Nandita To Nandini
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Long Life And TelepathyChapter 4 free porn video
He drove into Flagstaff and checked into a Best Western Motel. He represented a national publisher of high school and college textbooks, which meant that he traveled extensively to meet with professors who were also authors, or to confer with college librarians and bookstore managers or district administrators for public and private high schools. His territory: the West. He arrived in Flagstaff to visit NAU. His avocation: raping Native American women. While in Flagstaff, he planned to verbally demean and rape another Navaho squaw.
It was summer time, but Flagstaff was in the pines at 7,000 feet elevation. From Flagstaff, he'd head up into Colorado, and then swing over to the University of Utah. If he fed his avocation in Flagstaff, he wouldn't get hungry again until Tempe, where he'd land near the end of September. It'd still be hot, but the summer heat would have lost some of its brutality by then.
"This is Navajo country. Another Navajo breed would be okay," he told himself, "but if I stumble on a Hopi or Zuni breed that gets my motor running, I won't kick her out of bed for eating crackers. He, he."
Three days later, he hadn't stumbled on a Navaho, Hopi or Zuni breed that excited him, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd have to wait until he arrived in Colorado to feed his avocation.
Then he saw her.
Haughty! Proud! In profile, she twined her eyebrows with dainty fingers. Her long, black hair had been lifted, put up as if going to a prom, but locks had escaped or purposefully left informal. No, not informal. Wild!
This one wasn't a breed. She was a full-blooded Zuni. A student. Late teens or early twenties. Slim. Long-legged.
The one!
The stalk began.
The Flagstaff Police Department didn't have many detectives. Julio Hernandez was one of them, and he'd caught the Malia Teeg homicide.
Bitter, the detective thought. Malia is a Zuni name meaning bitter. He sat at a computer entering the data he'd gathered on the crime into the VICAP database. VICAP was an acronym for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, a nationwide data information center designed to collect, collate, and analyze crimes of violence – specifically murder.
Malia Teeg had been raped. She'd also been murdered. The crime fit VICAP's requirements. Detective Hernandez was trying to determine if Malia's murderer was a repeat offender. The data requested by VICAP, when put through the analysis portion of the software, uncovered patterns, if there were patterns. Would this rape/homicide fit the pattern of any other crime?
Hernandez sat back and let the computer crank his data. He patted his shirt pocket. It was empty. He'd quit smoking months ago, but he still reached for a cigarette in certain situations.
"Holy shit!" he hissed when the monitor filled, scrolled and listed similar crimes.
He read the information on the screen. No hit on the homicide, but the rape ... five hits on the rape: Tucson, Arizona; Albuquerque, New Mexico; St. George, Utah; Colorado Springs, Colorado; and Pocatello, Idaho.
The victims were college students or worked for a college; all were Native Americans or part Native American.
I can't solve this one, not by myself, he thought. The perp moves around, which probably means he's not local. Which also probably means he's long gone.
The contact person for each case was listed with a phone number. He started dialing. An hour later, he was convinced that a serial rapist had murdered Malia Teeg.
The captain won't be happy when I tell him to call the Feds in on this case, he thought as he walked in his boss's office.
"Cap, I'm not trying to avoid my duty, but..."
Hernandez had been correct. The captain wasn't happy, but he also agreed with Hernandez. The captain reached for the telephone and dialed.
The dog days of summer were upon us. The high desert was beautiful, and eight or nine months of the year a comfortable environment for living, but 115° can boil your brains. A respite from the heat, a short trip to cooler climes was in order, and I knew just where I wanted to go.
Greg had taken my advice and courted Sable. She'd responded as I'd predicted, and love was in the air. I was reluctant to break up the love fest, but...
"I'll be flying to Salt Lake City the day after tomorrow, and from there a helicopter will take me to a lodge in the Uintas," I said. "Greg, I'll want you to go with me. Make arrangements for a conceal-carry permit for Utah. We'll fly a chartered aircraft, so you can carry your weapon with you. Sable, you'll remain here and run things in my absence. We'll be gone for a week, give or take a day."
