the bible seller
R. Allen Chappell
Copyright © 2017—R. Allen Chappell
All rights reserved—Second Edition 7-18-17
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, including electronic media, without express permission of the author or his agent.
Table of Contents
The Mistake
The Bible Seller
The Quandary
The Hideout
The Searcher
The Autopsy
Diyin Dine’é
Fallout
The Vixen
Home
The Calling
The Quest
The Investigation
Up Country
The Nighthawk
Friends
The Fox
The Escape
Armageddon
The Fatalist
1
The Mistake
In his last few moments on earth, it was only natural that Benny Klee, now in his seventy-eighth year, should blame his truck for this final dilemma.
Benny considered himself an excellent driver despite not learning the skill until quite late in life. A frugal man who scratched out a thin living as a silversmith, he managed to purchase the used truck by way of a small down payment followed by the usual monthly installments. The car dealer proved to be surprisingly honest, not only in his representation of the vehicle, but also in the arithmetic involved in the loan. Located just outside Farmington on Highway 64, the car lot was first to catch the eye of anyone coming from the reservation. The dealer, understanding what it takes to stay on the Dinés’ good side, could even speak a smattering of the language. Benny Klee took to him at once, made his payments mostly on time, and eventually paid the truck off. Over the years, the old man maintained the vehicle as well as possible considering his meager circumstances. The wear and tear of reservation roads, however, ultimately took their toll. It was time, the old man declared, for a newer truck.
On his way in from Teec Nos Pos, in a pre-dawn drizzle, Benny was in search of a trade, a big decision for the old Diné, and one he didn’t take lightly. Older Navajo consider any sort of trade a form of recreation; they may take days to finalize a deal on a horse or truck or even an item of old-pawn jewelry. There was no doubt in Benny’s mind where he would take his business. The car dealer was still in the same location, proof enough for Benny Klee of the man’s ongoing dedication to a square deal. Benny, being unaware at the time, that this current truck would, unfortunately, be his last.
In the first gray light of dawn the old man crossed the New Mexico state line––the sage flats unfolding desolate and dreary as a misty rain pattered down, at times, even obscuring the shoulder of the road. Admittedly, Benny’s eyesight was not what it once had been; so when he saw the forlorn person with a thumb out, he didn’t hesitate to stop. He would soon be brought to the realization that an old man with a pocketfull of money should be more careful of the company he chooses…but by that time, of course, it was too late.
~~~~~~
It was still midmorning when a glum Charlie Yazzie looked across those same rain-soaked flats to a clearing sky. The troubled Legal Services investigator drew a deep breath and let the clean fragrance of sage wash through him. “Sage is good medicine for a Diné,” his grandfather would say after a rain, “especially for ills of the spirit.”
Maybe it was. Charlie didn’t consider himself a traditionalist, but the genes were there. He forced himself to take another look at the man, now lying sprawled on his stomach, in the mud. How like his grandfather the old fellow seemed. That someone could kill so harmless a person, then leave his body dragged into a tangle of greasewood, was beyond him?”
The cause of death was obvious, even from a distance. Clearly, the old man suffered several blows to the back of the head. Charlie guessed it was with the large adjustable wrench lying next to the body. The blood and strands of hair clinging to the tool were unmistakable. Apparently, Benny had been trying to get away when brought to ground. That there was still blood on the wrench, despite overnight showers, made it clear the old fellow had, most likely, been killed sometime around daylight after the rain tapered off. Charlie Yazzie had seen a number of dead people in his years at Legal Services. Death no longer bothered him as it once had, at least not to the extent it might a more traditionally minded Navajo. He considered himself beyond that now.
There were those who felt the investigator had grown apart from his people in some regards. He had been away a long time at university––longer than most who chose that path. Some wondered if that might be the why of it. Early on, even his Aunt Annie Eagletree thought so. “There is more to life than studies that go on and on,” she cautioned, afraid at the time he might become one of those professional students she’d heard about. Later, she would become inordinately proud of her educated nephew; after all, she would say, “A Tribal investigator with a law degree is something you don’t see everyday.”
Charlie’s peers at Legal Services would have agreed; they considered him a shrewd and often relentless advocate for the Navajo people. This tenacity of spirit brought its own rewards––no one could dispute that––the young lawyer’s rapid rise through the ranks was termed nothing less than meteoric, even by the occasional envious associate.
The investigator watched now as Navajo Tribal Policeman Billy Red Clay bulled his way through the underbrush and up onto the road. The young officer kept one eye on the ground, speaking softly into his hand-held, as he directed fellow officer Hastiin Sosi in his search of an adjacent area. Billy’s grim expression mirrored his disappointment. Charlie knew the young policeman’s impatience was directed inward: the impatience of youth, Charlie thought, yet admitted it might also be the reason Billy Red Clay had made his mark at Tribal…and on his own terms, too. He was the newly appointed liaison between Tribal Police and the FBI: a decidedly more attractive position since the previous senior agent, the arrogant Eldon Mayfield, was summarily posted elsewhere. Eldon himself admitted to being unsuited to the reservation: unable to connect with its people on any workable level. The former senior agent was convinced his considerable abilities would be more appreciated elsewhere. The man had known, from the start, that a posting to any reservation meant either a new beginning––or the beginning of the end.
