TAXES ARE DUE
The rest of the week with Rachael flew by. Rachael took Charles to visit distant relatives near the base of the Chuska and slot canyons in unnamed mesas. Charles grew more in tune with the rhythms of the rez. When it was time for Rachael to return to work as spring break was over, she picked up Preston from his great-aunt’s house and the three made their way back to Toadlena. Nothing had been spoken regarding what Hastiin Sherman had seen. Rachael knew it must not be good and she didn’t want to dampen their spirits with talk of bad demons. She knew such discussion would come soon enough.
The night before Rachael’s school started, Charles decided they needed to talk. The mood was somber, as if Charles were heading for war and shipping out the next day. He explained to her what her grandfather had shared with regard to Holy Boy and the danger awaiting him. He also showed her the knife. Rachael burst into tears. This was serious stuff and the knife solidified her worst nightmares. Her concerns would only intensify in a few weeks when her school email account brought more mystifying information.
In the midst of all their planning, Brad Shriver resurfaced with great news for Charles. He had mailed a receipt for a bank deposit made for Charles’ Fritz Scholder painting that he’d sold. He also included the most recent Sotheby’s Art Catalog for the upcoming May 7th Contemporary Art Sale in New York City. Lot 47 was Willard Yellowhorse’s STRUGGLE. A rare and expensive single-item addendum catalog had been printed solely on the painting to go along with the main publication. The thin but well designed addendum, which was printed on glossy heavy stock, told the story of Yellowhorse. It even mentioned Bloom’s gallery as the site of his first one-man show. Shriver had put a yellow sticky on the page as if to point out the obvious to Charles. The addendum included the prerequisite chronology of Yellowhorse’s life, beginning with his birth at his family hogan in Toadlena and ending with his suicide and the “magnificent last work,” as they were calling it. The estimate was $2.5 million to $5 million. It portrayed a watered-down version of the painting’s gory origins and why the experts thought Yellowhorse had made it in such a disturbing fashion. No mention was ever made about Willard coming back home to the rez and his plan to leave The Cutting Edge Gallery. And definitely nothing about his grandfather’s vision of Willard’s death was mentioned. The catalog had a long quote from his dealer talking about the importance of this final work as Yellowhorse’s piece de resistance: how Yellowhorse had given his life to enhance his short but overall important body of work. Somehow even in such a horrific ending as hanging himself, Yellowhorse had hoped his color senses and rhythmic pattern of painting would live on after his own struggle with depression.
Phillips’ bullshit quote and quack diagnosis of depression made Bloom want to throw up. Bloom knew it was crap and it was now even more obvious to him that STRUGGLE was nothing like Yellowhorse’s work. Bloom had had deep suspicions even before he met Hastiin Sherman, who explained about the celestial bodies and his own vision of the design. Yellowhorse’s paintings always had subtle images hidden somewhere in the background, and Rachael’s references to yeis were nowhere to be found. This was a death painting all right, but one that was done to help cover up his murder. Bloom, upon seeing the catalog, knew he had to stop the sale of the work somehow, even if telling the crazy story of sand paintings and medicine men in New York meant he would be thrown out and banned from the auction house for life.
The painting was the key that could unlock the hidden truth of Willard’s death. Bloom just needed to find the lock and the answer was in New York. Thanks to Brad’s outstanding salesmanship, there was now enough money to pay taxes and go to the Big Apple to sort out what had really happened to Willard Yellowhorse. The tribal police might be right in saying it would be a lost cause, but the Yellowhorse family needed closure. Willard’s remains belonged here on the rez, and the last so-called Yellowhorse should never be included in Willard’s catalogue raisonné of paintings.
Rachael was worried for her lover. She wanted to come and help. Charles explained to Rachael that as much as he would cherish her company, she had a job and what’s more, Hastiin Sherman had only seen him fighting the coyote spirit. He must accomplish the task on his own if he hoped to stop the painting sale and find out who had killed Willard. The medicine man had imparted strong power. He would be safe. Bloom didn’t share the substantial risks her grandfather had told him about. It was frightening enough when he thought about it, and he didn’t want Rachael to worry.
The plan to stop the sale and expose Bernard Philips could ruin Charles as an art dealer. The man selling the death painting was very rich and a well-respected contemporary art dealer. But Charles felt he now embodied the spirit of Holy Boy and somehow must triumph. Hastiin Sherman had prepared him for battle and he had to be a warrior, fighting the Thunders and the bad coyote spirit.
The extra money from his most unexpected painting sale would more than allow Bloom to fund the New York trip. Everything seemed to be falling into place for the trip. Nonetheless, for the first time in his life Bloom was seriously thinking about his own mortality. His time at the sheep hogan had begun the process. If he died in New York, any money he had left from the Scholder sale would go where? No need for money if you’re dead and no real family concerns, except now there was Rachael.
Most of Charles’ wealth was in his small Yellowhorse painting, Willard’s gift. The irony was not lost on Bloom. He decided it should stay with Rachael next to the Lendskip for safekeeping. He told her if for some reason he did not come back, it would be hers to do with as she liked. Just one caveat—if he weren’t able to stop the sale of STRUGGLE, then under no circumstances was she allowed to sell his Yellowhorse at Sotheby’s. “Take it to Christie’s instead. Teach `em for selling a fake,” he said. He attempted a faint laugh with his weak Sotheby’s joke, hoping to ease the serious subject of his possible death. But when he looked at Rachael, tears were streaming down her beautiful high cheekbones. His attempt at levity had failed miserably. Rachael buried her head in his chest and vowed, “No sale, ever!” Bloom’s own eyes filled with tears. He wasn’t used to having somebody care this much about him.