"All right," she said. "May I enquire about the reason for the trip?"
"Hopefully to recruit the head wrangler for my little horse ranch, a man named Owen Johnson. Some say he's a horse whisperer, but he says the label is hogwash. 'No one, including me, can talk horse, ' he says. Still, it is my understanding that he has an uncommon ability with horses, ability he learned as a lad from an old Ute Indian. Maria, his wife, is a full-blooded Ute. They have a daughter, but she's left the nest. She's a professor at ASU, one of the reasons that makes me believe I can recruit him. Right now, he's running a string of broken-down horses at a dude ranch and isn't happy with the job." I grinned. "I think I can make him an offer he can't refuse."
Sable chuckled and said, "No doubt about it."
Five days later, Greg and I straddled broncs on Bald Mountain Pass and looked across a pine-covered valley at Mt. Agassiz and Hayden Peak in the Uinta Mountains of Utah. The vista was awesome.
"How you going to talk Owen Johnson into moving away from this to the heat of a barren desert?" Greg asked. "This is God's country. The air is clean and crisp and cool, and everywhere you look you see eye candy.
"Maybe I can't, but remember, if it were winter, we wouldn't be enjoying this view. The winters here are long and brutally cold, Greg. Perhaps Johnson would like a change of climate. I'm more worried about Maria, his wife, than Johnson. This is Ute country. She'll be moving away from a close association with her people."
"My butt hurts," Greg complained.
I laughed. "Mine, too. It's been a while since I forked a horse."
"When was that?"
"My mother married a man who operated a ranch in Montana, so I spent a lot of time on the back of a horse. When she and my stepfather were killed in a plane crash, I inherited the ranch and my stepfather's estate. The estate was substantial, Greg. I detested the cold winters in Montana, so I sold the ranch and bought the property in Arizona."
I didn't tell him that I'd owned horses in San Diego and Houston. Those facts weren't part of my back-story.
Early that evening I had occasion to spend some time alone with Owen Johnson. He was about fifty years old, lean and wiry, with a rugged face and light brown, lively eyes. Five-nine or ten, I guessed.
"Let's take a walk, Owen. Got something I want to talk with you about. Besides, it's a nice evening, cool but not cold, and I'd like to breathe some clean, mountain air."
Be nice to the dudes, the boss says. So get up and be nice, he thought as he lumbered up out of an overstuffed chair. We walked outside. I carried a thick roll of working drawings for the horse facility under my arm.
"Have you been to Arizona?" I said.
"Yep, got a daughter there. Maria and I visited her last winter. She's a professor at Arizona State University in Tempe. Good place to visit in the winter. Gets so cold here that it freezes the snot in your nose."
"I understand your wife has arthritis?"
"She does. Unusual for Native Americans, but she suffers grievously with the malady. Mighty painful, arthritis is. Damn shame." He opened and closed his hands. "Got some arthritis in my hands, so I know, but Maria ... what I got doesn't compare."
"Let's sit in the shade at that picnic table." When we were settled, I said, "I'm going to be honest with you, Owen. I didn't come up here to ride some broken-down horses and sing around a campfire roasting marshmallows, although I've got to admit I've enjoyed the scenery. I can understand why some people call it God's country. But then there's a lot of God's country in our fair land. Got some down where I live."
"Where's that?" Owen asked and thought, What's he want? He wants somethin'.
"Gold Canyon, Arizona. Gold Canyon is the easternmost suburb of Phoenix and nestles at the base of the Superstition Mountains."
"We saw them mountains when we visited our daughter. Rugged. Rocks and cactus. Kinda purdy, though, in a primitive sort of way."
