Texas Charm, chapters 11 and 12 (Patreon)

Chapter Eleven

Art was surprised by the relative calm when they pulled into the employee lot. Carson had texted that the press had gotten the victim’s name, and he had half-expected to find the place buried under a herd of reporters. Instead a few officers stood around finishing coffees and chatting. Zach disconnected the phone as Art pulled into a spot. “Mr. Minton is going to come down for an interview,” Zach said.

From what Art had heard from his end, the conversation had sounded amiable enough. Then again, Zach hadn’t mentioned that they were going to need to establish the elder Minton’s alibi. Many grieving family members accused detectives of being soulless monsters at that point. However, procedure required them to get timelines on everyone involved. 

“I think you should handle the interview,” Art said. He was well aware that Mr. Minton’s grief was an issue. And if his son was truly on the hunt and he’d deluded himself, he was going to have a lot of guilt on top. Art didn’t want to play any bad-cop games with him.

“You're not as scary as you think,” Zach said as he got out.

Art followed him. “I make people uncomfortable.” In his youth, Art had regretted that. Now it was a simple fact. The sky was blue and Art made others squirm when he looked at them for too long. Zach, on the other hand, had transitioned from cute to friendly looking. When his hair started turning gray, he would be distinguished. “So, how are you planning on handling the question of his alibi?”

Zach stopped in front of the employee entrance and lowered his voice. “I plan to ask him for the layout of the house and his location in relation to his son's room. If I ask him to define his movements in order to try and get a timeline on when his son left the house, that might get some concrete details without putting him on the spot.” 

“Good plan.” Art headed into the air conditioning. While it was early, the day was already getting hot. “When is Daniel Minton coming in?”

“He said this morning works, so he’ll be here in about an hour and a half or two hours.”

“Ask if anyone complained about his son in person.” They’d gotten through the piles of mail Mr. Minton had turned over, and he’d been right about the hate in those pages. However, none of the writers stood out as being dangerous. Art threaded between a large group of people speaking loudly to a pair of officers. Neither seemed particularly upset, so Art headed for the squad room.

Once there, Zach dropped into his chair and then rolled it over to Art’s desk and tapped his fingers against the scratched wood. “In Dallas, we know Minton targeted older teenagers--sixteen and seventeen year olds, but all the girls he harassed here were younger than that. But his didn’t creep them out enough to go to their parents. They told one older brother.”

Art blew out a breath as he saw the problem with that logic. “But before he couldn’t control his impulse to threaten the girls in explicit detail. In Dallas he had the advantage of being the sports hero. Girls were afraid to complain about him, and now he's the neighborhood weirdo,” Art said. The same disability that had weakened Jon Minton had also made one side of his mouth droop. People were unforgiving assholes when it came to the visibly disabled, especially when the face was affected.

“Maybe this isn’t the tumor. Maybe he got a taste for the power rape provided. If he had enough self-control to charm a girl, he might have played on their sympathies,” Zach argued. “That could have been the lead up to the rape, so I’m wondering if anyone has been showing sympathy for Minton.”

“What if Minton was starting to have impulse control problems and he was self-medicating or indulging in another vice? Drugs, prostitution… that neighborhood would be ground zero for anyone looking to get into trouble, and if Minton didn’t know where to score drugs because he was new in town, he might have driven the sketchier neighborhoods looking for someone who could point him toward trouble.” Art thought through what that would look like. “He parks and goes into the area because he sees some people standing around and he thinks they can direct him toward his sin of choice.”

“But he wasn’t robbed,” Zach said.

“Maybe because someone recognized him or he identified himself. People in that neighborhood are going to be quick to take revenge on a pedophile.” It was a standard rule on the streets—the lower someone was on the social ladder, the more vicious they were to those they perceived as even lower. The homeless and low-end drug dealers in that neighborhood would have lost their shit if they knew they were talking to the Brain Tumor Boyfriend. They might have avoided touching him out of disgust, which would explain why he still had his jewelry. “I wonder if he used an app to call for a car.”

