Guns and Gods

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

2008-07-24T07:50:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-07-22T07:44:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-07-21T07:49:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-07-18T07:46:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-07-17T07:46:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-07-16T07:47:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-07-15T07:43:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-07-14T07:52:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-07-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-06-20T07:51:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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

2008-06-20T07:49:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-06-18T07:46:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-06-17T07:52:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-06-16T07:50:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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)

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

2008-06-13T07:51:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-06-12T09:17:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-06-11T07:54:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-06-10T07:44:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-06-09T12:13:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-04-15T07:47:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.”

(next chapter)

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

2008-04-14T07:50:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-04-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.”

(next page)

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

2008-04-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-04-10T07:54:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-04-09T16:33:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-04-08T09:10:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

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

2008-04-07T11:58:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

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.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 8

2007-10-26T07:48:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Pí‘oro Kılímo grabbed a couple lengths of rope off a nail in the stable wall and reached for Fírí’s duffel bag.

“Give me that,” he whispered.

She shook her head as she took the roan horse’s bridle in her hand. “I’ll carry it ahead of me for now. Let’s get out of here.”

Pí‘oro shoved the rope in a saddlebag. He doubted she could ride with that bulky bag in her lap, but they didn’t have time to argue. He led the Zhíno-laden horse, a gray mare, out of the stable and through the back gate. Much to his surprise, Fírí successfully led the roan out of the yard right behind him.

“Put your left foot in that . . .” he began as he closed the gate.

Fírí deftly vaulted herself up into the saddle, her duffel already balanced on the horse’s back. Grinning widely, she whispered, “Come on, old man. Let’s go!”

Not quite the city girl I took her for.

Pushing through the lingering pain in his legs, back, and arms, Pí‘oro heaved himself on top of the gray, careful not to kick Zhíno, who was laid over the horse’s rump.

“That way?” Fírí pointed at the main trail northward.

“For now.” Pí‘oro tapped his horse’s ribs and she started walking.

Fírí flicked her reins and kicked the roan’s sides. The horse jumped forward into a gallop. Without a glance over his shoulder, Pí‘oro nudged his gray to chase.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, they tore up the sandy trail. The wind whipped their faces, cool and fresh.

Pí‘oro held back a whoop of joy because of the police, but the urge stayed strong in his chest. They were free. The adventure had just begun.

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 7

2007-10-25T07:58:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Séara Nulıpésha slapped her alarm clock several times before she realized that the repetitive shrill sound was actually her telephone ringing and not the clock. Her face still firmly implanted in her pillow, she reached for the telephone. Her hand found the receiver and she brought it to her, rolling her head slightly so she could mumble distinctly.

“Hello?”

“Nulıpésha, this is Senior Lawman Vomıvé.”

Séara’s heart started pounding heavy. Had he read her report? Was he about to discharge her? She rolled onto her back, fully awake. “Yes, sir.”

“Tamé Vékídıpaíro hasn’t towed the autos from the Kılímo house yet. Those vehicles are evidence. He’s not answering his telephone, either. Go get him.”

What was this about Tamé? Séara shook her head in confusion.

“Have you read my report from last night?”

Vomıvé snorted. “I don’t have time to be reading reports. Look. I don’t care if you have to drag that Nazhoro out of bed by force, but just get him.”

Vomıvé slammed down his receiver, leaving a ringing in Séara’s ear. She reached over to the nightstand and set her receiver in its cradle. Yawning profusely, she kicked away her sheet and blanket and stood.

She wasn’t fired. She had to work today.

Through the ten-centimeter gap in the curtains, she could see sunlight dusting the tops of the cottonwoods across the street, golden leaves rustling in the breeze.

After turning off her alarm clock, Séara trudged down the hall to the bathroom. If the vehicles had spent the night alongside the highway without trouble, they could wait a few minutes more.

Vomıvé knew that Séara’d had as little sleep as all the other lawpersons in Tuhanı, but he had called her, woken her up before her alarm rang. That’s just the way he thought. Give the menial tasks to Nulıpésha. It’s all that she can handle.

Well, if she wasn’t fired yet, she’d show him what she could handle. She’d be the best darned lawperson around. She’d help catch the guy who murdered the Enforcer. She’d do whatever it took to get that promotion to the equestrian squad.

She quickly washed her hands and ran back to her bedroom. Hurriedly, she pulled off her oversized t-shirt and changed into her black uniform. She strapped on her belt as she headed for the front door.

Vomıvé was insane to expect promptness from Tamé, but if Séara had to beat down the repairperson’s door and get him out of bed at gunpoint, she’d do it. For as long as she had a duty to the people of Tuhanı and Pívo County, she would fulfill that obligation to the best of her ability.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 6

2007-10-24T07:42:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Fírí Parızada lugged her duffel bag of shoes and cash across the front room to the kitchen. She’d worked hard to embezzle this money; she wasn’t about to leave it behind--especially if the police weren’t going to catch her with it.

The old man, Pí‘oro, had already carried Zhíno out to the stable. It was weird how their assurances of a changed Zhíno matched her dream-that-wasn’t-quite-a-dream. The old couple couldn’t possibly know about that. Maybe there was some truth to this magic, after all. Fírí didn’t have time to argue the point, anyway. She had to get out of there.

Vata stood at the large wooden table, preparing sandwiches. Oranges, bottles of water, and other, hidden items were already packed in leather saddlebags sitting open. The sandwiches looked to be all ham and cheese.

“I’m a vegetarian,” Fírí huffed. Why don’t people ever ask? Koro-brain hicks.

The old woman didn’t look up. “Then pick off the meat, dear.”

Ire rose in Fírí’s chest, but she held her tongue. The sun was almost up and the police would surely arrive any minute.

Vata wrapped the final sandwich in clear plastic and set the stack of five or six into a saddlebag, flipping the bag’s lid shut.

The back door opened and in snuck Pí‘oro.

“The horses are ready. Zhíno’s secured,” he whispered. His eyes focused on Fírí’s duffel. “What’s that?”

“My belongings. If you can take Zhíno, I can take this.”

She wasn’t about to tell them about the cash. Just because she trusted them to get her across the desert, it didn’t mean she had to trust them about anything else.

Pí‘oro grunted and turned to pick up the saddlebags off the table.

“Goodbye, darling.” A bag in each hand, the old man bent over to kiss his wife.

“Go in His name, dearest,” Vata softly replied.

Out the door, Pí‘oro and Fírí scurried. The farmyard, which had seemed so spooky at night, was now mundane in its simplicity. Faded-wood shacks, water basins, food troughs, a chainlink fence for the enclosure, and a wild variety of animals, from housecats to gazelles. The varied animals barely looked at the two humans as they trotted across the soft ground.

The cool air soaked through Fírí’s lungs, invigorating her. She was on the move again. It was good to be alive.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 5

2007-10-23T07:43:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Zhíno Zhudıro watched the swirling colors draw near and recede in the blackness. There was not much else for him to do.

Had he successfully communicated with Fírí? It had seemed like they’d had a conversation, but perhaps he had merely imagined it. She’d been her normal obstinate, Viti-tiwn self, that was for sure. Hopefully she was sincere in accepting his apology.

The purple light that was Pí‘oro approached Zhíno. The light seemed stronger--zippier--than before, as if the old man was energized and excited about something. Zhíno considered diving into the violet storm to attempt a conversation. If something exciting was happening, Zhíno wanted to know about it. This black void grew duller by the minute.

Zhíno zoomed toward Pí‘oro’s purple light, but the swirl receded. What the plagues? Is the old man avoiding me?

He accelerated, but the light dwindled away, leaving Zhíno alone in a featureless, colorless, everythingless void.

Plague of Ríhíví. Now what?

Nothing. He was surrounded by absolute nothing. The seconds and minutes dragged into eternity.

The colored lights had been boring at the time, but now they seemed as thrilling as galloping with the buffalo had been. If only he hadn’t given part of his lifeforce to Pí‘oro, he could still be cavorting through the worlds with the animal spirits.

Not now, though.

Now, he was utterly alone.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 4

2007-10-22T07:43:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré drank half his cup of coffee and clunked it down on his kitchen table. A few drops of the dark liquid splashed over the rim onto his sheets of notepaper. Sétıpímo absentmindedly blotted the drops with the heel of his hand.

The Enforcer had been shot at close range, which seemed to indicate he had been surprised, which would preclude the two rifles as murder weapons. Which left the handgun. The fingerprints on the semiautomatic belonged to one Zhíno Zhudıro of Narakamíníkı, who lived at the same address as Fírí Parızada, who owned the Sonla auto.

Pí‘oro’s story, as related by Lieutenant Nıgédazo, was checking out.

Sétıpímo lifted his breakfast plate and pulled papers out from underneath. He found his notes from his Nıgédazo interview and scanned them with one chubby finger.

Except for the broken legs.

The detective stabbed the last of a sausage link with his fork and stuffed it in his mouth.

Why on Rívorí would Pí‘oro lie about the foreign kid’s broken legs? And why, for that matter, would the kid claim his legs had been healed via miracle?

He swigged the remainder of his coffee, washing down the sausage.

Since Bhanar Narak had no twin, Nıgédazo had to be mistaken about his legs being broken. There was no other logical explanation. True, rumors had floated around the town for years about Vata’s supposed healing powers, but just because she was a devout worshipper of Névazhíno and helped people often, it didn’t mean there was any truth to the stories. Magical healings like that just didn’t happen. Narak’s claim of a miracle must be caused by stress and panic.

“Or the fact that he’s a foreigner and therefore can’t speak Sarıman worth gooseshit.” Which left the kid’s words open to Nigédazo’s mistranslation.

Sétıpímo had yet to talk directly to Narak, but he had seen him on television news reports before--far more often than he’d have liked.

The pseudo-emperor was probably innocent, but the detective certainly wanted to talk to him this morning. See if he’d calmed down and had a chance to rethink his miracle claim, or if he’d even made the claim at all.

Sétıpímo set his empty plate on a stack of file folders so he could spread out his notes. He pulled his tobacco can from his pocket and pinched a wad.

If Zhudıro had shot the Enforcer, he was probably the man stealing the auto from Tamé’s parking lot. But why would he need to steal an auto when he already had one? Why would he and Parızada have separated?

The detective shoved the wad of tobacco in his mouth and started chewing.

And why the plagues did they shoot at Narak?

Sétıpímo had a lot of answers, but he had even more questions piling up every minute. Zhudıro had to have been worried about something. Sétıpímo was missing a big piece to this puzzle.

It was a pity the Sonla’s trunk release lever was broken. They hadn’t been able to force the lid up, either. Perhaps an important clue lay inside.

Hopefully Tamé had gotten the autos to the precinct headquarters already. Knowing Tamé, however, it was more likely the towtruck driver was still in bed, sleeping off a hangover.

Sétıpímo spat into his spittoon with a dull clang. The sun was almost up. It was time for everyone else to arise, as well.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 3

2007-10-21T17:10:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Umo Amuéné stared at the northeasterly horizon as he leaned against the side of his automobile. The sky in that direction had passed indigo and sapphire and was turning grayish azure, with the first hints of apricot. The sun would be up soon.

In all likelihood, the police had the smuggled weapons in their possession. Zhudıro couldn’t be clever enough to hide them successfully and it seemed terribly unlikely that he’d be able to take them with him once he left his auto behind. And yet Gogzhuè had not mentioned any report of their finding. Therefore, the police were keeping quiet about the guns for some reason.

Lango paced back and forth alongside the auto, hemmed in by desert scrub brush and small boulders. He had cracked his knuckles till they wouldn’t crack anymore, but that didn’t stop him from pushing and stretching his fingers in the same manner.

“And the way they serve their tea? It’s uncivilized. No sugar? Hot? How can they stand--”

“Lango,” Umo drawled, “shut up.” Umo’s eyes never left the impending sunrise.

His partner thankfully stopped talking.

If the police had the weapons in the constabulary building, Umo and Lango would need to wait till the full-scale search began, so the police’s attention would be elsewhere. If Zhudıro was actually competent at hiding the weapons, Umo and Lango would need to wait till more autos populated the streets, so they wouldn’t be as conspicuous driving around town. And so they waited.

A gust of wind stirred the bushes, tugging at the folds of Umo’s jumpsuit and tousling his hair. He gently combed it back into place with one hand. Lango stopped pacing and used both hands to check his own hair, which was too highly gelled to have moved in the first place.

Gogzhuè had reported that the only person in police custody was a man named Bhanar Narak. It seemed so unlikely, and yet that was a unique name. There were no Naraks but the imperial family. There was no Bhanar Narak but the emperor himself. How in Pétíso’s hells had His Imperial Majesty gotten mixed up in this?

Emperor Bhanar was being held at the constable’s local office. Umo had to break him out. If he and Lango had to steal the weapons from there, they could surely help the emperor escape at the same time. Lango wouldn’t like it, but he’d follow orders.

The short and slimy man had resumed pacing, which led to a resumption of talking. “When Rívorí and all the worlds are united under Èmmwımwènhı’s law, only then will we have civilization. Only then will we have peace. Only then will we have common decency, morality, and obedience. Why can’t they see it? They need Èmmwımwènhı. They need Gogzhuè.”

Umo closed his eyes and pulled a handgun from a hidden pocket of his jumpsuit’s tunic. He pointed it at his pacing partner.

“Lango?”

The small man gulped and instantly quieted.

“Thank you.” Umo returned the gun to its holster.

Where was I? Umo opened his eyes and stared at the orange-tinged horizon. Rescuing the emperor. But would that help His Majesty? A fugitive’s life is not the life for an emperor. No, as much as it chafed him, Umo had to let His Majesty stay in jail.

How could he assist Emperor Bhanar, then? Pay his bail. Hire an attorney. Assure he’s proven innocent and released as quickly as possible.

Umo rubbed his jaw.

It would sure be nice to know what His Majesty was arrested for. Surely the police didn’t think he had anything to do with the Enforcer’s murder.

Umo had to pin the blame definitively on Zhudıro. It was all his fault, anyway, so it shouldn’t be too hard. He just hoped the constabulary was open to reason.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 2

2007-10-19T10:15:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Vata Kılímí ran the bathroom sink faucet, splashing cold water on her face with both hands. It was quarter till five o’clock, earlier than she typically arose. She usually had more than an hour’s sleep, as well, but Pí‘oro’s emotions had awoken her. He had said he would sleep in the front room, since the guest bed wasn’t large enough for both of them, but apparently he had woken up.

She dried her face and hands with a fluffy pink towel.

Pí‘oro’s emotions had changed abruptly from agitation to excitement. Something was happening that Vata couldn’t sleep through. He still had antagonism bubbling inside him, but it was deeper within than before.

She exited the bathroom, turning off the lights, and shuffled down the dark hallway. Vata smiled contentedly. The carpet was smooth and clean under her slippers.

What had excited Pí‘oro? The only things he got excited about these days were panelball games on the television and horseback riding. Vata pursed her lips. And being the center of attention while he complains about anything and everything. The house was too quiet for that, though.

As she crossed the front room toward the kitchen, she heard soft voices and movement from ahead.

“Dear?” she quietly called, announcing her presence.

Pí‘oro’s bulk filled the doorway, silhouetted by dim light coming from outside the windows. The sky was beginning to lighten, although true dawn was still most of an hour away.

“Good morning, darling,” greeted Pí‘oro with a chipper whisper.

Before Vata could ask a question, her husband held up his index finger and continued in a low voice, “I know you said to stay here, but I can’t. The police will get in here no matter what Ríko promised you. They still have this kitchen to examine and my body to collect.” He snorted a laugh. “And I can’t let Fírí die by herself in the desert, can I?”

You’re helping Fírí? For once, Pí‘oro seemed genuinely desirous of helping others, rather than grumpily doing what he knew was right.

Without Pí‘oro, though, Vata didn’t know if she’d be able to handle the chaos that would erupt. He was her ally, her support, her rock.

He was probably correct about the police, though. Ríko would have to let the lawmen inside if they pushed him. If they did a thorough search, perhaps they’d even find the chapel. No one could hide in there. Nothing incriminating could be left in there.

“What about Zhíno?” Vata asked.

“We’ll take him with us.”

“What?” hissed Fírí.

Pí‘oro turned toward the blonde girl, who was out of sight over by the refrigerator.

“I can’t abandon him--not after what we’ve been through.” His voice caught, as if he were going to say something further, but thought better of it.

He’s keeping Névazhíno and the afterlife from her.

Once Vata had made the decision to aid Zhíno, she couldn’t throw him to the police now, when he was in his most vulnerable state. It was odd, however, that Pí‘oro had joined the young man’s cause so fervently. He always backed Vata’s decisions, but that didn’t usually mean carrying them a step or four further. Pí‘oro’s experience in the afterlife with Névazhíno had obviously altered him, but it seemed as if he was altered in only one manner, that being his loyalty to Zhíno. It was almost as if part of Zhíno’s spirit had intertwined with Pí‘oro’s, as if the essence of the young man was somehow controlling part of her husband. But that’s crazy.

Vata stepped close behind her husband, so she could see Fírí. To them both, she said, “Yes, you should take Zhíno with you.”

Fírí opened her mouth to speak, but just shook her head slightly, large eyes wide.

“Please, dear.” Vata held out a calming hand toward the girl. “Zhíno may have attacked you, threatened you, killed a Colonial Enforcer, and shot at that poor foreign kid, but that’s all in the past. He has since seen the Love of the Universe. Névazhíno changes people.”

Pí‘oro nodded and softly growled, “Zhíno is a new man. Trust us.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 16, page 1

2007-10-18T19:48:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

Chapter 16: Light on the Horizon

Pí‘oro Kılímo studied Fírí as she mulled over his comments regarding Zhíno and the police. The left half of her face was bathed in pale light from the floodlights outside. Her lips puckered in a tight frown that also half-closed her eyes. Apparently, her brain was working at less than optimum. Pí‘oro’s whole body felt the same way, even though his brief rest had eased his pain somewhat. What time is it, anyway?

Abruptly, Fírí tilted her head to the side. Her straight, chin-length hair swung loosely back and forth.

“Where’s the back door?” she hissed.

Pí‘oro gestured toward the kitchen. “Back through there.”

The blonde girl started to push herself to her feet, her eyes looking the way he’d pointed.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Do you know where you’re going?”

The desert outside their back door was kilometer after kilometer of wilderness. A novice could easily get lost and die within a few days. Perhaps the daily afternoon thunderstorms at this time of year would keep her hydrated, but there were plenty of other ways for her to kill herself.

Fírí finished standing. “No. I just need to get out of here.”

Vata had assured Pí‘oro that their home was the safest place for him to hide, but he didn’t really believe it. Her friendship with the judge couldn’t keep out the police forever. He wasn’t going to let those incompetent Koro-heads try arresting him again for crimes he didn’t commit. If they were still few in number outside, now was the time for him to leave.

“I’ll go with you. I know this land. I know where we can hide. If necessary, I know how to put some distance behind us.” We’ll have to take Zhíno, too. Fírí wouldn’t like it, but Pí‘oro couldn’t abandon his soul-brother. Vata, however, should be able to handle herself. The police would question her, but she had done nothing wrong--except for the sacrifices, but they didn’t know about those.

The blonde girl stood stock still, staring at him, for several seconds. “Can we take your horse?”

Pí‘oro smiled. Adventure awaited them. “We have two.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 7

2007-10-16T07:45:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Fírí Parızada woke up. What’s that noise? A repetitive rasp filled the darkness. Where am I? This wasn’t her home. It didn’t smell right. Too much old-person scent.

She sat up, straining her eyes in the darkness.

The last thing she remembered was watching television in the living room after an argument with Zhíno. And before that, jumping off a cliff. . . ?

She rubbed her eyes with one hand. The other held a can of pepper spray. Think. This isn’t home. Where are you?

The rattling rasp sounded like heavy breathing--snoring, almost. Zhíno didn’t snore like that. Much too quiet to be him.