The new man in charge of the Farmington division, Crime Scene Specialist Fred Smith, out of the Albuquerque office, was thought the perfect replacement. Most found Agent Smith more agreeable than his predecessor; this included the Navajo people themselves. Both Charlie Yazzie and Billy Red Clay agreed with the general consensus. Fred was a local boy, raised in San Juan County, Bloomfield in fact, and this made all the difference to their way of thinking.
Charlie still thought the name, Fred Smith, to be perfect for an FBI agent. A generic name, coupled with a forgettable face, made the man almost invisible, in his opinion. Not a bad thing, one would think, for a federal agent. Even so, few at the Bureau realized the man’s potential. Fred languished for some years and was nearly thirty-five, before getting this first big break––if being posted to a reservation, even as senior agent, could be deemed a break. Perhaps it was the comparison with his predecessor that caused his new associates to think him a cut above. Local law enforcement found Fred to be intelligent and sharply intuitive, friendly without being patronizing, and apparently endowed with a passion for his calling. In short, Fred Smith was thought to be a most valuable addition to Four Corner’s law enforcement.
Charlie Yazzie was in that camp.
“Find anything Billy?”
The policeman brushed at his uniform, caught his breath, and finally grunted, “No, Charlie, I didn’t.” He knew what his friend was thinking.
At the outset, Charlie mentioned bringing in Harley Ponyboy, who he thought might be helpful. Harley was one of the few real trackers left––widely known for his ability to turn up sign where others couldn’t. A person could be trained for the work, of course, but only a natural had that indefinable and elusive sixth sense. Harley was a natural.
Billy Red Clay looked up, plucked a last sprig of sage from his shirtfront, and then frowned, as though reading the investigator’s mind. “I’d have called Harley Ponyboy, you know, but he doesn’t have a phone, meaning someone would have to go fetch him. That would take a while.” He went on, “The FBI are most likely on their way already.” He said this knowing their people should have been there already. As good as the new interagency relationship appeared on the surface, the Bureau still was adamant that Tribal not disturb a homicide scene, at least not before their forensic people had a chance to work their magic.
The Feds held jurisdiction in all homicides on the reservation and, in the end, it would be the Bureau who took charge of this one. They didn’t mind tribal police securing the crime scene––were even okay with them checking out the area or interviewing witnesses––who better, after all, to sort out sign or interrogate their own people. It was all fine: as long as they didn’t muck up the crime scene itself. The Bureau would make its own assessment in due course. It was typical government thinking, as far as Billy Red Clay was concerned. He had seen it in the army as well: if you were an Indian you were assumed automatically qualified as a forward scout or tracker, but any final determination in a situation was to be left to a white officer. Billy’s experience as a platoon sergeant indicated this was poor thinking on the military’s part.
Navajo Tribal Police had taken the call early that morning and from their own patrolman, Hastiin Sosi, making it Billy Red Clay’s place to notify the FBI. He was, after all, the liaison between the two agencies.
Charlie only suggested they hold off a little, until Harley could be sent for, but Billy, in a rare instance of opposition to the tribal investigator, ultimately decided no.
“We owe it to Fred Smith.” Billy was a firm believer in protocol: something else he had learned in the army. “Fred expects to be notified as quickly as possible.”
The Legal Services investigator, knowing it was not his put-in, reluctantly agreed, and did not bring it up again. Charlie Yazzie himself had a long-running association with the FBI and it had not always been a happy one. He did now, however, look forward to a more transparent relationship with Agent Fred Smith. This, despite some lingering doubt as to how that might play out. He chose to remain optimistic but, at this point, still couldn’t help being just a little dubious.
Charlie was well aware it was by chance alone he was allowed to ride along on the call. Tribal Police Captain Frank Beyale sat in on his reciprocal training session that morning––Spousal Abuse––a reservation problem Charlie was well acquainted with from his caseload at Legal Services. When the homicide call came in, his early morning talk was just winding up. It was the captain who suggested Charlie might want to accompany Officer Red Clay.
Captain Beyale was aware the two were friends and thought the younger officer might profit from the more experienced investigator’s input. This suited the Tribal policeman just fine; Charlie Yazzie had been a confidant of the young officer’s mentor: Lt. Samuel Shorthair. After the Lieutenant’s untimely death, the Legal Services investigator became instrumental in advancing the young Diné’s career––at first only out of respect for Sam Shorthair. Later, however, Charlie came to realize the extent of the young officer’s dedication to his job and chose to continue Sam Shorthair’s interest in the young Diné. That Billy Red Clay was a nephew of his friend, Thomas Begay, might also have weighed in his favor.
