A Rendezvous to Die For Read Free Page B

but I couldn’t locate it. Since sweating ceremonies are
considered sacred, Indians never consented to being photographed
while in a lodge. I felt my excitement rise. Maybe, if I hurried, I
could take a few pictures while no one was about.
    I found a narrow, rocky path that
led directly to the river and followed it through the brush. In less
than a minute, the lodge emerged in a clearing only a few yards ahead
of me. It was little more than a dome-shaped hut made of hides draped
over a willow-branch frame. The door was merely a flap of deer hide.
The lodge would accommodate only four or five adults, who would sit
around a pile of rocks in the center. During a “sweat ritual,”
they heated the rocks white-hot, then poured cold water on them to
create very hot steam. Depending upon the ceremony, participants
burned bunches of sweet grass, smoked or passed a “sacred pipe,”
talked, prayed, or pursued visions. After they had sweated long
enough, they headed for a dip in the river while rubbing themselves
with sage.
    No smoke was rising above the
lodge. I figured the ashes must have been left to burn out after the
previous evening’s ceremonies. I hurried to the structure and
peeled back the hide from the opening to peek inside. Because the
hides formulating the lodge were made of thick hides, the sunlight
couldn’t penetrate them. It was rather dark inside, but I noticed a
few wadded-up blankets near the fire pit. I paused to adjust the lens
on my camera and then pointed it at what I hoped would make an
interesting picture. The flash went off, illuminating the scene for
only an instant. That’s all it took. A second of illumination. I
jumped back, trembling, and smothered a scream with the back of my
hand. It . . . it’s not a pile of blankets, I thought. It’s
a . . . a man!
    I backed up and swung my head in
every direction to examine my surroundings. Not a single leaf on any
tree stirred. I saw no one. It was unbelievably quiet. I shivered,
knowing I was utterly alone. What should I do? Maybe my
imagination has gone wild. Slowly, I turned to take another look. God, no! I thought. It . . . can’t be.
    But it was. The man by the fire
pit was Eric Hartfield. A very dead Eric Hartfield. And a familiar
weapon was buried deep into the base of his skull.
    I had a sick feeling I’d found
Marty’s missing tomahawk.

    Chapter
2

    Monday
    There was nowhere to turn, no
place to run from my tormentors. I was penned in by flying tomahawks
that swirled around me in a shower of spraying blood. Rhythmic
undulations and incessant drumming pounded on my eardrums. I sank to
the ground and wrapped my arms tightly around my body, trying to make
myself as small a target as possible. One ‘hawk landed directly in
front of me, another to my right, another to my left. There was no
escaping them. I was doomed. An earsplitting, piercing scream forced
me to lift my head.
    I awakened sweating and shaken,
the scream persisting, despite the realization that I had survived an
all too realistic nightmare. Why wouldn’t the shrieking stop? I sat
up and shook my head. The sound changed to something more
recognizable. It was my bedside telephone!
    “ Cassandra, are you okay?”
    “ Anna? You heard—”
    “ Yes and I’ve been worried
sick! My friend Willis was at the Rendezvous.” Her voice was
unnaturally high. “He just left the store. He told me what he knew
about that horrible, horrible incident yesterday. I’m so sorry,
Cass. I should never have urged you to go to that event.” She
paused. “How are you, honey? Never mind. I’m coming over. You can
tell me then. I’m going to bring you something. Coffee? Something
stronger? How can I help?”
    I rubbed my eyes and swung my
legs off the bed. “I’m all right, now that I’m awake. Don’t
come here, Anna. I’ll come to your shop and see you in about an
hour.” I hung up and sat motionless for several minutes. I
couldn’t shake the image of Eric wrapped around the fire pit