“I don’t know what happened in there,” Mac said tightly. “I saw it, but I don’t believe what I saw.”

Ellie nodded and allowed him to open the door of the Corvette for her. She waited until they were driving away from the hangar before she spoke.

“Mac, what happened in there wasn’t caused by anything physical. You’re going to have to accept that sooner or later. Whatever is in that hangar is angry, and is carrying a lot of hatred.”

“How do you know?”

“I felt it.”

“This is crazy!”

“This thing isn’t going to stop hurling tools at your people. Sooner or later, it could do some serious damage. Is that what you want, Mac? Do you want your people hurt? Maybe even killed?”

“This is just too much for me to believe, Ellie.”

When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. “I know it is….”

LINDSAY MCKENNA

A homeopathic educator, Lindsay McKenna teaches at the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona. When she isn’t teaching alternative medicine, she is writing books about love. She feels love is the single greatest healer in the world and hopes that her books touch her readers on those levels. Coming from an Eastern Cherokee medicine family, Lindsay has taught ceremony and healing ways from the time she was nine years old. She creates flower and gem essences in accordance with nature, and remains closely in touch with her Native American roots and upbringing.

Hangar 13
Lindsay McKenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“Major Stanford, we’ve got trouble.”

Mac Stanford looked up from the F-15 maintenance reports commanding his attention. Master Sergeant Gus Calhoon stood in his doorway, looking very unhappy. Placing his pen aside, Mac gestured for him to come in and shut the door.

“What is it, Gus?” Mac reared slowly back in his chair, the springs protesting. The sounds of his maintenance crew at work in the hangar filtered in through the open window.

Gus hovered hesitantly by the door. His oval face was badly wrinkled, his blue eyes flinty, his mouth pursed. Finally he came over to the desk. “Sir, it’s happened again.”

Mac’s brow gathered in a frown. “Again? What’s happened again?” He searched his mind for what Gus could be referring to. Not for the first time that morning, Mac wished he could be flying. It was 0900 hours, and the sky at Luke Air Force Base near Phoenix, Arizona was clear and just begging to be flown in. But a big part of his job was being maintenance commander for the squadron. The sky would have to wait.

“You know…” Gus pleaded in a low voice. He glanced toward the door as if to make sure it was shut.

Mac’s dark brown brows dipped. “No, I don’t know, Gus. Fill me in.” He gestured toward his desk, which was littered with reports. “With the general inspection coming up, I’m lucky if I can remember my name.” The inspector general’s annual visit was a pain-in-the-neck event intended to determine the readiness of everything on the military base. Mac had a lot of pressures on him to get the squadron’s planes in shape. If Luke got its usual high marks in the IG, he’d still be eligible for his “early” lieutenant-colonel leaves.

Rubbing his square jaw, Gus sat down in the leather chair in front of the desk. “Sir, remember two weeks ago when Sergeant Claris was in the cockpit of the F-15 and a wrench was thrown at her? It hit her in the back and she sustained some bruises and a laceration?”

Mac groaned. He placed his hands on the desk, scowling. “Yes…did you ever find out who threw it at her?”

Gus raised his eyes. “Sir, I didn’t find anyone. Sergeant Claris was alone in Hangar 13, working late. There was no one around—just her.”

“Well, what’s happened now?” Mac tried to appear patient.

“It’s Hangar 13 again. Only this time, it happened to Sergeant Burke. He was up on the scaffolding checking out an F-15 engine when he got nailed.”

The master sergeant squirmed nervously in his chair. Mac was feeling a bit edgy himself, and his voice came out sharply. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Burke was working on the wing, and his assistant, Sergeant Turner, was in the cockpit. This—this wrench came flying through the air and hit Burke on the head. It drew blood, sir, and damn near knocked him off the scaffolding.”

Mouth twitching, Mac rose to his full six feet. “Who did it?”

“Uhh, no one…again, sir,” Gus muttered.

Mac stared at him in disbelief. Gus Calhoon was a crusty thirty-year veteran of the air force and had seen it all, from Korea, to Vietnam and, of late, Desert Storm. There was no one more practical, more down-to-earth, than Gus. Flexing his fingers, Mac slowly came around the end of the desk and stood in front of him.

“Don’t tell me—we’ve got a phantom wrench that flies through the air on its own?” Mac couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Gus wasn’t the kind of person to make up stories like this. Maybe, at sixty, he was ready to retire. Mac was half his age, and he had a great respect for his master sergeant, who often performed near miracles with those gnarled, long fingers of his on the cantankerous F-15’s in the hangar bay.

“I know, sir,” Gus muttered apologetically, shooting him a sad look. “I can’t explain how it happened, Major. But it did happen. Burke’s over at the hospital getting stitches.”

Mac heard the low, rumbling growl of two F-15’s in the distance, and fought the impulse to take off for the air strip. “What about his crew? Could one of them have thrown it at him? Maybe as a joke?”

Sourly, Gus shook his head. He was dressed in the typical dark green fatigues that all maintenance people wore. Rubbing his hands slowly up and down his thighs, Gus said, “I questioned Burke’s crew, and they swear they didn’t even see it happen.”

“What do you think? Could someone on Burke’s crew be holding a grudge?”

“No, sir. He’s well liked. You know that.”

“I guess I do.” Mac walked back around to his side of the desk. “This is the fourth incident in two months, Gus.”

“Yes, sir, and the last two have caused injuries.”

“Damn.” Mac sat down in his chair and searched his master sergeant’s grizzled features. “Okay, I’m open to suggestion. Its obvious you have something in mind. You’ve been holding it back ever since this stuff started happening. What is it?”

Gus stood up awkwardly, rubbing his hands on the sides of his fatigues in his characteristic gesture of nervousness. “Well, sir…I really hate to say it…”

With a wave of his hand, Mac muttered, “Nothing else you’ve offered explains these wrenches flying through the air. Try me.”

“I really don’t think you’re ready for the explanation I have in mind, Major.”

“Oh?”

“Sir, with all due respect, you’re a cut-and-dried kind of officer, a no-nonsense sort of individual.”

“All of that’s true,” Mac said, “but what does that have to do with your explanation?”

“Everything.” Gus shook his head. “All right, sir, I’ll tell you, but I don’t want it held against me. Okay?”

Mac had always encouraged his people to speak their mind. He’d been maintenance officer for the squadron for three years, and the people who worked under his command were the best in the business, in Mac’s opinion. One of his talents was to get the most out of them, and it had shown for three years in a row at IG time. Mac considered himself a good leader, and it was unusual for one of his people to consider him unapproachable. He said in a less-stern tone, “Whatever it is, Gus, I’ll handle it. Just sit down and tell me.”

The tone worked miracles on Gus, who instantly brightened. Rubbing his hands against his thighs, he sat down and said, “About two months ago my wife, Shelly, went to a metaphysical workshop put on by this woman named Ellie O’Gentry.” He shrugged a little apologetically to Mac. “Shelly has always been interested in psychic stuff. Anyway, she came home bubbling all over the place about this Eastern Cherokee shamaness and how she’d helped change Shelly’s outlook on life. I didn’t give it a thought—then. But—” Gus cleared his throat “—I do now.”

“What’s this got to do with our problem?” Mac demanded.

