Anasazi Vol 1 – Chapter 3
New Orleans, Night
People of all ages sing, shout, dance, drink as they parade past. It’s Mardi Gras in full swing. Hundreds of feet clamor over the dirty pavement, passing by. The world seems to spin out of control. On the ground Carlton struggles in the mass of passing foot traffic. He gets up, pushes through the crowd, staggers, then falls again. He drops a cross amulet on a chain. It bounces on the ground. The cross is identical to the silver jewelry Kate found at her dig site. In the center of the cross pendant is the image of a Creole woman. Carlton reaches for it with clumsy hands. Feet step on his fingers. He screams. Carlton hears his own voice speak in Latin.
“. . . peccata patris . . . “ It’s Latin for the “sins of the father”. He bolts awake, sits up in bed panting and soaked in sweat. That Goddamned dream again! It followed him everywhere. For years he’d tried to shake it but to no avail. Death, destruction, blood running down the brick-laid streets. Bodies everywhere dressed in colonial garb out of place today. It haunts him, unwavering in its fury. With each successive dream more of the nightmare revealed itself, deeper with detail – all things he’d like to forget. But he can’t.
His mind won’t let go. In his mind, he can clearly see the details – an old colonial ship docked in the port, others dotting the sea beyond. Soldiers, townsfolk running amuck with muskets and bayonets. People screaming, fleeing, hiding. Officers barking commands. Death is all around. Then a blinding white explosion and he’s on the ground. Next to him lies a soldier without arms screaming as blood pours out of him. Carlton sees the severed limb and reaches for it thinking that he can somehow put it back on. Then he wakes. It’s over until the next time.
He wished he’d been blessed like so many who simply forget their dreams with the morning’s return. Carlton turns on the light, goes to the bathroom. His pajamas are soaked with perspiration. His hair and face are wet. He ponders himself in the mirror. Eyes, red like he’s been crying, with dark circles under them stare back. He splashes his face with water. The cold feels good on his burning skin. Again, he catches sight of himself in the looking glass, smashes it.
That Night At Murphy’s Forensic Lab
Kate’s on the phone, agitated. She pours out her frustrations to Sabastian.
“You were right, Sabastian. It’s just a bunch of bunk. A dusty old legend. It’s -” Kate catches a glimpse of something across the room. Yellow eyes flicker from the dark. They look like the Horseman’s evil eyes in the Shaman’s tale. Then they’re gone. She looks around, suspicious, fearful. Sabastian’s voice squeaks through the phone.
“Kate, what is it?”
“Nothing.”
“All this has put you on edge. It’s not healthy Kate. Why don't you come home, just for a little while? Give yourself a break. Get a little distance from all this.”
“I don’t need a baby-sitter!”
“At least take a break. Start fresh. You’re not safe there. Anyone could get through those doors.” She eyes the steel doors across the room. No locks! In the metal’s reflection, she sees the little yellow sparkles again. And then they disappear.
“I gotta go,” Kate says.
“But Kate -” Sabastian calls out as she hangs up the phone. But Kate’s gone.
Kate heads to the door, dims the lights and then turns back one more time to view the room behind her. She blinks, lets her eyes adjust to the darkness. In the shadows, she makes out a figure across the room hovering in the corner. She bolts out the door, runs down the hall. Through the glass window in the door a shadowy figure watches her flee. It’s eyes glow like little yellow jewels.
Two Weeks Later
A full moon glows behind angry clouds. The wind blows. Leaves twirl past a quaint little house. Empty tree branches tap the window glass. Inside in her bedroom Kate wakes, eyes wide. She gasps, fights for air then sits bolt upright, pants and looks around. Her heart pounds. But the room is cold, quiet, empty. Curtains ruffle at an open window. Outside, crickets chirp. A gaslight hums. Shadows of tree branches stretch across her room like twisted fingers. She takes a moment to compose herself, working to force back all the bad memories building up in her mind lately.
Across the room a pair of eyes glow in the dark. Kate freezes, holds her breath. The eyes move, get closer. A cat jumps onto the bed, meows. Kate sighs. “Raffi.” She turns on the light. She’s soaked with sweat. Under the lamp on the night table is a photo of Kate with an older man, arm in arm. The frame says, “IN LOVING MEMORY”. Kate turns it face down, gets out of bed.
