Summer Solstice Time Walk

Seasonal changes were sacred to the ancients and celebrated as holy days. In my book Blink of an Eye, P.I. Buck McDivit travels back 1000 years in time to Spiro, the once great center of the Mississippian people, to attend the Summer Solstice with more than 20,000 Native Americans. If you love history, adventure, and mystery, then take a magic carpet ride back a thousand years and prepare to see the New World as it was long before the white man arrived.

Chapter 12

Buck fumbled in the dark with the keys when he reached the front gate of Thorn’s property. She was asleep in the passenger seat and hadn’t moved since they’d left the Roadhouse. Pard and Maggie were raising a ruckus in the backyard as he unlocked the front door and turned on the porch light. Thorn was dead weight. He had to wrestle her onto the bed. As he pulled off her boots, Maggie and Pard watched, wagging their tails. Knowing how bad it felt to wake up with a hangover, he thought about removing her jeans and blouse. Instead, he covered her with a quilt, deciding he didn’t know her well enough. Turning out the lights, he went into the kitchen.

Maggie and Pard demanded attention. After popping the top on a cold beer he found in the refrigerator, he obliged them. They gobbled up a couple of dog treats, then returned to Maggie’s extra large doggie bed by the stove.

Turning off the lights, he went into Thorn’s cozy den. Pulling off his boots, he plopped on the old couch that sat in front of her pot-bellied stove.

“Good for you, Pard,” he said, glancing at the doggie bed. “At least one of us has a girlfriend to keep them warm tonight.”

A storm came up, with thunder rattling windows as rain drummed a cadence on Thorn’s tin roof. Lost in a dream world, Buck didn’t awaken. At least until a bright light shining in his eyes caused him to open them. When he did, he sat straight up on the couch, not believing what he saw.

Before him stood a beautiful woman, an aura of blue light radiating from her naked body. He first thought it was Thorn. Instead, it was someone he’d never expected to see again. His heart began racing inside his bare chest.

“Is it you, Esme, or am I dreaming?”

“Come to me and see,” she said.”

When he pressed against her and began smothering her with kisses, he knew she was real.

Esme was tall and graceful, her long hair and demanding eyes as dark as the storm raging outside the house. As he pressed against her soft breasts, a familiar rush coursed through his body. Just to make sure it was she, he turned her around. As he remembered, a rattlesnake tattoo highlighted the supple curve of her shoulder.

“It’s been two long years. Not a day has passed that I didn’t think about you,” he said. “Why did you go away?”

“I know it hurt you, Buck McDivit. I could not help it because I am from a different place and time.”

“What place, and what time?” he said.

“You will see. I will take you there. First, you must become as naked as I am.”

Buck’s jeans dropped to the floor. “I’m ready,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“To a place you’ve never imagined,” she said.

Esme held his hand as they passed through the locked door as if it weren’t there. The storm had grown stronger as rain poured down in sheets. Thunder rocked their steps, lightning sizzling across an angry sky.

Sharp stones from the gravel driveway didn’t hurt his feet. Though rain gushed off his head and shoulders, he was oblivious to it. Esme led him down the hill, their feet sinking into the mire as they reached a pond overflowing from the deluge. Lightning laced the darkness above them. He hesitated when she stepped into the roiling water.

“Come with me,” she said.

He continued to waver. “It’s dangerous.”

Pulling him toward her, she said, “Trust me.”

Neck deep in churning water, they embraced as lightning kissed the pond. It set off a kaleidoscope of radiating colors that made his head spin. When he opened his eyes, darkness was gone. So was the storm. Dancing rays of sunshine radiated through the cloudy sky. Birds soared overhead, and only friendly drops of rain rippled the water’s surface.

“We’ve crossed over,” she said.

“That was the wildest ride I’ve ever taken. What just happened?”

“You did this once before. You just don’t remember.”

“Did what?” he asked.

“Walked across time,” she said. “Brace yourself for culture shock because you are now in my world.”

They were in the river. Esme took his hand and led him out of the water to a teepee near its bank. The same teepee Esme lived in when he’d met her near the pagan village of Lykaia. When they pushed through the flap, he saw Beauty, Esme’s giant wolf dog. They moved toward one another, meeting in the middle, and were soon rolling on a deerskin rug.

“Where the hell have you been?” Buck said, giving her big neck a warm hug.

