Shutter(32)

I thought about Mr. Bitsilly’s words all those years ago. I couldn’t risk bringing this brood of spirits into the last safe place I had in the world.

“Grandma.” I felt the ache in my stomach. “I can’t.

“Send me your clothes, then,” she said. “Take off what you’re wearing right now and send it to me. I’ll go over to Mr. Bitsilly’s house right when I get them.”

I knew that nothing would happen if I sent the clothes. There was nothing that Mr. Bitsilly could do to get me out of what was happening now. I pulled my clothes off anyway and folded them in a stack on my couch.

“I’m sending my clothes to you, Grandma.” I looked at the blood stains on my shirt. “Don’t worry, though. I’m fine.” Grandma was silent.

“Grandma? Are you there?” I stared at my phone.

“Send them to me. I’ll take care of it.” I could hear in her voice that she was worried.

“I’ll tell you more later, Grandma. Don’t worry.”

I was scared. It was going to take a lot more than Mrs. Santillanes or Grandma or Mr. Bitsilly to deal with Erma. Her ghost was giving me a reprieve for the moment, but I could feel her rage building when she wanted to make herself present to me. In life, I could only imagine Erma being a force that couldn’t be reckoned with.

I retrieved a box from my closet and packed my clothes inside. I was going to have to overnight it. When my clothes arrived in the tiny post office back in Tohatchi, Grandma would take the box straight over to Mr. Bitsilly so that he could sing for me.

Mr. Bitsilly didn’t necessarily approve of my profession. “Sometimes I guess people like you have a calling,” he had explained. “And the fact that you’re Diné; doesn’t change that. All we can do is say prayers for you so that the holy ones will protect you from the evil you don’t know.”

My phone buzzed, startling me. The two voicemails were from Dr. Cassler, one of the psychologists at the department. I listened to them as I washed my face.

“Ms. Todacheene. We are attempting to schedule an appointment on a referral from Sergeant Seivers from the Field Investigators Office. Can you please give us a call today? Thank you.”

The phone rang again.

“Rita here,” I grumbled.

“Ms. Todacheene? This is Robert Declan with Internal Affairs. I spoke to you last week.”

“Oh, yes.” I remembered the suit, and I was thankful it wasn’t the shrink. “How can I help you?”

“Well. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind meeting with me. I am working on a case that you might have some information on.”

“Well, today is my first day off that I’ve had in a really long time.” I looked at myself in the mirror across from my kitchen. I looked terrible. “I was hoping to not go anywhere.”

“If you could just meet with me briefly. I’ll take you to lunch while we talk,” he offered. “It won’t take too long.”

I stared at the nearly empty refrigerator humming in my kitchen and thought of the mustard sandwich that awaited me. “Okay,” I agreed. “Where shall we meet?”

THE CAF? ON Gold Street had been there for years, but I rarely stepped inside. It was somewhat high dollar and filled with lawyer-types on perpetual lunch break. Small round tables and black iron chairs ringed the exterior, their attempt at Parisian décor. I stuck out in there, the only brown face aside from the workers. I felt the stares, especially from the lawyers. They always looked me up and down. I hated them almost as much as the police.

Today, the café was nearly empty. Declan sat staring at his phone in the corner, a coffee mug at his side. He set his phone down when he saw me.

“Lieutenant Declan.” I extended my hand.

“Thank you for meeting with me on your day off. I know that you keep very odd hours.”

“Oh, yeah? How do you know that?” I didn’t trust him already. “I was a cop once too, you know.” Declan stirred his coffee. “I guess I still am.”

“I’m not a cop,” I said. “I’m a photographer. A civilian in the Crime Scene Specialists Office.”

“I understand,” he said. “But you do work for the police. How long have you been with the department?”

“I guess about five years, almost six,” I said.

The waitress interrupted. “Can I get you two lovebirds anything?” Declan’s face lit up and turned tomato red. The embarrassment looked good on him.

“What? No birdseed?” I joked as I glanced at the menu. I hadn’t eaten in three days. “I’ll take the burger, some of this soup, and a salad. And a cup of coffee and an iced tea. What about you?”

Declan smiled. “I’ll have the pasta salad, please.” The waitress grinned and gave us a wink. Lovebirds, I thought. What a bad read on this situation.

“So, what did you bring me down here for anyway?” My stomach growled like a junkyard dog.

“Do you know Detective Martin Garcia?” Declan began to pull a file from his bag. “He was on scene with you the other day, right?”

“Yes. I know Garcia. I have to . . . the honor of working with him.” I noticed that Declan had perfectly trimmed fingernails. He was also wearing cufflinks. He had pale brown eyes clear enough to direct light through. Not like my dark brown ones that swallowed up the sun.