Burning Sky

by R. S. Scott

  The muddied silver truck is gone, but there are two other trucks angled suspiciously toward the parking lot entrance. Older trucks with muddied tires and cracked windshields, clearly out of place in an urban parking lot. One truck has an occupant. “Jess, stay close.”

  “OK”, she grasps my hand a bit tighter, “Oh my God, what is happening?” She reaches to the back of her neck and turns. “Oh my God.”

  “Don’t let go.” I pull her closer. “Don’t let go.”

  “I won’t,” her voice quivers.

  I eye the occupied truck, hiding my pistol while keeping Jess behind me. “Hurry.” We hustle to my Belvedere and roar off to Phoenix. “I’ll take a bus back tomorrow.”

  The drive to Phoenix is tiresome and worrisome. My Jess is heartbroken and I continue to seemingly break her heart again and again. Why would any man hurt his woman like I have?

  I hold her close as I park my car in our driveway. I wonder perhaps if it is I who is in the wrong.

  “Hi, girl! Hi, Max!” The happiest dog greets me and licks my face. A sleep-deprived Jess stumbles through the door and throws her bags onto the couch.

  “Are you hungry? I can make us something to eat,” she says.

  “Naw, I have to head back.”

  “It’s still dark. You have time.”

  “Jess…”

  She stares at the tiled floor silently. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m going to shower then head out. The morning Greyhound should take me back to Winslow.” I make my way to the bedroom limping sideways. “Wow, you’ve scrubbed this place.”

  She smiles coyly, a sight for tired eyes. We embrace passionately and furiously like it is our last. Our heartbeats rise as we become one like it is our last.

  “Keller, is Jessica OK?” Karen asks.

  “Yes, for the time being.” I climb into Karen’s patrol truck, “You look like hell, Karen.”

  “Daryl came to the station and made a request to talk to you. He claims he knows which Yazzie killed the Chief.” Karen adjusts her seatbelt.

  “Daryl Monroe?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that brother. He’s the head of that family, or so we think. He’s also the muscle.” Karen grumbles.

  “The Monroes are traditional Navajo. Born here, but not Daryl, is that right?”

  “Correct, he’s a white kid whose parents ran the trading post at Teesto. Mother died of breast cancer and the father also died years later and left their son with the Monroes. So they took in a little white kid as their own.”

  “What does he want with me?” I ask.

  “Daryl knew your father very well. They used to drink whiskey while herding sheep together.” Karen navigates through traffic out of Winslow, “If he intends to talk to you, then you should oblige him. Just stay away from his daughter.”

  “Tracy?” I ask.

  “Yes, big time slut, or so they say.”

  “I’ve known them from back in the day. Me and my cousin Tony used to hang out with them. I’ve met Wade only a couple of times, but he struck me as the kind of guy that would shoot off a gun just for the sake of doing it.”

  “Tracy knows you, seems to know you well.” Karen smirks.

  “Tracy, I haven’t seen that woman in years.” I smile.

  “History there?” Karen prods.

  “Not that kind. She was very pretty back in the day, but she just scared the hell out of me.”

  Karen laughs. “How?”

  “There I am in my teens, not even puberty yet, I’m drunk on whiskey, and she starts licking my face while smelling like a trash can. I tried to push her away, but she held onto me like a vice. We fall on the floor, and she sits on top of me. That shit is scary when you’re just a kid.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I clear out a glorious paper mess as well as piles of additional storage containers. I finally have a desk at Dilcon station across from Karen’s centrally located communications hub of a rusting steel contraption. Her desk is adorned with memorabilia from numerous vacations and pictures of a teenage daughter. Various awards and certifications are stapled to her bulletin board.

  “Geez, no frames for the certs?” I call dispatch, no word yet from Daryl Monroe nor his legal representation.

  A knock on the door. “Hello, Son.” He speaks old Navajo.

  “Hi, I’m Steve Keller.” We shake hands.

