Darkmoon(67)

“But what?” Her pinched expression told me she’d had just about enough of the questions.

“Do you remember where the note was mailed from? Maybe somewhere on Navajo land?”

“It was mailed from Flagstaff. I do remember that. It came as I was packing up the house and getting ready to leave. Another few weeks, and it would’ve had to be forwarded.” She knotted her thin fingers, twisted with arthritis, on her knee. Her dress was blue linen, and she wore pearls in her ears. Not the usual sort of lazy Sunday outfit I was used to, but then I realized she’d probably gone to church earlier and hadn’t changed out of her good clothes. “I don’t know anything other than that. It’s been more than twenty years, you know.”

Yes, I did know. Twenty-two years of never knowing whether my father was alive or dead, or even what his name might be. I knew better than to say anything like that to this cold-voiced woman. Probably she had been very pretty in her youth; her hair was still thick, and her features were regular, her eyes bright blue, not faded from age at all. Then again, why should that surprise me? The Wilcox men did seem to have an eye for pretty women.

“And since I can’t tell you anything else, I think you’d better go now.”

Under different circumstances, I might have argued. But I could see the way she kept darting hostile, nervous glances at Connor, as if he were going to cast some dark spell at any moment, and I also realized that if she’d intended to display any sort of interest in me as her son’s only child, the moment for that had long passed.

“Of course,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m very sorry to have intruded on your afternoon.”

For the first time she looked vaguely discomfited, as if she’d realized that having your long-lost granddaughter apologize for intruding might mean she hadn’t given the sort of reception one might expect in this type of situation. Not that she would apologize herself, though. She stood up, and Connor rose as well. He didn’t say anything, only took my hand as I started to move toward the door.

“There’s one thing,” she added, just as I was reaching for the knob.

“There is?” I asked, stopping in surprise.

“I don’t know if it’ll help you or not, but I think my husband’s Navajo relations’ surname was Bedonie…Begonie? Something like that. Anyway, you might want to give it a try.”

It was a small gesture, but one that meant a lot. Suddenly that haystack had gotten a good deal smaller. “Thank you,” I said, hoping she could hear the gratitude in my voice.

She waved a hand, as if uncomfortable with even that small display of thankfulness. “It’s nothing. Drive safe.”

It was a clear dismissal, and I took it as such. Opening the door, I slipped out into the warm sunshine, glad of a chance to breathe fresh air after the stuffy confines of her house. By some tacit agreement, neither Connor nor I spoke until we were safely back in the FJ. He started up the SUV, pulled away from the curb, and began to head back toward downtown Williams. Only then did he say, “Jesus Christ.”

I wasn’t Christian by any stretch of the imagination, but I had to agree with his sentiment. “No kidding.” For a few seconds I watched the slightly shabby-looking neighborhoods pass by. Then I said, “If she’s that crazy, I’m not sure I even want to meet my father. Goddess knows what he’s like.”

Connor reached over and patted my knee. “Cheer up. Maybe he takes after the Wilcox side of the family.”

“Oh, that’s very reassuring.”

Instead of being offended, he merely chuckled. Then his expression sobered, and he added, “She’s definitely got issues, but I’m trying not to be too judgmental. Grief makes people do strange things. You can tell her husband’s death hit her hard, especially with her son being gone. And expecting the healers to magically fix things, and then when they didn’t….” He let the words die away, mouth tightening as he guided us back onto Route 66. “Well, I suppose I can see why she’d feel betrayed, by the Wilcoxes in particular and witchcraft in general. I’m not saying she didn’t swing way too far in the other direction, but it does make some sense.”

“Okay, maybe, but she’s had twenty years to get over it,” I said. Even I could hear the hurt in my voice. I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself, but somewhere deep inside I’d probably hoped that she would welcome me, tell me she was so happy to know that she had a grandchild. Instead, I’d only been given a little more courtesy than someone going from door to door and pushing religious tracts. Actually, she probably would have been friendlier to someone like that. At least she would have known they weren’t a heathen.