“Well, sir, after the second wrench was thrown at someone over in Hangar 13, I told Shelly about it. She said that this woman, Ellie, had talked about a phenomena called discarnate souls, spirits who were ‘stuck’ in a certain place. She said these spirits sometimes did things to get a human being’s attention.” Gus gulped and looked at Mac, waiting for some kind of reaction. When there was none, he went on hastily. “This shamaness was taught soul recovery and extraction by her mother, a medicine woman who still lives on the reservation back in Cherokee, North Carolina.” With a wave of his hand, Gus said, “Now, I don’t believe in all that stuff. I’m a prove-it-to-me man, sir. But I’ve seen such positive changes in my wife since she went for a healing, I’ve got to believe she believes something happened. Anyway, one of the things Ellie O’Gentry does is communicate with spirits.” Gus looked over his shoulder toward the door. “I don’t know, Major. Maybe we’ve got an unhappy spirit of some sort out there in Hangar 13.”

Mac sat there absorbing Gus’s explanation. His master sergeant, obviously embarrassed to bring up the subject, had colored a bright red. A huge part of Mac wanted to laugh, but he swallowed the urge in light of Gus’s sincerity. With a sigh, he said, “That’s a bit farfetched, isn’t it, Gus?”

“Yes, sir, I know it is. But—” he rolled his eyes “—I honestly don’t have a better explanation why wrenches are suddenly flying through the air.”

“Dammit.” Mac got up and began to pace the length of his small, cramped office. Books on F-15 jet maintenance covered two walls of his office; a desk, chair and filing cabinet were squeezed into the narrow space. Mac walked over to the coffeemaker and filled two cups with the strong brew. He handed one to his master sergeant.

“Thank you, sir.”

Mac eased his frame against the desk as he sipped his steaming black coffee. “I think we need to deal with facts, and facts only, Gus.”

“No disagreement from me on that, sir.” Gus took a gulp of coffee and then rested it against his thigh. “These are the facts—four wrenches have been thrown at our people. In three out of the four cases, the people were working alone, in Hangar 13, late at night. The fourth incident took place with other people around, but they swear they didn’t throw the wrench.”

“Could any of these be hoaxes?”

Gus shrugged. “These are our top people, Major. They’re happy doing what they’re doing, none of them have any personal problems and they’re all up for either reenlistment or another rating.”

Mac knew his people were happy with him, and with the job they were doing in the air force. Scratching his head, he muttered, “It just doesn’t fit. I can’t see any of our personnel over in 13 causing that kind of trouble. They’re the cream of the crop.”

“I know,” Gus said. “Not only that, none of them willingly came forward to tell me about it. In each case, someone from the crew learned about it secondhand and came and told me.”

Sipping his coffee, Mac thought long and hard for a moment. He slanted a glance at Gus. “This spirit theory is the worst.”

Gus grinned a little. “Yes, sir, I know it is.”

“Hangar 13 was built two months ago, and a week after we moved in, this wrench-throwing started.”

“Yes, sir… I dunno, maybe it’s the number 13. You know how unlucky it is.”

Mac snorted. “I don’t believe in that malarkey one bit, Gus.”

“Yes, sir. It was just a thought….”

Frustrated, Mac turned and walked around the desk. He set the coffee mug down a little sharply. “My career would be washed up if I told my commanding officer I was checking out this shamaness because our people were getting nailed with flying wrenches.”

“I know,” Gus muttered unhappily. “That’s why I really hesitated telling you about her.”

“Is this woman a nut case?”

“Sir?”

“You know,” Mac growled, “one of those New Age types?”

“Uhh, I don’t know, sir. Shelly knows more about her. I never met the woman. I’ve only heard about what she does.

“I guess the only other thing we could do is call in the Air Police to start an investigation,” Gus offered unenthusiastically after a moment.

“No way.” The last thing Mac needed in his command was an ongoing investigation. He knew it would upset the rhythm he’d established on base if the Air Police started nosing around. And right now, with the IG two months away, he wanted to keep his people happy and on an even keel.

“Well,” Gus hedged carefully, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt any to talk to this lady, would it? Maybe she could shed some light on what’s going on.”

Fuming, Mac sat down. “Gus, this conversation doesn’t leave this office. Understand?”

Gus straightened in the chair to almost an at-attention stance. “Yes, sir! Not a word of it, Major.”

“Fine,” Mac muttered. “Call your wife and get the address and phone number of this woman.” He stared hard across the desk at his master sergeant. “I don’t like this, Gus.”

“I understand, sir.” Gus rose quickly. “But we’re at a point where we’re running low on options. I’ll get the info and have it on your desk within the hour, sir.”

“Fine. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mac sat in his office for a long time, the noise from Hangar 13 activities vaguely lapping into his awareness. The blue sky still beckoned like a lover calling him, and now he had to deal with this on top of all his other problems. He sighed in frustration as he eyed all the maintenance reports still awaiting his signature. With so many bases and stations being closed, Luke was getting extra squadrons, and more hangars were being built to accommodate the heavy influx of fighters and pilot personnel. Hangars 13, 14 and 15 had recently been completed, and construction was still underway on three more. The paperwork showed no signs of abating.

Flying had always helped Mac solve the multitude of problems he handled on a daily basis. He wanted to leave his office, hitch on a pair of g-chaps and grab his helmet from the squadron locker. But it seemed that, for today at least, he was grounded.

Tonight, he’d check out this Ellie O’Gentry on his way home. He’d have to be careful, though—he couldn’t let his bosses find out he was chasing this kind of lead. He decided to change out of his air force uniform and get into some civvies before he went to see her. That way, if he didn’t like her, she’d never know who he was or why he’d come. Mac couldn’t take any chances—if his superiors ever learned about this, he’d lose his chance for an early promotion. Hell, they’d probably drum him right out of the air force.

Ellie O’Gentry was kneeling in the backyard at her small Santa Fe-style house, tending her garden. At six p.m. the May sunlight had gone westward, and the temperature had cooled down enough for her to get some work done. She was dressed casually in jeans and a short-sleeved, mint green blouse, minus her usual sandals—Ellie always went barefoot when weeding. Her long, black hair was tamed into one thick braid down the center of her back, tendrils clinging damply to her brow and temples as she worked.

Sinking her long fingers into the warm, fertile earth, she smiled to herself. Gardening gave her such a grounded feeling; it always seemed to bring her closer to the natural energy of Mother Earth. Using the trowel, she dug around each of her carefully tended tomato plants. The song that she’d been humming, a sweat-lodge song used for healing, spilled softly from her lips. It was a song her mother had taught her, a lullaby used to help the seriously ill gather hope and strength to heal.

Ellie stopped humming abruptly and looked up. Had she heard something? She wasn’t sure. She sat up, her dirt-encrusted hands coming to rest on the thighs of her jeans. What had snagged her peripheral attention?

She quickly switched to her more intuitive side, a subtle transfer of attention through another lens of her being, and tilted her head. No, the sound she’d heard hadn’t been verbal. Her gaze riveted on the corner of the house that led to the front door. Someone was coming. She could sense him—and he was a male. Who? Brushing some of the dirt from her hands, Ellie was perplexed. She didn’t have any appointments scheduled for today.

Before she could muse further, she saw a man—a scowling man—very quietly turn the corner of the house. He halted and stared at her, his scowl deepening. Automatically, she scanned him with her intuitive “eyes,” a kind of sixth sense that allowed her to see inside her unexpected visitor.

Instantly, Ellie got in touch with the stranger’s tenseness. He was wary. And frustrated. With whom? Her? She certainly had never seen this man before. If she had, she would never have forgotten him—he made too vivid an impression. She sensed nothing dangerous about him, so she switched back to her visual eyes and took a good long look at him. He was tall and wiry, reminding her of a cougar she’d seen from time to time while she was growing up in the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. His hazel eyes were large and intelligent looking, though shadowed. He had a square face, with a stubborn-looking chin. His dark brown hair was very short and neatly cut. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way. Ellie liked the crinkles at the corners of his eyes; they suggested he smiled a great deal. But he wasn’t smiling now, and his hands were draped tensely across the hips of the tan chino pants he was wearing.