“Or had someone willing to drive him,” Zach said. “Which means we need to know if he still had the physical coordination to drive, even if the state wouldn’t give him a license.”

As much as Art was grateful they had a few theories, he had a bigger issue on his mind. Now that Zach had made him face his own difficult past with guides, Art could see a glaring duty he had neglected. Zach hadn’t pointed it out yet, but sometimes he had too much patience, especially when it came to Art’s bullshit. “Can you hold the fort for about an hour?”

Zach frowned. “Sure. Why?”

“I’m going to use the shamanic meditation space.”

Both Zach’s eyebrows rose all the way up toward his hairline. “Shaman stuff?” Zach asked. He punctuated that question with a pointed look around the room. Yep, they couldn’t talk here.

“I need to have a private conversation with him, Native to Native,” Art confirmed.  Zach would hopefully understand the reference. Now that Art thought about it, the fact that Natives had a different definition of shaman seemed incredibly important. They had power that came from a different source, and if Darren and Boucher were right, Native shamans needed to know that ancient spirits might bring war back to this world.

This wouldn’t be easy. Natives didn’t identify their shamans, and they steered clear of alien guides. They didn’t have a problem with magic users, and Art still sometimes choked on the irony that his father’s people would have accepted him as a magic user if he had simply avoided going on a quest until after he was too old to connect with non-Earth guides. However, Art had to try to make some sort of contact. Dohosan Moreno had strong ties with the Mescalero Apache, so maybe he could pass on some sort of message.

“No problem,” Zach said earnestly. “You do your thing. I have this.”

Art nodded. Zach was the only person he did trust with a case. Art hesitated, wondering if he should point that out, but then Zach smiled and shooed him away with a wave of his hand. “Go. Do your weird shaman stuff.”

Art headed down the hall to the space set aside for him and any visiting shamans or adepts. When Art opened the door to the meditation room, he sighed at the sight of leaning stacks of chairs and a broken folding table. Legally the department had to provide a meditation space because they employed a shaman, but someone had clearly decided to make better use of the room. Given that Art hadn’t opened this door in years, he was irrationally annoyed.

Maybe he should have meditated at home, but he wanted to avoid connecting to the spirit plane from his house as much as possible, which translated into any time Zach didn’t insist on it. 

He started pulled stacks of chairs out into the hallway, lining them up along the wall. If he had to eat crow and call Dohosan Moreno for assistance getting to the spirit plane, Art wanted privacy—both for the groveling and during the time when his body was going to be unconscious.

He was rolling the round folding table out when his cat showed up. It sat and watched as Art propped the table up against the fire extinguisher case and then shoved a short stack of chairs up against it so it wouldn’t roll. Art brushed the sweat off his face and headed into the small room. Under all the crap had sat the narrow couch that used to sit in the captain’s office when Art had first come to work at the station. The meditation room had inherited it, and the captain had gotten a new one.

After locking the door behind him, Art settled on the old thing, the smell of dust rising around him like a fog. His cat blinked into existence and sat in the corner watching as Art pulled out a cellphone.

He’d made a point of getting Dohosan’s phone number from Salma, and now he dialed. After three rings, Dohosan picked up.

“What’s up?”

“Dohosan?”

“Yep. It’s my phone, so it better be me answering.” 

The irreverence annoyed Art, but he avoided sarcasm and got right to the point. “This is Detective Art Lammas. I need to speak to you.”

“You are speaking to me.”

“In private,” Art added.

Art waited through an overly long pause. If Dohosan was busy, this could wait.  Hell, Art would rather postpone the discussion forever. Eventually Dohosan said, “Where do you want to meet?”

“I was hoping you could pull me into the spirit plane.” Art hated the very thought, so hope wasn’t exactly the right word, but close enough.

“You were—” Dohosan stopped and then cleared his throat. “You need me to help you get to the spirit plane?” He spoke slowly as though unsure, or as though speaking to a moron.

Art narrowed his eyes even though Dohosan wasn’t there to see it. “Yes. I do.”

“Um, sure. Yeah. I can do that. Give me about twenty minutes to get somewhere safe where I can meditate.”

