Tia didn’t look like she believed me for a second, but she put the sandwich back together with a grin. “Still, it must be amazing to know you can control your own body that way. I do yoga, but it’s not the same at all, is it?”
“I couldn’t do a yoga stretch if you paid me, so I don’t know. Mostly, though, it’s not really about controlling what my body can or can’t do. It’s trying to help others whose bodies or spirits are failing them somehow.” I sounded so much like I knew what I was talking about that I started to think I’d been replaced by Folgers Crystals. “I know there are local classes in shamanism, which is the basic practice I’m starting from. You could look into those, I guess, to see if you have any skill for it yourself.”
“How long does that take?”
I ducked my head and chuckled. “I don’t know. I started studying when I was about thirteen.” Nevermind that my studies had lasted about fifteen months and then had gone on violent, determined hiatus for more than a decade. The idea that she wanted a time frame suggested she probably wasn’t all that well suited to pursuing a healer’s path, but I didn’t figure it was my business to say so.
“Oh.” She looked dismayed, but then smiled. “I suppose I should get started, in that case. At least by taking some classes. What’s it like, healing people? Changing them that way?”
“Scary. Wonderful, when it works. Exhausting. It’s not something I would have chosen, but I’m getting better at it.” I bit off that last confession, wishing I hadn’t made it. People, even curious polite people I’d healed recently, probably didn’t need to know about my doubts. Or maybe that was exactly what she needed to know. “Worth it,” I finally said, more quietly. “It’s hard, but it’s worth it.”
Tia gave me a broad, excited smile. “Then that’s all I need to know. Thank you, Miss—Detective—Walker. Joanne. May I call you Joanne?” I nodded and her smile got that little bit much bigger. “I feel like I’ve been looking for a path for a long time. Maybe you’ve helped me find it.”
I smiled back, but worry sank a pit into my stomach. Whatever my talents were, I was certain nobody should be looking to me as any kind of guidance counselor. We chatted a while longer before I made my escape, wishing I’d never agreed to meet her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SATURDAY, MARCH 18, 6:22 P.M.
The girly part of me I rarely acknowledged existed wanted to find something as knockout gorgeous as the velvet green dress I’d worn the night before. The practical mechanic part of me won out, and I turned up at the theater in black jeans and a dark blue nubbly sweater.
Jim Littlefoot gave my glasses a curious glance as he let me in through a side door. I wanted to explain that shamanic magic didn’t have the same coverage as LASIK—which would have been the clever thing to say to Tia Carley, had I thought of it—but he said, “If you don’t mind taking your shoes off,” as a pragmatic introductory sally that didn’t invite explanations about magic. I followed him down a hall and into the wings, then stopped at the duct-taped-down edge of a black rubber mat stage floor to do as he asked.
The scent of makeup and sweat was strong under blazing stage lights. The house lights were on, too, making the whole theater a beacon of brightness very unlike the night before. Dancers not yet in costume were running through a half-assed rehearsal, doing none of the incredible throws or lifts they’d done during the performance. Even that much came to a halt as I followed Littlefoot onstage.
Their grief was palpable, though a glimpse at their auras also showed the emotion locked behind high thick walls. Saving it, I guessed, for the show, just as they saved the high-energy lifts and tremendous leaps. I was abruptly glad I’d be watching from the wings and not actually part of the audience at whom their pent-up bereavement would be directed.
Littlefoot took center stage, me at his side, and raised his voice. Not that he needed to draw attention: everybody was already watching us—me—mostly with more gratitude and less resentment than I’d expected. I had, after all, failed their friend the night before.
On the other hand, I’d at least tried, and maybe that made a difference. Littlefoot introduced me, saying, “Most of you saw her last night. She may be able to track Naomi’s murderer at the climax of the ghost dance. She will be able to shield us all, so that no one else will be hurt.”
Part of me winced, prepared for a wave of skepticism from the dancers. Instead there were a handful of nods, and a general sense of reasonable acceptance. I’d never been in the presence of so many people who took the concept of psychic shielding so easily, not even when I’d briefly tangled with a coven. It was sort of heartening.
A tiny redhead stepped forward, unfolding one arm from its tight wrap around her ribs to wave her hand like she sought permission to speak. She didn’t wait for it, though, just said, “I’m Winona, Naomi’s understudy. First, I wanted to say thank you for trying to help last night. I don’t think we even knew what had happened, but you were already up here.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more.”
Winona nodded, but she obviously wasn’t looking for an apology. “I just want to know: if you’re going to be shielding us, does that mean the ghost dance is going to lose its power?”
I went a little slack-jawed, seeing her point instantly but not certain of how to deal with it. The whole purpose of the dance was to share energy with the audience. If I had them shielded well enough to keep our bad guy from draining all that built-up power, then it was essentially going to rebound on the dancers, not be released into the waiting crowd. After a rather long moment, I said, “Crap,” which got an unexpected low chuckle from the dancers.
Even Winona offered a small smile. “That was kind of what we thought. I guess the other question is, do you think you can track whoever did this if they don’t get to steal any of the ghost dance power?”
That, I’d thought of, and shook my head before she finished asking. “I’m going to have to let some of it leak through to make an…appetizer. I can—and will—snap the shield up at pretty much the last second, so there’s no warning to keep him away, but I think some of it’s going to have to go to feeding the killer just so I can get a bead on him. I’m hoping cutting the power off so abruptly will hurt him enough to leave a scar I can follow.” A scar, a scent, a track; whatever I wanted to call it, I hoped like hell my magic-tracking hypothesis held some water. But Winona had made me consider the audience, too, which shed light on another possibility. “If it hurts enough I think he’ll retreat. If he backs off fast enough, I might be able to drop the shields and release the energy into the audience within a minute or two. It might be diluted, but…”
The proposal was met with dropped shoulders and sighs of relief, a whole flood of tension releasing from the thirty or so troupe members. Jim Littlefoot said, “That would be very much appreciated,” in a tone which suggested words didn’t begin to cover it. “In many ways tonight’s dance will be our tribute to Naomi. The idea of losing that energy, even to trap her killer, is…”
“Dismaying,” I supplied, and he nodded. I said, “I’ll do my best,” and hoped it would be enough.
I spent the next hour meeting the troupe as individuals, mostly shaking hands, exchanging names and expressing condolences. I wasn’t certain it was necessary. I’d shielded people I didn’t know even that well, in the past. I was, however, sure it wouldn’t hurt, and that weighed more heavily than the question of absolute necessity. Naomi’s sister Rebecca hugged me, which I didn’t expect, and I felt her utter exhaustion in the embrace. I wasn’t exactly at the top of my game myself, but the magic inside me couldn’t let that go unanswered. I sent a pulse of gentle power through her, hoping to renew her energy a little, the way I’d done time and again with weary or injured people around me.