Key Witness

by Sandra Bolton

  “We haven’t found Corazón or the Kansas vehicle yet, if that’s what you mean—still looking. And the Staties aren’t convinced yet that the vehicle the park ranger saw leaving Clayton Lake at four thirty was yours. They say the headlights were off, and it was too dark to tell.”

  “My headlights were off,” Abe protested, “because I didn’t want Jackson to see me leave.”

  Emily shrugged. “They say you are still a suspect. It was your knife.”

  “You know I didn’t do it.” He felt mounting anger and frustration. “You told them about the motorcycle I saw in the campground, right?”

  “Of course, but they aren’t convinced you saw Corazón,” Emily said.

  They cleared the table and he helped her with the dishes while Will and his grandfather talked quietly in Navajo. Abe paid her for the dog food, glad to be paying for something.

  Emily told him, as they sat on the steps after dinner listening to the coyotes’ mournful call and answer from the bluffs, that his presence had been good for Will. “There’s something about my brother you don’t know, Abe,” she said after a few moments of quiet, her voice lowered to a near whisper. “Don’t tell him I told you. Will’s gay. It’s not something he wants to share, especially on the rez.”

  The news didn’t surprise or shock Abe; nothing did anymore. It didn’t make any difference to him whether Will Etcitty was gay or not, as long as no one tried to make moves on him. He had crossed paths with homosexuals of both genders in the music business. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because this is a big part of the problems he has to deal with, this conflict—that he has to deny his true nature in order to be accepted—and I don’t want you to judge him on that basis if you should guess.”

  “What would happen if he came out?”

  “In our traditional culture, nothing. He would be accepted as a nádleehí, a two-spirit person, and he would play an important role in society. But with the coming of Christianity and the mission schools, attitudes changed. Now he would be ostracized, beaten up, or worse.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s his business, not mine.”

  She added that she had the weekend shift and wouldn’t be back until Monday morning around ten. Then Emily reentered the trailer to get her gear. She came back carrying her set of keys, snapped on her holstered gun, and positioned her hat. After bidding her grandfather good night, she left.

  As soon as the vehicle bounded out of sight, Will cornered him. “Let’s go outside and smoke some of your stuff.”

  Abe knew his pouch of marijuana wouldn’t last much longer, but pot seemed to relax Will and take his mind off drinking, so he agreed to meet him out by the sheep corral. He had just finished rolling a stick and lighting up when Will emerged from the shadows and joined him.

  The Navajo waved a key in front of Abe’s face. “By the time she realizes it’s missing, we’ll be gone.”

  Abe had just inhaled, and nearly choked on the acrid smoke. “You took that off Emily’s key chain? Are you crazy? She’s going to know.”

  Will held up the small key. “This goes to my Chief. I didn’t know which one unlocked the compound gate, so we’ll have to use bolt cutters.” He slipped the key into his pocket, satisfaction lighting up his face. “She won’t be looking at her keys unless she needs to get into the compound. It’s a chance we’ll have to take. Monday, after you get your truck back, we’ll wait till dark, then drive out to the station. I’ll sneak the Chief out and we’ll take off. I need my bike, and once we finish with our business you can just head on out to California, or wherever the hell you’re going.” He crossed his arms over his huge chest, grinning broadly. “Hey, are you going to let me have some of that?”

  Abe held on to the joint, transfixed. He felt dumbfounded, like he needed another hit. “Take off where? What business? What are you talking about, Will?”

  “We’re going after Corazón. Cops couldn’t find their own ass in an outhouse, and that includes my sister. We’ll find him. Are you going to share some of that or not?”

  “I’m not supposed to leave here, and you want me to help you steal a motorcycle and go with you to track down a potential killer, then just take off for California? Uh-uh, no way. Besides, the cops can’t find Corazón because he’s hiding out somewhere, probably in Mexico. We wouldn’t know where to start looking, and even if we did find him . . .” Abe shook his head in frustration. “What then?”

  Will began pacing, pounding his huge fist into his palm. “We’ll make him talk, kick his ass. Then we’ll bring him back here.”

