Double Blind

Chapter Three

O n Friday the thirteenth of May, the blue canopy of Northern Arizona sky shimmered with the sun’s rays, baking clumps of sage and meager stands of white-gold bunchgrass. The few clouds that nestled against rims of distant mesas did nothing to ease the punishing heat.

In spite of dry, hot air rushing in through window and vent, sweat gathered and dripped from every pore of Sheila Metcalf’s body. Where had all this heat come from? It was only the middle of May.

She couldn’t remember when she’d felt this alone or frightened. She missed Preston. She missed seeing the way his blue-gray eyes contrasted vividly against his tanned face. This separation would be good for both of them, but that knowledge didn’t keep her from wanting to be with him.

Her father hadn’t been too crazy about her return to this place, either. Together, he and Preston had mounted a united front for the first time since they’d met, but she hadn’t allowed them enough time to complete their mission. After making the decision to come, she’d taken two days to handle her arrangements and pack, and then she was off before either man could catch his breath.

Now she stared at the shimmering mirage on the deserted blacktop road ahead of her, driving ever nearer to the setting of her childhood nightmares. What on earth had she done? She wasn’t prone to making impetuous decisions. Why start now?

What kind of phantom was she chasing, alone, in the heart of the Navajo reservation? Dad had implied she might encounter the same danger her mother had met twenty-four years ago, but that brief comment had been all she’d been able to get out of him, the cranky old widower.

Actually, Dad wasn’t old at all. He was fifty-eight. And he only got cranky when she tried to talk to him about Mom, or when anyone tried to set him up with a woman.

Though Sheila couldn’t remember her mother very well—the shadowy images in her mind took clearer form only when she looked at old photographs—she never forgot the love that filled her whenever she thought of Mom. She always carried with her an impression of happiness at the memory of the small Navajo school she’d attended while Mom and Dad had worked in the area—Dad helping the farmers and shepherds, Mom treating children and families.

Mom had been Sheila’s inspiration to pursue a medical career. Right now she couldn’t help wondering if she’d have been better suited to Dad’s specialty—agriculture.

All during this hot drive—why hadn’t she taken Preston up on his offer to let her use his Jeep?—Sheila had journeyed as deeply into her memories as she could, frustrated by Dad’s unwillingness to communicate with her about Mom. With every mile she drew closer to the school, the tension in her body was increasing, the images from the nightmare arising more frequently, and more horribly.

At the school, Sheila would be conducting the children’s year-end physicals, drawing blood, as well as operating the clinic lab, keeping a close watch over the students who boarded at the school. When the term ended, she would be testing families coming to collect their children for the summer break. In a mission school such as Twin Mesas, families were encouraged to take advantage of the medical care. Sheila would truly be following in Evelyn Metcalf’s footsteps.

Johnny Jacobs and his grandson, Canaan York, remained concerned about the cause of the former principal’s death, she knew. It was a natural concern, of course, considering the responsibility on their shoulders not only for the health and safety of the children, but for all the families of the student body. According to Johnny, Bob Jaffrey’s family had refused to allow an autopsy.

Sheila squinted into the sun’s glare as she rounded a curve, and, for perhaps the tenth time today, questioned her decision. But after two long, painful years, dealing with the loss of her husband, and his betrayals, she felt she was at least finally making an effort to sort some sense out of the first part of her life—even if it meant returning to the scene of her childhood terrors to find answers to some difficult questions.

A movement far ahead on the right side of the road drew her gaze and broke her concentration. Whatever it was disappeared in the white glare of the sun. She fidgeted in her seat, stretching taut muscles, willing away the anxiety that had persisted throughout this trip. It was a frequent condition lately, something she couldn’t blame on the letter from the school, or even on her turbulent attraction to Preston.

Her digestion had started acting up about a week after Ryan’s death and the discovery of his unfaithfulness. Within three months, she’d lost so much weight she had to punch extra holes in her belt to hold up her jeans—a need she would have rejoiced about at any other time of her life.

Many mornings she’d awakened with a stiff neck and a headache from troubling dreams she couldn’t remember—at least not until the past few days.

The shock of Ryan’s death, and the gradual discovery of his affairs during their marriage had chipped away at her self-confidence and her faith in life. For the first year of widowhood, she’d often battled against a wavering faith in God.