“She’s missed you, and so have I,” Esme said.

“You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed both of you.”

“Yes I can,” she said. “Let’s get you dressed. I have much to show you.”

Soon, Buck looked like a Mississippian warrior, Esme like a medicine woman. Beauty hadn’t left Buck’s side until Esme told her to stay and guard the teepee.

“She doesn’t like crowds,” she said.

Buck gave the large beast another hug and then followed Esme out the door. He could hardly believe the sights that began unfolding around them.

Dozens of canoes occupied the riverbank and more floated in the river. When they crested the natural levee, his jaw dropped. Wooden houses with thatched roofs stretched for as far as he could see. Indian women, naked from the waist up, were working small truck gardens. Men, returning from a hunt, carried a deer and a large turtle.

“They are preparing for the festival,” Esme said.

Buck was curious. “Festival?” he said.

“You’ll see.”

They were both resplendent in colorful paint and feathers. Esme seemed to know everyone and exchanged smiles and greetings as they passed. They soon reached a palisade. Behind the timbered walls, stately mounds, topped by wooden houses, jutted toward the sky. Activity outside the entrance to the palisade was heavy.

“It’s festival day,” she said. “Some of the people have traveled a thousand miles to be here.”

“Tell me about this festival.”

“Tomorrow is the first day of summer, the longest day of the year. For my people, it is one of our holiest days. Today is the eve of the summer solstice. Our chief will speak, and there will be a game of chunkey. Following the game, the bonfire is lit, and everyone feasts, chants, and dances until dawn.”

Buck had met Esme for the first time during a solstice celebration. He remembered because he’d been the only male present. He and several hundred naked pagan females had danced the night away in a solstice ceremony. When he’d met Esme, she’d been the spiritual leader of the pagan enclave known as Lykaia.

“Are we going to dance like we did when we first met?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I am the medicine woman. I must feast with our chief, the elders, and the emissaries from many other tribes. I have other plans for you.”

“What tribes?”

“Mississippians from all over, Aztecs and Mayans from Mexico, and Anasazi from Four Corners.”

“You must be kidding.”

“I assure you I’m not.”

They all wore their festival best. Pearls, shells, and colorful beads adorned the braids in many of the women’s long hair. Most of the men had painted faces and shaved heads with only a top knot. Colors of their costumes moved like a kaleidoscope in slow motion.

The palisade was on a hill. From their vantage, they could see the bend in the large river. Hundreds of canoes lined the bank, more still arriving. Everyone, it seemed, was smiling.

“How can so many tribes coexist?”

“Spiro, as you know it, is the religious hub of our universe. There can be no war, strife, or disagreement in this holy place, especially on the eve of the summer solstice. Well, except for chunkey,” she said.

The scene reminded him of the open marketplace in Santa Fe. This was similar but ten times larger. A myriad of color, noise, and excitement, and jewelry wasn’t the only thing for sale.

The aroma of fresh corn, squash, grapes, and a dozen other vegetables floated in a warm breeze. A big black dog that no one seemed to own sniffed his leg before disappearing into the crowd.

“This place is shoulder to shoulder,” he said. “Reminds me of the crowds at the state fair or an OU football game.”

“There are many thousands here today,” she said.

“Thorn would be in heaven,” he said.

“She descended from Mississippians.”

“I can’t imagine anyone loving their cultural history more than her.”

“She is a good person. Maybe too good for the likes of you.”

“What about for you?”

Esme’s smile disappeared. “We were never meant to be.”

“Star-crossed lovers?” he said, squeezing her hand.

“We must live in the moment. I have you now, at least for a short time, and there are many things I need to tell you.”

They strolled through the open-air market, marveling at the crafts. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, only a flock of gulls circling to land on a pond created by a bend in the river.

“It’s time to enter the palisade,” she said.

“I understand every word these people are saying. They can’t be speaking English.”

“You left your clothes and many other things in Oklahoma. While you are here, you are one of us.”

The high-timbered palisade surrounding the enclave was more spectacular than Thorn had described. A moat filled with water surrounded the tall timbers. Guards armed with spears left little doubt that no one entered except by invitation. He and Esme were on the list. They followed a circular maze until it opened into the ancient gated city of Spiro. The panorama blew him away.

