Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(86)

"Should I?"

"I've been tracking and killing werewolves for ten years. I'm not making this up."

"Oh, that's convincing."

Annoyance flickered across his face. "Since the skinwalker slipped off the reservation three people have died. You appear to be next."

"What about you?"

"The man wants me—hence the grenade. Considering his behavior of a few moments ago, the wolf wants you."

"If I believe your delusion, the man and the wolf are one and the same."

"Which explains why the skinwalker didn't care overly much if he blew you up along with me. Still—" He broke off and shook his head.

"What?" I asked, though I probably shouldn't have encouraged him.

"Werewolves kill quickly," Philips continued. "They aren't big on self-restraint. They don't hang around watching people like this one has been watching you."

Unease trickled along the back of my neck. "How do you know what he's been doing?"

"I was called to investigate a death about a week ago not far from your place. I followed several sets of wolf tracks. There was one that kept circling back to you. I couldn't figure out what he was up to."

"Why didn't you just shoot him?"

"I never saw anything but tracks. Until I found the kill on your property—"

"What kill?"

"There was a body about a hundred feet from the house, or what was left of one."

The blood, the unidentified pile, the flies. I'd blocked that out. At this rate I wouldn't remember my own name by tomorrow.

"Female," he continued. "They've all been female. But the similarity ends there. Young, old. Silver-haired, blond." He glanced at me. "Redhead. No rhyme or reason."

"To a werewolf? Why am I not surprised?"

"Exactly. Werewolves kill indiscriminately, they don't have a plan, so why didn't he kill you?" He shook his head. "The tracks, the spoor—at least five days' worth. That isn't like a werewolf."

"Maybe it is like a skinwalker."

He glanced at me and interest lit his dark eyes. "Maybe it is."

"You don't know?"

"This is the first skinwalker case we've worked on. The Navajo usually deal with renegades themselves. They're considered an embarrassment."

"I can imagine."

He frowned. "You need to take the situation seriously, Maya. I know I sound crazy, but I'm not."

"So says every crazy person."

"I promise the skinwalker won't get you as long as you're with me."

He was so earnest, I found myself nodding. Nevertheless I'd attempt escape at the first opportunity. Grab a phone, call the cops, send Clayton Philips to the nearest padded cell. He might be hot, but he was crazier than the craziest person I'd ever met.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"There's a man I'm supposed to talk to on the reservation."

"If the Navajo are so closemouthed about skin walkers why did they call you for help?"

"They didn't."

"Then how did you find out there was a skinwalker loose?"

I couldn't believe I was playing along with him, but it did pass the time.

"The J?ger-Suchers have connections everywhere. Several dead bodies in the same area, mutilated beyond recognition by wild animals, we get a fax."

"Uh-huh. Explain how this skinwalker changes from man to wolf and back again."

"He wears the skin of a wolf."

I frowned. "So he isn't really a wolf? He's a guy running around with a carcass on his head?"

"You saw the wolf. Did it look like a real wolf to you?"

"Except for the eyes—yep."

"The one physical difference between wolf and werewolf is the eyes. As for the skinwalker, the man is a witch. He combines magic and an animal skin—"

"How?"

"No one knows for sure. The process is as secret as the identity of the skinwalker."

I glanced out the window. As we'd been talking, he'd been driving. There wasn't a neon sign that said, welcome to the Navajo reservation, but I still knew the instant we crossed over. The land flattened out; the dust kicked up. Trailers and hogans—the traditional dwellings of the Navajo—dotted the horizon. The shades of the desert, brown, tan, chocolate, blended toward tabletop mesas and sculpted sandstone in the distance.

The first time I'd driven to this area I'd experienced déjà vu. Despite never having set foot west of the Mississippi, I'd seen Monument Valley before.

Once I read up on the region I understood the sense of familiarity. Many John Ford westerns had been filmed here. The Navajo lived at the heart of an American icon.

Philips turned into a dirt lane, which led to a small house with nothing around for miles but sand and buttes. If we kept traveling in one direction we'd run into the White Mountains!, in another we'd hit the Painted Desert, still another would lead us through a dense woodland. Visitors were shocked to hear that Arizona had more mountainous regions than Switzerland and more forest than Minnesota.

The house appeared deserted. No one stepped onto the porch, no dogs ran out to greet us. The hair on my arms prickled.