by R. S. Scott
“Don’t do that,” Karen snipes at me as we continue to the door.
“Hello. Is Richard Nelson here, please? We’d like to speak with him.” Karen talks with a small woman answering the door in Navajo. She is dressed in old torn clothes and motions her in, Karen smiles. “You stay out here, she’s old school Navajo. Knows only the simple English words and won’t speak to you. Keep a look out, see what you can find,” Karen says as she disappears into the house.
“Why am I the one to always stand outside?” I say.
In the distance, I see a small mound, perhaps a cooking pit. The magnificent cedar trees stand defiant and dead as the wind howls wildly. There are several paths up the massive lava butte, rolling hills and trees block its visibility. Not far from the house are two poles dug into the ground. There is dried blood on one of the poles. I glance at the sheep corral with its door wide open. There is a smaller lava butte situated in the middle of the Nelson compound. Several other houses surround it. All seem deserted and deathly quiet.
I walk to the sheep corral and inspect. The corral door has sat in the same position for weeks. It would appear as though the wind has erased prints and formed small dunes behind the gate. The sheep are long gone. I walk back to the two poles by the main house. The blood is days old. Remnants of sheep excrements lay around with a dried sheep pelt hanging from the side of a storage shed. I look around for the sheep’s head. The pelt is old and dry, lifeless. I walk up to the base of the small lava butte centrally located on the Nelson compound. The air turns thick and murky, like trying to breathe underwater. There is a massive clearing behind the small butte. Enclosed by more buildings, all seem empty and quiet, most with weathered roofs and uprooted foundations. No sign of dogs or other pets, not even the sound of crickets.
I locate a strange site, a pile of wet dirt neatly and carefully formed into a cone-shaped mound, “What the hell is that?” I approach the unordinary feature. There is no ash signifying a cooking pit. The small hill looks freshly dug. Perhaps days ago. There’s nothing natural about it as it sits in the middle of what seems like a vehicle parking area. An odd place to situate an earthen mound.
I walk back to the barn. Beside the barn, the earth moves up and down. “A basement,” I mumble to myself. The barn is chained up. I peer inside. It is dark with nothing visible. I continue my stroll past the bloodied poles toward the paths up the butte. The air stinks of organic rot as my soul cringes. I glance behind me as I slowly make my way toward the two paths up the massive butte.
Again I feel someone behind me, someone with evil intentions. I pull my pistol and turn. Nothing. I turn again toward the other direction, ready to shoot. Still nothing as the wind howls overhead through the dead trees. I rub the back of my head as I holster my pistol. “Just last week I was graduating, now I’m in this mess.”
“Steve,” Karen says walking toward me. “She’s given us permission to look around, but she won’t come out of the house.”
“Why not?”
“Scared, I think.”
“Whatever magic they deal in, I can feel it. Something keeps touching me on the back of my neck. This place is creepy as hell.”
“Yeah. Find anything?”
“Not really. The sheep corral’s been empty for a while as well as the horse corral. The hay is rotted and old,” I tell Karen.
“She says the sheep were sold. All except for a few which they butchered and ate.”
“Why sell? That’s a huge sheep corral,” I point at the corral. “That’s several hundred heads easy.”
“They shipped them off to the Monroe house as payment for the Yazzies.”
“Payment?” I ask.
“Yes, for the crystal gazer. It seems they ran out of money and started shipping off their sheep and horses. They have no cattle. The grazing permit they have doesn’t allow horses or cattle. But they had horses. The Monroes ended up with the sheep somehow.”
“A family of witchdoctors seeking out the services of a crystal gazer?” I observe, “Something went wrong there.”
“The Nelsons didn’t bring in the crystal gazer but ended up paying the Monroes a lot of sheep for whatever it is associated with. Something has gone wrong in their world. What else did you find?”
