The Navajo Police SUV lay on the passenger side, the driver’s window down. He pulled on the door handle, but it had been banged up badly and remained jammed shut. Abe wriggled through the open window where he bumped into a log wedged into the dashboard. The cord for the radio hung limply out of the console, useless without a microphone. Everything was covered with mud. Just the same, he tried pushing a few buttons to see if he could get a signal. Nothing. The groceries he had noticed earlier were long gone. Abe reached under the seat and felt around until his hands detected a rectangular metal box, and pulled out the first aid kit, still sealed and undamaged. A shotgun hung behind the seat on a rack above the metal screen. He tried to remember if Emily had her service weapon holstered to her side. Not sure, he searched the interior, but came up empty-handed. Grasping the first aid kit and the shotgun, he squeezed out the window of the Blazer.
Because his truck remained upright and partially blocked by the SUV, it appeared to be in better shape. A glance inside the back window of the camper shell reassured him that, thanks to the weather stripping he’d installed around the tailgate and the seams of the truck, little water had seeped inside. His bedroll, backpack, and the rest of his gear were damp, but not soaked with mud. The twelve-pack of beer and recent purchases were still in plastic bags, undisturbed. Inside the cab, however, he discovered muddy water, branches, rocks, even a dead cottontail. Debris surged out with a rush of muck when he opened the door. After removing his keys from the ignition, Abe slid across the muddy seat and worked open the glove compartment. He had some cash stowed in that plastic bag along with his identification and insurance papers. These he dropped in the backpack, then looked for his knife before remembering the police were holding it as evidence. “Fucking knife.” He knew that switchblade deserved the blame for his troubles, not some crazy coyote. He rummaged around and found the flashlight, his marijuana still safe and dry in its waterproof container along with a supply of matches and Zig-Zags. Without hesitating, he dropped the flashlight into his pack, made a quick survey of the truck’s interior, then closed the door and hurried back to where Emily waited.
She had ripped her pants leg along the seam, exposing a jagged cut that ran vertically from an inch above the knee to midthigh. The blood flow had slowed, due to a temporary tourniquet she’d made from a strip of her pants and applied to the upper thigh. Emily sat upright, legs stretched out in front and her eyes closed. Her lips moved as she voiced syllables, the vowels rising and falling in a baffling yet rhythmic cadence. She stopped when he approached. “It’s a prayer,” she said, her voice soft but unselfconscious. “I was careless, didn’t pay attention, I showed disrespect. That’s why we had this problem.”
Abe didn’t know how to respond. Since arriving in New Mexico, his life had begun to spiral out of control. The strangeness he’d encountered here did not compare to the familiar aberration he’d experienced growing up in New Jersey. He had always felt different, but learned how to survive the crowded, run-down neighborhoods, the street fights between different gangs, his mother’s scorn and rages, the beatings. In his teens he rebelled with a savageness and finality alien to his quiet nature, but ultimately found refuge and a certain peace in music and long, solitary walks along the Jersey shoreline. He was in his late twenties and unattached when he met Sharon, a beautiful woman with cocoa-colored skin and the voice of an angel, and he fell in love with her. A dirty shvartzer, a goy no less, his mother exhorted before she told him to leave, that he no longer belonged to her. They had been together five years, the happiest years of his life, when Sharon received her diagnosis of metastatic ovarian cancer. Abe felt as if a knife had plunged into his heart. After she died he knew he would die as well if he didn’t leave everything behind, even his God.
Still, nothing in his experience had prepared him for the mystery of this place. Abe dropped to a squat beside Emily, laid the shotgun and backpack down, and sighed. “I brought the first aid kit. The radio’s gone.”
The policewoman regained her authority. “I’ll take care of this,” she said, referring to the cut on her leg. She took the medical kit from him. “Go back and get whatever is salvageable. You forgot the ammo in my Blazer. Bring it, so this shotgun won’t be alone. My service revolver, too.”
“Do you want me to help you with that leg?”
“I can manage. Now go. Another thunderstorm is headed this way. We need to get moving.”