He had a decided charisma, and Ellie found herself drawn very powerfully to the man. Was it his proud posture, his broad shoulders thrown back with confidence? The look of the eagle in his eyes, which told her he missed very little? Or something else? He seemed as if he were a warrior of some kind, a fighter, or someone who enjoyed challenging life in some way. There were a lot of angles to the man—sharp edges, perhaps, she mused, as she slowly got to her feet.

As Ellie approached him, she could feel his perusal, direct, intense and assessing. A part of her wanted to throw up a wall of defense, to guard herself against his almost-violating look, but something told her she didn’t have to.

For an instant, she felt the man’s surprise, and then, on its heels, his heat and desire. Desire? None of her impressions made any sense to her. The surprise lingered in his eyes, and she wondered what he wanted from her. Perhaps he was lost and looking for directions.

“Can I help you?” Ellie asked.

Mac tried to cover his surprise. The barefoot woman walking toward him was nothing like what he had expected. She was in her late twenties, he guessed; her gold-colored skin accentuated the oval face and high cheekbones typical of Native Americans. Strands of her thick black hair were loose around her hairline, some tendrils sticking to her brow and temples, emphasizing her earthy beauty. Could this woman be the shamaness? She looked so…normal.

Her gaze was direct, inquiring, and Mac felt her confidence and strength. She walked with a sureness, a serene kind of balance that was undeniable. He allowed his hands to fall from his hips.

“Yes, I was looking for a Ms. Ellie O’Gentry.”

Ellie halted a good six feet away from him. “That’s me. Who are you?”

“I’m Mac Stanford.”

“Are you lost, Mr. Stanford?”

“Excuse me?”

Ellie watched the play of surprise and hesitation in his eyes. “Are you lost?”

His mouth pulled into a grin. “No.”

She liked his eyes. They were a mixture of green, gold and brown, reminding her of the green trees, the fertile brown earth and the gold of Father Sun. And when the corners of his mouth drew hesitantly into a brief smile, she felt an incredible blanket of warmth surround her. The feeling caught Ellie off guard.

Mac pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He’d worn a conservative blue-and-white striped shirt and comfortable jogging shoes. “Your name was given to me by Mrs. Shelly Calhoon.”

“Oh…yes.” Ellie held his interested gaze. “You’re here regarding soul recovery and extraction?”

“Excuse me?”

It was her turn to smile. “I’m making assumptions, Mr. Stanford. Why are you here? You don’t have an appointment. At this time of day, I reserve my time for my garden.”

“I see….” Mac scrambled for a reply, because he knew she was going to ask him to make an appointment and leave. There was something fascinating about Ellie O’Gentry. She was decidedly Native American in appearance—so why was her last name O’Gentry? All of a sudden, Mac had a lot of questions that had nothing to do with his original reason for coming.

“Look,” he murmured apologetically, “I’m sorry for not calling first. But…something’s come up and your name was given to me. If I could just have about fifteen minutes of your time?”

Rubbing the last of the drying soil off her hands, Ellie asked, “Then you’re a friend of Shelly’s?”

“In a roundabout way,” Mac hedged. He watched as she leaned down to the faucet and rinsed her hands. Ellie’s movements were sure and graceful. It wasn’t often he met a woman with so much confidence. Whatever life had dealt Ellie, she’d come out stronger for it.

Ellie straightened and dried her hands on her jeans. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not who you seem to be?”

Heat nettled Mac’s cheeks, and he realized with a start that he was blushing. Unsettled, he said, “I’m looking for a psychic, somebody who can help answer a question I have.”

“I’m a shamaness, Mr. Stanford, not a psychic. There’s a difference.”

“There is?”

Ellie held on to her patience. He was genuinely surprised, and she could feel his intense need to talk with her. “A big difference. I was just going to make dinner—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinnertime—”

“No, that’s okay. Why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee and you can tell me why you’re here and what you want from me.”

Mac nodded and followed her around to the front door. Ellie seemed to have an unsettling ability to see right through him. Or was that just his imagination? He snorted to himself and followed her into the cool confines of the stucco home.

The living room was well lit; the floor, a warm, golden pine, was covered with a Navajo rug of gray, white and black. Above the ivory couch hung an Indian flute adorned with several long brown-and-white feathers. There were also several framed pictures of flowers and pastoral landscapes.

The ivory-colored walls made the most of the light, and Mac liked the large array of greenery displayed on both sides of the large picture window. Ellie had brought the outdoors in; she clearly loved the land.

Mac followed her across the living room and into the pale yellow kitchen. She gestured to a glass table and the bamboo chairs that surrounded it.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Stanford, and I’ll be back in a moment.” She pointed to her jeans. “I’m dirty.”

He nodded and eased one of the bamboo chairs away from the table. “Sure, go ahead.” Good, this would give him a chance to check her out further. Mac felt a little guilty about his deception, because Ellie seemed honest, straightforward and generous with her time—considering he didn’t have an appointment.

What did a shamaness do? He’d wondered that all the way over here. He didn’t have a clue and didn’t want to guess. Soul recovery and extraction? It sounded like a visit to the dentist’s office! Smiling, he walked over to the kitchen counter. There were four ceramic canisters, each painted with flowers, making the counter look as if it was in bloom, too. Small pots of cactus sat on the windowsill above the sink.

Looking around the kitchen, Mac decided that Ellie’s home didn’t look particularly out of the ordinary. Sitting down, he heard soft, Native American flute music emanating from another part of the house. Somehow, the picture he had of Ellie just didn’t jibe with what he was observing. Tapping his fingers absently on the clean glass surface of the table, Mac noticed the fresh bouquet of wildflowers, some red, some pink and others yellow. He smiled. How long had it been since he’d seen wildflowers? He decided that Ellie was the exact opposite of him: he was a man who owned the sky and loved to live in it. She was a woman of the earth, firmly planted in it, bare feet and all.

“Would you like some coffee?”

Mac jumped. Ellie had entered so quietly he hadn’t heard her. She was still in her bare feet, although now she wore a lightweight denim skirt that grazed her ankles and a fresh, white blouse. Her hair had been brushed, too, the blue-black locks caught up in a loose ponytail with a bright red scarf.

“Yes…please.”

Ellie went to the sink and began to prepare her coffeepot, an old-style one that perked on the electric stove. “So what brings you here, Mr. Stanford?” She turned to him briefly and saw that his darkly tanned face was still tense, his eyes still shadowed.

“Well, I’ve got a problem, and you were suggested as a person who might be able to help me.”

Ellie put the coffee grounds into the basket, put the lid on the pot and placed it on the stove. She got down two cups and set them on the table. Going to the refrigerator, she took out the cream. She sat down and placed the creamer between them on the table. “What problem?” she asked.

Mac cleared his throat. “I’m a little embarrassed to even talk about it, to tell you the truth.”

“Why?” Ellie folded her hands and rested her chin against them. Mac Stanford was blushing again. His cheeks were a dull red color, and she could almost take pity on him—almost, but not quite. He was hiding something from her, and that made her wary. Still, she had to fight a powerful attraction to him. His self-confidence was like sunlight, something that she honored in any person, but his was charismatic—and dangerous—to her.