“So over in that storage barn, whatever it is has a basement to its west end next to it. The covering isn’t very good, but it’s there. There’s a sheep pelt there but no head to go with it. There are some goat feet at that dead tree. Then there’s that mound over there.”
Karen doesn’t bother to look at the earthen mound. “Snakes.”
“What?”
“Rattlers. Let’s go. Snake magic to make more bad magic. This place is just wrong,” she says. We get into our patrol vehicle and leave in a dusty roar.
“Can we talk to the crystal gazer? Whoever he is?” I inquire.
“The Yazzie father is…not as corrupt as others, but he’s crossed the line before. Jeremy shot his son at the graveyard. Maybe it’s not surprising. He was picked up in Winslow after a bar fight a year ago. He scared the shit out of one of the jailers there who was just doing his job.”
“What’d he do? This Ken Yazzie?” I fumble through scribbled notes. “He’s related to the Monroes isn’t he? Daryl and his crew.”
“He is. So he tells the jailer the exact day his mother died two years back. The exact day and the year as well as the type of cancer, and then went on to tell him his uncle died the previous year. He told him the name of his teddy bear as a kid, and then spurted out to him that he would die in three years in late November, the Monday before Thanksgiving. And, that it would be a horrible slow painful death on that exact day.”
“That’s not cool. That’s damn rude.” I observe.
“The deputy freaked out and let him go.”
“Just like that?” I ask.
“Those Yazzies shouldn’t drink. He was hauled in for urinating in public. Seems a bit harsh to do all that just because you’ve been caught pissing in a rose bush in front of a cathedral.”
“That’s the Catholic church?”
“Yup, damn Romans. We need to figure out who this other new guy is, the crystal gazer. Why in the world would the Nelsons unload that many sheep for whatever he did? It can’t be Ken. He’s not important enough to spook the Nelsons.” We drive for several miles. “Nobody unloads that many sheep like that.”
Officer Jeremy Bennett is a tall figure according to his personnel sheet. A Marine veteran of the First Gulf War, he completed three tours in Iraq and a stint in Panama. He speaks perfect Navajo, deadly with any firearm, and is well respected by his colleagues.
“So you’re the rookie. How are your drawers?” Jeremy smiles at me sarcastically. “Right out of the academy and straight into this hell. I hope you have the stomach for it.”
“I hope so, too,” I smile studying the many pictures on his wall. “Is that Iraq?”
“Yes. We came in with blazing guns, and they did nothing. Just threw down their rifles and ran,” Jeremy says.
“Very cool,” I nod.
“You’re a bit young? How old are you, Kid?” he studies my reaction.
“Old enough. Don’t call me that. I hate that,” I continue studying his photographs.
“Fair enough, Officer Keller. I hear you’ve been snooping around the Nelson compound. It’s not the first place on my list of locations to visit.”
“Yes, it was a bit awkward asking the old woman to step outside the house.”
He glares at me smiling.
“But I can be persuasive if need be,” I nod.
“What do you know about the dark arts?” Jeremy fiddles with his pen. “The dark ways.”
“I’m learning as I go, I guess.”
“You guess? This isn’t like learning on the job, Son,” Jeremy says.
“I guessed that much,” I say.
“You’re guessing too much, Keller,” he scribbles on his notepad.
“It seems like you’re guessing, too. I’ve read about you.
Lots of interesting stuff.” I continue my gaze at the decorated wall. “Is that Tokyo?”
He looks up from his notepad to gaze in my direction.
“Don’t call me ‘Son’ either,” I continue, “I hate that.”
“This isn’t exactly training is it, Kid?”
“No, it isn’t,” I say.
“What do you know about the Nelsons and what’s going on in that area?”
“A bunch of Navajos, being overly enthusiastic with what they’ve learned and with what they think they can do, or exert their influence as far as they can muster.”
“And?” Jeremy presses.
“They’ve killed some people, or I’ve heard they have.”
“You’ve a lot to learn, Keller.”
“Or so I’ve been told,” I return his demeanor.
