Wild Mystic Read online

  Wild

  Mystic

  Other Titles by Sandi Ault

  NOVELS

  WILD INDIGO

  WILD INFERNO

  WILD SORROW

  WILD PENANCE

  SHORT STORIES

  WILD JUSTICE

  Wild

  Mystic

  Sandi Ault

  HANDINPAW PUBLISHING

  Published by HandInPaw Publishing ©2018 Sandi Ault

  In the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, USA

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover copyright ©2018 Sandi Ault

  Cover layout design copyright ©2018 Sandi Ault

  Images & cover layout by Eric Schodde/ES Creative Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, scanned, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without permission in writing from Sandi Ault. Contact: www.sandiault.com

  WILD MYSTIC ©2018 by Sandi Ault all rights reserved

  Published in the United States of America by HandInPaw Publishing

  www.sandiault.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7335099-1-6

  Praise for

  the WILD Mystery Series

  “Scenes of the high, dry, glittering landscape are as clean as a sun-bleached bone, and there are thrills galore…”—New York Times Book Review (WILD INDIGO)

  “Ault uses her knowledge of the high, dry West to give us a look at Pueblo Indian culture.”—Tony Hillerman (WILD INDIGO)

  “Crackles with life and novelty.”—The Washington Post (WILD INDIGO)

  “Smashing.”—C. J. Box (WILD INDIGO)

  “Simply put, a page-turner of the highest order.”—The Barnes and Nobel Review (WILD INDIGO)

  “Ault has another page turner…”—Richmond Times Dispatch (WILD INFERNO)

  “Ault is such a good writer that crime fiction buffs who enjoy a good mystery with plenty of action and great background detail will put this on their hold lists. Highly recommended.” Library Journal STARRED REVIEW (WILD INFERNO)

  "The vivacious Ault knows whereof she writes in Wild Inferno…Where Ault excels is in developing a suspenseful, action-filled mystery on rugged Southwest terrain."—New Mexico Magazine (WILD INFERNO)

  “She’s a master at describing nature.”—Albuquerque Journal (WILD SORROW)

  “Ault’s talents go far beyond devising a suspense-driven plot...”—New Mexico Magazine (WILD SORROW)

  “A crackling mystery, ‘Wild Sorrow’ also combines Ault’s lovely nature writing with her indignation over the way Indian children were mistreated at the boarding schools. It’s a potent mix, and Ault invests it with chilling authenticity and suspense — and an epilogue that will break your heart.”—Richmond Times Dispatch (WILD SORROW)

  “Fans of the late Tony Hillerman will embrace Ault’s outstanding third mystery… Ault’s wildlife expertise and knowledge of Tanoah culture enhance a poignant plot.”—Publishers Weekly, STARRED REVIEW (WILD SORROW)

  “Verdict: Ault’s love of the outdoors and her respect for American Indian culture are evident in her vivid descriptions of the culture, people, and northern New Mexico landscape. ... Nevada Barr fans and mystery aficionados still mourning the late Tony Hillerman will snap this one up as well as other titles in the Mary Higgins Clark Award-winning series. Enthusiastically recommended.”—Library Journal STARRED REVIEW (WILD PENANCE)

  “If you enjoy the outdoors, the mysticism of Indian cultures, along with breakneck adventure, Ault’s WILD series might just get your heart racing.”—The Charlotte Observer (WILD PENANCE)

  “…a set of mysteries that leave fans breathless by the end of the first chapter.” —Sedona Red Rock News

  “Ault is often compared to the late Tony Hillerman. While it’s an honorable and helpful comparison, it’s also a bit unfair. Ault’s novels are unique and original, and they deserve to stand on their own. …Ault’s WILD INFERNO was recognized by Publishers Weekly as one of the Best Books of [the year]. …Ault, like many a great storyteller of the American West, understands the richness of ‘deep time.’ And we are fortunate she has once again given us a glimpse into the great heritage of a great people.”—Estes Park Trail Gazette

