Killer of Hearts

By A. A. Randazzo

Coyote is a clever fellow. The spirit rascal helps Cruz Star Chief, a tribal police officer, hunt for a killer on the rez. The killer rips out the heart of his victim and the bodies are piling up. Cruz also teams with Jennifer Bell, a sexy blonde attorney who fires up his Apache blood. Their fathers, an oddball private-eye team, have gone missing. The trail leads to an ancient world of mysticism and human sacrifices. Not even wily Coyote knows how his tale of danger, desire, and deadly enemies will end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. A. Randazzo
• Release date: Dec 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310174261

A. A. Randazzo

Angela Randazzo (A.A. Randazzo) has worked in several artistic fields. She played a bridesmaid in The Godfather and performed in numerous theatrical productions. As an author Angela’s plays published by the Dramatic Publishing Company, are Bats in the Belfry, Zara or Who Killed the Queen of the Silent Screen? and the children’s play The Tiger Turned Pink. Other published plays included a collection Fantasy and Drama, plays by Angela Randazzo and Crash Course in Herstory.Angela is an emeritus member of the Writers Guild of America and former co-chair of the women’s committee and emeritus member of the Screen Actors Guild of America. Angela has produced and directed plays and musicals in New York City, Los Angeles, and local communities. In 1997, Angela received the Artistic Director Achievement Award for Best Director presented by the Valley Theatre League in Hollywood.Her children books include The Christmas Dragon, Bless You, Angel Bear, My Budding Bears, Outer Space Alphabet and Don’t Forget I Love You. Her latest series The Adventures of J. Pierpont McPooch features a globe-trotting hound dog and magic suitcase.Angela wrote the Ghost Tour in Strathearn Park featuring ghosts of pioneers and infamous characters in Simi Valley. The annual show started in 1999 continued for twenty years as a favorite Halloween attraction for the community.Angela also writes novels those include The Wicked Will series, Southern Charm series, and Bats in the Belfry series. She is a docent at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum, coincidentally the location of her latest mystery thrillers, Ghosts of the Presidential Library and Wizard of the Presidential Library.Visit: randomhorsepublishing.com

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Introduction

I am Coyote. I am many things to the Apache...legend, spirit, di-yin...some call me trickster and buffoon. I will forgive them for that, because of all things I am patient, wise, and modest.

I roam the Apache lands and look after my people. They tell stories about me by firelight and tales of my journeys have delighted my people since the beginning of time.

One night while chasing Rabbit, I came upon a human called Writer, who was camping under the stars. In dreams, I allowed Writer to see through my eyes as this adventure unfolded.

I think we should call this writing Coyote for it is about me...as it should be. Writer says we should call it Killer of Hearts because that is sexier. What? I am sexy to die for!

Writer assures me this will help us get a movie deal. If this is not so, I will piss on Writer’s leg.

Prologue

Canyons, mesas, and deserts flash by in an explosion of sienna, orange, and umber brown. Plateaus jut into view and fall away. Plains swell up and fall behind.

I race with Wind, skimming over monoliths, shooting off cliffs, and swerving through canyons. Wind loves to race, but I am faster. I am Coyote; legend, fable, mirage…as real to the Apache as life and death in this enchanted land.

Ahead is Sacred Mountain, tall and serene against the turquoise sky. Who will reach the mountaintop first? I pull ahead, but Wind catches up.

We skim over the rocky terrain like rattlesnakes on locoweed. Faster and faster we go, licking the tops of rocks flavored with buttery light. We near the peak where sweet spices turn blue and bitter. The grade becomes steeper. I slow down along with Wind. We come to a vertical crack, an opening to a sacred ground. We slip inside and crawl over jagged rocks in a place of paleface cliffs. I watch the dancing Wind ring the canyon walls, kicking up the mist that hugs the ground. I chase after Wind in a game of tag. Around and around we go. I nip at Wind. Wind tickles my whiskers as it rushes past me.

Soon Wind, trapped by the high walls, slows. And there, smothered by the lifeless surroundings, dancing Wind dances no more.

