah's? I will bring John-John to his father when he awakens. Daniel should be the one who breaks the news."
I nod that I understand. "I'll get him to Sarah's. Thank you."
George lifts his hand in silent salute and walks toward his car, parked next to the Jeep behind the hogan. Only when he's driven away and Frey and I are alone do I remember-I never found out what was decided at the council.
Right now, it doesn't seem important.
Frey doesn't say a word. Not when I get him settled in the Jeep, not when I return from packing our things out of the hogan. For once, I'm glad I'm not privy to his thoughts. The pain would be intolerable. He may not have been close to Sarah now, but she was John-John's mother and that alone is a powerful connection.
I manage to find my way from the hogan to Sarah's house-more vampire instinct and senses than anything else. I don't turn the Jeep's lights on; I can navigate far better in the dark by picking up our scent and watching for our tire tracks in the dirt.
How different retracing this path. John-John's laugh echoes in my head. Yesterday he was happy.
The house is dark when we pull up. This time, no welcoming flute to greet a new day. It's almost daybreak but the sky is leaden and heavy with impending rain.
I go in first, turn on lights. Not because we need light to see, but in an effort to chase away the gloom.
It doesn't work.
When Frey comes up the steps, I know he feels the same thing I do. The house has lost its spirit. The quiet, the emptiness press in on us.
Only John-John will be able to make it a place of life again. And I doubt that will happen for a while.
Frey sinks into the couch. Buries his face in his hands. But still no tears. No release.
I sit on the coffee table in front of him. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Some food?"
He rouses a little, drops his hands, meets my eyes. "No. Thanks. Just sit here with me, will you, until John-John comes?"
I move next him. We sit there side by side, not touching, but closer in spirit than we've ever been.
After a while, Frey stirs. "At least John-John's home has been spared."
I swivel to look at him. "Spared? What do you mean?"
Frey's voice is husky, devoid of emotion. "It's the Navajo way. If Sarah and Mary had died at home, their parents would have most likely had the place burned to the ground."
"John-John's home?"
"The belief is that after death, one goes to the underworld. To protect against the deceased returning to the world of the living, no contact must be made with the body and that includes the place they died. The place would be destroyed."
I'm trying to process how such a belief could still be considered relevant in the twenty-first century when I'm hit with the implications of something else Frey said.
"Sarah and Mary-their parents live here on the reservation?"
Frey nods. "I only hope they allow me to take part in the burial. While we weren't married in the eyes of the state, when Sarah told them she was going to have a baby, they insisted we go through a traditional Navajo ceremony. In the eyes of the tribe, I am her husband. In their eyes, I deserted her and my son to live outside."
A worm of uneasiness twists in my gut. "What's going to happen to John-John? Will they insist he stay here with them? Will you allow it?"
Frey presses the palms of his hands against his eyes. "I can't think about that now. I can hardly bear the thought that I'm going to have to tell him his mother and aunt are gone. How am I going to do it?"
His voice breaks. I move to put my arms around his shoulders. I'm stopped mid-gesture by the sound of a car approaching. I feel Frey tense and draw in a breath.
George is here with John-John. I push up from the couch. "I'll let them in."
Frey doesn't answer or move. I hardly know John-John, but my heart is as heavy as Frey's at how that little boy's life is about to change.
I don't wait for a knock but swing the door open.
It's not George coming up the porch steps. It's a man in a beige uniform, a gun on his hip. He's wearing a badge and the car parked in front of the house bears green and yellow stripes and emblazoned on the side Navajo Nation Police.
He is as startled to see me as I am by his unexpected presence. He sweeps a round-crowned, broad-brimmed hat from his head. "Ma'am. I'm here to see Daniel Frey. Is he in?"
I nod him inside. When he brushes past me, I get a whiff of citrus aftershave and the fresh scent of fabric softener. His uniform is crisp, ironed creases as sharp as a ruler. His gun leather creaks where he rests one hand on the holster. In the quiet of the house, it's like the rasp of a ghostly voice.
Frey has the same reaction I did. He stares a moment, then recovers and stands to greet the officer.
"I'm Tony Kayani. Officer with the Navajo Nation Police. I'm sorry for your loss."