He glanced at the sky, tranquil as a sleeping baby. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m paying attention. Now hurry.” She opened the metal box and rummaged through it until she found a package of antiseptic wipes and began cleaning the area around the cut. When she saw him still watching her she added, “I have this covered. Go on.”
It didn’t take Abe long to gather up the groceries and the rest of his gear. He made sure he had food and a container of water for the dog, then added the twelve-pack of beer. Abe didn’t know if the truck would ever run again, but he locked it anyway, and went to the Blazer to see what he could find. He noticed a metal compartment on the floor behind the seat. Inside the compartment he found Emily’s police-issue revolver and a carton of shells. He put the gun and ammo in the grocery sack, but could only carry so much and didn’t know how she would manage the walk. Abe slipped the backpack over his shoulders and carried the rest in his arms. The open cuts on his hands burned as he made his way up the embankment with his heavy load.
When he reached the top, Emily had finished applying antiseptic cream and had wrapped her leg tightly with gauze.
Abe dropped his bundles and sat on the dirt beside her. “Neat job.”
“I studied nursing before I switched to law enforcement.” She tossed him a packet of antiseptic wipes. “Clean your hands up and put some of this cream on them. I can wrap them, too, if you want. They must be hurting.” She searched through the first aid kit, found a bottle of ibuprofen, popped two pills in her mouth, and handed him the bottle.
“Want a beer to wash them down?” The last two days had been a nightmare, and Abe was thirsty as hell.
“Better not, but I’ll take some water. We need to start walking. Give me your arm.”
Abe shrugged, swallowed the pills, then took a swig from his water bottle before handing it to her. “Wait a minute.” He walked around, poking through the debris left from the aftermath of the flood. After helping Emily to her feet, he handed her a sturdy juniper branch. “Here. You can use this for support.”
During the first hour of their trek, they did not talk. Perhaps the aftershock of their harrowing experience had left them speechless. Wispy, white clouds formed horsetails in a now milky-blue sky. After circling to the back side of the mountain, they followed a narrow path fringed with sage and rabbitbrush. Small golden globes dotted the landscape as far as Abe could see. Broom snakeweed, Emily said, and told him to pick a bundle and put it in his backpack for her to use later. The muted brown canvas with its montage of gold and yellow, sprinkled with stunted green juniper and piñon, was punctuated by splashes of bright orange flowers.
Emily pointed to one of those plants with vibrant blossoms and dull green leaves. “That’s globemallow. The Navajo word means ‘medicine that covers.’ The Diné use the roots of this plant to treat every kind of sickness you can think of.”
Abe nodded in acknowledgment. His gaze encompassed the severe landscape. He had spotted only a few patches of grass and wondered how sheep survived on such meager offerings, in fact how anything survived.
“Let’s stop and rest for a minute.” Leaning on her stick, Emily looked back at the mountain, isolated and prominent on the high plateau. “The Spanish call it El Huerfano, the orphan, because it appears so alone. It is our mountain, though, one of our most sacred places, Dzil ná oodili, where Changing Woman gave birth to her warrior twins.” She turned to look at him, her face reflecting earnestness. “You think this is all crazy superstition, I know, but I grew up with this, white man, and wouldn’t live anywhere else. Whe
n a Navajo baby is born, the umbilical cord is buried in their place of birth, tying them forever to the land.”
Abe sighed. “You don’t have to call me white man. Name’s Abe.” He felt like he had landed on some alien planet. Spiny, prehistoric-appearing horned toads scurried across the path or sat immobile as statues on sun-warmed rocks. The blazing sun on his back told him it must be early afternoon. He wanted to drink one of the beers; his body ached from the weight of the load he carried, and his hands burned. Sweat dripped into his eyes and off his nose. Patch’s tongue hung out, and the dog didn’t seem able to rouse the energy to chase the occasional jackrabbit they scared up. Abe poured water in a cup and sat it down for Patch, then looked at the faded sky. “No sign of rain,” he commented, before pulling the tab on a Miller and holding it out to her.
Emily wrinkled her nose at his offer, so he tipped the can to his mouth and took a long draw. The beer, though warm, refreshed him.
