Burning Sky

by R. S. Scott

  “I’m not lying,” Simon says.

  “Look, Simon. Peter Yazzie hired you to look into who was getting in the way of his business, the meth business. Someone had their hand in that who was also fucking the Monroe whore. Why didn’t they pay you?”

  He sits silently.

  “I barely have time for you, Simon. Don’t waste my fucking time! Why do you believe you were not paid?” I raise my voice considerably. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Simon caves.

  “You’re not even a player in this, Simon. Those people out there, you’re nothing to them, and they will come after you. You know this, don’t you, Simon? These walls won’t stop them! These guns we carry mean very little, don’t they, Simon? They needed you for one thing and one thing only. Once they got what they wanted, which they did, they’ll kill you. You know this, too, don’t you, Simon?”

  He sits, silently guarded by folded arms.

  “They killed the Chief of Police. How much less are you, then? You’re no Chief of Police. You’re just a weakling! Barely able to stand when anyone can tip you over just with a little directness and forwardness. You’re weak, Simon,” I press.

  He sits silently.

  “Simon! What does Peter owe you?” I ask.

  He sits quietly still. An eternity passes.

  “Simon, listen. Why are you afraid?” I ask. “I mean, I know why you’re scared, but why are you trying so hard not to be?”

  “I’m not scared,” Simon says.

  “You look afraid, running scared like you were. A half-mile from your drunken staggering, Ganado dispatch found two flasks. One had peyote in it, the other corn home brew. What were you running from, Simon?”

  “I wasn’t running,” Simon says.

  “What were you running from? Don’t waste my time! I’ll leave you here! You know what they do to drunken skinwalkers in these parts? They burn them! Alive!”

  “I’m not a skinwalker!” Simon shouts.

  “They chain them up in their hogans and torch them. They don’t use gasoline. No, they don’t. They use diesel, the slow burning stuff. They take their time.”

  “I’m not a skinwalker!”

  “They’ll burn you alive, Simon, as long as you remain in here.”

  “I’m not a skinwalker,” Simon repeats.

  “They think you are,” I tell him.

  “I’m not.”

  “What you think has little bearing on what Ganado folk think. If they believe that you are a skinwalker, they, too, will find you and kill you. Burn you alive in your home or even in this cell.” I point to the overhead air duct.

  “I’m not a skinwalker!” Simon explodes.

  “Who gives a shit what you believe you are. Sooner or later your children will bury you up in the hills. If you even last that long.”

  “I’m not one of them,” Simon says desperately. “I’m telling the truth.”

  “What does Peter owe you? Don’t fuck with me, Simon! Tell me what he owes you!” I rush to the cell, gripping the steel bars.

  He scurries to the far end of his cell.

  “Simon, listen to me, they’re coming for you. You know this, Simon. Be straight with me.”

  He fidgets and paces the cell.

  “Tell me what they owe you, or I leave you here. Tell me what I want to know, or I leave you here. Simon?”

  “A girl,” Simon says.

  “A girl? Simon, you piece of shit! Don’t call me when they corner your walking ass out there!” I turn to leave. “You lying piece of shit!”

  “His daughter, the young girl, he promised her to me. I don’t have a daughter. I have just boys.”

  I stand glaring at Simon. “How the hell did you make such an arrangement? Peter’s youngest daughter is in her mid-teens, you fucking pervert!”

  “No, the other one, from Tolani Lake, Rebecca. A sweet little girl looks like pictures I’ve seen of my mom when she was that young.”

  “Rebecca Taylor?” I ask.

  “Yes, she’s my daughter now. We made an arrangement.”

  “That’s not even his daughter. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “She’s my daughter now,” Simon pleads. “We made an agreement. Then…he just walked away.”

  “Who? Peter?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Simon confirms.

  “Peter promised you Rebecca in exchange for your work?”

  “Yes, he lied to me.”

  “Simon, what did you see when you had your vision?” I ask.

  “What vision?” Simon returns.

  “Simon! You’re a fucking crystal gazer! Peter hired you! Don’t fuck with me! What did you see?” My raised voice echoes throughout the jail. “Tell me.”

  He sits. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Have fun out there, Simon. I’ll bring my dog to shit on your grave.” I rise to leave.

  “Wait, you promised if I answered you would let me go.” He pleads.

  “You’re right, I did. I ask questions, and you answer. Then, I let you go.”

  “Yes! You promised.” He inches closer to the bars. There is an obvious limp to his walk, favoring his right side. “You promised.”

  “Well, listen, Simon, you didn’t answer the last question,” I say.

  “That’s not fair! I told you what Peter owes me.”

  “Fair is a four letter word, Simon. Nothing is fair,” I tell him.

  He fidgets, now gripping the jail cell bars. His eyes weary, his countenance spent, “I need to go. You promised.”

  “Listen, Simon, you tell me what you saw in your vision, or I leave you here. You tell me what I want to hear or you rot here. You burn here. They’re coming for you, you know this,” I threaten him.