I spin above the ashen dirt to say good-bye. I must leave, but a circle of crystal rocks piques my curiosity. Suddenly, a huge blast of flames shoots up from the center of the rocks, turning the walls ablaze. With the blast comes a roar like rushing waters.

I spin away, howling in fear. Within the writhing flames, the shape of a man takes form. I have never seen the like of this before. His arms are tight to his chest and his head is bowed. Long licks of fire snake around his body. The red flames cool to blue.

With cool flames still part of his body, the man steps out of the circle. It is deadly quiet.

The flames fan out, slithering along the ground. He stands still and tall. His hair is long, black, and wild. His body adorned with feathers and gold. I bare my teeth and growl, but he cannot hear me.

I hear the beating of a heart. His heart - strong, steady, and relentless. There is a bright flash turning the world white-hot and blinding me.

My vision returns and I watch as the white world fills with color, dripping on the canyon walls like rainfall. The canyon becomes a rainbow, vibrant and full of life. It does not last. As the blue flames recede into his body, it sucks the life out of the canyon. The colors fade and the cliffs turn moon white once more.

All the while, the pounding heartbeat grows louder until I am certain my eardrums will shatter. I run out of the canyon to get away. I do not escape. The man stands on the edge of a cliff. The last of the flames recede into his body and the pounding stops.

He views the landscape stretching before him - the rolling plains, the majestic mountains, the turquoise sky. Thrusting his arms upward, he throws back his head and bellows a mighty war cry. The sound cracks like thunder, over the mesas, down the canyons, and across the plains.

Scavengers, frightened by the sound, shriek into the sky.

1

Rain washes over the gray mesas like a waterfall of Apache tears. Black clouds whirl around them. The mesas vanish before my eyes, eaten by the clouds.

Coyote went out on a journey - that is how many of my tales begin. I am on a journey. I am in a land of gray mesas, far away from the land of my people. As soon as I found out there were not any jackrabbits or gophers here, I should have gone back to the desert, but I am curious. Curiosity is one of my better traits.

I am sitting on the ledge of one of the mesas. Below me, humans scramble like red ants in the red mist. Yellow lights on fat bugs, Cruz calls cars, dart forward and stop. The fat bugs are playing dodge with the red ants.

The rain is going right through me, and I wonder if the pigeons huddled nearby can see me. I am he who eats only fat, I say to them. Come over here and let me eat you. They must have heard me because they are flying away.

On the street, people are holding black mushrooms. Here and there, the black mushrooms turn inside out and sail off like large black birds. I do not like black birds and watch as they vanish into the gray clouds.

A yellow beetle draws my attention. It looks dirty even in the downpour. It is making its way up the street, swerving around other plump bugs with slashing eye sticks and pumping unpleasant odors. The beetle bug cuts to the curb, stopping with a screech that sounds like the cry of an owl. I sometimes make this sound myself to annoy people.

I followed the letter from the desert to this place called City. My nose tells me the letter is close by, even though the silver bird the letter flew on made many fancy moves to put me off the scent.

I go inside the gray mesa and shake off. People are scurrying about like red ants here too, but they are dry. As I inhale, I catch the scent of the letter. I curse Harry Bell for not moving his lard-ass so I could read the letter over his shoulder while he was writing it.

I find the letter, wrapped in a tortilla, in a pile of tortillas on a desk. Harry Bell’s chicken scratches are on the blue tortilla. I lie down beside the letter and wait for someone to claim it. Many people pass by, but no one stops.

With the sound of a ding, a silver door opens and a woman appears, looking like a wet raccoon. She marches toward me with smudged eyes and streaks running down her cheeks. Her hair plastered to her face.

I’m gonna sue that son-of-a-bitch-cab-wheeling psycho! she hisses as she passes me.

Mud and the black goop so richly sought after by humans splatter her coat and legs. Her shapely legs are moving quickly under her wet coat. Always a sucker for a pair of shapely legs, I follow her.