Her memories opened further back. She was in Sarıma, at an old lady’s house, in a bedroom, on the floor. But what about the television and Zhíno and the cliff? It must’ve been a dream, but it still felt so fresh and real to her that she had a hard time shaking it.

The snorer in the bed sounded like an old person, now that she thought about it. Weak, congested, loose, and flabby. It was probably Vata.

Fírí quietly stood and crept around the bed toward the door. The house was silent. No helicopter flew nearby. Perhaps the police had moved on, searching ever outward. If they weren’t around, now would be a good time to leave.

Slowly, she turned the doorknob and opened the door a crack. Darkness. Fírí slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her, and cautiously snuck down the dark hall in the direction opposite from the chapel. She felt along the wall with her left hand, holding the other out in front of her.

Her hand found a corner. She paused and listened. Silence. She rounded the corner and continued.

The dream haunted her. It felt like she had had an actual conversation with Zhíno, back at their house. It was a memory, not a dream. But that was impossible.

The carpet gave way to tile, and then the wall took another corner, opening into a room. Light filtered through the curtains to her right. Since it was still nighttime, those were probably the floodlights on the front of the house. Thanks to the light, otherwise-invisible furniture loomed around the edges of the room.

Were the police really gone? One way to check: peek out the window.

Fírí left the comfort of the wall and crossed the open room with her hands outstretched towards the shadows of furniture.

Her shin banged into a coffee table.

“Plague of Rékaré,” she cursed through tight lips.

Emanating from extremely close in the darkness, a deep moan culminated in a coughing fit.

Fírí froze, bent halfway over to grab her shin. Is that Zhíno? She backed away from the person and bumped into a television. Something slipped off the top and clattered to the floor behind the set.

Oh, plagues. If it was Zhíno, would it be the apologizing Zhíno from her dream or the murderous Zhíno from the chapel?

Fírí strained her eyes, looking for movement that might be an attack. The dark bulk of a couch occupied the area where the sound originated. Adrenaline raced up her back and flooded her brain, urging her to run while she had the chance.

A deep voice whispered, “Who’s there?” It wasn’t Zhíno.

Fírí sank to the carpeted floor, her legs suddenly lacking strength. Lightheaded, she hesitantly replied, “It’s me, Fírí. Who are you? Where’s Zhíno?”

The man sat up on the couch, groaning. He was huge. It had to be Vata’s husband, the man who carried the foreign kid into the chapel.

“I am Pí‘oro Kılímo,” he whispered, “husband of Vata Kılímí, who I hope did not startle you when you awoke. Zhíno is in our bed, comatose, so Vata had to use the spare room.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Even though most of the police are gone, the last time I checked, a couple lawmen were still camped out in the driveway. I’m whispering just in case they decided to snoop around.”

Her guess about the police had proven correct. Most were gone. This was Fírí’s moment to escape. If Zhíno was comatose at the moment, all the better. She needed to put some distance between herself and him, just in case her dream was just that, a dream.

It wasn’t just a dream, though. It really happened. Zhíno had somehow conversed with her while she slept. His divine experience had changed him. He was repentant. And now that he was in a coma and unable to help himself, he deserved Fírí’s assistance.

But even repentance didn’t erase all the horrors he perpetrated. She couldn’t afford to be associated with Zhíno any longer.

“Where’s the back door?” she whispered.

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 6

2007-10-15T09:03:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Umo Amuéné cruised down East Crater Road in his beige Rènzas sedan.

As it turned out, East Main Street changed names to East Crater Road at the edge of town. It only took them a Tara-fucking half-hour of driving in circles to figure that out. Umo had tried to avoid using the same streets when going back and forth, in case anyone happened to be looking out their window in the middle of the night, but he had been forced to use a couple streets much too often for his liking. Even an otherwise-nondescript automobile can start seeming suspicious the fourth time it drives past with no other autos on the road.

“I don’t think Zhudıro ever intended to deliver the weapons,” opined Lango, who was back to clacking his pen.

Umo grunted. “Then why would he be on the same plagued planet as the drop-off location? He’d have to be a bigger Koro-brain than you.”

Lango clicked his pen repeatedly. “Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

“A coincidence? Do you truly believe there are two gun-toting paranoid men named Zhíno in all the worlds driving around in the middle of the night with a blonde girlfriend in an old brown Sonla sedan that just happens to be registered to one Fírí Parızada of Mínıhotı, who lives at Zhudıro’s last known residence?” Umo huffed. “You really are a Tara-fucking idiot.”

The clacking of Lango’s pen filled the auto.

Umo sighed. “Look. Zhudıro obviously intended to deliver the guns. The only question on that front is whether he had the chance to hide them between the time everything got plagued and when the police showed up.”

Lango tucked the pen away and began feeling his gelled pompadour. “Right,” he muttered.

Their tour of Tuhanı had not been entirely for naught. They had located the police station. Umo hadn’t stopped, but he and Lango had studied it closely. No autos were in the front parking lot. The back lot was fenced-in and hidden behind the building. There was no telling if Zhudıro’s auto had been transferred there yet. If it wasn’t at the Kılímo residence, they’d soon be back in town.

Up ahead, several autos closely lined both sides of the road. Umo slowed as they approached. The first automobile on either side was a police cruiser. This had to be the place.

The cruiser on the south shoulder was a Colonial Enforcer auto with a broken windshield. The one on the north was a Pívo County Constabulary cruiser with a lawman behind the steering wheel. Umo made sure to not jerk his eyes away like a suspicious person would do. Perhaps he should have removed his sunglasses, however. Too late now.

The second auto on the south side was a brown sedan with a broken rear window and the driver’s window rolled down. Zhudıro’s auto. The police hadn’t had it towed yet. The trunk was closed. Could the police have not looked inside yet? Or had they removed the weapons already?

Past a gravel driveway on the north side of the road, an old blue truck sat at an angle in the ditch. Its windshield was busted, too.

At the end of the long driveway sat a house with very bright floodlights. A second constabulary cruiser sat in front of the garage.

As the scene drifted away behind them, Lango asked, “Now what?”

Umo softly accelerated down a slight hill. “I’ll have to think about it.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 5

2007-10-11T07:48:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Pí‘oro Kılímo knew the police would want to investigate the kitchen, location of Zhíno’s last gunfight, but he didn’t let that stop him from cleaning it up. When the police came knocking in the morning, they’d be arresting Pí‘oro no matter what. Therefore, he might as well erase some of the evidence of Zhíno’s transgressions. He could claim that Vata went to bed and had nothing to do with it. He could say that, since the police hadn’t said to not disturb the kitchen, he thought it was allowed.

In the dark, he swept up the broken glass and wood splinters, emptying the dustpan in the garbage bin. He had to keep the lights off, lest the two remaining lawmen spot him through the windows. Despite the late hour and the constant pain of his injured body, Pí‘oro wasn’t tired or ready to lie down. They had work to do.

Vata was busying herself in the chapel, burying the dog and taking care of the horse. She’d already vacuumed the hallway and front room. Zhíno lay comatose in their bed. Pí‘oro would have to go check on him in a few minutes, just in case his condition changed.

He corralled the last of the shards and dust and swept it carefully into the dustpan. In the hunched position, his back screamed with agony, overpowering the pain of his twisted right knee.

And besides, he thought, it’s our kitchen; we’ll have to use it. He paused, frowning. But the police are going to probably arrest me before breakfast.

He straightened his back with an involuntary groan. Unless I leave.

Slippered feet scuffed the front room carpet.

“Dear?” his wife whispered. “Are you almost finished?”

Even through the whisper, Pí‘oro could sense weariness in her voice. He turned toward her, but could barely distinguish her small form in the darkness.

“Getting there. The floor is clean.” He rubbed his aching neck with his sore right hand. “Maybe you should go to bed.” He added, “In the spare room.”

Vata shuffled across the linoleum towards Pí‘oro. Her outstretched hand bumped into his chest and then searched over his body to find his own left hand. She held it loosely with both of hers.

“Tell me about the afterlife, dear.”

Why does she keep pressing me on that? Pí‘oro held back a sigh. His wife was so devout, it would shatter her world to discover the teachings had been completely wrong. Pí‘oro had never believed any of that doctrinal gooseshit anyway, so it hardly made a difference to him. Vata, though. . . He didn’t want to hurt her.

“Dear?”

He couldn’t lie to her, though. He had to change the subject.

“I need to leave before the police return, or else they’ll arrest me.”

Softly, Vata replied, “Don’t worry about that, dear. This house is the safest place for you to be. I called Judge Ríko earlier tonight. He won’t approve any search warrants. They can’t come in here.”

She stroked his hand, irritating the injured skin with scattered tingles.

“Now, dear. Don’t be afraid to tell me about the afterlife. Please, I want to know.”

Pí‘oro grimaced from the pain she inflicted on his hand, but didn’t pull it away.

“I’m sorry, darling, but. . .” He put his right hand over hers, all four hands together. “It wasn’t quite like we were taught. Maybe I was dreaming and it wasn’t really the afterlife. I don’t know. It felt real, though.”

Vata’s hands trembled in his grasp.

“What did you see?” Her voice was so thin, Pí‘oro could barely hear it.

Pí‘oro shook his head slowly. “Maybe I was supposed to go searching for Pétíso’s great hall. Maybe the gods were waiting just around the corner of the hill or down in the forest. Maybe I was supposed to climb to the top of the mountain. I don’t know.” He squeezed Vata’s hands. “I was there so short a time. I don’t know.”

Despite the doubt he pressed into his voice, Pí‘oro knew in his heart that the gods weren’t anywhere on that mountainside. They had better things to do than judge all of humanity. Pétíso was probably coaching the divine panelball team, or something. Human beings just did not matter much to the gods. To Them, humans are no better than the rest of the plagued animals.

“It’s all right, dear.” Vata pulled a hand free and stroked Pí‘oro’s cheek. “I understand your frustration. The afterlife shall remain a mystery for each of us to solve, in turn. May it be many years before either of us visit there.”

“Gods willing,” Pí‘oro replied rotely. His face cracked a grin. “‘Visit there again,’ you mean.”

Vata’s teeth glimmered in the darkness. She sank into his arms and sighed, “Oh, Pí‘oro.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 4

2007-10-10T07:53:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı forced open his sticky eyelids. He lay on a buffed concrete floor, close to a metal drain about six inches in diameter. The room was silent except for an electronic buzzing. His shoulder hurt.

“Where am I?” he mumbled as he sat up.

When he turned his head and saw the thick steel bars, he remembered: jail.

Why was he on the floor? Had he fainted? He remembered the guard walking out, leaving Bhanar standing alone in the cell, and then . . . nothing. He must’ve fainted. If he had been tired, he would’ve laid down on the cot.

Bhanar stood, rolling his sore shoulder to stretch it.

“But if I fainted, why didn’t anyone come to see if I was all right?” Would they have let him die?

What the plagues was wrong with the worlds, that he could be imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, and then possibly die in custody because the police didn’t care enough to check on inmates who collapse? And with Pí‘oro dead and Zhíno still out on the loose! There was no justice in the worlds.

“Plague of Rívorí,” he spat and began to pace in the small cell, tugging up his pants. He could only go three steps in any direction before he had to turn.

“Rívorí, indeed,” he muttered. “There’s a good reason they named this planet after that goddess. Devastation, prisons, death: it has it all--even volcanoes!”

How did someone like Zhíno escape the police? How did the police decide that Bhanar was a suspect? Because they though he was lying. Because Zhíanoso healed his legs. They obviously didn’t believe in miracles.

“But that Enforcer saw my legs!” he snarled at the ceiling. “He saw they were broken.”

Didn’t the police trust their own eyes, anymore? Are they that incompetent here in Sarıma? If this was how his “subjects” acted, maybe he didn’t want to be emperor of this land, after all.

He banged the soft part of his fist against the metal bars. It didn’t move or make a sound.

His father probably would’ve bought his way out of this situation. He’d just wave around a little money or just the promise of some money, and the police would do anything he asked of them. Bhanar was different, though. Even if he had access to money like that--which he didn’t, yet--he couldn’t bring himself to bribing policemen. What the plagues kind of person does that? A criminal, that’s who!

“So the Tara-fucking criminals go free while the honest citizens rot away in some plagued jail cell in the middle of nowhere.”

Bhanar kicked the metal cot. It clanged, but didn’t budge. A sharp pain shot from the top of his foot. The Pétíso-damned cot was bolted down.

Through gritted teeth, he hissed, “Korutuzho-brained Nazhoro’s plague of Rívorí.”

He hopped in a circle and sat down on the cot, grabbing his foot.

Why’d that Voro-fucker Zhíno have to shoot at him, anyway? What the plagues was wrong with that guy?

Bhanar squeezed his throbbing foot with both hands. Thankfully, his leather trainer had kept him from cutting himself on the metal.

Zhíno’s motives hardly mattered. Bhanar was going to get that Zhéporé-spawn, once he got out of jail. He was going to bring Zhíno to justice. That’s what an emperor’s supposed to do, right? Fight for justice and right the wrongs? “Pétíso may damn it, but that’s what this emperor is going to do.”

First, though, he had to get out of jail. He’d have to convince a detective or somebody that he really was innocent. And how to do that? Tell the truth! Ask for a lie-detector test.

It seemed like most of the police around here were heartless bastards, so who knew if he’d get a fair inquiry? That cute girl, Nulıpésha, was all right, though. Surely she could put in a good word for him. If only he ever saw her again.

Bhanar dropped his foot to the floor and rested his head in his hands.

There were no two ways around it. He was plagued.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 3

2007-10-09T07:41:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Vata Kılímí pursed her lips as she held open the secret door for Pí‘oro. A grimace on his face, he carried the limp body of Zhíno up the steps and into the hallway. Pí‘oro radiated pain, and yet he refused to let the young man lie on the altar. Despite the damage to his already injured body, her husband insisted that Zhíno be moved to a proper bed. His stubbornness had returned.

Pí‘oro carefully walked down the hall to the spare bedroom. Vata closed the closet door and shuffled after him.

“I haven’t heard the helicopter in a while,” Pí‘oro whispered. “Do you think the police are still here?”

“They wouldn’t all have left, dear,” she quietly replied. “Surely someone’s still outside.”

Why wasn’t her husband antagonistic toward Zhíno? The young man had stopped Névazhíno from fully healing him, hadn’t he? Instead, Pí‘oro was almost brotherly to Zhíno. Deep in his soul, however, Vata could feel animosity. She just couldn’t tell who it was directed towards. Perhaps the police? Yes. Probably the police.

As her husband stood waiting, Vata opened the bedroom door and stepped inside, switching on the lights. The bed’s sheet and blanket were folded and crumpled, likely just as Bhanar had left them.

I hope the boy’s staying calm. Névazhíno healed him and Névazhíno will guide him through his incarceration to freedom.

Pí‘oro crossed the room and gently lowered Zhíno to the mattress, laying his head atop a pillow. Vata followed.

Why would Pí‘oro show such loyalty to Zhíno? Hadn’t this been the same man who had tried to run him over with a police cruiser? What had changed? They had been simultaneously healed by Névazhíno. Vata didn’t know of any similar incident in her experience or her mother’s lessons. Perhaps the animal god’s love bound them together. It was entirely plausible. And since Névazhíno had performed two miracles with no sacrifice, it made perfect sense that He was unable to wake up Zhíno or fully heal Pí‘oro. The god had limited energy to use in this plane of existence. That’s what the sacrifices were for, after all: to give Him more energy to use.

Vata pulled the blanket and sheet aside as Pí‘oro removed the young man’s shoes.

Pí‘oro had said he’d died and come back. If that were true, why was he so reluctant to discuss the experience? Surely he now held the answers to questions that humankind had been asking for millennia. What did he see in the afterlife? Why in the worlds didn’t he want to tell her, his wife?

The far corner of the blanket was folded under. Vata couldn’t straighten it out from where she was, so she circled the bed.

She gasped.

On the floor between the bed and the wall lay Fírí in the fetal position, asleep.

“What is it?” asked Pí‘oro.

“Fírí,” Vata whispered, pointing to her.

Pí‘oro nodded and returned to tucking Zhíno in. He left the far blanket corner folded under, out of reach.

I had forgotten all about Fírí, Vata thought. Too much happening. Her mouth twitched a smile. At least I was able to help someone tonight. Neither the police nor Zhíno harmed her. In the morning, I’ll have to teach her the glories of Névazhíno.

To Pí‘oro, she whispered, “Dear, we can’t leave Zhíno here. Fírí would nearly die if she woke up and found him so close.”

“What do you want to do?” her husband growled, clearly perturbed.

She didn’t want to injure Pí‘oro by placing any further strain on his aching body, but she didn’t see any other option. Plus, he had yet to complain about his pain.

“Take him to our bed. We don’t have time to go to sleep yet, anyway.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 2

2007-10-08T07:44:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Umo Amuéné spotted the small blue sign in the distance alongside the two-lane highway. The reflectance from his auto’s headlights made the text almost illegible, but his sunglasses reduced the glare enough for him to read, “Welcome to Tuhanı! Population 1,873,” as it flashed past.

“Is this the town?” asked Lango. His gold necklace chains clinked softly as he twisted them around his index finger.

“Yes,” replied Umo through gritted teeth. Had Lango forgotten the name of their destination already? “Keep a lookout for East Crater Road. It’ll probably be on the right.” They were traveling north, after all.

Gogzhuè had informed them via the automobile telephone that the police’s search had been called off for the night. They hadn’t found Zhudıro. His auto most certainly was in police custody. It didn’t sound like they’d found the guns, which were probably still in Zhudıro’s auto--unless he’d managed to dump them somewhere.

Tuhanı had one stoplight, several blocks ahead of them. Umo thought he could just about see the far end of town, but it was difficult to be sure in the dark.

“Pine. Elm. Varıpío. Fété,” Lango recited the street names.

Hidden by his sunglasses, Umo rolled his eyes.

“Crater,” he interjected. “Tell me if you see Crater.”

The signal light was red, so Umo slowed his Rènzas sedan to a halt and waited. This was Main Street, signed as West and East on opposite sides of the intersection. No Crater Road yet.

Zhudıro was as good as gone. Umo appreciated it. He didn’t want to have to explain to Gogzhuè why he hadn’t killed the little Zhéporé-spawn. Gogzhuè wouldn’t understand concepts like “rule of law” and “killing is wrong.”

Instead, they could now focus on their primary mission: retrieving the guns and explosives.

Since the police had the auto under guard, Umo and Lango would have to approach this effort very carefully. They’d scope out the Kılímo residence and maybe swing by the local police station--wherever Zhudıro’s auto might be. Above all, they did not want to attract attention. Not yet, anyway.

The crosswalk signal for the path across the street they’d driven in on--Division Street--started blinking a red cross.

No other autos drove near the intersection. No pedestrians walked nearby, either. It’s small-town Sarıma at three o’clock in the morning. What do you expect?

The crosswalk signal turned a steady red, Main Street’s signal turned from blue to yellow, then yellow to red, and finally the light in front of Umo’s auto turned blue. He took his foot off the brake and eased through the intersection, continuing their search northward.

Less than a minute later, the town dwindled back to desert. No Crater Road had presented itself.

“Plague of Kínıtíní!” swore Umo.

Lango tittered, but stopped abruptly when Umo glared at him. Lango’s hands dropped to his lap, folded neatly together.

Umo wheeled the auto around and headed back into Tuhanı. Since it was East Crater Road, it should be parallel to East Main Street. It had to be there, somewhere. Lango must’ve just missed it.

“Pay attention this time, you Tara-fucking idiot. It may be the middle of the night, but we can’t drive around forever. Gogzhuè would not be pleased.”

Lango remained silent, except for the clinking of his necklace chains around his fingers.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 1

2007-10-07T21:20:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

Chapter 15: Vision Verisimilitude

Fírí Parızada ran through a forest, chased by an unknown person or thing. Black, scraggly branches clawed at her face, but she couldn’t slow, lest she was caught. The forest was never-ending. Tree after tree, bush after bush, boulder after boulder.