“I visited the Archaeological Park yesterday. I had no idea it looked as spectacular as this.”

“The new world’s version of Camelot,” she said. “The game is starting. Would you like to see?”

In the distance, hundreds of spectators occupied a large arena where two teams were beginning to compete.

“It’s a half-mile away. It’ll be lunch before we get there,” he said.

“We don’t have to walk,” she said, snapping her fingers.

Four men appeared with a hand carriage, waiting until Esme and Buck had climbed aboard. Hoisting it to their shoulders, they began trekking toward the chunkey game. The rampant noise grew louder as they approached the arena, covered seating awaiting them. Play stopped as the players, and the crowd acknowledged Esme’s appearance.

“They treat you like a goddess,” Buck said.

She wasn’t smiling when she said, “To my people, I am a goddess.”

Forty people occupied covered seating opposite them. A man in bright paint sat in a cane throne decorated with wreaths of flowers and feathers. The throne rose high above everyone else in the box.

“He must be a bigwig,” he said.

“Walking Wolf is chief of the Mississippians. He’s without a doubt the most powerful person in North America.”

Walking Wolf’s throne was quite a distance away for a good look. Still, the regal old man seemed strangely familiar to Buck.

Chapter 13

Buck had attended many sporting events, both amateur and professional. He’d never seen one quite as loud and raucous as the chunkey match.

Eight contestants and a referee, surrounded by several thousand adoring fans, occupied the football-sized field. Dressed in breechcloths, the competitors had faces painted white with black eyes like raccoons. Both teams wore pillbox hats woven of straw. One of the men stood at least six feet six inches and towered over the others.

“That’s Talako,” Esme said. “He’s the captain of our team. We have never lost a game.”

“Impressive,” he said. “Who are they playing?”

“A team from a large Mississippian settlement called Cahokia. They have also never lost.”

“One of their dudes is almost as big as Talako,” Buck said. “How is the game played?”

“With short spears and a stone roller chiseled from quartz. Talako and the big man from the other team are the spears. They do all the throwing and most of the scoring. Each team has a disc roller, and two members call fronts that run interference. Only the disk rollers can touch the disk, and only the spears can throw them. The fronts use their spears for tripping and preventing the disk from going through the goal posts. That’s five points. You’ll get the gist once they start playing.”

One of the Cahokians had a six-inch stone disk with a hole in the middle. Taking a stance like a pro bowler, he rolled it toward the opposite goal. The referee waited until the disk had traveled about twenty feet and waved his hand. Talako and the big man from the Cahokia team launched their spears. When the disk stopped, a ref ran onto the field, picked up the closest spear to the disk, and held up a finger.

“One point,” Esme said. “The first team to reach twelve points wins.”

“What’s the significance of the hole in the disk?” Buck asked.

“If a spear penetrates the hole, then the game is over. The team that makes the toss is the winner.”

“Seems unlikely for that to happen.”

“Almost never,” she said.

Eight men ran toward the disk when the ref waved his hand again. The melee that followed resembled hand-to-hand combat. Both teams pushed and shoved, the fronts doing their best to break their opponent’s legs. A Cahokian retrieved the disk and launched it toward the goal. The scrum continued, both teams fighting for position and scoring a few points. The crowd had grown inflamed.

“There’s massive betting going on in the stands,” she said. “Much property will change hands because of this match.”

“Most everyone’s rooting for our team,” Buck said.

“Not all. There’s a large contingent of Cahokians here to watch the game.”

Talako’s spear landed within inches of the disk, the crowd standing and yelling. When the ref waved his hand, the two Cahokian fronts took Talako’s legs out from under him. When they did, the big spear kicked him in the side.

“Damn! That looked like a foul to me. Those boys are serious. They don’t have a penalty box in this game?”

“Chunkey emulates combat. Bones are often broken. The crowd expects the team to play through their pain.”

“Brutal. Sort of like pro football. How long till the ref calls a break?”

Esme shook her head. “They’ll battle until they drop, or the game is over. There are no quarters.”

“And the reward?” he asked.

“Life, the losers killed and their scalps displayed on the winner’s belts.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” he said.

“If the visiting team wins, our chief will pardon them because this is a religious holiday. If our team loses, they will lose their heads.”

“Doesn’t look like they’re in any danger of that. They’re ahead by six points.”

