Knot of This World. Mary Marks
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moisture from his forehead. When he raised his arm, I could see sweat staining the armpits of his T-shirt. “We even checked out those vans, but they were empty.”
Paulina gestured toward the glass-and-wooden yurt. “They’re still at it?”
Birdie nodded. “Yes. We’ve been watching. Nobody has entered or left the place.”
“I sense they’re engaged in a powerful battle,” Paulina said.
Mansoor nodded. “Yeah. There’s some serious, ah... stuff going on, all right.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Invisible auras. Invisible spirits. Invisible combat. Good versus evil. That’s the trouble with trusting psychics. How can a regular person like me verify such a claim?”
Denver stood and once again assumed the leadership of our little group. “We obviously came on the wrong day. No use waitin’ around any longer. For all we know, those folks could be meditating for hours.” He hefted the Longaberger basket once again.
Birdie sighed. “Denny’s right. Let’s go have lunch in town and come back later. Maybe they’ll be finished by then.”
“I sure could use some water to drink,” Mansoor said.
We retraced our steps back to the RV, more than thirty minutes after we’d arrived. The door of the Winnebago stood slightly ajar.
Mansoor said, “I’m almost certain I latched up this door when we left.”
Denver shrugged, “Don’t worry, son. It sometimes does that. Let’s take our places inside. We’ll drive back down the mountain and on into town. Come on, Twink. Age before beauty.” He winked at Birdie and steadied her as she climbed the stair step to the door.
A girlish giggle escaped from my seventy-something friend until she stepped inside the Winnebago. “Denny! Oh my god! Denny!”
At the sound of her distress, Denver dropped the basket on the ground and hurried inside. The rest of us pushed all at once to be first inside the RV.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
Birdie pointed to the bed in the back of the Winnebago. Sprawled on top of it was a dark-haired man. His eyes stared blindly at the ceiling and his mouth hung open in silent protest. Clearly, he’d never see another birthday. Three closely spaced bullets had burned small holes through his white shirt around the region of his heart. I guessed he’d died instantly because very little blood oozed from the places where the shots had penetrated his body.
Birdie’s face became ashen and drawn. “It can’t be. I don’t believe it.”
Denver made her sit in the passenger seat and handed her a plastic bottle of water from the table.
“Do you know him?” Lucy’s eyes were wide with disbelief.
Mansoor twisted the cap off another fresh bottle of water. “Now it all makes sense.” He closed his eyes and took a long drink.
“What makes sense?” I demanded. “Who is he?”
Mansoor spoke quietly. “Meet Royal St. Germain.”
CHAPTER 8
Before I called 911, I advised everyone to remove their valuables from the RV because once the police took possession of it, they wouldn’t let us back inside.
Mansoor screwed the cap back on his bottle of water. “Sounds like you have some experience with this kind of thing.”
“A little,” I lied. Truth was, I’d learned a lot about police procedure not only from Crusher, who was a federal agent, but from my own investigations of no less than ten homicides over the last few years.
We grabbed our purses and sweaters. Then I made the call and waited for the police with our little group outside the Winnebago. Denver picked up the basket again and kept his other arm around Birdie’s shoulder. Lucy and I huddled into one another for support and gripped each other’s hands. Paulina stood alone while Mansoor paced back and forth. We were far enough from the parking area to have a clear view of the yurt some fifty yards away. The racket from the crows had fallen silent. I looked up and spotted the reason why. Five dark birds circled in the bright blue sky overhead. From their size and the beige feathers underneath their dark wings, I guessed they must be turkey vultures, nature’s cleanup crew.
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