Frey shakes his hand, gestures over Kayani's shoulder to me. "This is my friend, Anna Strong."
Kayani half turns, nods in my direction, turns his attention back to Frey. "Can we sit? I have a couple of questions to ask you."
Frey sits back down on the couch. Kayani takes one of the chairs across from him and I take the other.
Kayani takes a notebook from a breast pocket. But no pen. He rests the book on his knee. "I understand you arrived yesterday."
Frey nods.
"And that you have been estranged from your wife and son for some time."
"Yes."
"May I ask why you came back now?"
Involuntarily, my shoulders tighten. How is Frey going to answer that?
"I came to visit my son. As you noted, it's been a while since I've seen him. It was time."
"And what business did you have with the tribal council?"
Another involuntary shoulder twitch. How could he have known about that? Frey is quiet for a long moment. Maybe too long. Kayani leans toward him.
"Is there a reason you don't want to answer that e of questtion?"
Frey bristles at the tone. "Is there a reason you're asking it?"
Kayani smiles in a tight, determined way. "Sorry. I realize this is a difficult time. I also realize Sarah wasn't addressing the council on her own behalf, was she?"
He doesn't look at me. Perhaps he doesn't know, but the implication hangs heavy. In profile, Kayani reminds me of the picture on the old Buffalo nickel. Broad forehead, straight nose, tight lips turned down at the corner. His dark hair is short and brushed straight back. His greyhound-lean frame is as tightly strung as the close weave on Sarah's rugs. His posture and attitude suggest something more than a law officer's impartial inquiry into a tragic accident.
"Officer Kayani?"
He turns slowly, as if reluctant to look away from Frey.
"Did you attend the tribal council tonight?"
He shakes his head. "No. But I heard what happened."
"Can you tell us? We don't know any of the details except that Sarah and Mary had their accident on the way home."
He seems reluctant at first to answer. His jet black eyes bore into mine. But there's nothing accusatory in his gaze. It's more resentment that he has to talk to Frey and me. Hardly professional. He hasn't written anything in that little notebook still perched on his knee, either. It dawns on me that he's not here to shed light on the accident. In fact...
Before I can complete my thought, he says, "I don't know. Exactly. Nobody's talking. Sarah had a request of the elders. Whatever it was, it wasn't well received. She was asked to leave. She was pretty upset by all accounts."
His voice has lost the demanding "me cop/you suspect" staccato. His shoulders sag a little before he catches me studying him and recovers himself. Too late. He's not here on an official visit. He's here on a personal one.
If I had to guess, I'd bet Kayani had something going with Sarah.
Frey hasn't picked up on the same vibes that I have. At least he gives no indication that he has. Not surprising, since his main concern now is his son's grief.
Kayani is quiet for a long moment. He and Frey stare at each other but I suspect, for different reasons. Frey is waiting for more questions, Kayani sizing up the man he may see as having been his competition. For the first time, I wonder if Sarah still loved Frey. If, in spite of everything, she put off a life with anyone else because of it.
The sound of another car approaching draws us all back. Frey's eyes dart toward the door. Kayani stands up, as do I.
I touch Frey's hand. "I'll go."
This time, I wait for the knock. When I open the door, George is there, holding John-John. There is a momentary flash of surprise in his eyes when he sees me. Then it's gone and all I see reflected there is sadness. He puts John-John down and the boy scoots around me, his arms out flung. It's not until I turn that I realize Kayani is behind me and it's to him that John-John runs. The surprise I saw in George's eyes becomes clear. He did not expect to see Kayani.
Kayani scoops John-John into his arms and stands up. I tense, wondering if he's going to say something about Sarah. They're talking in Navajo and from John-John's reaction, it's only friendly greetings beng exchanged. Maybe Kayani caught the warning look on George's face or maybe he just didn't want to be the one to break the kid's heart.
One thing's for sure-Kayani is no stranger to John-John.
Kayani puts John-John down, nods to George and me, and leaves without a word. I shut the door behind him and we join Frey in the living room.
John-John has run to Frey, scrambled up on the couch to climb into this lap. He's chattering in Navajo until with a kid's intuition, he realizes something is wrong. Frey hasn't moved, not even to put his arms around John-John.