A woman with the eyes of a frightened sparrow chirps, Good morning to her. Shapely Legs stops abruptly and glares at the woman. The bird eyes widen. Sorry, I guess I was thinking of yesterday, she says and flutters away.

Shapely Legs looks after the woman with a smirk on her face. She feels triumphant. Her stern glare would sizzle steak.

I follow Shapely Legs down the aisle. Faces at the desks become horrified as she passes. Shapely Legs is a woeful sight, I must admit. Another woman, this one with eyes like a hound dog, cuts in front of her.

Good morning, Ms. Bell, she says.

Shapely Legs locks eyes with Hound Dog Eyes. I expect fur to fly, but Shapely Legs loops around Hound Dog Eyes and goes on.

Jennifer, great job on... a man says, leering at her.

He is an asshole. I can tell.

Here’s some of it, she says. She flicks her sleeve and pelts him with raindrops and then breezes around him. I like her for playing hard to get. Now that I hear her name, I will call her by it. As Asshole wipes the droplets off his glasses with his handkerchief, I pee on his foot just for the hell of it. I catch up with Jennifer. Hound Dog Eyes has blocked her again.

Leave me the fuck alone, Jennifer says. She pushes past the woman and goes through a door.

Whoa! Four letter words, my favorite kind.

I squeak through the door just before Jennifer slams it shut. Jennifer leans against the door. Her thoughts are spinning. Her thoughts are coming so fast I cannot make sense of them – a pretentiously fashionable, politically correct haven for young sharks, Newsweek said...I’m a pressure cooker of nerves. I’m going to splatter all over the walls...Is that what I’ve become...Shark eat shark.

I am trying to figure this out when Jennifer screams.

Startled, I jump and hit my head on the ceiling. I can pass easily through objects when I direct my thoughts, but if I do not, the objects remain solid. Hence, I now have a bump on my head.

Jennifer throws her hands over her mouth stifling the sound...She is an attorney. She has an image to maintain...Has anyone heard her? She listens. I lift a long ear and listen, too. No footsteps are coming this way. She stands very still. The room is quiet except for the drum tapping of the rain against the windows. Her gaze drifts to the cactus plants set in Indian pots along the tall windows.

Jennifer feels like a cactus, a tough outer shell protecting the vulnerable interior. The veneer is wearing thin...overcompensating …a little too prickly, a little too bitchy.

She walks toward the windows where I sit on my haunches beside a prickly pear. Yes, she loves the uniqueness of the cactus plants - their individuality, their prickliness. They can survive in the barren desert with the sun beating on them. They can survive without water. Can I survive? Survive? Is that all I’m doing? Going from day to day...without any meaning...without any hope...

I understand now. Jennifer is unhappy because she feels like a cactus and looks like a raccoon. That is why she screamed.

There is a scratch at the door. The door opens a crack, and puffy fingers clutch the frame. The woman with hound dog eyes enters carrying a bundle of mail. I had forgotten all about the letter. I catch the scent. Hound Dog Eyes has the letter. She puts the mail on Jennifer’s desk. The letter flew to Jennifer. I cannot help myself. I wag my tail and hop around the room with joy. My journey has led me to a sexy woman.

You look a little wet, Hound Dog Eyes says to Jennifer.

"No, Wendy, I’m not a little wet. I’m soaked clear to the bone, and I have a 9:15 with Mr. Horn. The Mr. Horn that I have to meet looking like a banshee from hell about to be eviscerated!"

Is that a metaphor? says Hound Dog Eyes timidly.

It’s a metaphor for…I’m having a fucked-up day and it hasn’t even started yet!

Jennifer takes off her raincoat and hangs it up. With her back to Wendy, she hikes up her tight skirt and wiggles out of her splattered silky legs. I enjoy the view and strain to see as her skirt goes higher.

I am just about to lick Jennifer’s leg and work my way up when the door flies open. Asshole catches Jennifer with her skirt up and her silky legs around her ankles.

Oops, he says, just delivering a file.

File and stuff it, asshole! Jennifer yells.

I am correct about his name. I am clever.

