Thursday, July 24, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 9

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha drove her cruiser slowly forward toward the mob of news reporters and photographers. They obviously could see Bhanar sitting in the front seat and focused all their cameras on him.

She didn’t think Vomıvé would agree to let her lead the hunt for Zhudıro at Rosí Spring, but she wasn’t about to call in the information. It could wait until they got to the Kılímos’ house, when she might be allowed to join the hunt. Vomıvé probably wouldn’t believe the divine information, anyway, at least not till he heard it direct from Bhanar. The emperor exuded confidence and honesty.

Once the cruiser stopped, Séara turned off the engine and got out to close the gate, locking the auto door behind her.

“Where are you taking Bhanar?” “Has he been released?” Microphones shoved at her face from all directions. “What does the emperor have to do with the Enforcer murder?”

Séara staggered back against the side of the auto, shutting her eyes to the swarm. Quickly, though, she steeled herself and opened her eyes, her jaw tight.

“Get out of my way,” she commanded, with a wave toward the back of the cruiser. Before the reporters could react, she started walking toward the gate, forcing them to scurry backwards out of her path.

“If I may make a few comments,” declared Bhanar in a loud, clear voice, from the other side of the auto.
The lawperson forgotten, the reporters surged around the vehicle, racing to stick their microphones and cameras in Bhanar’s face and get the scoop.

With a sigh of relief, Séara walked unimpeded to the gate. As she pulled the chainlink gate shut and locked it, Bhanar began his speech. When she turned back toward the auto, he was already standing atop the cruiser’s engine hood, addressing the reporters.

“I would like to thank everybody from all the worlds who has . . . supported me. I enjoy your support. I have not shown this, fully, in the past, but I do.”

For someone learning Sarıman as a second language, Séara thought he spoke the language rather well. He certainly didn’t cover his imperfect vocabulary with timidity. She headed back to the driver’s door of the cruiser.

He waved a hand at the precinct building. “This was . . . a misunderstanding. The Pívo County Constabulary were doing their jobs. They have now . . . let me go and dropped charges.”

What about Pí‘oro’s death? thought Séara. Was that a part of the constabulary’s job, too?

“They . . . concentrate on catching the killer of the Colonial Enforcer, Zhíno Zhudıro.”

A few reporters shouted questions, but Bhanar waved them down, shaking his head.

“I have agreed to help them . . . in their search, as emperor and as having experience with Zhíno in . . . the trouble of last night.”

How skillfully Bhanar glossed over things like Pí‘oro’s death--and making it sound like Vomıvé had asked for Bhanar’s help. Séara knew Bhanar hadn’t forgotten Pí‘oro. He must just be keeping it from the public until the right time. He knew the information would just distract everyone from the true mission of catching Zhudıro and Parızada.

Standing regally with feet apart on the hood of the cruiser, Bhanar kept talking about his experience the night before and his desire to bring justice not just to this one situation, but to the entirety of the old empire. All the reporters were enthralled by the pseudo-emperor who till this moment had shunned their kind.

A man in black burst out of the building, rifle in his hand. Séara placed her hand on her pistol, but didn’t draw. The rifle pointed downward and his hands were nowhere near the trigger.

“Your Royal Majesty!” he called.

Who was this man? Was he really a royalist?

The crush of reporters parted, half the cameras swinging to focus on the newcomer.

Bhanar stopped midsentence, his mouth slightly agape, and stared at the oncoming man in black.

The man raced up to the auto. “Your Majesty, your rifle.” He thrust the gun upward.

Bhanar snatched up the rifle with a crisp nod to the man in black. He raised the rifle overhead and, to the assemblage, declared, “If you will excuse me now, I have a killer to catch!” With that, he jumped to the asphalt.

The reporters shouted more questions en masse, but Bhanar ignored them. With one more glance at the mysterious royalist, Séara reopened the auto door and unlocked Bhanar’s. They climbed in and slammed them shut, cutting off the yells of the crowd.

A gleam in his eyes, Bhanar asked, “How was that?”

(end of chapter)

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 8

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Umo Amuéné followed the detective between two rows of orderly desks, devoid of lawmen, as they headed toward the evidence storage room. Lango cracked his knuckles as he trailed behind.

Why did small-town policemen have to be so sensitive about their territory? Like dogs. Umo knew he should have known to be more careful about that. You have to sweet-talk these people. Hérazhahívo didn’t get Rakazhazhíní into bed by yelling at Her, that’s for sure.

“Zhudıro is from the Míníhépamí area, in and out of prison a number of times,” said Umo. “Drugs, theft, small stuff.”

Marıdaré opened the door to the evidence room, scowling at Umo.

“Yes, yes. We know all that. Tell me something new.”

Lango huffed, about to say something, but Umo cut him off.

“What would you like to know? Perhaps this would work better if you let me know where the gaps in your knowledge are.” Umo glanced around the evidence room, but didn’t see any boxes or bags that overtly looked like Gogzhuè’s weapons shipment.

“Well,” said Marıdaré, before pausing to spit tobacco juice into a glass bottle. “What’s his support network? Where will he run?”

Umo averted his eyes from the nasty bottle of cloudy brown liquid in the detective’s hand.

How much information could he divulge without compromising his mission, without compromising Gogzhuè?

“He doesn’t have much of a support network. As I said, Zhudıro’s a low-level runner. I doubt anyone in the organization would lift a finger to help him now.” He gestured at the shelves of boxes. “Where’s the evidence for this case? Maybe I’ll recognize something useful.”

The detective grunted and grabbed a three-foot-long cardboard box off a shelf. He plonked it down on a nearby table and opened the lid. Inside were a pair of tagged rifles, a handgun, some bagged bullet casings, a stack of photographs--duplicates, likely--and bags of what looked like broken glass and bloody gravel.

“Is this it?” blurted Lango. He needed to learn to keep his mouth shut.

“Were you expecting something more?”

Umo gave a brief glare to his greasy partner. “Can we see Zhudıro’s auto?” He must’ve dumped the weapons, but it was still worthwhile to look at his vehicle. Umo didn’t trust the locals to catch every clue.

Umo picked up one of the rifles--a solid, older model--and flipped over the constabulary’s tag.

“Yes, his auto is--”

“This rifle is Bhanar’s,” interrupted Umo. “Is he still a suspect?”

“No,” replied the detective. “Actually, that can be. . .” He spat into his bottle and reached for a telephone on the wall by the door. Without dialing, he said into it, “Lawman Nulıpésha, please report to Evidence.” His voice crackled on a loudspeaker overhead.

Another man’s voice responded on the loudspeaker, “She just left. Should I order her back?”

A deeper man’s voice answered, “They’re stopped out front. Reporters.”

“I’ll take it to him,” offered Umo. His pulse quickened. He was going to meet the emperor!

Marıdaré commanded on the telephone, “Laparıpasamé, tell her to wait a minute.” To Umo, he said, “I’ll need to sign it out, Agent.”

As Umo gripped the rifle with both hands, the detective checked the number on the tag with the box’s list and scribbled on one line. He nodded to Umo.

Thus released, the pompadour-bedecked royalist spun and slammed through the door. Racing across the office, a smile cracked his lips for the first time in a year.

(next page)

Monday, July 21, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 7

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Zhíno Zhudıro needed to get out of the void. He could hear Pí‘oro and Fírí talking, preparing to ride, on the run from the police.

But once he got back to the real world, what would he do? Could they really escape the police? Could they really escape the long reach of Gogzhuè? It seemed so unlikely.

If he had his choice, he’d go back to the way it was before the void, when he could run free with the buffalo, fly with the eagles, swim with the sharks. If he had his choice, Fírí and Pí‘oro would be able to join him there for eternity.

The universe exploded in a flurry of colors, noise, and odors. Solar yellow and rotting fish and rushing wind and sharp teeth in his flank. Zhíno cried out, but he couldn’t hear himself.

Névazhíno coalesced before him, a buffalo with the head of an eagle. He snapped His several rows of teeth at Zhíno as He stalked in a circle.

Zhíno fell to his knees, staring at the god. Was this the end of his existence? Had Névazhíno come to punish him for undoing what He had done?

“Good day, Zhíno. Are you well?”

Slowly twisting around as he watched the god, the human fell on his side. “‘Well’? I am lost in an infinite void, safe from those who wish me harm, but also separated from those I love. Are You not going to kill me?” Zhíno paused. “I can’t think a thought without saying it.”

Névazhíno flicked His antlers, tossing His head. “I know. That’s the way it works.” He pounced forward, his muzzle stopping centimeters short of Zhíno’s face.

Zhíno yanked his head inside his hard shell, but couldn’t resist peeking another look at the god.

With gouts of hot, odiferous breath, Névazhíno growled, “You healed My sacrifice. I should kill you now, but I won’t. It’s what you think you want, to have your soul run free through the infinite universe--not that death would bring that to you--so that would hardly be a punishment. No, you have unfinished business in the physical realm. By sacrificing yourself, you were avoiding your responsibilities. By giving your lifeforce to Pí‘oro, you were avoiding dealing with the consequences of your decisions.”

Zhíno snarled and coiled around himself. “The Tara-fucking void should count as a consequence, don’t You think?”

