C. E. Murphy - Urban Shaman 1 - Urban Shaman

URBAN SHAMAN

BY C.E. MURPHY

First edition June 2005

URBAN SHAMAN

ISBN 0-373-80223-4

in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented,

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including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is

forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Worldwide Library, 233 Broadway, New

York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation

whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any

individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ®

are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and

in other countries.

www.LUNA-Books.com

Printed in U.S.A.

This book is for my grandfather,

Francis John Joseph McNally Malone, who would have been proud of me.

Acknowledgment:

I hardly know where to begin saying thank-you. Starting at the end and working my way backward

seems appropriate.

First: my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, for taking a chance on a brand-new author; my agent, Jennifer

Jackson, for her enthusiasm; and cover artist Hugh Syme, whose work I'm delighted to have my book

judged by.

Second: Trip, for pointing out the glaring error in the rough draft and thereby making this amuch better

book; Silkie, for demanding the next chapter every time she saw me; and Sarah, my critique partner

extraordinaire.

Third: my family, who never once doubted they'd be holding one of my books in their hands one day...

And most of all, Ted, who looked out the airplane window in the first place.

CHAPTER ONE

Tuesday, January 4th, 6:45 a.m.

There's nothing worse than a red-eye flight.

Well, all right, that's wildly untrue. There are lots of things worse than red-eye flights. There are starving

children in Africa, hate crimes and Austin Powers's teeth. That's just off the top of my head.

But I was crammed into an airplane seat that wouldn't comfortably hold a four-year-old child, and had

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been for so many hours I was no longer certain what species I belonged to. I hadn't slept in over a day. I

was convinced that if someone didn't stay awake, the airplane would fall out of the sky, and I couldn't

trust anyone else to do the job.

My stomach was alternating between nausea from the airline meal I'd eaten hours earlier, and hunger

from not eating another revolting meal more recently. I'd forgotten to take my contact lens case with me

in my carry-on, and my eyes were burning. My spine was so bent out of shape I'd have to visit a

chiropractor for a week to stand up straight again. I was flying back from a funeral to be fired.

Overall, starving children in Africa were taking a distant second to my own misery and discomfort.

Shallow, but true.

A very small part of my mind was convinced that if the flight attendants would just let me into the

unpressurized luggage compartment to find my contact case, everything would miraculously be right with

the world. None of them would let me, so my contacts were welded to my eyes. Every several minutes I

decided it wasn't worth it and started to take them out. Every time, I remembered that they were my last

pair and I'd have to suffer with glasses until I made an eye appointment.

I might have succumbed, but the glasses in question were also with my luggage. The idea of navigating a

soft-focus world full of featureless faces gave me a headache.

Not that I didn't have one anyway.

I climbed over the round man sleeping peacefully beside me and went to the bathroom. At least I could

take the contacts out and stew them in tap water for a few minutes. Anything would be better than

keeping them in my eyes.

Anything except my reflection. Have you ever noticed that the mirror is by far the largest object in those

tiny airplane rest-rooms? I was a sick pasty color under the flickering florescent light, my eyes much too

green against a network of bloodshot vessels. I looked like a walking advertisement for one of those

"wow" eyedrop commercials. Second runner-up for Least Attractive Feature on an International Flight

was my hair. I put my contacts in two little paper cups and set them ostentatiously on the appropriate

sides of the sink, then rubbed water through my hair to give it some life again.

Now I looked like a bloodshot porcupine. Big improvement.

The only thing on my person that didn't look slimy was the brand-new silver choker necklace my

mother'd given me just before she died. A Celtic cross pendant sat in the hollow of my throat. I wasn't

used to jewelry, and now that I'd been reminded it was there, it felt mildly horrible, like someone was

gently pushing his thumb against the delicate flesh. I shuddered and put my contacts back in before

weaving my way back down the aisles to my seat. The flight attendants avoided me. I couldn't blame

them.

I rested my forehead on a grease spot I'd left on the window earlier. The airlines, I thought, must have

custodians who clean the windows, or there'd be an inches-thick layer of goo on them from people like

me.

That thought was proof positive that I shouldn't be allowed to stay up for more than eighteen hours at a

time. I have a bad habit of following every thought to its miserable, pathetic little end when I'm tired. I

don't mean to. It's just that my brain and my tongue get unhinged. Though some of my less charitable

acquaintances would say this condition didn't require sleep deprivation.