He gazes at me then grips his pen a bit tighter than before.
“I may be new, but I can see a man out of his elements when I see one,” I say.
“Indulge me, Keller,” he smiles. “Batter up.”
“You’re scared. I can see it on you,” I tell him.
He laughs. “You’re excused, Keller. There’s the door.”
“You’re scared because they beat you. They beat you at your own game, on your field, on your conditions, and you folded,” I continue.
“Keller,” he stands up from his chair. “I did not fail, do you hear me? I did not fail.”
I am silent for a brief moment. “The Nelsons still hold their ground, do they? Half of them sit behind bars but still their influence moves forward. The Monroes still stand defiant with the Pastor withering away. Those two families are at the center of the murdered Chief of Police. All this time and little progress has been made with you standing to be praised. There’s a lot of wrong with that.”
He grins. “Keller, I sure do hope you know what you’re talking about regarding the Nelsons and the Monroes. Have you talked to Old Man Taylor yet?”
“I’ve heard about him, but haven’t talked to him yet,” I say.
“Put it on your calendar, and do it soon,” Jeremy waves his pen.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
“Keller, make sure you do,” he returns.
“I’ll remember you told me, thanks,” I stroll about his office.
He laughs again, a strained laugh. “You might want to drop the attitude. We’re officers of the law here.”
“You instruct an attitude correction, but still exert it out yourself with unparalleled execution,” I say. “You act the senior officer not as a veteran teaching a rookie, but more like an unruly dictator instructing his subjects. You are your own worst problem with what you utter. Perhaps that is why they beat you.”
“I was not beaten!” Jeremy raises his voice.
“Perhaps it is pride that is your problem. Something as simple as pride,” I gesture at his photographs. “Is that Paris?”
“We just met, Officer Steve Roan Keller, and you come into my station and tell me what my problems are and get mouthy?”
“I’ve read your reports,” I say.
“And?”
“I’m not sure I can trust you, that’s all,” I say.
“If you don’t, then don’t, I don’t care.”
“Fine. That works. Have a good day,” I exit Tolani Lake station and head back to the patrol vehicle.
“So, you met Jeremy,” Karen sits smiling. “What do you think?”
“He says it wasn’t his fault,” I tell Karen.
“What? What’s that mean? What did you talk about?”
I glare at Karen. “From what I’ve read, he took it upon himself to go after who he deems as the killer when even he is not sure who is really behind all of it. Is this a coordinated operation or is it not? Why is he doing all this by himself? He staked out the graveyard, by himself. Why would an officer do that? Did he call you for backup? Did he call anybody for backup?”
Karen’s smile sinks quickly. “We heard about it, but we were short staffed. Now that you’re here, we’ve got others coming in, we’re getting positions filled, and we can handle things a bit better.”
“He takes on the Nelsons and Monroes, by himself, knowing who they are and what they can do, and he goes in by himself? And why are the feds involved? Why the hell are the FBI out here? The hell do they want?”
Karen sits silently for a moment. “This is a real-world situation here. Things don’t always go as well as they should from the perspective of one just out of training where rules are learned as black and white. Out here some rules just don’t apply. Others have no rules to govern them.”
“Is that an excuse?” I ask her.
“Look! Old Man Taylor visits the station, every couple of days, brings his tequila and drinks and tells stories! We let him, are you going to arrest his ass for that now? What would that do for you or for him and his kids? Arresting an old man for trying to live out his days as he wants? We’re his only company. You have to understand that. His kids are off the in the city, he’s alone.” We share an awkward silence. “I guess some procedures are bent to fit things out here. Some things just don’t fit textbook situations.”
“I don’t see how someone like Jeremy can let things get out of hand like they have,” I say. “I’ve read his reports. He’s reckless—dangerously reckless—if I understand the Nelsons and Monroes as I think I do.”
“Jeremy does what he needs to do.” Karen is strangely silent.
