by Lakota Grace
“Thorn good for it?” Armor quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Of course not! She’s innocent. But now there’s a problem. She was supposed to meet with us here and turn herself in, but she left with Ben instead.”
I handed him Thorn’s note, and he read it slowly, following each line with his finger.
I frowned, not sure where to go next. If Shepherd hadn’t asked me to ferry her around, Thorn wouldn’t even have been at West Fork that morning. But we had to work with what we had.
“Armor, you know where Ben might be taking her?” Shepherd asked.
Armor handed the note back to him.
“Lemme think a moment. His Navajo side of the family lives in a small village, somewhere between Many Farms and Rough Rock out on the Rez.”
“Could we locate it?” I asked hopefully.
“Not likely. It’s on this little dirt road, no sign or anything. You have to sight off this notch in Black Mesa to center on it.”
“How long would a Vision Quest last?”
Many Native American tribes had a practice of sending teenagers into the wilderness without food and water in order for them to connect with their spirit guides and find their purpose in life.
In a way, it wasn’t surprising that Ben might suggest this to Thorn. He had a foot in both camps: studying enology at the junior college while disappearing for days at a time to take Sing lessons in his quest to become a Shaman for his Navajo people. Maybe this would be the short-version Vision Quest.
Armor immediately quenched that fading hope.
“Oh, three days, at least.” He poked at Shepherd. “Could drill some sense into that girl of yours.”
“Hell if I can. Her mother is going to kill me.”
Shepherd looked in my direction.
“Why’d you take her hiking in West Fork?”
“Why did you even ask me to watch her?” I retorted. “She’s your daughter. You should have been here for her.”
“You’ll never find her,” HT said in a monotone. He set the rocker to a jerky motion back and forth that heightened my stress.
“Dammit all, anyway,” Shepherd said.
He crushed her note between his fingers and dropped the ball to the floor. Then he paced on the worn carpet. I knew Shepherd. He was formulating a plan. Finally, he sat on a chair and leaned forward.
“Okay,” he said, “this is what we’re going to do. We need to stall that deadline for Thorn to turn herself in to Cooper Davis.”
“You want me to call him?” I asked.
“No, you’ve been too involved as is. Let’s make Myra earn her fee. Call and ask her, would you, Peg?”
“You don’t want to do it?”
He just looked at me. Guess not. I thought back to the bulldog conversation I’d had with Cooper Davis at lunch.
“He’d never agree to that,” I said.
“If anybody can convince him, it would be Myra,” Shepherd said. “And maybe I can contact Ben’s relatives on the Reservation, see if they’ll help us find her.”
He might be right. We were at the desperate-measures time. If we couldn’t retrieve Thorn and somehow get her to cooperate, there was no telling what charges Cooper could throw at her.
Armor didn’t like the plan.
“You should wait until Ben brings her back,” he argued. “You ain’t ever going to find those two up on the Rez. Places there so remote that they don’t even have electricity, much less cellphone service.”
“Besides, there’s weather moving in,” Isabel added. “With rain or snow, those dirt roads will be impassable.”
“We’ve got to try.” Shepherd wiped his face with one big palm.
I still had my doubts about the call I was supposed to make to Myra. There had to be another way to bargain with Cooper Davis for more time. If only we had a better suspect to wave under his nose.
“Perhaps I can talk to Jill Rustaine’s assistant, informally, and then get her to cooperate and release some information,” I suggested. “She’d know if anyone else had threatened Jill.”
I ignored the fact that Cooper had already talked to her, and in fact, I’d been ordered off the case. If we couldn’t find someone more likely to pin the murder on, we had three days, maybe less, before Cooper Davis would put out an APB, an All-Points-Bulletin, for Thorn.
Ben wasn’t off the hook either. The minute Thorn stepped off the Reservation, Ben’s motorcycle would be impounded, and both of them taken into custody. He’d be charged with aiding and abetting a known fugitive.