“Fine.” Art knew he sounded ungrateful, but this conversation annoyed him beyond his ability to maintain a polite facade.

“Deal. Peace out, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Dohosan disconnected.

Art put his phone down, grateful to have escaped from the need to explain more than he had. He could go back to his desk, but he didn’t want to risk getting caught up in chasing a lead and get pulled into the spirit world, leaving his body to collapse on his desk.

“This is all your fault,” he told his cat, even though it wasn’t true. His cat twitched its ears back for a moment, clearly unimpressed with Art’s accusation. Art sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m being an unreasonable ass.” Leaning back on the old couch, Art could smell the distinctive bitterness of the old carbon copy forms they’d used back when all the reports had been done on typewriters. “I wonder if Zach is right about you regretting our partnership.”

The cat stood and circled the small space before again sitting and staring at Art.

“You’re not a cat,” Art said. “You’re an alien, and I figure that you don’t regret anything. If you connect to me, you have access to this world, although you probably regret not having a more amenable relationship with me.”

The cat stood, his tail high.

Art sighed. He had no idea what he expected. He saw the easy teasing between Zach and his bird, and he envied it. More than that, he felt like his own lack of control might put Zach in danger. Art couldn’t very well back Zach up if he couldn’t use his Talent. “If we got along better, I wouldn’t have to rely on others to get to the other side to deal with this shamanic shit.” Art no more than said that before he found himself standing in the Mexican desert near where his grandfather lived. Long cuts in the ground marked lines of magic and Art’s cat stood next to him. After looking at Art once, the cat leaped into the low branches of a palo verde tree and vanished.

Well. Art had finally managed to get to the spirit world on his own. That was unexpected.

Chapter Twelve

Art been to the spirit plane several times, but usually it required hours of meditating. 

Maybe the cat felt the potential of a spiritual war was enough to inspire a little cooperation. Ever since Oberton had shown up with his ifrit guide and revealed the whole sordid truth, Art had wondered what the relationship was between ifrit and the younger guides. He had trouble believing in the existance of two different species of aliens who both wanted to experience life on Earth through linking to humans.

Logic suggested that the returning ifrit were related to the guides who had always sought a connection to Earth. Even during the medieval times when shamans and witches had burned, legends told about magic users who hid their powers. Magic dominated the King Arthur stories, and Art had to believe there was at least a kernal of truth in there.

If so, guides had never left, even when the ifrit did.

But Art wasn’t sure how they were related. Two philosophies or religions within a single alien species? That was possible, but it didn’t explain why ifrit had so much more power or why they affected the humans they joined with so dramatically. According to Salma, Zach would slowly soak up his guide’s magical powers until he would have as much raw magic as Merlin had in the old stories. 

And Oberton’s expectation that the change would be inherited by any children implied the change was genetic. Art eyed the tree where his cat perched, watching through the narrow green leaves of the desert tree. “I’m not that fond of your family issues,” he told his guide. His cat didn’t react.

Turning his back on the tree, Art scanned the horizon looking for Dohosan. A huge clump of organ pipe cactus stretched their dark green arms toward the hazy sky. In the distance, mountains stretched out, each partially hidden by the one behind, and each an every fainter shade of gray until the last one was a mere shadow against the cool gray sky. It contrasted sharply against the reddish rock cliff to Art’s right. The memories of his visiting his father’s people colored his understanding of this world, but this wasn’t the northern Mexico land where his father’s people ran. This was a spirit world with its own rules.

“Hey. I thought you said you needed help getting here.”

Art turned to face Dohosan Moreno. He was in his late thirties, but leathery skin made him look older. On the other hand, his Metallica t-shirt and black-rimmed hipster glasses made him look like he hadn’t quite managed to master adulting yet. And this was one-fifth of their new shamanic council. God have mercy on their community.

“Things changed,” Art said without explaining further.

“Right.” Dohosan emphasized his disbelief by drawing out the vowel. “So, is this going to be something that requires a witness?”

“What?”

Dohosan crossed his arms. “Are you challenging for my seat?”