Why her? After losing her mother at such a young age, why had she been forced to endure yet another tragic loss?

Dad had instilled strong Christian convictions within her. Sometimes she even questioned whether that set of standards was at the root of her troubles. Although Twin Mesas held many good memories for her, it was also where all her worst memories had been made—and it was a Christian school, where strict Christian values were taught and upheld.

Though Sheila had never renounced her faith entirely, she had rebelled against many of its strictures—most notably the one about believers marrying within their faith.

And look where it had landed her. Never again.

What hurt the most was that she had been the last to know about Ryan’s affairs. His final fling had been with the woman who was killed in the auto accident with him, Theresa Donohue, the fourth-grade math teacher whose classroom had been just down the hall from Ryan’s. But not one of Sheila’s friends had told her, though she’d discovered later that several of them had been aware of Ryan’s extramarital activities.

The movement on the desert, closer this time but still several hundred feet ahead, caught Sheila’s attention once again. The sun’s glare continued to blur the figure, but when she looked away she could see it dimly in her peripheral vision, the same way her nightmares caught her sometimes when she woke up in the mornings. The figure was too small to be a horse. A sheep, perhaps? Or a large dog?

She kept her attention on the road and allowed the approaching animal to develop along the side of her vision. It drew nearer, and she recognized the shape. A German shepherd.

Or a wolf.

She flexed her damp hands, wiping first one then the other on her jeans, blinking several times. It could have been anything but canine, and she’d be okay. But she’d rather see a nest of rattlesnakes in the middle of the road than the shape of a dog.

Suddenly, the animal disappeared, and a cloud of dust rose where it had been. She glanced that way, but saw nothing. Strange.

The steering wheel jerked in her hand. The right front tire of the Jeep sank into the soft shoulder of the road, and Sheila realized she’d allowed her focus to drift too far. She pulled the steering wheel to the left. A loud pop-thunk startled her.

She caught her breath, fighting the wheel, but the deep sand would not relinquish its hold. The Jeep coasted a hundred feet down the road and then came to a stop.

She’d blown a tire.

“Great driving, Metcalf,” she muttered to herself. “Now look what you’ve done.”

Glancing again across the broad slope of the desert horizon, she found herself wishing that a blown tire was her only problem.

Canaan York slowed his silver-blue Plymouth Voyager to ease the impact of a deep pothole that stretched across the dirt road. He scanned the broad plain of desert surrounding the solitary mountain of White Cone. Tanya Swift’s family lived about two hundred yards ahead. Their small frame home, painted clover-green with dark spruce shutters, was a mansion compared to the other houses in this section of the Navajo reservation.

When Canaan reached the house, he stopped, frowning. Maybe the little runaway hadn’t come back home.

A cloud of trailing dust rolled past the van and drifted in through the open windows, depositing a layer of grit over everything. Canaan blinked and tugged down on the bill of his baseball cap.

He glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure no dust streaked his face. He knew that, aside from the light tone of his skin, his long, somber face and dark brown hair and eyes identified him as Native American. Navajo. The People. But he was also well aware that the white half of his heritage continued to instill distrust in a few Navajo.

Unfortunately, Tanya’s family belonged to that few, depending on the circumstances. And now this had to happen. He could only hope Tom and Linda Swift had already left for their thrice-yearly tour of the Southwest to sell their crafts. If they were here, he would most likely get an earful on his inability to control the students at the school…one lecture among many he’d received from several sources since stepping into the breach two weeks ago and inheriting a job for which he’d never asked—nor trained.

He wondered, as he’d often done lately, why his grandfather had been so adamant that no one else at the school could do the job.

A movement caught his attention from a window beside the kitchen door. He studied the low-slung house for a moment. With an intuition developed over years of working with people, he knew Tanya was there. The empty driveway told him she was alone.

He climbed from the van and walked toward the house.

Twelve-year-old Tanya opened the door before he had a chance to knock. Her large, slanted, exotic eyes were filled with defiant apprehension.

“Hi, Canaan.” Her gaze darted past him. “You alone?”

He nodded. She reminded him of a half-grown lamb, inquisitive and always landing herself into trouble.