This was just one more sleepless night in a succession of many. Try as she might, Kate couldn’t rid her mind of turmoil, panic and guilt. Curiosity mixed with terror-fueled fantasies had become her new norm. Nothing she did brought clarity or could distract her. Only questions loomed. Questions that led to more questions and never to an answer. She had been dreaming again of that incident in the desert at the abandoned shack. In her dreams, they were chasing her. Running, running until her lungs burned and she reached the little abandoned house with the hole in the floor. Motorcycle engines roar, grow louder, get closer. Dust stirs up into the wind and blinds her. She can see only shadows of the blue dead-like men. They are pungent, frightening, reminiscent of demons fresh out of hell.
The creepiness of her life in recent weeks – a cave full of mummified bodies, those stinking bikers in the desert, unearthing antiquities that didn’t belong where she found them. She felt overwhelmed, gripped in panic, her mind in constant turmoil. What would happen next? Her thoughts turn to Detective Brannah and how he cut her out of his investigation. It had been three weeks since she fell into that underground cavern, and no phone calls. But he’d promised.
Kate felt stupid, even useless. Depression swirls around her. Brannah seemingly had no need for her beyond the initial statement she’d given him. And now her excavation was lost. She looks at the clock. It’s 1:27 am. Kate gets out of bed, heads down the hallway. As she passes her father’s picture, she kisses her fingers and then pressed them onto dad’s image.
On the way to the kitchen, she turns on the TV thankful for the distraction. In the kitchen she brews herself a fresh cup of coffee, then goes to her desk, sifts through piles of paper. She sips her coffee, rubs her face. She can’t concentrate. Chaotic piles of paper surround her. All of it a reminder of her recent failure. Her grant had paid for housing for herself and her team – all of whom had left town last week after fourteen days of stonewalling from the local police and Brannah. None of the rent could be recovered. Nor could the funds she’s spent on a dig site that hadn’t even gotten six feet below the surface. Only Sabastian remained by her side, ever vigilant and loyal. Finally, she gives up and gives him a call.
“Hi. Yeah. Can’t sleep.”
“Again?” Sabastian asks, not really surprised. “A lot's happened, Kate. You need a break, love. Let’s let it go and move on, hmm? There are plenty of sites yet to be discovered.” His soft Australian accent comforted her. He’d tried to gently prod her into refocusing her efforts onto something tangible like returning to her father’s dig site at the Chaco Canyon ruins. It provided him the only viable option that might sway Kate into leaving town on a new venture.
“Right. You’re right Sabastian. Can't even get my mind wrapped around this new grant.”
“Paperwork’s already done.” Kate smiles. She could always count on Sabastian.
“You’re an angel.” As she listens to Sabastian describe where she’d be traveling to next, she looks out the window. Her face twists into horror. A shadow figure crouches down on the neighbor’s roof. It stares back at her, then darts off. Then footsteps pound across the roof above her. Kate screams and drops the phone. On the other end Sabastian hears it.
“Kate? Kate? KATE!”
Later That Night, 2:47 Am
Kate sits on her couch wrapped in a blanket staring at a house swarming with police uniforms. Everyone is sleepy, pale and exhausted. Kate stares with blank eyes. Her face is pale. She shakes. Cops mill about, all Navajo descent. They stare at Kate - the outsider with milky white Irish skin and freckles.
She feels out of place. For the first time in a long time it bothers her to be different. She thought she’d gotten used to being among native people all different from herself. Now the impact seemed overwhelming. One cop questions her.
“And you said he was black?” the cop asked.
“Well, he was dark.”
“Was he African American? Can you describe him?”
“His eyes,” Kate searches, “They were, well, they were yellow.”
The cop looks out the window to the empty roof where the shadow man stood earlier, about thirty yards away.
“Yellow eyes.” He jots notes. “But not his face. That’s what you remember?”
“Big yellow eyes,” Kate replies. The cop looks at her, doubt in his face.
“Can you describe him to our sketch artist?” he asks. Kate shudders.
“Uh, I don’t know. I mean he very well could be -” she stumbles, “African American. Or not.” The cop frowns. Embarrassment washes over Kate. She feels like a child describing a bad dream to a disgruntled parent who has no interest in believing her.
