Heart of the Storm

“Dammit.” Daily groaned mournfully and shook his head.

“Go lie to the American public,” the CIA director ordered the press secretary. “Heart attack. Pure and simple. No big deal.”

“Got it,” Daily agreed, his voice grim as he scribbled more notes on his clipboard.

“Our job,” Mort told the group, “is to protect the president from any future attack. So, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen? We will remain in touch with one another to unscramble this debacle.”

Colby followed his boss out of the room. He was still feeling out of sorts, the dizziness assailing him off and on. He made sure he was near a wall whenever possible so he could reach out and stabilize himself. Something was wrong, but what? Was it really the Russians? Why would they do this at a time when Kasmarov had his hands full with internal problems of his country?

“Director?” Colby called as they walked out the doors of the hospital into the dusk. “I’m going back to the vice president’s office. I want to see if our team has come up with any clues.”

“Good idea, Agent Colby. You sure you’re up to this? You look like hell warmed over.”

Grinning tiredly, Colby said, “I’m a lot better off than the vice president, sir. I’ll be fine.”

“Go for it.” Mort smiled and walked down the sidewalk to an awaiting black limo.

Colby avoided the flock of reporters still hovering around the E.R. doors on the other side of the hospital. He reached the parking lot, opened the door of his dark-blue Toyota hybrid Camry and climbed in. Sitting there, he took a couple of deep breaths. Whatever had happened in that office had made him feel spacey, dizzy and out of his body. It was hard to focus, to stay grounded.

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Colby realized he was lucky to be alive.

CHAPTER TWO

DORIS RED TURTLE, a medicine woman of the Cheyenne nation, scanned the circle of elderly women. They all sat without expression, even though the eight-sided hogan, windows open, was stifling as the Arizona summer sun beat down upon it. They had gathered in the Navajo nation, at a special place among the red sandstone monoliths near Monument Valley.

The medicine woman’s brows, thick and white with age, drew downward. “Rogan Fast Horse murdered the vice president of the United States four days ago. That is why I issued a plea for all of you to come here. He’s sworn to kill others in the president’s cabinet, and then the president himself.”

“Why should we care if he kills them?” Sparrow Hawk, an Apache medicine woman, spoke up. Her hair hung in two thick, gunmetal-gray braids. She wore a knee-length, blue calico gown, and cradled a pipe bag made of elk skin in the crook of her left arm.

Doris held the flashing black eyes of the Apache. “This is no time to thrash over the history of what whites have done to our nations. Rogan is a threat to all people, no matter what their skin color or gender.” Her gravelly voice dropped lower in warning. “As you know, two years ago, Rogan stole the Storm Pipe from the Hokahto, Blue Heron Society, of which we are all members. He acquired this sacred ceremonial pipe by murdering our sister, Cora Thunder Eagle, who carried it.”

Doris grimaced and added, “Rogan killed her daughter’s husband, Hal, as well. This is not news, of course.

“We were all worried what he’d do with this pipe. Sell it to a collector? Try to use it himself? But why would a man want a woman’s sacred pipe, which can only be handled by one of the sisters? Men can never access that power, no matter how hard they try. We all wondered what would happen. Well, now we know what he was planning to do with it.”

The women, who ranged in age from sixty to almost a hundred, all nodded in agreement. There were twelve of them present, representing a dozen Native American nations. Each medicine woman had been chosen, trained and appointed ambassador to this supersecret and sacred pipe society.

Doris looked to her right, her gaze settling on a tall, thin Navajo. “Agnes Spider Woman, who is our oldest member, will speak now. Grandmother?”

Agnes gave a slight smile of acknowledgment, her light-brown eyes watering, the lids sagging heavily at the corners. Her gaze moved slowly in a clockwise direction around the assemblage. Each medicine woman sat cross-legged on Navajo rugs that Agnes had woven by hand during her long life. Beneath the colorful rugs, the red clay was hard-packed, a reminder that Mother Earth lived with them in harmony. The rocks represented her bones, and the soil, her flesh. The only door to the hogan was open and a slight breeze entered, easing the stifling conditions. There were two small windows, one in the west and one in the south, that were open to allow a breeze. “Thank you, my sister Doris Red Turtle.”