  “Clarence Taylor. Tequila?” He pulls a flask from his coat as one draws a pistol in a gun fight. His broken English is difficult to understand.

  “Old Man Taylor?”

  “They call me that, yes. Call me Taylor, Clarence is a woman’s name.” We share a laugh as he waltzes into Dilcon station. “You’re cleaning this place up. You should. Karen can’t clean for shit.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” I say, clearing off the corner couch for Taylor.

  “How is your father?” he asks.

  “Not good at all. Looking into dialysis. Diabetes is just shit,” I tell Old Man Taylor.

  “Yes, it is.” Taylor gulps his tequila as agave and yucca aromas fill the station. “You sure you don’t want some?” He offers me his flask.

  “No, I really shouldn’t. I’m still on duty. I’m always on duty. That’s not real tequila is it?”

  Taylor looks at me intuitively. “It’s agave and yucca. The same sort that grows up on Saddle Butte, mashed and barreled last year.”

  “You made this?” I ask him.

  “Yes, Keller. Even your great uncle made it. France during wartime, marching down the Nazis in wine country. You learn a few things about fermenting sugar wherever you can get it.”

  “Wow, damn.” I continue to situate my desk. “Do you use traditional oak barrels then?” I ask.

  “Cedar, thick cedar barrels, charred out.”

  “Charred out?” I’m not sure what he means.

  “Yes, just start an oil fire on the inside. Gives it a real tough flavor.”

  “Wow, never knew that,” I say.

  “It has to be charred out,” Old Man Taylor says.

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  “Cedar juice is just crap.”

  “Fascinating. So what are you up to today, Taylor?”

  “Just annoying people I know. What else is an old man to do? I hear they brought in a new police officer and I had to meet him.”

  “So, a shame what happened to the old Police Chief, huh?” I say.

  “Yes, there was a time in the old days when things were respected, things were held sacred and holy. Now it’s all gone to shit,” Taylor says.

  I pause, “What do you mean by that? Chief Daren got hit by a car.”

  “Daren was a practitioner of the dark arts.” Taylor wags his flask as he talks.

  “So he wasn’t a shaman or a medicine man, traditionally speaking? Even though he was a cop, he still practiced? How does one do that? That’s a serious conflict of interest there,” I say.

  “Daren continued practicing what was brought down to him, by his father and his father, and so on.” Taylor gulps more of his tequila.

  “So his father was very good at it, the dark arts? Back in the wars?” I continue.

  “His father was a drunk. His grandfather was the master at it back when we fought for our lives and our meaning to exist,” Taylor confirms.

  “That was centuries ago, right? When we first arrived to these parts?” I clear off my chair and sit to listen more attentively. “We’re actually Athabascans. It’s a long way from inland Alaska on foot.”

  He takes another large swallow. “During the great wars, men killed without hesitation. Not only did we fight among ourselves but others that came among us, the Hopi, the Ute, the Paiute—and even the Comanche—when we hunted buffalo on their lands.” He sips more of his potent drink. “Then there were small patches of white people here and there.”

  “White folks were here long before Columbus came along. Chinese, too,” I say.

  “Yes, Son. They were already here.” He drinks more from his flask. “
Some were friendly, and some were not.”

  “That’s really something. So Daren’s grandfather fought in those wars, using whatever mojo or magic that existed in his family?” I continue.

  “The mojo existed far beyond that,” Taylor says. “It’s just a matter of what you do with it. There was a time when our great grandfathers saw things to come. There will be a time when traditions and things held sacred will all crumble within themselves and we will all die.” He points his finger at me. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Actually, I don’t. My father and I were never really that close. He became a Christian when I was in my late teens,” I tell Taylor. “I only heard stories and went through only one ceremony.”

  “Which one?” Taylor asks.

  “Some sort of initiation thing. Storytelling, smoking, chanting, and some peyote.”

  “Ah, that one.” He sits back glaring at me.

  “What one is that?” I ask him.

  “It’s an initiation, a preparation for things to come. If your father didn’t do the God thing like he did, you’d be out there as well, killing or running for your life.”