She came to the top of a cliff and jumped. No time to think about it. No time to hesitate. Her adversary was almost upon her.

Fírí plummeted. In the darkness of the forest, she couldn’t see the bottom, and yet she knew it hurtled ever closer. She was about to die.

Someone grabbed her from behind. Fírí shrieked. She’d been captured!

The assailant swooped her high into the air, far above the forest. Fírí fought to break her attacker’s grasp, but he was too strong.

He gently set her down on a couch. Covered by a thin, stained blanket, the couch springs poked through the cushion and into Fírí’s butt. She shifted a little to the right and found the comfortable spot.

The man who had been chasing her stepped into her vision, directly in front of the television set. It was on a muted commercial, so she didn’t mind.

It was Zhíno.

He jerked up his chin in a greeting and asked, “Are you all right?”

Fírí crossed her legs and tilted her head to the side, piercing her ex-boyfriend with a withering glare. “What does you care? An hour ago, you were trying to kill me!”

“And that was a mistake. I’m truly sorry.”

Zhíno gripped his right elbow with his left hand in his pose of sheepishness. Neither arm was injured.

Was he serious? He acted sincere enough.

“I know now,” he continued, but paused, frowning. “I love you, Fírí. I should always help you.” He shook his head, staring at the coffee table covered in empty bottles and folded magazines. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

What the plagues? Fírí set down the remote control and stood up. Dust and yogurt tickled her nostrils.

“What happened to you?” she demanded. “Did the old hag manage to beat some sense through that thick skull of yours?”

He jabbed a finger at her, snarling, “Shut up and listen, you twin of Vítí. I’m trying to apologize!” He abruptly held up his hands, placating, eyes averted. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. You’re understandably angry.”

“Ahísıhíta-damned right, I’m angry at you.” Fírí stood with arms akimbo, her nose tilted up.

What business did he have, coming in here, interrupting her television watching? He shouldn’t be in the house at all. He should be out of her life forever. She was done with him. Wasn’t she?

Zhíno dropped to his knees, his hands clasped together. “Please give me a second chance, baby. Thanks to the Love of the Universe, I’ve changed. Please believe me.”

“Love of the Universe”? That’s Névazhíno, right? The stupid God of Animals was able to make Zhíno change his ways? Does this mean Vata is actually able to call the god like she pretended? “I’ll believe it when I see it.” She held up her index finger, narrowing her eyes at him. “And the difference had better be as clear as night and day.”

“Thank you, my love,” Zhíno gushed. “It will be. I promise you. It will be.”

Fírí plopped back down on her couch and snatched up the remote control. “Now get out of my way. My show’s back on.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 8

2007-10-03T07:52:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha drank the last of her coffee, letting the final drops take their time to fall from the edge of the ceramic mug onto the tip of her extended tongue. With her legs crossed at the knees, she sat at her desk in the middle of the open office portion of the precinct headquarters.

The office was absolutely quiet, except for the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the slight rattle of the ventilation system. Everyone except for Séara--and the desk lawperson, who was in her own room--was out at the Kılímos’ house, scouring the desert for the murder suspects. While they were out there, doing actual work, Séara was stuck behind a desk, filling out reports like a good little girl.

“Darn it!” she muttered to the empty room of desks, clunking her mug down. Senior Lawman Vomıvé had done it to her again. He’d shut her out from gaining experience, helping the constabulary, and helping society. If he would just let her prove herself, he’d see how good a job she could do.

Séara sighed.

Not after her debacle at the Kılímos’ front door would Vomıvé give her more responsibility. That hadn’t been her best moment, for sure. How in the worlds was she going to get promoted to the equestrian squad with something like that attached to her name? Maybe she should just quit now and avoid further embarrassment.

She looked back down at her report form. She’d filled in about half, describing everything up to the point where she drove to the Kılímos’ house.

She tapped her pen against her teeth, then wrote, “Obtained entry into residence for paramedics. CEs forced entry through back door. CEs arrested suspect Narak and transferred custody to constabulary.”

What about Bhanar? Was he really a suspect in the Enforcer’s murder? He seemed so calm, so above-it-all, so confident, as if he knew he was innocent and was just waiting for the police to figure it out.

The Enforcers had arrested him for hindering a police investigation, but Séara had seen no hindrance coming from the pseudo-emperor. He’d been the most compliant suspect in the history of the worlds.

Her telephone rang. Séara jumped back ten centimeters in her chair. She tsked at herself and picked up the receiver.

“Nulıpésha,” she identified herself. Holding the telephone receiver with her shoulder, she capped her pen and set it atop her report.

“Dispatch,” the man on the other end of the line replied. “Everybody else in the Tuhanı Precinct knows about this, but then I realized that you were at the headquarters instead of the search site. They couldn’t find either suspect in the desert near the house, so we’re going to do a full-scale search at daybreak. We’ll be using everybody we can get, from the whole county. I don’t know what your role will be. You should report to Senior Lawman Vomıvé. But try to get some sleep. Everybody will be busy, come sunrise. The search has been called off for the night.”

Séara soaked in the information. Of course she was the last to know. How else would it be?

“Thank you,” she replied. “Anything else?”

“Nope, that’s about it.”

She set the receiver back in its cradle and leaned back in her chair. The metal and vinyl chair squeaked in protest as her modest weight shifted, but she knew it wouldn’t break. Or, at least, it hadn’t yet.

The other lawpersons would be returning to the headquarters any minute now. She badly wanted to get out of there before they arrived, but first she had to finish her incident report.

What should she say about Mr. Kılímo’s arrest?

She stared up at the water-stained ceiling tiles.

Should she draw Vomıvé’s ire by describing the way he beat the old man, probably causing his death? It’s not as if she was ever on the senior lawman’s good side, so what was the risk in reporting her point of view? What would he do, fire her? She’d welcome it. Her career wasn’t worth enough to hide this. The worlds had to know of Mr. Kılímo’s death.

The ceiling grew blurry. Séara tried to blink the tears away, with little success. She sat upright once more and grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped her eyes dry, blew her nose, and tossed the wadded-up tissue into the waste bin with the other crumpled balls of sorrow.

Séara grabbed her pen and quickly scrawled her memories of watching Vomıvé and that medic beating Mr. Kılímo in the hallway, then how he screamed and died in their custody. Her stream of consciousness ended a half-page later. She took a deep breath and leaned back, exhaling slowly.

There. It’s written. May Pétíso treat you more fairly than we did, Mr. Kılímo. You certainly deserved better.

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 7

2007-10-02T07:50:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Zhíno Zhudıro lay trapped in his body. He could no longer fly free with the swallows, stampede with the buffalo, or swim with the orcas. The taste of being a wolf remained on his essence, but it was more a tantalizing torture than a fond memento.

He had used almost all of his own lifeforce to return Pí‘oro’s spirit to his body. Just exude the energy from himself, wrap it around Pí‘oro, and bind him back into his mortal shell. It was the least Zhíno could do to help his soul-brother.

Except Zhíno had assumed he’d still be able to continue his journey through the worlds with all the animals. Instead, he was stuck inside his comatose body without the energy or strength to regain the spirit world. Or maybe it was because Névazhíno was no longer present.

Plague of Rékaré, how would I know? I’ve never done anything like this before.

Zhíno relaxed his spirit, the equivalent of a deep breath, and reconsidered his situation.

In the darkness of his disconnected dream state, dim lights glowed in the distance. Had those been there before?

He urged his consciousness toward the lights. One was a sharp yellow and the other a duller purple. Just by merely thinking about them, they drifted closer to Zhíno. He concentrated on the purple light, which seem oddly familiar, and it hurtled toward him.

Startled, Zhíno braced his mind for an impact, turning his thoughts elsewhere, but no collision occurred.

He looked back at the friendly purple light, which was close enough now that he could see the swirling particles and intense core that comprised it. The tiny violet dots would shoot out of the core, dance around in random patterns, then spiral back into the pure purple center.

Zhíno touched it.

Thoughts and emotions slammed through Zhíno’s consciousness. He reeled from the contact but didn’t disengage. Contempt, reluctance, and gratitude flowed through him. He was hit all over with aches and pains from a body that wasn’t his.

The gratitude, though, had a familiar ring to it. It wasn’t so much the nature of the gratitude, but the direction.

It was directed at him, at Zhíno.

He focused on the contempt and realized it was directed at the God of Animals.

This swirling purple light was Pí‘oro. It had to be. Somehow, some way. It was a complete mystery to Zhíno, but that’s the way it was.

He pulled back from the light before he formulated the thought, You’d better be grateful, soul-brother, because now I’m trapped.

Zhíno stared at the swirling violet light. Now that he thought about it, it kind of looked like Pí‘oro, like his attitude. The particles flowed in calm but deliberate motions.

The yellow light, not too far away, sort of had the same attitude as the old lady, Vata. Rough and strong with a genteel layer above. She was clearly more powerful than Pí‘oro, her light almost too bright to look at, even if this was all a dream. A continuous stream of her little yellow particles flew far away from her core, all the way to Pí‘oro’s light, where they dove through the purple swirl, circled tightly, and shot out back toward Vata. Other of her particles flew off into the infinite blackness, their destinations unknown to Zhíno.

Growing bored, Zhíno spread his field of view, searching in all directions. Not too far away floated a dim blue-green light. What’s the name of that color? He zoomed in for a closer look. It doesn’t matter. Blue-green is good enough.

The blue-green light sparked and swirled in hesitant motions, uncertain of what to do, unable to do much, but with great conviction, nonetheless. This was Fírí.

Zhíno dove in, with one question on his mind. Are you all right?

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 6

2007-10-01T07:47:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Pí‘oro Kılímo limped down the steps into the chapel, pain shooting up his right leg. His left hip throbbed in response, and it was hardly alone. The only part of his body that didn’t hurt was his left big toe, and that was probably because he lost feeling in it twenty years earlier. Zhíno had brought him back to life, but had sure done a job worthy of no one but Korutuzho.

The young man was lying on the altar, just as Vata had said. Vata must have been preparing a sacrifice to heal his gunshot wound. That would explain Zhíno’s connection with Névazhíno and ability to venture into the afterlife. Weird things happen under Vata’s spells, that’s for Pétíso-damn sure.

Barefoot, Pí‘oro hobbled across the dirt floor to the wide, stone altar. Zhíno breathed with the slow regularity of the comatose, far beyond mere sleep. Pí‘oro circled the altar to look at Zhíno’s left hand, the one that Bhanar had shot.

His wrist and hand were wrapped with a blood-soaked cotton sock and utility tape. A more common elastic bandage wrapped his upper right arm, also dark with blood. If Vata had healed Zhíno, Pí‘oro wouldn’t be able to tell without removing the bandages. Zhíno the wolf had said Névazhíno sacrificed Pí‘oro to heal Zhíno. No other sacrifices were present in the chapel, so the wolf was probably telling the truth. The only way to corroborate his story was to remove the bandages.

Pí‘oro lifted the edge of the sock-and-tape bandage, peeking underneath. Zhíno’s skin was wet with blood, but Pí‘oro couldn’t see a wound. He pulled the bandage further from the arm, carefully ripping the utility tape. Still no wound. He tugged on the bandage again and it fell from Zhíno’s arm. Despite the mess of blood, there was no injury.

The wolf hadn’t lied. The God of Animals had used Pí‘oro’s lifeforce to heal Zhíno. Why would He do that? Pí‘oro rubbed his forehead, his arm aching from the strain. Oh right. Névazhíno’s a malicious Zhéporé-spawn. I keep forgetting.

Vata entered the chapel, breathing hard. “What are you doing?”

Her black bathrobe swished back and forth as she hurried down the steps, exposing her pale legs--still shapely, but lined with purple veins.

“He’s healed,” stated Pí‘oro.

His wife stopped abruptly, her mouth pursed in a frown. “What?”

Her reaction confirmed his suspicion. “Zhíno’s wounds have been healed. Didn’t you do it?”

Pí‘oro knew the answer before Vata shook her head.

“No, dear,” she carefully replied. “I called Him. I felt His presence. I never started the ceremony, though. Névazhíno must have healed him when He healed you, all by Himself.”

Pí‘oro bristled at her incorrect assumption, but held his tongue. He couldn’t send his wife’s passion end-over-end by decrying her god. It would hurt her unfathomably.

Névazhíno had never--in their experience and all the teachings--healed someone without taking another creature’s lifeforce. It’s just the way He worked. The bastard wasn’t about to change His ways now. Névazhíno had used Pí‘oro as the sacrifice to heal Zhíno. That was a fact.

And then Zhíno had somehow revived Pí‘oro. Had he used a portion of his own lifeforce? It might explain why Zhíno was now comatose. It might explain why Pí‘oro hurt all over. It would have taken Zhíno’s full life to bring Pí‘oro completely back, completely healed. Zhíno didn’t sacrifice himself completely, and so Pí‘oro wasn’t healed completely.

Vata approached her husband, a divine smile upon her face and a sparkle in her eyes. “If He has performed two miracles without sacrifices, we are doubly blessed.”

Pí‘oro edged away from Vata. Her unquestioning devotion to Névazhíno was rather unsettling.

Grasping to change the subject, he blurted, “Should we try to wake him up?”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 5

2007-09-30T09:15:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı hardly paid attention as the cute policewoman processed him. She and an older policewoman took his wallet and keys, filled out some paperwork, took photos of him holding a signboard, and spoke in abrupt, emotionless phrases. Bhanar’s mind was on Pí‘oro.

The old man was dead. The policewomen knew it. It was obvious from their tone and actions.

How could this happen? What kind of universe did they live in that police could beat up an old man so much that he shortly thereafter dropped dead with a heart attack or blood clot or aneurysm or something equally horrific?

If Pí‘oro’s wife could call Zhíanoso to heal Bhanar’s legs, then surely she could--and would--call Him to bring her husband back to life. Pí‘oro wasn’t an emperor, like Bhanar, with genealogical ties to the High God of Fire, but he was certainly a devout worshipper.

Or had the old woman said she called the god Névazhíno?

Bhanar frowned, biting his upper lip.

She had said a lot of stuff he didn’t understand, thanks to his limited understanding of the Sarıman language, so maybe he misheard her. Yes, he must have misheard her.

The older policewoman led Bhanar through another door to a stark hallway lined with several holding cells. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting grim illumination on the scuffed-up yellowish walls and vinyl-tile floor. The cells were separated from the hallway with heavy steel bars running both directions. They were separated from each other with smooth concrete walls, painted the same sickly yellow as the hallway.

Bhanar turned back around to see past the door before it swung shut. The younger policewoman--the other had called her Nulıpésha--stared wistfully at him, her eyes red from tears. Bhanar flashed her a smile the closing door cut off.

The older policewoman opened the first cell and gently pushed Bhanar inside. The cell door clanged shut behind him.

Bhanar spun around, the reality of his own troubles finally hitting him.

“Wait!” he cried as the policewoman started walking away. “Do I not get to call someone?”

The woman grumbled, “In the morning,” before opening the hallway door with one of her keys and returning to the booking room.

Bhanar stood stock still in the center of his cell.

The solid door slammed shut, filling the empty hall of holding cells with a dull echo.

He was alone. Imprisoned in a foreign country, with no contact to the outside world. Would he ever be free again?

The cell began to swim in circles, growing darker. Bhanar’s knees buckled underneath him and he crumpled to the floor.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 4

2007-09-28T07:42:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Umo Amuéné tried to ignore his partner’s ramblings as they drove through the night, but it was difficult.

“And when the government finally begins to implement Gogzhuè’s directives, then we’ll see some real change in this country. Robberies, prostitution, gambling, adultery--all that stuff--will be completely eliminated in less than a year. The worlds just need to wake up and listen to the words of Èmmwımwènhı, hallowed be his name, and their salvation will be at hand. It’s so simple!”

Lango paused, his breath accelerated. His hands, though, kept fiddling with a pen or something else that Umo couldn’t quite see in the darkness. It produced a clacking noise every second or two.

“Mm-hm,” replied Umo.

As Lango resumed his repetitive rant, Umo tried desperately to form a coherent thought.

The simplest circumstances would be to find both Zhíno and the guns, out of sight of the police. They could take the weapons and--maybe--shoot Zhíno dead. This scenario was highly unlikely.

“. . . with the short skirts they wear, they’re definitely asking for it. If you dress like a whore, you are a whore!” Lango patted his gelled pompadour with one hand. The clacking pen failed to cease. “And the music these days is utterly vile, glorifying a life of drugs, violence, and. . .”

Lango seemed oblivious to the fact that Gogzhuè’s organization dealt heavily in drugs and their methods were indeed quite violent. Cognitive dissonance disregarded by a simple mind. Umo gritted his teeth, trying with all his might to remain impassive and focus on their job.

A more likely scenario they’d encounter would be the police having the weapons in their possession with Zhíno on the loose. Even if Umo and Lango found him, there’d be a hundred policemen in the vicinity. At least then they wouldn’t have to kill Zhíno, but getting the guns would be difficult. If the guns were still in Zhíno’s automobile--

“. . . look down on us as if we’re sub-human, it’s just despicable! Gogzhuè should let us kill them more often, just to keep them in line.”

“Look, Lango,” Umo finally snapped. “I strive to emulate Èmmwımwènhı, hallowed be his name, and spread his teachings as much as the next guy, but I’m trying to concentrate on our current mission.”

As the auto continued to hurtle down the two-lane highway, Umo gave Lango a lengthy stare through his sunglasses. “So just shut up and I won’t throw you from the automobile.”

Lango’s hands ceased fidgeting as he shrunk away from Umo.

If the little twerp weren’t so knowledgeable about weaponry and computers, Umo would have killed him long ago--with Gogzhuè’s blessing.

Pleased with himself, but displaying no outward sign of it, Umo went back to driving and planning their near future.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 3

2007-09-27T07:41:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Vata Kılímí hugged her husband tight, tears flowing down her smiling face. The wonderful Névazhíno had brought him back to life, even without a sacrifice. Their god had rewarded them for their years of unwavering devotion and proselytizing. A wave of giddiness swept over her body from head to toes. She giggled into Pí‘oro’s hairy chest.

“What was it like, dear,” she quietly asked, “to be with Him at Pétíso’s hall?” The police were still outside the front door.

With hands gripping her shoulders, Pí‘oro pushed her away. He winced. “It was wonderful, darling. Do you know where Zhíno is?”

Her eyebrows crinkled in a frown. “On the altar. Why?”

He let go of her and stepped past her, wincing again.

Vata turned to follow him. Why must he see Zhíno? She loudly whispered, “Dear?”

Pí‘oro limped to the horse and squeezed past.

“Are you still injured?” she whispered after him. “Didn’t Névazhíno heal you fully?”

Something was wrong, with both Pí‘oro’s healing and his attitude. Why didn’t he answer her? What had he seen in the afterlife? What had prevented Névazhíno from fully healing him? Had Zhíno somehow interfered? Was Pí‘oro planning to hurt the young man?

After all their dedication and devotion to the way of Névazhíno, surely Pí‘oro wouldn’t depart from that and kill Zhíno. Unless, of course, the afterlife drastically changed her husband. It certainly had some affect on him. It was still too early to know the full extent.

She hurried after Pí‘oro. As she passed their horse, she realized she’d have to lead the horse into the front room to turn her around, but Vata didn’t have time for that now. Hopefully the horse wouldn’t eat the upholstery or make a mess on the carpet.

Around the corner of the hall, a door squeaked open.

Vata hissed, “Pí‘oro!” but he didn’t reply.

Even injured and limping, he could still out-walk her by far. If Zhíno had awoken, Vata wouldn’t be around for the confrontation. If Zhíno were still asleep, Pí‘oro might kill him before she arrived. She had to trust that her husband was not as altered as she feared, or else they might fall from Névazhíno’s graces forever.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 2

2007-09-26T07:41:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha pulled her cruiser into the Tuhanı precinct headquarters parking lot and stopped in front of the chainlink gate to the fenced-in back lot. After getting out of the car twice to open and close the gate, Séara parked it near the building’s rear entrance. In the small lot, illuminated by two orangish street lights, sat only one other automobile, and it belonged to the desk lawperson. She must be working late because of this mess, just like the rest of us.