“I pray not,” Esme said. “Talako is Walking Wolf’s only grandson, and the greatest warrior our tribe has.”

“Your chief wouldn’t allow his own flesh and blood to have his head chopped off.”

“Not only allow it, he would proclaim it so. He would have no choice,” she said.

“You seem distressed. You okay?”

“These games always frighten me.”

“You want to leave?”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Something you aren’t telling me?”

“Walking Wolf and I are time walkers, inherited only when both parents are also walkers. The only other walker in the tribe is Talako.”

Buck stared at her anxious expression, trying to decipher what she had just told him.

“So you and Talako are . . . ?”

“Betrothed,” she said. “We must marry and have a child.”

She squeezed his hand, her eyes begging for understanding.

“I had hoped we were going to do more than just hold hands tonight.”

“I am so sorry. That is not possible,” she said.

“Do you love him?”

“As much as I love you.”

“Then I guess it’s okay,” he said.

When they returned their attention to the game, they saw that the Spiro team had drawn within a point of winning. The Cahokian roller gave the disk a great heave, the crowd waiting until the referee waved his hand. As he did, Talako and the big Cahokian launched their spears. The disk hit a bump and fell on its side as Talako’s spear sailed over it.

When the Cahokian’s spear began its descent, every spectator in the arena sensed what was about to happen. As the missile landed in the hole in the disk, the crowd grew deathly silent. The chief came down from his cane throne, motioning Talako to approach him. Esme’s face turned bright red as she squeezed Buck’s hand.

“I can’t believe this,” he said.

“If he can break Talako’s spear, then it is a sign that the Great Spirit wishes him to die. Walking Wolf will have to take his head.”

Buck stood. “I’ll stop it,” he said.

Esme pulled him back into his seat. “No. If the spear breaks, then it is ordained.”

Talako’s head hung low as he knelt in front of his grandfather and handed him his spear. Removing a serrated stone dagger from his ceremonial belt, Walking Wolfe drove it into the earth. Then he raised the spear over his head and did a slow turn so that everyone in the stands could see.

Esme let go of Buck’s hand, her tears flowing and the veins in her neck bulging. She clenched her hands, almost as if she also had hold of the spear.

Though smaller than his grandson, Walking Wolf looked anything except weak. Buck could see he was preparing to break the spear and had little doubt that he could complete the task. As the rapt crowd watched in silence, his muscles strained, his face turning red. Buck and everyone else expected the spear to snap at any second.

Despite his efforts, the spear never even bowed. Finally, the anger imprinted on his face disappeared, replaced with a smile. He turned again to the crowd.

“This spear is unbreakable. Would anyone care to try?” He walked around the arena, offering it to anybody that might accept it. No one did, not even the contingency from Cahokia. “Then the Great Spirit has spoken,” he said. “I deem this contest a draw.”

Cheers erupted from the crowd as Chief Walking Wolf returned the spear to Talako. Buck glanced at Esme, her hands still clenched and tears streaming down her face. He took her hands and uncoiled her fingers. Two deep red welts occupied her palms. He began massaging them.

“You saved him, didn’t you?” he said.

Her breathing labored, she answered. “It took every ounce of power I have. I couldn’t let him die.”

People began filing out of the arena as Esme regained her composure.

“What now?” he asked.

“A meeting with Walking Wolf. You are about to learn why we brought you here.”

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.

Bones of Skeleton Creek - an excerpt

One of the last states to gain statehood, Oklahoma was once a haven for outlaws -Belle Starr, Jesse James, the Dalton Gang, Bonnie and Clyde, and Pretty Boy Floyd just to name a few. Life was tough in Oklahoma, the people even tougher. There's an actual Skeleton Creek and during the days of the Wild West, an outlaw, peppered with bullets as he made his escape, was found in the creek days later. Though his body was in the final stages of rigor and had turned black, the man was still alive and killed another deputy before finally succumbing to death.

Central Oklahoma features rolling terrain deeply incised with low-water creeks that flood their banks in the spring and fall of every year. The ground is rocky and unfit for crops. Blackjacks, creeping vines and tumbleweed dominate the terrain where the grass is sparse and the diet of the horses and cattle raised there have to be supplemented with hay and oats. Coyotes, rattlesnakes, wildcats, and some even say wolves and panthers roam the wide open spaces. There are even covens of witches. The area is still a haven for outlaws: oil and cattle thieves and crystal meth dealers.

