"He already told me. She's at the Braun place."
I stood. "Well, then, let's go talk to her."
Daniel cast a pointed look at my grilled flatbread. Then he glanced up, squinting as if he were avoiding the sun, but I knew he wasn't. He was studying me, just like my parents had done.
I pretended to stretch, then sat back down. "After we finish eating, I mean."
He wasn't fooled, but he let it slide. Another bite of his sandwich, then he nodded. "I think we should talk to her. First, though, I want to check out that book."
"Drive all the way into Nanaimo to find a book, when she's staying ten minutes away?"
He shrugged. "I'm curious. Got a couple of things to pick up in the city, too. We can go out for dinner, make a day of it."
"Dinner?"
"Sure." He peered at me again. "No rush, right? She's not going anywhere. And it's not like we have anything important to ask her."
"No. Course not. I just ... I'm not really in a city mood today. After last night, I kind of wanted to hang out in the park, recharge my batteries. You know me."
He nodded. "Sure. You do that. I'll go to Nanaimo, then talk to Ms. Lee after, and fill you in on everything tomorrow."
I hesitated. I could do an end run around him and hike to the Braun place while he was in Nanaimo. Maybe it was a conversation better conducted when he wasn't around anyway. He'd find out, though, when he went to see her. Then I'd have to explain why I'd gone to see her, plus admit I'd done it behind his back.
"Actually, can I change my mind?" I said. "A trip to the city might be the best thing for me." A thought struck. "I'd like to go back to that tattoo studio, too, see if I can talk to the old woman. I should just forget it, but it's going to keep bothering me until I find out what she was talking about."
"All right. Eat and we'll go."
In British Columbia teens can get their learner's permit at sixteen. With that they can drive--as long as they have an L magnet on the vehicle and a licensed driver in the passenger seat. At seventeen, they can move up to their novice license, which needs an N magnet but no other driver.
Daniel was still sixteen, which meant he shouldn't be driving without an adult. He did, obviously. It's not like Chief Carling was going to pull him over. That's the way it worked in Salmon Creek--prove you're responsible and no one cares if you're driving early or having a beer in the backyard.
When we went into the city, though, Daniel borrowed Brendan's N magnet for his truck. Totally illegal. That didn't bother Daniel, which might seem weird, considering he's normally the one making sure the rest of us stay in line. But his rules weren't always the same as the ones the authorities laid out. Which is probably why he'd make a better lawyer than a cop.
When it came to driving, he just took extra care. He figured that made him a lot safer than the twenty-year-olds whipping past in their jacked-up trucks; and since my parents were fine with him taking me to Nanaimo, they obviously agreed.
When we got to the tattoo studio, it was closed. I should have figured that, being a Sunday and off prime tourist season. I peered through the window at the dark interior.
"You really wanted to talk to her, didn't you?" Daniel said.
"I know it sounds crazy. It's just--"
"You want answers. Let's get them."
He waved for me to follow. There was a diner beside the tattoo studio and a cafe beside that. Lots of restaurants here, over half of them specializing in caffeine. It's the West Coast--we love our coffee shops.
He surveyed the two, then waved me to the cafe. He held the door for me and an elderly couple who were leaving, then followed me.
Inside, he scanned the customers and staff as if looking for someone he knew. Sizing them up. It was a knack he had, like picking out people who might be a threat. After a few seconds, he prodded me to an older woman behind the counter.
As soon as she saw him, she smiled, eyes crinkling, like he reminded her of her grandson or a cute boy she'd gone out with in school.
Daniel ordered a couple of muffins, then said, "We were just over at the tattoo place. We saw it was closed today."
She frowned. "You kids aren't thinking of getting one, are you? I know they're popular, but it's not something you should be doing at your age."
"No, nothing like that," Daniel said. "We were actually looking for the artist's aunt."
"They both live over the shop. Just go around back, look for the delivery sign, and head up the stairs. The apartment door is at the top."