The god’s spiked tail swung towards the small animal, four razor-sharp barbs aimed to gore.

“Wake up now,” demanded Névazhíno.

Zhíno burrowed deep into the ground, but not quick enough. The God of Animals snatched Zhíno’s hind legs with His powerful jaws.

No pain. No bones cracked. No flesh tore.

Instead, a jolt of energy washed through Zhíno’s body, electrifying each and every cell.

The wave subsided. A heavy weight pushed inexorably into his gut. His entire body ached. Birds twittered. A horse snorted. He licked his cracked lips and managed to open an eye. A wall of short brown hair--horse hair--greeted his gaze at the tip of his nose.

“Fírí,” he rasped. “Pí‘oro! I’m awake.”

(next page)

Friday, July 18, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 6

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Vata Kılímí swam in the tightening essence of Névazhíno. This was how a prayer was supposed to feel. Uplifting, invigorating, empowering--as One with the Love of the Universe.

Dust swirled around the altar with a musky odor, closer and closer to Vata and the now-deceased cow.

Arms outstretched, knife held high, Vata intoned, “O Névazhíno, most pure and noble of all the gods, I beseech You to hear me, listen to me, speak to me. I beseech You to aid my husband. I beseech You to let Pí‘oro regain control of Pí‘oro’s body from the betrayer, Zhíno!”

She swayed to and fro, but Névazhíno’s spirit supported her. An ever-increasing roar consumed the chapel, the bellows and chirps and calls of all the worlds’ animals. Lightning snapped out of the dust cloud, striking the ceremonial knife, sparking each of the flaming braziers, seeking out each and every drop of sacrificial blood that flew on the wind. The divine spirit of the God of Animals coalesced around Vata and her deceased cow.

“O Névazhíno, I feel Your presence. Will You accept this sacrifice?”

Sunlight hit her face, warm and intensely bright. Vata squinted into the light, which was suddenly eclipsed by a enormous, antlered baboon with the wings of a pterodactyl. Névazhíno flapped his thunderous wings, swirling eddies in the howling vortex of dust and blood.

The god’s intense black eyes drew Vata close as He loomed taller. He sucked in a breath through his jagged teeth. The universe fell silent. For a brief moment, a flicker of fear passed through Vata’s soul.

Névazhíno tilted His head and replied, “No.”

Vata lost her footing, falling backwards to be sucked up by the demon-wind into the infinite sky.

“What?” she cried. “I’ve always honored You. I’ve always worshipped You above all others.”

Her world was nothing but a dark cloud of buffeting dust, pounding her body, knocking her nearly senseless.

“What more could I possibly do? What more could You possibly want?”

A massive object slammed into her back, pinning itself to her, not releasing.

She whispered, “What went wrong?”

As the dust cloud settled and Vata’s eyes began to focus on the chapel’s dark ceiling, Névazhíno’s harsh words drifted through her brain: “Pí‘oro was a sacrifice, as you should know. Zhíno has never controlled him. Stop wasting animals and stop bothering Me.”

No further thoughts crossed Vata’s mind but her god’s words, repeated incessantly by her own memory. “Stop wasting animals and stop bothering Me. Stop bothering Me!”

Vata wept.

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Thursday, July 17, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 5

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Tamé Vékídıpaíro parked his towtruck on the gravel in front of the Colonial Enforcer cruiser with a cracked front windshield. Despite the aspirin, a pain hit him between the eyes. He sincerely regretted the previous night’s activities, and the hangover wasn’t half of it.

As he climbed down from the cab, he spotted an Enforcer marching down the driveway towards him. “Oh, come on,” muttered Tamé. “This isn’t your auto I’m towing.” This one belonged to the dead guy.

Tamé hurried to the controls and began lowering the hook at full speed. He needed to get to a phone and call his cousin, Képé, as soon as possible, and he couldn’t do that till the police were off his back. He now had something that Képé might be interested in, something that might just save Tamé’s hide and his business. It was a good thing Séara had backed down so quick when he blamed her for ditching him. That could have been the end of it, right then and there, if she had known her speed had been reasonable.

When the hook hit the ground, Tamé shut off the motor and almost ran to the gap between the cruiser and his truck.

“Hey!” called the Enforcer, ten meters beyond the cruiser.

“Busy here,” replied Tamé as he hooked the chain to the auto’s frame below the bumper, his hands shaking. Had the police realized what he’d taken? No, if that were the case, they wouldn’t even bother with a “hey.”

The Enforcer stood over him. “Don’t give me that or I’ll have your Nazhoro ass in jail so fast you’ll--”

“What do you want?” Tamé interjected. He popped to his feet and walked back to the controls, deigning a glance at the annoyance of a policeman.

After a moment, the Enforcer answered, “They said that you’re only supposed to take this cruiser, and not the blue truck.”

Over the clattering of the chain lifting the cruiser’s front end off the ground, Tamé replied, “Yeah, I know,” even though it was news to him.

With the auto high enough, Tamé shut off the lift and hurried to lock the auto into place.

“Good.” The Enforcer turned and left. Tamé didn’t give him another thought.

If this new deal with Képé fell through, if Tamé had to sell his auto repair shop to Mapé, if he had to rename the place “Mapé’s Garage,” Tamé just might never come out of a drunken stupor. Life wouldn’t be worth living with that Voro-fucking lout in charge of things. He had to talk to Képé.

After scurrying under the cruiser to get the other side, Tamé paused to lift his cap and wipe his brow with a sleeve. It wasn’t hot out yet; he just hadn’t worked this hard in years.

He locked down the wheel and sprinted around to the cab door as fast as he could. His life and livelihood were on the line.

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Wednesday, July 16, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 4

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Emperor Bhanar followed Nulıpésha into the room where they had previously processed him, fingerprinted him, and took his personal belonging and his belt.

He had to get Zhíno--for justice, for his empire, for Nulıpésha. But where did Zhíno disappear to, if the police couldn’t find him?

Outwardly patient, Bhanar waited while the heart-faced woman opened a file cabinet and retrieved a large, bulging envelope. “Here are your things.” She plopped the envelope onto a desk and shook out the contents.

Bhanar slipped his wallet and keys into his trouser pockets and began snaking his belt through the loops.

What had Zhíanoso said to him during his healing? Something about going to the springs and following the water downstream. It had stuck in his head because of the whole water/fire dichotomy.

“The wife of Pí‘oro said a water spring is north of the house. I need to go.” It had to be where Zhíno was, or else why would the High God of Fire mention it? Finding him was Bhanar’s goal. Zhíanoso would have known that. Zhíanoso knew everything: past, present, and future.

“Rosí Spring,” she replied. “A nice place to visit.” She eyed him suspiciously with a smirk. “Why?”

“Zhíno is there.”

Her face turned impassive. “How do you know?”

“Zhíanoso said to me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Then let’s go. First, though, I’ll need you to sign here.” She held out a pen and pointed to a form on the desk.

Bhanar signed with a flourish--just his first name, even though the paper still had “Bhanar Narak” printed on it. He mentally growled at his father for shortening the family name and at his grandfather for giving up the empire. What a waste of potential.

Nulıpésha tucked the form away into a file. “It’s done.” She gestured to the other door in the room. “The lobby is through there.”

Bhanar opened the door--unlocked--and saw daylight for the first time since before all this madness began. Out the windows, bright sun bathed a fenced-in parking lot. Zhíno’s brown sedan sat out there like a lump, the rear window a maze of cracks from a bullet hole right in the center. Was that my shot? I am good.

“Tépíto,” Nulıpésha said, “I’m taking Bhanar back to his vehicle at the Kılímos. Here are the lockup keys.”

“All right, Séara,” said the dark-haired man behind the counter. “I’ll be here.”

Séara. Her name is Séara. Séara Nulıpésha. Beautiful.

Séara pushed open the exterior door. Bhanar followed her in a near-trance. She led him over to a police cruiser with “Pívo County Constabulary” written in large, red letters on the side. The sun hit him hot on the right side of his face.

“News reporters from all over the colony are swarming in the front parking lot. It’s not every day an emperor gets thrown in jail.” She gestured toward the passenger side of the auto. “You can sit in the front.”

As he headed that way, Bhanar replied, “I would like to talk to the reporters.”

He hadn’t expected to be addressing his public so soon, but he really should take the opportunity. He needed to make a proper speech of it--explain his night in the jail as a misunderstanding, show the worlds how an emperor should act, announce his coming aid--and Séara’s--in apprehending Zhíno, and be the friendliest, most regal version of himself.

Séara unlocked his door from inside and he climbed in. The dashboard confronted him with a marvelous array of electronics. Bhanar fought his urge to touch.

“Very well.” She frowned slightly, her lower lip protruding in a most enticing way. “I’ll stop the cruiser when we get around to the front.”

“Thank you, Séara.”

(next page)

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 3

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Pí‘oro Kılímo stood up from where he’d been sitting against the wall of the cave. It was time to start moving again. The horses had cooled off.

A helicopter whirred in the distance. Pí‘oro paused, holding out his hand to shush the blonde girl before she said anything. The helicopter was getting closer.

“Helicopter,” he said while grabbing the reins of the horse furthest out in the open. She whinnied as he yanked her up the rocky slope to the back wall of the cave.