  “Ault has the background to write this outdoor series, and it shows on every page. …You might as well turn off the phone and lock the door, you are in it until the very last page releases its hold on you. About the book: The suspense is one thing — and there is plenty of it — but you will feel like you’re reading a literary work at the same time. Ault uses the language in unique ways.”—The Coloradoan

  “Ault’s portrait of Pueblo life and the conflict of cultures she dramatizes are integral to her rousing debut.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “Tinged with mysticism, this artfully told story should appeal to fans of Nevada Barr…Tony Hillerman… and Margaret Coel.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Read this for outdoor adventure and take a walk on the Wild side.”—Rocky Mountain News

  “This edge-of-the-seat sequel to Ault’s successful debut, WILD INDIGO, demonstrates her skill at weaving together plot lines, complex characters, and lots of suspense.”—Library Journal BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR LIST

  “Ault smoothly blends a murder mystery plot with Native American lore in this impressive sequel…”—Publishers Weekly BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR LIST

  “Fast and furious…The mystery deepens with every page.”—The Charlotte Observer

  "The fiery descriptions of the blaze’s terrifying power are worth the price of admission, but Ault also keeps the pages turning...A writer with a flair for the outdoors, Ault deserves a large following."—Rocky Mountain News (WILD INFERNO)

  for Tiwa

  In loving memory of my great teacher, my dear friend,

  my beautiful wolf companion.

  You are now and will always be in my heart.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank all my readers, who waited so long and patiently for this book, and who repeatedly clamored for another episode in the WILD Mystery Series.

  I would also like to thank my Puebloan family. Whatever my soul is, it is nourished by the practices you have taught me and by the gift of your presence.

  Author’s Note

  As we all know, truth can sometimes be stranger than fiction. Most of this story is not true. But some of it is based loosely on rumors and legends that may or may not have been drawn from true events.

  The characters herein are entirely fictional and not representative of anyone living now or previously—any similarities to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  If you, dear reader, see any synchronicities with stories you’ve heard, they are no doubt due to the great pool of common knowing in the collective unconscious…which anyone can absorb while dancing in or around the edges of the Mystic.

  Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic.

  —Van Morrison

  Wild

  Mystic

  0

  1: Intruder

  2: The Missing

  3: The Ancients

  4: The Boss

  5: Off Book

  6: La Vecina (the Neighbor)

  7: Friends in Silence

  8: In For a Disappointment

  9: Boundary Issue

  10: Standoff

  11: The Shadow

  12: Never Judge a Book

  13: A Good Trap

  14: Evening

  15: Under Covers

  16: Talk to the Bones

  17: Mad
About a Dog

  18: Backward

  19: Growing Realization

  20: It Takes a Village

  21: Parking Violation

  22: Wild Temple

  23: Closed to the Public

  24: Outfoxed

  25: Freakboy

  26: The Switch

  27: In Deed

  28: The Key to the Place

  29: El Cuervo (the Raven)

  30: A Real Dick

  31: Looking to Give Back

  32: Vision

  33: Mistaken Identity

  34: O, Brother

  35: A Clearer View

  36: Where There’s A Will

  37: Gone, Gone, Gone

  38: Lockup

  39: Had A Dog in the Fight

  40: Los Gemelos

  41: The Dreamers

  42: The Right Place

  43: La Cueva del Cuervo (The Cave of the Raven)

  44: Into the Mystic

  45: Aftershock

  46: Feminine Rising

  Ouroboros: Intruder

  0

  In the exquisite freedom of another world

  They wait for me—

  Invisible, luminescent.

  They are the awakened dreamers

  And also the dream,

  The formless flying ones,

  Who are flight itself,

  The masters of unbeing and power.

  They wait for me, their betrayer.

  Once, I was awake in dreaming

  But I have forgotten how to dream.

  Long ago, I soared beside them

  But I no longer know how to fly.