Two minutes after Daniel knocked, Deena's aunt peeked out the window, saw me, and let the curtain fall. Daniel kept knocking, getting louder, until finally the woman yanked open the inside door, her hand darting out to lock the screen.
"What?" she said.
I'd rehearsed what I was going to say. Polite, respectful, deferential. When she locked that screen, though, the speech flew out of my head and I said, "What did you mean, calling me a witch?"
"Exactly what I said. Now go away." She started to close the door.
With one wrench on the screen door handle, Daniel snapped the lock. He yanked the door open and caught the inside door before the old woman could close it.
"We're not coming in," he said. "I just want you to answer my friend's question. You insulted her, and you owe her an explanation. She says you called her something else."
"Yee naaldlooshii." The old woman's lip curled as she said it.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
The old woman snorted. "Why do you care? Obviously it won't mean anything to you. You don't know your language. You don't know your heritage. The Dine shunned you. Sent you away to be raised by strangers."
"She asked what the word means," Daniel said.
"And I said--"
"She asked what the word means."
Daniel's voice took on a rumbling tone he used when someone wouldn't listen to him. The old woman's gaze rose to his as if drawn there against her will.
They looked at each other for at least five seconds. Then she made a strange noise, deep in her throat, and when she spoke, she spit out the word, like she couldn't help herself.
"Skin-walker," she said. And slammed the door.
NINETEEN
WE WALKED TOWARD THE Harbourfront branch library, just across the road and down the street from the tattoo studio. A guy was playing his guitar out front as tourists barreled past, eyes averted. I dropped a toonie in his hat. Daniel did the same, the two-dollar coins clinking in the empty hat.
We sat down. I took out my muffin from the cafe and got one bite before Daniel said, "I take it you know what a skinwalker is or we'd be in the library looking it up. And I take it you're upset about it because you haven't said a word since we left that apartment."
"Not upset. Just feeling dumb for not figuring it out on my own. A skinwalker is a Navajo witch, which is exactly what she called me. It's not a good witch. Or something they dress up as for Halloween. For some, skinwalkers are really out there, cursing people. The tattoo artist said her aunt used to live with the Navajo. A folklorist. She would have heard all the stories. At the time, I'm sure that's all they were, but now, with the dementia or whatever, she's confused and thinks they're real."
"Are skinwalkers a kind of shape-shifter? Like werewolves?"
I nodded. "They're supposed to be able to take on different forms, usually coyotes and wolves."
"So this woman, who used to study those legends, knows you're Navajo, sees what looks like a paw-print birthmark, and thinks you're a skinwalker."
"I've never heard of them being marked, but maybe she has. A regional version of the legend. Anyway, I have my answer so I can stop worrying, which is good, because I have more than enough to worry about these days."
"You want to talk about it?"
"Not much to say. It's just a bunch of things hitting at once and it's like they're feeding on each other, making them all worse. The tattoo place problem. The cougar problem. The Rafe problem."
"You'
re really upset about him, aren't you?"
"I'm really confused about him. So let's talk about happier subjects. You said Nicole came over this morning." I bumped his shoulder and grinned. "I take it that means last night went well."
He stared down at his untouched muffin.
"Or not," I said.
He put the muffin back in the bag. "Yeah. It didn't. I mean, it was fine. We talked. We ..." He shrugged. "I gave it a shot, but it's not going anywhere, Maya. I know you think I'm still hung up on Serena. I'm not." He glanced over. "I'm really not. I miss her and I wish to God I could have--"
His voice caught and he looked away. The bits of muffin in my stomach turned to lead pellets.
"It was me," I said. "I'm the one who saw her go under. I'm the one who could have saved her. If I'd brought Kenjii ... If I'd learned to swim better ... If I hadn't panicked, thinking I was drowning ..."
"No," he said firmly. "Whatever happened out there, we did our best. I know you did and you know I did, and we're not going to get into it again. We're not. Okay?"
I tried to look away, but his gaze skewered me.
"I know you feel guilty and you know I do, but that has nothing to do with me dating again. It doesn't."
I nodded.