Fírí grabbed the other horse and tugged her out of sight, too. Unconscious Zhíno and the bags were already as far back as possible.

The helicopter grew louder, obviously heading for the spring. The trees were thick enough that the police wouldn’t be able to see into the cave from any angle, but if the police landed, Pí‘oro would be out of options. Should he try to make a break for it now? Pí‘oro glanced at his soul brother. He wouldn’t have enough time to secure him to a horse.

The helicopter paused overhead; his time was up.

“What do we do?” whispered Fírí, panic evident in her voice.

The cottonwoods flapped around in the helicopter’s downdraft. What are they doing up there?

An idea came to Pí‘oro, as good as any the goddess Sívorí would have. He rooted through the saddlebags till he found Zhíno’s pistol. He didn’t intend to shoot anybody, but the police wouldn’t know that. The police wouldn’t know that he and Fírí were working together, that she wasn’t his hostage.

“Load up the horses,” he ordered.

“What are you doing?” hissed Fírí as she stepped back, her eyes huge.

“Just load up the horses!”

Shoving the handgun in his pocket, Pí‘oro grabbed Zhíno and set him over the rump of his gray, tying his belt to the saddle straps. Fírí began tying the saddlebags to the roan.

Then the helicopter flew away, heading downstream.

Pí‘oro heaved a sigh, slumping back against the cool cave wall. Fírí stared at him, but Pí‘oro just rubbed his forehead. The next time the police came, he wouldn’t be so lucky.

(next page)

Monday, July 14, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 2

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Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré grumbled as he walked through the door to the visitors’ lobby, chewing on a wad of tobacco. Lawman Ruéshé, who had called him, stood in the center of the room with two men with the jumpsuits and slicked-back pompadours of Èmmwımwènhese. Sétıpímo couldn’t for the life of him figure out why these two needed his attention.

“What in Pétíso’s hells is going on, Ruéshé?” He spat into the glass bottle he carried with him.

The lawman took a step forward, disengaging the strangers from the conversation. “These two men are Union agents. Their badges check out. They’re here to take over the Zhudıro investigation.”

“This is gooseshit.” Sétıpímo fought the urge to spit on their polished black-leather shoes. “These two work for the Union? Dressed like Névo-brain zealots?”

The taller of the two Èmmwımwènhese--wearing sunglasses indoors--replied calmly, “These are merely disguises. I am Agent Sívıposomé from the Union Investigative Department. We have infiltrated a criminal gang, of which Zhudıro is but a small part. He’s just a runner. We need to catch him and confiscate whatever he may have been transporting. It’s vital to our mission.”

“Transporting”? Was that why Zhudıro sealed his auto’s trunk? It would also explain why he was so jumpy when Enforcer Sıvího stopped him, why he was so quick to pull the trigger. Sétıpímo spat tobacco juice into his bottle. I need to get that sedan’s trunk’s open. “You may assist us, but we’re conducting an active investigation and search in connection with the murder of a police officer. Your little crime ring of stolen goods is secondary.”

Through a clenched jaw, Agent Sívıposomé snapped, “Don’t mess with me, detective. You’ve getting into something way over your head. If you shut us out, it will be the end of your career. I promise you. If you help us, though, your name won’t go down on the list of the most obstructionist small-town policemen in history.”

Sétıpímo seethed. Jabbing a finger at the agent, he snarled, “This is my investigation, Ahísıhíta damn it. Quit wasting my time.”

He spun on his heel, heading back for the office door, planning to go straight to Zhudıro’s auto and bust open the trunk by any means necessary. The Union agent was just a Huro punk, offering nothing but threats.

“Wait a minute,” spoke the agent. “I was out of line.”

Sétıpímo paused and turned. He stared at Agent Sívıposomé, as did the other agent and Lawman Ruéshé. What brought about this sudden apology?

The slick agent shrugged. “We’re all on the same team here. I’ll give you all the background information I have on Zhudıro, and you can let me see what evidence you’ve collected.”

The detective harrumphed. If these guys had anything helpful, then perhaps he’d help them. But that seemed unlikely, since they’d come in as bossy as Nuvíní.

Sticking out his hand, Agent Sívıposomé asked, “Deal?”

(next page)

Friday, July 11, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 1

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Chapter 19: Back in the Light



Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı broke into a grin when the faintly-smiling Lawwoman Nulıpésha entered the interrogation room.

“I thought I never again see you,” he blurted, then winced. Don’t be a Névazhíno-brain.

Nulıpésha smiled fully at his gaffe, but it was a kind, beautiful smile.

Changing the subject as quickly as possible, he asked, “Why are you here and not hunting Zhíno?”

Nulıpésha scowled--in a cute way--and replied, “They still think of me as a little girl, despite my training. I wish I could be out there, bringing that Zhéporé-spawn to justice--pardon my language.”

“That’s all right.” Bhanar had never heard anyone apologize for saying “Zhéporé-spawn” before. He had to remember to curb his tongue.

Abruptly, the policewoman announced, “You’re being released. You’re free to go.”

The invisible weight on Bhanar’s spirit suddenly released. He sprang to his feet, almost knocking over the chair.

“Is this true?” His face stretched into a wild grin.

The cute woman nodded.

The detective had believed him. Bhanar hadn’t thought it possible, especially without the lie-detector test. But his honesty and conviction had shone through the incredibility of his story. Thank you, Zhíanoso!

From a loudspeaker in the ceiling, a man’s voice said, “Detective Marıdaré, please report to the visitors’ entrance.”

Nulıpésha furrowed her brow slightly in response to the announcement. Bhanar didn’t give it much thought.

The policewoman turned and opened the door back towards the cells. She glanced over he shoulder with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Don’t worry. It’s the shortest way back to the room we stored your wallet and keys.”

They proceeded down the cold, hard hallway to another door. Bhanar didn’t allow himself to look at his cell. That was in the past. He had to look to the future--his future as an emperor. An emperor with no political power. Somehow, he’d have to remedy that.

Maybe he could hold a press conference or something.

If he were an emperor with power, he could force the local police to let Nulıpésha assist in the search for Zhíno. But surely he could do almost as good now, just as a free person. He could track down the Zhéporé-spawn police murderer himself, and give Nulıpésha the credit.

“Do you want your truck brought here or to the auto repair shop?”

Bhanar blinked at the question, a complete non-sequitur from his line of thought.

“I want to go to my truck and see it myself, now in daytime.” Perhaps the damage wasn’t as bad as he thought.

“All right,” the cute policewoman replied without hesitation. “I can drive you there.”

Bhanar smiled, even though she was facing away. Her dazzling figure amazed her; her willingness to help him--her desire to remain close for as long as possible--excited him. She was a marvelous woman.

She deserved better than this town was treating her.

(next page)

Friday, June 20, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 10

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Umo Amuéné sat calmly in the driver’s seat of his parked auto, watching the tow truck turn into the precinct parking lot, Zhudıro’s brown sedan in tow. The reporters swarmed towards it, cameras rolling. As soon as it passed through the gate, though, they drifted back to the main entrance.

With so many civilians in the way, Umo and Lango couldn’t go in guns blazing. Even if they’re news reporters, they’re still unpredictable and innocent.

Lango cracked his thumb knuckles. “What are we waiting for? Let’s just bust in there, trust in Èmmwımwènhı, hallowed by his name, and let God save any innocents who happen to be in the way.” Umo knew his partner’s concept of “innocent” included only Èmmwımwènhese, and only devout Èmmwımwènhese at that.

Umo remained gazing at the precinct headquarters, showing no sign of even having heard Lango. Killing anyone and everyone in your way hardly followed the early teachings of Èmmwımwènhı. It was funny how thugs like Gogzhuè only paid heed to the Singing Prophet’s later lyrics, once he needed force to maintain power.

Briefly closing his eyes, Umo made his decision. They’d have to use their Union-agent badges. It was the only way. Pretend they had a investigation on Zhudıro, appropriate all the evidence--including the shipment of weapons. Clean and simple.

He pulled his semiautomatic pistol from his black jumpsuit and checked the magazine with deft motions. Umo refused to be like Gogzhuè--like Lango. He would follow the true message of Èmmwımwènhı. Unless his life was in danger.

Lango checked his own gun. Gleefully, he asked, “Well?”

If the guns weren’t there, they’d have to rejoin the hunt for the little Zhéporé-spawn, but at least they’d have plenty of extra bodies to help their search.

Perhaps he could figure out some way to tie Emperor Bhanar to his investigation. Require His Majesty’s custody. It was the least he could do for his emperor.

Still without facing his partner, Umo ordered, “We’ll take this calm and smooth. Get your Union badge out.” He slipped his handgun back into its holster. “It’s time to play agent.”

Lango whined wordlessly as Umo opened his door and stepped out onto the street. The inside of the auto had begun to heat up in the sun, but the fresh air hit him with a comforting breeze.

Dressed like orthodox Èmmwımwènhese in rhinestone-studded black jumpsuits, Umo knew the lawmen wouldn’t believe their badges. With enough imparted authority, however, one man could move mountains.

