by Aimée Thurlo
“Did you catch the plates?”
“No, he went by in a flash and I was too worried about where we were going,” she said, her voice thick with fear and adrenaline.
“I’ll call Bidtah. That’s paint on the windshield. You can tell by the smell.”
“Maybe he can get prints from one of the pieces of glass,” she suggested. “Good thing it was a glass bottle, not a big rock...or bullets.”
“We’re both okay and the SUV is still in working order, so let’s take it as a win,” Rick said.
“Some win,” she muttered.
* * *
BIDTAH AND TWO crime scene techs arrived twenty minutes later. At their insistence, Rick and Kim stayed inside the SUV as they collected evidence.
“This SUV is built like a tank,” Bidtah said, coming over to them. “The impact of the paint-filled jar didn’t even crack the windshield.”
“Were any of the pieces of glass big enough to lift a print?” Rick asked.
“No. All we know is that the container was a twenty-ounce pickle jar—still had the label attached. But we did get a partial from the lid, which escaped being coated with paint except on the inside surface.”
“If possible, can you share your findings with my brother Preston?”
“I sent him what I have and will keep him updated,” Bidtah said. “One more thing. I took a close look at a sample of the paint, and there’s something else mixed in there. I could see the particles. They could have been small clods, I suppose, except some were porous.”
“What do you think it was?” Rick asked.
“My guess is either bits of pumice or corpse powder.”
“Pumice, I know about,” Kim noted. “We use it to clean the grill at the Brickhouse. But corpse what?”
“It’s said our skinwalkers dig up the bones of the dead, grind them into powder, then use that as a weapon,” Bidtah told her.
“Ugh,” she said with a grimace.
“There’s something else you need to be aware of,” Bidtah added, looking at Rick and then at Kim. “If people around here see you as cursed, or subject to being cursed, they’ll avoid you. People will stop talking and you’ll be ostracized,” Bidtah pointed to his belt. “That’s why my men and I carry a medicine pouch.”
“I have one, too,” Rick said, pulling it out of his pocket, “but I think it’s time I fastened it to my belt and made it easier to see.”
“Excellent idea,” Bidtah said, then added before leaving, “You should consider carrying one, too, Kim.”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
Fortunately, the paint was water-based, so after wiping away the paint with paper towels and bottled water from their emergency kits, they’d managed to restore enough visibility to make it to a trading post and hose down the SUV.
“I’ve decided to push my brothers into helping me find our foster father’s body,” Rick said as they made their way back to Copper Canyon. “It’s too late to follow a trail, but we know he left on foot, so together we can make some intelligent guesses concerning where he might have gone. Then we’ll know, once and for all, if he died of natural causes or if he was murdered.”
“Most of you have law-enforcement training. How come you never checked into this before?”
“We talked about it, but the truth is none of us was ready to accept his death. As long as there was no body, we could all hang on to the hope he’d turn up again someday. There was also the matter of accepting his wishes and respecting Traditionalist ways. We all believed, at first, that he had gone off to die.”
“Do you think they’ll help you look for his body now?”
“Yes, but it won’t be easy for any of us.” He glanced over at her. “Bidtah was right, though. If you’re going to continue to take part in the investigation, you’ll need a medicine pouch. First, we’ll get you the fetish of a horse. You can carry it in the pouch with pollen, a symbol of well-being, and a crystal, which stands for the spoken prayer. Together they have the power to make your prayers come true.”
“What a beautiful tradition.”
“That it is.”
* * *
SURPRISINGLY, ALL HIS brothers were in agreement with the plan to search for Hosteen Silver’s body. Kyle had also abandoned his trip in favor of joining in. Those who could attend met at the ranch house at nine the next morning, accompanied by Detective Bidtah, who, as a tribal cop, had official law-enforcement jurisdiction.
The two newcomers joined Rick, Kyle and Kim at the kitchen table while Erin was out feeding the horses.
“Rick, searching for our foster father’s remains is going to be very difficult,” Preston said, taking a sip of freshly brewed coffee. “First of all, no one on the Navajo Nation is going to feel comfortable speaking of the dead. That means establishing his whereabouts on that last day is going to be nearly impossible.”
“I agree with Detective Bowman. You’re not going to get any cooperation. There isn’t a crime to speak of, so most will see what you’re doing as disrespecting the old ways and the hataalii’s wishes,” Bidtah said. “If I were in your boots, I’d concentrate on the battles you have a chance of winning.”
“We can still question possible witnesses, and we will,” Preston said. “We just have to remain respectful and not be so direct.”
“Kim and I will try to retrace the likely steps Hosteen Silver may have taken when he left here for the last time,” Rick said. “I recall that he liked to go to the Totah Café in the mornings. It’s an hour’s walk from here, a short distance by Navajo standards. There’s always a chance that he might have gone there the day of his final walk, just to say goodbye to the café and his life here on Mother Earth. It would have also been easier for him to catch a ride there, too, if he’d decided to go farther from Copper Canyon.”