This is why Art avoided shamans; none of them made any sense. “What are you talking about? If I wanted a seat, I would have claimed one at the full meeting.”

Dohosan snorted. “Yeah, right. Because you’re known for being so public and displaying your guide in front of everyone.” Dohosan rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to challenge you now or later.”

Dohosan’s incredulous expression spoke for him. Art sighed. Sometimes having a reputation as a bastard sucked. “Do you have contact with your tribal holy man?” Art asked.

“My tribal what?” The last time Art had spoken with Dohosan, he had been a fairly intelligent human being. Today, not so much. “Why?” he asked slowly.

Art knew he was going to have to share at least some truth or Dohosan wouldn’t help. “I know this is a sensitive subject, but the tribes have always protected each other’s religious leaders. I need to get a message to someone in the Native version of the shamanic community. They need to know about a danger.”

Even during the worst of tribal conflicts, tribes hid and protected each other’s shamans in part because the whites had been so hostile. Art’s grandfather talked about how Catholic priests would kidnap young people who showed any sign of Talent. Farther north, the invaders had been more aggressive about publicly hanging or shooting shamans. It had given the tribes motivation to work together, even when they were historically enemies.

Dohosan laughed. “Man, it’s been a long time since anyone tried claiming holy people were at risk. Whites have their own shamans now.”

“Tribal holy men aren’t like us.”

“True enough.” Dohosan frowned and studied Art as if he were some strange alien lifeform. “But whites don’t seem to much care.”

“This isn’t about the whites.”

Dohosan took a step back. “Maybe you should use short words or more words or something that makes sense. I’m not following you.”

Art couldn’t talk about Oberton or Zach and their ifrit guides—it would put the two men at risk. However, Boucher was already making magical waves. Between having a battle royale at Arlington and bringing a member of the Egyptian Council into the FBI as an unpaid consultant, he was developing a reputation as a shit-stirrer. Art didn’t feel guilty about throwing him under the bus.

“You know that DC shaman who was here a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yeah.  Kevin Boucher or something.”

“Kevon,” Art corrected him. “He’s close to the Egyptian council.”

“He started the whole fraud investigation of those assholes we just deposed. This is old news.”

“But he told me something else, something about shamans that the Native community needs to know.” Art studied Dohosan. The laid back façade vanished.  “Do you have a good relationship with your tribe’s holy man?” Art opened himself to the spirit world so that he would know the truth of Dohosan’s next statement. Art couldn’t afford to tell just anyone about the ifrit. Boucher was right that it could spark a panic.

“Don’t you?” Dohosan asked.

“My tribe doesn’t have the sorts of spiritual leaders other tribes do,” Art said, although technically it was his father’s tribe—never his. And the singers likely wouldn’t want to hear from someone corrupted by a chabochi guide.

“Huh. Look, no offense because you’re a nice guy and I appreciate you not challenging for my seat and all, but I don’t plan on giving you information on our holy woman.”

“I just need to know if you can pass on a message.”

“Dude, your guide has more power than mine. He’s sitting up there right?” Dohosan gestured toward the tree, although Art didn’t know what he saw when he looked in that direction.

“Yeah.”

“So why don’t you go find a holy man and pass the message on yourself?”

Art frowned. Either he didn’t understand Tribal religions or Dohosan didn’t. “Can you feel your tribal holy woman the way you feel me?” he asked.

Dohosan didn’t answer, but Art could feel threads of wariness floating through the air. Since Art wanted the favor, it fell to him to convince Dohosan to trust him. So he said, “I can’t feel religious leaders from any of the tribes. I wouldn’t recognize one if I walked right past him. I can’t even feel the magical artifacts my people use, although I can use them as shields to hide from other guides or shamans. As far as I know, tribal magic is invisible to what the whites call shamans.”

“I thought it was me,” Dohosan said softly. “I mean, I haven’t gone to our holy woman since I was young, and I thought I just couldn’t feel her because I didn’t really know how to use my own Talent.”

Art shook his head. “Not all people with magic get their power from the same place. I don’t pretend to understand the tribes and their relationship to magic, but I need someone to carry a message.”