George taps my arm. "We should leave them."
I'm reluctant until I realize Frey is nodding at me, a tiny, subdued movement. "We'll be in the kitchen."
I can't think of anything else to do. I follow George like an automaton into the kitchen. We sit at the table-not across from each other but side to side. Harder to look at each other that way.
But it's harder still to turn off that acute vampire hearing and not listen to what's going on in the next room. I'm almost relieved when I succumb and find Frey and John-John speaking in Navajo. I can't understand the words, but the emotion comes through in heartbreaking clarity. I think they are both crying.
I close my eyes and will my thoughts to center on something-anything-else.
I turn to George. "Who is Officer Kayani? What was he to Sarah?"
The abruptness of the question catches him off guard. He answers just as abruptly, without taking the time to censor his reply. "Kayani loves Sarah." He stops himself, draws in a breath. "He loved her."
"Did she love him?"
George looks away, toward the living room. "I think she did. In a way. He was good for John-John." His eyes slide my way. "A father he didn't have."
There is accusation in his tone. Accusation directed at me. "You think I kept Frey from Sarah and John-John?"
"Didn't you?"
"I didn't even know about them until recently."
"But you and Daniel-"
"There isn't any me and Daniel. We are friends. That's all."
George gives no indication what he's thinking. I get the feeling, though, that I haven't convinced him. I rub my hands over my face and ask wearily. "What happened last night, George?"
He looks at me with cold suspicion. "What kind of question is that? You know what happened."
"No. I don't mean the accident. I mean at the council."
A flash of satisfaction flares in his eyes. "You don't know, do you? Your request was turned down. All this"-he sweeps a hand around the room-"was for nothing."
George brusquely pushes himself away from the table and stands up and away as if he needs to put distance between us. "You are unclean. Evil. A dead thing. I hope Daniel puts an end to you and stays here with his son where he belongs. I can't be here with you any longer. Tell Daniel I will see him at the burial."
He leaves without another word through the back door, back unyielding, long strides stiff yet brisk, determined to waste no time in getting away from me.
So much for the cordiality of our first meeting. Can't say I blame him, though.
I watch him leave. In spite of what Frey thinks, I am unconvinced he could not be the skinwalker who planted that bead in my arm. Even before he knew Sarah's request was turned down, he might have thought the quickest way to rid the tribe of my presence was to rid it of me. Maybe the surprise I saw in his eyes when I met him at the door was not because Kayani was here but because he didn't expect me to be.
I don't know what to do with myself. I still hear soft voices from the living room. I can't intrude on Frey's time with his son. I let myself quietly out the back door and find myself drifting down toward the corral in the back of the house.
The sun has risen over the horizon, not in a blaze like yesterday but in smeared shafts of light filtering through the clouds. The horses watch me approach with intense curiosity and nickering expectation. Feeding time. I wonder if they'll let me get close enough to feed them. Animals tend to react badly when they sense a predator. They do indeed start to shy away, but when I pick up a pitchfork and toss a couple of flakes of hay into the feeder, their natural defenses are overcome by another compulsion-the need to fill their bellies. I am ignored as they start to feed.
I climb up on the fence to watch. There are three horses. Small of build, sturdy and well cared for. Two are pintos, brown and white with dark manes and tails. One is a buckskin, golden coat shining, taller than the other two, dark mane and tail and four black hooves. I wonder which was Sarah's and which was John-John's. Did the third belong to Kayani?
I haven't been on a horse for a long time-since a long-ago birthday party and that wasn't really a horse at all but a pony. Mary's invitation springs to mind and the gloom deepens. We won't be taking that ride after all.
I close my eyes and let senses take over from emotion. The smell of the horses, warm, earthy, pungent; the smell of sage and mesquite and hot sand; the warmth of the sun where it touches my face; the sound of the horses crunching the fragrant hay; wind blowing softly through desert juniper; the sound of a fox slinking back to its den; the call of a crow circling overhead-
My eyes snap open.
A crow.
I jump down from the fence and scan the heavens. Against the horizon, a large black crow flaps glistening wings, flying due east away from me.
Shit. It could really be a crow.
Or it could be George off to spread the bad news that I'm still alive.