by Susan Slater
“I think you’d get it,” Ben said acknowledging the ten or so people around him. “Does this have something to do with the sighting last night?”
“See for yourself.” The man pulled the tarp back and Ben understood why the colonel had warned him about his digestion.
The mound in front of him had once been a calf—until it was mutilated. The skin around the face was neatly cut away, so was one eye and an ear. The wounds were bloodless—just clean, precision-perfect incisions including those around the anus. The young bull’s testicles were gone along with his tongue.
“Where did this happen?”
“Farmington area. Over by the Chaco Gas Plant. I run about two thousand head on a ranch over that way.”
“Has this ever happened before?”
“Between you and me?”
Ben nodded.
“About ten times in the thirty years I’ve been ranching. And it’s always the same, always happens on a night when someone sees lights or hears this giant whirring noise.”
“Could predators do this?” Ben asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not likely. I know that’s the story for the general public. But look for yourself. These cuts were done by someone who’d practiced. They’re perfect—here, see that? And here.” The man pointed first to the eye socket and then the rectum. “This here area is just cored out. These aliens would make hellish good veterinarians.”
“Is there someplace you can report it?”
“Local Farm and Livestock Bureau and my insurance agent. But I don’t want this to happen again. Now, you tell me, what can I do about that?”
Ben had no idea.
“How serious a crime is this?”
“Felony or misdemeanor depending on the animal’s worth. Cutting or marking an already-dead animal is considered vandalism.”
“Vandalism?” Ben didn’t think he heard correctly. “Yeah. Can you beat that? It’s treated as criminal trespass.”
“I suppose this animal was valuable?”
“You only lose the best.”
The man moved to pull the tarp back across the carcass. “I don’t know what good I’m doing over here but the news guys wanted to get some shots, broadcast from here if they can. I hear a fighter crashed out there somewhere. That’s an awful lot of coincidence, if you ask me. People report strange lights, a plane goes down, my calf gets cut up—say, anyone on the reservation report any mutilations? This sort of thing seldom happens to a singleton.”
“Not that I know of.”
But I probably wouldn’t know if it did, Ben thought. There was secrecy on the reservation. Something like mutilation wouldn’t be broadcast. More likely it’d be chalked up to the chindi and life would go on after atonement had been made.
“You know when the meeting’s going to be over?”
“It hasn’t started yet.” Ben paused. “I don’t mean to be asking a hundred questions here, but what will you do with the carcass?”
“Put it in the freezer until I get something settled with the insurance.”
“I wish you luck.” That seemed lame, Ben thought as he turned to walk back inside. Couldn’t he have said anything more cheerful or understanding?
“So what’d you think?” The colonel met him at the door.
“I suppose an alien theory is as good as any. The precision of the slaughter certainly raises questions.”
“I didn’t see anything out there that a good coyote couldn’t do.”
Ben looked up to see Ernie Old Talker motioning from the door to his office. The colonel followed Ben back inside.
“It’s my understanding that we may be dealing with loss of life.” Ernie motioned with his chin including Ben in the discussion.
“Let’s not be hasty, Mr. Old Talker. I don’t think we have anything conclusive, anything that pins anybody’s death on the crash of the F-117A other than the pilot.”
“Ben?”
“I think we should keep an open mind. At this time we know that Brenda Begay has disappeared and that someone, in all probability a Navajo man, was hit over the head near the crash site. However, we have no evidence that this person is also missing.”
“What should be done about them?” Ernie motioned toward the door, a slight twitch of his lips to the left. He didn’t need to give a name to the TV crew.
“I don’t see the harm in an interview. Maybe, Dr. Pecos here could set them straight. The Air Force has already released a statement. There’s nothing more for us to say at this time.” The colonel sat back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tommy had promised the Begays that he’d return, sit awhile. He wasn’t certain who would feel better—he suspected that he would be the one comforted. If he hadn’t answered that call and the two of them had gone for coffee … it was no use beating himself up over it. He only swore to himself that he’d find her, make it up somehow. But what if … no, he couldn’t even think that way.
Sam handed around cans of warm root beer. Tommy sat on the edge of a chrome plated kitchen chair. They had invited him to sit with them in Brenda’s trailer since Mariah was taking a nap. He felt Brenda’s presence—a vanilla scented candle on an end table, pictures from the elementary school, a dress hanging behind the door with the hem in pins. An elementary school picture of a young Brenda with short hair smiled out from the top of a bookcase. It seemed she’d just stepped away and he couldn’t shake the sadness that settled over him.
If the trailer was shabby, it was also neat and clean and spoke of care—the kind of compulsive thoughtfulness that made a home. Some women were good at that. Others? Well, he’d dated enough of the others. He concentrated on his root beer and tried not to think of what he thought could have been.
Mariah awoke and toddled into the room. The child was exceptional, Tommy thought, as she peeked out from her grandmother’s skirt. Perfect features just losing their baby-roundness—she was truly a miniature of Brenda. It didn’t take long before she had edged her way along the sofa to stand by Tommy.