Séara got out of the auto and, before she opened the back door, turned away from the cruiser and wiped her eyes with her shirt cuffs. She couldn’t let Bhanar see her this way, eyes all red and puffy. He had tried to be nice, tried to get her talking about Mr. Kılímo, but it was just too awful to think about. The loveable old man had passed away, and Séara had walked away without trying to help. The fact that it was her duty, her orders, was no consolation.

She sniffled and steeled her face, body, and mind. Back to work.

She swung open the cruiser door. “Out.”

The young foreign man scooted across the bench seat and slowly placed his feet on the asphalt and stood up. His dark eyes opened large, his whole face covered with placid sincerity. “I am sorry. I am. He is in a . . . better place.” He paused, frowning minutely. “He was a good man.”

Séara took hold of his upper arm and moved him aside so she could close the door. Without modifying her expression, she murmured, “Thank you.” Louder, she ordered, “Let’s go,” and guided him to the building’s entrance.

Mr. Kılímo was indeed a good man, and it spoke volumes that Bhanar had realized it in so short a time. But just because someone lived a moral, wholesome life and was now with the gods, it didn’t mean the loss hurt any less. No, it hurt even more. Never again would he teach someone how to cinch a saddle. Never again would he enlighten and entertain people with his forthright comments. Never again would he share a desert sunrise from atop Rosí Hill.

Séara could feel the tears welling again, and opened her eyes wide to fight them off.

First an Enforcer. Now Mr. Kılímo. Vuzhí and Pétíso! When are the bad guys going to start dying?

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 1

2007-09-25T16:00:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

Chapter 14: Abandonment

Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré glared at Senior Lawman Vomıvé, waiting for his decision. The dozen assembled lawmen and Enforcers collectively held their breaths, or so it seemed.

The middle-aged lawman crinkled his nose and said, “I think it would be best if we don’t anger Mrs. Kılímí any further. Neither of our departments would benefit from full disclosure of the scenario that transpired within the house--and certainly not after the media’s spin.”

Vomıvé showed a hint of a smile as he said it, as if he had more reasons than that to counter the Enforcer. Sétıpímo suspected it was mostly the lawman displaying his power, like some strutting caribou buck. But if his machismo kept poor Vata protected, Sétıpímo was all for it.

The head Colonial Enforcer lieutenant clenched his teeth, staring at Vomıvé with furrowed brow. Eventually, he snorted and nodded sharply. “Agreed.”

He turned to face another Enforcer and the whole group relaxed. The two forces couldn’t be pointing blame at each other for Pí‘oro’s death. They were equal accomplices.

“Now, let’s get going on this search,” snapped the lieutenant. “Vorıso, you take your group to sweep the desert west of here. Search the boulders and anywhere else they might be hiding from the helicopter--caves, trap doors, anything.” He continued dispatching orders to other Enforcers while the senior lawman did the same with the local police.

Sétıpímo turned away from their organizing. He wasn’t a part of it. His job was to investigate the crime scenes. Since he had just succeeded in closing off the crime scenes in the Kılímos’ house, that left just the driveway and the automobiles on the road.

He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the bushes as he started walking down the cement path. The wad had lost its potency, so he spat it out, too, and took his tin from his hip pocket.

They had three vehicles with broken windows, three guns in police care, and one dead Enforcer. How lucky would Sétıpímo be if he found connections between them all? More likely, none would have any interrelated evidence, whatsoever.

A strong cup of coffee was in order, if he could get it, but that certainly didn’t seem likely. His best bet was to finish his investigation as quickly and efficiently as possible, then get a good night’s sleep.

He stuck a new clump of tobacco between his gum and cheek and put the tin away.

How efficient could he be, however, if he kept having to do other people’s jobs for them?

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 8

2007-09-14T05:48:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Pí‘oro Kılímo sank down onto the cushion of meadow plants, his hand gripping his forehead.

The wolf--Zhíno--had to be lying. Névazhíno would never kill him. Pí‘oro worshipped Him.

“No. . .” he murmured.

Zhíno tilted his head and took a couple hesitant steps forward, his ears pricked up and his tail wagging leisurely.

A light breeze wafted the thick scent of blooming flowers up the hill. Far below in the endless lowlands, the dark clouds churned.

Was this really the afterlife? It felt too real to be a dream, and yet why would the afterlife feel any more real? But the wolf told him he was dead, killed by the God of Animals. So this would have to be the afterlife, such as it was. But why was the punk Zhíno here as a wolf? How was Zhíno here as a wolf? None of this made any sense.

Pí‘oro slowly shook his head.

A persistent nagging doubt edged its way into the forefront of Pí‘oro’s consciousness. Had he truly honored Névazhíno? Or had he drawn the god’s ire with the good-natured disrespect he directed toward Vata’s abilities? Would the Love of the Universe really kill him over something as petty as that?

“I can help you,” the wolf said.

Pí‘oro focused on Zhíno’s yellow eyes, open wide and full of dogged sincerity.

“What do you mean?”

Zhíno stepped closer, his tail waving higher.

“I can send you back. I can reunite your spirit with your body, using my lifeforce--the energy that Névazhíno took from you. You can go back to the world you’ve always known.”

The wolf was hiding something, and yet he clearly spoke honestly. Zhíno certainly believed he could bring Pí‘oro back to life. He believed he could undo what Névazhíno had done.

Whether this was a dream or the afterlife, Pí‘oro had nothing to lose.

“Do it.”

Zhíno bounded up the slope to stand in front of the seated Pí‘oro. He stuck out a paw.

Pí‘oro reached out and grasped the wide appendage, Zhíno’s fur coarse and bristly under Pí‘oro’s fingers.

The wolf closed his eyes, breathing much too slow for a dog.

Darkness edged in on them from all sides, and suddenly Pí‘oro fell into himself. The mountain was gone. The wolf was gone. Pí‘oro descended through black nothingness, falling and yet motionless.

Gradually, the plummeting sensation disappeared as Pí‘oro’s consciousness circled ever-tighter upon that which was familiar, that which was his identity, his world, his life, his body. With a final minute jar, Pí‘oro snapped back into reality.

He forced his eyes open.

A bumpy white ceiling stared down at him. Pí‘oro’s eyes searched lower. Vata walked toward him, her head bowed low and one hand on the neck their roan horse.

The horse snorted. Vata looked up and cried out.

Pí‘oro sat up, groaning. His body ached all over. Zhíno had revived him, but had not healed him fully.

Vata rushed to him as fast as her shuffling gait would allow. “Oh, Pí‘oro!” she whispered. “I thought you were dead!”

Pí‘oro fought through the pain to stand up and meet his wife with an expansive hug. “Vata, my love, it’s good to be back.” He inhaled deeply the lilac scent of her shampoo.

His tiny wife pulled away, tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. “Back?”

Pí‘oro’s mouth moved around for a few seconds with no words forming. “I think I may have been dead.”

“Oh, thank Névazhíno!” Vata squeezed his belly tight. “He saved you.”

As Pí‘oro held Vata close, his mind rolled over what had just transpired. It wasn’t Névazhíno who had saved him. It was Zhíno. The once-murderous young man had brought him back to life. The god, however, had killed him. The god had taken his life as if he were a worthless, little solitary ant.

If Pí‘oro hadn’t properly honored Névazhíno beforehand, he certainly wasn’t about to worship Him now. The God of Animals was far crueler than His reputation as an idiot assumed. Névazhíno was a Pétíso-damned bastard, plain and simple.

But Pí‘oro doubted he could ever tell that to Vata. It would devastate her beyond belief.

And so he merely held her tight and murmured, “I love you.”

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 7

2007-09-13T07:41:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Fírí Parızada had to get out of that chapel. Her unconscious ex-boyfriend remained motionless on the altar, and yet he loomed over her--mocking her, insulting her, threatening her.

The house was silent again. No police in the hall. The crazy old hag had gotten rid of them--just by yelling at them, apparently. Fírí hadn’t ventured far enough out in the hall to watch. But she’d seen plenty enough other doors in the hallway, so surely there’d be a place for her to hide, where neither the police nor Zhíno would find her easily.

Carrying her duffel of shoes and cash, Fírí slowly opened the secret door. The shelves full with towels and sheets swung quietly into the chapel. One last glance toward Zhíno encircled with flaming torches, and Fírí put her ear to the thin wood door that would swing into the hallway.

Except the echo of Vasataté’s ocean in her ear, Fírí heard nothing. She took and released a deep breath, then turned the knob.

She pushed open the door enough to peer out. Someone was there, coming toward her. Fírí froze. Close the door? Hold it still? And then she realized it was Vata.

Fírí sighed, relaxing. A shiver ran down her neck and arms. Who knew the old woman can walk so quietly? Fírí swung open the door and stepped into the hall, whispering, “You nearly scared me to death.”

Vata didn’t stop her hurried shuffle. She glanced down at Fírí’s feet, her face like she sucked a lemon. Glaring at Fírí, the old woman whispered harshly, “Get out of the way. I need to get the horse.”

Horse? What does she need it for?

Two meters away, Vata swiped her hand at Fírí. “Move!”

Fírí stepped aside. Wait. Is she going to sacrifice the horse?

As Vata passed the blonde, Fírí held out her hand in a feeble attempt to stop her. She couldn’t let the horse die, and yet she had to hide. Especially with Vata in the chapel, where she might wake Zhíno at any moment, Fírí had to hide.

Vata shrugged off Fírí’s hand and entered the doorway.

Sorry, horse, Fírí thought. I hope she doesn’t kill you.

Fírí took a couple steps away from the chapel toward an open door on the other side of the hall. The lights were on. She peered in and saw a musty bedroom with boxes piled in the corners and the sheets and blankets on the bed disturbed. Had the foreign kid been sleeping here? Where’d he go?

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t there now.

A yawn escaped her maw. That bed looked awfully inviting. What time was it, anyway? One, two o’clock in the morning?

Fírí stepped inside and closed the door behind her. After cramming her duffel bag behind a pair of ancient suitcases in the overflowing closet, she flipped off the lights and headed for the bed.

But no. What if Bhanar came back? What if anybody entered? She couldn’t just be sleeping out in the open.

As the police helicopter thudded in the distance, Fírí felt her way across the dark room. A miniscule amount of light crept under the door, illuminating shadows in the blackness. She circled the bed and knelt down. A half-meter separated the bed from the wall opposite the door--just enough for Fírí to lie down, hidden.

She stretched out on the dusty carpet, lying on her side. Her eyes already closed, her hand snuck into her sweatshirt pocket and removed the can of pepper spray. She clutched it with both hands in front of her chest and began waiting for sleep, Zhíno, or the police to come. Only one would she welcome, and yet it was the least likely.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 6

2007-09-12T07:38:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré shoved through the arguing mob of policemen to get to the paramedics. “Shut the plagues up!” he bellowed at them all.

An Enforcer approached the house’s front window, apparently about to break in.

“Stop right where you are!” shouted Sétıpímo. “Don’t you dare force entry.”

The Enforcer stopped, turning around almost shyly.

Sétıpímo asked the medic, “Is Pí‘oro alive?” before resuming vigorously chewing his tobacco.

The policemen silenced to hear the response.

The paramedic wiped his forehead, his eyes darting around the assemblage. “Uh, we were performing defibrillation when the defibrillator battery died. We were--”

“Is Pí‘oro alive?” Sétıpímo snapped. Some people just couldn’t give a straight answer. He spat tobacco juice near the medic’s shoes.

The medic glanced down, then brought his eyes up to meet the detective’s. “No. He was flatlining on every scale from when we first got to him.”

Was that before or after you beat him? From the previous arguments, it had become apparent to Sétıpímo that at least one of the medics had fought Pí‘oro, along with an Enforcer and two county lawmen.

Sétıpímo turned to face the head Colonial Enforcer, a lieutenant.

“You have no authority to force entry into the Kılímos’ house. Your suspect is dead. Focus on the missing suspects who are still alive: Zhíno and the blonde woman.”

It finally hit Sétıpímo: Pí‘oro Kılímo was dead. The crotchety old rancher, who was only three years older than Sétıpímo, who Sétıpímo had known since just after high school, who had always shook his head sadly at the ways of mankind and the universe as a whole, had finally joined Pétíso in the next existence. How much longer do I have? Sétıpímo thought suddenly. His jaw stopped momentarily.

The lieutenant had already begun talking. “We must double-check that the suspect is deceased. We need to question his wife. We can--”

“You don’t need to question Vata,” Sétıpímo cut in. He spat a stream of tobacco off to the side. “First of all, she’s not going anywhere--she’s got nowhere to go. Secondly, she’s not a suspect or even a suspected accomplice in this murder. Thirdly, you don’t have a warrant to go busting into houses like Rékaré when there’s no suspect inside. This is Pívo County; we follow proper protocol here. We obey the law.”

Sétıpímo glanced over at Senior Lawman Vomıvé, who might not have been following those laws quite as well as he should have, that night.

Vomıvé nodded sharply. “Exactly.” He evidently missed the rebuke in the detective’s glance.

“We don’t need a warrant,” barked the Enforcer, jabbing his finger toward the front door. “We’ve been in there already.”

“There’s nothing to be gained,” snapped Sétıpímo. “Just leave the old girl in peace!”

Why couldn’t they just leave Vata alone for one night? She wanted to be alone with her husband just awhile longer, to mourn for him, to say goodbye. Perhaps, per the rules, they should break in and take the body away, but it didn’t feel right.

The tall, blond Enforcer emitted something which might have been a growl. He narrowed his eyes and muttered, “Plague of Rívorí.” Louder, with a tight jaw, he said, “If you are following your precious protocols so precisely, then it isn’t you, detective, who decides whether we can enter this house or not. It’s the senior lawman.” He turned his head toward Vomıvé. “Well?”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 5

2007-09-11T07:41:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı sat awkwardly in the back of the cruiser, his wrists still cuffed behind his back. A metal grating separated him from the pretty policewoman as she drove them down the two-lane highway.

She had not said anything to him and hadn’t even looked his direction, but Bhanar could catch glimpses of her face in the rearview mirror. Even though the cruiser and the surrounding desert were dark, he still thought he could see that she was crying. If she was crying, it had to be because of Pí‘oro.

“Do you know Pí‘oro good?” he asked.

The brunette didn’t respond, not even the slightest movement of her head.

Bhanar asked again, “Do you know--”

“Yes,” she interrupted, her voice strained.

“Ah.” Bhanar leaned back on the bench seat, one knee folded up on the vinyl.

If the girl wasn’t a local, she had at least been there long enough to form friendships--friendships with strange old men. Bhanar frowned.

Whatever the policewoman’s relationship with Pí‘oro, Bhanar felt he had to comfort her, somehow, to give her hope.

“He will get better. They will heal him.” Whether the “they” were the paramedics or Zhíanoso and Vata, he didn’t know. But they would heal him, right? “He cannot die, don’t you know?”

She emitted a moan of a grunt, but nothing more.

Bhanar scowled. This girl was obviously mourning for Pí‘oro, even though she didn’t know if he was dead or not. Maybe something in the police radio reports had told her that the old guy was definitely dead, but it sure had seemed like the paramedics hadn’t given up yet.

He had to get her to open up, to let her feelings out. It was the only way for her to start healing emotionally, if Pí‘oro was really dead.

And if it so happened that she and Bhanar formed a close relationship during her healing process, surely that would be all right, right?

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 4

2007-09-10T07:48:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Zhíno Zhudıro followed the trail of the energy that had healed him, back along its tendrils toward the soul of the deceased man. The path flickered and faded, stretching from one universe to another, but Zhíno never lost its track. He was a bloodhound on a scent. He was a falcon close upon his prey. He was a wolf stalking his dinner.

Névazhíno was nowhere to be seen any longer, but that hardly mattered. The god had performed a mere pittance of His power. The old man, on the other hand, had given every last drop of his life for Zhíno.

The floating line of dissipating energy coalesced in a clump of swirling particles. It had to be the man. Where he was, exactly, Zhíno didn’t know, but that didn’t stop him from leaping into the universe the old man inhabited.

His paws landing on cool grass and soft plants--a meadow-covered hillside. Ahead of him, up the hill a ways, the old man stared off into the distance. He seemed at least a decade younger than Zhíno remembered from his brief view earlier. Not nearly so plump, saggy, or bald.

Zhíno trotted up to the man. When he spotted Zhíno, he began to frantically search around, obviously in a panic to defend himself. Zhíno stopped, realizing that his form was a wolf. For some reason, he couldn’t figure out how to change it. The way he previously flitted from one animal to a next didn’t seem to work in this place.

He tried to speak. “Thank you.” Zhíno breathed out heavily, relaxing. At least this lupine body responded to his commands, however unusual they might be for a wolf. Zhíno knew how to talk, and so Zhíno-as-a-wolf knew how to talk.

The human straightened, standing tall with feet at shoulder width, and rubbed his forehead. “Um. . . You’re welcome?”

Zhíno wagged his tail and slowly resumed walking forward, making sure to stay on the downhill side the man.

“Don’t you recognize me?” asked Zhíno, dropping his ears back briefly.

The man slowly shrugged. “Should I?” he growled.

“My name is Zhíno. We met in conflict in the other world, but that is of little importance now.”

The man scowled, his eyes slits. “I’m Pí‘oro,” he quietly drawled.

Zhíno wagged his tail. “You gave your life for me, Pí‘oro. Névazhíno took your lifeforce to heal my body. And now I’ve come here to thank you for your sacrifice.”

Pí‘oro staggered, shaking his head. “No. No. What are you talking about?”

“The god Névazhíno used your energy to heal me. Don’t you remember this? Didn’t you volunteer?” The god had given Zhíno a choice of being the sacrifice or recipient. Surely He would have given Pí‘oro a similar option.

Pí‘oro plopped down onto his rear end, staring blankly at Zhíno’s yellow wolf eyes. “No. . .” was all he said.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 3

2007-09-09T20:23:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré stood on the outside of the group of Pívo County lawmen and Colonial Enforcers. They were supposed to be coordinating and organizing the hunt for a man named Zhíno and a Narakamíníkan woman named Fírí Parizada, who owned the brown Sonla sedan, but instead they were fighting about who lost track of the suspects and who beat Pí‘oro Kılímo so much he had a heart attack.

Sétıpímo spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the desert soil and resumed chewing. He didn’t want to stay out here all night. He should be in bed right now. If these Koro-heads couldn’t resolve their conflicts by themselves, it was up to him to do it for them.

A young medic raced out of the house and sprinted past, already breathing hard.

“Men!” Sétıpímo yelled. “Men! Shut the plagues up!” He waded into the group of policemen, grabbing the first county lawman he saw. “Laparıpasamé, shut up and go stand over there--quietly!”

The young man looked like he was about to scream something, but caught himself short and replied, “Yes, sir.”

As Laparıpasamé sulked away, Sétıpímo grabbed another lawman, doing the same thing, with the same results. He then came to the red-faced Senior Lawman Vomıvé, who was nose-to-nose with one of the Colonial Enforcers. Both were yelling at the top of their lungs straight at each other, but Sétıpímo couldn’t understand either of them.
The detective grabbed Vomıvé’s shoulder and spun him around. The lawman started to throw a punch, but held himself up just in time.

“Plague of Kínıtíní!” cursed Vomıvé. “What are you doing, Marıdaré?”

Sétıpímo couldn’t help but smile as he chewed his tobacco. “What am I doing? What the plagues are you doing? You’re going to get yourself demoted if you keep this up.”

Vomıvé rubbed his eyes with one hand.

The surrounding men started to quiet down, except for a couple people yelling incoherently over by the front door. One didn’t sound like a male voice. Sétıpímo and most of the others peered past each other toward this new disturbance.

A second paramedic ran out of the house, his arms clutching his head. “She’s gone crazy!”

