Where should I look next? That was the question she needed answered. She framed her problems carefully in her mind. First, where should she go for clues? Not the site-she already knew she would have to make a careful examination there. But where else should she look? Somewhere out there was evidence-and it might not be in obvious places.
Brothers, sisters, show me the places that are not obvious. I have a shattered jar, and only a few of the pieces. Show me the places where some of the pieces might be.
Although in the real world it was still night, dawn-red crept into the eastern sky. Without thinking, she shifted from owl to kestrel, for now she was completely in the Spirit World, and now she did not need the special night-vision of an owl. She widened the circle of her hunt. Below her the landscape blurred and shifted. Her prayer had been heard.
Movement below her caught her eye, a pair of redtail hawks crying out over a despoiled nest.
In this world, there were always deeper meanings to things that seemed obvious. There was a deeper meaning to this than a hawk pair who had lost their nest to some interfering human.
And the redtail was, above all other birds, the sacred bird to the Osage. It was the redtail whose skin went into the sacred Wah-hopeh shrine, the redtail whose tail feathers were as red as the sun at dawn and sunset, and the redtail who told the Osage when it was to be war, or peace.
So-she folded her wings, and dropped lower.
The hawks faded; the nest became a shrine. One of the sacred Wah-Hopeh shrines of woven grass that housed the hawk that guided her people. The shrine had been broken into and the pieces scattered.
She kited closer. The broken shrine became landscape; roads and hills that she recognized; a house and several barns. A place up near Rose; a burial ground that was on private property.
A place she recognized, with a feeling of personal violation. Her ancestors were buried here; most of the Osage in the area knew about this place, though no one was likely to talk about it to an outsider.
She wasn't certain whether to curse or be perversely pleased. This probably meant that the relics that had been bulldozed up had not been buried there originally. Which meant that this might be a case of two crimes and two criminals; one grave-robber, and one terrorist.
Or-
Another thought; what if the grave-robber had cached his stolen relics and had blown up the dozer to prevent them from being uncovered? The idea had enough merit that even if it wasn't true, she might be able to get the cops to take an interest in it and take some of the heat off the construction workers and the local activists, at least for a while.
She beat her wings rapidly to take her up into the sky again, and resumed her quest. She might get more answers. She might not. But in either case, now she had another place to start looking. And she had until morning to keep asking.
Brothers, sisters, where should I look next?
_CHAPTER EIGHT
toni calligan kept glancing apprehensively at the closed door of Rod's office every time she went past it, going between the kitchen, the utility room, and the kids' rooms. And not only glancing at it, but hurrying past it as quickly as she could without actually running. It gave her the creepiest feeling, as if there was something lurking behind the door, listening to her, waiting for her to turn her back on it.
It's the boxes, she thought, burdened with an armload of clothing from the hamper in Jill's room, wishing that Rod had never brought the things in the house. It's whatever's in those boxes. I keep having bad dreams about them. I feel like I'm in a grade B horror movie, and Rod is the evil scientist who's brought his work home with him. Ever since he dragged those boxes home. I keep getting the feeling that there is something in his office that is watching me, laughing at me, waiting for me to walk in there so it can get me.
This was not rational, and she knew it. There was probably nothing in those boxes but old papers. If she told Rod how she felt, he'd laugh at her in that way that made her feel about ten years old.
She began sorting laundry with one ear listening for Rod. Or if he's had a bad day, he 'II have a fit and chew me out until I feel as if I was six years old and mentally retarded to boot. It would depend on how he felt.
Well, everything depended on how Rod felt. Rod was the center of this little household universe, and everything revolved around him. That was why Toni didn't have a job, although she had been a good executive secretary, and had enjoyed the work. Rod had been so masterful; he had taken her out for dates, never accepting "no" for an answer, he had proposed and made all the wedding plans, he had insisted she quit her job immediately. And for a while she had enjoyed feeling dependent, leaving all the decisions to him. Now, she simply endured it, because that was the way it was, and Rod was a good provider. He always bought the best for her and the kids. He never raised a hand to any of them. Independence was a small price to pay for that kind of security. And if he was kind of finicky about things-if he was kind of demanding-well, he had earned it, hadn't he? Look at all the good things he provided for them.
So what if every moment of her waking hours was spent literally serving him? If she had to be available for whatever Rod might need, whether it be secretarial services, dinner, or whatever else he might require? Her "job," Rod had explained very carefully, many times, until Toni could recite the entire lecture by heart, was him. Even the kids were secondary, since they were only extensions of him.
"This is a cutthroat business. I have to be like a surgeon; I have to know that an instrument is there waiting for me when I put out my hand for it. You have to be the nurse that hands me the instruments. Things have to be perfect at home, so I can keep my mind on my work, or the work won't get done. It's your job, your full-time job, to keep them perfect."
How could she argue with that? He worked hard, and it was a cutthroat business. All kinds of things could be problems for him, things she hadn't even dreamed of. "You married the business when you married me." She must be sure that neither she nor the kids were anything other than a credit to him. That they didn't ever embarrass him. That people would look at him and envy him, because in the construction business an impression was everything, and the impression she and the kids made could gain or lose him a job. He had to know that if he brought a client home unexpectedly, the house would be spotless, the yard picked up and trimmed, the dinner ready and waiting, the kids well behaved and quiet. Always. There was no room for weakness, no vacations, no time-outs. If the kids were sick, they must be out of the way where they wouldn't interfere with business. If she was sick, she must not show it.
Not that he had ever brought home a client unexpectedly. There was usually so much fuss over a client's appearance that anyone would think he (never she) were visiting royalty.
And his office must be twice as perfect as the house itself. Everything must be squeaky clean, dusted and polished, every paper filed, every note attached to every file. He must be able to put his hands on anything he needed at any time.
So why had he brought home those four filthy cardboard boxes-and why was he keeping them in his office? No client was going to be impressed with them in there, smelling all musty, stained with oil and dirt, and looking as if he had pulled them out of some farmer's chicken coop.