  Abe was taken aback by the other man’s vehemence. “You’ve been drinking, right? This is nuts, Will. Here, I really think you need some of this to calm you down,” he said, handing the joint to him. “Why are you so set on getting him, anyway?”

  “Look, you don’t know how much I want a drink, Abe. I crave it—I’m on edge all the time. I’m sick, sick of drinking, sick of not drinking. My gut hurts; I’m broken. Everything I’ve tried to do is screwed. And I’ve got my reasons,” he growled. His hand trembled as he put the reefer to his mouth, but Abe saw how his eyes burned with determination when the end of the joint lit up his face.

  “You said you wanted to get to the bottom of things, clear your name; well, this is your chance. Are you with me or not?”

  Abe walked away, his hands clasped behind his head, turned around, and came back to face Will. “Damn right I want to clear my name, but we don’t know for sure Corazón killed Jackson, and even if he did, how do we prove it, and how does this get me off the hook? Another small consideration—where are we supposed to start looking for him?”

  “Think about it. You told me you saw Corazón’s bike at the campground when you left. They were in the pen at the same time. They hated each other, belonged to rival gangs. Don’t you think that’s just a little too much of a coincidence? He’s your killer, Abe. I’m willing to bet Grandpa’s sheep on it.” He sucked out the remnants from the roach, nearly burning his fingers, and tossed it to the ground, squashing it with the toe of his boot. “Where was Jackson going?”

  “Someplace in Arizona—Bisbee, I think. Bisbee, Arizona. He said he had a buddy there.”

  “Then that’s where we’re going. Bisbee, Arizona,” Will said, as if it were perfectly obvious.

  “We don’t have a name. We don’t know anything in regard to this buddy of his. And why would Corazón go to Bisbee for Christ’s sake?”

  “I don’t know. It’s our only connection, so it’s where we start.”

  “How the hell are we supposed to find this no-name friend of Jackson’s?”

  “It’s not a big town, sits a little ways off Highway 80 near the border. Shouldn’t be too hard to find a stinking Aryan skinhead out there.” With a faraway look, Will added, “I have some buddies in Bisbee. We can ask around.”

  Abe walked in a circle, then threw his hands in the air. “Okay, you can look up your buddies and ask a few questions. But what are we supposed to do if we find him? Say, ‘I’d like you to come with us, please?’ It’s police work, Will, and it will be dangerous.”

  “We’re not going empty-handed. We’ll take the shotgun and Grandpa’s pistol. We’ll work out the details along the way.” For maybe the first time, Will looked him hard in the eye. “Listen, man, you know that woman that Corazón knocked down when his gang of bikers rode through here? That was my grandmother, Grandpa Etcitty’s wife of fifty-five years. She had all kinds of complications from diabetes that made her weak and feeble. What kind of an animal would shove an old lady down in the street? Granma never recovered and died soon afterward. Emily didn’t tell you that, did she?” He crossed his arms over his chest and with a resolute look demanded, “Are you coming with me, Abe, or do I go alone?”

  11

  Abe Freeman had always been a quiet, peace-loving man and generally abhorred violence of any kind. In fact, when driving, Abe would go out of his way to avoid running into a butterfly or hitting a snake, turtle,
or even a tarantula on the road. But bullies and trouble had dogged him all his life. His mother had tormented the entire family, especially his father, until the man couldn’t stand it any longer. One morning his father left for work and didn’t return. Abe never heard from him again, but after his father’s departure he became the target of his mother’s wrath. Being small for his age and more interested in music than sports, he was bullied at school, and excluded from the groups of popular kids. He became a loner, taking long hikes in the woods and collecting insects and garter snakes that he made temporary homes for in the basement. He gathered beautiful rocks—solid, nonthreatening, inanimate objects that would never hurt him—and learned to cope with adversity by avoiding it.