He closed the auto door and strode across the street. Lango’s shoes slapped the pavement as he hurried to catch up. Umo walked straight for the precinct front doors. The reporters and news crews melted out of his path. He ignored the cameras and shouted questions. Thankfully, Lango also said nothing. For a change.

In fact, Lango scurried ahead a few meters and opened the door for Umo. The suave gangster-cum-agent didn’t break stride as he entered the darkness. Through his sunglasses, he vaguely discerned a long desk across the lobby, a lawman in front of it. Behind Umo, Lango definitely snickered as he slammed the door on the gaggle of reporters.

In the sudden silence, the lawman asked, “May I help you?”

Umo flashed his leather-backed brass badge and announced, “We’re taking over the Zhudıro investigation. Give us everything you got.”

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 9

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Vata’s heart raced with a combination of exertion and excitement as she guided the cow through the secret door. With a quick glance back, she pushed the door shut. She’d seen no police.

“Thank you, Névazhíno,” she whispered between gulps of air.

As the cow wandered down the short hallway to the chapel, Vata leaned against the door, her throat rasping with every breath. She hadn’t spotted anybody outside, but she couldn’t look every direction. Someone might have seen her--or the door closing shut. Or heard the door closing.

Her pulse and breathing slowed slightly, but she felt a bit jittery. If the police had spotted her, there was nothing she could do now. She had to start the ceremony and complete it before anyone arrived. She needed Névazhíno’s help getting Pí‘oro back.

She pushed away from the door and hurried after the cow, who was already circling the chapel in exploration. As the cow sniffed her slippers by the inside door, Vata reached the shelves and opened the lid to the plastic box of medicine. With her wiry hands, she plucked out a vial of maximum-concentration tranquilizer and a new syringe.

Vata had helped Fírí and Zhíno, and this was how the young couple repaid her kindness. Most people were grateful and gracious, but not those two. They’d shown their gratitude by kidnapping her husband. With Névazhíno’s help, though, Vata would get him back.

She removed the cap from the needle and jabbed the needle through the rubber seal on the vial. As she pulled the tranquilizer into the syringe, Vata turned to face the cow.

“Come here, dear,” she cooed.

The cow turned at the sound of her voice, inquisitiveness cast in the cow’s huge brown eyes.

“That’s right. Come here.” Vata set the empty vial on a shelf and held out her hand to the cow.

The large animal started forward. Vata entered the circle of flaming braziers, enticing the cow to the altar. Vata knew she’d never get the cow on the stone slab, but she had to hope a sacrifice adjacent to the altar would still gain the attention of the Love of the Universe.

Once He saw her sacrifice, Névazhíno would surely assist His loyal priestess. He’d helped her with smaller tasks before, certainly. Like Judge Ríko’s infection or little Séara’s broken leg. Or Zhíno’s gunshot wounds, for that matter. The God of Animals would definitely rescue Pí‘oro’s stolen body and entrapped soul from the squabbling betrayers, definitely.

When the cow reached the altar, Vata stabbed her in the neck with the syringe. The cow bleated weakly, but Vata stroked her nose, murmuring, “It’s all right, my dear. You’ll be with Névazhíno soon.”

The cow’s eyelids drooped, changing the huge eyes to narrow slits. Her front legs buckled and she slammed to the dirt floor.

Vata hurried back to the shelves for her ceremonial knife. The time was now.

(next page)

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 8

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Zhíno Zhudıro heard someone talking. With all his might, he concentrated on the very familiar voice. It was the only other thing in his universe besides himself.

“. . . Zhíno? How did . . . you helping him?”

The slightly nasal, soft voice was now unmistakable. It was Fírí.

“Fírí!” Zhíno called out into the void. “Where are you?”

This wasn’t like when he talked to her before. Her swirling essence was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t dive into her colorful maelstrom to communicate. He obviously couldn’t communicate at all, since he got no response.

Another voice appeared, deep and male. “. . . Zhéporé-spawn god . . . heal Zhíno. And then Zhíno . . . afterlife and gave me his energy, his . . .”

Zhíno was exuberant. It was Pí‘oro! The old man was talking to Fírí, which meant he was alive--and even though Zhíno couldn’t hear all of it, it sure sounded like Pí‘oro knew that Zhíno had sacrificed himself for him.

Pí‘oro was still talking. “. . . back to life. I must . . . assist my brother.”

If there were anything to float on, Zhíno would have been buoyed by his sudden happiness. His soul brother was alive, and Pí‘oro considered Zhíno his brother, as well. Zhíno no longer regretted his actions in the slightest.

“Pí‘oro! Brother!” he shouted.

But there was no response. The voices had stopped.

Nevertheless, Zhíno’s soul smiled. He may not be able to communicate with them, but he at least knew that Fírí and Pí‘oro were safe and nearby.

(next page)

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 7

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Fírí Parızada and the old man reached the bottom of the gully and started riding their horses at a walk up the splashing creek, weaving between boulders exposed by the erosion. She glanced back up the hill, but couldn’t even see the rim of the gully from all the trees and bushes in the way. The pepper spray in her pocket was seeming less and less necessary, but she’d only feel truly secure once they arrived in Éíkızo and she ditched the old man and Zhíno.

Zhíno may have saved her life in the past, but he had threatened her life just last night. It had been a gradual change over the past year or so, his growing more and more violent, more and more crazy. There was no way in Pétíso’s hells that he’d changed back so suddenly.

Unless the Zhíno from her dream was reality; unless he truly had a life-changing otherworldly experience.

Fírí pursed her lips and sighed through her nose.

They arrived at the head of the gully, a small clearing with a clear pool of water in the center. Around the pool grew a carpet of moss and wildflowers--pink and purple and white sparkling in the green. Fírí’s gaze drifted upward to towering cottonwood trees, their tops twinkling in the breeze, hemmed in by cliffs on three sides almost as high. At the end of the gully was a cave--not much more than an overhang, but enough to disappear from view of any searching helicopters. Fírí scowled. It would suffice for a couple minutes, but they needed to get moving as soon as possible.

With the old man still on it, Pí‘oro’s gray waded into the pool and began to drink. Pí‘oro patted her shoulder. “Wait just a moment, old girl.”

Fírí dismounted from her roan, landing with both feet on the cushy bed of moss and wildflowers. Pí‘oro guided the gray back to dry land and dismounted, then began untying the saddlebags and Zhíno. Fírí hesitated at the thought of taking the time to untie the bags, but they needed to sponge down the horses to cool them off and the saddlebags and her duffel would just get in the way--or wet. If the old man started to remove his saddle, though, she’d protest.

As Pí‘oro lowered Fírí’s ex-boyfriend to the soft ground, Fírí dropped her duffel of cash nearby. Holding the saddlebags, she asked, “Is there a sponge in here?”

The two horses, free of weight, began toward the pool again.

“No. Just use your hands,” Pí‘oro replied as he picked up his saddlebags and outstretched his hand toward Fírí. “Give me the bags.”

Fírí handed it over, and as the old man took the saddlebags up to the cave, she removed her shoes and socks, rolled up her pants, and waded into the knee-deep pool. The cool water sent a chill up her legs and spine. She had an urge to take a drink of the refreshing spring water, but not with the horses standing in it, she wouldn’t.

During the ride, Pí‘oro had made a comment about Zhíno saving his life, but Fírí didn’t really understand. If it was true, it would explain why the big man was helping Zhíno, but Fírí couldn’t figure out how it was possible. Zhíno had gone straight from wielding his gun to laying comatose, with no time to rescue anyone.

Pí‘oro returned to the clearing, heading for Fírí’s comatose ex-boyfriend.

Fírí asked him, “What happened between you and Zhíno? How did he save your life? Why are you helping him?”

The big man rubbed his forehead, a slight frown upon his face. “I . . . Névazhíno killed me.” He held up a hand, as if anticipating Fírí’s next question. “Just trust me. It happened.” His face twisted with anger. “The Zhéporé-spawn god took my life to heal Zhíno. And then Zhíno came to me in the afterlife and gave me his energy, his lifeforce, so that I could come back. And that must be why he’s now comatose.”

Pí‘oro held out his arms expansively, his expression calm once again. “Our souls have been joined. He brought me back to life. I must do everything possible to assist my brother.”

You were dead? Zhíno brought you back? Fírí’s head reeled. How did Zhíno do that? Where’d he get the power? She stared at the man in question as Pí‘oro lifted him and carried him up to the cave.

With both hands, she scooped up water onto her roan’s shoulders and rubbed it downward in a smooth motion. The horse’s body was hot to the touch, the hairs rough on her palms. She repeated the action, glad to have an anchor on the real world. The cool water, the hot flesh, the splashing drops.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Pí‘oro returning. He removed his boots and socks, and joined her in the pool, scooping water over his horse.

But my dream. Zhíno had come to her and apologized. His actions in her dream matched what the old man had said.

“Last night, I had a dream with Zhíno in it.” She closed her eyes, trying to bring it back. “It was so real, unlike any dream before. Zhíno apologized to me for yesterday’s insanity. He promised he’d protect me, just like he used to.”

“Just like he saved me.”

“Exactly.” Fírí reopened her eyes and focused on Pí‘oro’s kind, wrinkled face. “Something changed him.” Somewhere in that unconscious plane of existence, Zhíno had changed.