They began walking again, her head held high, her back straight. She gave no indication she heard his remark about rain, or that she was suffering from the pain in her leg. Several minutes passed before she spoke again. “The land disarms you; sometimes it can be hostile, but if you give it a chance, approach it with respect and patience, it will embrace you. The storm that caused the flood was south of us, but it’s coming our way. If we keep moving we should beat it. We’re almost there.”
6
By the time Abe and Emily reached their destination, the pewter sky grumbled like an old man. On a high rise surrounded on three sides by sandstone shelves, a small trailer shared space with a traditional earth-covered hogan. The diminutive Airstream squatted near a grove of twisted cottonwoods, looking as settled in its environment as a sleeping armadillo. Even though the silvery aluminum skin had lost its sheen, the little trailer appeared solid, showing only a few dents and scuffs. Windows pushed open to the outside, and the aroma of coffee wafting through an open east-facing door indicated someone was home.
A pair of mixed-breed dogs, barking raucously, ran from a sheep pen located near the hogan toward the bedraggled arrivals. They quieted and shifted to wagging and wiggling when they recognized Emily. Patch and the pair of mutts exchanged sniffs and appeared satisfied that neither presented a danger to the other, and a gaunt old man showed himself at the door.
“This is my grandfather on my father’s side,” Emily said before switching to Navajo and addressing the old man.
Abe hung back, conscious of how the two of them must appear, and listened while the elderly Navajo and Emily exchanged greetings in their indecipherable language.
“I told him that the river of mud found us and took our vehicles. I said you are a friend and will be staying here for a short time while repairs are made. He answered that you are welcome to stay.”
If the crooked body were somehow straightened, the man at the door would be taller than Abe. A bright, multicolored bandana tied around his forehead held back flowing snow-white hair. Obsidian pinpoints peered out from deep-set, watery eyes. The old man’s nutmeg face, crisscrossed by thousands of timeworn wrinkles, resembled a roadmap of a busy city. The crevices mirrored the sunbaked and eroded land he called home. Blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and a leather vest hung loosely on his frame. He glanced briefly at Abe, then extended his right hand, the long, skeletal fingers embellished with turquoise rings, and lightly touched Abe’s fingertips.
“Yá at ééh,” he said in a strong but rusty voice, before casting his eyes off to a distant point on the horizon.
Abe nodded his head, and waited, not knowing what to do next.
“Grandfather doesn’t speak English,” Emily said as the first drops of rain began. “Come inside.”
Abe entered the small, crowded space, then hunched self-consciously on a wooden crate, sipping stale boiled coffee the elderly Navajo had proffered. Emily and her grandfather sat on folding metal chairs at a card table pushed against the wall, and conversed quietly in Navajo. The old fellow waited a long time before responding and, when he did, used few words. Abe looked out at the riveting rain, hoping Patch had enough sense to find shelter under the trailer. He jerked to attention when he realized Emily was speaking English again.
“There’s a bucket under the steps and a spring out by those cottonwoods. If you want to wash up, you can heat some water on the stove. There’s soap and a towel. My brother has some spare clothes in that chest; might be a little big, but they’re clean and dry.” She looked at his backpack, the bag of food, and the shotgun he’d leaned against the wall when he sat down. “You won’t need that,” Emily said, taking the gun.
“Here’s the ammo and your service revolver,” Abe said, pulling them out of the bag and handing them over.
“Thanks. What about that globemallow I asked you to pick?”
Abe gave her a puzzled look, then dug through his pack for the scruffy bundle of weeds. While searching, his fingers brushed another object, something unfamiliar under the beer, his harmonica, and damp clothing. He pulled his hand out and handed the herbs to Emily.
“Medicine. I’m going with Grandfather. I’ll be back later to see how you’re doing.”
The rain ceased after its short, dramatic outburst, and broken clouds admitted bright slashes of sunshine. After Emily and her grandfather left for the hogan, Abe went out in the newly washed air and walked away from the trailer. When he found a boulder that offered privacy and a place to sit, he reached into his pack and took out a small cloth pouch. “What the . . . ?” He pulled apart the drawstring closure. At the bottom of the pouch he found a small key and a folded scrap of paper that had been ripped in half. Abe examined the key, then unfolded the paper. Some numbers, now blurred from the dampness, were scrawled across the yellow notebook page. Thinking back, Abe recalled picking up the sack and hastily dropping it in his backpack. Jackson must have dropped this when he fell off the log. Abe continued staring at the key, curious about its significance, then returned the items to the sack.