Like Sparrow Hawk, Agnes cradled a ceremonial pipe in her left arm, for the Navajo nation. Veins stood out dramatically beneath the coppery skin of her hands. She moved her arthritic fingers gently across the beaded deerskin pipe bag that carried it. “Greetings, my sisters. I had asked Red Turtle, who is a powerful voice among our nations, to bring you here.” Her voice was reedy but still strong for her age as she exclaimed, “May the Great Mystery bear witness to our plight and give us direction to change it.”

Slowly lowering her birdlike arm, she said, “Rogan Fast Horse, a Cherokee métis medicine man from Nevada, plotted to steal a pipe from our Blue Heron Society. He made his intentions clear many, many years ago, but we gave his threats little attention. Our mistake was in not taking him seriously. We know there are some arrogant, power-hungry medicine men among the nations. Few, but they are there. Usually, they are blowhards, with no action behind their threats or bragging.”

Looking down at the pipe bundle in her arm, the beading of which showed a great blue heron standing near water, Agnes shook her head. Then she gazed around the circle. “Our society was created so long ago that we have no way to know how old it really is. Doris and I figure it may have begun three thousand years ago. We are nations with oral history, not a written one. And from all I have been told, the Hokahto Society is very, very old.”

Lifting her hand, Agnes gestured around the room. “Each of you carries a sacred ceremonial pipe from a time long ago that has come to you in the present. Each of you was specially chosen to represent your nation here, because you have a good heart and a good way of walking. Each pipe carried in this room represents Mother Earth, Father Sky, our sun and moon, in some way. Each is different. But each functions in harmony with the others to create a connection for all our relations.”

Agnes paused to wipe the corner of her thin mouth with a white cotton handkerchief. She patted her lips with a trembling hand and tucked the handkerchief away once more. “According to tradition, only women can be members of the Blue Heron Society. Each pipe created was to be cared for and used by a woman. Only one of the sister-hood may open up the pipe bag, look upon the medicine object within, hold it and connect it to the stem for use. We are charged with working with the pipe to inspire life and harmony upon our planet for the good of all beings.”

The breeze strengthened and the slanting sun brightened the shadowy space where they sat. Agnes welcomed the cooling breeze and silently said thank-you to Father Sky and the wind spirits. “Each of the pipes has tremendous power that has been gathered over time. That is why a pipe carrier is always chosen with the greatest of care. Each pipe is capable of positive deeds, or can be ordered by the carrier to wreak death and destruction.”

Pulling out her handkerchief once again, Agnes dabbed at her watering eyes. “The Storm Pipe was given to the Lakota people. Not only has Rogan Fast Horse stolen it, we now know what he’s going to do with it—kill others. A month ago, I heard gossip from a young woman from the Crow nation. She said she’d heard that Rogan had vowed to use the pipe to destroy the white man and his government.” Shrugging her bony shoulders, Agnes SpiderWoman said, “It was gossip, and I don’t like tattling about others. The woman who told me was a good person with a good heart, but it was still gossip. Yet looking back, I know I should have listened and not dismissed her claims so lightly. It was the Great Mystery’s way of warning me.” Agnes’s mouth turned downward. “And I did not listen.”

Silence hung heavy in the heated hogan. Finally, Sheila One Feather, of the Crow nation, spoke up. Her square face was deeply lined from eighty years in the mountains of Montana. “Rogan is a two-heart, Grandmother Agnes. None of us here likes gossip. We all know the danger of it. You cannot blame yourself for not listening. We’d all have done the same.”

There was a faint murmur of agreement from the group.

Kate Little Bird of the Iroquois nation spoke up. Her eyes flashed with fire. “Let’s face it—Rogan has stalked power all his miserable life! He’s bent on vengeance against anyone—red or white. Is that not so, my sister?”

Sadly, Agnes agreed. “Rogan killed one of us to steal the Storm Pipe. We all felt that, since he was a man, he could not use it. But he has found a way to do so.”

Kate scowled. “How could he use the pipe? It will only awaken and respond in the hands of a woman. I do not understand this. Do you?”