With a shrug, Mac said, “Normally, I don’t go to a psychic—”

“Excuse me, but I think we need to get our terminology straightened out before we go any further.”

Mac stared at her. “Okay.”

“I’m a shamaness, Mr. Stanford.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Yes and no. First of all, I’m a healer.” Ellie opened her long, spare hands toward him. “I’m half Eastern Cherokee and half white. I was born and raised on the Cherokee reservation in North Carolina. My mother is a medicine woman for our people, and so is my sister, Diana. I inherited some of my mother’s metaphysical abilities, but they are expressed differently through me than through her or my sister.”

“Metaphysical?” Mac felt like a first grader.

“Meta means ‘beyond the physical or seen world.”’ Ellie pointed to her eyes. “When something is metaphysical, it means that it’s beyond our visual capability.” A slight smile touched her mouth as she pointed to the center of her forehead. “But we all have another ‘eye’ we can see with. This third eye is called the brow chakra. Most people don’t use it. They’re only in tune with the left side of their brain, the side that uses their physical eyes to view the three-dimensional world. But the right brain, the intuitive side, has an eye, too, of sorts. It’s located here, in the center of our forehead.”

“Hold it,” Mac said, raising his hands. “You’ve lost me completely.”

“I don’t really get the feeling you want to know anyway, Mr. Stanford,” Ellie said patiently.

Mac sat back, frowning. Her directness was unsettling to him. Or, maybe more to the point, he wasn’t used to finding this typically male trait in a woman. “You’re right,” he admitted.

“So,” Ellie said, folding her hands and challenging him with her gaze, “why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here? Are you a police detective? An undercover agent?”

CHAPTER TWO

For the third time, Mac felt heat in his cheeks. How long had it been since he’d blushed? A long time. Maybe before he and Johanna had gotten married. He pushed that painful thought aside. Mac knew he had to be honest with Ellie.

“It’s nothing like that, Ms. O’Gentry.” He frowned and then met her direct, intelligent gaze. Her eyes were a golden brown color, reminding him of sunlight dancing off the surface of water. If Mac didn’t know better, he’d think she was smiling at his predicament. At first, a bit of anger stirred in him, but then he realized it was his own fault that he’d placed himself in this embarrassing position.

“I’m a major in the air force. I fly F-15’s,” he said. “I’m also the maintenance officer for our squadron.” Almost instantly, Mac saw Ellie relax.

“That’s a good start, Major Stanford,” Ellie said. “Go on.” She smiled slightly, because she saw how terribly uncomfortable he was with her—or, more precisely, with what she symbolized. Still, she liked Stanford’s ability to be honest when he was challenged, and that was commendable.

Mac took a deep breath and dove into the story of the flying wrenches in Hangar 13. Ellie sat quietly, without interrupting, while he stumbled through a detailed explanation of the four incidents. She just wasn’t what he’d expected. Mac wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but certainly not this quiet, introspective, intelligent woman whose beauty was more than skin-deep. His gaze kept drifting from her beautiful eyes, framed with thick, black lashes, to her soft mouth. He found it difficult to concentrate on the story when he really wanted to study her instead.

So he divided his attention. He had always been good at that, and Johanna had resented it. She had always accused him of only half listening to her and had said she could sense that his mind was elsewhere. And it was true, Mac acknowledged. But he couldn’t help it—it was part of his nature, part of what made him such a good fighter pilot. His eyes might be on the instruments or on the terrain outside the cockpit canopy, but his hearing was elsewhere, and his physical body was subconsciously recording sensations, too. Mac had tried repeatedly to explain this to Johanna, but she never understood. Or perhaps she had, and just hadn’t been able to accept it.

Ellie was listening with her ears, but she had allowed her senses to blossom fully and take in the complete spectrum of Mac Stanford. She liked that fact that he talked with his hands, that he was animated about the story he was sharing with her. Still, she could see that part of his attention was diverted toward studying her face, and that his interest was on more than just a professional level. Smiling to herself, she admitted that she was just a little interested in Mac Stanford on a personal level, too.

“So,” Mac said, “that’s the story.”

Ellie nodded. “And you’re looking for an explanation for this phenomena, Major?”

“I guess I am. I really don’t know.”

“What you’re really saying is that you don’t believe it could happen in the first place. That the phenomena has to have a human culprit behind it, not a ghostly one.”

“Are you always this direct?”

Ellie grinned. “It pays to be honest, don’t you think, Major?” She saw the amusement come to his hazel eyes and his mouth curve upward briefly. When Mac Stanford smiled, she felt the sunlight of his energy surround her like a warm, soft blanket.

“Yes.” Mac struggled inwardly for a moment. “I guess I’m not used to such directness in a woman like yourself.”

“Really?” Ellie tilted her head, her hands resting against her chin. “What did you expect?”

Uncomfortable, Mac muttered, “I had this picture in my head of an old woman in a gypsy outfit sitting over her crystal ball.”

Ellie laughed. It was a full laugh, rich yet soft.

Mac stared at her as she leaned back in the chair, tilted her head back and allowed the wonderful laughter to escape. In that moment, surrounded by her laughter, he felt an incredible need to know her better—as a woman.

“I can surmise two things about you, Major,” Ellie said, placing her hands on the table and engaging his stare. “First, you don’t believe in what I do any more than you believe the moon is made of green cheese. Secondly, you’re a prove-it-to-me kind of man, totally stuck in his left brain. I’ll bet you dismiss any intuitive thoughts if you can’t prove, weigh or see results. Am I right?”

“I believe what my eyes see,” Mac said, a bit defensively.

“And I don’t. We’re poles apart, Major. I live in worlds that you don’t believe exist.”

“Well—” Mac cleared his throat “—I don’t think that matters in this case. I came to you asking for an explanation. It doesn’t have to be one I believe in.”

“Perhaps,” Ellie said softly.

“I’m here. I think that proves something.”

“Maybe,” she agreed.

Getting a bit frustrated, Mac said, “Tell me what you charge and I’ll pay you for the information.”

She got up, went over to the refrigerator and drew out some vegetables. Twisting to look over her shoulder, she said, “There is no charge, Major.”

“Why not?”

“If I can answer your questions without going into a shamanic-journeying state to do it, I will. I never charge in this kind of a situation.” She began tearing lettuce into small pieces over a large ceramic bowl.

“I don’t know what to make of you.”

Ellie smiled and began cutting up a carrot. “At least you’re honest. That’s a good place to start, Major.” Her ex-husband, Brian, had pretended to be interested in what she did, but it had all been a grand lie for his grand plan. All he really wanted was a companion in bed—and a housekeeper. It soon became clear that Brian didn’t believe in her world, but Ellie had tried to make things work, hoping they could find some kind of common ground. Finally, after three years of Brian’s continuing abuse over her beliefs, she’d had to get out.

“I may not like the truth, Ms. O’Gentry, but it’s better than the alternative.”

Her smile broadened. “That is one thing we agree on completely, Major.”

“Call me Mac, will you?”

“Okay. You can call me Ellie if you want.” She sensed his defensive walls slowly dissolving, and that was good. As he sat sipping the coffee, she could see the questions in his eyes.

“I’m caught between a rock and a hard place,” Mac admitted. In a bittersweet way, he enjoyed watching Ellie prepare the salad. It reminded him of his broken marriage, of a happier time in his life. Mac missed the hominess that marriage had provided him.

But Ellie was nothing like Johanna. She wasn’t modellike as Johanna had been, but reminded Mac of a woman in a Titian painting—ample, curved and rounded in all the right places. Ellie reminded him of a true earth mother.