She relaxed visibly and stepped aside. “I know what you’re thinking, and I know what you’re going to say.”

He ducked slightly at the threshold, taking slow steps, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the unlit house.

“You’ve learned the art of mind reading on your long walk home?” he asked.

“You know I didn’t—”

“Walk all that way?” In the gloom, Canaan found a yellow-and-red-patterned kitchen chair and sank into it. “How often do I have to talk to you about hitchhiking?”

Tanya took two mincing steps toward him, the delicate lines of her young face sliding into a grin of mischief. “Who said I hitchhiked? Maybe I turned into Yenaldlooshi and raced the wind home.”

Canaan studied her expression to see if she was teasing. She wasn’t. He willed away the chill that slid over his skin. For a year, he had battled this superstition at the school, but it had persisted, even grown, the way a piñon sapling grew in the heat of the Arizona sun during a year of good rain. The children had recently begun to blame Navajo spirit entities for everything from unfinished homework to illness to lost track races.

He would have another talk with Betsy Two Horses. Giving her permission to teach a couple of informal classes on the ancient Navajo customs did not include filling the kids’ heads with terrifying myths.

“Maybe you raced like the wind to escape Yenaldlooshi, ” he suggested to Tanya, and continued to watch her expression carefully.

She pivoted away, but not before he saw the fear in her eyes.

He sighed. “Tanya, who tells you there is a skinwalker at the school?”

She shrugged, refusing to look at him, which revealed the extent of her fear and clued him to the reaction she expected from him. She wanted him to deny the possibility of any kind of evil beings.

If Wendy Hunt were still alive, she would’ve been the one to come and get Tanya. She would’ve reassured the girl that there were no evil animal beings, only evil people. Canaan sure missed Wendy’s influence right now. Wendy also would have had an additional advantage as the mother of Tanya’s friend April.

Or rather, Tanya’s former friend.

Canaan couldn’t give any reassurances to Tanya. “Why would this skinwalker still be at the school and not here? Wouldn’t he have followed you home, if he’s after you?”

“He doesn’t know the way.” She was still serious; no teasing here. “I left after sunrise this morning, so he couldn’t follow me.” She believed what she was saying.

“But he can follow your tracks tonight, and your parents are gone,” Canaan reminded her. “What if he knows you, and knows where you live?”

Tanya stepped to the long window that overlooked a cactus-and-rock garden. With a stiffened spine, she stared out across the plain, her chin raised defiantly.

“Come back with me now, Tanya, and you’ll be safer.”

“You can’t protect me from everything.”

“I didn’t say I could, but do you really want to stay alone here?”

Her chin lowered a fraction. A tremor shook her. “I don’t want to stay at that school. He’s there, Canaan.”

“Who, exactly, is he?”

Tanya jerked around, dark eyes wide.

“Have you forgotten that my great-grandfather was a hataalii, a medicine man?” Canaan asked.

She shook her head. “I haven’t forgotten. That’s why I trust you.”

“I know of the spirits we have always feared,” he said. “The only way to fight this evil is with a more powerful spirit. You’re safer from the skinwalker at the school than you are here.”

Tanya’s eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“This skinwalker you fear,” he said slowly, “what animal form does he take?”

Tanya stared at him and did not answer.

He hazarded a guess, hoping he was wrong. “The wolf?”

A quick intake of breath.

“I know about your fear.” The wolf was one of the most terrifying characters in Navajo lore, a destroyer. Canaan felt another chill of foreboding. “My Christian grandfather taught me special prayers to keep the Navajo werewolf away when I was afraid. He taught me when I was very young, and I still remember.”

Some of the tension eased from Tanya’s face. “You mean Johnny Jacobs?”

Canaan nodded.

“How much do you remember of these prayers?” she asked.

“All of them, but it isn’t the words alone that protect us. It’s where we keep our hearts and minds.”

Tanya hesitated. “What…what about that woman?”

“What woman?”

“The one who’s coming. The biligaana who’s going to be there today. The white doctor.”

“You mean Sheila Metcalf. She has nothing to do with any skinwalker, and she isn’t a doctor, she’s a nurse.”

The girl pressed her lips together, obviously refusing to hear his words.

“Sheila lived here with us for five years.” His voice was sharper than he intended. “She and I grew up together. I knew her.”