In Bones of Skeleton Creek, Paranormal Cowboy Series No. 2, sleuth Buck McDivit is out of work, and in desperate need of a new truck. He takes a job as an assistant death investigator working the gory death of a ranchhand whose murder may have supernatural implications. If you will be so kind, please take a moment out of your busy life and visit a place that time has little changed, where outlaws still exist and things are rarely ever as they seem. Just be sure to keep your boots on.

Chapter 1

Buck McDivit exited the heavy glass doors of the Second Bank of Edmond, trying without success not to feel like someone had just kicked him in the gut. His banker, a man he had known all his life, had just rejected his request for a new truck loan.

“You got no steady job and not much in the way of assets. I can’t risk the bank’s money on this one,” he had told Buck.

Buck had stared at the little man with a voice much deeper than his size indicated and tried to reason with him. “I’ve never had a loan go south. You know as much, Jeb.”

“Things change,” Jeb Stuart Johnson had said, peering over his reading glasses. “The auditors would have my ass in a sling if I made this loan. Unless you put twenty percent down, that is.”

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Then maybe you don’t need a new forty thousand dollar pickup. You know what the monthly payments are on a loan that big? Hell, Buck, what’s the matter with the truck you got?”

“Two hundred thousand miles,” he had replied. “Maintenance is eating me up.”

“Then lower your standards because you can’t afford a truck costing forty-two grand.” The little man whisked his hand through his thinning hair before glancing at his watch. “Now I got another appointment coming in right after lunch so I’m leaving a little early. Anything else I can help you with?”

Buck didn’t bother answering because Jeb Johnson had already grabbed his overcoat and headed out of the office. He pulled the collar of his jean jacket up around his neck and followed him through the front door to Broadway, Edmond’s main street.

Buck’s boots were old but always polished and well maintained. He had long legs and his jeans and Western shirt made him seem taller than he really was. Two women passing on the sidewalk turned to give the handsome young cowboy with expressive brown eyes and dark wavy hair a second glance. Still upset about his meeting with Jeb Johnson, he failed to notice.

Edmond, a former train stop had grown into a north suburb of sprawling Oklahoma City. No longer a bedroom community for the wealthy, it was now the home of the third largest university in the state. It was also the third largest city in Oklahoma.

The thriving little metropolis had traffic that didn’t quite rival Dallas but was on its way to doing so. It also had a hundred fifty churches and at least ten Starbucks. Cold gusty wind whistled down the street, chilling the back of his neck, as someone tapped his shoulder.

“Sorry to bother you, Mister but I ain’t ate in two days. Can you spare a dollar?”

The economy, as in other parts of the country, had begun collapsing in Oklahoma. It seemed beggars populated every major cross street in the City but this was the first one Buck had seen in downtown Edmond. The man was scruffy, his clothes dirty and torn, but it was his dog that caught his attention. The man held on to it with a short strand of rope tied around its neck.

The young black and white Border collie wagged its tail and licked Buck’s hand when he reached down to pet it. He fished out his wallet and glanced at his last twenty.

“What’s your dog’s name?” Buck asked.

“Ain’t got no name.”

Buck handed him the twenty. “I don’t have anything smaller so I guess it’s your lucky day.” He pulled the money back when the man reached for it. “You have to promise me part of this will go to feed your dog.”

The little man snatched the bill from Buck’s hand and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

“He ain’t my dog. I was gonna tie him to a park bench and be rid of the little pest. If you want him, you better take him cause he ain’t staying with me.”

Buck frowned, thinking for a moment he should take back his twenty. He took the rope instead and watched the ratty little man hurry away, probably to the nearest liquor store.

He squatted and rubbed the little dog’s ears. The dog with no name wagged its tail and licked Buck’s hand.

“Maybe I can put an ad in the paper and find a good home for you.”

Feeling suddenly depressed because of his loan rejection, he wondered if he should move north to Logan County and the less pretentious town of Guthrie. Someone he recognized exited the coffee shop across the street, interrupting his malaise. Waving, he crossed the narrow street, the dog wagging his tail as he followed him.

Unlike sprawling Oklahoma City, no skyscrapers jutted into the clouds in downtown Edmond. Few structures, if any, exceeded more than two stories in height, those mostly squat brick, and native rock buildings. The people walking along the sidewalks moved at the slow pace of what was once a small town.