“Our dad walked off almost three years ago. The employees at that café aren’t going to remember much now,” Preston warned Rick.
“It’s still worth a try,” Rick said. “The fossil fuel industry in our state has grown these past few years, and a lot of oil and gas field workers take this highway to and from work. I’ve only passed the Totah a few times since returning, but there always seems to be several industry-associated vehicles parked there.”
In a somber mood but with a solid plan now in mind, they set out to find answers.
Rick and Kim were the last to leave. Reaching the highway, he watched beyond the fences that paralleled the road. “There are a lot of sheep herders around here. Perhaps we can find some to talk to.”
As the sun got higher in the sky, they saw an elderly Navajo woman sitting on a low hill, watching her goats and sheep.
“Let’s go talk to her, if she’s willing to speak with strangers. From the way she’s dressed, and what she’s doing, she’s a Traditionalist. Do not mention skinwalkers,” Rick warned.
“Got it.”
They left the SUV parked on the side of the road and crossed the fence some distance from where the animals were grazing.
The woman turned to study them as they approached, her eyes narrowed, but seeing Rick, she relaxed.
“Do you know her?” Kim whispered.
“No, but she’s probably heard of me,” he answered. “If you hadn’t noticed, there’s a scar on my face.”
He greeted the woman in the traditional way. “Aunt, do you have a moment?” Rick asked. “I’m the medicine man’s foster son. His clan was the Salt People, and he was born for the Near the Water People,” Rick added, referring to his foster father’s mother’s clan, then his father’s.
Normally he would have mentioned his own clan and that of his father’s, but those were unknown to him. Considering no one had ever claimed him, he’d never been motivated enough to find out.
“I know who you are, nephew,” she said with a nod.
“It was a sad thing about the hataalii. His medicine was strong.”
“Did you ever see him walking in this direction along the highway after leaving the canyon?”
“Many times. Then one day he stopped coming.”
“Does anyone else pass by on a regular basis? Maybe another Navajo on his way to work or an oil worker?”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” she said. “I visited with your father often because he was my friend. I also warned him not to accept rides with company men on their way to or from work. The days when we could trust people so easily were gone. He never worried, though.”
They spoke for a little longer, but soon it became clear she had no more information to give him.
“Thank you, aunt,” Rick said. As they headed back to the SUV, he added, “Let’s go check out the Totah Café.”
“What’s ‘Totah’ mean?” she asked.
“Where three rivers meet. It’s a place of rest.”
They made their way back slowly, careful not to spook the sheep and goats.
With Rick leading the way, they went in and out a small arroyo recently formed by runoff. Rick stopped to pick something out of the small ditch. “What a rare find! I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
“What is it?”
“A flint arrowhead, probably made for hunting smaller animals, like rabbits.” He showed it to her. It was small, gray, with one pointed end. “Flint is sacred to the Navajo. Our creation stories say it came from the hide of monsters that preyed on our land. It has power because of its hardness and its ability to reflect light.”
He admired it for another minute, then handed it to her. “Carry it with you. Flint brings protection against evil.”
She studied the arrowhead, noting two small notches toward the base, probably where leather sinew was wound, attaching it to the shaft of the arrow itself. The find had meant a great deal to him, yet he was giving it to her. “What a wonderful gift. Thank you.”
“We’ll get you a proper jish soon. That’s a medicine pouch,” he added.
They crossed the low wire fence, then were soon on their way to the café.
She thought of the qualities she’d always envisioned her ideal mate would have. She’d promised herself to find a romantic man who’d sweep her off her feet, one who’d bring her flowers for no reason at all...someone filled with surprises.
She looked over at Rick. This morning he’d surprised her by giving her something he valued, a gift far more precious than flowers he could have picked up anywhere. Today he’d given her a memory wrapped in flint.
* * *
THE CROWD INSIDE the Totah Café was sparse at the moment. Most of the customers were Navajo or Anglo oil workers who’d taken a coffee break between shifts. “Let’s ask around quietly,” Rick said. “I recognize the guy over there in the far booth, so we’ll start with him.”
As they moved across the room, Rick saw people glance at his face then quickly look away, as they often did.
From day one, Kim had been different. She’d never pitied him, nor made him feel different in any way. Kim saw him as a man—nothing more, nothing less.
“Donnie Atcitty,” Rick said, looking at the man who was wearing a tan uniform, handgun and badge on his shirt that identified him as private security. “Haven’t seen you since high school. Now you’re carrying a weapon and working for Sunrise Energy.”
“Yeah, I’m directing company security for over sixty company wells,” Donnie replied, offering them a chair. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he focused on Rick. “I heard you were back and I’ve been meaning to pay you a visit. You back for good?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan. For now, I’m staying at the ranch house with my brother and his wife.”
“I was sorry to hear about your father, Rick. He was a good man.”
Rick nodded. “We’re still not sure what really happened to him, so now that I’m back, we’re trying to piece things together. From what I’ve been told, he didn’t appear to be sick.”
