Free Tribal Ways by Alex Archer Page B

the Navajo people—as part of their power quest, and actively embrace evil, I have come to suspect that certain other aspirants to the Witchcraft Way undertake to, in effect, sacrifice themselves for the good of the People. That being, of course, what the Navajo call themselves. To make themselves night stalkers and superhuman killers precisely in order to protect the People, they embrace the appurtenances of evil in order to derive the power to do good.
    “In this they make themselves the opposite of socio-paths, although their actions are almost impossible to discern from each other. Whereas the sociopathic serial murderer kills without conscience, because he lacks empathy, this other being becomes a killer on a mission, who kills because his conscience drives him to do so. He averts his empathy from his victims because he is driven by empathy for those whom he believes he serves. Once many psychologists used the term psychopath for such a one, the conscience-driven killer as opposed to the conscienceless sociopath. The terms have long been conflated in the public awareness, such as it is, and in any event thoroughly obfuscated by the official professional jargon.”
    “Thank you, Dr. Michel,” Annja said, before he could plunge any deeper into what seemed likely to be another of his numerous wells of disregard. “Have you thought of approaching the authorities with your expertise on the subject? Your theories might prove helpful toward solving these crimes.”
    “You must understand, Ms. Creed,” he said, “fascinating as I naturally find this case, my interest remains purely scientific. As for whether they apprehend the killer or not I give not a fig.” He made a dismissive flick of his fingertips.
    “So far as I am concerned archaeologists are nothing more than despoilers of native peoples and violators of their tombs. The more the skinwalker kills of them, the better.”
    With maximum effort Annja controlled herself. “I’m an archaeologist, Dr. Michel.”
    He shrugged. “So? It is on your soul, not mine. Good day to you, Ms. Creed. I shall not talk to you again. I have important work to do.”
     

    S TILL STEAMING OVER her encounter with the arrogant French psychiatrist Annja drove back the way she had come. At Tramway Road she turned south toward I-40. She intended to return to Lawton straightaway. She had decided she’d been away from Comanche country long enough for things to settle down sufficiently.
    It was after dark when she stopped at a rest area near the Texas border. The wind blew down the Plains with little to hinder it. It buffeted her rental car and chilled her right through as soon as she stepped out. Though unheated, the restroom seemed a sanctuary of warmth and calm.
    When she finished her business she opened the stall door to find two men with their faces painted black awaiting her. The one on her left wore an indigo hoodie and what looked like sweatpants; the one on her right a black Windbreaker and pants. Both wore black athletic shoes. The bareheaded one had his dense black hair slicked back.
    They showed no weapons. She was not naive enough to assume that meant they didn’t have them. Most likely, they didn’t feel a need to display them.
    Annja had decided that the attack in the Bad Medicine parking lot resulted from an extreme case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The fact these two weren’t awaiting her with gun or blade in hand seemed to reinforce that. But unlike the Bad Medicine, was clearly personal—targeted at her directly.
    Reading the intent in her eyes, they fell back a step. Sadly, they talked themselves out of doing the sensible thing, which was simply to walk away and leave Annja Creed alone.
    “Dog Soldiers, I’m guessing,” she said, stepping back into the stall. It gave her, she reckoned, maximum choice of engagement ground should they attack. If she thought mobility might serve her best she had the larger restroom to move about in. If she wanted