Unless we never mentioned to Cooper where Thorn had gone. And that would be lying by omission which had already gotten me in hot water. I looked at HT and then away. He probably knew exactly what I was thinking. Grandfathers are like that.
“I can’t get officially involved,” Shepherd said. “I’m a bystander in this one, because of my relationship to Thorn. But she didn’t kill that woman. She couldn’t have, not my daughter!”
The frustration of being on the sidelines was driving him to the brink.
“Shepherd, you go back to your office and start researching who on the force has connections with the Navajo Police. Maybe Thorn will call you if you’re there.” I stood and gave him a big hug. “It’s going to be okay.”
Or maybe it wouldn’t be. I stood there at the window watching him back out of the drive. Then I turned to my grandfather.
“Give me your darn phone. I’m going to show you exactly how to find Armor’s number, not just punch that speed dial button I set up for you. And then we’re going to go spade up Isabel’s garden.”
“Thanks, Peg. Working together, that’s what families do.”
It took us a while to clear the summer garden remains, the wilted tomato plants and zucchini vines from the space. I crunched them down in a pile to dry as HT worked steadily spading the bare earth.
A fall-acrid smell tinged the air, and I worked up a sweat. It felt good to release the tension after the day’s events.
“Why did Shepherd send his own daughter to jail?” I asked HT. “That doesn’t seem right.”
“You’ve got to understand the man,” he said. “You’ve only known him for a few years. I knew him when he was a teenager in this Valley. We’d take bets down at the general store whether he would end up in prison or dead first.”
“What happened?”
“Tough love. I didn’t think his stepmother was up to it, but she sent him to jail, said she’d had enough of his wild ways. He came home, cut out drinking, went to college, made something of himself. Maybe that’s what he hoped would happen for Thorn.”
“Maybe it’s different for a girl,” I said, thinking of her runaway with Ben.
“Maybe so,” HT grunted. He went back to his spading.
After we got the garden dug and received Isabel’s approval, I headed for home. I was almost to my cabin when my cell started dinging at me. I pulled over and looked at the incoming number. I didn’t recognize it, but the area code was identified as Colorado.
“What the hell are you doing out there? And where’s my daughter?”
It was Tabatha Malone, and she wasn’t happy.
“Shepherd’s not answering his phone. You’re next on my list and I’m putting you on notice.”
There was the snick of a lighter over the speaker and then the sound of a rapid inhale as Tabatha drew on a cigarette. Shepherd had sworn she’d go to her grave with one of the “cancer sticks” in her hand.
“Did he tell you what’s been happening?” I asked.
“Something about a murder and Thorn witnessing it and now the police are after her? Why isn’t Shepherd handling it? That’s what he’s good at, handling things.”
Her voice was screechy and fast-paced. Not that I could blame her, with her daughter on the lam.
“Tabatha, I’m sorry. I’m sure that Shepherd will call you back when he can. Thorn left for a little sabbatical. She’ll be back soon.”
“Sabbatical!”
It had sounded lame to me, too
. But I didn’t know what else to tell her.
“Look, she’ll return in a few days, safe and sound. In the meantime, you don’t need to worry. She’s visiting some of Ben Yazzie’s relatives.”
“Relatives!”
I was beginning to see the source of Shepherd’s headaches. I was getting one, too.
“I have an art festival to manage right now,” Tabatha said, “or I’d jump on the plane to come get her. But I swear to you, if she’s not back in three days, I’m coming out there. And Shepherd will be sorry!”
“I understand your concern. I’ll be sure to tell him you called.”
I hung up before she could blast me into the third circle of whatever Hell she had banished Shepherd to.
We had to retrieve Thorn from wherever she had run to, and fast. The heat was on.
CHAPTER 15
THORN MALONE and Ben Yazzie stopped at the gas station on the edge of Flagstaff in the late afternoon. They’d made good time from her father’s house in Cottonwood, about two hours from his door to the gas station.
Thorn was agonizingly stiff from the motorcycle ride and stretched while Ben fueled the Ducati. She used the restroom and then wandered into the mini-mart. In their escape, she’d missed lunch, and breakfast was now a distant memory.