Abe backtracked to the trailer to clean up. Emily and her grandfather had not returned, so he quickly undressed and scrubbed his body as best he could. He then put on the faded flannel shirt and cinched the baggy jeans around his waist. Once dressed, he tossed the dirty water out the door, laid his wet clothes on a juniper bush, and took another beer from the twelve-pack. Needing to walk and think, he headed down the trail and whistled for Patch. It occurred to him that having possession of the key might further implicate him in the murder, and he considered tossing the sack into the desert, or burying it—no one would be the wiser. He hesitated, holding the key in his hand, thinking it could also be a possible clue that would clear him. In the end he placed it back in the drawstring bag and dropped it into his pack.
He walked down from the knoll where the trailer sat and headed toward the cottonwoods. The inviting, silvery-green trees near the spring contrasted with the harsh, rocky terrain. The stillness seemed overwhelming, but when he listened carefully he heard a distant shriek, and noticed a lone red-tailed hawk circling far above him. “Probably thinks I’m a meal,” Abe said, sitting down on a boulder and causing Patch to give him a quizzical look. He remained there, sipping his beer, for nearly a half hour, listening, first to the receding hawk’s call, then to the silence. By the time he finished his beer, he knew what he had to do.
7
Emily and Abe sat on the trailer steps after their meal of Dinty Moore beef stew and Wonder Bread, watching the cotton-candy sky change from pink to purple. As soon as the old man retreated to the sanctity of his hogan, Abe told Emily they needed to talk. She had also bathed earlier. Her hair, still damp and smelling of yucca, framed her smooth face. She wore cut-off jeans and Abe noticed a clean wrap around one of her legs. “Your grandfather, he took care of that cut? Is he a medicine man or something?” he asked, thinking of the yellow-flowered weeds he had gathered earlier in the day.
Emily nodded. “Grandfather knows all the traditional uses of plants and ways to cure the body and the
spirit.” She held a cup of steaming aromatic tea, probably gathered from another local plant. “I’ve brought something for those cuts.” She took one of his hands in hers and extracted a small tin of salve from her pocket with the other.
As Emily held his hands and rubbed salve into his palms, Abe shifted nervously, aware of her closeness and her scent. “Put more on in the morning,” she said, once again all business, as she withdrew her own hand.
Abe thanked her, then took a deep breath before beginning. “Look, I want to clear up this mystery about Easy Jackson. I don’t understand why this happened to me. I know I left my knife behind, but . . .” He opened his backpack and pulled out the drawstring bag. “I found this in the bottom of my pack today. I picked it up off the ground when I gathered my gear before leaving Clayton Lake State Park, and forgot it until now. I think it dropped out of Easy Jackson’s pocket when he fell down at my campsite.”
“Fell down?”
“Yeah. He’d been drinking, and he tumbled off a log, hit his head on a rock.” Abe handed the sack to Emily.
“It’s hard to believe you forgot all this. What is it?” Emily peered into the bag. When she saw the key, she stood up and went into the house, returning with a clean handkerchief. “You probably left your prints all over it, no need to complicate things with mine,” she said, using the handkerchief to pick up the key. After examining it from all angles, she carefully wrapped it in the cloth and laid it beside her on the step. “Looks like a locker key, maybe. What else is in there?”
“There’s a piece of notebook paper. It’s wet and torn, hard to read, looks like a series of numbers.”
Emily unfolded the paper, studying it in silence. “Whatever it means, half is missing. When did your amnesia suddenly clear up enough that you became aware of these items, Mr. Freeman?”
“Couple of hours ago. When I gave you those medicinal plants I felt something unfamiliar in the bottom of my pack. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon—something Jackson said—‘I’ve got ahold of my key to happiness.’”
Key Witness Page 4