"I miss Serena and I wish she was still here, but even if she was, I'm not sure--" He swallowed hard. His jaw worked. Then he said, slowly, "It's not going to happen with Nicole, Maya. She's cute and she's nice, but that's ..."
He shifted, rolling his shoulders. "I don't know how to say this without being cruel."
"Go ahead. It'd never get back to her. You know that."
He nodded. "With Nicole ... cute and nice is all you get. There's nothing else there. The same reason you don't want her as a new best friend is the same reason I don't want her as a girlfriend. I know you think maybe that would be good for me--someone who won't demand a lot--but I'm okay." He looked at me. "It's you I'm worried about."
I turned away to toss my muffin in the trash. "I'm fine."
"I know why you want to talk to Mina Lee," he said. "You want to find out if she knows anything about Serena's death."
I stopped, hand still over the garbage can.
His voice dropped. "You want to know how she died. Why she died. You want answers."
I dropped the muffin. "I know it was probably a freak accident. I know I'll never get a why, because there isn't one. I know that this reporter almost certainly doesn't have any answers for me. I just want--" I faced him. "I need to ask."
He looked like he wanted to say something. Even opened his mouth. Then he snapped it shut and nodded. "Let's check out that book first, so we know what her message meant before we confront her."
Reference books were on the second floor of the library. We found the one Mina Lee put on the card and took it to my favorite spot, a lone table on the far side of the stacks where light streamed through the window.
The book was an old text on agrarian cults that hadn't been checked out in years. Big shock there. Satanic cults, sex cults, drug cults--I'm sure they all get their share of interest. But agricultural cults? I didn't even know there were such things.
Daniel turned to the page as I looked over his shoulder. One word caught my eye.
"Witches?" I said. "Shouldn't this have been sent to me?"
"Not witches," he said, pointing. "Witch-hunters. An Italian cult of witch-hunters."
"Okay, so what's the connection to you? Your parents are Italian and you like fighting. Oh my God. You're a witch-hunter. I'm a witch. Hate to break it to you, Daniel, but if you're a witch-hunter? You're doing it wrong."
He gave me a sidelong smile. "Maybe it's not that kind of hunting."
"Then you're definitely doing it wrong."
He laughed and we continued reading, trying to find something--anything--that would tell us why Mina wanted Daniel to see this. The whole two-page spread was about this cult. The benandanti, which translated to "good walkers." Apparently, they believed that, on certain nights of the year, their spirits left their bodies and went out to protect the crops by fighting evil witches.
This wasn't just a myth, either. Like some people claimed to be skinwalkers, some claimed to be benandanti. Or they did before the Inquisition, when they were rounded up and executed as witches. If they insisted they had supernatural powers, then they were also witches, and it didn't matter that they were supposedly using those powers for good and for the benefit of the Catholic Church. They were evil. So they were hunted and killed.
It was only when Daniel turned the page that we figured out why Mina directed him to this book. There, written at the end of the section on the benandanti was a note. "If you want to know the truth about Salmon Creek, call me." A phone number followed.
Daniel flipped over the card Mina had left him. The number was the same as her cell.
"Okay, does this make any sense at all?" he said. "Why not just write the message on the back of the card?"
"Two possible reasons. One, she was afraid someone else would find the card. So she found a book no one was likely to check out. Two ..." I looked around the library. "She's waiting for you to show up, hoping to talk to you away from town."
"Okay, but ... the truth about Salmon Creek?"
I snorted. "She wants you to tell her the so-called truth. Proof of animal testing, horrific medical experiments ..." I shook my head. "Call her again. I'll skulk around, see if she's here."
Mina wasn't at the library or outside it. Nor was she answering her phone.
Before we left, I wanted to look up skinwalkers. No, I wasn't obsessing--I had my answer and I was happy with it. But I was curious about the paw-print birthmark connection. The more information I had, the easier it would be for me to mentally file the whole thing and forget it.