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The plane had been descending for a while now, and I squinted at my heavy black wristwatch. The

bright orange button for changing the time had become permanently depressed in Moscow, or maybe

Venice. Probably Moscow; I'd found Moscow depressing, and saw no reason why the watch shouldn't.

It claimed it was 5:50 p.m., which meant it was almost seven in the morning. I frowned out the window,

trying to find the horizon. The sky wasn't turning gray yet, not flying into Seattle three days after New

Year's. I blinked at the darkness, trying to unglue my contacts again.

My eyes teared up and I spent a few minutes with my hands over them, hoping perversely that I didn't

blink the contacts out. By the time I could see again, the captain had announced the final descent into

Seattle. Couldn't they find a less ominous phrase for it? I don't like flying as it is, even without the

implication that before landing I might want to have all my worldly and spiritual affairs in order. I pressed

my head against the window so I could see the ground when it came into view. Maybe I could convince

it to let us land without it being our real final descent.

Or maybe not. The plane banked abruptly and began to climb again. A moment or two later the

captain's voice crackled over the intercom.

"Sorry about that, folks. Little disagreement over who got to land next. We're going to take another spin

around the Emerald City and then we'll have you at the gate right on time."

Why do airline pilots always call passengers "folks"? I don't usually take umbrage at generic

terminology—I'm one of those forward-thinkers who believes that "man" encompasses the whole darned

race—but at whatever o'clock in the morning, I thought it would be nice to be called something that

suggested unwashed masses a little less. Ladies and gentlemen, for example. Nevermind that, being an

almost six-foot-tall mechanic, I had a hard time passing for a lady on a good day, which this wasn't.

I watched lights slip away beneath us as we circled. If I have to fly, I like flying into cities in the dark of

morning. There's something reassuring and likable about the purposeful skim of vehicles, zooming along

to their destinations. The whisk of cars meant that the people driving them had a goal, somewhere to be,

something to do. That was a hell of a lot more than I had.

I stared down at the moving lights. Maybe I didn't like them after all.

The plane dropped the distance that made me an active voyeur in people's lives, instead of a distant

watcher. I could see individuals under the streetlights. Trees became sets of branches instead of blurry

masses of brown.

A school went by below us, swingsets empty. The neighbor-hood was full of tidy, ordered streets.

Carefully tended trees, bereft of leaves, lined uniformly trimmed lawns. Well-washed cars reflected the

streetlights. Even from the air well before sun-rise, it screamed out, This Is A Good Place To Live.

The next neighborhood over didn't look as posh. Wrong side of the metaphysical tracks. Cars were

older, had duller paint and no wax jobs to make them gleam in the streetlights. Mismatched shingles on

patched roofs stood out; lawns were overgrown. It wasn't that the owners didn't care. It was that the

price of a lawn-mower or a matched roof patch could be the difference between Christmas or no

Christmas that year.

Not that I knew anything about it.

A whole street went by, lightless except for one amber-colored lamp, the kind that's supposed to cut

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through fog. It made the street seem unnaturally vivid, details coming into sharp-edged focus below me.

A modern church, an A-frame with a sharp, nasty spire, was lit by the edges of the lone amber light. Its

parking lot was abandoned except for one car, parked at an angle across two spaces, one of its doors

hanging open. I wondered if it closed at all. Probably: it was a behemoth from the seventies, the kind of

car that will last forever. I grew up with that kind of car. Air bags or no, the little crumply things they

make today don't seem as safe.

Someone tall and lean got out of the car, draping himself over the door as he looked down the street

toward the functional light. Even from above I could see the glitter of light on the butterfly knife he played

with, comfortable and familiar. Watching, I knew that he could play knife games in the dark and

blindfolded, and he'd never stab a finger.

A woman broke into the amber light, running down the center of the street. She took incredibly long

strides, eating a huge amount of distance with each step, but her head was down and her steps swerved,

like she wasn't used to running. Her hair was very long, and swung loose, flaring out as she whipped her

head back to look behind her.

I twisted in my seat as the plane left the subdivision behind, trying to see.

A pack of dogs leaked out of the darkness. Their coats were pale gold under the amber light, and they

loped with the casual confidence of a hunting pack following easy prey.

The woman stumbled, the pack gained and the plane took me away from them.

"You don't understand. There is a woman in trouble out there." It was the fourth time I'd said it, and the

pilot kept looking at me like I was on drugs. Well, maybe I was. Lack of sleep has the same effect as

certain narcotics. I was lodged in the door of the cockpit, other passengers pushing out behind me.