Behind him, Vata Kılímí screeched, “And stay out!” just before she slammed the door shut.

The younger medic raced up to his boss, clutching a plastic cube in his hand. “I’ve got the battery. What’s going on?”

The assembled men erupted into a chorus of yells.

Sétıpímo spat his tobacco, trying to miss everyone’s shoes. “Aw, plagues,” he muttered.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 2

2007-09-08T07:54:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Vata Kılímí shuffled as fast as she could around the hallway corner. Ahead of her, two paramedics crouched over her prone husband, a young lawman standing guard. Heated voices floated in through the open front door. Pí‘oro lay on his back, his nightwear top torn open, exposing his pale, flabby chest. A lump stuck in Vata’s throat. He looked so lifeless. She couldn’t feel anything from him.

“Clear!” snapped one of the medics, two paddles on Pí‘oro’s bare torso.

An electronic whine thumped, twitching Pí‘oro slightly. The medic with the paddles leaned back, looking at the other man, who stared intently at a flickering screen on a box twenty centimeters wide. They obviously trusted their electronic gizmo more than actually putting two fingers to the carotid artery.

It was past the point that medical machines could revive her husband. Only the love of Névazhíno could bring Pí‘oro back. She had to get everybody out of the house. She had to get Pí‘oro on the altar, but that was impossible. She’d never be able to move his body, not even with Fírí’s help. Her only option was to wake the horse and bring her into the hallway and perform the ceremony there. Hopefully the hall was close enough to the chapel for Névazhíno to recognize the sacrifice and respond. Vata had nothing left but hope.

“Mrs. Kılímí,” said the lawman--Tépíto Laparıpasamé, she thought his name was--as he held out his hand to stop her.

The police helicopter thundered past, drowning out the raised voices of the arguing men outside.

Vata slowed, still two meters away from her husband’s feet. She couldn’t look at him.

“Leave him alone!” she begged, staring at the paramedics. “Show some respect for the dead!”

Lawman Laparıpasamé softly said, “They’re trying to bring him back.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the front door.

Vata hobbled to stand over the closer medic, who had the paddles. Laparıpasamé took a step toward her, stretching his hand in front of Vata. His attention was clearly on the argument outside, however.

“Nothing,” said the medic staring at the flickering gizmo.

“Right,” replied the other, nodding briskly. “Clear.”

Why are they ignoring me? “Leave him alone!” Vata screamed.

The machine’s whine sputtered out, only half begun.

Facing the doorway, Laparıpasamé shouted, “That’s not true!” He stormed out the door, his voice soon lost amongst the others.

The medics glanced at the dials on the box, fiddling with knobs.

“Get out of here!” Vata screeched, whapping the closer paramedic on his shoulder.

“There’s a spare battery in the case under the gauze,” he rattled to his partner. “Hurry!” Only then did he turn his attention upward at Vata.

The younger paramedic leapt to his feet and disappeared out the door.

The medic glared at Vata, his jaw tight with stubbornness. “We can still save him.”

Vata hit him again, a closed fist to the top of his head. “Get out!”

“Hey!” He held up his hands to defend himself as Vata struck again. “What the plagues?”

“He’s dead! Leave him alone! Get out! Get out! Get out!” She kept wailing away on his arms, his shoulders, his head--anything she could, as hard as she could.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 1

2007-09-07T13:09:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

Chapter 13: Brotherhood of Man

Pí‘oro Kılímo was dead. He had to be. No one could survive the explosion of agony he just experienced. And now he felt no pain whatsoever, which meant he either was in a hospital on some extra-strong painkillers, or he was dead.

If he was dead, he should be at Pétíso’s great hall, ready to be judged for reincarnation by the God of Death. Perhaps His friends Sívorí and Ahísıhíta would be standing by Pétíso’s side. Surely Névazhíno should be beside Pí‘oro, there to vouch for his life of good deeds and such. But no gods were present. Nothing was present. Nothing except blackness . . . and the buzzing of insects.

He opened his eyes.

Pí‘oro lay on his side in a steep, grassy meadow, his face tilted down toward the earth. A light breeze rustled the tall grass, swaying violet and yellow flowers to and fro. Little bees danced from one blossom to the next.

“Where the plagues am I?”

He pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed his forehead. The hillside meadow curved out of sight to either side. Clumps of trees dotted the landscape, growing into a forest further down the mountain. A thick layer of clouds blanketed the lower reaches of the slope, perhaps three kilometers below. Scattered far in the distance, numerous conical mountains protruded from the clouds. The closest was at least fifty kilometers away, but they all looked surprisingly similar, as if they were all built from the same set of plans.

“Where the plagues am I?” Pí‘oro repeated.

This had to be a dream. No other explanation presented itself, unless this was the afterlife. But it certainly was nothing like any description of the afterlife he had ever heard. But if this was a dream, it was unusually detailed.

He stood up with surprisingly few aches or twinges in his joints and muscles. Like a dream, he thought.

Up the mountain, the meadow gave way to rocks and snow. The highest point he could see had to be a thousand meters above him, but that probably wasn’t the peak.

Somebody or something whistled sharply, a call quickly repeated across the mountainside.

Pí‘oro spun around, light on his feet, to find a gray wolf loping diagonally up the slope towards him. He couldn’t outrun it, not even in a dream. No sticks or rocks at his feet. His heartbeat swelled. Adrenaline began to flow. He braced himself to fight with his bare hands. At least he wore his calf-high leather boots, which would provide some protection and a few good kicks.

The wolf stopped five meters away, wagging its tail, its tongue lolling out.

“Thank you,” it said.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 9

2007-08-30T07:43:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha wiped her eyes with her uniform cuff as she led the pretend emperor toward her cruiser. Senior Lawman Vomıvé had reported that Mr. Kılímo had had a heart attack. And here was Séara ignoring his pain, following orders.

Bhanar had wanted to help, but she couldn’t let him, all because of her plagued orders, all because of proper protocol. Séara just had to assure herself that Vomıvé, Tépíto, and the others were doing everything they could for Mr. Kılímo. And yet they were the ones who had beat him till he collapsed. They weren’t helping him out of friendship or compassion. They were helping him to cover their butts. She sniffled, feeling the tears welling in her eyes again, just at the thought of her old friend lying on the floor in agony, probably dying.

Detective Marıdaré approached, blocking her route. He covered a yawn with his pudgy fist before saying, “What’s going on out here?” He chewed continuously, probably on tobacco.

Séara stopped, gripping Bhanar’s arm tight. “I’m taking this suspect back to our holding cells.” She clenched her teeth, trying to keep her face impassive. “Everyone else is focused on Mr. Kılímo.”

Interwoven and quickly growing louder through the several male voices behind Séara, footsteps slapped the concrete. She tugged Bhanar to the side just before a paramedic jogged past, headed for the back of his ambulance. At least somebody wants to help the poor old man. She sniffed. A tear ran down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, hoping the detective wouldn’t notice.

Mr. Marıdaré ignored her lack of discipline and rubbed his chin, glancing at Bhanar. “So this is the punk who shot the Enforcer?” He obviously didn’t recognize Bhanar from television or the magazines.

Bhanar stared straight at the detective, his angular face strong and unflinching. Even though his Sarıman wasn’t the best, he probably understood the detective’s meaning.

Séara shook her head, then shrugged. “Maybe. Another suspect is still on the loose, last seen in the back yard by the Enforcers.”

Mr. Marıdaré snorted and spat a brown stream into the bushes. “But they lost him, of course.”

“Of course,” replied Séara, grateful that someone else’s police skills were being demeaned, for a change.

The medic raced the other direction, carrying a defibrillator kit.

“Process him,” ordered the detective. “I’ll question him in the morning.” His mouth never stopped working the tobacco as he stared past them toward the other police officers, whose voices began rising in argument.

“Yes, sir.”

Séara didn’t particularly care what the lawpersons and Enforcers were arguing about, just so long as the medics were focused on reviving Mr. Kılímo. She pushed Bhanar’s arm forward to get him moving again. They walked around Mr. Marıdaré and onto the gravel.

Senior Lawman Vomıvé had parked directly behind Séara’s automobile. She sniffled as she visually measured the distances on either side. If she ran over those couple creosote bushes, she’d make it out fine, but trust Vomıvé to not think of his fellow lawpersons.

The constabulary’s helicopter cruised past, momentarily drowning out all other sound and kicking up a fine spray of ochre dust. Séara tilted her face away from the artificial wind as the dirt settled. As she resumed guiding Bhanar toward her cruiser, Séara let the tears flow freely down her cheeks, now able to blame them on dust in her eyes. Her childhood friend would soon be no more, and she had done nothing to help him.

As she opened her cruiser’s back door, Bhanar said, “My truck. My belongings.” He jerked his head down the driveway.

Séara didn’t look that direction, just in case it was an unlikely distraction. She’d seen a blue truck in the ditch when she drove up. It must be his.

“Don’t worry,” she replied, careful to use short sentences so he’d understand. “Someone will guard it. No one will take anything.”

She placed her hand atop his head, crushing his spiky gelled hairdo, and guided him into the back seat.

With a longing glance toward the Kılímos’ house, she shut the cruiser door.

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 8

2007-08-29T07:41:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Vata Kılímí stepped back from Fírí’s flailing arms. She had to get past this petulant girl and help Pí‘oro.

Névazhíno’s powerful energy still swirled around the chapel and through her spirit, but if Vata concentrated hard enough, she could focus her thoughts on the task at hand.

“If you don’t trust me to open the door, why don’t you do it yourself, dear? Surely your ears are better than mine, so you’d be able to hear if anyone was in the hallway or not. Please. I must help my husband. He may be dying.”

Fírí shook her head, her face cinching up with distress. “He’s already dead, lady.”

“No.” It couldn’t be, and yet an empty corner of Vata’s mind revealed where Pí‘oro’s link should have been. No! She couldn’t sense him anymore, which could only mean one thing.

“Even if he is dead,” Vata argued, “I can bring him back. I’ll sacrifice the horse and Névazhíno will bring him back. I can do this.” And yet she never had even tried.

It must be possible, though. Pí‘oro’s spirit can’t be forever gone, can it? Vata’s mother had mentioned this during at least one lesson, so very many years ago. How much time did she say we have? Ten, fifteen minutes?

Her voice quiet, yet strong, Vata declared, “There’s still time to save him.”

The blonde narrowed her eyes, glaring at Vata. After a few seconds, she shoved her index finger in front of Vata’s face and hissed, “Very well. But if the police find out I’m here, you’re going to jail right along with me. You have a lot more to lose than I do.”

That’s certainly true. Vata nodded, taking a relaxing breath.

Fírí stood and cautiously cracked ajar the shelf-covered door.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 7

2007-08-28T07:45:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Zhíno Zhudıro swam/burrowed/trotted through the trees/ocean/clouds. Wherever an animal soared, he soared with it. Wherever an animal fought for its life, he fought with it. Sometimes he fought against himself, but that was just the way of animals.

Wherever he traveled, however, something was never right. His wings never flapped quite as strong as they were supposed to. His forelegs couldn’t support quite as much weight as they should. His left pincer barely worked at all. But none of this was enough to keep Zhíno from his unceasing adventures.

Ahead of Zhíno on one of the many worlds, a familiar animal died abruptly. Overwhelmed by the sheer and complete agony, the animal keeled over. Zhíno felt the pain and died with him, but lived on elsewhere. Where had he seen that particular animal before?

Zhíno ran/flew/hopped on his continuing journey, but the energy from the dead animal raced after him. He skittered away, but the lifeforce closed the distance quickly, guided by Névazhíno Himself. The god deftly encircled Zhíno with the animal’s energy, trapping his wings and legs and fins against his body.

He knew Névazhíno must be aiding him, and yet Zhíno struggled, acting on instinct. The living energy penetrated his scales and hide, forcing its way deep into his flesh, into his very essence of being. Electricity zapped through every fiber of his body. The ocean waves lifted him high on their crests. An updraft propelled him far into the heavens. A mountain formed under his hooves, pushing ever upwards.

The energy surged around his right shoulder and his left front fetlock. Invigorating ecstasy emanated from every ounce of his existence. His forelegs pulsated with power and a blinding pleasure so great it became glorious pain. Zhíno knew he could do anything. He could do everything. He could touch the sun. He could move planets. He could be forever alone.

The throbbing energy dissipated, Névazhíno gone, but the echo of the experience remained in Zhíno’s soul.

And with that echo, he finally realized the identity of the animal who had died for him, who had sacrificed his life to make Zhíno stronger. Zhíno remembered the human being--the man--from the other world, from shortly before the madness ended. The sacrifice had been none other than the balding, fat man who had attempted to kill Zhíno with his rifle.

Zhíno frolicked through the fields on four strong legs, snorting a laugh. How appropriate that was. The old man gave his life for the one he had tried to take.

I should go thank him.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 6

2007-08-27T07:43:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Fírí Parızada eyed the unconscious Zhíno lying neatly on the stone altar, his heels together but the tips of his shoes pointing to the sides. Surely he’d wake up any minute, just like that foreign kid. Or maybe he wouldn’t until Vata slipped him a wake-up drug during her chanting and dog-murdering ceremony. Sleight-of-hand and all that gooseshit.

A bellow resonated throughout the house and, simultaneously, Vata fell to her knees, clutching her head. The old woman gurgled.

“What the plagues are the police doing out there?” Fírí whispered. Are they torturing somebody?

The scream trailed off as Vata pitched forward onto the dirt. Her skull missed the bottom step by centimeters. Her white ponytail flipped forward over the top of her head.

What the plagues happened to her? What did it have to do with the scream?

No matter what, there was no way in Pétíso’s hells that Fírí was going to let the hag open that door. Not when somebody was screaming like that.

She ran the three meters to get between Vata and the door. Fírí crouched down on the wood stairs, observing the small woman from close range. Vata breathed.

Fírí sighed with relief. At least she didn’t have to deal with a dead body.

The old woman moaned low, then started to push herself up.

“What happened?” Fírí demanded in a loud whisper.

Vata shakily got to her knees and turned her dirt-covered, droopy face up to Fírí. “Pí‘oro,” she rasped.

Fírí frowned. “What? Who?” Is Pí‘oro her husband? She’s got to be thinking he’s the tortured one.

“I must. . .” Vata took a gulp of air. “. . . help him.” Her eyes stared to a faraway place, the corners pulled down as if she were scared or about to start crying.

Fírí shook her head, her hair whipping back and forth. “If somebody just got killed in a most horrible way, we got to stay hidden.”

Her voice broken by sobs, Vata cried, “I must help him!”

How does she know it was this Pí‘oro guy? Does she have some psychic connection with him or something? Fírí raised an eyebrow. It would explain her instantaneous response. She tossed her head. Don’t be silly. That sort of thing doesn’t exist.

Vata stood on wobbly legs and took a step toward Fírí. “I must help him,” she repeated, her voice only marginally firmer. “Out of the way, dear.”

Fírí hissed, “Not with the police out there, no! Pí‘oro’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

The old woman staggered closer and reached out to grab Fírí’s sweatshirt sleeve. Fírí pulled her arm away, but the hag held tight, crying, “Move!”

As she waved her arms to break Vata’s grasp, Fírí huffed. This hag was certainly the most stubborn old Vítí-twin she’d ever met.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 5

2007-08-24T07:39:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı glanced skyward as he stepped outside. The gas giant Zhaké was nowhere to be seen. It took Bhanar a second to realize it was only natural since this was the planet Rívorí and not his home planet of Kètnít. Rívorí had no gas giant, but orbited the sun directly. Without Zhaké filling a handspan of the sky directly overhead, holding everything down, it felt as if Bhanar would lift off the cement walkway and float away.

The cute policewoman’s firm hand on his arm, though, kept him definitively earthbound as they walked toward the driveway and the waiting police cruisers. Several policemen were walking up the driveway from the highway. Only two cruisers and an ambulance were parked up near the house. The rest were down there by Bhanar’s truck, the cruisers’ rooftop lights flashing bright red and green. The police helicopter flew low in the distance, the loudest sound in the desert.

Bhanar craned his neck to get another view of the black-haired beauty walking behind him. She caught his eye briefly, but looked away. A hint of possibly a smile crossed her full lips. Bhanar grinned widely and turned his view forward. She hadn’t replied to his attempt at conversation, but he could tell she was interested. After he got this unwarranted-arrest mess cleared up, he’d have to get her name and telephone number.

A deep scream rent the air, unending. Bhanar and the policewoman both stopped and looked back toward the house, toward the source of the inhuman noise.

What the plagues? thought Bhanar. Someone’s dying. It must be Pí‘oro.

He tried to start running back to the house, to help the old man, but the policewoman held him back with both hands.

Bhanar tugged at her grip. “We need to go to help him!”

“The medics can handle it.” Her voice wavered.

“They kill him!” Bhanar twisted free of her grasp, but stumbled as he tried to run. With his hands cuffed behind him, he landed hard on his shoulder.

The scream finally stopped, dying out with the last of the old man’s breath.

As Bhanar attempted to get up, the policewoman jumped on top of him, pinning him to the cement. He struggled to roll her off, but she was tougher than she looked.

Through heavy breath, she said, “Do you know what ‘under arrest’ means?” Tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

“Yes,” snapped Bhanar. It meant he had lost all freedoms to help those who had helped him. It meant that he would be treated as a criminal until he was proven innocent.

The police from the driveway swarmed around the two of them, some running to the house but others kneeling down, putting all their weight on Bhanar’s arms and legs, squishing them into the rough concrete.

“Cover him! Cover him!” they shouted to each other.

Several radios burped with static, broadcasting overlapping reports.

Bhanar had no choice but to relax under their combined weight.

“It’s all right,” the cute policewoman said with a clipped voice. “I had him pacified.”

The other police began to slowly stand up. A big guy ground Bhanar’s forearm into the pavement one last time before he got to his feet.

“You should watch him more carefully,” another one muttered as he turned to the house.

The police radios staticked again. From the policewoman’s radio, Bhanar understood words such as “suspect,” “collapsed,” and “cardiac arrest.”

If it was the police and paramedics killing Pí‘oro, there was nothing Bhanar could do. They would overpower him again or just shoot him. If it wasn’t the police who were hurting Pí‘oro, then they’re trying to help him. Either way, Bhanar was useless.

“Let’s go,” he calmly said.

As they stood up and resumed walking toward the automobiles, the policewoman refused to look Bhanar’s direction, as if she were hiding her face in shame.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 4

2007-08-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Pí‘oro Kılímo, bloody and sore, let the police carry most of his bulk as they escorted him down his hallway, wrists handcuffed together behind his back.

He’s held out as long as he could, but he had failed. They were going to search the whole house now. They were going to find the chapel. They were going to arrest his darling Vata.

The big man’s knee buckled briefly and he stumbled to catch his balance. A policeman shoved his back, snarling, “Keep moving, Korutuzho.”

Pí‘oro grinned as he continued hobbling down the hall. The police were just as bloody and messed up as he was. He’d given as good as he got.

If only the foreign kid had helped him, just maybe they could’ve held them off. It certainly would have evened the sides a bit. But Bhanar was out the door and gone before Pí‘oro had been pulled to his feet. No-good Névo-brained punk.

Almost to the entryway, Pí‘oro’s chest shattered. His brains exploded in his skull. The floor slammed against his face, but he barely noticed. Flames engulfed his body. He tried to crawl away, but he had no arms. Waves of insane torture inundated his consciousness, overwhelming him, pulling him under.

Pain. Nothing but pain, deep within the core of his very essence. Pí‘oro’s mind, body, and soul surrendered to the unbearable agony. Pí‘oro was pain.

And then he was nothingness.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 3

2007-08-22T07:47:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Vata Kılímí lay pinned to the floor by Fírí, the blonde’s hand covering her mouth, silencing Vata’s prayers to the God of Animals. She had to get up and help her husband. He was broadcasting so much anguish that she could barely think. Combined with the effervescent essence of Névazhíno, it almost completely overpowered her. Vata had to hurry to help Pí‘oro and then get a sacrifice for the healing ceremony before Névazhíno grew upset. He must already be upset. You don’t want to get gods upset, not even the Love of the Universe. Gods do inexplicable things when they’re upset.