Clayton O’Meara, his ex-employer, and the former husband of Virginia, the woman for who he now worked, had apparently not seen him and was heading in the opposite direction. He stopped when Buck called his name.

“Trying to avoid me, Clayton?”

Clayton grinned, showing a set of teeth a little too perfect for someone his age. He stood several inches taller than Buck, probably six foot four, and he sported a full head of silver hair, complete with expensive salon highlights.

“Hey, Buck. Nice leash you got. What are you doing up so early?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing?” he said, ignoring Clayton’s comment about the dog’s makeshift leash.

Clayton answered Buck’s question with little more than a wry grin and the word, “Business. Don’t you ever feed that dog?”

“He’s not really my dog.”

“From the way he’s wagging his tail, I’d say he thinks he is.”

A wealthy oilman, Clayton O’Meara owned a large cattle spread in southern Logan County. He rarely left the showplace ranch and Buck couldn’t recall ever seeing him in downtown Edmond. Despite the chilling temperature, the older man wore no hat, probably so as not to distract from his full head of hair. Only an unzipped orange goose down parka emblazoned with the letters OSU covered his designer sports shirt.

Clayton was at least thirty years older than Buck but the sparkle in his hazy eyes made him seem little more than a teenager. Glancing at his Rolex Commander, as if the expensive watch somehow held the answer to some unasked question, he pointed to his car down the street.

“I’m sort of in a hurry.”

Buck recognized a brush-off when confronted with one and said, “Didn’t mean to hold you up.”

Clayton grinned and slapped Buck’s shoulder. “Sorry to rush, but I got an appointment and I gotta get. We can catch up on things later.”

Instead of hurrying away, he turned toward the door of the coffee shop he had just exited. Reaching for the handle as if he had forgotten something inside, he thought better of it. Pivoting on the heels of his polished snakeskin boots, he headed down the street to his awaiting vehicle. Buck watched as Clayton’s chauffeur opened the back door of a big white Mercedes for him. With tires squealing, the car hurried away, around the corner.

Buck glanced at the door of Café Oklahoma, the coffee shop a fixture in downtown Edmond for almost as long as he could remember. He knew Clayton well enough to know he wasn’t a coffee drinker. Curious, he opened the door and glanced inside.

Seeing a familiar face alone at a table, he completely forgot about Clayton as memories of a recent romance, ended too soon for his liking flooded his psyche. It was his former girlfriend, Kay Karson. Everyone called her KK. She turned around as if expecting someone else. Seeing him, she folded her arms, frowned and glanced away.

“No greeting for an old friend?” Buck asked as he approached her table.

KK crossed her shapely legs, black lace hose, and ankle-length boots the only concessions to the outside chill, considering the short leather skirt she wore.

 “You’re really full of yourself, aren’t you?”

Before Buck could answer, an employee said, “Sir, you can’t bring your dog in here.”

“I’ll only be a minute,” he said.

Buck and KK had been an item for almost a year. She liked line dancing, prancing horses and ice-cold Coors beer. Her slender legs looked great in tight blue jeans and cowboy boots. Honey blonde hair draped her shoulders, framing her slightly less than perfect but unforgettable face. She was, in fact, a beauty queen, having amassed three titles before the tender age of eighteen. Buck soon learned she thoroughly realized the effect she had on men. Now, at twenty-nine, she could focus her power on the opposite sex like an ICBM, with the same explosive result. Buck had found his dream woman. At least he’d thought.

KK’s father was a medical doctor in Tulsa, her mother a college professor at Tulsa University. She had never wanted for anything. Looking at her now, Buck could see she had acquired a few very expensive trinkets he doubted even her doting dad could afford. A diamond pendant graced her slender neck. The large diamond in an expensive setting had good color and was no fake. It was a companion piece to the diamond ring on her finger sporting an even larger and more ostentatious stone. Mink lined her gloves and the expensive jacket draped across the back of the booth.

“Just saying hi to an old friend,” he countered.

KK tipped over a half-empty coffee cup with her elbow. Dabbing at the spot with a napkin, she continued frowning.