“That’s Anglo thinking,” Donnie said, shaking his head. “Our people know when it’s time to die, and they leave so that the house will be safe for the family. The chindi can make problems for the living, you know that.”
“Are you a Traditionalist?” Kim asked him.
“Not me, but I’m married to a Traditionalist woman. The way I see it, it’s about respecting old beliefs. You can accept the way things are here on the Rez, or not, but you can’t change what is.”
Kim nodded slowly.
“All true, but before I can let this go, I’ve got to make sure he walked off on his own free will, Donnie. You get me?”
“So that’s what you’re thinking,” Donnie said in a quiet voice. “You may have a point. The old man made enemies, hataaliis often do, just like doctors or preachers.”
Rick nodded. “I found out it was pretty cold the day he disappeared, so he may have hitched a ride. It’s not unusual for an oil worker or truck driver to stop and lend a hand to someone on foot.”
“I’ll pass word among the crews and my staff via the radio net. But you’re talking years ago, and we’ve got a lot of new people.”
“I’d appreciate you giving it a try, Donnie. Here’s my telephone number. You can reach me anytime. If you hear from anyone who remembers giving him a ride, give them my number. Hosteen Silver wasn’t the kind anyone forgets. With that long silver hair of his, he was nothing if not memorable.”
Donnie smiled. “No argument there.” He stood. “Gotta go back to work. I hope you find the answers you need.”
After a quick lunch, they climbed into the SUV and Rick dialed Kyle and Preston. Pressing the conference call button, he told them about his conversation with Atcitty.
“By the way,” he said before ending the call, “do either of you know what happened to the rest of the books that were on the bookcase when I moved out?”
“You think the code’s in one of those?” Preston asked almost immediately.
“It’s a possibility. That’s why I’ve got to track them down.”
“Call Gene,” Preston said. “He took quite a few of Hosteen Silver’s books. He also made a list of the books we donated to the high school library.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to him.”
Rick called Gene immediately.
“I did take them, and read quite a few, but I didn’t keep them here. I stored them in a metal chest at the old cabin,” Gene told him, referring to the place where he and Daniel had first lived when Hosteen Silver fostered them.
“I’ll go up there and take a look. Spare key still under that flat rock?” he asked.
“Didn’t think you still remembered after all these years,” Gene answered.
“Hey, I love that place. I spent two weeks up there alone one winter break, remember?”
“I remember you burned up all the firewood,” Gene recalled, chuckling.
After ending the call, Rick glanced at Kim. “I’d like to go right now. Any objections? The cabin’s an hour west of here and north into the mountains. All in all, a very rough ride.”
“Let’s do it.”
He started to switch directions when his phone rang.
“Mr. Cloud? My name’s Larry Blake. I got your number from Donnie Atcitty. I’m calling about your father.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rick arranged to meet Larry Blake and a friend of his, Victor Pete, who’d also seen Hosteen Silver that last day. The site of the meeting was to be the parking lot of a well-known trading post just off Highway 64, a few miles inside the Navajo Nation. Just to play it safe, Rick had asked Bidtah to run a background check on the men. Both had come up clean.
The drive took them about twenty minutes. As they pulled off the highway into the parking lot, they saw two
men standing beside a pickup parked to one side of the lot. One man, an Anglo, was leaning against the truck bed, holding a can of soda in his gloved hand. The second man, a Navajo around five foot nine with a barrel chest, sat on the lowered tailgate, smoking a cigarette.
Rick pulled up and parked. “Stay alert,” he told Kim.
“You’re thinking it was too easy?”
“That, and I just don’t like the looks of these guys.”
“Oil and gas field workers are known for being tough. It comes with the job. I’ve met a few hard cases myself at the Brickhouse,” Kim told him.
“All the more reason to be careful,” Rick responded, stepping out of the SUV.
“Rick?” The Anglo came toward him and extended his hand. “Larry Blake. Victor and I gave your old man a ride that day. I remember because it was as cold as hell and he was just walking down the side of the road, real casual-like, his hair blowing in the wind.”
A long silence stretched out, but Rick didn’t interrupt. Anglos often felt uncomfortable during long pauses in the conversation and would begin talking just to fill the silence. He’d gotten his best leads that way over the years.
“From what I recall, he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing,” Larry said. “When I asked him where he was headed on such a crappy day, he said he had some unfinished business. He asked us to take him as close to Big Gap as we could. That being several miles from the highway, in the middle of nowhere, I advised him to let us give him a ride home instead. It was getting stormy, and whatever business he had would wait until tomorrow, but he just shook his head.”
“Where did you drop him off?”
“It was near one of the old oil wells about a mile from the highway in the Navajo Field.”
“Show me.”
“It’s about forty-five minutes away, south of Shiprock, but Victor and I worked the graveyard shift, so we’re done for the day.”
“Good. I’ll follow you,” Rick said.