What is this Grand Central Station? she continues. Can’t I get any privacy here? Get the hell out of here.

Asshole runs out the door with his tail between his legs.

You, too, Wendy. Get the hell out!

Wendy looks at Jennifer with the hound dog eyes. A wave of guilt washes over Jennifer. She falls heavily into the chair and rubs her forehead.

I’m sorry, she says. I guess I’m a little edgy today.

I’ll get you some coffee, Wendy says with a crooked smile and shuffles out.

Open the letter, I tell Jennifer, but her mind is locked on what’s-wrong-with-me. You’re too sensitive. You’re melodramatic. You’re pathetic. Mother loves to perch on the porch overlooking the Hudson and watch the ships sail by. Is that what I’m doing - watching my life sail by?

Listening to people’s thoughts is sometimes very confusing. I trot over to the window again. I see my reflection on the glass against the rain-whipped clouds, and I feel uneasy. This is unusual for me. I am usually cool, calm, and debonair. (I learned that word from watching black and white people with Cruz.)

The letter was not that important. I was just hanging around the office in Phoenix. Harry Bell shares the office with Old Joe. Cruz said that Harry had fallen off the wagon again. I think he fell off because he was drunk. Harry was so drunk I could not read his thoughts. Like I said, I could not see the letter. Why was I so compelled to follow the letter? Was it just curiosity?

I turn away from the window to see Jennifer going to the mirror and tumbling her long, sun-colored hair. The cloth on her white blouse is wet and sticks to the fullness of her breasts. I savor the curves of her body and get horny.

My mood is broken. Her mind is buzzing like a million honeybees. Why this? Why that? Why does she feel like she is looking at a shattered image in the mirror? I do not understand. The mirror is not cracked.

Going back to her desk, Jennifer sinks into the curvy chair and breathes deeply. I will not get stressed, she says aloud. Dr. Bernstein says... She inhales. Master Yoshidi says...or is it Marianne Williamson? She exhales. Life is just a drop in a vast flowing sea. A sea that flows gently, cascading, falling, floating, flowing and ebbing, flowing and... - she looks at the window where rain splatters like gunfire - ...ebbing.

It is time for me to go. Screw the letter. Females give me a headache. I head for the window, turning for a last glance. Jennifer is eye-dancing with a cabinet in the corner. What is in the cabinet I wonder? She crosses to it and pulls out a bottle of whiskey.

Whoo, I howl! Party time.

Jennifer pours herself a shot, then another. I angle for a drink, but she is too fast for me. She is working on the third shot when Wendy enters with the coffee.

Next time would you please knock? Jennifer says sharply as she slips the glass behind her back. I take the opportunity to lap up some booze.

Wendy puts the coffee on the desk and babbles that she is sorry. With the click of the door, Jennifer downs what is left of the drink. Jennifer eases into her chair and tackles the mail. I wait for her to pick up the letter that smells like Irishman’s sweat and whiskey. Instead, she picks up a letter that smells like moldy cheese.

The booze hits her, and she dives into another pity party. I roll my eyes. She is not so blasted that I am unable to read her thoughts. But do I want to? I listen while I wait for her to open the letter. Jennifer recalls last year’s fundraiser. Her mother...patron of the museum...dragging me to lectures with flaky-shouldered professors, dead artists, opening exhibit, party pool with a bronze elephant poised on a lily pad, golden-legged tables, orchids...She walks into the room...crystals are hanging from the ceiling...achy-breaky music...booze is pissing out of the mouths of sprites on the banquet table.

Jennifer prefers the sprites to the babbling crowd. She dips her glass under their mouths again and again. She joins a museum tour...Aztec gold, earrings, hair ornaments...her mind lingers on a gold medallion gleaming against a black velvet background. Then her thoughts really get bizarre…stone sculptures...grimacing gods…alphabet soup…Quetzalcoatl, Tezcatlipoca, Huitzilopochtli …wars...enemies...sacrificed to the gods...