Pí‘oro cracked a smile. “For the better.”

She nodded. Yes, for the better, thank Vuzhí. But a smile did not come to her face. Fírí wanted to believe that Zhíno would be better once he awoke, but still. . . Life would be so much simpler without him, and right now, simple was what she needed.

(next page)

Monday, June 16, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 6

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Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré leaned back in the interrogation-room chair, chewing on his pen cap. The foreign kid wasn’t budging from his wild story and it all was holding together, just so long as you believed in miracles.

Bhanar looked at him expectantly, but Sétıpímo let him wait.

The pseudo-emperor’s story meshed with the rumors that had been whispered around Tuhanı for decades: Vata sacrificed animals to Névazhíno. The kid claimed the god was Zhíanoso, not Névazhíno, but that hardly mattered. It was unlikely he’d heard the rumors, anyhow. Sétıpímo had always assumed the rumors were merely part of the miners versus ranchers, Kínıtíní versus Névazhíno rivalry in the town, but perhaps there was some truth to the stories after all. The old girl had an aura of superiority and perfection that sometimes rankled others, no matter how genteel and nice she was, so it had seemed natural that they would single her out.

One thing was certain in Sétıpímo’s mind, however: Bhanar Narak was innocent. He hadn’t killed the Enforcer; he hadn’t been complicit in any of it. All his gun-waving had just been self-defense. The real perpetrators were the Narakamíníkan couple, Zhíno Zhudıro and Fírí Parızada. Before Sétıpímo could interrogate them, though, he would have to wait for the lawmen to catch them.

The detective pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “Wait here,” he commanded, the pen cap sticking out from between his teeth. He collected his notes and headed for the door.

If Vata truly was sacrificing animals, Sétıpímo would have to find the chapel. It apparently was a hidden room somewhere in their house. He didn’t want to arrest Vata, but the law is the law. Up till today, he’d only heard rumors--not enough to act on. Now that he had an eyewitness account, no matter how strange and mystical it sounded, Sétıpímo was compelled to search the Kılímos’ house for the chapel.

But that could wait until after the murder investigation.

He exited through the observation room to the main office.

They still needed to get into the Kılímos’ house to retrieve Pí‘oro’s body and do a cursory check of the gunfight in the kitchen, so Sétıpímo had plenty of cause to enter, but it just didn’t feel right to barge in on the grieving widow. Sétıpímo had held the lawmen outside through the night, but maybe it was now time to go in.

He’d like to get a warrant from Judge Ríko, however, just out of respect for the old girl.

Crossing between the desks, headed straight towards him, walked little Séara.

The detective stopped and pulled the pen cap from his mouth. “Has Tamé got the autos back here yet?” Another item on Sétıpímo’s list: a thorough search of the automobiles used by Zhudıro and Parızada.

Séara halted a meter away, her hands behind her back. She nodded sideways. “One so far. The sedan.”

Sétıpímo scowled. What’s taking him so long? “Very well. Tell him to get the cruiser next. Bhanar Narak is free to go. He might not want his pickup towed here.”

The corners of Séara’s mouth turned ever-so-slightly upward, joined by a crinkling near the eyes. “Yes, sir.” Apparently she had taken a liking to the famous foreigner.

Sétıpímo took a step around the girl, but stopped. “Help get him processed and out of here. When he leaves, try to avoid the front door. There’s quite a crowd out there.”

As he headed for his desk to get the search-warrant paperwork, the detective grinned to himself. If little Séara was so enthralled by the pseudo-emperor, the least he could do was let her spend some time with him. At least something good might come from the day.

(next page)

Friday, June 13, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 5

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha simmered as she drove back to the precinct headquarters. She wanted to do the best job she could to help catch the murderer, but Vomıvé refused her assistance. The constabulary radio overflowed with information of the search, how they were looking under every boulder and inside every cluster of bushes for any sign of the suspects, but nobody had found a Ahísıhíta-damned thing so far. The desert was just too big and the search party was just too small.

She pulled into the precinct parking lot, slowing just enough to let a pair of scavenging reporters get out of her way. It wasn’t until after she passed through the gate into the back lot that she realized that Tamé had disappeared.

Séara parked her cruiser and got out, slamming the door. She couldn’t call him; he didn’t have a radio in his truck. “He was right behind me,” she muttered. “What could’ve happened to him?”

Crossing her arms, she stared at the chainlink gate.

She should have been paying better attention to the tow-truck driver. Vomıvé had been explicit in directing Séara to keep an eye on Tamé, and she’d blown it. How was that for doing the best job she could?

The seconds stretched into minutes.

Séara grimaced. She’d have to go looking for him.

She threw open the cruiser door, plopped inside, and yanked the door shut. Just as she started the engine, the front end of Tamé’s tow truck appeared on the other side of the gate.

Séara took a relaxing deep breath and turned off the auto’s engine. She’d have to chew out Tamé, but at least no one would be chewing her out.

As Tamé guided the suspects’ brown sedan into a parking stall, Séara marched to the building entrance.

A thought crossed her mind. Since she was here, perhaps she could go check on Emperor Bhanar, to see how he was doing. Pí‘oro’s death had hit him hard, too, she could tell. Maybe she could talk to him for a bit, get him to let his feelings out. Being stuck in a cell all night by himself with no one to talk to must have been torture for the young man.

At the building doors, Séara paused and turned back. Tamé was out of his truck, lowering the automobile to the pavement.

Séara called out to him, in her most authoritative voice, “You’d better come inside, Tamé.”

The middle-aged man waved a hand at her, glancing over his shoulder.

Séara spun on her heel and went in. Behind the desk across the small lobby, Lawman Laparıpasamé glanced up and said, “Hi, Séara. How’s it going out there?”

She could hear the same staticky voices of the constabulary radio as she’d been listening to in the auto. Tépíto had it on, at the desk.

“You know as much as I do, from the radio.” Séara crossed the lobby and leaned on the chest-high desk. She meant to ask about the status of Bhanar, but a different question crossed her lips first. “What are you doing manning the back desk?”

The dark-haired lawman shrugged. “Zhulızho has his hands full with the reporters at the front, so he asked me to cover for him.”

While Tépíto spoke, the tone of the radio reports grew more urgent. The two lawpersons stopped to listen.

“. . . taking ‘no’ for an answer. Should I apprehend?”

“Negative, lawman. Control her by other means.”

“--get some help here?”

“Group five, going to assist--”

“--three, going to assist home base.”

Tamé burst into the lobby, the metal door rebounding off the doorstop. “I’ve delivered the Sonla and still have to go back for the other two.” He removed his green ball cap and scratched his scalp, glaring at Séara. “What do--”

“Shhh!” Séara waved her hand for him to shut up.

On the radio, a lawman was saying, “--down, Irézí, just calm down. You’ll get your story--”

“Oh,” said Tépíto, straightening up.

Séara turned her thoughts away from the radio, as well. It was just that stupid television reporter, Irézí what’s-her-name, causing trouble.

Séara stuck out her chin at Tamé. “What happened? Did you stop at the pub for another drink? You were supposed to stay right behind me.”

The tow-truck driver scowled, shaking his head. “What in Pétíso’s hells are you talking about? You ditched me back there! How am I supposed to keep up with you when I’m towing a fifteen-hundred-kilogram automobile and you’ve got the pedal floored on your souped-up cruiser?” Tamé huffed and rolled his eyes.

Séara didn’t think she’d been going that fast, but she had to admit she hadn’t been paying attention to her speed.

“Fine, whatever.” She took a step back and gestured at the desk. “Just fill out your paperwork and keep working.”

Tamé shot her a dirty look as he approached the desk.

Tépíto started digging around for the appropriate forms. “Um. . . Hold on a second.”

Séara couldn’t help him any, since she’d never worked the desk--too much responsibility to give to little Séara--which meant this was her chance to check on Bhanar.

“Can you buzz me through, Tépíto?” she asked, jabbing a thumb at the locked door to the rest of the building.

“Sure,” the lawman replied and absentmindedly pushed the door-release button.

The lock buzzed and Séara pulled it open, heading in search of the only other person around who had cared about her old friend’s death.

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Thursday, June 12, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 4

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Vata Kılímí prayed to her god, “O Névazhíno, God of Animals, Creator of All Creatures, Love of the Universe, I need Your aid.”

The elderly woman stood just inside the circle of flaming braziers, her arms outstretched, her head tilted back, and her eyes closed.

“I have always been faithful to You. Surely this is evident to One as wise and powerful as You are. I would not request Your assistance if it was not in Your service, as this most certainly is.”

In the back of her mind, Vata noticed the lack of Névazhíno’s presence, but she did not let this slow her prayer.

“During Your healing of my loyal husband and the young man, Zhíno, it is apparent that Zhíno’s spirit took control of my husband’s corporeal form. I wish to give You a sacrifice for Your assistance in returning my husband to control of his own body, but I cannot, for the police have surrounded our house.”

Her arms grew weak, but she did not let them lower. Usually, by this point in a prayer, Névazhíno’s spirit buoyed her soul and gave her energy. Then again, she usually started the prayer with a sacrifice.

