Stroke of Midnight (25 page)

CHAPTER 4

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"Me? You said the grenade was meant for you."

"It was. Ever seen a wolf toss a grenade?"

"I've never seen a wolf before today."

"You didn't see a wolf today either. That was a-—"

"Werewolf. Right. Do your handlers know you're loose?"

"Joke away. I'm all that's between you and that thing."

"And just who are you?"

"Clayton Philips."

"I know your name, jerk-off,
what
are you? Cop? Soldier? Psycho?"

"I'm a
Jäger-Sucher
."

I'd taken German as a foreign language. Don't ask me why. The only time I'd ever had any use for it was now.

"Hunter-searcher?" I translated.

He glanced at me with surprise and some interest. "Right."

"What does that mean?"

"We're a division of the government—"

"Never heard of it."

Reaching the main road, we bounced from dirt onto pavement.

"A secret division," he continued.

"Why, yes, Virginia, there is an X-file. If it's a secret why are you telling me?"

"You need to know what we're up against."

"A Navajo werewolf."

"You don't believe me?"

"Should I?"

"I've been tracking and killing werewolves for ten years. I'm not making this up."

"Oh, that's convincing."

Annoyance flickered across his face. "Since the skinwalker slipped off the reservation three people have died. You appear to be next."

"What about you?"

"The man wants me—hence the grenade. Considering his behavior of a few moments ago, the wolf wants you."

"If I believe your delusion, the man and the wolf are one and the same."

"Which explains why the skinwalker didn't care overly much if he blew you up along with me. Still—" He broke off and shook his head.

"What?" I asked, though I probably shouldn't have encouraged him.

"Werewolves kill quickly," Philips continued. "They aren't big on self-restraint. They don't hang around watching people like this one has been watching you."

Unease trickled along the back of my neck. "How do you know what he's been doing?"

"I was called to investigate a death about a week ago not far from your place. I followed several sets of wolf tracks. There was one that kept circling back to you. I couldn't figure out what he was up to."

"Why didn't you just shoot him?"

"I never saw anything but tracks. Until I found the kill on your property—"

"What kill?"

"There was a body about a hundred feet from the house, or what was left of one."

The blood, the unidentified pile, the flies. I'd blocked that out. At this rate I wouldn't remember my own name by tomorrow.

"Female," he continued. "They've all been female. But the similarity ends there. Young, old. Silver-haired, blond." He glanced at me. "Redhead. No rhyme or reason."

"To a werewolf? Why am I not surprised?"

"Exactly. Werewolves kill indiscriminately, they don't have a plan, so why didn't he kill you?" He shook his head. "The tracks, the spoor—at least five days' worth. That isn't like a werewolf."

"Maybe it
is
like a skinwalker."

He glanced at me and interest lit his dark eyes. "Maybe it is."

"You don't know?"

"This is the first skinwalker case we've worked on. The Navajo usually deal with renegades themselves. They're considered an embarrassment."

"I can imagine."

He frowned. "You need to take the situation seriously, Maya. I know I sound crazy, but I'm not."

"So says every crazy person."

"I promise the skinwalker won't get you as long as you're with me."

He was so earnest, I found myself nodding. Nevertheless I'd attempt escape at the first opportunity. Grab a phone, call the cops, send Clayton Philips to the nearest padded cell. He might be hot, but he was crazier than the craziest person I'd ever met.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"There's a man I'm supposed to talk to on the reservation."

"If the Navajo are so closemouthed about skin walkers why did they call you for help?"

"They didn't."

"Then how did you find out there was a skinwalker loose?"

I couldn't believe I was playing along with him, but it did pass the time.

"The
Jäger-Suchers
have connections everywhere. Several dead bodies in the same area, mutilated beyond recognition by wild animals, we get a fax."

"Uh-huh. Explain how this skinwalker changes from man to wolf and back again."

"He wears the skin of a wolf."

I frowned. "So he isn't really a wolf? He's a guy running around with a carcass on his head?"

"You saw the wolf. Did it look like a real wolf to you?"

