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Just a few blocks from where Lynn Schumacher had died. I rubbed my eyes, nodded even though she couldn’t see me, said, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” and made it downtown in twenty.

Tia Carley was waiting for me, a newspaper pinned to the table she’d staked out by a cup of black coffee and a muffin that looked suspiciously bran-y. No wonder she had such a terrificphysique. I waved hello and went to order the largest latte they had available, and eyed the sweets cabinet, trying to remember when I’d last eaten something that wasn’t a doughnut-based life-form. Tia appeared at my elbow, paid for my coffee and said, “The lemon muffins are especially good.”

“Which is why you’re eating something wholesome and poppy-seeded, right?” I ordered a lemon muffin anyway, and a prepackaged turkey sandwich for dessert. Food in hand, we retreated to Tia’s table and I took a couple fortifying slurps of coffee before saying, “People don’t usually want to know about what I can do.”

“How many of them have just been told they’ve been healed from early-stage breast cancer?” Tia kept her voice low, which I appreciated. “I don’t even know if I said thank you. Is it something you can teach someone to do?”

I shook my head. “You’re welcome. And I’m not sure, honestly. I have an aptitude for it.”

Disappointment flashed through her eyes, but she contained it in an instant. “It seems like something that should be taught, if it can be. Can I ask, though—? You wear glasses. And you have a scar.”

I touched the scar on my right cheek, then automatically pushed my glasses up. “Not everything wants to be healed. Somethings are in the genetic code, I guess, or have emotional importance that outweighs the need to be physically perfect.” I sounded very mature and wise.

Tia, however, looked skeptical. “If I had something wired into my genetics, I’d want to be able to control it.”

I remembered the odd spur in her DNA, and bit my tongue on saying “You do.” It took a moment to find somethingelseto say, but fortunately I had coffee, a muffin and a sandwich to occupy my mouth with. I alternated between the first two while I ripped the sandwich packaging open. Turkey and limp lettuceexploded over the table, and I sat there a moment, chipmunk-cheeked with muffin and gazing in dismay at the mess I’d made. “Sometimes,” I said around the mouthful, “screwing with things that don’t want to be screwed with has an effect kind of like that. Especially where magic’s concerned.”

Tia didn’t look like she believed me for a second, but she put the sandwich back together with a grin. “Still, it must be amazing to know you can control your own body that way. I do yoga, but it’s not the same at all, is it?”

“I couldn’t do a yoga stretch if you paid me, so I don’t know. Mostly, though, it’s not really about controlling what my body can or can’t do. It’s trying to help others whose bodies or spirits are failing them somehow.” I sounded so much like I knew what I was talking about that I started to think I’d been replaced by Folgers Crystals. “I know there are local classes in shamanism, which is the basic practice I’m starting from. You could look into those, I guess, to see if you have any skill for it yourself.”

“How long does that take?”

I ducked my head and chuckled. “I don’t know. I started studying when I was about thirteen.” Never mind that my studies had lasted about fifteen months and then had gone on violent, determined hiatus for more than a decade. The idea that she wanted a time frame suggested she probably wasn’t all that well suited to pursuing a healer’s path, but I didn’t figure it was my business to say so.

“Oh.” She looked dismayed, but then smiled. “I suppose I should get started, in that case. At least by taking some classes. What’s it like, healing people? Changing them that way?”

“Scary. Wonderful, when it works. Exhausting. It’s not something I would have chosen, but I’m getting better at it.” I bit off that last confession, wishing I hadn’t made it. People, even curious polite people I’d healed recently, probably didn’t need to know about my doubts. Or maybe that was exactly whatshe needed to know. “Worth it,” I finally said, more quietly. “It’s hard, but it’s worth it.”

Tia gave me a broad, excited smile. “Then that’s all I need to know. Thank you, Miss—Detective—Walker. Joanne. May I call you Joanne?” I nodded and her smile got that little bit much bigger. “I feel like I’ve been looking for a path for a long time. Maybe you’ve helped me find it.”

I smiled back, but worry sank a pit into my stomach. Whatever my talents were, I was certain nobody should be looking to me as any kind of guidance counselor. We chatted a while longer before I made my escape, wishing I’d never agreed to meet her.

Chapter 15

SATURDAY, MARCH 18, 6:22 P.M.

The girly part of me I rarely acknowledged existed wanted to find something as knockout gorgeous as the velvet green dress I’d worn the night before. The practical mechanic part of me won out, and I turned up at the theater in black jeans and a dark blue nubbly sweater.

Jim Littlefoot gave my glasses a curious glance as he let me in through a side door. I wanted to explain that shamanic magic didn’t have the same coverage as LASIK—which would have been the clever thing to say to Tia Carley, had I thought of it—but he said, “If you don’t mind taking your shoes off,” as a pragmatic introductory sally that didn’t invite explanations about magic. I followed him down a hall and into the wings, then stopped at the duct-taped-down edge of a black rubber mat stage floor to do as he asked.

The scent of makeup and sweat was strong under blazing stage lights. The house lights were on, too, making the whole theater a beacon of brightness very unlike the night before. Dancers not yet in costume were running through a half-assedrehearsal, doing none of the incredible throws or lifts they’d done during the performance. Even that much came to a halt as I followed Littlefoot onstage.

Their grief was palpable, though a glimpse at their auras also showed the emotion locked behind high thick walls. Saving it, I guessed, for the show, just as they saved the high-energy lifts and tremendous leaps. I was abruptly glad I’d be watching from the wings and not actually part of the audience at whom their pent-up bereavement would be directed.

Littlefoot took center stage, me at his side, and raised his voice. Not that he needed to draw attention: everybody was already watching us—me—mostly with more gratitude and less resentment than I’d expected. I had, after all, failed their friend the night before.

On the other hand, I’d at least tried, and maybe that made a difference. Littlefoot introduced me, saying, “Most of you saw her last night. She may be able to track Naomi’s murderer at the climax of the ghost dance. Shewillbe able to shield us all, so that no one else will be hurt.”

Part of me winced, prepared for a wave of skepticism from the dancers. Instead there were a handful of nods, and a general sense of reasonable acceptance. I’d never been in the presence of so many people who took the concept of psychic shielding so easily, not even when I’d briefly tangled with a coven. It was sort of heartening.

A tiny redhead stepped forward, unfolding one arm from its tight wrap around her ribs to wave her hand like she sought permission to speak. She didn’t wait for it, though, just said, “I’m Winona, Naomi’s understudy. First, I wanted to say thank you for trying to help last night. I don’t think we even knew what had happened, but you were already up here.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more.”

Winona nodded, but she obviously wasn’t looking for an apology. “I just want to know: if you’re going to be shielding us, does that mean the ghost dance is going to lose its power?”

I went a little slack-jawed, seeing her point instantly but not certain of how to deal with it. The whole purpose of the dance was to share energy with the audience. If I had them shielded well enough to keep our bad guy from draining all that built-up power, then it was essentially going to rebound on the dancers, not be released into the waiting crowd. After a rather long moment, I said, “Crap,” which got an unexpected low chuckle from the dancers.