“O Névazhíno, Love of the Universe, I beseech You: please distract the police so I may obtain a sacrifice suitable for You. You are the most noble of all the gods. I have all my trust in You. My husband’s life is in Your hands.”

With that, Vata brought her hands together in front of her chest and lowered her head.

She held that position while she listened to the universe. Névazhíno remained absent.

After a moment, Vata sensed increasing agitation coming from the policemen’s souls. She wasn’t well connected to them, so she wouldn’t normally sense their emotions, but when scores shared the same feeling, it came strong to her. She concentrated, trying to divine their exact situation. Had they found Pí‘oro? But no, their essences were moving southward, toward the front of the house, toward the driveway, leaving the area within sight of the back yard completely abandoned.

Vata broke her pose and shuffled at her top speed toward the hidden exterior door. Whatever was occurring to draw the ire of the policemen, it was the distraction she needed. It was Vata’s prayer answered.

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Wednesday, June 11, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 3

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Pí‘oro Kılímo spotted the trees of Rosí Spring as he and Fírí crested a rise in the dusty desert. Side by side, their horses galloped down the slight slope, obviously relieved to be running downhill instead of up. Both horses were lathered heavily and would need to rest awhile once they reached the shelter of the trees. As soon as the horses were ready, they’d continue down the creek and circle around Tuhanı to throw off the police. When they got to the next town, he’d call his youngest son from a pay telephone to come pick them up. Pí‘oro grinned exuberantly at the thought of the grand adventure they were on: running from the police, helping his soul brother escape, living life to its fullest.

“We moved in together when I was sixteen,” said Fírí, continuing her story about Zhíno. “In Rívorí years, that would be about nine, I guess. Anyway, we had to lie to our landlord about our ages, tell them we were both eighteen. Zhíno had almost enough money to get by--probably from dealing drugs, but he wouldn’t let me know--but we got late on the rent and were evicted after a year or so.”

“Then you went back to your parents?” asked Pí‘oro. As they neared the edge of the trees, he reined in his horse to a trot.

Fírí did the same with her roan as she shook her head. “No, no. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t stand to be around them. They didn’t even care I was gone.”

Pí‘oro frowned. It seemed so odd to him that her parents wouldn’t care about her. How any parent could abandon their child just flabbergasted Pí‘oro. Devotion to one’s children was the most natural and strongest urge for any parent. He and Vata loved their three sons infinitely and they returned the love in kind. Their bond with little Séara was nearly as strong, and she wasn’t even blood. Her only relation was through the Névazhíno priestesshood, and yet they loved her like a true granddaughter. It pained Pí‘oro to consider their love was based upon a foundation of evil that was the God of Animals, but love it still was.

And now Séara and Vata were on opposite sides of the law, with the police surrounding the house, likely to burst in at any moment and discover Pí‘oro gone. He almost hoped Vata got hauled away to prison for her dealings with the cruel god. The Union had outlawed animal sacrifices for a good reason.

He slowed his gray horse to a walk and rubbed his forehead. “Well, we’re here.”

“Is this the creek?” Fírí glanced around at the abrupt transition from desert to green forest.

Pí‘oro nudged his gray mare a few meters ahead toward the hidden trail in the bushes. “Yes. This is Rosí Spring, the start of the creek. A good spot to water the horses and hide for a short while.”

He had wanted to protect Vata from the evil truth about Névazhíno, but maybe that had been the wrong decision. If she still trusted that murderous god, then she would probably turn to Him for help with the police. It was entirely possible that the capricious Névazhíno would strike Vata dead on a whim.

But no, Vata and Névazhíno were together tight. She was His, and He was hers. The god wouldn’t hurt her. And if He did, perhaps she deserved it, just for forcing Pí‘oro to pray to that Zhéporé-spawn for the vast majority of his life.

His mare nosed her way into the bushes, knowing the trail as well as her rider. Once through the initial layer of branches, the trail sharply descended diagonally down into a gully. The undergrowth thinned out as the trees grew taller, so that Pí‘oro could almost see the creek ten meters below.

Fírí let her horse follow Pí‘oro’s. “So anyway, we lived on the streets for most of that year, spent the winter in a homeless shelter, that sort of stuff.” She kept talking about her life in Narakamíníkı.

Pí‘oro deeply inhaled the moist, organic air--a refreshing change from the typical desert dryness. Despite his best efforts to concentrate on Fírí’s story, his thoughts drifted back to the first time he and Vata had gone to the spring, before they married. They had gladly given in to the temptations created by such a lush, verdant environment. The sex was great.

Sharply, the blonde said, “But Zhíno took care of me through all of that. He always protected me, shielded me from all the unpleasantness.”

She hesitated, as if a thought caught her attention.

Pí‘oro glanced back to see Fírí staring blankly into the trees, as if remembering some particular incident where that innocent, young Fírí of the past needed a strong man’s protection from the undesirables of the street. And Zhíno had been the man to protect her, just as he had aided Pí‘oro.

“Zhíno acts tough,” commented Pí‘oro, “but when it comes right down to it, he’s a kind-hearted soul. He saved my life and it sounds like he saved yours, too.”

Quietly, the blonde replied, “More than once.”

They let those be the last words for the remainder of their descent into the gully.

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Tuesday, June 10, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 2

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Umo Amuéné parked his auto across the street from the Pívo County Constabulary’s Tuhanı Precinct Headquarters. He wasn’t worried about being spotted by the police since the parking lot in front of the building was overflowing with news reporters. Various television stations’ news crews and some newspaper and magazine reporters and photographers milled around, talking in small groups between their brightly blazoned vans and automobiles.

“What are they doing here?” whined Lango.

Umo scoffed. “They’re waiting for news on the pretend emperor.” It pained Umo to refer to His Royal Majesty in such a term, but he had a facade to maintain. “He’s being held here, remember?”

“Right, whatever.” Lango cracked his knuckles, one finger at a time.

A lone police cruiser pulled out of the precinct parking lot and turned eastward toward the Kılímo residence. There couldn’t be more than two or three policemen remaining inside the building. Umo and Lango could take them out with no difficulties, if it weren’t for the reporters.

Umo smoothed his pompadour as his eyes darted around the assemblage across the street.

A direct attack wouldn’t work. They’d have to play it smooth.

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Monday, June 9, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 1

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Chapter 18: Possessed, Obsessed



Vata Kılímí sensed the police swarming the desert around her house, faintly recognizing their animal spirits. None of them approached the house directly, and yet the animals of her menagerie in the back yard felt agitated. Between missing their morning feeding and the unusual activities of last night and at that moment, their agitation was completely understandable. It pained Vata to think she could do nothing to ease them. The police obviously did not want to arrest her yet, but they might get other ideas if she wandered around in the back yard for a half hour, feeding the animals, practically daring them to arrest her.

She had to do something to rescue Pí‘oro, and soon. But what? Zhíno had betrayed their help. It was the logical conclusion. It was the only answer that explained everything. During the healing, the young man had taken over Pí‘oro’s body as means to escape. Why else would Pí‘oro agree so readily to go traipsing across the desert with Fírí? Zhíno must have possessed Pí‘oro’s body.

But what could Vata do about it? She couldn’t call Éhara or any of the rest of the group for help. Even if the Union agents weren’t listening to her telephone line as Éhara suspected, there wasn’t much her old friend could do from outside. She wasn’t as powerful as Vata; she would need the chapel to focus Névazhíno’s strength.

A helicopter flew over the house, shaking the walls of the chapel. On the shelves, the ceremonial knives and matchboxes and other assorted items rattled around.

She had to call upon her god. The Love of the Universe would surely be able to help her--and be willing to help her, His faithful servant and priestess.

Vata stepped toward the circle of flaming braziers, the dirt floor cold and gritty on her bare feet.

The only way to surefirely attract Névazhíno’s attention was to sacrifice an animal spirit to Him. Vata wrung her hands together. It had to be a large animal, to garner His goodwill. With the horses gone, stolen by Zhíno and Fírí, that left the cows. Vata would have to sacrifice a cow.

She began shuffling her way towards the back door.

What if the police break in during the ceremony? A grim smile passed briefly across her face. I’ll have to pray to Névazhíno that doesn’t happen.

Leading a cow through the hidden exterior door would surely draw their attention, however.

Vata stopped, halfway down the hallway. She needed a distraction.

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Tuesday, April 15, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 17, page 8

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha drove her cruiser out East Crater Road behind Tamé’s towtruck. They were almost to the Kılímos’ house, almost back to the site of Pí‘oro’s brutal murder by Séara’s fellow lawpersons and the Colonial Enforcers. She forced thoughts of the kind old man out of her head, lest she resume crying.

Cruisers lined both sides of the highway, announcing their arrival at their destination. “I hope there aren’t any other crimes in the county today,” Séara muttered, “because it looks like the entire constabulary is here.” She pulled off the road behind the last cruiser while Tamé started turning his truck around in the middle of the road to get lined up with the first automobile.

Séara closed her auto door behind her and strode along the road toward the Kılímos’ driveway. The sun hung low in the sky ahead of her, not hot enough yet to worry about. Today did look like it would be another typical late-summer scorcher, though. Perhaps even hot enough to burn the memory of Pí‘oro’s final screams clear from her brain.