Sabastian shows up at the door as some of the officers are leaving. He bumps shoulders with one on his way in, sees Kate across the room and heads to her. As she looks up at Sabastian, a memory washes over her. He’s years younger, same comforting smile, same kind eyes. But he looms huge above her. A child’s perspective. Kate was only eight and it was early in the morning of the day of her father’s wake. Uncle Sabastian struggles to look confident behind teary wet eyes.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“Everything’s gonna be alright lass, hmm? Daddy’s safe in heaven.” But Kate wasn’t safe. Not then, not now. After her father’s death she’d been sent to live with her grandmother, who always seemed on the edge of rage from the day Kate stepped into her home as a permanent occupant. Kate pushes the awful thoughts and feelings from her mind. The cop’s voice stirs her to fresh thought. She looks up, sees Sabastian at the door. He enters, heads to her.
“How tall was he?” the cop asks. Before she can answer, Sabastian settles down next to her on the couch. His body warm and comforting next to hers. As soon as Kate set eyes on him, she loses her words, all too relieved he’s there. The police officer gives up, hands Kate a business card. The name on it says Officer Whitesnake. She looks into his deep brown eyes hoping to find some comfort. But they only remind her that she’s not one of them. She doesn’t fit in.
“Call me if you remember anything.” The sheriff’s deputy tells her, then leaves. Kate turns to Sabastian, taking in his kind and gentle pale blue eyes. They were always with her, watching over her, keeping her safe, offering protection and guidance.
“Sabastian. What are you doing here? You didn’t have to come.”
“Of course, I did, love.” Kate moves across the room and locks the front door after the last officer has left. She heads to the wet bar and pours a couple of drinks. She keeps her back to Sabastian.
“I don't need a baby-sitter,” she tells him, knowing she sounds harsh and unappreciative. Somehow, she can’t help herself. Sabastian was like a comforting parent that every teenager is embarrassed to admit is someone they secretly look up to. As is their familiar custom – Kate needs help, Sabastian shows up, Kate gets defensive and tries to convince them both she doesn’t want him there. The old professor ignores her spite. They both know why here is where he needs to be.
“Promised Doug I'd watch over you.”
“You sound like my dad.”
“You act like him,” he tosses back. She has her father’s spirit. Kate downs her shot, pours herself another, keeping with her back to him. “Once a Marine, always a Marine. It's in the blood I ‘spose.”
“What do you know about it? Oh, yeah that’s right. War buddies,” she replies sarcastically. But secretly she’s glad for it. Nothing like having a combat soldier around for protection, even one dressed in Bermuda shorts and a goofy Aussie hat.
“Served with him four years. Or did you forget that little tidbit.” Kate scoffs, then turns to meet his gaze.
“Ha! War sucks.” She moves across the room again, this time back in his direction. Sabastian opens his mouth to speak. But Kate cuts him off. “Please. Let’s not.” Sabastian nods.
“So, what happened?”
“The boogieman.” She gulps down her drink. “A bad dream, that's all.”
Sabastian gets close to her.
“You've been through a lot this last month, Kate. Take a break hon.” She shrugs.
“Work's what I have. Or, had.”
“It’s not all you have.” They lock eyes. Pain in Kate’s say that she believes otherwise. Sabastian knows that she’s shutting down. Briefly he wonders if Kate is having the same troubles as her mum. She sits beside him on the couch, puts the whisky bottle on the coffee table.
“Not open to discussion,” she says gently. Sabastian shrugs, pours himself a drink and eyes the bottle.
“Nineteenth century? Good stuff. Where'd you find it?” She only glares. “Never mind, he says as he swirls the whisky in his glass. “So, what's it you've uncovered this time, my dear? Hmm?” Kate hesitates. Should she show him?
“That's just it. Someone doesn't want us finding out.”
“You believe that this someone snooping around outside your window has to do with this?”
“That's exactly what I think.”
“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first weird thing that’s happened on this little adventure of ours. Beginning to miss boredom. It’s much less disappointing.” Kate finds comfort in his smooth Australian drawl. “And you’re sure it wasn’t a dream,” he continues. She glares at him. He backs off. “Right” he says to himself.
Sabastian gets up, grabs a throw blanket, and kills the lights on his way back to the couch, then settles in, knocks his shoes off and curls up under the blanket. But Kate can’t go back to sleep. She needs to get out of there, can’t bare seeing again any hint of disappointment in her cherished guardian’s eyes. That she might hurt Sabastian was a cross she couldn’t bear and refused to burden. Her guilt is tinged with the nagging embarrassment that she’s glad he is there. The urge to leave drums up anxiety within her. All she can think of is to flee, to find a safe haven if only for a moment away from all this madness. Away from any pity she imagines that Sabastian might have for her.