Vata strained against the girl’s hold, but she didn’t have the leverage or enough mass to budge the tall blonde. She sank back against the hard-packed soil. The two women stared at each other from close range, both breathing hard. Fírí’s hair hung limply around her face, blocking the dim light from illuminating her expression.

Pí‘oro’s emotions began to settle down, his agitation mellowed by resignation. Whatever the situation in the hallway, Pí‘oro must have given up the struggle he’d been fighting. Vata frowned slightly at the thought that he’d held his ground for only so short a time. Surely he was stubborn enough to argue for hours, even against the police. Surely the spirit of the Love of the Universe permeated beyond the chapel and could give Pí‘oro the strength of will he needed to stand his ground.

The blonde girl hissed, “Have you calmed down now? You’re not going to run to the door again, are you?”

What had she said earlier? Vata channeled Névazhíno’s overloading energy into forming coherent thoughts. Fírí had said she was afraid of the police finding her. She was afraid of the police entering the chapel. Well, surely the girl knew that Vata didn’t want the police in there, either. Or maybe not.

Fírí’s hand still over her mouth, Vata crisply shook her head and murmured indistinctly.

The girl lifted her hand a few centimeters. “What?”

Whispering, Vata replied, “I don’t want the police in here any more than you do. These animal sacrifices are illegal. They have been for Cycles. Surely you know that.” Vata’s nostrils flared as she hit upon a topic that had been sore for all her life. She soared on the wings of the God of Animals. “The government doesn’t want us to worship properly. They don’t want us to honor Névazhíno above the Union. If they could have their way, they’d have the entire pantheon obliterated.”

The young woman scowled. “What the plagues are you talking about? The Union is run by religionists.”

That’s just what they want you to think. Vata breathed deep, refocusing her thoughts. She had to get out of the chapel. She had to go help her husband. Something awful must have happened to him that sapped his will to fight. She had to get a sacrifice. Névazhíno wouldn’t wait forever.

Using all of her effort, Vata calmly stated, “Never mind, dear. Just rest assured that the police will arrest me if they get into this chapel. If I open that door, it will be extremely carefully.”

Fírí’s doe eyes narrowed, but she eased off Vata. “Very well,” the girl said as she sank back on her haunches, her little brain cranking.

If the blonde alerted the police to the illegal sacrifices, Vata would tell everything she knew about Fírí and Zhíno. It was mutually assured imprisonment.

Fírí exhaled loudly and stood up. “Just don’t plague it up any further.”

Vata rolled over and pushed herself to a sitting position, from which she stood, nearly floating to her feet on the uplifting spirit of her god.

The blonde hissed, “Is there anywhere in here to hide from Zhíno?”

As Vata brushed dirt from her black bathrobe and began shuffling toward the hallway door, she answered, “Not in here, no, but you need not fear him. He is unconscious now and, when he awakes, he will be filled with the love of Névazhíno.”

Vata smiled benignly, although Fírí wouldn’t be able to see. Névazhíno understood the situation and was willing to wait for Vata to help Pí‘oro ahead of the criminal. Névazhíno was waiting for her.

The blonde glanced around the room. “Are you sure there’s nowhere to hide?”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 2

2007-08-21T07:39:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Zhíno Zhudıro flew through the desert sky, alone and free, and yet he could sense every animal on every world. He was alone, and yet part of something far greater--the interconnected matrix of life, the energy that swirls within every living being. As he soared, he could feel every bird, every horse, every snake, every jellyfish.

Not only could he feel them, he could be them. He was them. Zhíno galloped through fields of tall grass, the stalks brushing his chest and legs. He squirmed his body back and forth, pushing against rocks for greater forward momentum, flicking out his tongue to find a scent of that which he sought. He floated weightless in the ocean, sucking and pumping water through his body, searching for food, searching for something.

Névazhíno stood/sat/hovered in front of him in the ocean/clouds/field. A forked tongue flicked from His beak and He serenely asked, “Which one are you?”

“I am. . .” Zhíno pondered the question. “A human being.” Yes, that is it. Zhíno smiled, glad he could still remember.

The god lowered His head, arched up His back, stuck out His quills. “No. Are you the sacrifice or the recipient?”

Sacrifice? Recipient? Zhíno could barely remember his species and Névazhíno expected him to know if he was a sacrifice or a recipient. Zhíno didn’t even know what the god meant by recipient. Sacrifice certainly sounded bad, though, like it would be an end to his wonderful life in these forests and lakes and mountain meadows. Zhíno didn’t want that, so his decision became easy.

“Recipient.”

Névazhíno rattled His tail and snorted through His huge nostrils. “Then where is the sacrifice?”

Zhíno looked around. Nobody else was in sight, just air and waves and empty tunnels. “I do not know.”

“Then I shall find someone.” The god swam away, His wings pumping.

Zhíno sighed with contentment, glad the issue was resolved. He scurried out along a tree branch, in search of tasty nuts.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 1

2007-08-20T18:21:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

PART III: NIGHT AND DAY

Chapter 12: Dreamscape

Umo Amuéné placed the automobile telephone back in its cradle between the two front seats of his beige Rènzas sedan. It was time for them to go. Gogzhuè’s police radio had picked up an accurate description of Zhíno Zhudıro in the small town of Tuhanı.

Without undue rush, Umo placed the key in the ignition and started the engine. The headlights illuminated rust-covered machinery and piles of slag rock.

In the seat beside Umo, his partner Lango Víkınémé continuously wrung his hands, his elbows flapping. The rhinestones on Lango’s jumpsuit quietly clacked together with each movement. Before Umo even put the auto into gear, Lango burst out, “What did he say? What are our orders?”

As Umo eased his luxury auto forward over the rocks and potholes of the abandoned quarry, he replied, “Get the guns. Kill Zhudıro if possible.”

Lango cackled a laugh, rubbing his hands together.

Umo doubted the opportunity for murder would present itself, at least not to his standards. He would never let all his plans and hard work be for naught, just because of this Tara-fucking punk Zhudıro.

Lango kept giggling and rubbing his hands.

Staring impassively through his sunglasses, Umo briefly glanced at his greasy partner. Lango shut up. His hands barely stopped moving, though, as they went to check his gel-frozen bouffant.

Umo’s own hair was in a similar swept-back wave, but he absolutely refused to use gel or spray. He also declined to wear rhinestones on his jumpsuit, but that was more for job-necessitated silence than a sense of dignity. If a man’s hair couldn’t hold a pose on its own, then perhaps that man shouldn’t wear that style, Pétíso damn tradition.

The dirt road finally exited the quarry and arrived at the paved highway. Umo turned right and smoothly accelerated down the road. They had at least three hours to drive till they reached Tuhanı. Hopefully the police wouldn’t find the guns and explosives before then, or else things could get a mite complicated.

Umo didn’t need complicated.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 10

2007-08-09T07:43:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Séara Nulıpésha kept her face as stiff and impassive as possible as she stood in the Kılímos’ hallway, hands clasped behind her back. The familiar dark-blue carpet and blue-tinged walls seemed a different world with four policemen and two medics crammed in, especially with three of those piled on top of Mr. Kılímo.

She wouldn’t think on her own anymore. She was only going to follow orders. It was the only way to keep her job. Whether she wanted the job or not was a different question. The two-year wait for the equestrian squad was sounding longer and longer every minute.

Lieutenant Nıgédazo yanked the foreigner named Bhanar out of the spare bedroom, revealing him to be a lean young man with rumpled black hair. In that first brief instant, when Bhanar caught his balance and glanced toward the scrum of men on Mr. Kılímo, Séara recognized him as that Bhanar, the pseudo-emperor, the one whose pictures were always in the tabloids, usually wearing a motorbike jumpsuit.

Tonight, he wore a black singlet and baggy denim trousers, but he wore them as if they were an evening suit, holding his body with grace and dignity greatly lacking in the hallway at that moment, as if being arrested did not concern him in the least.

The lieutenant shoved him down the hall, telling Séara, “Put him in your local jail.”

Séara nodded sharply, holding out her hands to catch Bhanar as he stumbled. The precaution proved unnecessary, as the confident man once again quickly regained his balance. He brought his eyes up to Séara’s and smiled.

“Hello. My name is Bhanar.”

As much as Séara wanted to reply, to converse with this interesting foreigner who was only two years younger than her, she had to follow orders. She had to follow protocol.

“Come with me,” she said curtly, reaching around Bhanar to place a firm hand on his muscular forearm.

“As you wish,” he replied serenely.

They began walking down the hall, leaving the others to settle their differences and subdue poor Mr. Kılímo. Séara glanced over her shoulder at a particularly brutal grunt, but she had already turned the corner of the hallway and thus saw nothing.

She did not break stride.

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 9

2007-08-08T07:42:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Fírí Parızada watched the old hag shuffle towards the interior door. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The police were outside, the police were inside. If Vata opened that door, the police would be in the chapel.

The blonde burst into a run, quickly passing Vata and blocking her route to the door.

Breathing hard, Fírí held out her arms to either side, spacing her feet fairly wide, as well. “Don’t open that door,” she hissed.

Even with the dim torchlight behind the old woman, Fírí could still see a crazed look upon her face.

“Move aside, dear,” Vata croaked. “I must help my husband.”

The hag stepped closer.

Fírí shook her head. “No. I already plagued it once by letting you open the door for Zhíno, and that almost got me killed. There’s no way I’m going to plague it again and let you let the police in. I am not going to jail.”

With the voice of a strangled snake, Vata said, “Get out of my way!”

She pounced at Fírí, her hand clawing through the air. Fírí swatted at the flailing limbs, holding her face out of range of those wicked fingernails. She made contact a couple times, and it felt like hitting dead branches. Fírí got a good shot and Vata stumbled back a step. Her blood boiling, Fírí lunged at the hag, shoving her with both hands to her chest.

Vata flew to the ground, tumbling onto her back.

Fírí’s arms and legs started shaking with the jitters of adrenaline as she stepped toward the old woman.

Vata propped herself up on her elbows, panting just as hard as Fírí. Her eyes wide, she began chanting, “O Névazhíno, please help me in my time of need, for it is You--”

“Shut up, hag,” Fírí hissed, leaning over her.

The old woman didn’t stop, staring straight at Fírí’s face. “--it is You Who are the true Love of the Universe. You are the one and only--”

Fírí dropped to her knees and put her hand over Vata’s mouth, muffling the hag’s pleas.

“Shut the plagues up, you wretched twin of Vítí!” she whispered into Vata’s face from close range. “Your idiot god is never going to help you in a year of Nohímo Days, so just be quiet!”

(next page

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 8

2007-08-07T07:47:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Emperor Bhanar followed the large, old man toward the bedroom door. Bhanar held his chin high, walking tall. The High God of Fire had healed his legs. He was the emperor.

He failed to keep a smile off his face, but did manage to mute it.

Right before he stepped into the hallway, a man bellowed, “Enforcers! Stop where you are!” His tone of voice implied a drawn pistol.

Bhanar froze, the Enforcers out of sight down the hall to the right and Pí‘oro and the medics out of sight to the left. If he stepped into view now, he’d probably get shot.

“Let him go!” the Enforcer commanded.

Why were the police here, waving guns around? Were they upset that the old man had carried him inside? Hadn’t Pí‘oro told them that his wife would call Zhíanoso to heal him? Bhanar scowled. Did she call Him or was that me?

Breathing so hard that Bhanar could hear it, Pí‘oro growled, “Have you captured the murderer Zhíno, yet? You won’t find him in here. He ran out the back, remember?”

Bhanar didn’t understand all of the words, but he felt the rebellious intent. What the plagues is he doing? Trying to get himself killed?

Before he thought about it, Bhanar called out, “Everyone be calm.”

Silence filled the hallway.

One of the police snarled, “Who is that?”

Fighting against the rising panic in his gut, Bhanar replied, “I am Bhanar. If you are looking for me, I am here. I was hit by the automobile, but Zhíanoso healed me. I don’t need the paramedics.”

Quick footsteps in the hallway ended with a Colonial Enforcer appearing before Bhanar. Blond with a thin face, he might have been the same Enforcer who bandaged his leg. The policeman narrowed his eyes at Bhanar’s face, glancing down at his legs.

After a moment, he turned to his compatriots and said, “Either he’s got a twin or this is the kid.”

Relief flooded Bhanar. The Enforcer had seen the truth, even if he didn’t want to believe it. With all seriousness, Bhanar emphasized, “I am Bhanar.”

The Enforcer nodded curtly Bhanar’s direction, then to his fellow officers, he commanded, “Arrest them both.”

Bhanar stood dumbfounded. He must not have heard that right. The Enforcer must have used some Sarıman phrase that Bhanar didn’t know. He couldn’t be under arrest.

The tall blond grabbed Bhanar’s shoulder and spun him around, grabbing his left arm. Cold metal clacked around his wrist.

Don’t resist. Be imperial, he told himself, but in reality, his compliance was mostly a product of his shock. What had he done?

He held his chin high and his right hand back for the remaining handcuff. The steel tightened around his right wrist and thus he was detained.

A scuffle erupted in the hallway. Pí‘oro shouted, “What the plagues for?”

Grunts and thuds followed. Radios squawked with voices unintelligible.

Through heavy breath, a man replied, “For obstruction of justice.”

This was all a huge mistake. Surely, once the police discovered the truth of the matter, they’d realize the same. It would only take a bit of discussion, is all. Once everybody settled down, Bhanar and Pí‘oro would be released.

The Enforcer at Bhanar’s back said, “Come on, you,” and pulled on Bhanar’s shoulder, spinning him around towards the doorway.

Bhanar stumbled momentarily, but entered the hallway walking tall. He looked left to see a writhing tangle of bodies and limbs on the floor, jammed between the walls of the hallway, with at least two black-uniformed policemen forming the top layer. A blue-shirted paramedic watched from the other side, a wince frozen on his face.

The Enforcer shoved him the opposite direction, saying, “Put him in your local jail.”

Bhanar recovered from the shove with three quick steps, then raised his head to find himself only three feet from a beautiful woman. She wore a black police uniform, but it did little to hide her curvaceous figure. Her heart-shaped face drew Bhanar’s attention, though. Smooth, tan skin with large, brown eyes that seemed to sparkle even with her stern expression. Full lips pursed ever so slightly and a delicate chin. She wore no makeup, and yet she was stunning.

He couldn’t help but smile at her.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 7

2007-08-06T07:42:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Zhíno Zhudıro lay at peace, floating on a magical flat rock. No pain. No agony. No troubles.

A woman’s voice drifted in through his ear. Perhaps it was Fírí’s. Zhíno didn’t bother to discern the words.

He didn’t care if anyone was nearby. They didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was him, the rock, the circle of fire, and the warm hand of a god.

Perhaps, though, after he was healed, other things would matter. Fírí would be dead and gone--good riddance--but there would still be Gogzhuè and the police.

Yes, thought Zhíno, Gogzhuè and the police will definitely matter once I am healed by the wonderful Névazhíno.

With two functional hands, he’d be able to defend himself. He’d be able to strangle the last breath of life out of that mob-boss-cum-religious-leader and every one of his Voro-fucking minions. And then he’d finally be able to live in peace.

High up in the desert on the slopes of Mount Soínıpasa, Zhíno gazed across his land, shielding his eyes from the sun. Endless crimson poppies waved to and fro in the wind. This was his home. This was where he was at peace. Just the land, the air, and the animals who inhabit them both. He was one of those animals; he was all of those animals.

Taking two quick steps downhill, Zhíno launched himself into the cerulean sky and soared upward on a warm breeze.

He was finally free.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 6

2007-08-04T15:05:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Vata Kılímí paused at the thudding of a helicopter. Maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to sneak outside and retrieve an iguana for the sacrifice without being spotted, but she figured she had a better chance of keeping the goddess Rana away from her endless stream of lovers. Helicopters had bright searchlights and an amazing field of view. Even if all the foot police happened to be looking some other direction, the helicopter crew would see all.

Névazhíno, what now? Should I sacrifice the horse, after all?

Through her link to her husband, Vata could sense his desperation growing. His situation was getting worse, perhaps so bad that he wouldn’t be able to handle it alone.

Vata’s brain buzzed with the spirit of the God of Animals, crescendoing fluctuations as Névazhíno’s patience wore even thinner.

A group of people ran through the house, their thumping feet resounding quietly in the sound-proofed chapel.

“It’s the police!” hissed the blonde girl from beside the altar, glancing around the room like a rabbit searching for some rock to hide under. Fírí obviously knew she was just as guilty in this whole affair as her loud-mouthed ex-boyfriend.

Her head swimming, Vata took two short steps toward the horse and the altar, but paused. Iguana? Horse? Help Pí‘oro? She had to start the ceremony before Névazhíno reached the end of His patience. She’d never waited this long before and had no idea if He would just leave or if He’d destroy the chapel and maybe the entire town of Tuhanı with his wrath.

The backyard animals were settling down, finally quieting their din inside Vata’s head. Maybe the police had abandoned the yard altogether--except for the helicopter, of course.

Which meant the police were in the house, just like Fírí said.

Shouting in the hallway. Pí‘oro’s fear and anger spiked, nearly knocking Vata off her feet.

She stabilized herself with one hand on a brazier’s iron post. She had to help Pí‘oro. He’d never been so upset in his life. Something terrible had to be happening. Vata didn’t know how she could be of assistance, but she knew deep in her heart that she had to try.

She let go of the post and shuffled as fast as she could toward the interior door.

“O Névazhíno, please forgive me. I’m sorry I called you, but this recipient can wait. I must help my husband.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 5

2007-08-03T07:55:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Pí‘oro Kılímo furrowed his brow at the bloody bandage around Bhanar’s shin. Why in Névazhíno’s good graces hadn’t Vata removed that thing? It blew Pí‘oro’s story wide open and left him looking very suspicious, like he’d staged the whole scenario.

The house shook as a helicopter passed close overhead. More police here to destroy my property, thought Pí‘oro with lowered brows.

Bhanar glanced up at the ceiling till the sound dwindled away, then finished untying the bandage. He tossed it onto the floor and pulled up his trouser leg to reveal a tan and injury-free shin. Not even a scar remained. Névazhíno had worked His wonders.

The younger medic turned to Pí‘oro. “What kind of a game are you playing here?” he snarled. “Where’s the real victim?”

Pí‘oro rubbed his forehead, shaking his head. “No, this is him. He just . . . wasn’t as injured as we thought.”

“No!” Bhanar insisted in his thick Zhuphíoan accent as he stood up. “I was hurt. My legs did break. But Zhíanoso fixed me. He healed me.”

Pí‘oro closed his eyes. Why’d the kid have to disagree with me? Can’t he see what kind of a mess we’re in? And why does he keep attributing his healing to the fire god? Is he some kind of moron?

“Seriously,” said the younger medic. “Where’s the real victim? We don’t have time for this.”

At the far end of the house, glass shattered. Aw, plagues. Someone was probably breaking into the house through the kitchen window, and that someone had to be the police. I should’ve bought a second gun.

Bhanar pointed at his legs as he hopped from one to the other. “See? I am good. You can go now.”

The two paramedics glanced at one another. The older one jerked his head toward the door and they both started going out. Pí‘oro sincerely doubted they were leaving the house. A growl escaped his throat as he stomped after them.

“Sons, you can’t look anywhere else. This here’s the kid who Zhíno ran over. Get back here now!”

The medics turned down the hall toward the other bedrooms, away from the front room. Pí‘oro hotly pursued. This was his property, Pétíso damn it. They had no right. He had to stop them before they stumbled upon the secret door.

He reached out and grabbed the trailing medic’s shoulder just as a man shouted, “Enforcers! Stop where you are!”

Pí‘oro’s heart lumped in his throat, but he kept his hand firm around the medic’s shoulder. He needed to get everybody out of his house now. They had no right to be in here. The murderer was outside. The Enforcers saw him leave, for Vuzhí’s sake.