I unrolled the working drawings. Some loose 8 x 10 photos had been rolled up inside the plans. I set them aside. "Got me 80 acres in Gold Canyon. I'm using five of them for my home. The other 75 acres will be a little horse ranch. I checked out quarter horses, appaloosas, Saddlebreds, Morgans, Tennessee walking horses, even Clydesdales, but I decided I wanted to raise Arabian horses. I like the look of them, and their disposition."
"Arabians are good horses," he said. "Especially for Arizona. They're desert bred."
"Exactly, and Scottsdale, another Phoenix suburb, is a major area for Arabians in this country."
"Been to Scottsdale," he said.
I lined up the photographs of the architectural renderings. "The main house and outbuildings are finished inside a walled compound. These photographs represent the horse facility that will surround the compound. What you see in these photographs is currently under construction. Construction will end this fall, mid-to-late October, if I stop making changes to the plans."
"How many horse stalls in the stable?"
"Twenty."
He shook his head. "Not enough if you plan to make a profit on the horse operation."
I flipped open some pages on the plans and pointed. "A profit isn't critical, but I've reserved this area for a second stable. We'll add it when needed."
He nodded and said, "That'll work."
"Owen, I need someone to run the ranch for me."
He chuckled. "Sorta figured that out, Mr. Wilson."
"Clint, Owen, call me Clint."
He nodded and said, "What's in it for me?"
"Whaddaya want?" I said.
He chuckled again.
"I wasn't kidding, Owen. I'm a rich man. Try as I might, I'll never spend all the money I have. Tell me what you want. If I can meet your demands, I will."
"How about a separate house for my wife and me?"
I flipped a photo in front of him. "That's the ranch foreman's house, three bedrooms, two baths, and an office. Like I said, it's under construction, and I'll give Maria a decorating allowance in the neighborhood of $50,000, which means she gets to pick out her own furniture and whatever else she'll need to make the house a home. She'll be working with my interior designer. Video cameras will pipe feeds from the stables and other areas of the ranch to monitors in your home office, the tack room, as well." I flipped back to the site plan and pointed. "The house will be situated right here. Handy, huh?"
"I'd want a free hand," he said.
Got him, I thought, and said, "Granted ... to a point. I'll establish the goals for the ranch, not you. You and I and a gal that works for me named Sable Darcy will develop a budget. How you reach the goals within the budget will be up to you."
"Fair enough. What's the pay?"
"Triple what you're paid here, but then you'll need to work the year around. No months off in the winters. And as head wrangler, you'll get 3% of the sales of the Arabians we'll breed and train."
"Gross or net?"
"Gross. Like I said, making a profit isn't critical. Full benefits, health and dental insurance for you and your wife, and a 401K plan where I match your contributions 50%."
"If I accept your offer, when would you want me to start?"
"Three months. I'd want the ranch foreman to supervise the tail end of the construction, and I'll need your help buying the horses."
"How much are you willing to spend on the horses?"
"Whatever it takes. I want the best."
He cocked his head and said, "Contrary to what you might have heard, I don't talk horse."
I laughed. "Maybe not, but when you talk they pay attention."
I'd listened to his thoughts as our discussion progressed. He'd started out negative about the job and ended up excited about the opportunity.
"Take the photos and plans with you," I said. "Talk to Maria. If you're interested, I'll fly you and your wife down to Phoenix for a couple of days so you can look over the lay of the land and the construction in progress. Got plenty room in the main house for you for your visit, and your daughter is invited, as well. I'll be here for two more days. Let me know if you're interested before I leave."
He nodded. "I'll do that."
I left him sitting on the picnic bench studying the photos and plans.
Just before I left, he told me he was interested, and we set up a time for his visit. "It'll be in the worst of the summer heat, but you need to know about the Arizona heat, too," I said. "I'll make transportation arrangements for you, probably similar to mine when I came here – helicopter to Salt Lake City, and a charter flight to Williams Gateway Airport. You'll be picked up at the airport."
"Skip the helicopter ride. We'll drive to Salt Lake."
He didn't want his current employer to know he was considering taking another job. Getting into a helicopter at the dude ranch would be too big of a clue. I took his phone number, and gave him mine.
