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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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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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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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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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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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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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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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 17, page 1

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PART IV: INTO THE WILDERNESS

Chapter 17: Rise and Shine



Tamé Vékídıpaíro’s head pounded with agony at every knock on his front door. Who the plagues needed him this Pétíso-damned early in the morning?

He shuffled down the hallway, still wearing his coveralls from the day before. He had one eye half open, the other fully closed. Even with the lights off, it was too bright inside his house to open both eyes. Píríuso, damn Yourself and Your sun.

The pounding on the door grew more fervent.

“Coming!” Tamé yelled, instantly regretting it as his brain reverberated with pain.

The knocking stopped.

Thank Vuzhí! He veered away from the front door towards the kitchen. Now where’s that aspirin?

Last night’s poker game had done him bad, in more ways than one. Tamé groaned. He never should have bet it all on an Animal Month Pair. More than all, actually. Tamé now owed his cousin Mapé more money than he had in the bank. He moaned again as he opened a cupboard door.

A muffled woman’s voice filtered through the door behind him. “Mr. Vékídıpaíro, this is Lawperson Nulıpésha. You are needed on constabulary business.”

Why couldn’t they just call? Tamé glanced at his answering machine on the kitchen counter. The message light was blinking. Oh.

He grabbed the aspirin bottle out of the cupboard, poured several pills into the palm of his hand, and tossed two of them into his mouth. Without water, he swallowed them. He stared at the remaining two pills in his hand, considered the strength of his headache, and swallowed those pills as well.

“Mr. Vékídıpaíro?” The urgent knocking resumed.

As Tamé picked a semi-clean glass off the counter and filled it from the sink faucet, he called, “Coming!” again. He chugged the water and refilled the glass, then began walking toward the front door. He finally managed to open his second eye, just a crack.

“Mr. Vékídıpaíro, if you don’t open this door, I am authorized to force entry. Your services are required.”

His head still pounding, Tamé unlocked the door and opened it enough to show his face. He squinted into the brightness of the morning. On the front porch, Little Séara stood with her hands behind her back, her chin up. Her usual smile was absent.

“What?” Tamé grumbled.

“You need to come with me to the Kılímos’ house and tow some vehicles to the precinct headquarters. They’re evidence in the murder investigation.”

Tamé closed both his eyes in a scowl as he shook his head. “Murder?” Someone got killed? In Tuhanı?

“The one in front of your shop last night. Don’t you check your messages? Some Narakamíníkan broke into your yellow sports auto and went on a shooting rampage.”

Tamé leaned heavily on the door frame and cracked open his eyes. “You need my auto as evidence?”

He needed that RZ-7 to pay off Mapé. If it was now evidence, he’d never be able to sell it in time. Pétíso’s hells, the RZ-7 probably wouldn’t cover his debt to Mapé in any case. He might just have to sell the business. I really should quit gambling.

“No, that was just a break-in,” snapped Séara. “It’s nothing to do with the murder investigation now.”

A smile crept upon Tamé’s lips as he contemplated the scene last night. The thief wouldn’t have gotten very far in the RZ-7, what with the alternator missing.

Séara sounded annoyed. “So, come on. Let’s go.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keys.” Tamé pushed away from the door frame, turning to search for his keys, his shoes, his hat, his wallet. He didn’t remember a thing from when he arrived home last night. They could be anywhere. He rubbed his aching forehead and staggered back towards his bedroom.

Pétíso-damned constabulary. Are your problems really bigger than mine? He only had two days to pay Mapé. That was their poker group’s deal. Maybe he could borrow some cash from Képé, his cousin on his mother’s side. Képé had shady acquaintances. Maybe one of them could get Tamé some money quick.

But at what price? They wouldn’t give him cash for being such a nice person. No, Tamé would lose his business for sure.

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