She grabbed a bottle of Coke, a package of corn chips, a Mr. Goodbar, and a Big Cherry chunk. Her mouth watered as she approached the checkout counter.
“Hey.” Ben snatched the goods out of her fingers. “Don’t fill your stomach with this junk. Remember where you are going.”
“Mine!” Thorn grabbed the corn chip bag out of his hand, tearing it open and spilling the chips across the floor.
Ben knelt, picked up each chip and returned it to the sack. He refolded the sack and stalked to the back of the store, leaving Thorn standing there her mouth agape. He returned the Coke to the cooler, re-shelved the candy bars, and walked to the front counter, holding the Fritos.
“My friend tore this,” he said. “How much?”
He pocketed the change and tipped the corn chips into the trash. With one abrupt gesture, he poked the empty snack beneath a rotting burrito.
Thorn whirled and slammed out the door. She grabbed the passenger helmet, banging it against the side of the bike. Then she glared at Ben.
“Take me back to my father’s.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll go myself.”
“When you learn drive big-wheel machine?” He grinned at her.
“And stop talking Pidgin English to me,” she retorted, “you college-educated computer nerd.”
He laughed.
“If you won’t take me back, I’ll hitchhike.”
“Yeah and get picked up by the first cop who spots you. I’ll bet they’ve got a be-on-the-lookout alert on you already.” He glanced up and down the road, apparently looking for cops to prove his point.
Thorn decided to go along with it for a while. Anything was better than remembering how Jill Rustaine looked, sprawled on that forest canyon floor covered in blood.
Ben mounted the Ducati, and she climbed up behind him, keeping herself rigid, not touching him. That was until he accelerated the engine, and she had to grab his waist to stop from sliding off the back.
From Flagstaff, they took Highway 89 east to the Navajo Trail. The narrow road undulated over the rolling hills; Thorn’s stomach dropped at each dip in the surface. They took a rest stop, and once more Thorn slid off the bike gratefully. Motorcycle riding was harder than it looked, even for the passenger. She leaned over stretching her stiff legs. Across the way was a sign announcing this was Tuba City.
“What a stupid name for a town. In honor of the band instrument, I suppose.”
“No, for Tuuvi, Hopi chief,” Ben said. “When the Mormons settled here, they couldn’t pronounce it properly. You like Naneesdizi better?”
Thorn stared at him blankly.
“That means ‘tangled waters’ in the Diné language,” he said.
Thorn noted the sharp wind sending dusty clouds swirling through the unpaved streets.
“Water, where?” she asked.
“Lots of springs here in the rainy season.”
“How much farther?” She stamped her feet, trying to get feeling into her toes.
“Maybe another hour or so. Chinle is close. Then we’ll go through Many Farms, and before Rough Rock, take a shortcut up to the top of Black Mesa. I used to herd sheep for my grandmother there on summer vacation.” He lifted his head. “Smell that silence. It’s home to me.”
Thorn sniffed, but all she caught was a whiff of diesel and something squashed dead on the road.
“Whatever.” She replaced her helmet and stood waiting impatiently for him to mount.
They drove northwest from Tuba City across wide empty spaces. Barbed wire fencing marked the dividing line between this mark of civilization and barren lands devoid of moisture or cultivation. On the roadside, the ditches were green and rich with grass. On the off-fence side, the land was dusty and spare, returning to native scrub and cactus. The contrast was startling.
Thorn asked Ben about it at their next rest break.
“Why does the vegetation only grow by the highway?”
“You’ve got a good eye.” Ben looked at her approvingly. “After the Indian Wars, all the Navajo were rounded up and put on a forced march to Farmington, New Mexico. It was four hundred miles, on foot. Then, several years later the government declared it a big mistake. The Diné, the Navajo people, walked back. The line of people stretched out for miles: mothers, fathers, little kids, grandparents. When they got here, the government gave each family one goat, one sheep.”
He winked at her.