“Concentrate,” she told herself. “Help find the other suspects, the murderers of Enforcer Sıvího.” It was the least she could do, if she couldn’t yet make Pí‘oro’s killers pay.

Up towards the house, through the bushes, she caught glimpses of Senior Lawman Vomıvé directing the lawpersons and Enforcers. As she started up the gravel driveway toward him, Séara noticed that the constabulary’s equestrian squad hadn’t arrived yet; no horse trailers were in sight. Surely the horse-mounted lawpersons would be ideal for a desert-wide search.

Séara waited several meters away for Vomıvé to finish answering an Enforcer’s question before she stepped closer and reported. “Sir, Tamé is hooking up the first auto now. He knows his instructions to tow the two civilian autos and the damaged Enforcer cruiser. I request to assist in the search for Zhíno Zhu--”

“No,” Vomıvé interrupted, shaking his head. “I need you to keep an eye on Tamé. Make sure he doesn’t shirk and go back to bed.” He grimaced with the left side of his face. “Or the tavern.”

“Yes, sir.” Séara caught a sigh in her throat before it could escape. Maybe Vomıvé had read her report from last night, after all, and this was just his way of punishing her. No, he’s always given me the menial tasks.

The senior lawman waved a dismissive hand, scowling at her. “What are you waiting for? Go.”

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Monday, April 14, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 17, page 7

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Zhíno Zhudıro was nothing.

Giving his lifeforce to Pí‘oro had been the hugest mistake of his life--or was it the hugest mistake of his death?--and yet, he did not regret it. He had successfully helped the man who had given his own lifeforce to Zhíno. The god Névazhíno had taken Pí‘oro’s life and given it to Zhíno. Zhíno had merely returned it to its rightful owner. What else would one do for a brother animal?

Besides, he wouldn’t have to face the police or Gogzhuè if he never returned to their reality. He would be forever safe in this nothingness of nothingness.

It was excruciatingly boring, however.

After a few agonizing eons, Zhíno heard something. He knew he hadn’t imagined it. Nothing he imagined--neither sounds nor images--had danced before his mind. Just void. Until now.

He concentrated. Was that a voice? Was someone in this void with him?

He lashed about in the void, searching, with no change. No one was there.

But then he heard the voice again. A female voice. Or was it male?

“Hello?” Zhíno called.

Struggling to listen, he could almost discern words. Almost, but not quite.

He kept trying.

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Sunday, April 13, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 17, page 6

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Emperor Bhanar adjusted his position on the cold metal chair. The interrogation room was decorated along the same theme as the holding cells. Concrete and steel. Nazhoro-ugly yellow paint. The room had two doors: one to the holding-cell hallway and one beside a one-way mirror, presumably to a listening room, just like on television.

The second door opened. Bhanar took a deep breath to calm his nerves. In walked a fat, balding man in an unstylish tweed jacket and paisley necktie. Bhanar thought he recognized him from when he was being hauled off by the cute policewoman, Nulıpésha. It was too bad she wasn’t the one interrogating him. This old Sorosotuzho didn’t look nearly as friendly; and Bhanar wished he could have more time to comfort Nulıpésha on the death of Pí‘oro.

The detective’s cold, gray eyes never wavered from studying Bhanar as he waited for the door to close behind him.

Bhanar’s mind flashed to wondering how Vata was coping with Pí‘oro’s death. He hadn’t seen much of their interaction, but he was sure that the death of one of an old couple like that would hit the other really hard. Pí‘oro may have been acerbic and treated Bhanar like a little kid most of the time, but surely his wife loved him dearly. Hopefully someone was there to comfort her. Maybe Nulıpésha was able to go be with her. That would be best.

The detective scraped the chair opposite Bhanar away from the table and sat down. Still watching the emperor with his piercing gaze, he laid out some papers and a notepad in front of him and cleared his throat.

Bhanar refocused on his own situation. Before the detective spoke, Bhanar said, “I want a lie-detector test.” He used the Zhuphíoan phrase, hoping it was close enough to Sarıman.

The detective narrowed his eyes momentarily. “We’ll get to that, if need be. I just want to talk to you for a while, first.”

“No, I need to prove I am innocent. I need the lie-detector test.” This old detective wasn’t going to trust Bhanar, he could tell.

Rubbing his chin with a sausage-like thumb, the detective replied, “Thank you for your desire to cooperate, but we don’t need the lie-detector test, just yet. Now. . .” He paused to find a certain place in his notes, although it seemed unnecessary. “Tell me what happened last night.”

Bhanar grumbled, glaring at the fat man. Careful, the imperial voice inside his head told himself. This detective holds power over you. Treat him with respect. Bhanar’s imperial voice sounded far too much like his father for his liking, but it was correct.

He straightened up in his seat and relaxed his scowling face. As the detective held his ballpoint pen poised above a blank section of his notepad, Bhanar began, “I drove along the highway, going to a motorbike race tomorrow--today. I was late. I was lost.” He took a breath. “And then Zhíno shot at me.”

The detective let Bhanar ramble on, telling his story as best he could in the Sarıman language, but when he got to the part about being hit by the police cruiser driven by Zhíno, the old detective interrupted.

“You do realize that your legs are not actually broken, don’t you?” The bald man smiled around the pen cap he was chewing.

Bhanar sighed. “Yes, sir.” He had known this was coming, but it was still a discussion he had wished he could avoid. “Zhíanoso healed my legs. The old woman, Vata Kılímí, called Him. I am the emperor of Narakamíníkı and Sarıma, so He responded.” But hadn’t the god said that Bhanar had called Him? Maybe Zhíanoso meant “you” to mean Bhanar and Vata together.

The detective tapped his pen on the desk, squinting with one eye. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” Bhanar replied without hesitation. “Completely.” There was no other explanation possible. His legs had been broken. Now they weren’t. “It was a miracle.”

The old man’s steely gray eyes studied Bhanar with all the warmth of Nazhoro, God of Coldness. The emperor held his jaw tight, refusing to rescind his statement. If the detective didn’t believe the truth, it was his own Pétíso-damned fault for not letting Bhanar take the lie-detector test. Bhanar glared at him. This whole situation was unforgivable, but Bhanar didn’t truly blame the detective. He wasn’t even inside when the police killed Pí‘oro. No, this mess was all Zhíno’s fault. That bastard was going to get his due, Bhanar promised himself.

. . . But only if this detective let Bhanar go.

The bald man tapped his pen a few times softly on his notepad and moistened his lips. “Continue your story.”

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Friday, April 11, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 17, page 5

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Umo Amuéné heard the automobile telephone buzz. Umo opened the driver’s door and reached in to grab the receiver. The cord stretched to the doorway. Lango stopped pacing and fiddled with his gold chains on the other side of the auto, watching Umo with his beady eyes.

The sun had risen fully, beginning the daily bake of the ochre desert. Umo and Lango’s black jumpsuits would no longer be comfortable in a few hours. Hopefully this job would be resolved by then.

“Yes?” Umo asked.

A male voice, which Umo recognized as Gogzhuè’s secretary, answered. “The police are at the residence in full force. The search has begun.”

“Yes,” replied Umo.

“Trust in Èmmwımwènhı.”

“Hallowed be his name.” Umo replaced the receiver in its cradle, then straightened back up. To Lango, he said, “Time to go to town.”

They quickly climbed into the auto. Umo started the engine and began driving back to the highway.

Lango toyed with his chains, the tiny clinking barely audible over the rumble of the tires on the dirt-and-rock road.

His Majesty, Emperor Bhanar, was being held in custody for the murder of the Colonial Enforcer, resisting arrest, and a variety of other dubious charges. Umo entirely doubted the validity of every charge, except perhaps resisting arrest. You can’t blame an innocent man for protesting unlawful detainment.

If Umo were able to capture Zhudıro, instead of killing him like Gogzhuè wanted, then he could hand him over to the police as the true murderer. He would have to explain himself to Gogzhuè and ask forgiveness--and lose face in the process--but at least he would save the emperor from the humiliation of imprisonment.

First things first, though. They had to get the weapons, and that meant heading into Tuhanı and possibly raiding the very building where His Majesty was being held.

As Umo steered his automobile back onto the paved highway, he reminded Lango, “When we pass the Kılímo residence, look inconspicuous.”

The greasy man eyed Umo. “Then are you going to remove your sunglasses? The sun is up now, but we are headed west, after all.”

Umo didn’t turn his head, but could sense Lango’s smirk. Wearing sunglasses was exceptionally reasonable in daytime in the desert, despite wherever the sun sat in the sky. On the other hand, Umo wouldn’t want to risk the chance that the same county lawman who had seen him last night would see him again and recognize him as such, and thus become suspicious.

He wished he had thought to drive to a different location to wait through the dark hours of the night, so they could return to Tuhanı from the north instead of passing by the Kılímo house again. On the other hand, it would be good to check up on the situation there.

When their automobile crested a rise in the road, the Kılímo residence and its swarm of police and police vehicles came into view in the distance. Umo removed his sunglasses, folding them awkwardly with one hand and setting them on the seat between his legs. He could feel Lango’s gaze intent and intense upon his eyes. Not that there was anything unusual about Umo’s eyes--they were ordinary and brown--but it was the first time he had removed his sunglasses in Lango’s presence.