“You call yourself an investigator. You don’t have a clue. I imagine you must have thought all you had to do was smile at me and I would jump back into your bed like a horny teenager. Well, we’re not in college, and you are not the star quarterback and campus heartthrob anymore. You don’t even have a real job. You may have a nice ass but it doesn’t compliment your lousy future.”

KK didn’t wait for his reply, brushing past him and appearing not to hear when he said, “Guess tamales and dancing Saturday night are out of the question.”

As she disappeared out the door without looking back, he wondered what he could have done to provoke such a display of anger. With a shrug to the employee still looking at him and the dog, he followed her outside, watching as she entered a brand new white Mercedes sports car, pulled out of her parking place and gunned away down the street.

“No problem,” he called out at the disappearing vehicle. “I can’t afford a date Saturday night anyway.”

Two rejections and a brush-off before noon, he thought as he considered where she had acquired the Mercedes and her expensive mink jacket. Their relationship had not ended badly. It had simply flickered out and died.

Buck had attended college for a time at OSU. He had dropped out to sign on with the O.C.P.D. One of his friends there had left to become an oil and gas lease broker during one of the many oil booms, and he soon followed him. His lucrative job ended during an unexpected, at least to him, reduction in oil prices. Since then, he had supported himself in many different jobs such as club bouncer, skip tracer, process server, and private detective. His opportunities for gainful employment had recently narrowed and he found himself using his meager savings to pay his bills. It didn’t help that his aging Dodge pickup needed repair almost weekly.

“Come on, Buddy. Let’s get you something to eat.”

When Buck reached his truck and unlocked the door, his cheeks burned hot. He’d never had an ego problem, even though gorgeous women often became speechless when meeting him. It didn’t matter because now he needed a drink, preferably something with whiskey in it. Shaking his head, he remembered he couldn’t afford one.

It was past lunchtime, his stomach growling. After stopping at a convenience store, he began searching for change in the truck’s console.

“You wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He returned a few minutes later with a hot dog. Giving the meat to the young dog, he ate the bun. The little Border collie gobbled down the wiener then curled up and went to sleep in the passenger seat.

Buck hadn't reached the horse ranch where he lived and worked part-time when he received a call from the Logan County death investigator. One of his many jobs included assisting the investigator whenever a suspicious death occurred. Though he did not care for the often-gory work it didn’t matter now. Because of his current financial situation, he could ill afford to turn down a job, no matter how distasteful.

A cowboy had discovered a body at a nearby ranch. Clayton O’Meara’s ranch. Buck pondered the coincidence as he turned his truck around along with his sleepy passenger and headed north.

###

Wilder is also the author of the Paranormal Cowboy Series that includes Bones of Skeleton Creek, and the French Quarter Mystery Series. Please check out all his books at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages.

Black Magic Woman - an excerpt

I wanted to post a ghost story for Halloween and it occurred to me there are lots of ghosts in my paranormal mystery Black Magic Woman Book No. 4 of the French Quarter Mystery Series. French Quarter sleuth Wyatt Thomas learns he is haunted by a ghost because of a curse placed on him by a voodoo houngan in another life. In Chapter 6, Wyatt’s dear friend and business associate voodoo mambo Mama Mulate summons a spirit to try and determine the cause of the curse. Wyatt learns he is a “walker,” a person that has lived many lifetimes. To lift the curse he must return to Antebellum New Orleans circa 1840 and consult with Marie Laveau the most powerful voodoo practitioner that ever lived. He has only 48 hours to accomplish his task or remain trapped in the past forever. Hope you love it.

Chapter 6

Mama lit another candle and then disappeared into another part of the house. She returned carrying a small jar, a necklace, and an ornate box. After placing the objects on the kitchen table, she brought the teakettle from the stove. Thunder, lightning, and pounding rain continued outside the house without any sign of slacking as steam swirled up from our teacups.

“Hold out your palm,” she said.

When I extended my hand across the table, she tapped something into it from the antique jar.

“What is it?”

“Mushroom.”

“Like in magic mushroom?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Is it dangerous?”

“Not with me here it isn’t. I’m a practitioner. Remember?”

“I trust you.”

“Good. I’m giving you just enough to help induce a trance so I can channel the spirit that visited you in the hospital. Chew the mushroom; swallow it, and then wash it down with tea.”