"Except for the eyes—yep."

"The one physical difference between wolf and werewolf is the eyes. As for the skinwalker, the man is a witch. He combines magic and an animal skin—"

"How?"

"No one knows for sure. The process is as secret as the identity of the skinwalker."

I glanced out the window. As we'd been talking, he'd been driving. There wasn't a neon sign that said, welcome to the Navajo reservation, but I still knew the instant we crossed over. The land flattened out; the dust kicked up. Trailers and hogans—the traditional dwellings of the Navajo—dotted the horizon. The shades of the desert, brown, tan, chocolate, blended toward tabletop mesas and sculpted sandstone in the distance.

The first time I'd driven to this area I'd experienced déjà vu. Despite never having set foot west of the Mississippi, I'd seen Monument Valley before.

Once I read up on the region I understood the sense of familiarity. Many John Ford westerns had been filmed here. The Navajo lived at the heart of an American icon.

Philips turned into a dirt lane, which led to a small house with nothing around for miles but sand and buttes. If we kept traveling in one direction we'd run into the White Mountains!, in another we'd hit the Painted Desert, still another would lead us through a dense woodland. Visitors were shocked to hear that Arizona had more mountainous regions than Switzerland and more forest than Minnesota.

The house appeared deserted. No one stepped onto the porch, no dogs ran out to greet us. The hair on my arms prickled.

"Whose place is this?"

"Medicine man."

"Right."

He cast a quick glance in my direction as he stopped the car. "There
are
medicine men and women. Most Navajo still take part in the Blessingway."

"Which is?"

"Rites to promote happiness and wisdom. They also have sings or chantaways to promote health."

"And that's what this guy does for a living?"

I contemplated the house. There didn't appear to be too much cash in the venture.

"As well as hunting the occasional skinwalker."

I looked at him. He wasn't kidding. What else was new?

Philips climbed out of the car. "Hello?" he called. "Joseph Ahkeah?"

No answer. Not a flicker of the curtains. Nothing.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," I murmured.

"Joseph is an expert on skinwalkers. He'll know what yours is up to with the stalking and the not killing, even though you've been a sitting duck."

The image was disturbing. I'd been alone. Staring at my computer, listening to my music, obsessing over a deadline.

Considering the last few hours, a book was hardly worth the worry. I still didn't believe we were dealing with a werewolf, but there was something funny going on. The guy who'd been playing peekaboo at my window was nuts at the very least. He'd blown up my house, melted my car.

Even if Philips was on the fruity side, too, he hadn't tried to kill me. Yet.

He knocked on the door. We listened, but all we heard was the wind. He peered into the window.

"You're asking to get your head blown off."

He glanced at me. "My boss was supposed to call Joseph and tell him I was coming. I don't understand why he isn't here."

Philips reached for the doorknob, and at his touch the portal swung open. Shrugging, he stepped inside.

"Hey!" I hovered on the porch. "Is that legal?"

"What if he slipped in the tub, cracked his head? What if he's fallen and he can't get up?"

"Rationalize much?"

"Every damn day."

Since I did, too, I followed him into the medicine man's home.

The cabin was small, dark, hot. Stuff lay all over. Joseph really needed a housekeeper, although most women would never touch what I saw spread around.

Bones, large and small, the skull of an unidentified animal, skins of every shape, size, and color.
Uh-oh
.

Philips made a beeline for them. I was right behind him until I stepped on something crunchy. Looking down, I discovered what appeared to be the thigh bone of a—

"Ew!" I skittered after Philips so fast I slammed into his back. "Is that human?"

"Not anymore."

He pulled his Beretta and quickly checked the house. There wasn't much to see. A single living area with a kitchen, small bedroom, an even smaller bath. No sign of anything alive.

The skins were spread across several tables at the north side of the room. In contrast to the rest of the house, they were organized and labeled with anal precision. A small piece of paper had been taped beneath each one.

"Fox. Bear. Coyote," I read. "What's with that?"