She placed the salad on the table between them. “Why don’t you get up and set the table, since you’re staying for dinner?”

Mildly shocked, Mac got up. He saw her eyes dancing with laughter.

“Are you stunned because you’re staying for dinner or because I’m asking you to help out?”

He smiled a little sheepishly as he moved to the cupboard that Ellie pointed to. “Both.”

“You don’t wear a wedding ring, but you behave like you’ve been married. Are you divorced?”

Struck by Ellie’s insights, Mac opened the cupboard and took down two white ceramic plates. “Are you psychic?”

Laughing, Ellie shook her head. “No, just a watcher of people in general. I saw this look of longing on your face, and noticed you had no wedding ring on your finger. I figured you were probably divorced and missing the good life that marriage provides.”

“Guilty,” Mac murmured, placing the plates on the table. “I’m divorced, and you’re right—I miss married life.”

“All of it or some of it?” she challenged.

Mac placed flatware at each plate. “Why do I get the impression you’re a feminist?”

“Because where I come from, there is none of this ‘man rules the roost.’ My people are matriarchal, and that means women are held in just as high esteem as any man. We own the land, and it’s passed on from one woman to another, instead of from man to man.”

“Reverse of what it is out in the real world.”

“Oh?” Ellie whispered. “My world is just as valid as yours, Major.”

“Touché.” Mac smiled a little and sat back down.

“You’re not done yet, Major.”

“I’m going to earn this dinner, I can tell.”

“And then some.” Ellie pointed to the top of the refrigerator. “Get a couple of those rolls and bring them down. Put them in the microwave, please.”

Ordinarily, Mac might have been annoyed, but he wasn’t. Ellie intrigued him. He liked her use of authority and the way she made him a part of the kitchen—whether he felt he should be helping or not. Johanna had always shooed him out of the kitchen and called him when dinner was ready. Retrieving the rolls, he placed them in the microwave. Then he took a butter dish from the refrigerator and set it on the table.

“Very good,” Ellie praised with a laugh as she put hamburger meat into the skillet she’d heated. “You’re getting the idea.”

“Is this called karma?” he teased as he stood next to her, leaning against the kitchen counter, his hands resting on it.

Ellie nodded. “Our whole life is karma as far as I’m concerned. The people we meet, the ones we work with, the ones we bump into on the street.” She glanced up at his face, which now seemed more relaxed. “Karma is about living life, Major.”

“Mac.”

“Yes…”

“I feel like I’ve stepped into a whole new world here.”

“You have. I’m Native American, raised to respect all people as equal. I’m a shamaness, and I’ve been trained to look at reality very differently than you.”

“I’m a city kid from Portland, Oregon,” Mac admitted. “My father was an electrical engineer until he died of a heart attack at forty-five. My mother stayed at home and raised me and kept house.”

“And I’ll bet she never went out and had a job or a life other than that.”

“Correct.”

“You white men are a spoiled bunch,” Ellie said with a chuckle. “One hamburger or two?”

“Two, please.”

“Manners. That counts with me.”

“Are you always this feisty or is this something special for me?”

“I’m not treating you any differently than I would anyone else—regardless of gender.” Ellie turned the hamburgers in the skillet. “Get the mustard and ketchup from the refrigerator?”

“Sure.” Mac opened the refrigerator door.

“How long have you been divorced?”

Mac hesitated as he placed the ketchup on the table. “Two years.”

“You don’t seem to be over it yet.”

Her insight was unsettling. He paused briefly, then said, “I think if you love someone, it’s tough to leave it behind.”

“The heart never forgets,” Ellie agreed gently, handing him his burgers. “All our good and bad memories are held in it. Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Mac ate with relish. The baked beans, hamburgers and garden salad were perfect. It had been a long time since he’d had a home-cooked meal. Ellie had a healthy appetite, too, unlike Johanna, who had weighed every ounce of food she ate, always scared of gaining a few pounds. Ellie certainly wasn’t fat, but Mac saw that she truly enjoyed her food and obviously didn’t agonize over caloric content.

“Do you have any grounding in metaphysics, Mac?”

He shook his head. “Absolutely none.”

“With your engineering background, the only thing you know is your left-brain reality.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Mac liked the smile she gave him as she wiped her fingers on her pink cloth napkin.

“Neither. It’s merely an observation.” Ellie pointed to the right side of her head. “I need to give you some basic information so you’ll understand what is potentially happening in your Hangar 13.”

Mac added more ketchup to his second hamburger. “Okay, shoot.”

“Native Americans and women tend to be right-brain dominant. Science has established that the right brain’s function is very different from the left brain’s. The left hemisphere processes information based on logic, on physical evidence from our senses. It can speak to us with a sound, a voice, and we all hear it.” She tapped the right side of her head. “The right brain can’t speak to us in the same way.”

“So,” Mac said, buttering a second roll, “does the right brain ‘talk’ to us?”

“Excellent question,” Ellie praised. “Yes, it does, but in a far-more-subtle form. You’d call it intuition, or a gut feeling. I’m sure you’ve heard talk of women’s intuition. Well, some women are simply more in touch with their right brain. Unfortunately, society doesn’t always take this kind of knowledge seriously.”

“I see.”

“You may ‘see,’ in one way, Mac, but you can’t really understand the process. In the Native American culture, we are taught that women know what they know, and that it is different from how men know the same thing. One way isn’t more right than another.”

“Johanna, my ex-wife, used to tell me that when she was in college, she’d come up with the right answers on her math tests, but she wouldn’t be able to remember the formula or how she got the answer.”

Ellie smiled broadly. “That’s right. That’s the right-brain way—making the quantum leap to the answer. It doesn’t care how it got the answer like the left brain does.”

“She flunked the algebra course because she couldn’t prove how she arrived at the answers.”

“I’m sure she did, because most schools and colleges are based on left-brain thinking.”

“How did you do in school?”

“I was able to stay home and be taught by my mother. Right-brain methods of learning are very different from left-brain methods. My mother used a very practical teaching method with me—show-and-tell. I learned by doing, or what is known as hands-on experience. My father, who is a white man and a plumber by profession, taught me his business as I grew up. I watched him do it, and then mimicked his actions. It was very practical.”

“Not a lot of theory, philosophy or left-brain stuff?”

“Precisely.” Ellie got up and removed their plates. “Would you like a slice of homemade cherry pie?”

Mac grinned sheepishly. “Will I be indicted if I say yes?”

“There’s no guesswork with you,” Ellie said with a chuckle as she removed the cherry pie from a cupboard and cut two thick slices.

“My stomach has always been my downfall,” he admitted. “I like home cooking. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it as long as you help with the cooking and not just the eating.” She smiled and put the plate before him.

“I can’t even boil water. I’d make a crummy cook. Thanks, this looks good.”

“That’s because your mother never made you come into the kitchen and learn to cook.” Ellie sat down and enjoyed the silence that blanketed them while they ate dessert. It was obvious Major Mac Stanford had enjoyed the meal.

“Do you make your own meals?” she wondered aloud.

With a shrug, Mac said, “Usually I go to a restaurant off base for dinner.”

“I see….”

“I’m sure you do.” He liked the sparkle in Ellie’s eyes as he met and held her gaze.

“Let me take it a step further, then. The right brain, scientifically speaking, is the creative side of ourselves. It is the seat of our emotions, our feelings. The left brain is tied into lists, black-and-white issues, practicality and strict visual observation.”

“That’s why women are more emotional than men?”