She goes down a dark corridor, then another and another. She becomes lost in a maze. The walls press in on her. She starts to run. She hears stone scraping against stone echoing around her. Huge statues with grimacing faces surround her. They press against her, hot and heavy. She feels their weight, their fiery breaths against her cheek. She gasps for breath. Blackness closes in. She runs. The walls are closing in, tighter and tighter...suddenly, illumination. Jennifer is back at the party, panting and gasping for air. All eyes are on her. She barfs all over her mint-colored dress.

Jennifer flushes as her memories end. She feels foolish and her head is reeling. I am feeling dizzy too. My uneasiness returns. Something is wrong. Jennifer picks up the rumpled tortilla. I leap on her desk to get a better view. She turns it over in her hands. I catch snatches of the address – Bell...Star…Detect...nix, Ari... I wait anxiously for her to open it. Open it! She throws it into the trashcan. It hits with a tinny ding. I look into the can where the letter rests at the bottom and my belly sinks. I smell danger.

2

The morning mist, floating over the cool ground, surrounds the juniper trees in a fine smoke. The glen slowly awakens to the new day. Protruding through the mist like a large tortoise shell is the dome of a sweat lodge.

I have returned from the wet mesas. It is good to be home. I sniff at the tortoise shell and know who is inside. Steam wafts from the hot stones piled in the center. A figure hunches with the low curve of the roof. As the vapors part, his features become visible. He pours more water on the stones and melts once more into the mist. He lets out a sigh. The steam thins again revealing Cruz Star Chief.

Beads of sweat roll over his muscular arms and down his forehead where dark eyes flash. His eyes reflect an ancient wisdom that goes beyond his years.

I have trotted after Cruz since he was all elbows and knees. When he was a child, he saw me many times and gasped with joy. The memory was lost when the wildness of teen years overtook him.

Wisdom is highly regarded by our people. The firelight flickers and tales pass from old to young. Cruz knows all the stories, including and, most importantly, all the tales about me. What is the use of modesty? They are glorious tales.

The tales of Coyote.

I wait and listen, but he is not thinking of me.

Steam surrounds him, opening his pours and cleansing his body. Cruz is thinking of our people. He envisions the stoic warriors standing outside in the mist; their bodies streaked with war paint; their quivers filled with arrows. I hear Cruz chanting.

I am calling on sky and earth.

Bats will fly, and turn upside down with me in battle.

Black sky will enfold my body and give me strength protection,

And earth will do this too.

Cruz sees the women wrapped in woven blankets, held closed by their gnarled hands. Stone-faced, they stand like towering mesas, valiant and ever watchful.

His face darkens. He knows that even these sentinels cannot stop progress and the decline of the old beliefs. I pee on progress with a long yellow flow onto the cool grass. Cruz clings to the old beliefs, but like the mesas, the old beliefs are slowly eroding.

I perk up my ears. Cruz is remembering the words of Cochise, leader of the Chiricahua Apache. When I was young, Cochise said, I walked all over this country, east and west, and saw no other people than the Apache. After many summers, I walked again and found another race of people had come to take it. How is it? Why is it that the Apache wait to die - that they carry their lives on their fingernails?

Cruz looks at his fingertips. Sweat trickles off, dropping onto the hot stones. I look at my claws, torn and filled with dirt, and gnaw on the edge of my nail.

Nedee, the People, as we Apache simply call ourselves, are still a great nation, but finding a balance between the old ways and new is difficult. Cruz pours the last of the water on the stones, becoming restless with his thoughts. He is too preoccupied to sense I am here. He breathes in the steam and softly chants the incantation of a warrior.

Right here in the middle of this place,

I am becoming Mirage.

Let them not see me,

For I am of the sun.

I am mirage and wish Cruz were the same. Chant the words and perhaps you will become mirage.

Right here in the middle of this place,

I am becoming Mirage.

Let them not see me,

For I am of the sun.

For now, Cruz is still flesh and blood. He releases the struggle. His thoughts lift with the vapor rising through the chimney hole. All becomes simple - he will give himself over to his instincts, to the savage emotions of a warrior and embrace the old ways. Cruz Star Chief will be what he is - an Apache.