Thomas himself was less than pleased at his nephew’s choice of profession. He did, however, admit the boy seemed good at it and eventually deferred to the general opinion among his immediate clan. They thought it might be a good thing for a family member to be in such a position: there were several among them who might occasionally have need of a wink and a pass from the law. Unfortunately, that had not been the case so far with Billy Red Clay.
The report said a passing tourist stopped to let his dog out for a run that morning, and was alerted to the morbid find by the excited animal. Patrolman Hastiin Sosi, just finishing up his shift, happened by only minutes later, and was flagged down by the distraught motorist. The man said he was on his way to a Durango, Colorado art fair when the grisly encounter came about. Officer Sosi took down his information, along with where he might be reached, should that prove necessary. After assuring himself the victim was indeed dead––quite clearly the case even from a distance––Hastiin Sosi remained careful not to approach the body closer than absolutely necessary, partially due to the Navajo’s inherent fear of the dead, but even more because FBI protocol demanded it. Officer Hastiin radioed Tribal for assistance.
2
The Bible Seller
The knock on metal was loud, leaving a tinny reverberation in its wake. Harley Ponyboy turned down the radio beside him and looked up from his baseboard painting. That door was on his list––loose on its hinges and prone to make strange noises when the wind was right. The little man again cocked an ear, paused his work and glanced that way, convinced now someone was indeed knocking.
The trailer’s isolated location made visitors rare. The nearest neighbor was the better part of a mile away and rarely seen. What the hell… Jake must be loose again…maybe even out on the highway? The mule’s life had already been saved, and on several occasions, by concerned passersby. Harley sighed, dropped the brush into a can of thinner and pulled himself upright by the edge of the kitchen cabinet. His back hurt, and he shrugged his shoulders a time or two for whatever relief that might bring. One foot had fallen asleep and he stomped the worn linoleum to get the circulation going. That mule is going to make me crazy. The animal could open most any gate should the mood strike him, or if he thought his dinner was late. Harley felt sure it would someday be the death of the lop-eared creature. Some higher intervention had thus far kept the mule off the roll of dead equines commonly found strewn along reservation highways––open range mostly––and the death count was high.
Still wiping his hands on the tail of his shirt, Harley limped to the door, tugged fiercely at the knob, then gritted his teeth at the irritating screech of metal on metal. He was left standing in the glare of the morning sun––already warm enough to make the metal door uncomfortable to the touch. Unable to focus after the cave-like interior, Harley shaded his eyes with one hand, leaving an arc of white paint just above his left brow, making him appear more surprised than he actually was. When he and his wife discussed setting the trailer, he had insisted the door should face east, right into the morning sun. She hadn’t liked the idea.
“It’s gonna’ make this trailer a lot hotter,” she said, but knew her husband’s more traditional upbringing wouldn’t allow it to be otherwise and was eventually forced to let it go at that.
Anita had been gone nearly two years now, and Harley tried not to think of her lest some evil come of it. She hadn’t been a particularly kindhearted woman even when alive.
Harley narrowed a cautious eye at the person on the steps––a girl, he thought––now turned toward the highway and possibly thinking no one was home. He blinked a time or two, surprised at so unlikely a visit, and unable to fathom what might have brought her there. He had seen local Girl Scouts selling cookies in Shiprock only the day before, but couldn’t imagine one venturing so far from town just to sell a box of Thin Mints. If she was a scout, she was out of uniform. The short red dress and elevated heels were eye catching, but somehow out of place there on the rickety front porch of an
old trailer house in the wilds of the Dinétah.
She turned and contemplated Harley with a boldness that unsettled him. Her small stature was deceiving; it was clear now she wasn’t a girl at all––hadn’t been one for some years, he guessed. Harley professed no particular skill in guessing the ages of women. He, in fact, knew very little about women despite his years of marriage. About the time he thought he had one figured out, he would be proven wrong, not just occasionally, but almost every time.
“I’m selling Bibles,” the woman said, patting her shoulder bag as she looked him over.
He felt the heat rise to his face and remained uncertain how to address this obvious intent to sell him a Bible. He didn’t want a Bible nor did he have money for one. Women made Harley nervous; and a female Bible salesman fell totally outside his comfort range. His mind stalled momentarily unable to come up with an excuse that didn’t sound foolish. Despite the red hair, the woman appeared to be at least half-Indian. She had almost no accent, leading Harley to conclude she might be any sort of Indian. He was about to ask if she was Diné, but she interrupted before the words could leave his mouth.
“Are you the man of the house?” She was aware men were occasionally rendered speechless in her presence and thought it might be due to her bold manner. She’d often found this an advantage. “Maybe I should speak to your wife?”
Harley glanced sideways at her, frowned, and momentarily lost the power of speech. They stared at one another. “I don’t have a wife no more,” he said finally. Then plucking up his courage, “And I do not need a Bible, thank you,” and then in a confidential aside, “I am not really a religious person.”
The Bible Seller: A Navajo Nation Mystery (Navajo Nation Mysteries Book 7) Page 1