  Now, I yearn to be amorphous

  But I am afraid not to exist.

  In this small poem

  Lives my only power.

  —Adoria Ximena Abasolo

  United States Poet Laureate

  1: Intruder

  The door of my cabin crashed back against the wall and the silhouette of a man backlit by moonlight filled the opening. I roused instantly from my dream, rolled off the far side of my bed and crouched behind it as I grabbed the shotgun propped in the corner against the wall.

  “Jamaica Wild?” the man shouted.

  I stayed low, cocked the pump-action with a hard pull, the telltale Ch-Ch sounding a warning. “I’m a federal agent,” I screeched, my throat dry. “Drop your weapon and put your hands up high, where I can see them.” My mind was groggy with sleep. Am I still dreaming or is this really happening?

  The intruder raised his palms above his head, one of them holding an automatic pointed skyward. "Secret Service,” he said, “don’t shoot! I’ll put it down right here.” He squatted low and I heard the thunk of the heavy pistol on the wood floor. He stood again, palms raised. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to startle you. I knocked several times, but there was no answer. If you’ll allow me to reach into my pocket, I’ll show you some identification.”

  I kept the barrel of the Remington fixed on the man’s chest. “You move nice and slow, and if you so much as look like you’re going for a gun, I’m going to make hamburger out of you.”

  He lowered a hand into the deep shadow his body created in the doorway. I could barely make out what he was doing, and I held my breath until he produced what seemed to be a thin, rectangular ID folder high over his right shoulder. He deftly flipped it open, a dark patch against the moonlit sky behind him.

  “Keep holding that right there. Reach your left hand along the wall inside the door, slow and easy, and then flip that switch,” I said.

  A shock of light stunned my eyes, but I kept the shotgun trained on my target. In the newly illuminated scene, I saw Mountain poised in a low crouch right in front of the man, ears back, teeth bared, a ridge of hair standing high along the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. I wondered how long he had been there. He emitted a low, barely-audible growl.

  The man saw him, too. “Whoa!”

  “Now,” I said, ignoring the man’s reaction to my wolf companion, “tell your buddy—or buddies—to stay back.”

  “I assure you, ma’am...”

  “Do it,” I said, flatly.

  He tipped his head slightly to one side. “Stand down,” he said, “she’s going to look at my ID and then we’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll see about that. Toss it on the bed.” I tipped my chin toward the mattress in front of me. “Throw it underhanded.”

  He flipped the folder in a gentle arc onto my down comforter. I held the butt of the shotgun tight to my chest with my right hand, my finger alongside the trigger, as I reached out with my left to get the badge holder. I held it up high, in line with his face, barely glancing at it, keeping my eyes on the trespasser. His credentials looked real enough, but I didn’t lower the gun barrel.

  “Agent…Harold Coronel,” I read. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have orders to collect you and escort you to Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque.”

  “Collect me?” I snorted. “Why?”

  “It’s a matter of national security. Ma’am, could I ask you to put that gun down and call off your dog?”

  “What do I have to do with national security?” I stood up and lowered the shotgun barrel, half-thinking this had to be a dream—even though it felt as real as the throbbing in my head. “I’m a resource protection agent for the Bureau of Land Management. This must be some mistake.”

  “I assure you, there’s no mistake. The data I have says that you work for the BLM. I didn’t know for sure if you were here, but since your Jeep was parked outside, I figured you might be, so I knocked. But I was also told that you work in the wilderness, and on a horse half the time, so when you didn’t answer the door, I was going to come inside and wait.” The man still held his palms up as he nodded toward Mountain. “The dog?”

  “Not a dog. He’s a wolf. And why did you have to kick the door halfway off its jamb? Couldn’t you come back in the morning when you didn’t get an answer in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m afraid not. This matter is extremely time-sensitive. I couldn’t tell if you were here, or if you were, if you were all right. Your dog didn’t even bark.”