Umo gripped the steering wheel with both hands and maintained his forward vision. As they approached the cluster of police vehicles, he slowed down the auto, as any normal person would do, and glanced around.

Only a handful of police were in the immediate area, most looking bored and a couple looking busy. Amongst the police vehicles, the brown Sonla and the blue truck still sat alongside the road.

“Why haven’t they towed those yet?” Lango muttered.

“They have bigger problems to deal with,” Umo replied as they rolled away from the scene. And yet he was thinking the exact same thing. Shouldn’t the autos be locked up at the local precinct? He hoped the police had removed any evidence they had found--the weapons, for instance--and had taken them to the precinct headquarters. Otherwise, a raid on that building would be completely and utterly futile.

Umo replaced his sunglasses.

If he couldn’t find the guns, he might have to break out Emperor Bhanar, just to accomplish something.

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Thursday, April 10, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 17, page 4

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Vata Kılímí set down her teacup, the tea untouched. It was the prefect temperature, but she couldn’t drink. Instead, she laced her fingers together and placed her hands on the table. The creases of her knuckles still held dog blood, dried and black.

How could she have let her husband go off into the desert with the blonde girl and the comatose Zhíno? Pí‘oro was completely unprotected out there. He should have stayed in the chapel. No one had ever been in the chapel without their permission, without them showing the visitor the entrance. No one would ever be in the chapel without their permission . . . unless Ríko caved to the constabulary’s demands for a search warrant. No matter how hidden, an entrance can be found if you look hard enough.

She unlaced her fingers and reached for the teacup, tapping the thin, ceramic handle with a short fingernail. Abruptly, she stood. The wood chair’s feet stuttered on the vinyl floor.

She had to clear the chapel of evidence of the sacrifices. Ríko couldn’t stop the constabulary forever. If they discovered the sacrifices, it would mean the end of her mission. It would mean the end of her family’s multi-generation worship of Névazhíno. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t let the government win. For her mother and her grandmother and all the relations before them, Vata had to hide, disguise, or destroy the ceremonial knives, the braziers, the altar, and the chapel itself.

Vata hurried across the front room, her deerskin slippers shushing on the carpet. The police were gathering in the driveway--hopefully for a search of the desert, but she’d certainly have little warning when they came to search her house.

If only Pí‘oro were there, he’d have the chapel cleaned up in no time. He was so strong, he’d have all the knives buried and all the walls painted in twenty minutes or so. How was she ever going to manage without him?

Breathing hard, she shuffled across the entryway tiles.

Why had he left? It was so unlike him, to put someone else’s needs ahead of his own--without coercion, that was. It was almost as if Zhíno was making the decisions, not Pí‘oro. When they were simultaneously healed, could Zhíno’s spirit have relocated? Could Zhíno have taken over Pí‘oro’s body? It would explain why the young man lay comatose, but Vata had never heard of such a thing in her life.

A hand on the wall, she turned the corner in the hallway.

She racked her memory. Her mother had never mentioned possessions, had she? It was seeming more and more that her mother had not known as much as it had appeared at the time.

In a sacrifice, the recipient gets the energy, but the animal’s spirit is released for Névazhíno and Pétíso. Vata’s mother had never explained the possibility of a healing without a sacrifice, much less two at once. The teachings never covered dual healings of any kind.

Anything was possible.

Vata opened the linen closet door, released the latch in the shelves, and pushed the shelf door into the chapel. The braziers flickered, sputtering slightly, but all else was as quiet and still as a tomb.

She was in uncharted territory. She had to trust her instincts, and her instincts told her something was wrong with her husband. Her instincts told her that he wasn’t in control of his own body. Her instincts told her she’d have to fight to get him back.

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Wednesday, April 9, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 17, page 3

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Fírí Parızada actually felt happy for the first time in, what . . . years? She hadn’t been horseback riding since she was a teenager, since she moved away from home. She didn’t have the money to keep a horse--at least she didn’t until she embezzled the bundle tied to the saddle, right behind her.

In a similar position on Pí‘oro’s gray horse, Zhíno’s unconscious body bounced slightly with the rhythm of the gallop.

It was good to be on the move again, after all night cooped up in the old couple’s house, but Fírí wished she didn’t have to still be near Zhíno. He was just one extra complication that she didn’t need. True, it would be wonderful to have the old Zhíno by her side--better than the old Zhíno. A new and improved Zhíno. But she still didn’t trust the Kılímos’ assurances or her dream-that-wasn’t-a-dream. No, she would be better off without that plague-ridden spawn of Zhéporé.

Ahead of her, Pí‘oro slowed his horse to a trot, then turned sharply left onto a different trail. Fírí nudged her roan to follow. It was a good horse; it hadn’t resisted her at all.

Pí‘oro accelerated back to a gallop, and they were off, flying through the desert, northwest this time. The sun hung low behind their right shoulders, casting long shadows ahead and to the left. The steady wind blew from the west, which meant Fírí had to ride with her left eye squinting.

Trails crisscrossed the desert, going every which way through the brush and boulders, and the old man was making use of most of the paths for their journey. If Pí‘oro didn’t take the corners so authoritatively, Fírí would think that he was just turning at random.

“Pí‘oro?” Fírí called.

He reined in slightly so she could ride parallel. “Yes?”

“Even with all this zigzagging, won’t the police be able to track us?” She had to almost yell to get her voice to carry against the wind and over the pounding hooves.

Staring straight ahead, the big man bellowed, “The wind will take care of that. Look how the dust is blowing around on the ground ahead of us.” He pointed vaguely forward as they galloped along. “Anything we stir up will just get blown away and any holes we make will just get filled in. It won’t be impossible to track us, but it won’t be easy.”

“Oh.” Fírí was used to riding in the forests and grassy fields of Mínıhotı, where footprints stuck around for a while.

Pí‘oro glanced her way. “How much riding have you done?”

Enough so I’m willing to risk going my own way if I sense you’re about to doublecross me.

She shrugged. “Almost every week as a kid. Nothing recent, though.”

The old man nodded, his eyes straight ahead. The wind flapped his brown plaid shirt behind him.

“You’re much better than I would have guessed.” He flashed a smile at Fírí.

“Thanks,” she called into the wind.

Fírí relaxed a bit. Once they reached the creek that Pí‘oro said they were heading for, perhaps she’d relax some more. When they successfully crossed under the highway bridge without detection, perhaps she wouldn’t be expecting a doublecross at any moment.

“Where did you grow up?” The old man seemed genuinely interested.

“Mínıhotı,” she replied. “I’m not quite used to the desert yet.”

“When we get to the gully, you’ll feel more at home,” he declared loudly. “Plenty of trees and water.”

“Do the horses have experience riding down creeks?” It didn’t seem like desert horses would necessarily need to ride through water much in their lives. Up in the forests of Mínıhotı, on the other hand, the flat-bottomed creeks were often the best riding trails. Much better than fighting through the brush.

“A little,” he called. “Don’t worry about it.”

Pí‘oro nudged his horse faster, ending the conversation as he rode ahead.

Plenty of other stuff to worry about, anyway. Like Zhíno.

Fírí watched her unconscious ex-boyfriend flop along on the back of the old man’s horse. She needed a plan when he awoke, if he didn’t turn out to be reformed Zhíno, if he truly was as nasty and evil as ever. Fírí needed an escape plan.

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Tuesday, April 8, 2008

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 17, page 2

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Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı awoke to clanging steel.

A man’s voice bellowed, “Up and at ’em!” or something similar that Bhanar couldn’t quite understand.

The young man moaned and rolled over on the cot so he could see. A policeman banged on the metal bars with a spoon. He held a tray of food--or at least an opaque bowl and cup.

“All right,” Bhanar muttered, but it was swallowed by a yawn.

He pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes.

The policeman set the food tray--including the spoon he’d been banging on the bars--on the floor and slid it into the cell.

“The detective wants to interview you in ten minutes. Do you wish to make a telephone call before then?”

Ten minutes? I’ll still be asleep. Telephone call?

Bhanar stretched his neck to one side and then the other. He didn’t need to call anyone. Who would he call? His father? That would hardly be the imperial thing to do. No, he had to take care of this himself.

“No telephone call, thank you.”

The policeman grunted and stalked off, exiting through the same door at the right end of the hallway that Bhanar had been brought in through.

Bhanar stood and crossed the cell to the food tray. It looked like instant oatmeal in the bowl, with milk in the cup. Milk builds strong bones. Bhanar thought of the television advertisements. How many more times would I have broken my bones if I hadn’t drunk milk as a kid? He took the tray back to the bunk and set it on the mattress.

When he saw the detective, Bhanar would ask for a lie-detector test. He could then prove his innocence and move forward with catching Zhíno.

Grabbing the bowl and spoon, Bhanar shoved a large scoop of oatmeal in his mouth. He needed his energy for the day. The oatmeal stuck to the roof of his mouth, but wasn’t too bad. Maple cinnamon flavor.

He paced the small cell as he chewed, bowl in hand.

After I get out, maybe I can do something about Pí‘oro’s death, too. Somebody needed to be held accountable, and that somebody was probably in the police force.

It’s what Nulıpésha would want.

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