Fourteen minutes had passed since I saw the woman. There was a knot of discomfort in my stomach,

like I'd throw up if I didn't find a way to help her. I kept hoping I'd burp and it would go away, but I

didn't, and the pilot was still eyeing me.

"And you saw this from the plane," he said, also for the fourth time. He had that bright lilting sound to his

voice that first grade teachers use to mask irritation. "There are lots of people in trouble, ma'am."

I closed my eyes. They screamed with pain, tears flooding as I opened them again. Through the up well,

I saw an expression of dismayed horror cross the pilot's face.

Well, if he was going to fall for it, I might as well milk it. "It was five minutes before we landed," I

quavered. "We circled around and came in from the northwest." I lifted my wrist to show him the

compass on my watch band, although I hoped that, being the pilot, he knew we'd approached from the

northwest.

"I was looking out the window. I saw a woman running down the street. There was a pack of dogs after

her and a guy with a switchblade down the street in the direction she was running."

"Ma'am," he said, still very patiently. I reached out and took a fistful of his shirt. Actually, at the last

moment, I grabbed the air in front of his shirt. I didn't think security could throw me out of the airport for

grabbing air in a threatening fashion, not even in this post-9/11 age.

"Don't ma'am me.. ."I stared at his chest until my eyes focused enough to read his name badge. "Steve.

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Is that vour name? Steve. Don't ma'am me, Captain Steve. I just need to know our rate of descent.

Humor me, Captain Steve. I work for the police department. You don't want me to go to the six o'clock

news after a murder's been discovered and tell them all about how the airline wouldn't lift a finger to help

the woman who died."

I didn't know why I bothered. The woman was probably dead by now. Still, Captain Steve blanched

and looked back over his shoulder at his instruments. I retrieved my hand and smiled at him. He blanched

again. I guess my smile wasn't any better than my hair or eyes just now.

"Hurry," I said. "Once the sun comes up the streetlights will go off and I don't know if I'll be able to find

her then."

I left my luggage in the airport and climbed into a cab, trying to work out the triangulation of height,

speed and distance. "Drive," I said, without looking up.

"Where to, lady?"

"I don't know. Northwest."

"The airline? It's just a couple feet down the term—"

"Tothe northwest," I snarled. The cabby gave me an unfriendly look and drove. "Do you have a map?" I

demanded a minute later.

"What for?"

"So I can figure out where we're going."

He turned around and stared at me.

"Watch theroad!" I braced myself for impact. Somehow— without looking—he twitched the steering

wheel and avoided the collision. I collapsed back into the seat, wide-eyed. "Map?" I asked, somewhat

more politely.

"Yeah, here." He threw a city guide into my lap. I thumbed it open to find the airport.

Airplanes go fast. I realize this isn't a revelation to stun the world, but it was a little distressing to realize

how far we'd flown in five minutes, and how long it would take to drive that. "All right, we're going

northwest of the lake." I remembered seeing its off-colored shadow making a black mark below the

plane as we'd left the subdivision behind. "Somewhere in Aurora."

"Think? That ain't such a good neighborhood, lady. You sure you wanna go there?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm trying to find somebody who's in trouble."

The cabby eyed me in the rearview. "That's the right place to look."

I glared at him through my eyebrows. He smiled, a thin I've-seen-it-all grin that didn't really have any

humor in it. He had gray eyes under equally gray, bushy eyebrows. He had a thick neck and looked like

he'd be at home chewing on a stogie. I asked if he had a cigarette. He turned around and looked at me

again.

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"Those things'll kill you, lady."

His voice was rough and deep like a lifetime smoker's. Surprise showed on my face and he gave me

another soulless smile, reflected in the mirror. "My wife died of emphysema three years ago on our

forty-eighth wedding anniversary. You want a smoke, kid, find it somewhere else."

Sometimes I wonder if I have a big old neon sign stamped on my forehead, flashing Asshole. I retaliated

with stunning wit: "I'm not a kid."

Gray eyes darted to the mirror again, and back to the road. "You're what, twenty-six?"

Nobody ever guessed my age right. Since I was eleven, people have misguessed my age anywhere from

three to seven years in one direction or the other. I felt my jaw drop.

"It's a gift," the cabby said. "A totally useless gift. I can tell how old people are."

I blinked at him.

"Great way to get good tips," he went on. "I go into this long explanation of how I always get ages right,

and then I lie. Works like a charm."

"So why'd you guess my age right?" The question came out of my mouth without consulting my brain

first. I didn't want to have a conversation with the cabby.