  “I guess so.” I smile as we sit in silence for a few moments. “When I was a kid I remember they used to bring in people for exorcisms. I remember one time this kid started hissing and spitting, then went vertical, right up the church back wall like a spider. Scared the hell out of us all. Then he fell, about 30 feet, then jumped back up like nothing happened.”

  “The dark arts will do that,” Taylor says.

  “What causes that?” I ask. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve dealt with it knowing how long you’ve been out here.”

  “Son, I burned my medicine bundle years ago.” He toasts. “Cheers.”

  “Can I ask why? Why did you become a Christian? With all you know.”

  “It’s an easy answer, Son. Peace beyond understanding,” Taylor says. “Peace.”

  “How does one end up like that, though?” I ask. “In a church for an exorcism?”

  “It’s all become corrupt. Instead of for the good of the people, they use it for selfish reasons. Or, as the Preacher says, evil spirits come quickly.”

  “Evil spirits?” I repeat.

  “Yes, Son. Tequila?” He tries to hand me his flask again.

  “No, I’m not sure that’s tequila, Taylor. Smells awful.”

  “It’s not bad. Here. Have a sip.” A rancid flask inches ever closer.

  “No, I really can’t. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  He gets up. “I am going to go home now. My horse is restless. See you at church Sunday?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  We shake hands and walk outside.

  He climbs onto his horse, which has left a manure pile by my patrol truck. “Tell that little woman I said hello in the most foreboding manner you can muster!” He laughs.

  “Will do, Taylor. Perhaps we could talk again. I’m very interested in your knowledge in all matters out here.”

  “Yes, Son. I’m just over beyond those mountains toward Tolani Lake, gray house with trees and sheep everywhere. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Take care,” I say.

  “You too, Son.” Taylor puts on his hat and rides away singing a Navajo courtship song.

  I dig up my radio. “Dispatch, any word from Daryl Monroe?”

  “None,” the dispatcher says.

  “Thanks.” I hang up. “That idiot stood me up.”

  The evening sun slowly grows dim as I am yet again deep in research when dispatch calls. Karen has not checked in for the past six hours. Her truck GPS puts her three miles west of Teesto, among the sand dunes miles from the church. The drive there is long and dreary. Dust fills my cab as I rumble along. I request updates if anyone hears from Karen.

  “Karen?” Her truck sits empty and quiet on a field of sage bushes. They sway in the wind, defying the blowing sand. I open the passenger door. The keys are gone, but her full armament is intact in the center console. I look around the sage bushes and sand dunes. “Karen?”

  I retrieve my flashlight. There are three sets of tracks around the truck. One is a definite match. “Karen, what the hell?” They lead toward the main road to Tolani Lake. I retrieve my ammo pack and my portable radio. There is no signal on it. I climb up on top of my SUV. “Dispatch, this is patrol 5, do you copy? Dispatch?” I gaze about the darkening valley and sand dunes. “Must be these lava buttes. Dispatch?” There are noises to the front of Karen’s truck. I pull my pistol.

  “I think everyone heard you.” Karen escorts two young girls.

  “Karen, you can’t just disappear like that.” I hop off the roof of my patrol truck. “Karen?”

  “Officer Steve Keller, this is Megan and Rebecca. Their parents are in Flagstaff, so I picked them up. Girls, say hi.”

  The older sister says hello and extends her hand. I shake her hand.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  She nods.

  The younger stares at the earth quietly.

  “Hi there, Rebecca. I’m Steve.” She shakes my hand timidly.

  “Old Man Taylor’s grandkids.” Karen looks on.

  “Ah, I met him earlier today. Interesting guy with an interesting way of talking.” I note the timid spirit of Rebecca.

  “Don’t drink his tequila,” Karen reminds me.

  “Oh, it’s not tequila. It’s got yucca and peaches in it. Watermelon, too, I think.” I recall vividly the horrible smell.