"You made the right decision, Owen," I said.
"Ain't made a decision yet, 'cept to check out your job," he said.
Greg and I returned to the compound and the dog days of summer. For a while, I did what I'd promised myself I'd do with this quarter century of my life. I spent hours everyday in my library in air-conditioned comfort reading and learning and enjoying the written word. I read fiction and non-fiction, sci-fi and thrillers, biographies and how-to books, even delved into American archeology digs. I had a good reason for my archeological studies.
I also started some paintings. I could draw well, even as a boy. What I could see I could represent in almost lifelike detail with pencil or pen on paper. But when I painted I threw subject matter out with the bath water. My paintings were non-objective, compilations of forms and colors and textures that I hoped engendered strong emotion when viewed. I rarely succeeded, and even when I had a modicum of success, I cremated the painting at night in a private ceremony and scattered the ashes over my land.
My business was going well. Sable had been a real find, what I called a happy accident. She handled most of the detail work of my business that I didn't enjoy, and most of the time she acted as a buffer, dealing directly with the businessmen we supported instead of me. Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.
I felt safe. Greg and his troops would protect us, and I'd done some good by hiring the handicapped. Greta was a good cook, not great, but almost, and I adored her happy personality. My house was clean and neat, and my grounds were well maintained, and I'd given my cook and groundskeeper and his family a leg up on life. I often heard the sound of the laughter of children trilling in the background. I had friends.
Life was good, and then it got better.
She arrived with her parents. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Long, black hair, parted not at the center but slightly right of center, cascaded straight down, shining with health like a well-groomed horse's tail. She had soft and friendly light-brown eyes, not black, which should not have surprised me. She had inherited her father's eyes. Her long sensuous neck, gave her extra height. That was good. I preferred a tall woman. A coffee-with-a-lot-of-cream complexion and high, prominent cheekbones offered clues to her heritage, but her face wasn't round. It was long and slim with a high forehead. The features on her face were perfectly symmetrical.
Beautiful!
"Clint," Owen Johnson said, interrupting my reverie, "This is my daughter, Dr. Leah Johnson. Leah, this is Mr. Clint Wilson."
The bones in her hands felt fragile, like bones in a bird's wing, but her strong grip when she shook my hand said otherwise. Our eyes met, and I felt ... something. The indefinable, incongruous sensations were both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time.
I enjoyed her touch.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Johnson," I said when I could finally make my mouth move.
I guided the Johnsons into my home to the great room with its magnificent view of the Superstitions where I introduced them to Greg and Sable and Greta. Frank had picked them up at the airport. Drinks were offered. Owen wanted a beer. Maria and Leah ordered iced tea.
"Us squaws gotta stay away from firewater," Leah said with a teasing grin.
I laughed, probably louder than the comment warranted, and for the first time, I sent out a tendril from my mind to Leah's to make a telepathic connection.
Her eyes widened, not with fear but with surprise.
Get out of my mind, she ordered silently.
With trepidation, I broke the connection.
Later during the nickel tour of my home, my library impressed Leah.
"I notice some books related to my field," she said.
"Archeology?" I said.
"Yes," she said. "I specialize in paleoamerican origins."
"I have noted that the Clovis people are no longer considered the first Americans," I said.
The traditional theory, I knew, held that the first Americans crossed the land bridge from Siberia to Alaska around 11,500 years ago and followed a relatively ice-free corridor between two large Canadian ice sheets to reach unglaciated lands to the south. These first inhabitants were called the Clovis people, named after the town in New Mexico where their fluted spear points used for hunting mammoth were first found in 1932.
She gave me a curious look. Was she in my mind? Was she a telepath, a telepath more adept than I?
Then she nodded, agreeing with my comment about the Clovis people, I assumed. She said, "Yes, that long-held belief has been shattered. A well-studied site in Chile dates back 12,500 years."
"How did people manage to settle that far south at such an early date?" I asked.