"Never met anybody who didn't want to be in their twenties, so what's the point? Why you going out

there, lady? Lotta trouble out that way, and you don't look like the type."

I glanced sideways at the window. A faint reflection looked back at me. He was right. I looked tired,

hopeless and worn-out, but not like trouble. "Looks can be deceiving." His eyes slid off the rearview

mirror like he was too polite to disbelieve aloud. "It's somebody else who's in trouble," I said. "I saw her

from the plane."

He twisted around yet again. "You're trying to rescue somebody you saw from anairplane?"

"Yeah." I flinched as he twitched the steering wheel to keep in our lane, again without looking. "What do

you do, use the Force?"

He glanced at the road and shrugged before turning around again. "So, what, you've got a hero

complex? How the hell are you gonna find one dame you saw from the air?"

"I passed a couple basic math classes in college," I muttered.

"Look, I got the approximate height and speed we were traveling from the pilot, so figuring out the

distance wasn't that hard. I mean, adjusting for the change in speed is kind of a pain in the ass, but—" I

set my teeth together to keep myself from rattling on. It was a moment before I was sure I had enough

control over my brain to continue without babbling. "Someplace in that vicinity there's a modern church

on a street with only one amber streetlight. If I can find it before the lights go out—"

"Then you'll be the first one on a murder scene. You're nuts, lady. You must be desperate for thrills."

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"Like it could possibly be any of your business," I snapped.

"Touchy, too. Pretty girl like you oughta be on her way home to her sweetie, not chasin—"

"I don't have one." I admit it. I snarled again.

"With your personality, I can't figure why not, lady."

I leaned forward and rubbed my eyes with my fingertips, elbows on my knees. The knot of

unpleasantness in my stomach felt like it was trying to push its way out through my sternum, pressuring

me to act whether I liked it or not. The idea that it would go away if I could just find the woman was

settled into my bones, logic be damned. "Haven't you ever just really felt like you had to do something?"

"Sure. I felt like I really had to marry my old lady when she got knocked up."

I was in a cab with Plato. His depth overwhelmed me. I lifted my head enough to stare over the back of

the seat at his shoulder. He grinned. He had good teeth, clean and white and strong, like he hadn't ever

smoked. They were probably false.

"Never felt like I had to go chasing down some dame I saw from an airplane, nope. Guess I figured I

had enough troubles of my own without adding on somebody else's."

I leaned against the window, eyes closed. "Maybe I've got enough that I need somebody else's to make

the load seem lighter."

I could feel his gaze on me in the rear view mirror again. Then he grunted, a sort of satisfied noise. "All

right, lady. Let's go find your corpse."

CHAPTER TWO

Thanks for the vote of confidence." I glowered out the window. I wouldn't have been so annoyed if I'd

felt more confident myself. The cabby—whose name was Gary, according to the posted driver's license,

and whose seventy-third birthday had been three days ago—drove like the proverbial bat out of hell,

while I clung to the seat and tried not to gasp too audibly.

The streetlights were still on when we got to Aurora, and I wasn't actually dead, so I felt like I shouldn't

complain. Gary pulled into a gas station. I squinted tiredly at the back of his head. "What are you doing?"

"Go ask if anybody knows where that church of yours is."

My squint turned into lifted eyebrows. "I thought men couldn't ask for directions."

"I ain't askin'," Gary said with aplomb. "You are. Go on."

I got.

The pimply kid behind the counter didn't look happy to see me. Judging from his thrust-out lip and

down-drawn eyebrows, I figured he wasn't happy to see anybody, and didn't take it personally. He

smirked at me when I asked about the church. Smirking is not a nice expression. The only person in the

history of mankind who'd been able to make smirking look good was James Dean, and this kid, forgive

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me Senator Bentsen, was no James Dean.

I tried, briefly, to remember if I'd been that sullen and stupid when I was sixteen. I figured the fact that I

couldn't remember didn't bode well, and went straight for the thing I knew would have gotten my

attention at that age: cash. I wasn't usually prone to bribing people, but I was too tired to think of

anything else and I was in a hurry. I dug my wallet out and waved a bill at the kid. His eyes widened. I

looked at it. It was a fifty.

Shit.

"You better walk me to the church for this, kid."

He didn't take his eyes from the bill. "There's two A-frames I can think of. One's about five blocks from

here. The other is a couple miles away."

