The Warrior. Dinah McCall

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СКАЧАТЬ as a child was now a luxury. Landfills were a scourge on Mother Earth. The Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya would be shocked by what time and people had done.

      He owned three other homes in separate parts of the country, and every few years he switched residences to keep from having to explain to neighbors why he never aged. It was simple. He would just change his hairstyle and choice of clothing, then present himself as a relative of the previous owner. So far, the system had proven to be foolproof, but he never took anything for granted. Caution—and finding the soul of the man who’d murdered his people—was always at the forefront of his mind.

      For the past three years, he’d been back in Georgia. From his bedroom window he could see the place where he’d laid the bodies of his people to rest. Although their bones had long since turned to dust, his memory of the day was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

      Usually he took pleasure in the drive up the bluff to his house, but not this time. He was heartily glad it was over. This morning had been unexpected and exhausting. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled into the garage, closing the doors behind him. His chest still hurt, but it was no longer open or bleeding. Within a couple of days there would be nothing left but another scar to add to the collection already on his body.

      He got out of the Jeep, grabbed the groceries he’d bought earlier and headed for the kitchen. It was a long drive from Savannah, so his only purchases had been nonperishables. When he needed fresh vegetables or anything dairy, he bought it down in Justice, a little town only a few miles away. Justice boasted a population of almost five hundred people and was little more than a spot on the map. Down there, people referred to him as Big John. They knew nothing of the wealth he’d accumulated over the centuries, his skill in the stock market or the goods he imported and exported to different countries. He kept his acquaintances at a friendly arm’s length. The less he shared of himself, the better.

      As soon as the groceries were put away, he headed for the utility room, stripping off his clothes as he went. The shirt was a bust. Even if the blood washed out, there was the small matter of the bullet holes. He tossed it in the trash, treated the blood spots on his jeans with stain remover, then tossed everything into the washer and turned it on. When he left the room, he was wearing his favorite outfit—the skin in which he’d been born.

      His body was toned, his legs long and lean. His shoulders were wide, and bore the weight of centuries of despair with equanimity. His hair, which had once hung all the way to his waist, was now short and spiked. Instead of the occasional feather he’d once worn in it, there was a tiny silver earring in the shape of a feather hanging from his left ear, his only outward claim to his past.

      Even though the wood floors were bare of rugs, he moved silently. The windows he’d left open earlier in the day were now funneling a cool ocean breeze against his skin, which he much preferred to air-conditioning.

      On his way through the living room, his gaze automatically went to a small scraping knife decoratively framed and hanging on the wall between a stone ax and a dream catcher. That small piece of flint was all he had left of White Fawn. Regret tugged at his heart as he remembered her—bent over the task of scraping meat from pelts and skins with that very knife—remembered the soft, warm clothing she made for them after the skins had cured. If fate had been kind, he would have died with the others. But he hadn’t died. He’d asked the Old Ones for the impossible, and it had been given, even though he had yet to fulfill his side of the bargain. Angry with himself and what he considered his failure for being unable to find the enemy, he turned off the memories and headed for his room to shower.

      Later, washed clean of blood and wearing a pair of old gray sweats, John went about the solitary business of preparing a meal for himself. His life was what it was—but by choice. Yes, there were times when he was so lonely he couldn’t think, when the memory of White Fawn’s laugh was so strong he wanted to weep. Yes, there had been other women in his life through the ensuing centuries, but none that had ever replaced her in his heart.

      Living in his skin while the world grew up and old around him had not been easy. He’d been an “uncivilized” man to the hordes who’d invaded, when in his eyes, they’d been the ones with no heart and no civility. They recognized nothing of the indigenous people’s rights, but he’d soon learned the need to be able to communicate with the interlopers, and had become a guide and an interpreter for the explorers and trappers later on.

      Throughout the ages, he’d watched the natural beauty of the land on which he’d been born become glutted with people with no conscience, no interest save their own wishes and desires. They’d come on ships by the hundreds, then the thousands. They’d cut down the trees, and built houses and dams; they’d made roads and cities, and fouled the water and the air so many times over the centuries that he’d lost count. When their numbers had been too many and their greed had been too great, then had come the wars. Fighting over religion and countries and the color of skin. It was enough to make a man go crazy, but he’d been raised in the old ways, and warriors didn’t cry. They endured.

      After so much time of being a “lesser” member of society because of the color of his skin, the irony that it was now fashionable to be able to claim Native American heritage was not lost on John Nightwalker.

      When his food was ready, he filled a plate and took it out onto the patio overlooking the ocean. It was the same place he’d been standing when he’d first seen the devil ship sail out of the storm and into their lives. He cut a piece from the steak that he’d cooked and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly while watching the horizon with a dark, steady gaze. Even though centuries had come and gone since the massacre, old instincts die hard. The need to still stand watch was strong. And even though he didn’t believe fate would be so kind as to send his enemy back to him that way again, he had learned long ago not to trust anyone or anything—not even fate.

      What he did know, and had known for at least sixty years, was that the soul he sought had once again been reborn. And he knew this because of the signs that came with it.

      The first was always the dream of the massacre, after which he would wake up shaking and sick to his stomach, drenched in sweat. He’d learned, too, that the closer he got to the reincarnated soul, the more rapidly his heart would beat. He’d followed those feelings all over the world so many times he’d lost count, but he had never been able to find his nemesis. When the feelings disappeared, he could only assume that his enemy was dead and once again his soul was no longer earthbound.

      He finished his meal in silence, watched the sea until the sun had set behind him, then got up and went inside. He turned on the television in the kitchen as he cleaned up, only to find that the botched bank robbery was the topic of the national news. He watched the film clip without moving, wincing slightly when he heard his name come out of the newscaster’s mouth. Still, it was done, and he wouldn’t have changed anything in any way. When the newscast was over, he turned off the TV and went to bed.

      Another day had passed.

      One more night alone.

      

      Detective Robert Lee hit Rewind on the bank security tape, then Stop. Then Play. Once again he saw the botched bank robbery in progress, from the moment the teller fainted to the point where the perp headed for the door. He saw the guard grab his pistol as the perp took a hostage. It wasn’t pretty, but it was, in the realm of law and order, what constituted an ordinary screwup, not unlike a dozen other scenarios he’d seen in his eighteen-year career on the force. It was what came next that didn’t make sense. And if he hadn’t been watching it over and over for the last few hours, he wouldn’t have believed it had happened.

      When he got to the point where the perp, who they now knew was a man named Wallace Deeds, had taken a hostage, his attention shifted into high gear. First СКАЧАТЬ