  As an adult he tried to reconcile his life of isolation and loneliness by immersing himself in music. He practiced classical pieces on the piano for hours each day, then played jazz at night in the clubs. Abe was convinced he would never find anyone to love, that he would always be alone, until he met Sharon. She made him laugh, accepted him for who he was, and as his love for her grew, he began to feel he couldn’t live without her. But Sharon was gone as well. Abe shuddered at the memory of her emaciated body on the bed. At that point the morphine no longer had any effect on alleviating her pain. The doctor said she had a week at the most—a week of unbearable suffering—so he had given in to her pleas. It felt as if he were killing himself.

  Now he had become a victim once again, a suspect in a murder he hadn’t committed. At least, that’s how he saw himself—a passive, hapless, impotent victim.

  He had spent the last three nights tossing in sleeplessness, tortured by night demons. He could find no logical reason to do what Will wanted, except of course to prove his innocence. He felt certain Corazón had come to the park the night before Jackson was killed. If Abe and Will could show that Corazón was involved in the murder, he would clear his name. He decided to go with Will, for whatever good it would do, even though the decision went against every coping mechanism he had learned in life. And maybe that is precisely why he wanted to do it. Since Sharon’s death, he had only been half-alive, anyway.

  The hard part would be deceiving Emily. Lying did not come naturally to Abe. He preferred honesty, even when it hurt. Besides, he liked her. And now, right on time Monday morning, he found himself sitting next to her in the front seat of a Navajo Police Blazer, driving to Farmington to pick up his truck, and he was going to lie.

  “Remember, you need to stick around,” said Emily. “You aren’t off the hook yet. We might need your testimony when we get these guys, and we will get them.”

  “Sure.” That could be a long ways off, or never, Abe thought. If they don’t find the real killer, they may decide it was me.

  “I know you’re anxious to get your truck back. Drive it around out at the ranch, or even if you need to run to town, but don’t take Will if you do. It would be better if he stayed there for now, if you know what I mean.”

  “All right.”

  “Will’s not a bad guy, but if he gets picked up drunk again, or gets in another fight, it’s jail time.” Emily gave him a quizzical look. “Why so quiet? I thought you’d be happy to get your truck back. Did you bring your insurance papers?”

  “Yeah.”

  This continued—her asking questions, him answering in monosyllables—for the duration of the forty-mile trip to the outskirts of Farmington. The dun-colored landscape, interspersed with natural-gas pumping stations, gradually gave way to strip malls, payday loan offices, used-car lots, and pawn shops.

  “Farmington still isn’t too friendly with our people, but it’s better than it used to be.”

  “That’s good.”

  “This town’s a whole lot greener than the surrounding countryside, due to the fact,” she explained to Abe, “that three rivers converge here—the San Juan, the Animas, and La Plata.”

  They crossed the serpentine San Juan River and drove west until they were on the opposite side of town, an area of warehouses, welding shops, storage facilities, and more pawn shops.

  “Here we are,” she said as they turned into the A and B Auto Repair. “I’m dropping you off, but if you have a problem, here’s where you can reach me.” She handed him a card that read “Emily Etcitty, Navajo Tribal Police,” with her number at the bottom. “Your keys are inside the shop.”

  Abe stepped down from the vehicle, holding his packet of papers, and walked around to the driver-side window. “Hold on a minute, Emily. Before you go, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  She rolled the window down, a questioning look on her face. “What is it, Abe?”

  He hesitated, ran his free hand through his shaggy hair, and sighed. “Oh nothing, just wanted to say thanks for everything.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow. We should know Corazón’s whereabouts soon, though he may have hightailed it into Mexico. And when I get a day off, I’d like to make lunch, a picnic, and show you some of our beautiful country.” She pulled her vehicle around, pointed back to headquarters, gave him a wave, and took off.

  Abe answered with a feeble wave and a guilty conscious. “Shit.” He knew he was not only a liar, but that he would never even get the chance to say good-bye.

  That night Will Etcitty talked with his grandfather for a long time. The old man nodded solemnly, then beckoned Abe to join Will on the sofa. He went to his hogan, and Will told Abe what to expect.

  “Shinali, Grandfather, knows I have to do this and that you are going with me. He understands it’s a question of honor, and he wants to do a prayer ceremony for us before we leave. I didn’t tell him what exactly we will do or where we are going. That way he won’t have to lie to Emily when she asks.”