  “I told you, he’s a wolf. A wolf is a stealth predator. He doesn’t bark and give his whereabouts away.”

  “Could you call him off, please?”

  Mountain remained in a menacing pose, low and ready to spring, his teeth still bared. I moved around the bed and went to him, feeling exposed in my boxer-shorts-and-tank-top jammies, Agent Coronel still standing in the doorway just a few feet from me, the cold air from outside hitting the bare skin on my legs and arms. “It’s okay, Buddy,” I said to Mountain. Gently, I placed my hand against his back, just below the shoulders. I felt him relax a little, and his ears twitched and then stood upright. “It’s okay,” I said again, soothing him with a soft stroke down his spine. He pulled back, still eyeing the stranger warily, then circled behind me and stood at my side, fixing his eyes once again on the man.

  Agent Coronel slowly lowered his hands. “I had no idea you would be so combative.”

  “You don’t know much about me, then. I have my reasons. Besides, when you crashed through my door, I was fast asleep, dreaming.”

  “That must have been some dream. Most people don’t spring for cover and then rack a shotgun the moment they wake up.”

  “Most people don’t break in the home of someone they haven’t met.”

  “I only meant to temporarily disable the lock,” Agent Coronel said, as he bent down and picked up his weapon, then straightened and holstered it. He began to examine the damage. “That door doesn’t fit well in the frame, so the bolt doesn’t extend as far as it should into the box. The receiver came right off when I put my shoulder into it.” He started re-attaching the screws that held the dead bolt receiver with the tip of a pocket knife. He looked up from what he was doing and frowned at me. “I’ll make sure your door is all right, and that will give you a few minutes to get dressed, and to do w
hatever you need to do to secure the wolf.”

  “Secure him? I’m not leaving him.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to in this instance.”

  “Look, I’ll come with you, even though you haven’t explained to me why I should. But he goes with me. So you do whatever you have to do to prepare yourself, because I’m not leaving him.”

  “Ma’am, there’s no place for an animal like that in the car.”

  “I’m not going without him.”

  “We don’t have room. He’s pretty good-sized.”

  “Then I’ll drive and follow you. My Jeep is all set up for traveling with him.”

  “That’s not our protocol,” Coronel said.

  “Well, figure it out.” Still clutching the shotgun in my right hand, I went through the narrow pass-through closet and into my tiny bathroom with the wolf on my heels—and once Mountain and I were inside, I closed the door.

  2: The Missing

  The two agents rode in the front of the black Chevy Tahoe, and Mountain shared the backseat with me because the rear cargo area was fitted with a locked-top weapons cache. I’d had to work to get the wolf into a strange vehicle, luring him in by tugging on his lead and climbing in first, gradually persuading him to follow me. When the agents tried to assist, Mountain had turned and snarled.

  “Stay back!” I told them. “He’s not aggressive, but he will defend himself if he feels threatened—you saw that when you came through my door.” I managed to coax Mountain into the car, but he wasn’t accustomed to riding in a passenger seat, so he didn’t know how to comport himself. I pulled him partway onto my lap and the rest of his big body sprawled across the vacant stretch of seat—but his legs hung off the front of it awkwardly, and his feet twitched until he finally pushed them into the back of the driver’s seat for leverage. He remained like that for the first half-hour, panting and drooling out of fear. Because he was nervous, he began shedding profusely, and strands of his mane began to come off in my hand when I petted him. I knew the previously-pristine interior of the car would soon sport a layer of wolf hair. I had brought his favorite toy, a long braided rope tug made of cotton cord, tied in the center and at each end. The thing weighed three or four pounds depending on how much wolf slobber it contained, and was too thick for my hand to close around completely. I wagged this in front of Mountain, thinking he might want to chew on it, but he paid no attention. So I stroked his neck and hummed softly into his ear, and finally he lowered his head into my lap and began to relax. A few minutes later, I saw his legs droop and I knew he was asleep.