Kate strolls across the room, keeps her face turned away hiding her embarrassment. She gets a black leather jacket from the closet, slips it over her tank top and heads to the door. She doesn’t look at her guest who’d gotten up in the middle of the night to be at her side. Instead, she lets emotion rule her. Kate keeps her eyes on the door as she heads to it. Shock washes over Sabastian as she leaves.
“Where the hell are you going?” he asks. But she slams the door. Outside, he hears her motorcycle start up. “Like father, like daughter” he grunts, pissed and powerless. Outside, Kate zooms off below a full moon and an angry sky. The clouds are thick, and hint of a brewing storm.
Her bike cuts through the damp night air, makes her feel alive, in control. She travels down a winding road. It snakes around one hair-pin turn after another. Light from the car behind her appears in her side-mirrors. After a while, the road opens up a little wider. Kate pulls her bike to the side to let the car pass. But it doesn’t. It had been behind her in the distance for some time now. And she’d assumed it was just a motorist waiting for a chance to pass her up. But maybe not.
She continues on her way, keeping an eye on the driver behind her, pretending not to notice. Eventually the canyon road gives way to the edge of town. She pulls up at the 24-HOUR TOPANGA BAR. It’s the place she had spent the last 6 months at every day after work in-field. She’d established a comfortable presence there. She parks her bike, keeps her helmet on. The car approaches the edge of the tiny parking lot. It slows down. The man behind the wheel watches Kate as she stands in shadow near the establishment’s front door. She now recognizes the driver. It’s Det. Brannah.
Brannah drives on, abandoning his surveillance. He’s been noticed. A few moments later, Kate sits alone in the bar nursing a sour-whisky. It's a dive. She feels stupid for her tantrum with Sabastian after he’d come to her aid in the middle of the night, but for some reason does nothing to rectify it choosing instead to drown her embarrassment in the booze. A drunk approaches her. He has long black and grey streaked hair, a greasy beard that reaches past to his collar and stinks of vodka.
“Wanna make a bet?” he asks, hot stinky breath wafting into her face. Kate ignores him. “Bet you’re good in bed.” She tosses her drink in his face, pushes him off the bar stool. He lands on his ass.
“Smoooooth,” The bartender says.
“She’s my wife!” the drunk yells back. Kate moves to an empty stool at the other end of the bar and signals the bartender.
“Keep it coming!” she says. He obliges, serves her.
“Got some demons to kill tonight?”
“It’s more like they’re killing me.” She downs the drink, then spies Carlton through the crowd. Worn leather jacket, haggard, a day’s growth on his chin. He doesn’t look happy. They lock eyes. Carlton’s are intense, lustful. They hint of rage. The bartender pours Kate another and nods at Carlton.
“Compliments of your admirer.” She approaches Carlton, unsteadily.
“You’re a terrible stalker.” She slurs, woozy. “What do you want?” Carlton looks away and shrugs. “Oh, that aloof thing. Well,” she says, then bends close and whispers into his ear. “It’s not working.” Kate sits, sees a chain around his neck with a Celtic cross like the ones she found at the dig. It’s the same one in his New Orleans dream. She frowns at the sight of it. Carlton slips it under his shirt.
“Where’d you get that? Did you take it from our site?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans close, nose to her ear. His hot breath on her neck. Kate closes her eyes, feels it, savors. Carlton whispers
“You’re drunk. I’m lonely.” He pulls back. Kate frowns.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Trouble sleeping?” he says. “Are thoughts of me I keeping you awake at night?” Shock washes over Kate. She glares back. Fear sweeps into her eyes. Then it’s gone. She shrugs off her embarrassment. It’s not lost on Carlton. He sees it, knows he’s getting to her.
“Keeping an eye on me? Or just looking out for yourself?” She spits back at him. He stays quiet. Kate plays with her empty glass, stacks it on top of the other empties. “Oh, that’s right. You’re cursed. I remember now.” Carlton perks up.
“I said your excavation site was cursed.” Carlton glances around, takes notice of who’s still there, finishes his drink quick and then glances at his watch. “It’s nearly dawn. I should go,” he says. “Those relics you uncovered, don’t carry them around.” He gets up. “I'll be watching. And Kate, be careful.”
“Wait!” she shouts. But Carlton heads to the door. “Coward!” She yells. He stops and glares back at her. All eyes in the bar fall on them. Tiny muscles flex in his jaw as Carlton grinds his teeth. He returns to her, grabs her hand and pulls her up over his shoulder. He heads to the door. The drunk gets in his way.