In the midst of reading the top sheet on a huge stack of papers, Philips looked up. Eyes unfocused, at first he didn't appear to see me. I waved my hand in front of his face until he blinked.

"What? Oh, a skinwalker can take many shapes."

"I thought it was a werewolf."

"Right now. Most likely for endurance and tenacity. Wolves have the ability to run for miles, then accelerate. They're quick, smart, and they can be vicious when provoked. But a skinwalker could become a fox, a bear, a coyote." He spread his hand, indicting the skins in front of us. "All he has to do is change his skin."

"You're telling me that this thing could have morphed into another animal?"

"Possibly. The fox is for cunning, the bear for strength, coyote for speed and agility. Still, from what I've been able to gather in my studies, most skinwalkers stick to the one animal they identify with."

"In this case, a wolf."

He grunted, already returning his attention to the books and the papers.

With nothing to do, I wandered down the row of skins. Deer. Elk. Raven. Eagle. The display was quite creepy.

"The sturgeon moon," he muttered. "Hell. That's soon."

"The what-who?"

He lifted his gaze. His eyes were all dreamy again—lost in the book. Funny, I never would have pegged him for a scholar.

"Back when the Indians owned the earth, they gave each full moon a name. The wolf moon was in January because the wolves howled with hunger in the middle of winter. There's the harvest moon in September. The blood moon is October—"

"Sounds like one we want to avoid."

Philips gave a small smile. "Also called the hunter's moon, because in that month meat was stockpiled for the winter."

"I take it the sturgeon moon is August."

"Bingo. The fishing tribes christened that one because the fish are easily caught at this time of year. But the August moon carries other names, too, from other tribes. The green corn moon, the grain moon…"

"What happens under the sturgeon moon?"

He held up a hand and kept reading, only to curse again seconds later. '"Any human who hears the skinwalker whisper in the time of the red moon is chosen.'"

Our eyes met. We'd both seen the moon. It was very red indeed.

"Let me guess, 'red moon' is another name for 'sturgeon moon.'"

He nodded. "Most werewolf lore is attached to the full moon."

"For obvious reasons. When is it?"

"Tomorrow night."

Terrific.

"What does 'chosen' mean?"

"Not sure. But when dealing with monsters, I've never found 'chosen' to be a good thing."

"Better and better," I muttered.

Philips continued to read. " 'In the month of the red moon, the skinwalker roams the land of the Glittering World. Murder and mayhem give him strength for the task ahead.'"

"What task?"

" 'When the full, red moon rises over the Canyon of the Dead the skinwalker will reveal himself to the chosen one, and the world will tremble before him.'"

"Also not good."

He clapped the book closed and walked the length of the table, his fingers brushing the skins.

"That's all?"

"A lot of these Indian legends are… vague."

"To hell with vague. I want to know why I'm chosen. What that means. Where the hell is the Canyon of the Dead and how far away from it can I get?"

"Maya," he said softly. "I won't let him touch you."

"I'm sorry if your assurances don't make me feel all warm and cuddly."

"Don't you trust me?"

"You break into my house, scare me to death, let a lunatic blow up everything I own in the world, then kidnap me. You say he's after me. Mr. Philips, I think you're crazy."

I headed for the door; he snagged my arm and dragged me back. My momentum was such that I slammed into his chest, stumbled and nearly fell. He caught me around the waist and hauled me flush with his body.

"I'll take care of you," he ground out. "I swear."

"I can take care of myself."

I meant to say so with strength and courage. Instead my voice came out a breathy, girlie whisper.

His gaze dropped to my breasts. His eyes heated; so did my skin. I had a flash of him and me entwined on black silk sheets. He'd be both gentle and rough. Needy, desperate, unbelievably skilled.

What was it about this man that made me think of such things at the most inappropriate times? I shouldn't even like him. He reminded me of my brothers—overconfident, overmuscled, oversexed.

My cheeks flamed—the curse of being a redhead. I blushed far too often and too well.

His eyes narrowed. I waited for him to shove me aside and tell me to fend for myself. Instead, his arm tightened and his mouth crushed down on mine.