Cruz strides into the crisp morning air wearing only buckskin pants and a leather band across his forehead. The last of the smoke billows around his legs and sweat glistens on his chest. I jump and lick his chest. His skin shivers in the spot. I savor the salty taste.

He walks toward his black and white pinto standing by a juniper tree. Slung over the horse’s back is a worn blanket and saddlebags. The horse whinnies for he can see me. I skirt his powerful legs, just in case.

With one graceful leap, Cruz is on the horse’s back. We are off, racing flat-out over a long stretch of hard desert. Cruz feels Wind rushing through his hair. He feels the power of the horse beneath him, giving him wings. It is this feeling of freedom that Cruz craves; this feeling of racing with Wind, of flying with eagles. Warrior chiefs and braves thunder beside him.

Horse and rider sweep effortlessly up a steep grade toward the bright open sky and the rising red sun that welcomes him with a fiery blessing.

Cruz reins in the horse and lets loose with a jubilant war cry. A shrill sound from inside the saddlebag cuts short his rapture. I know what it is. I keep up with these things.

On the ridge, framed by the ball of fire, the warrior holds a cell phone to his ear.

3

The branches of a cottonwood tree stir with teasing Wind, promising a respite from the blast-furnace heat. Birds slowly circle in the sky, such an intense blue that it hurts my eyes. Believing Wind, sparrows swoop down and settle lightly on the branches. All too soon fickle Wind departs, leaving the cottonwood and the birds to bake.

Spitting-distance from the cottonwood, a small ranch house slumbers on the scarred earth. A few nails and tobacco juice hold together its weathered boards. Rimming the yard, a fence sticks out of the hard-packed dirt like broken teeth.

I sometimes ride along with Cruz. He is on his way here in a metal bug he calls a police cruiser. I came ahead because he was driving too slowly. That is not his usual way. I do not know why he is driving so slowly today. Maybe he is constipated.

No wait, I do know. Butts was the shrill call. Cruz is not about to haul-ass just because Butts called. Let Butts eat crow! I will eat sparrows.

I look up at the branches, anxious for the birds to finish baking and fall into my mouth.

I have passed by this house before in my travels. It is not on Apache land, but close to it. Hank Snow calls himself a rancher. He barely ekes out a living with his scrawny herd of cattle.

Today would have been just another day for the house to peel, except for the three cars crookedly parked in front of the porch - two police cars with their flashers spinning, and a beat-up, black Buick with the word Coroner painted across its dented doors. (Writer is useful for words like Buick and coroner.)

The cruiser winds its way down a long dirt road toward the house. Dust floats leisurely in its wake, settling behind and rearranging the landscape. On the front doors is a golden eagle with flared talons at the center of a seven-pointed star and the words, Salt River Apache Police.

The cruiser pulls up under the cottonwood. Cruz cuts the engine and climbs out. He is dressed in his sand-color police uniform; the shirt pinned with a gold star. Cruz slams the door and the birds scatter out of the cottonwood. I curse him under my breath.

Cruz scans the area and thinks the flashers blinking red, blue, yellow, look out of place; too jubilant in a place sagging from age and begging for sleep.

His eyes drift toward the barn where the sky shows through the splintered boards. He walks to the empty corral hitched to the barn. The fence at the far end is broken as if the cattle had made a run for it. Cruz notes this but does not jump to any conclusions. He records two facts - the corral is empty, and it is uncannily quiet.

His footsteps crunch on the brittle grass as he crosses the yard and steps onto the porch. From inside, a booming voice shakes the stillness.

Butts, Cruz thinks. Yep, Butts hauled-ass over from Lodi. Lodi is a rat-hole of a town, just big enough for the Dona Pegita County Police and just close enough to the Apache police station in Sore Finger to be a pain in the neck.

As Cruz opens the screen door of Hank Snow’s house, the top hinge pulls free. One more tug and the bottom hinge would pull free. Cruz examines the frame, wondering if age or some force loosened the hinges.

After balancing the