  Abe silently nodded, feeling ashamed for his part in the deceit.

  “After the prayer we’ll pack a few things and take off, partner.”

  When the elder Etcitty returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a bundle of herbs in one hand and a small pouch in the other. He lit the herbs, filling the room with pungent smoke, and began to sing in a scratchy voice. Will repeated the words of the chant, and as he did the old man scattered something from the pouch in the direction of the two men. When he finished he bowed his head in farewell and returned to his dwelling.

  Will told Abe it had been corn pollen in the pouch, offered as a blessing. He made it clear they weren’t supposed to discuss the meanings of the sacred items used in the ceremony, so Abe didn’t ask questions. He felt edgy and conflicted enough as it was.

  They filled a five-gallon jug with water from the spring, and packed cans of Vienna sausages, sardines, and crackers in a knapsack. Will gathered up his rain slicker, some leather gloves, and blankets and put them in the back of the truck. “I’m going to get the bolt cutters and the shotgun. Grandpa gave me this.” Will pulled an ancient-looking Enfield revolver out of a holster and showed it to Abe.

  Abe shook his head. “I don’t need the shotgun. I’m not shooting anyone. I’m going along to clear my name and to make sure you stay out of trouble.” Looking at Will’s gun he added, “Do they still make ammo for those things?”

  “Hell, yes. This gun has a lot of history. Go on, take the shotgun, Abe,” Will insisted. He donned his scruffy old cowboy hat with the feather. “Are you ready?”

  Abe picked up his backpack and a sack of dog food. “I’m taking my dog.”

  “What for? Your dog will be better off here.”

  “Where I go, my dog goes. That’s the way it is.” Abe went outside and whistled for Patch.

  They didn’t talk much on the trip to Huerfano. Abe concentrated on picking out the ruts left by Emily’s tracks on the now-dry road and tried to stay on course. Patch attempted to claim his spot by the window, but Will shoved him to the middle. “How do you think that would look? You and me sitting close together and the dog on the outside like that.”

  Shortly after ten o’clock on a moonless night, they reached the Huerfano community and drove by the compound.
Abe still didn’t know how Will planned to get his motorcycle.

  “Pull over there behind the school and turn off the lights.”

  Abe followed Will’s instructions, noting the near-empty parking lot. He scanned the few vehicles, but they all looked the same and he didn’t know if Emily’s Blazer might be one of them. Streetlights surrounded the compound, and he spotted Will’s bike near the entrance. When he turned off the engine in the shadows near the school basketball court, Will got out.

  “Take off, Abe. Drive nice and slow. Head southeast on 44 till you get to Nageezi Trading Post. It’s fifteen miles. Pull around to the back and wait for me. I won’t be long.”

  Abe let Will disappear in the shadows before he started the truck. He drove slowly with his lights off until he cleared the school grounds. When he approached the intersection, he felt an urge to turn west, keep driving, and forget everything, but dismissed the idea as a hopeless gesture. Instead, he headed southeast on Highway 44 until he spotted a small wooden building on the right side of the road. The Nageezi Trading Post, sitting slightly back from the highway, looked desolate and deserted at this hour. There were no other vehicles in the back where he parked, with the nose of the truck facing the road so he could see the highway.

  Abe rolled down the window and watched for approaching vehicles. While waiting, he drummed his fingers nervously on the dash, a composition from Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies coursing through his brain. Sporadic traffic sped past on 44—oil rig trucks, tankers, Navajo families going to or from Farmington. It seemed a long wait, but ten minutes later he heard a motorcycle engine slowing down and saw the single headlight.

  Will pulled alongside Abe with a big grin on his face. “The Spanish didn’t name us Navajo for nothing. Guess I am a renegade, even if they meant it as an insult.”

  “So, it was easy?”

  “Easy as finding a cop at a donut shop,” Will joked. “But we need to get moving before they notice the bolt’s cut. Guess Emily is going to catch hell for this one, too, soon as someone realizes my bike is missing.”