Most of what we found on skinwalkers was fiction. We only dug up a few brief references in books on Native beliefs and occult mythology. The Navajo don't like to talk about them. Like I said, some believe skinwalkers really exist. Treating them lightly invites trouble.
Those references did confirm what I told Daniel. Skinwalkers are evil witches who cast curses and take on the form of animals, usually canines. When we checked the internet, we did find one reference to them also shifting into bear form, but not cat, and no mention of them bearing any kind of mark, let alone a paw print. Clearly just an old woman's ramblings.
I was ready to pay a visit to Mina Lee. Daniel wanted food. Now, I know teenage guys like to eat. Teenage wrestlers really like to eat. Well, unless they're trying to get into a lower weight class, but Daniel never does that. So, it wasn't surprising that he'd want to grab food.
"I feel like fish," he said. "Let's swing by Pirate Chips."
"Hard to eat fish and chips while you're driving," I said.
"We'll dine in."
He started toward the sidewalk. When he realized I wasn't following, he turned.
"You don't need to talk to her about Serena," I said.
"What?"
"I'm the one who wants answers, not you. I get that. I can do this alone."
"I'm not--" He cut off the word with a snap. "I'm tired of playing the grieving boyfriend, okay? It's been a year, and still everyone makes me feel like--"
He stopped and turned his back.
"Makes you feel like what?" I moved up beside him.
"Just ... stop doing that, okay? Stop pussyfooting around the subject of Serena. Stop treating me like I'm dying of a broken heart. Stop making me feel like I should be." He rubbed his mouth. "That didn't come out right. I don't mean ... Of course, I miss her. She was a friend. A really good friend. I'm just ..."
"Tired of being treated like the heartbroken boyfriend when you want to move on. Is that why it's not working with Nicole? You feel guilty because you want to date again?"
He threw up his hands and let out a growl of frustration that made passing tourists decide the other side of the street looked much more interesting. As he watched them cross, his growl turned to a laugh.
He shook his head at me. "The only thing holding me back from dating Nicole is a complete lack of interest, okay? As for Serena, I want answers, too. I've wanted them for a while, but since we weren't discussing it--and, yes, that's partly my fault, not wanting to upset you--I've never said so. I do want to talk to Mina Lee and see what she knows, and the only reason I'm stalling is because I've got something to say first. It's going to piss you off, and I'd really rather be sitting in a public place when it happens."
"So I won't storm off?"
"Exactly."
"I'd never do that, Daniel." I stepped closer and looked up at him. "You have the keys, and it's a very, very long walk--"
I snagged the keys from his pocket and took off. I easily darted around a gaggle of senior citizens nearly blocking the sidewalk. Daniel didn't have as much luck, and I heard him apologizing amid gasps and harrumphs. I raced toward the harbor. I was rounding the local theater, planning to circle back, when Daniel's shout pulled me up short.
I turned. He barreled toward me, his eyes wide with alarm. Right, like I was falling for that one.
I started to run again. I should have been able to outpace him easily. I always could. But the next thing I knew, I was being tackled. He knocked me into an alcove, both of us hitting the wall, then collapsing to the ground.
"Stay down!" he said.
Not much chance of doing anything else with him on top of me. But when I glanced up into his eyes, I saw that the panic wasn't fake. He looked around as if expecting a posse of armed gunmen to round the corner at any moment. When footsteps sounded, he tensed, muscles bunching, prepared to leap up and defend us against--
Two preteen boys passed the alcove. One of them saw us and whispered to his friend. They grinned our way and shot Daniel a thumbs-up.
When they'd gone by, I pushed him off me.
"Okay, I might have overreacted," he said as we sat up.
"You think?"
He pushed to his feet and looked around. "I thought I saw someone."
"Where?"
"I--I--" He looked around. "I don't know. Down there maybe?" He pointed along the wharf. "I was running after you and it happened so fast, I didn't get a good look."
"Was it a man? Woman? Young? Old?"
"I'm ... not sure." He exhaled and leaned against the wall. "Okay, that sounds nuts. I'm not even sure I saw someone."