Tanya searched his expression. “You…you knew her?”

“Yes. She was a good friend. She was also a good friend to the Hunts.”

“She’s white. Look what happened to Mr. and Mrs. Hunt.”

“I’m half white, my grandfather, the school’s owner, is not Navajo, but that hasn’t stopped your father from sending you to our school.” Tanya’s father was a selective bigot, but his bigotry would overtake his daughter, too, if Canaan allowed it. Sheila’s arrival might be good for the children, if they would respond sensibly.

He stepped toward the door. “You coming with me?”

Tanya’s jaw slackened. “You’re leaving? Now?”

“I have work to do at the school.”

Tanya paused, then nodded her head. “Okay. I’ll come. But you teach me that prayer before it gets dark tonight. Okay?”

Canaan bowed mockingly. “Yes, boss.”

Chapter Four

S heila tightened the final lug nut on the wheel, tested to make sure all was secure, then released the jack, glad she hadn’t taken Preston up on his offer of his Jeep. With her own vehicle, she knew where everything was and had been able to change the tire in ten minutes.

After heaving the equipment into the back, she cast a wary glance across the desert for at least the twentieth time. All that moved was the undulating air above the ground, dancing in the unseasonably hot weather. A green line of cottonwood trees to the south told her there was a stream of water nearby. To the west, the plain seemed to stretch all the way to the foot of the towering Twin Mesas, at least two miles away.

She glanced back down the road and saw a sizable boulder a couple hundred feet away that she must have struck with the tire when she allowed the vehicle to wander so far off the road.

“Dumb, dumb,” she muttered to herself.

It wasn’t until she was again behind the wheel, pulling onto the road, that she realized her heart had been racing, her hands sweating, and her breath doing double time all the while she was outside the Jeep.

She drove barely a half mile, checking the rearview mirror several times, when she saw the sign for Twin Mesas School and turned off Route 77 onto a gravel road.

Piñon and juniper trees bordered each side of the road for a mile leading to the school. The campus was set in the middle of what appeared to be a flat plain, but she knew that hidden hollows and rocky arroyos mottled the topography.

The trees along the road cast little shade. She’d forgotten how sparse shade could be out here. Everything looked hot and dusty.

As she approached, Sheila’s gaze darted back and forth across the road, searching for another phantom, even as she scolded herself for allowing her imagination to run wild. No more specters materialized, of course. By the time she reached the school building, she also reached the conclusion that the heat had affected her. An overactive imagination didn’t help, nor did the headache that pressed along the back of her skull.

She loosened her death grip on the steering wheel and studied the place. Simple, large adobe buildings with rounded corners formed a courtyard around a playground partially shaded by piñon trees. A small garden of rocks and petrified wood ringed the first building, a pattern that repeated all through the courtyard. It would have looked peaceful to her, if not for the apprehension that she couldn’t shake.

Sheila didn’t recognize this place.

During her last phone call with Johnny Jacobs, he had mentioned that most of the buildings were new. He’d also asked her if she was sure she wanted to come.

She would bet her Jeep that Dad had called Johnny and tried to get him to talk her out of coming. Johnny hadn’t admitted to it when she’d asked him, but she’d heard hesitation in his voice.

Though Johnny lived in Tucson now, he’d always kept a close watch on all his holdings, and was particularly concerned about Twin Mesas, so much so that a year ago he’d sent his grandson, Dr. Canaan York, to keep a watchful medical eye on the children and their families. And now Canaan was interim principal. Why couldn’t Johnny have come to help out for the remainder of the school year? He had a background in education, whereas Canaan did not.

Canaan. Gentle, always laughing, smaller than the other boys his age when he was growing up. He’d been called pip-squeak, although Sheila had never called him that, of course. She had known how deeply that taunt had wounded him, but he’d never let on to anyone else how much it had hurt.

Sheila parked the Jeep by a split log railing at the first rock garden with a spindly olive tree in the middle, barely big enough to cast a shadow, much less provide shade. She turned off the motor and sat for a full minute, studying the landscape.

Occasional breezes whipped the sunbaked sand into vague, ghostly forms that darted between the buildings. If not for the sign beside the road, and the view of Twin Mesas from where she sat, she might have decided that her map had been misleading.