Pí‘oro inhaled deeply through his nose, his face turning red, and spun to look back the way he’d come. At the corner in the hallway, several men in black uniforms leveled guns directly at him.

“Let go of him!” the lead Colonial Enforcer shouted.

His jaw tight, Pí‘oro replied, “Have you captured the murderer Zhíno, yet? You won’t find him in here. He ran out the back, remember?”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 4

2007-08-02T07:42:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Fírí Parızada stared wide-eyed at her ex-boyfriend, her ineffectual pepper spray still clutched tightly in her hand. What in Pétíso’s hells was going on?

Zhíno’s wild anger had rather quickly been replaced by calmness and serenity, as if all that pent-up energy had finally worked its way out of his system. He looked toward Fírí with a blank smile, but it didn’t seem as if he actually saw her.

The old woman carried the murdered dog away, laying it on the ground near the wall. She said she wasn’t going to let Zhíno hurt her, but Fírí certainly didn’t trust the hag.

Abruptly, Zhíno jumped onto the altar, swinging his feet up onto the slab and lying down.

Fírí staggered, glancing from Zhíno to Vata and back to Zhíno. “What just happened?” How in all the worlds did she make him do that?

Vata turned their direction and murmured, “Good,” before beginning to walk toward the back door in her slow, foot-scuffing manner.

The distinctive rumble of a helicopter cut through the house. Fírí glanced up, but of course saw nothing but the black ceiling. The din diminished, but remained audible. The helicopter stayed near the house.

Who would be circling in a helicopter? The police? A news station? A hospital helicopter would be landing to load someone on board, so it couldn’t be them.

If it was a camera crew, it didn’t change Fírí’s situation much. If it was the police, though, it meant they were doing a thorough search of the area. Which meant they’d be searching this house soon. Which meant they’d be arresting Fírí soon.

She leaned against the altar, panic rising inside her as her breathing accelerated. She had to hide. She had to get rid of that duffel bag with the money. She had to distance herself from Zhíno, both because she couldn’t be seen as his accomplice and because he might very well wake up any minute and make good on his threat to kill her.

Her eyes darted quickly around the room. This secret chapel was already the most hidden place in the house. No further-hidden cubbies or hidey-holes presented themselves. She had to stay right there, but all her muscles were twitching, urging her to run. She had to get away from Zhíno, the money, and the whole situation. It didn’t matter where she went. She just had to run.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 3

2007-08-01T14:26:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha fumed on the doorstep. Her tears had dried. She shouldn’t have let Mr. Kılímo direct the situation like that. She should’ve taken charge. She should be inside, standing beside those medics, just like her orders.

In the distance, the faint chopping of a helicopter grew louder. The constabulary’s Aerial One was joining the search. That suspect could be a kilometer away or more, by now. Unless, of course, they caught him in the back yard before he jumped the fence or opened one of the gates.

Her belt radio burped. “This is Vomıvé. Nulıpésha, report. Please tell me you’re in the house. Come unlock back door.” His exasperation shone through the static.

Uh oh. Séara slowly reached for the radio. She had to tell him the truth; she had no other options. But the truth would probably get her fired.

She held the transmitter up to her mouth and replied, “Medics are in house with victim. I am outside front door.” She paused. “Is suspect in custody?” She froze in that position, waiting for the wrath of Vomıvé to fall upon her.

The helicopter thundered over the house, dark except for a few blinking lights. They must be searching with infrared, thought Séara as she turned her face away from the blast of dusty wind stirred up by the helicopter’s passing.

Her radio sputtered again, someone talking, but she couldn’t make out the words over the roar of Aerial One. After a few seconds, the helicopter rounded the house out of sight, circling into the distance.

Into her radio, Séara said, “Please repeat.”

A burst of static. “Colonial Enforcers entering house. Stand by, Nulıpésha.”

She lowered the radio, clipping it to her belt without looking. If they’re entering the house, why did Vomıvé need me to unlock the door for them?

The realization smacked Séara upside the head: they were breaking in, just as she was about to do, a couple minutes ago.

The radio staticked again. “This is Vomıvé, inside Kılímo residence. Enforcers leading search for suspects Kılímo and Bhanar. Debris from Zhíno gunfight littering kitchen.”

Quick footsteps thudded inside the house, followed by a moment of silence, then by more quick footsteps approaching the front door. The Enforcers had succeeded where Séara had failed. She took a deep breath and straightened her back, preparing for the verbal onslaught to come.

The door swung open, revealing a tall, blond man in a black uniform with Enforcer insignia. He narrowed his eyes at Séara and tersely said, “The door was unlocked.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 2

2007-07-31T07:49:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Zhíno Zhudıro finished his diatribe with, “Who’s insane now, bitch?” and proceeded to laugh right in the face of the startled twin of Vítí.

Fírí blinked several times and tilted her head back to look down her nose at him. With a sneer, she replied, “Uh, still you.”

It only made Zhíno laugh harder.

He felt good. Nothing hurt anymore. His eyesight was a bit blurry, but Fírí’s pepper spray hadn’t caused any pain at all. He had more energy than ever before and felt stronger than ever before, despite his gunshots and broken wrist. If those Colonial Enforcers busted in right then, he wouldn’t even bother to hide from their barrage of bullets. He was invincible.

To his ex-girlfriend, Zhíno calmly said, “If I’m insane, you Névo-brained whore of Rana, there’s no point in arguing with me. So why don’t you lay down on the altar and we’ll get this ceremony started.”

Fírí shook her head, her large blue eyes fixed upon him. “No,” she snarled. “No.”

From the far side of the chapel, the old lady called out, “That’s not the way it works, Zhíno dear.”

Zhíno turned to look at her, squinting in the dimness. “What do you mean?”

The old woman, whom Fírí had called Vata, started shuffling towards them, passing between two flaming torches stuck in the ground. Her hands were empty. “To do this right, I need you to lie down on the altar first.”

“Why?” asked Zhíno, with puckered brow. He leaned forward, placing his left hand on the altar before realizing that his mangled wrist couldn’t support any weight. Maybe his body needed fixing up, after all.

Vata reached the opposite side of the rectangular stone slab, from which she picked up the dead dog with no apparent difficulty despite her small size. She must have the same strength flowing through her as Zhíno felt. It was the strength of the god Névazhíno, the divine power of a billion animals.

Holding the dog’s body with both arms in front of her, Vata smiled kindly and responded, “The altar is for the recipient as well, dear.” She turned away, leaving Zhíno to do as he pleased.

He still wanted to kill Fírí, to enact his revenge for her betrayal, but that desire was fading. The more he stood here by the altar, under the influence of Névazhíno, the less it seemed to matter. Névazhíno was called the Love of the Universe, he seemed to remember, and now he could feel why. Despite all his anger, his lust for retribution, and his scorn for Fírí, Zhíno could not bring himself to retrieve the knife or even smack the Vítí-twin across her face.

This was the old lady’s chapel. This was the old lady’s cult. She knew the ways of the ceremonies far better than Zhíno did. If she said he had to lie on the altar now, it was because her god Névazhíno needed it that way. It was the only way to fully heal these wounds and finish off Fírí forever.

Using his functional right hand for support, Zhíno hopped up onto the altar and stretched out his feet on the slab.

He was ready for his miracle.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 1

2007-07-30T16:51:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

Chapter 11: Finally, Someone Gets Arrested

Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı dreamed of a soaring throneroom replete with imperial banners and a motorbike racetrack. At the moment, he was not racing, but merely observing the bikers zip around, flying high off the dirt jumps.

Behind him, someone was talking, disrupting his entertainment. He stood up from his throne, adjusted his fur-lined cloak, and circled the ornate wood chair. No one was there.

And yet the voices grew louder.

They were muffled, yet distinctly in a foreign language. Sarıman, perhaps. He knew Sarıman. He could speak it.

The voices said something about a room and a person--a male person. They were going to see him. Something about injuries. They were going to see “Bhanar.”

The young emperor jerked awake. The voices weren’t from his dream, but reality. Someone was coming.

Bhanar sat up on the soft bed and looked at his surroundings. A dark bedroom he barely recognized. A musty odor in the air. Where was he?

The bedroom door swung open revealing several dark forms silhouetted against the brightness beyond. Someone flicked on the lights and Bhanar had to close his eyes momentarily.

A man with a deep voice: “Just as I said, there he is. You can check him if you want, but you’ll find his legs are perfectly healthy.”

Bhanar reopened his eyes to find two middle-aged men in blue paramedic uniforms approaching him. Behind them stood the old man, Pí‘oro. Memories came flooding back to Bhanar. This was Pí‘oro’s house. His wife, Vata, had brought Bhanar to this bed, after Zhíanoso had healed his legs.

One of the medics started saying, “Hi. We’d like to look at--”

Bhanar threw aside the blanket, staring down at his own legs. He still wore his denim pants thankfully, and his shoes, for that matter, but what drew everyone’s attention was the darkly stained white cloth bandage tied around his right shin.

The lead medic reached gingerly toward the bandage, but before he touched it, Bhanar lifted his leg and twirled his foot. No pain, of course. Zhíanoso hadn’t been just a dream. Bhanar had truly experienced a miracle.

“That doesn’t hurt?” the medic asked.

“No,” replied Bhanar, a smile creeping onto his face. “The great Zhíanoso healed me. My legs are not broken now.”

He bent his knee and started untying the bandage. He had to see his unbroken leg with his own two eyes.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 10, page 7

2007-07-26T07:40:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Vata Kılímí bent over and scooped the knife off the dirt floor, deftly wiping it on her skirt. Hopefully the blonde’s pepper spray would pacify Zhíno. Vata needed to get him relaxed and on the altar before she could heal him. One way would be to tranquilize him with the drug Vata used on the horse and the dog, but she’d never used it on a human being before. That serum was intended for sacrifices, not recipients. If only he felt the same overwhelming grace from Névazhíno as Vata did, the young man would practically float onto the altar.

Vata reached out a gentle hand toward Zhíno, but stopped short when he lowered his hands from his face.

He straightened up and faced Fírí with a serene expression. The whites of his eyes had turned red, but he held them open as if he felt no pain. Névazhíno’s healing hands were already upon him.

“That was good, babydoll, but you’re ten years too late. You’ll never make up for your betrayal tonight.”

Vata didn’t know what betrayal he referred to, but didn’t care much either. She just wanted to heal him. Her head buzzed with the essence of the God of Animals.

Fírí backed away two wobbly steps, her eyebrows creased with worry and confusion. It didn’t appear as if the girl understood Zhíno any better than Vata did.

The horse kicked at the dirt, neighing softly, as if to remind Vata that she was waking up. Vata needed to give her a new dose or else she’d be wandering around the chapel. With the police mucking about outside, taking the horse back to her stable would be impossible.

Zhíno’s injuries--two injured arms and now irritated eyes--were obviously not life-threatening enough to require the sacrifice of the horse, but no other options presented themselves to Vata. With Névazhíno already present, time was of the essence. He certainly wouldn’t enjoy being kept waiting. O Névazhíno, what should I do?

Zhíno glanced down at his feet, then to the knife in Vata’s hand. “Give me that back, you sneaky hag. I have unfinished business with it.”

The god did not answer Vata. He was prepared to do His part, but first Vata had to figure out her problems on her own. She had to concentrate through the fog of elation caused by His proximity.

Before Vata could answer, Zhíno turned his attention back to Fírí and waggled his bandaged hand at her. “It’s too late to change your ways now, so just lay down on the altar and we’ll get this show started.”

Fírí stepped backwards again. “Don’t give him the knife, Vata. Please.”

Vata blinked. Somehow, the blonde had seen through her charade. Fírí knew she wasn’t intending to sacrifice her, and probably so did Zhíno. At least she was able to disarm him while the ruse lasted.

Vata held the knife far from Zhíno. “Don’t worry, dear. I won’t let him hurt you.”

Fírí frowned, as if she didn’t expect that response, after all.

The horse nickered and pushed herself to her feet, looking around to inspect her surroundings.

Zhíno spun on Vata, murderous rage burning in his eyes--or maybe that was just a combination of the pepper spray and torchlight. “Give me the knife, you Nuví hag! I have to punish the Tara-fucking twin of Vítí for what she’s done to me.”

Vata smiled. There he goes again, associating me with the wonderful High Goddess of Earth, as if it’s an insult. The horse whinnied, staring at Vata. I need to do something about that horse.

Fírí’s jaw dropped, her eyes focused nowhere but Zhíno. “What have I done?” She shook her head, a smile growing upon her pale face. “You’re not talking about earlier tonight, are you?” She laughed sharply. “It wasn’t me who shot at that truck without provocation. It wasn’t me who killed a policeman. It wasn’t me who made a deal with murderous thugs, smuggling weapons that will be used for a Nunıta-knows-what nefarious purpose--probably to attack the government or--”

“You betrayed me,” snarled Zhíno, as if that explained everything.

He made a swipe for the knife but Vata jerked it out of his reach, stepping away from him. She rubbed her temples with her empty hand. She had to ignore these squabbling kids and concentrate on her own situation. The swirling spirit of Névazhíno made logical thought most difficult, however.

The horse neighed again and began circling the altar towards the young blonde’s back.

Fírí snapped, “I didn’t do anything to you,” waving her hand wildly and not noticing the approaching animal.

Zhíno jabbed his index finger at her. “You Névo-brained whore of Rana, you don’t get it! You abandoned me when I needed your help the most. I was injured and hunted and in a hurry and you just left--”

“You’d gone insane!” Fírí screamed, her hands clenched in fists.

The horse sniffed at the back of the girl’s neck. Fírí swatted absentmindedly at it, her attention fixed upon her ex-boyfriend. Vata clicked her tongue to draw the horse away. It swung its head and took a step Vata’s direction.

One way or another, Vata had to re-tranquilize the animal. She began shuffling over to the shelves where she kept the serum and the syringes. The horse followed her.

In a lofty voice, Zhíno replied, “Oh, I’m insane, am I? Insane like Rékaré, you mean. I’m insane enough to hunt you down and trap you in this hidden chapel, you mean. Insane enough to kill you and heal myself at the same time.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I’m not the Névo-brain who led her hunter to the only place in all the worlds where he wouldn’t feel pain. I’m not the one who can’t even hide her tracks!” He laughed maniacally. “Who’s insane now, bitch?”

Vata concentrated, furrowing her brow, blocking out all else but the problem at hand. Would Névazhíno object to the sacrifice of a horse when it wasn’t completely necessary? He was here. He knew the situation. He knew the horse was the only animal available.

Vata sighed. She knew she couldn’t waste one of His most glorious animals for a scumbag like Zhíno. Some way, somehow, Vata would have to retrieve a smaller animal from the back yard without the police spotting her.

If only that seemed at all possible.

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 10, page 6

2007-07-25T07:37:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Séara Nulıpésha knew she had to arrest Mr. Kılímo. The paramedics wouldn’t lie to her, surely. But it just was so darn implausible--every step of the way--that Mr. Kılímo would have gone into town in the late evening, killed a Colonial Enforcer, and returned to his home as if nothing had happened. Knowing all that, she was quite willing to delay actually arresting the gentle, old man. Before she did that, she could let him take the medics to the victim they’d been clamoring about.

She let out a quick breath and said, “All right, take them to the victim without me, but I’m not leaving.”

If she was really arresting him, she could barge right in and look around all she wanted. Since she wasn’t doing that, Mr. Kılímo would easily realize that she wasn’t serious about taking him into custody.

A big, friendly grin on his face, Mr. Kılímo gestured the medics inside. “Come on in. I’ll take you right to Bhanar and show you that you’re not needed.”

The two medics walked past Séara without giving her so much as eye contact. The second man bumped her shoulder slightly. It wasn’t hard enough to definitely be on purpose, but his lack of apology made it seem that it was.

Mr. Kılímo shut the door with a thump after the paramedics entered the house, leaving Séara alone in the desert night.

Why had that medic bumped her? Here she was, doing everything she could to help them get inside, and this was how they showed their gratitude?

She turned her back on the door and crossed her arms, moisture gathering in her eyes.

Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this job. Here was her first big test and for some reason she felt like she was failing. True, she’d gotten the medics inside, but it took forever. She’d told Mr. Kılímo she was arresting him, but then she didn’t follow through on it. She didn’t even know why she had said that to him. She surely didn’t trust those paramedics more than she trusted Mr. Kılímo, so why had she taken their word for anything? They were probably just upset that he hadn’t let them inside. They were just trying to get revenge on him, and using Séara to do it. And he bumped her just to show his contempt.

A tear rolled down her cheek as she stared up into the night sky.

Is it always going to be like this? Will the men I work with always treat me like this, taking advantage of a poor little girl? She carefully wiped the tear away. Will I always play right into their hands and make a fool of myself?

The distant stars provided no response.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 10, page 5

2007-07-24T07:40:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Fírí Parızada cowered against the altar, breathing short and fast. Her crazy ex-boyfriend and the old lady were going to kill her, sacrifice her to Névazhíno. She had to do something. She had to escape.

But her muscles quivered, unable to stand up.

Why had she trusted Zhíno? He was a lying Zhéporé-spawn if there ever was one. He had always professed his love for her, but that was obviously all faked. Why did he now bother claiming she’d never been strong-willed enough for him? He’d supposedly fallen in love with the “weak” Fírí, hadn’t he? So why would he try to rewrite history now?

Zhíno loomed over her and greedily laughed. “Let’s do it.”

His cackle brought back memories of their bedroom: the grin on his face as she entered wearing those silly outfits; his laughing with excitement as she tied his wrists and ankles to the bed; and his moans mixed with abrupt screams of joy as she hit him with that awful cat-o-nine-tails and the other nasty whips and weapons.

“Come on, babydoll,” Zhíno coochicooed. “Hop on up and let’s get going!”

If the bastard took sexual pleasure from being tortured, why wasn’t he the one to be laid out on the table? Surely he’d like it. Fírí had always held back in beating him, because she loved him. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, for Vuzhí’s sake. Now, though, that love was all gone. She’d gladly hurt Zhíno, any way she could. If he wanted a strong Fírí who beat him, now was the time she was finally willing.

Still in that silly sing-song voice, Zhíno said, “Get up, whore of Rana.”

Not looking up, Fírí dropped her right hand to her sweatshirt pocket and fished for the little can of pepper spray. Her fingers rubbed against the auto keys as she wrapped her hand around the can. When Zhíno first came in, he’d demanded she give him those keys. For some reason, though, he seemed to have forgotten about them. Did he want to drive away or didn’t he? He probably didn’t care; he just wanted to exhibit his control and power over her.

Well, Vuzhí and Pétíso, that power was gone. She was her own woman now. She’d never trust that lying sack of gooseshit again.

Fírí sniffled, jutted out her jaw, and looked up at her ex-boyfriend.

Vata gripped Zhíno’s knife-wielding wrist.

“Give me the knife, dear.”

Zhíno stared at the old hag, a demented grin upon his face. He didn’t release the knife.

Hidden behind the altar, the drugged horse weakly neighed.

Fírí pushed herself to her feet, her left hand clutching the altar and her right hand still in her pocket.

“You want me to hurt you, Zhíno? To be strong?”

Zhíno’s eyes flitted to Fírí. He squinted with puzzlement. “What the plagues do you think I was just saying, Névo-brain?” He yanked his wrist free of Vata’s grasp and swirled the knife in the air between them. “What do you think I’ve been saying for years?”

Fírí pulled the pepper spray from her pocket and squirted Zhíno in the face, aiming for his beady little eyes.

“Aaaugh!” Zhíno twisted away, dropping the knife as his hands flew to guard his eyes.

“How do you like that, you worthless, Ahísıhíta-damned cretin?” An involuntary grin parted Fírí’s full lips as adrenaline entered her bloodstream. Somehow, hurting Zhíno made her feel more alive than she had in years. She chuckled. “Serves you right, you bastard.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 10, page 4

2007-07-23T07:46:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Pí‘oro Kılímo walked across the front room after locking the kitchen windows and the kitchen-garage door. Little Séara had finally stopped knocking. Either she’d left or she was just biding her time, unsure what to do.