  “Tomorrow you’re meeting with the crystal gazer from Shiprock. Ganado station picked him up drunk and wandering down the main highway babbling to himself.”

  Karen takes the girls to her house for a pajama party. I gracefully decline their invitation and head home for a long nap.

  “Sleep well?” I glare at the small man in the jail cell noting my audience watching and listening next door. Clearly the feds have found us.

  “No, fuck you! Whoever you are!” The small man sits up rubbing his forehead. His clothes are filthy, and his hair matted down on one side. His personal effects include a small pocketknife, a wallet and a small leather pouch with moist tobacco. He sits faintly aware of the rusted iron bars, and the cold, cemented floor. It had rained this morning in Ganado. I note murky powder on the jail cell entrance door as well as the corner window.

  “Simon, that’s your name, is it not? Simon Ahasteen?”

  “Yes.” He rubs at a callous raging headache.

  He glares at me from the behind iron bars. I sit with my arms folded, glaring at a mad man. I note more murky powder by the jail cell door. Apparent precautions with respect to who currently sits in this jail. Apparent precautions against the unpredictability of a spiritual authority unbridled.

  “You were brought in after you were picked up wandering down Route 191. In the middle of the road, drunk off your ass,” I say.

  Simon looks at me attentively. “Yeah. So. Can I go now?”

  “No, not yet.” I move my chair closer to the cell. “I’ve some questions for you if you have a moment.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Simon retorts.

  “Listen, walking around as drunk as you were and threatening people with a knife is going to keep you here for a very long time,” I tell Simon.

  “I didn’t kill anybody!” he shouts.

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  He sits quietly, finally acknowledging my presence.

  “Simon, you answer my questions, openly and honestly, and maybe I can get you out of here, deal?” I say.

  He nods.

  I call for the Ganado deputy for any contact from Karen. He disappears into the next room. I close the office door and unplug the overhead IP camera. I again take my chair, glaring at the mad man. I smile. “What exactly does Peter Yazzie owe you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

  “I know, Simon. We all know,” I tell Simon.

  He glares at me in sheer defiance. “I want a lawyer.”r />
  “Simon,” I chuckle. “This isn’t America. You don’t have the same rights as they do. You see, you technically aren’t in America. You’re on the Rez. Here you don’t get a lawyer.”

  “Fuck you! I know my rights!” he spits in my direction, “I want a fucking lawyer!”

  “You’re not going to get a lawyer, Simon. So, you’re going to stay in this jail indefinitely, perhaps in solitary confinement if you spit at me again. You will rot here alone behind these bars. Get used to them. Anyway, this has been most pleasant. I hope you make it past this coming evening.” I get up and start moving my chair back to the desk. “You’re as horrible a liar as you smell.”

  “I don’t know anything, I swear,” Simon pleads.

  “You’re lying again, Simon. You see, you suck at lying. You’re terrible at it. You really are,” I say.

  “I’m not lying,”

  “Yes, you are,” I say.

  He shakes his head and folds his arms.

  I stand at attention, glaring at a fidgeting liar.

  His eyes are livid but controlled, his disposition defiant but mocking. The Ganado deputy returns, I kindly motion him out of the room. He closes the door behind him, leaving me alone with the fiend.

  “Look, Simon. All this is not going to end well for you. We both know that, so what are you hiding from me? Because I can see it, we all can. What are you hiding?”

  He says nothing.

  “You see, whatever you’re trying to hide, is worth being in here, in this steel cage, where they all can see you. All the Ganado folk know who you are now and they know you’re in here. These walls don’t mean much, do they, Simon?”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” he says.

  “If one wants to, he can go right past that brick wall behind you, straight into your cage.”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” Simon repeats.

  “You see, there you go. You’re doing it again. Why do you lie to my face like that? Why?”

  He looks away. “I’m not lying.”

  “You’re still doing it, why do you do that?” I situate the chair an inch closer to the cage. I cautiously sit. “Lying is not really your thing. So why not stop lying?”