“I’m not letting you get away with that generality,” Ellie said grimly. “Let’s put the shoe on the other foot, Mac—both genders have both brain hemispheres in their head. There is nothing that says men can’t begin utilizing their right brain more.”

With a groan, Mac said, “Now I get it. This is the sensitive man of the nineties you’re talking about, the one who is using his right brain?”

“And his left.” Ellie waved her fork at him. “Don’t you think it’s better for both genders to use both parts of their brains?”

Mac nodded. “Your argument has some interesting concepts, Ms. O’Gentry, but what does it have to do with my problem in Hangar 13?”

“It has to do with metaphysical law. The left brain’s entire function is to keep our focus—our living, if you will—strictly channeled in this third-dimensional world. It has a filter that stops potential information from any other dimension from coming in and disrupting our reality.”

Mac stared at her. “Okay, so far, so good. You’re saying the left brain puts a certain kind of blinders on us, like you would on a horse pulling a carriage?”

“Exactly. The right brain has no such ‘blinders’ or filter in place, so it’s open to receiving all the information that surrounds us, whether it can be seen with our physical eyes or not.”

“What else is out there that the right lobe perceives?” Mac asked.

“Great question. Science acknowledges that we have at least three dimensions.” Ellie touched the table with her long fingers. “We can see three sides to this table, so three dimensions are involved.”

“Science would agree with you.”

She smiled a little. “The right lobe can see into the fourth dimension, Mac, the one scientists don’t want to confirm exists.” She touched the middle of her forehead. “Remember earlier I told you that the right lobe’s ‘eye’ was located here, the brow chakra?”

“Yes?”

“Well, if a person wants to, he can see through this table, which means he is viewing it through the fourth dimension. But he is ‘seeing’ with this invisible eye here in the center of his forehead. Anyone, with some work, can literally ‘switch’ to his right brain, close his eyes and do this.”

Mac sat back, digesting the wild allegation. She obviously believed that what she was saying was the absolute truth. “I’m having a tough time buying this.”

“Of course you are. Everything in your life has been predicated on left-brain ways. If you can’t see it, weigh it or measure it, it doesn’t exist. Yet—” Ellie smiled “—how do you explain dreams that come true, or a mother knowing her child is in danger or has been hurt before the phone call comes to validate it?”

“Okay…is that right-brain territory? Dreams? Telepathy?”

“Yes.” She was pleased with his ability to catch on quickly. “People utilize their right lobe every day—they just don’t realize it. As a shamaness, I have a special talent for using my right lobe. That’s how I’m able to help people. And now,” Ellie concluded, “back to the drawing board regarding your problem at Hangar 13.” She found herself wanting to ask Mac a lot more personal questions, because despite his military background, and his very one-sided view of the world, he was trying to comprehend her world, too. She found that praiseworthy.

“The fourth dimension is already acknowledged by the scientific community,” she went on. “Quantum physics is about that dimension. Our right brain has the capacity, the genetic setup, to see into that dimension, just as our physical eyes comprehend the first three dimensions. People like myself who have a strong genetic predisposition to right-brain activity, and who do a lot of personal work developing that lobe, can see into the dimension at will.”

“How is it done?” Mac asked. His curiosity was piqued; he always liked exploring new territory, no matter where it was located.

“The right brain’s ability to perceive the fourth dimension can be triggered in so many ways. For some, it’s achieved through meditation. For others, through hallucinogenic drugs.”

“And you?”

“A drum.”

Mac gave her a blank look and saw her smile slightly.

“Native Americans, at least in North America, use the drum, a rattle, or a song or series of songs to create the proper vibrational environment that allows us to slip into the fourth dimension.”

“So,” he said, not at all sure he was putting the theory together properly, “you’re saying this sound creates a doorway, a passage into the right lobe, where this opening is located?”

With a sigh, Ellie got up. “I wish everyone was as perceptive as you.”

Mac sat back, content as never before. The sound of water running and dishes being piled in the sink lulled him pleasantly. “You are able to go into this fourth dimension with the sound frequency created by a drum?”

“Yes.” Ellie pulled down a dish towel and placed it on the counter next to the sinks. “Come on, you can help dry, Major.”

He grinned and stood up. “Considering the great meal, it’s the least I can do.”

Ellie met his very male smile. She noted how relaxed Mac had already become. He was like so many people when first confronted with metaphysics: threatened and ignorant. Once she was able to explain the process in nonthreatening terms, most people lost their wariness. She didn’t expect Mac to believe her, but in order for her to answer the question he’d come to her to solve, he had to understand the basic mechanics of what she did.

As Mac stood beside her drying the dishes, he said, “So tell me—how does this all fit with the potential problem out in Hangar 13?”

CHAPTER THREE

Ellie scrubbed the skillet as she spoke. “Shamans—and shamanesses—have a very unique skill,” she told Mac as he waited patiently at the sink, dish towel in hand. “We operate in the fourth dimension.” She glanced up at him to register his reaction. “What we do is talk lost pieces of a person’s soul into coming back to that person. That’s what we call a healing.”

“Pieces of your soul?” Mac gave her a very skeptical look.

“Don’t judge what I’m saying yet,” Ellie warned. She rinsed the skillet in hot water and handed it to him to dry. “Our belief embraces the possibility that people, as they go through life, lose pieces of themselves to another person or situation. If you’re having trouble with the words soul or spirit, then consider it a loss of energy. People, when traumatized by a situation such as a divorce, the death of a loved one, the loss of a job or some other kind of tragedy, will very often lose a piece of themselves or their energy. Because of the shock, the ‘piece’ becomes stuck or lodged in that time period of their life.”

Mac slowly dried the skillet, scowling. “Shock or trauma creates this condition?”

“Yes.” Ellie took the bean pot and washed it. “And it’s shock or trauma as perceived by the person, not by the world at large. For instance, a child of six falls off her bike and breaks her arm. Now, for an adult, this might not be such a shocking thing. But to the child, it’s a horrible trauma. That little girl will, in all probability, lose a piece of herself.”

Mac shook his head. “What does this losing of pieces do, then?”

She smiled a little and handed him the rinsed pot. “With enough pieces of energy or spirit lost, people fall out of balance with themselves. It’s a highly unconscious thing, but people who have suffered major soul loss begin to automatically rebalance in not-so-positive ways. A woman who gets divorced and loses a large piece of herself to her ex-husband may begin to binge on food, or drink, or be stuck emotionally in the past, never able to let go of that time in her life.”

Mac put the pot aside and leaned thoughtfully against the counter. “Divorce is something I can understand,” he said.

“Most of us do, unfortunately,” Ellie said. She pulled the plug to drain the soapy water and rinsed her hands under the tap. Leaning over, she pulled a dry towel from a peg on the side of the cupboard and dried her hands. “There’re a lot of what I call ‘red flags’ that tell me whether or not a person has lost a piece of himself—or herself—in a divorce.”

“Such as?”

She smiled. “I can see I have your attention a hundred percent.”

“I’m interested,” Mac said, “but that doesn’t mean I believe in this theory of yours.”

With a shrug, Ellie motioned for him to sit down. She began to put the pots and pans away. “That’s fine. I don’t force anyone to believe as I do. But to me, a sign of soul loss is a person who cannot forget the divorce—the hurt, the anger or whatever negative feelings were created as a consequence.”

Mac pulled out his chair and sat back down at the table. He could see dusk begin to settle outside the kitchen window, a few high clouds turned red-orange by the coming sunset. “I’d think it would be natural to have all those feelings after a divorce.” He certainly did.

“Yes, but two or three years afterward? No, that’s not healthy, Mac.”

He scowled.