He heard a man’s voice in front of the house, indistinct.

If Séara had run off to help chase Zhíno, that left the paramedics all alone out there. Which meant Pí‘oro could direct them to Bhanar, show them they’re not needed, and get rid of them before any police tried to get into the house. He’d have to tell them some story about Bhanar not being injured after all, that the Enforcer was mistaken. The kid was in a lot of pain, sure, but he didn’t break any bones!

All of this was based on the assumption that Vata had successfully healed the foreign kid and took him to the spare bedroom to sleep. If the bed was empty when he opened the bedroom door, Pí‘oro would have to think fast. Hopefully that blonde girl hadn’t distracted his wife from performing the ceremony. Hopefully neither of them would exit the secret door into the hallway when he had the medics right there.

Pí‘oro paused in the entryway and listened. Still just male voices outside. He reached out and opened the door.

The two medics turned to face him, a few meters away. Both had been facing to Pí‘oro’s left, at the front window, as if they were thinking about breaking in. Good thing I opened the door. We don’t need any more stuff damaged tonight.

Pí‘oro growled, “Are you coming in or not?”

They glanced to Pí‘oro’s left just before a burst of radio static came from that direction, followed by a scratchy voice announcing, “Aerial One is airborne. ETA to Tuhanı, nine minutes.”

Someone was there.

Séara stepped into view less than a meter from the door, her face tilted up higher than necessary and her typical smile nonexistent. “Yes, they’re coming in, Mr. Kılímo, and so am I.”

Aw, plagues. Now he had to get rid of the girl. Pí‘oro rubbed his forehead.

If he remembered correctly, Aerial One was the Pívo County Constabulary’s only helicopter. They were joining the hunt for Zhíno, which was what little Séara the lawman should be doing, too.

Pí‘oro shook his head. “No, darling, you’re not coming in. You’re here on business, so you can stay out. Next time, how about you visit when you’re not in uniform? For now, though, why don’t you go search for the murderer in my back yard with the Enforcers?”

The short brunette bit her lower lip for a couple seconds before replying, “You’re under arrest.”

Pí‘oro snorted a laugh. “What for?” She really wasn’t a very good policeman. Not even the Enforcer lieutenant had tried to arrest him yet.

Séara took a breath to retort something, but remained silent, her mouth partly open.

Behind her, one of the medics offered, “For the murder of that Colonial Enforcer! Now arrest him and let us get to the victim.”

The old man grinned widely. “You know I wouldn’t kill anybody, darling, don’t you?” He reached out his hand toward the medics. “Let me take them to the boy and you can get back to chasing the man who was shooting at Enforcers in my kitchen a few minutes ago.”

Séara chewed her lower lip again, stepping back slightly. The paramedics edged forward.

If she didn’t agree to this, maybe Pí‘oro should just let her in. It wasn’t as if little Séara would ever do anything to harm him and Vata. Séara didn’t know about the chapel, but she’d been in every other room in the house, which meant she wouldn’t be too nosy.

After a moment, the young woman exhaled sharply and snapped, “All right, take them to the victim without me, but I’m not leaving.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 10, page 3

2007-07-22T13:13:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Zhíno Zhudıro lowered his pistol, smiling. This old lady didn’t look like much, but she had strength and power where it counted--unlike a certain weak-willed blonde who huddled in a ball against the stone altar.

He let out a laugh and slapped the gun into the small woman’s hand. “Whatever you say, ma’am.” He didn’t need a gun to overpower Fírí, that was for sure, and the clip was probably empty anyhow.

As the old woman hobbled over to some shelves against the far wall, the horse on the other side of the altar snorted a cough. Glancing that direction, Zhíno’s eyes briefly passed over the bloody knife and dead dog atop the two-meter-wide slab of stone. Zhíno frowned slightly and stared down at the wreck of his ex-girlfriend.

“Why can’t you be more like the old lady, you useless whore of Rana? Show some backbone!”

Without his gun, Zhíno felt naked. The blood-covered knife called to him, telling him to reach across the massive altar and swipe it up in his one good hand--and then cut out Fírí’s still-beating heart.

Fírí whimpered, covering her face with her dirty hands.

In all the time they’d been together, up till tonight, Fírí had always been there for Zhíno, whenever he needed her. When he ran away from home, she’d left her parents to live with him on the streets. The times he was sent to jail, she’d been waiting outside for him the day he was released. When he made this deal with Gogzhuè, she’d jumped into planning their new future in Sarıma wholeheartedly.

But there were also all the other times, when the twin of Vítí obviously wasn’t thrilled about his ideas, but she went along because she was too weak-willed to argue her point of view. At the time, Zhíno had been blinded by love, but his vision was clear now. When he’d needed her to be strong, she’d been anything but. When he’d needed her to punish him, she’d been completely inadequate.

“You’ve always been as weak as Nazhoro.” Zhíno thrust his finger at her, stepping closer to the altar. “Not once did you ever whip me like you meant it.”

Fírí threw down her hands and stared up at Zhíno with reddened eyes. “I didn’t mean it!” she bawled. “I only whipped you because you said you liked it.”

“Plague that.” Zhíno raised his hand as if to hit her. “If you ever truly loved me, you would have meant it, every time. It was never as good as it could’ve been.”

Zhíno enjoyed being tied up, spanked, whipped with a cat-o-nine-tails, and other assorted fun, but Fírí had never shown much enthusiasm for it. She would perform, true, and look damn fine in those black leather outfits, but she always had a stupid look on her face as if she found the whole experience disgusting.

He jerked his hand toward the Vítí-twin, just trying to scare her, when a cold hand gripped his wrist. Fírí shrieked. The old woman stood beside him, powerful dark eyes smacking him harder than Fírí ever had physically. He grinned and lowered his hand. The old lady let go.

An hour ago, Zhíno had still hoped to deliver the smuggled weapons and explosives to Gogzhuè’s flunkies without retribution. That time was now gone. Gogzhuè would be out for blood, assuming a double-cross. So, with the police trying to arrest him--and put him in prison where Gogzhuè could kill him--and now Gogzhuè definitely trying to kill him, his chances for survival didn’t look too good. Therefore, in the few remaining hours of his life, he might as well have a little fun.

He reached across the altar and grabbed the long knife. Excitement buzzed through his body, numbing all the pain, even the little stuff he’d successfully ignored.

With a laugh, he drawled, “Let’s do it.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 10, page 2

2007-07-20T07:38:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha pounded on the Kılímos’ front door. This was getting absurd. Why isn’t Mr. Kılímo answering? He can’t really be under arrest, can he? Despite her unwillingness to damage her friends’ house, she knew she should force her way in--or just give up and join the search for the murderer in the back yard. Besides, her hand was starting to get sore.

Just as she turned away from the door and reached for her radio to report, Séara spotted another police cruiser speeding up the driveway, flashing lights but no siren, its engine growling slightly louder than the crunching of the gravel. Even in the awkward lighting, she recognized the markings of the Pívo County Constabulary. It had to be Senior Lawman Vomıvé.

As the paramedics silently watched her, Séara grabbed her radio and flipped it on with a burst of static. “This is Nulıpésha. Unable to gain entry to house. Will resume helping search.”

One of the medics said, “Hey, you gotta help us. There’s an boy with two broken legs in there.”

Then why didn’t you enter when the door was open? thought Séara, but she held her tongue. She took a step toward the path around the house before her radio squawked.

“Negative, Nulıpésha. This is Vomıvé. Stay where you are.”

She stopped and stood facing the driveway, her hands behind her back. She chewed her lower lip as the senior lawman parked his cruiser behind hers and jogged towards her. He had been in the constabulary for almost ten years, but he had never advanced out of wearing a uniform. In the meantime, his hair had turned gray and his belt size had expanded modestly.

A few meters away, he slowed to a fast march and barked, “Pétíso damn it, Nulıpésha. Just break the window.” As he passed her, he added, “And stay with the medics!” His flashlight illuminating the dirt path ahead of him, he resumed jogging, leaving Séara alone with the medics once again.

They looked at her expectantly. “Well?”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 10, page 1

2007-07-19T18:13:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

Chapter 10: Classy Reunion

Vata Kılímí sighed as the injured young man walked away from her, his gun pointed at the blonde girl named Fírí. Sometimes reason and a stern voice weren’t enough these days.

She could still sense Pí‘oro nearby, so thankfully he hadn’t been shot in the gunfight. He was more agitated than ever, though.

The gunman was obviously the Zhíno who Fírí had been so afraid of. The girl’s nightmare had come true and now it was up to Vata to end it, settle her down, and heal the young man’s grievous wounds. She needed a coherent plan.

Névazhíno, please help me. Your troubled human animals need Your assistance.

She started shuffling down the hall after the two youths, her wrinkled bare feet scuffing along the moist soil. Zhíno had tried to insult her by calling her “Nuvíní,” the High Goddess of Earth. Nuvíní’s familial troubles were legendary, but Vata chose to believe that She was blinded by love, not from age-induced stupidity. Furthermore, Vata felt a deep connection to the earth goddess, thanks mainly to Her intermediary, Névazhíno.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward. With the crossed circle of Nuvíní painted repeatedly on the walls, Zhíno was anything but observant or intelligent.

As Vata entered the circle of braziers, the tingling touch of the God of Animals coursed down her spine. The horse, lying on the dirt in front of the altar, twitched its legs, as if dreaming of racing through the endless countryside. A meter to the left of the altar, the injured man stood, his handgun shakily pointed to the location behind the altar out of Vata’s view, from where crying could be heard.

He glanced up at Vata and asked, “What do you have to tie her up with?”

Still smiling, Vata shook her head. He evidently was still under the false impression that she was willing to sacrifice the girl. In order to disarm him, however, Vata would delay the disabusing of that concept.

She dropped the smile and fixed Zhíno with a glare, the energy of Névazhíno swirling through her blood. “First, dear, hand me the gun.”

“But--”

“She won’t go anywhere,” Vata interrupted. She stepped forward, her hand extended. Her head swam with the realization that Névazhíno was indeed with her; this swelling of power was not merely the lingering aftereffects from the sacrifice. “Give it to me now.”

The young man looked down at his pistol, a crease upon his brow, then to the sobbing Fírí, then back to Vata. Supported by the Love of the Universe, she imparted all of her will and determination into her gaze, all but threatening Zhíno to give her the gun. He stared straight back at Vata with his own steely gray eyes, tense and motionless.

In the back yard, the animals had become quite agitated, as if multiple people were being less than kind to them. It was a strong possibility that the police were searching the yard for this young man. He was a menace to society, that was for sure, but no prison would change that. Only Vata and the love of Névazhíno could heal his body and spirit. The only problem was that with all the police in the yard, selecting an animal for the sacrifice to the Love of the Universe would be nearly impossible.

After most of a minute of their tableau, a grin of mild insanity returned to Zhíno’s face.

He lowered his weapon.

(next page)

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

2007-06-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Fírí Parızada didn’t take her eyes off her crazy ex-boyfriend even after he switched to pointing the gun at Vata. His left arm hung loose, useless, a bloody bandage of what looked like sweatsocks and utility tape wrapped around his wrist. Had he been shot again?

“Then who will heal you, dear?” asked the old woman.

Fírí wanted to shout out that the healing was all a trick and a scam, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything that might aid Zhíno. If Vata was able to get Zhíno to put down his gun, all the better.

Zhíno squinted at the old hag, then gradually smiled. “Very well. I’ll let you heal me, but only if I’m the one who sacrifices Fírí.”

“What?” Fírí gulped. Does Zhíno know more about this cult than I do?

Vata smirked, casting her maleficent gaze upon Fírí. “As you wish, dear.”

Plague of Rékaré! Just when I decided the old Nuvíní wasn’t going to kill me.

As if breaking from a stupor, Fírí hastily scrambled backwards away from the two who deigned to murder her. She had to hide. She had to protect herself. She had to get out of there.

Zhíno lazily swung the handgun toward Fírí and began following her into the chapel. “So you’ll let me shoot the twin of Vítí, after all?”

Fírí shrieked and dove to the ground, her muscles threatening to give out as she scurried for protection behind the two-meter-wide stone altar. Her breaths came hard and fast as her whole body jittered.

“You can’t hide from me, babydoll. Don’t even try.” His laugh brought tears to Fírí’s eyes.

All she had wanted was a quiet and happy future, and now the one person she had ever trusted was about to eliminate her future, totally.

She wiped tears from her squeezed-shut eyes with the heels of her palms. Ahísıhíta damn me. I should’ve left him at the portal. Why’d I ever trust him? Why’d I ever trust anybody? Sobs racked her body as she waited to die.

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 8

2007-06-21T07:49:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Pí‘oro Kılímo took two steps toward the kitchen, intending to lock those doors, too, when he heard little Séara call out.

“This is Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha. Please open up!”

He couldn’t help but smile at her “please,” but he couldn’t let her charm influence him. She was there on business, not a social call. He had to keep the police out.

“Mr. Kılímo?” called Séara, knocking on the door.

Pí‘oro started for the kitchen again, painfully aware of his silly mincing courtesy of Vata’s small slippers. Nonetheless, he wasn’t about to remove them and leave dirty footprints across the carpet for his wife to discover. She’d have a fit just knowing that the Enforcer had run through the front room with his shoes still on.

Little Séara kept pounding on the door, trying to be the tough lawman she thought she was supposed to be.

Ahead of him, Pí‘oro could hear the Enforcers in the back yard. They yelled back and forth, coordinating their search for the murderous punk. Hopefully the animals wouldn’t get too spooked. Maybe one of the goats would bite or headbutt an Enforcer. Pí‘oro smiled. It would serve him right for messing up their home.

Pí‘oro entered the kitchen and hurried across the linoleum to the ajar back door. He wanted to kick off the slippers, but he needed some protection from the shards and splinters littering the floor.

Three of the eight chairs were overturned. A cupboard door was hanging askew, broken glasses visible behind it. The refrigerator had a puckered hole in the middle of the door. The window over the sink, strangely enough, was completely open, yet undamaged. Perhaps that was how Zhíno broke into the house.

Beside the back door, Vata’s framed needlepoint declaring “home sweet home” lay on the linoleum, a spiderweb of cracks radiating from the upper left corner.

Pí‘oro frowned and shook his head slightly as he reached the door. He slammed it shut and turned the deadbolt.

Zhíanoso and His ice-goddess mother, Vítí, would shake hands before Pí‘oro ever let the bungling Enforcers in his house again.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 7

2007-06-20T07:40:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Séara Nulıpésha’s feet churned the gravel as she cornered past the ambulance, heading for the cement walkway that would lead to the trail around the house. Cowering in the bushes alongside the walkway, the paramedics looked up at Séara. Beyond them, the front door stood open, but suddenly slammed shut. The medics twitched at the thump.

Séara kept running past them, but one called out, “Wait! A victim is inside. The old guy won’t let us in.”

She didn’t stop. They weren’t talking about Mr. Kılímo, were they? Why wouldn’t he let them in?

The radio on Séara’s belt blurped. “This is Laparıpasamé. Enforcers say suspect hiding in fenced-in yard, suspect had not enough time to climb fence. Enforcers searching many sheds. I’m assisting from outside fence.”

If the murderer wasn’t fleeing, Séara had a moment to help the medics before joining the search. She halted and ran back to the front door. She turned the knob. Locked.

“It’s locked,” she said, frowning. She pounded on the door and yelled, “This is Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha. Please open up!”

Silence.

The medics should’ve gone in when they had the chance. Séara didn’t have all night to stand around helping them.

“Mr. Kılímo?” she called. Into her radio, she reported, “This is Nulıpésha. Assisting medics gain access to victim. Will join search shortly.” She reclipped the radio to her belt.

The medics walked up behind her. “He’s not going to open it,” one of them commented.

“Why not? He’s got to.” She pounded on the door again.

This wasn’t like Mr. Kılímo. He was always so cooperative and helpful.

The medic answered, “Because the Enforcer was arresting him when the shooting started.”

Séara paused, her fist motionless before the door. There has to be some mistake. It can’t be Mr. Kılímo they’re talking about. Never. Arrested?

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 6

2007-06-19T07:56:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Zhíno Zhudıro gazed upon Fírí’s pale, wide-eyed face as she backed away from him until she bumped into the wall. His face split with a grin and he cackled a laugh filled with relief and joy. He’d stumbled right onto his quarry. Neither of his gunshot injuries seemed to matter anymore, the pain overtaken by the exhilaration of capturing the twin of Vítí who had betrayed him so viciously earlier that night.

He yanked his handgun from his pocket and pointed it Fírí. Finally he’d get to enact his revenge.

Hopefully he had some bullets remaining. How many shots had he fired? Ten? Eleven? Twelve? Standard clips had twelve. Maybe he had two bullets left. Maybe the gun was empty. But if he didn’t know, Fírí certainly wouldn’t know.

Smiling as nastily as he could, Zhíno jabbed the gun at his ex-girlfriend. “Are you ready to die, whore of Rana? Give me the auto keys, and maybe I won’t kill you.”

Her burgundy sweatshirt covered with ochre dust, Fírí held up her hands as if they’d protect her from a bullet. “Please, Zhíno,” she whimpered. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.”

The old lady stepped into Zhíno’s view, but didn’t block the gun. With a scowl, she snapped, “Put that thing away, dear, before you hurt somebody.”

Zhíno snorted a laugh, his eyes never leaving the blubbering Fírí. “But that’s my plan, you stupid Nuví hag.”

“Lower the gun,” she ordered in a tone that demanded obedience. “Don’t waste your bullets. If you shoot the girl, I’ll call upon Névazhíno to revive her.”

What the plagues is she talking about?

Zhíno shrugged and swung the gun to point at the white-haired woman. “Very well. I’ll shoot you first.”

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head sadly. “Then who will heal you, dear?”

Zhíno narrowed his eyes. His wounds began throbbing. Could this hag actually heal people? He’d heard rumors of Névazhíno cults, but he thought they sacrificed humans for the benefit of animals. Maybe they could sacrifice humans for the benefit of other humans, as well. A slow grin pulled up the corners of his mouth.

“Very well. I’ll let you heal me, but only if I’m the one who sacrifices Fírí.” And has a little fun before finishing the Vítí-twin off.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 5

2007-06-18T07:42:00.000-07:00

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)

Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha spotted the flashing red-and-green lights of several cruisers dazzling the desert night, accompanied by Mr. Kılímo’s powerful floodlights from the house.

Her radio squawked. “Shots fired! Shots fired!”

It sounded like Tépíto’s voice. He was already at the house, helping the Enforcers. Who was shooting and who were they shooting at? Had the Enforcers found the murderer? Had he taken the Kılímos hostage?

As she approached the unlit cruiser blocking her path, Séara swerved to the left lane and stomped on the brakes. The other police had parked alongside the road, but time was now of the essence. She cranked the steering wheel and gunned the cruiser up the gravel driveway.

A hundred meters ahead and closing fast, the ambulance was parked in front of the garage door. Séara squinted into Mr. Kılímo’s floodlights. Someone in dark clothes scurried past the ambulance, away from the front door.

Her radio burped. “This is Laparıpasamé. I’m circling the house. Suspect went out the back.”

The person running past the garage glanced up at Séara’s headlights. It was Tépíto Laparıpasamé.

Séara grabbed her radio handset as she veered to the open area right of the ambulance.

She held the handset near her mouth. “This is Nulıpésha approaching. Proceed. I’ll cover west side of house.”

Tépíto nodded and disappeared around the corner.

She longed to ask him about the Kılímos, but it wasn’t appropriate.

Séara stood on the brake pedal and unbuckled her seat restraint as the cruiser skidded to a halt. Before the auto completely stopped, Séara shoved the gearshift into park and threw open the door. She leapt out of the cruiser, drawing her pistol, and sprinted around the ambulance.

She had a murderer to capture.

(next page)