“Navajo good ranchers. Now we got too many livestock. They overgraze the land, kill the grass except where it is protected by a road fence.”
“So why don’t the Navajo just herd fewer sheep?”
“That’s a good question, too. But families are large, and times are hard. The sheep make the difference between being full and going hungry. You ever eat mutton?”
She made a face.
“It’s tasty. You might try it sometime.”
“I don’t think so,” Thorn said.
“Well, Flagstaff’s got lots of fast food tourist places. Maybe you belong there with the rest of the bilagáanas, White people.” Ben spat and shoved his helmet over his long black hair.
“Time to move. We want to be on top of the mesa before dark.”
“Is there running water up there?” Thorn asked hopefully. “I need to take a shower.”
Ben just looked at her a moment and mounted the Ducati. Thorn gave a big sigh and followed suit.
Although Chinle had restaurants, stoplights, and even a junior college, the community of Many Farms was a collection of ramshackle houses. Some were cookie-cutter government-built dwellings set close together with dirt yards and clotheslines. Other older buildings were finished in rough siding. There was one mission house and a combination grocery store-post office.
With one swoosh they were through the village. Shortly thereafter, they came to a dirt track leading to Black Mesa. Ben flicked on his turn signal although there was no traffic on the paved road they left or ahead of them toward Black Mesa. They were alone.
The Ducati fishtailed in the soft dirt and then the bike stuttered as it crossed hardened ruts left after the summer rains. Ben shifted into a lower gear, and they ground forward, sometimes covered with dust as the wind switched directions. It took them ten minutes to make the mile to the base of Black Mesa.
The looming cliff was a mass of rough broken rock, dark as its name. Other than a few scraggly sage and creosote bushes, it held little vegetation. High overhead, a turkey vulture circled in the darkening sky.
Ben pulled the bike to a stop and gestured for Thorn to slide off. He secured both helmets with the security locks. Then he pushed the bike off the road and into a small circle of old pinyon pine trees. He hid the motorcycle behind o
ne and used a loose branch to scrape out the indentations of the tire tracks.
“I want the bike here when I get back.”
“When we get back.” Thorn corrected him.
“Your Vision Quest, not mine,” Ben pointed out. “You stay, I go.”
There was no sign of human life, not even a contrail in the blue sky overhead. Just the never-ending wind whipping up a dust devil in the far distance.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Thorn was comfortable with the suburbs of Denver where her mom lived. There were sidewalks and supermarkets and snowplows, even, for winter streets.
“Look, why don’t I just stay with your family for a while?” she bargained.
“First place the law would expect to find you. Anyway, I don’t want to get my Aunties in trouble.”
“Come on. It’s not far.” He grabbed her hand and started up the path.
Thorn had never considered walking a useful activity. There was always her mom’s car or a bus. After fifty yards she was breathing heavily, and after a hundred she looked up at the cliff above them.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“Sure you can,” he said. “You have a strong spirit.”
That got her up another fifty yards, and then ten yards after that, on the rough path that zigzagged across the side of the steep mesa. Only when Thorn was positive she could go no farther, Ben called a halt. She dropped to a boulder and leaned her head between her knees, gasping.
Ben squeezed her shoulder and passed over a water bottle. Thorn grabbed it and gulped. He pulled it back.
“Slow,” he cautioned. “You’ll get sick, too much water.”
He smiled at her and rubbed his stomach in a circular motion.
“Air’s thinner, you lose breath sooner. But we’re almost there.”
He offered a hand. She swatted it away and hoisted herself to her feet.
“You ready?” he asked.
Thorn didn’t trust herself to talk. That took energy. But she nodded her assent.
“Good girl.”
Ben seemed to be reverting to a Navajo short-talk, choosing only the most important words to utter. Somehow that fit this strange land they were in.
The next five hundred yards and three switchbacks seemed to go easier. Was she getting a second wind or was Ben deliberately slowing his pace? Either way, Thorn didn’t care. She drifted into apathy, placing one foot in front of the other.