"A coastal migration route is gaining more acceptance than the older view of small bands moving on foot across a land bridge between Siberia and Alaska and into the American continents. Emerging evidence suggests that people with boats moved along the Pacific coast into Alaska and northwestern Canada and eventually south to Peru and Chile about 12,500 years ago – probably much earlier. Archaeological evidence from other parts of the world indicates boats were in use as far back as 25,000 to 40,000 years ago."
I enjoyed her voice. The sounds resonated pleasantly, not just in my ears and as perceived in my mind, but also from the vibrations the sounds evoked sliding down my spine.
I rubbed my hand over my face. "I envy your tenacity and dedication to specialize, to know one subject with such depth and understanding. I bounce from subject to subject, ranging wide among unrelated subjects, gleaning some facts and knowledge from each, but never in depth." I chuckled. "I know a little about a lot."
She smiled. "And I know a lot about a little."
"Precisely," I said.
She shook her lovely head. "Uh-uh, as a scientist, I must know a lot about a lot. I'm an archeologist, but to be effective, I must also be an anthropologist and an historian. I study ancient peoples and cultures."
"Point taken," I said and looked around. We were alone in the library. The others must have wandered off, which gave me an opening. I said, "An archeologist, anthropologist, historian. Are you also a telepath?"
"No, but you are," she said.
Shocked, I stood dumbfounded, and before I could respond, Owen stepped into the library. "There you are," he said. "If possible while we still have sunlight, I'd like to stomp around the construction you've got going for the ranch."
"It's hot out there," I said as I followed Leah out of the room. She wore a simple sundress that showed off her figure, especially her shapely, slim legs. I was also drawn to her feet. Her unpainted, long toes peeked out from behind the straps of the sandals she wore. And her ankles – they were slim and strong and nicely turned. The sandals wouldn't be appropriate for stomping around construction sites, but I said nothing.
I'd lusted after Sable, and in truth, Sable's natural beauty exceeded Leah's, but Leah's look was exotic, and I've always been drawn to the unusual, whether in a landscape or a person, the rugged, surreal landscapes offered by the Superstition Mountains, for example.
Leah looked over her shoulder, smiled and said, "I'm used to the heat – summertime archeological digs in the Southwest. Besides, I'm half-Native American."
"Ute, not Apache. The Ute reside in colder climates."
"I'll survive," she said.
She did, better than I. By the time we returned to blessed air-conditioning, my shirt was soaked with sweat. I excused myself, and in my bedroom, removed my shirt, wiped my torso with a damp washcloth, spritzed some deodorant under my arms, and put on a clean, dry shirt.
While trying to refresh myself, I thought about Dr. Leah Johnson. She didn't seem amazed or upset that I was a telepath. Why? Did she know other telepaths? If so, I wanted to meet them.
Or did I? If others could experience my thoughts, they'd soon uncover my other secret, and I considered my apparent immortality a secret that must be guarded much more closely than my telepathy.
Dr. Leah Johnson presented a conundrum. She and I needed to talk.
I also couldn't believe how attracted I was to her. Looking back over my long life, I couldn't remember a woman that had affected me as powerfully at a first meeting.
Yes, Leah and I needed to talk.
What manner of man is Clint Wilson? Leah asked herself. A rich man, to start with. Did he inherit or did he earn his wealth? Probably both.
She'd expected to meet Wilson at the airport, but instead he'd sent a driver in a Hummer to pick up her parents. An armed driver, a large, mountain of a man wearing a shoulder holster and pistol under a light-weight jacket, a jacket worn for one purpose only – to hide the weapon under his arm. And when she'd arrived at Wilson's home, she found, from outward appearances, not a normal house, but instead a walled fortress. Why?
Then she'd been introduced to a man who headed up Wilson's security force, yet another armed man. Why all the security? Was Wilson's business illegal? Would her parents be under a threat to life and limb if her father accepted Wilson's job offer?
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