We sit in silence. I turn to Karen. “I’m a bit confused. It seems some rules and laws are ignored, and others just disregarded?”
“How the hell did you come to that conclusion?” her scathing tone confirms my accusation.
“I spent the last night reading everything you had,” I tell her.
“All? Seriously? The entire cabinet and backup drive?”
“Yes. I like this less and less. We need to talk to the Pastor soon.”
“Maybe this is why the Chief wanted you out here.”
“What?” I ask her.
“You said it yourself. We’re not exactly professionals out here. We keep the peace and try to be good at it, but against the bad mojo between the different families and clans, it’s hard. Against them and what they can do we’re outgunned badly. We police social and interpersonal conduct, but what they can do is far beyond that, and there’s no policing traditional and cultural constructs.”
“How is that?”
“Some of that mojo and the works that come with it are accepted as it is part of their traditional and cultural upbringing, clan teachings. Who then are we to tell them to stop what they do?”
I glare at Karen in disbelief. “We step in when things like what the Nelson brothers were doing happen, even if that mojo involves one guy…violating another forcibly like that, that’s sodomy. That’s assault.”
“They denied it, both of them,” she says.
“Then they need to understand that ‘that’ can’t be allowed, there are laws that need to be respected.”
“What if that sort of conduct is part of their flavor of mojo?” she asks.
“What? Are you kidding me?”
Karen sits, looking out into the grassy rolling hills. “The clans are diverse with what they do and how they do things. You’ll find that out soon.”
“Back in Toyei, they taught us to uphold the laws, to be the deciding factor through the madness that exists out here,” I say.
“Looks like we’ll see how that all turns out.”
“I guess so.” We leave Tolani Lake station. “I know about the clans, I’ve studied enough.”
“Still, why did you come down so hard on Jeremy? He’s very good at what he does.”
“He’s like a very stringent drill sergeant who sees things his way, with no other conceivable avenues that might be better,” I surmise.
“And…”
“And, I don’t take too well to being pushed around or being talked down to,” I say, glancing at Karen. “I don’t do that
.”
Karen laughs. “That’s why your girlfriend is white?”
“No. Where the hell did that come from?”
“Because a Navajo woman just might be what you need.”
“No thanks. Me and Jess have a good thing going. I don’t want to screw that up.”
“Most native guys that go to the big cities come home with white women on their arms.”
“It’s not like they intend to do that, there’s just more of them there, for every native gal you encounter, there are about ten white ones. There’s just more of them.”
“So she is white then,” Karen prods.
“Karen, over half of all natives marry whites, that is a factual statistic. We live in the big city and there’s just more of them out there,” I wave my hands to emphasize my point. “So, you might be with a white guy if you really think about it,” I point at her.
“No. Not me,” she says.
“Well, why not you?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not a topic of discussion, that’s all.”
“Well it is now, so why not?” I ask.
“It’s a personal matter OK? Now drop it.”
“OK. So, you can disparage me for being with a white woman but any talk of you being with a white guy is off limits?”
“Will you fucking drop it? Oh my God!”
“Fine. But you started it.” I note a mostly empty church parking lot.
“Did not”, Karen lowers her voice upon seeing Pastor at the church front door.
“Yes, you did. You know you did,” I climb out of our patrol truck, “Pastor, how have you been? It’s been too long.”
“Well, Officer Steve Keller, how are you? It’s good to see you again. How are you?” Pastor extends his hand. A Navajo man with a buzz cut stands before me, reading glasses in hand, and wearing an over-sized hockey jersey. Through dimming eyes and a sunbaked smile, he pats my shoulder. “Welcome.”
“I’m good, Sir, it’s a pleasure to be here again,” I gaze around the church’s dining hall.
“You talk like someone who grew up in suburbia somewhere,” he laughs.
“Sorry, I’ve heard stories of what you’ve done against the local witchery. It’s brilliant. It would seem that you are the foundation of local refuge,” I say.