Thunder rocked the ceiling as she pushed the box toward the center of the table. Wax had begun dripping down the sides of the candle and drying on the tabletop. Mama didn’t seem to notice or to care. In the flickering light, I could see the box was constructed of beautifully polished wood with intricate markings carved into it.

“What is it?”

“More magic. A music box made by monks in the Early Middle Ages. Christianity was in its infancy in Europe at the time, and still very much a mixture of folk religion and paganism. This music box produces a very specific and wonderful melody. It was used in rituals to create trances.”

“To what purpose?”

“To ward off demons, curses, and the evil eye.”

“It must be very valuable. Where did you get it?”

“Don’t ask,” she said. “Is the mushroom working yet?”

“How will I know?”

“You’ll know. Put this around your neck and drink the tea.”

She handed me the pendant necklace with a stone, black as the sky outside the house. Rain and wind had set the chimes on the back porch sounding a discordant mixture of percussive music. Something heavy blew loose and slammed against the wall. I held the stone in my hand, rubbing its polished surface.

“What is this?”

“Psilomelane; a mineral with very special properties.  It’ll help us induce the trance.”

“This isn’t going to hurt, is it?”

“Stop kidding around. No time for silliness.”

Mama wound the music box and then opened its carved top. Centuries had not dulled the instrument’s dulcet tones. A simple, repetitive melody began filling the kitchen with metallic-inflected sound. As it continued, it seemed to probe my very psyche.

“Breathe in,” she said. “Breathe out. Close your eyes and become one with the tones. Focus only on the melody.”

The tune was enchanting, the pleasant pitch of plucked pins as poignant as a full orchestra. The noise of the storm had disappeared as the mushroom started working, the far wall rippling and changing colors from vivid yellows and reds to ghostly white through my slitted eyes. I felt weightless as if I’d somehow risen out of the chair and was floating, not touching anything. When I glanced at the candle, the wax pouring down its sides had turned to blood. It was the last thing I remembered for a while.

***

Wyatt’s eyes had closed, his head tilted, chin almost touching his chest. He didn’t notice the shimmering cloud that had suddenly appeared behind him, or the spirit staring at Mama with steely resolve. It was the spirit of a young man, his dark hair and distinctive clothes cut in the style of a different era. Though an aquiline nose dominated his face, it somehow made him appear regally handsome. He wasn’t smiling.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Zacharie Patenaud,” the apparition said. “Who are you, and why do you summon me?”

“I’m Mama Mulate, a close friend of Wyatt’s. I called you here for answers.”

“The man you call Wyatt has the answers.”

“If that’s not his name, then what is it?”

“I do not need to tell you what you already know.”

As Mama stared at the flickering apparition, a python appeared around his shoulders. The eyes of the dark reptile glowed red as it jutted its neck toward her, Its mouth open wide with evil intent. When Mama put her arm up to block the assault, pentacles, pentagrams, and hexagrams began flying toward her like an out-of-control, 3-D movie. The melody from the music box had become suddenly and relentlessly loud.

“You are cursed!” she shouted. “Why have you attached yourself to Wyatt?”

“Because it is he who caused the curse I bear. We are doomed to stay with each other for eternity unless. . .”

“Unless what?”

 “Only he can have the curse lifted.”

“You make no sense. Why would he place a curse on you that would have such an evil effect on himself?”

“Only he knows,” the spirit said.

“That isn’t true. Someone else has cursed you. A facilitator of the Devil and not Wyatt.”

“He paid for the curse with twenty coins of gold.”

“Then you must have done something horrible to cause him to do such a thing. What is it you did?”

“Elise,” the spirit said.

“A woman? He cursed you because of a woman?”

“What matters is that only he can lift the curse from my soul. If he does not, we will remain together for eternity,” he said, his image growing dimmer.

“How can he lift the curse?”

“That is a question only he can answer.”

The music had grown earsplitting, Mama’s eyes rolling to the back of her head as she tried to muffle the sound with her hands.

“What’s his name,” she shouted. “And the name of the woman who can lift the curse.”

The apparition’s voice and its image began to fade. He held out his hand to her as he disappeared into the darkness. Mama continued shielding her face as the serpent and flying Devil signs went with it.

When they were gone, she poured a straight shot of whiskey and then slugged it down in one gulp. After her second shot, the music box lay quiet, thunder shook the roof, and the candle in the center of the table flickered and died.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.