“Have you been able to adjust to it? Have you gotten on with your life? Or are you carrying the divorce around with you like a good friend?”

“Ouch.” Mac rubbed his jaw. “My life hasn’t been very good since Johanna divorced me,” he admitted slowly.

“And you still think about it and her almost every day?”

He eyed her warily.

“I’m not being psychic, Mac. What I can tell you from my experience is that you two have taken pieces of each other. You’re still living in the past with your ex-wife. You’re probably wishing you had back the ‘good old days’ before the divorce happened.”

He shrugged. “You’re right….”

“That’s a sign of soul loss.” Ellie rested her hands on the table. “In a divorce where no pieces were taken by the partners involved, both are able to get on with their lives. They aren’t constantly thinking about the partner, about their part in causing the divorce. They are able to live in the present and look to the future.”

“Johanna divorced me,” Mac admitted in a quiet voice. “I didn’t want to, but…”

Gently, Ellie reached out and touched his arm. “Then, to correct this imbalance, I would tell you to have a shaman take a journey and check out the situation. Your ex-wife probably has a piece of you, and you have a piece of her. That’s why the past is still living in the present with you.”

Mac felt the brief touch of her fingers on his arm. His skin tingled pleasantly. He was sorry it was such brief contact. Ellie’s eyes held such compassion for him and he sensed her sincerity. “You’d use your drum and do what?”

Rising, Ellie gestured for him to follow her. “Come on, I’ll show you my healing room.”

Highly curious, Mac followed her through her home. Down a hall, she opened the first door on the right. Mac stopped short, amazed. On the floor was a dark brown buffalo robe. A small table held a number of Native American items, including sage, a long brown-and-white feather and a pottery bowl that held ashes. More than anything, Mac was aware of the feeling in the room. At first, he pooh-poohed it, but as he moved toward the center of the room, an incredible sense of tranquility blanketed him.

Ellie quietly shut the door and moved to his side. She saw disbelief warring with what his senses were picking up about the room’s energy. She leaned down and retrieved a drum covered with elk hide. A butterfly was painted on it. “This is the drum I use when I want to put myself into the right-brain state.” She took the drumstick and began to softly hit the instrument.

Mac felt the deep, low-throated sound coming from the circular drum that Ellie held. At first, he consciously stopped himself from feeling anything, but as the steady, monotonous beat filled the room, he sensed something. And he saw a change in Ellie’s eyes; they became less sharp, seemed to lose their focus.

With a small laugh, Ellie stopped beating the drum and set it back down against the wall. “If I keep playing it, I’ll go into an altered state, and I don’t want to.”

Shoving his hands in his pocket, he turned and looked around the rest of the room. There was a picture on the wall, and he went over to it. “Who are these people?”

Ellie touched the dark frame of the picture. “The woman in the middle is my mother, the other woman is my sister Diana, and that’s my father.”

The woman in the middle had fierce black eyes; she wore her gray hair in braids, but otherwise bore an uncanny resemblance to Ellie. Mac studied her face for a long time. Ellie’s sister looked more like her father, with lighter skin, dark brown hair and brown eyes. The women were wearing some kind of ceremonial clothes; the father was in a suit, looking proud. All of them were smiling.

“This photo was taken on the day I got married,” Ellie said reminiscently. “I had convinced my husband to let us get married on the reservation, with my mother performing the ceremony.” She sighed. “Actually, it was a compromise. Brian let my mother marry us, but then he demanded that a ‘real’ minister marry us off the reservation.”

Mac felt Ellie’s sadness. “He didn’t believe in your mother’s authority on the reservation?” Mac gazed down at her and saw the pain in her eyes.

“No. Actually,” Ellie admitted, “that’s why we eventually divorced. Brian couldn’t accept my culture, what I do, the fact that I’m a shamaness and my life is devoted to the healing arts.”

“So the women of your family are doctors on the reservation?”

Her mouth twitched. “We are called medicine people or healers. I let the medical doctors call themselves doctors. And there’s a big difference between a healer and a doctor.”

“Such as?” Mac took his hands out of his pockets.

“A healer, where I come from, is interested in the whole person, Mac. Modern doctors treat only a single piece or part, and address only the disease—not the issues that go into that state of imbalance. Healers take into account all the things about a person’s life that may make them ill. There’s a lot of common sense and practicality that comes into play, too.”

Ellie pointed to the buffalo rug. “Let’s take off our shoes and sit on down, shall we?”

Mac respected her request and placed his tennis shoes against the wall. He sat down cross-legged opposite Ellie. The robe was thick and silky feeling.

Ellie rested her arms on her crossed legs. “I get people from all walks of life who have heard about me word-of-mouth. I journey for my clients in one of two ways, Mac. If they come and see me in person, we both lie down here on the robe together, side by side. I place my left hand over my client’s right. I have a cassette of my drum being beaten, so I turn that on.” She pointed to a small cassette player in the corner of the room. “I close my eyes and allow the drumbeat to make it easy for me to switch to the right brain, and then I move into the fourth dimension.”

“Can you feel it happen?”

“Sure. I’m consciously triggering the switch. It’s important to know that a shaman is trained to turn it on and off at will, Mac. If we don’t, then we’re in big trouble. Let me give you an example. One of my clients—to protect the confidentiality of the healing, I’ll call her Susan—was very sick. She had a major trauma in her past. So we lay down here together with the drum beating in the background. I asked my chief guide, who is a great blue heron, if I had permission to journey for Susan, and I was told yes. I flew on the back of my heron and we went down into what is known as the dark world, which is contained within Mother Earth. I was brought to a house and taken into a room. I saw Susan as a little five-year-old and I saw this man grab her.” Ellie grimaced. “I won’t share all the terrible details, but what I did see was Susan being sexually molested.”

Mac felt Ellie’s emotional reaction to the scene. “You actually saw it?”

“Yes. You see, everything we’ve experienced in life is recorded, like film in the fourth dimension. My guide took me back to the time when Susan was emotionally traumatized, where she lost a huge piece of herself after being abused that way.”

“What did you do?”

“I stopped the man from molesting her, separated them and asked Susan’s little girl if she wanted to come home with me, back to the present Susan. She said yes, so I picked her up and we both rode back on my spirit guide.”

Mac shook his head. “This sounds really weird, you know that?”

“Yes, I do. But before you judge me or the journey, wait until I tell you the outcome.”

“Okay…”

“I brought back Susan’s five-year-old, which really was a traumatic symbol of what had happened to her.” Ellie patted the robe as she got to her knees. “Here, lie down here for a moment and I’ll show you what I did, what I do to all my clients who want soul recovery.”

Mac laid down on his back, his arms at his side. Ellie knelt by his left arm; she cupped her hands over his chest and lightly touched the region over his heart.

“A shaman will ‘blow’ the piece back into the person’s heart and then sit the client up and blow the piece back into the top of his head.” She leaned over Mac and pretended to blow into the circle of her cupped hands, which lay across his heart. Then she placed her hand beneath his neck and helped him sit up. Getting to her feet, she moved to his shoulder and cupped her hands once again, this time on the top of his head. Again she pretended to blow a piece into him. That done, she went to the table, where she picked up a rattle.

“Then I shake this rattle and move it around you four times.” Ellie shook the rattle gently around Mac, noting his doubting expression. “You see, everything is living. This rattle is made out of a gourd, so it’s alive. There are small pebbles gathered from an ant-hill in the rattle, and they’re alive. As I bring this rattle around in a circle and shake it, I’m asking the spirits of the gourd and the stones to encircle you with protective gold light. We always do this after a recovery, because it ensures protection for the client for forty-eight hours afterward.”