“No ma-ma.” The eyes that looked up into his were solemn beyond their years.
“Ma-ma will be back.” Tommy fervently hoped that that wasn’t a lie as Mariah climbed onto his lap.
Brenda’s mother said something and Sam offered to take Mariah.
“She says if you don’t want her climbing on you to just put her down.”
Tommy smiled broadly. “It’s fine, really.” In times like these he wished he spoke Navajo. But he didn’t even speak his own tribal language. His mother had been a rodeo groupie. She’d given him the last name of the bull rider she thought was his father and had raised him in a Pueblo some sixty miles from where they were sitting. He’d stopped worrying about his heritage years ago.
“Brenda likes kids.” Brenda’s younger brother, Tony, had pulled up a matching chrome and plastic kitchen chair to the edge of a circle made by two sofas and a recliner. None of the furniture was new and the recliner sported a wide swath of duct tape over one Naugahyde arm. “She can’t wait until she’s a teacher.”
“She’ll be a good one,” Tommy added. “That’s why it’s so difficult to think that she just disappeared.” Everyone looked at the floor.
“She wouldn’t leave Mariah,” Sam offered. “I know that.”
“But what could have happened?” There was an edge to Tony’s voice.
Sam’s shrug said nothing and everything. They think it’s witchcraft, Tommy thought. No one offered anything and from that point on, the small talk seemed painful. They talked about Brenda’s plans to teach. Her mother was very proud of that. And then conversation moved to Mariah when she squirmed down from Tommy’s lap and disappeared into the narrow hall at the end of the cramped living room.
“I suppose I should be going,” Tommy said finally. “It’s probably getting close to Mariah’s lunchtime.” It was difficult to disguise his disappointment. Other than a nice chat, the visit hadn‘t produced one clue as to why Brenda might disappear—only a lot of reason
s why she wouldn’t.
“Da-da.”
No one had paid attention to Mariah’s return until she dropped an 8” x 11” gilt-framed picture on the floor at Tommy’s feet and plopped down beside it.
“Is this your daddy?” Tommy squatted beside Mariah and watched her head bounce up and down.
“Da-da.” A chubby finger pointed to a man in an Air Force uniform standing next to a fighter. He didn’t need to look closely to see that the close-cropped haircut and striking features belonged to someone he knew—and might envy just a little. Almost too handsome—wasn’t that what his mother had always said? Tall, light-skinned—wasn’t his nickname, Mr. Hollywood?
“Ronnie Cachini.” He hadn’t meant to say the name out loud. He remembered when he’d heard that Brenda was pregnant and Ronnie was the father—almost four years ago—he’d wondered then about the two being together.
They seemed to have such different values. Ronnie had always been the daredevil and there had been lots of girlfriends—with broken hearts, Tommy supposed. But what about Brenda? If she kept a picture, was she still in love with him? Had she ever been? But Mariah seemed to attest to that. He stood and hoped the sick feeling in his stomach wouldn’t spread.
“Has he been notified about Brenda’s disappearance?” Tommy asked Sam.
“Doubtful. He doesn’t come around much. I guess he was here one Christmas. But they’re not married or anything. Anyway, he’s stationed in Germany,” Sam added.
“I see.”
And there didn’t seem to be anything more to say. Tommy picked up Mariah and hugged her and promised to come back. Then he said good-bye to Brenda’s mother. He stood for a moment on the doorstep and looked at the packed sand front yard. Desolate. Wasn’t that a good word for it? Ronnie Cachini would never live out here. But Tommy Spottedhorse would. And then it struck him maybe Brenda wanted to get away. He shuddered. His grandmother would say someone had just walked on his grave.
+ + +
Forty-eight hours had never seemed like such a long time before. But like they taught you in school, the longer the elapsed time between crime and capture, the more difficult it became to reach conclusions. Tommy had talked his supervisor, Leonard Tom, into letting him continue as investigator. Things were quiet and there was pressure to solve this one. Anything that happened this close to home involving human life took precedence over missing livestock or the occasional break-in.
There seemed to be such a lack of evidence, he couldn’t help but think there was something right under his nose, something he’d missed—or maybe he just hadn’t asked the right questions of the right people. And that included Colonel Hap Anderson and Colonel Bertrand. Tommy needed to “touch base” as they say. The colonel probably had the lab reports back by now. He bristled at having to talk with Colonel Anderson, but the man was in charge. In his own mind, Tommy tied Brenda’s disappearance with the crash of the F-117A. But did the colonel? Somehow he doubted it. The hair ribbon proved she was out there. Was the military trying to duck responsibility?
The question was should he call first or just show up? It was a long drive but Tommy didn’t have anything else to do. He turned onto Interstate 40 and headed for Albuquerque.
+ + +
Tommy noticed it immediately—the guarded, less than warm welcome even though the colonel said, “Call me Hap” as Tommy stepped into his office. He’d been the last person the man wanted to see. Tommy was sure of that. Civility was strained. And Colonel Bertrand was nowhere to be seen—Hap seemed to have accepted full responsibility of the investigation.
“I suppose you’re interested in our progress to date as to probable cause of the crash.”