“Yes,” Agnes said wearily. “This same young Crow woman told me that Rogan had gathered twelve women to aid him. He taught one of the twelve how to awaken the pipe and use it. With these women willingly cooperating, he was able to control the pipe for his own evil ends. I am ashamed of these women, for they are no better than Rogan. They seek power that is not theirs to use. They are all two-hearts.”

“Power,” Kate Little Bird said, “is an aphrodisiac to those who have none. We all know that.”

“Power is earned through walking in balance and harmony,” Doris Red Turtle stated. “It cannot be stolen, nor can shortcuts be taken to work with such power.”

“Yet,” Agnes said, “that is exactly what has happened here. Rogan knew he couldn’t touch the Storm Pipe himself, or force it to work for him. So he’s spent the last two years seeking and finding twelve women who thirst after power like he does. Rogan assembled a team of medicine women to support his goals and vision. We all thought that the Storm Pipe would eventually resurface and we’d get it back. I didn’t dream that Rogan would devise something like this. None of us did.”

“Do not blame yourself,” Doris advised the older woman gently. “When the pipe was stolen, we all felt it would return to us sooner or later. Ceremonial objects are taken all the time by those who seek power that is not rightfully earned, or theirs by heritage or training.”

“Humph,” Agnes muttered. “We all thought since it was a woman’s pipe, it would be rendered impotent in Fast Horse’s hands. We underestimated him.”

“No one has ever done this before,” Kate said. “How were we to know? Or guess?”

Again, there was a murmur of agreement from the group. All shared in the blame.

Blotting her eyes, Agnes murmured, “Sometimes it is beyond whoever walks the Red Road with a good heart to plumb the depths of a two-heart, to discover what evil they carry or the plans they create. This is one of those times. We do not think like them and are incapable of such diabolical misuse of power. But we are all paying for it, and so is Mother Earth and all our relations. That is why we must act.”

CHAPTER THREE

AGNES SPIDER WOMAN RAISED her thin hand and looked around the hogan at her sisters. “The daughter of Cora was to become the next woman to carry the Storm Pipe. This is as it should be. Since she was nine years old, Dana Thunder Eagle was being trained by her mother to step into her shoes as a ceremonial pipe carrier when the time was right. When Cora was murdered, and Dana’s husband, Hal, was as well, the young woman went wild with grief.”

“That is only natural,” Doris said, shaking her head over the violent deed.

“Of course,” Agnes agreed. “Dana is like a granddaughter to me, as you all know. She is Lakota and Navajo, a beautiful young woman filled with such love and care for others, a true pipe carrier in every sense of the word. When she was twelve years old, I gave Dana a personal pipe to train with—the Nighthawk Pipe, in preparation for carrying the ceremonial Storm Pipe. Dana accepted the honor and responsibility, as I knew she would.” Smiling fondly, Agnes wiped the corners of her mouth once more. False teeth and old age made her mouth water constantly. “We need to contact Dana and ask her to come home and fulfill her destiny.”

“How?” Doris demanded, scowling. “How old is she? In her twenties?”

“Yes, twenty-nine.” Wiping her lips, then clutching the damp handkerchief in her thin hand, the elder added, “Dana left the Rosebud Reservation after the murders because both sets of her grandparents were dead. She was crazed with grief. I tried to convince her to come and live with me, but she refused, and disappeared. But I sent out the spirit of the pipe I carry to keep in touch with her. She lives in Ohio right now and teaches first graders at a school near Dayton. It is her way of dealing with her loss of the two people she loved most in the world. Children are nothing but love, and that is where Dana has found refuge…until now.”

“Of course,” Sparrow Hawk muttered, “the murders were a terrible blow to all of us. At first we didn’t know who did it. Over time, we were able to track down the culprits—Rogan and his lead woman, Blue Wolf.” She tightened her right hand into a fist. “I wish I could pray for their deaths. I’d do it.”

Doris gave her Apache friend a gentle smile. “As a ceremonial pipe carrier, you are charged with walking the Red Road with a good heart. None of us can use the pipes we carry for anything but good for all our relations.”