Ellie finished and sat down opposite Mac. She held the rattle gently in her hands. “Blowing a piece of someone’s spirit back into them is like major surgery,” she said. “The gold light put into place around you is like a dressing or bandage over the parts of you that experienced it, namely your heart and head.”

Mac nodded. “This is pretty strange, Ellie.”

Sadly, she nodded. “I know it is. The world I live in probably seems like another planet compared to yours.”

“Yes,” he admitted with a chuckle, “it does.” And then his smile disappeared, because he saw the sadness in Ellie’s eyes. “Your ex-husband didn’t buy this,” he said, gesturing around the room.

“No, and he knew what I did long before we married.” She handled the rattle as if it were a child, slowly turning it between her hands. “I was young then. And idealistic. I thought love could conquer all.” Glancing up at Mac, she saw the compassionate expression on his face. “I was wrong. My mother tried to warn me…but I wouldn’t listen. I thought I knew better.”

“Head over heels in love?”

“Yes.” Ellie fought the sudden tears and blinked them away.

Mac didn’t miss the luminous look in her eyes. “If he didn’t accept your beliefs, why did he marry you?”

“That,” Ellie sighed, “is a long story.”

And one she obviously didn’t wish to share with him. Mac could understand that. After all, he was a stranger who had walked into her life only a couple of hours ago. The funny thing about it was, Ellie didn’t seem to be a stranger to him. He liked her. A lot. Silly beliefs or not, she was obviously a well-grounded, practical woman. Mac cast about for a safe topic.

“My marriage wasn’t much better. Johanna met me here at Luke when I’d graduated from flight training. I think she was in love with the fighter-pilot image, not the man.”

Ellie nodded. Mac was an attractive man, not pretty-boy handsome, but he had a strong face, projected immense confidence, and she could see how a woman could be swayed by such a combination. “How long were you married?”

“Six years.”

“Me, too.”

Mac wanted to ask if there was anyone in her life presently. But he knew that was none of his business. Forcing a smile, he said, “So tell me, what happens after one of these healings?”

Relieved to be off a highly sensitive topic, Ellie said, “When I come back from a journey, I write down what I found. I turn off the drumming tape and we sit here talking. I told Susan what I saw, for example. She didn’t relate to it nor did she remember being sexually molested.”

“Did Susan believe what you saw?”

Ellie shrugged. “It’s not the shaman’s responsibility to prove anything, Mac. I told her that now this piece of her had been returned, she would begin to integrate it back into her consciousness, and memories or dreams might occur. In the meantime, I suggested that she find a woman therapist to help her uncover her past.”

Mac just sat there, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. It’s just such a farfetched concept.”

“It’s strange, I know that.”

Mac shrugged. “I feel like I’m in an alien world.”

“That’s okay. So, let’s get back to your problem in Hangar 13.”

“Do you think it may be a lost piece of someone?” Mac ventured, trying to see through her framework of reality.

“I don’t know. It’s possible, Mac. But it could be what we call a discarnate soul, the spirit of someone who has died but is refusing to leave to go to ‘heaven,’ and is staying around for a particular reason.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can’t. Maybe if I go over to the hangar, I might be able to pick up on the energy. Maybe not. I can’t ‘see’ particularly well when I’m not in that altered state.” She touched her hair. “When I’m not journeying, I’m pretty much left brain, like you. So I’m ‘blind’ to the more-subtle vibrations of the fourth dimension that surround us.”

“I’ve heard some people can see spirits or ghosts, though.”

“Some can. I don’t have that skill.”

“But if you were in that altered state, you could ‘see’?”

“That’s right.”

Mac nodded. “So you need to go to the hangar?”

“Yes, and we’ll take the drum along.”

He grimaced. “If my people heard a drum being beaten, they’d think I was crazy.”

Ellie said nothing and watched the play of emotions on Mac’s face. His large eyes reminded her of an eagle’s piercing look. “I imagine you took a real chance just coming over to talk to me about it,” she guessed wryly. “The metaphysical and military worlds don’t usually have any common ground to walk upon.”

“You’ve got that right,” Mac muttered, bowing his head, his mind racing with possibilities.

“Is the hangar always in use?”

“Usually.”

“We could go over when no one is there. That would save you the embarrassment of being ‘found out.”’

Mac saw that her eyes were dancing with amusement. “I’m going up for early lieutenant colonel and the last thing I want is someone besides my master sergeant knowing that I’ve come to consult a psychic.”

“A shamaness.”

“Yes, whatever. If my superiors got wind of this, they’d send me to the nearest military hospital to check out my mental stability. But I’ve got to put an end to those wrenches flying around. I’ve got an IG—an inspector general’s inspection—coming up in two months and I can’t afford any problems. The hangar is empty right now. Could you come over with me and check it out?”

“You mean, feel my way through the hangar?”

“Yes. Maybe you’ll get an impression or something.”

Ellie hesitated and then nodded. “I’ll try, but no promises. I’m blind as a bat when I’m not in an altered state to receive impressions.”

“I’ll take that risk.” Rising from the robe, Mac held out his hand to Ellie. Her fingers wrapped firmly around his and he gently pulled her to her feet. The simple touch of her hand sent warmth racing up his arm. He tried to ignore the sensation. Releasing her hand, he said, “Thanks for taking the time with me. I appreciate it.”

Ellie’s hand tingled where Mac had held it. “You’re welcome.”

“What is your charge for doing a journey?”

“Whenever I do a journey for someone, I leave it up to them to give me what they can afford. It’s on a donation basis only, Mac.”

“But—”

“Healers operate from a very different perspective,” Ellie interrupted, walking out of the room with him. “Unlike medical doctors, who expect financial compensation for their services, we often get other things in return.”

“What do you mean?” Mac asked as he followed Ellie back into the living room.

“Well, a lot of my clients are either elderly or are single working mothers with children. Both are on very tight, fixed incomes.” Ellie gestured for him to follow her into the kitchen. She opened the door to her pantry. “You see that row of canned fruit?”

Mac peered into the gloomy depths of the large, deep pantry and saw at least two dozen quart jars filled with various kinds of fruit. “Yes.”

“One of my clients couldn’t afford to pay me any money, so she gave me what she could.”

Impressed, Mac eased out of the pantry. “I’ll bet the electric company doesn’t want to be paid in jars of fruit.”

She laughed. “No, but you’re missing my point. Not everyone who wants healing can afford the money, so I was taught to accept whatever gift the person had to give. On the reservation, it’s common to bring groceries, blankets or other goods to the medicine woman. My mother often gave the groceries, the blankets and other items to the poor of our reservation because my father made a decent living as a plumber in the area.”

“You were taught to be generous.”

“Exactly. Being a healer means you live in the community and are a part of its fabric. I have another client who is very poor, but she came over and helped me plant my garden one evening. It was her way of paying me back for my services.”

“I wish the rest of the world could operate on that kind of generosity.”

“Like you said,” Ellie murmured as she walked Mac to the front door, “the electric company doesn’t want jars of fruit for payment. They want cold, hard cash.”

Mac turned as he stepped out onto the front porch. “I like the world you live in.”

“At least, that part of it.”

Mac nodded and smiled slightly. “There’s a lot to like about you, about your style of living,” he told her seriously. “I may not believe in what you do, but I can respect you for it.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“Then,” Mac said, opening his hand toward her, “I’d like to ‘pay’ you for your services by taking you out to dinner sometime afterward. What do you say?”

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