Tommy nodded. The man was more into posturing—perching on the edge of the desk with a leg swinging free, periodically brushing fingers through his short curls—than answering questions. There was a distinct scent of old testosterone in the room. And maybe he should put feelings aside and play along with the good old boy act, butter the guy up, show him he played for the same team—but he didn’t. He hated this kind of man who probably abused his power and was compelled to act superior to others.
“Well, at this point it’s too early to be definitive. I can say that only one body has been recovered—that of the pilot.”
Tommy sighed. But hadn’t he known that, felt that Brenda was alive?
“Was the pilot an experienced man?”
“Ten years in. An up-and-comer from what I’m told with a bright future serving his country.”
“I’m sorry …”And he was. Tommy felt for the family that would have to be told. Maybe a wife and children left without a father.
“Losing a man never gets easy. I don’t care how much combat you see.” The colonel paused, toying with a pencil. “We suspect that the crash was caused by pilot error. The man was testing state-of-the-art electronics, first time out, in fact, and it’s possible that something went wrong—something that would have made the plane unmanageable.”
“Any idea why he didn’t eject?”
“First inclination of a good pilot is to save the aircraft if he can. There’s every indication that the pilot felt he could land and do just that.”
“The explosion occurred after he landed?”
“It would appear so.”
“Is that normal? Maybe, that’s not the right word.”
“There’s nothing normal about losing a pilot and craft in any situation.”
Tommy chose to ignore the colonel’s testiness. He changed the subject.
“Have you found the Navajo to be cooperative? Given that a member of the tribe has disappeared?”
“Yes.” The colonel abruptly stood. “I feel like I’m wasting your time. I can guess why you’re here. I’m afraid I can’t be helpful with the Begay woman. But there’s no reason to think her disappearance is in any way connected with the crash.”
“I know that the hair ribbon found at the site belonged to her—and the truck—those are two strong connections.”
“There could be a hundred explanations—none linked to the crash.”
“Coincidence seems pretty convincing.” But it was useless talking to the colonel. The interview was over. Tommy stood. “Is there information on the F-117A? Some brochure, maybe? I want to get the facts right when I report to Mr. Old Talker.” The colonel was trying his best to dismiss him. Tommy wasn’t sure what he’d come for, but he knew he didn’t have it.
“Yes, yes. Give me a moment.” Colonel Anderson walked around the desk, pushed the intercom button and barked an order to someone at the other end. “Sgt. Farley will have a package for you on your way out. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?” The smile was back in place.
“What was the pilot’s name?” Tommy had almost forgotten to ask.
The colonel quickly shuffled through a stack of papers. “Just checking to see if next-of-kin have been notified. Yeah, we’re clear on that. The pilot was an Arthur Ronald Cachini.”
Tommy started, his thoughts tumbling over one another. Ronnie Cachini. Brenda and Ronnie.
“Cachini sounds like an Indian name. I believe someone said that he’s from New Mexico. Don’t suppose you knew him?”
“Better than that. Ronnie Cachini is the father of Brenda Begay’s child. Now, tell me that these investigations aren’t related.” Tommy was instantly sorry that he’d sounded so triumphant when he caught the hardness in the colonel’s icy stare. He was a poor loser on top of everything else.
“What are you saying?”
“That Brenda Begay was romantically involved with this pilot at one time. I don’t think they’ve been in touch recently but he’s visited before. And he is the father of her child.”
The colonel walked to the one window in the room and stood with his back to him. He was quiet for a long time.
“What’s your read on all this?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know really. But I’m not sure I believe in coincidence of this magnitude. There was no good re
ason for Brenda to be on that road if it can even be called that. Why would she take that way home if she didn’t have a reason?”
“Are you saying that some kind of rendezvous was planned? A ten-year man is going to crash-land an F-117A out in the middle of nowhere to see his girlfriend?” the colonel exploded.
Tommy realized how preposterous it sounded. And he realized how much he didn’t want to believe it. But where was Brenda now? If there was a meeting planned—maybe he was only going to fly over low at a certain time—but instead she saw the crash, the death of Mariah’s father—it would have been devastating. But why would she disappear?
“The crash could have been a mistake. Maybe he just wanted to say hello,” Tommy suggested.
“Wiggle the wingtips of a forty-six million dollar fighter just to impress some broad on the ground … risk his life and lose it?”
“That’s not unheard of There was an incident just a few years ago involving some guys mooning each other at—”
“I know about that incident,” the colonel barked.
“Well?” My God, the man was snappish. “It proves that my theory could be correct.”
“I really don’t think so, Mr. Spottedhorse. And I don’t want to hear about that theory on the news tonight. All the speculation stays in this room because it is just that. There’s not one shred of evidence that what we’re saying is even remotely true.”
“Come up with something better.”
“I don’t believe that’s my job. I am in charge of the investigation into the crash of an F-117A and the death of its pilot—no more, no less. I don’t give a big rat’s ass about your Brenda Begay, who just might have been obstructing Air Force testing that night.”
“That’s ludicrous.”