“Wait! She’s my wife -” Carlton shoves him into a window face first. He smashes through the glass and tumbles outside onto the sidewalk.
“Goddamnit, Jerry,” the bartender yells. “I told you to quit causing trouble.” The patrons watch Carlton carry Kate through the door into the parking lot outside. No one intervenes.
“Who the hell do you think you are!” Kate yells at him. He drags her to the bike.
“A friend. A real friend.” He puts her down, rifles through her pockets and fishes out the keys to her bike.
“Hey!” she yells, as Carlton shoves the helmet onto Kate’s head. “Some friend! Where were you when I needed you at the reservation?”
“Closer than you think.” He gets onto the bike. She follows. “Hold on.”
She barely has time to wrap her arms around him as he takes off. They speed through the canyon road, above the river past buildings. The road climbs further into the hills. Soon the jagged rocky terrain reveals the city scape below, looking down on the night lights sparkling in the distance. Finally, Carlton stops at a turn-out. He takes in the view, then looks around. Satisfied they’re alone, he slips off the bike. Kate drops her helmet, dizzy from the ride. Carlton escorts her to the brush. He finds a clear spot with a good view, plunks Kate down, and pulls a buck knife from his belt. He plants the blade into the hard clay ground with one powerful thrust. Kate’s eyes get big.
“What’s that for?”
“Unwelcome company.” He sits beside her. “You seem rattled.” She looks away.
“Bad dreams. Why do you care?”
“I find myself drawn to your work,” he quips. “You reached out to me. Now I'm reaching back.” Kate doesn’t buy it.
“Well, I don't need you.” Carlton leans closer.
“Hell isn’t just a figment of our imagination. Don't underestimate its power. The distance between good and evil’s not so far as the church would like us to believe.” He dangles her key chain in front of her. It has a photo of her with the man in the nightstand picture. It’s her as a child with her father. Kate looks away. “We all have demons Kate.”
“Thanks for the lecture. You gonna tell me I can’t take care of myself, that I'm just getting into trouble?”
“You like trouble. Its why fate draws us together.” Carlton stares. His eyes wash over her, taking her in. He studies her smooth light skin dotted with freckles. Then his gaze moves to her long black hair. His face melts into gentleness as he reaches out and feels the silky locks cascading down her tiny shoulders. “What’d the shaman say?” Kate starts, quells her surprise. How did he know?
Carlton turns his gaze back to the city below them. Kate hesitates, deciding if she should own up to it. She tries to hide her discomfort that this man seems to know what she’s been up to. Her mind turns to Brannah slowing down outside the bar to get a look at her. She fights to keep calm. What exactly was she getting into? Who was this man and how did he know so much about her activities? “He sold me a dusty old story about a curse.” Carlton ponders her answer.
“Sometimes what we think are demons tearing at our soul are really angels lifting us up. And it’s our fears that turn it into a battle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said, those shamans aren’t normal Navajos.” Carlton reaches into his shirt, pulls out the Celtic cross she’d seen in the bar earlier. He shows it to her. It has the same markings as Kate’s Anasazi cross. “You need to find out if you’re battling angels or demons, Kate. The Hellmen are always near. I can be too if you let me.” Kate ponders what he just said, then looks at him.
“You really want to help me find the truth?” she asks. “I need you to retrieve something for me.” Carlton’s eyes darken.
“What is it?”
“That day we saw the shaman at the site. That day I fell into that subterranean cavern with the bodies...” Carlton waits. “The police confiscated everything at the dig. I need some of the items the police took.” Carlton’s face turns to confusion. Kate continues. “That jewelry on the mummies. Those artifacts, I need another look at them. I need time to study them.”
“Where are they?”
“City morgue,” Kate answers. Carlton wrinkles his brow.
“You want me to break into the morgue and “steal back” relics that have been classified as evidence in a crime? From the police?”
“Not evidence. Artifacts. I need more pieces of the jewelry found on the bodies,” she explains. Carlton scoffs, thinks things over, searches for an option.
“You’re not as far from the truth as others would have you believe,” he continues. “I know someone who can help.”
He dangles the cross from his fingertips, twirling it, watching it spin. On the back side of the pendant is a small image of a creole woman taped to the center of the crucifix. He eyes it. Disappointment washes over Kate. She feels jealous of the mystery woman Carlton carries so close to his heart.
“I have a friend. You should talk to her. She can give you answers,” he finally says. “But you need to have the right questions.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Rosario.”