Dohosan nodded. “I haven’t talked to our holy woman in fifteen years, but I know who it is, and I can go up there to see her if the message is that important.”

“It is,” Art said firmly. “Boucher sent word. Old guides—ones that were exiled before Europe had its Great Purge—are coming back.”

Dohosan paled. “Are you talking good guys or bad ones?”

Art thought about that. He considered Pochi a good guy who was careful with his power, but Art couldn’t make the same statement about Bennu. That crazy bird threw his power around too damn much. “I don’t think it’s as simple as good guys and bad guys. But our people need to know they might be coming back.”

“Is that why Salma wants the councils to start working together?” Dohosan asked. “She’s already asking us to send someone to go meet with councils in Seattle, Canada and DC to see how other shamans rule themselves. She’s pushing this idea that we all have to work together to strengthen our community.”

Art shrugged. “I don’t know. She might want to make sure our shamans are strong enough to provide a good defense, or she may simply be concerned that an inexperience council might not know how to rule the El Paso area. Have any of you lived under functional councils?”

“Blue Nowak comes from San Francisco. They had a really strong council out there, and Ephraim Vinson came from one of those states in the middle of the country—Indiana or Illinois or something. He said people pretty much hated Talent, but the council did a good job of keeping shamans safe by running their own social services.”

Thank God for small favors. At least all of them weren’t useless, although Art still hated Vinson. “Salma has her own agenda, and I can’t explain it. If you could get a message to one of the Native leaders, I would feel a lot better. They need to know that something might be changing, and I don’t know how much of our spirit world they can sense.”

Dohosan slowly nodded. “I’ll take a trip up north and pass the message on.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Is this why you’re not challenging even though you have a powerful guide? Are you working with Salma on the spirit plane?” Dohosan looked at Art with an expression that fell somewhere between awe and horror.

“I have my own interests, and running the council doesn’t fit into them.”

After a long pause, Dohosan nodded. “Right. Sure thing. But if you need anything…”

“If I find out about an alien invasion, I’ll be sure to call you,” Art said dryly.

Dohosan’s seriousness as he nodded made Art’s eye twitch. “Right then. Do you want me to give you push back to the mundane world?” Dohosan asked.

Art hesitated. His cat had brought him here, and maybe it was time for Art to put a little trust into his guide. After all, if the damn cat refused to take Art home, Zach would know what to do. Salma could retrieve Art, and the only thing Art would be out would be a little of his dignity. “I’m fine. I’ll make my own way back,” Art said.

Dohosan nodded. “But you don’t want others to believe you’re comfortable coming here. Got it. Your secret is safe with me.” With an exaggerated wink, Dohosan vanished. 

Art sighed. Great. The idiot was probably building up an entire mythology in his head where Art was some powerful shaman on a secret mission. That was only slightly less horrifying than anyone finding out the truth about Art’s difficult relationship with his father’s people and his own guide. At least Dohosan would keep his mouth shut. Hiding shamanic secrets was the closest thing Natives had to a common culture.

“Are you ready to get out of here?” Art asked his cat. The creature was still hidden in the branches of the green tree, but Art blinked and he was back in the meditation room. His cat sat across the small room, studying him. “Yeah, yeah. You’re the reasonable one,” Art said wearily. “I still think you have your own agenda.”

His guide stood with his ears straight up, tail slowly moving from side to side as he stared at Art, and then the cat vanished. 

Chapter 1: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-6-19034447 

Chapter 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-2-19050307 

Chapter 3: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-3-19066252 

Chapter 4: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-4-19087127 

Chapter 5: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-5-19132901 

Chapter 6: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-six-19159661 

Chapter 7: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-7-19179823 

Chapter 8: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-8-19190078 

Chapter 9: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-9-19201497 

Chapter 10: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-10-19220764 

Chapter 11, 12: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-11-19228890 

Chapter 13, 14: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-13-19244456 

Chapter 15: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-15-19264338 

Chapter 16, 17: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-16-19276375 

Chapter 18, 19: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-18-19290091 

Chapter 20: https://www.patreon.com/posts/texas-charm-20-19301548