"Which direction? For both of them." He told me, still watching the fifty like it was a talisman. I sighed,

dropped it on the counter, and muttered, "Thanks," as I pushed my way out of the gas station. He

snatched it up, hardly believing I was really handing it over. Great. I'd just turned a kid onto the lifetime

role of snitch.

Worse, I'd given away a quarter of the meager cash I had on hand, and cabs from SeaTac were

damned expensive. I climbed back into the car. "East a few blocks, and if that's not it, there's another

one to the southwest. Hurry, it's getting light out."

"What, you want to get your fingers in the blood while it's still warm? You need help, lady."

"Joanne." Having a nosy cabby know my name had to be better than being called "lady" for another half

hour. "And you're the one hung up on corpses. I'm hoping she's still alive." I tugged on my seat belt,

scowling again. It was starting to feel like a permanent fixture on my face.

"You always an optimist, or just dumb?"

A shock of real hurt, palpable and cold, tightened itself around my throat and heart. I fumbled the seat

belt. It took effort to force the words out: "You have no right to call me dumb." I stared out the window,

seat belt in one numb hand, trying furiously to blink tears away. Gary looked at me in the rearview, then

twisted around.

"Hey, hey, hey. Look, lady. Joanne. I didn't mean nothin' by it."

"Sure." My voice was harsh and tight, almost too quiet to be heard. "Just drive." I got the seat belt on

this time. Gary turned around and drove, quiet for the first time since I'd gotten in the cab.

I watched streetlights go by in the hazy gold of sunrise, trying to get myself under control. I didn't

generally cry easily and I didn't generally get hurt by casual comments from strangers. But it had been a

long day. More than a long day. A long week, a long month, a long year, nevermind that it was only the

fourth of January. And the day was only going to get longer. I still had to stop by my job and get fired.

The streetlights abruptly winked out as we turned down another street, and with them, my chance to find

the runner. A small voice said, "Fuck." After a moment I realized it was me.

"That one's still on," Gary said, subdued. I looked up, keeping my jaw tight to deny tired, disappointed

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tears. A bastion of amber stood against the dawn, one single light shining on the entire street. I watched it

go by without comprehension, then jerked around so fast I hurt my neck. "That's it!"

Gary hit the brakes hard enough to make my neck crunch again. I winced, clutching at it as I pressed my

nose against the window. "That's it, that's it!" I shrieked. "Look, there's the church!

Stop! Stop!" The car was gone from the parking lot, but there was no mistaking the vicious spire

stabbing the morning air. "Holy shit, we found it!"

Gary accelerated again, grinning, and pulled into the church parking lot. "Maybe you're not dumb.

Maybe you're lucky."

"Yeah, well, God watches over fools and little children, right?" I tumbled out of the cab, getting my feet

tangled in the floor mat and catching myself on the door just before I fell. "Well?" I demanded. "Aren't

you coming?"

His eyebrows elevated before he shrugged and swung his own door open. "Sure, what the hell. I never

saw a fresh murdered body before."

I closed my door. "Have you seen stale ones?" I decided I didn't want to know the answer, and strode

away. Gary kept up, which surprised me. He was so broad-shouldered I expected him to be short, but

he stood a good two inches taller than me. In fact, he looked like a linebacker.

"You look like a linebacker."

"College ball," he said, disparaging enough that it was obvious he was pleased. "Before it turned into a

media fest. It's all about money and glory now."

"It didn't used to be?"

He flashed me his white-toothed grin. "It used to be about glory and girls."

I laughed, stopping at the church door, fingertips dragging over the handle. They were big and brass and

twice as wide as my own hands. You could pull them down together and throw the doors open in a very

impressive fashion. I wasn't sure I wanted to.

"You sure your broad is gonna be in here, lady?"

"Yeah," I said, then wondered why that was. It made me hesitate and turn back to the parking lot.

Except for Gary's cab, it was empty. There was no reason the woman couldn't have gotten into the car

with the man with the butterfly knife, no real reason to think she'd even made it as far as the parking lot,

much less the church.

"Yeah," I said again, but trotted back down the steps. Gary stayed by the door, watching me. The car'd

been on the south end of the parking lot, between the woman and the church. I jogged over there, eyes

on the ground. I heard Gary come down the steps, rattling scattered gravel as he followed me.

"What're you looking for? I thought you said the broad was in the church."

I shrugged, slowing to a walk and frowning at the cement. "Yeah, but that's probably just wishful

thinking. I was wondering if there'd been a fight. If the guy with the knife was after her, she'd have had to

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C. E. Murphy - Urban Shaman 1 - Urban Shaman

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