  “I can’t tell you that.” Simon looks toward the door for other prying ears. “Not that.”

  “Yes you can, Simon. Start from the beginning,” I demand.

  “No.”

  “Listen, we all know it happened. Yes, it did. It happened. And because of it, a Police Chief is dead.”

  “I can’t, they’ll kill me,” Simon implores.

  “They’re going to do that anyway, Simon,” I confirm.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes you can, Simon. This isn’t like the old days where you have to keep quiet about these things.”

  “Why can’t it be like that?”

  “Because a person died! We live in the land of laws now! Tell me what you told them to get someone killed. What information did you provide that resulted in another person’s death?”

  “No,” Simon says defiantly.

  “Is it because you were somehow a part of it?” I ask.

  “No!”

  “Maybe it was you that did the killing?” I press again.

  “No, I didn’t kill anybody, I swear,” Simon pleads.

  “Simon, listen. You tell me this, and I’ll let you go so you have a chance. It’s the last question, Simon. It’s the last one, the very last one. What did you see?”

  He sits on the cell bed in emotional defeat. “There was an old hogan, and there were monsters crawling up and down the mountain fighting and eating each other.”

  I gaze back at the unplugged IP camera. “And?”

  “An old hogan was on fire, but inside were three people fucking, the Monroe whore and her uncle Daren and some black thing. They were all dead and rotting but still screwing. There was a giant rattlesnake wearing a crown guarding the burning hogan and a giant spider on top of the hogan. It was also burning, but it was still moving with the monsters still fighting on the mountain.”

  “This was at an old hogan?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “A traditional hogan? East-facing entrance?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Were there clouds in the sky? Or was the sun shining?” I implore.

  “It was dark, like after the sun went down.”

  “With three corpses fucking?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “So t
hat’s how you identified Daren?”

  Simon lowers his head. “Yes.”

  “How did you know it was Daren?” I ask him.

  “I saw his truck outside, and I saw his face, he looked at me.”

  “Did he recognize you, as if he knew who you were?”

  “Yes.”

  “So in your vision, he looked at you. A dead corpse fucks other dead corpses then looks at you as if it knows you?” I recap.

  “Yes.”

  “Damn, that’s messed up,” I say.

  “I know.” Simon covers his face.

  “Have you ever met Daren Monroe? Our former Chief of Police?”

  “No.”

  “But he looked at you as if he knows you?” It doesn’t make sense to me. “He, as a corpse, looked at you?”

  “Yes,” Simon grimaces.

  “You’ve never met Daren but knew it was him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Tracy Monroe look at you?” I ask Simon.

  “No,” he says.

  “But you knew it was her?” I continue.

  “Yes.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “I’ve met her before.”

  “Have you had sex with her?” I ask him.

  “A couple of times.”

  “So you recognized two of the three. Who was the last one?”

  “I don’t know. It was all black.”

  “It? Wasn’t a man or a woman?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t tell, it was yelling and growling and moving in weird directions, this way and that way, it was wrong.” Simon turns pale reliving the memory. He covers his face.

  “What do you mean by weird directions? Like an animal?”

  “An ant, like an ant.”

  “So dead, blackened and moving like an insect? And growling?” I ask.

  Simon nods in agreement.

  “Did it have teeth or even a mouth?” I ask.

  “No, its head was just black.”

  “But it moved like an ant and made growling sounds without a mouth?” I ask.

  Simon nods.

  “What did its face look like?” I ask.

  “No face, just eyes,” he says.

  “Just eyes and growling, from this dead, black animal that moved like an ant. Did it scare you?”

  Simon pauses momentarily, “Yes. It was scary.”

  “Have you seen it since?” I ask him.

  “No.”

  “Any dreams about it?” I ask him.

  “No.”

  “The fighting monsters on the mountain, what about that?”

  “It was blurry.”

  “What about Tracy?”

  “She was dead. But they were beating her up good. And she was laughing.”

  “The ant and Daren were beating her?” I ask.

  Simon nods.

  “And Daren recognized you as you watched all this?” I ask Simon.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Well.” I get up and knock on the door for the jailer. “You’re free to go.”

  Officer Trevor from Ganado station unlocks the jail and opens it with a loud clang.

  “That door is deafening, isn’t it, Simon? Everyone in Ganado might have heard it. Few sounds can make the noise of a steel jail door opening, then closing like that.” I motion Simon to his personal effects on the table. “We’re keeping the flasks.”

  Simon retrieves his belongings, except for the flasks, and walks out the door. He walks westbound toward a renowned ravine. He glances in our direction as he walks.

  “Well done, Officer Keller.” An FBI agent immerges from the rear office and stands beside me. “Where did you learn to interrogate like that?”

  “My family is mostly women. You learn a thing or two.” I point at Simon. “That is either a dead man walking or the devil himself deceiving us all.”

  The FBI man offers me a handshake. “I’m Thomas Ellington with the FBI.”

  “Agent Ellington, welcome,” I say. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

  “Please, call me Tom.” We shake hands.

  “Tom, Dilcon station’s main cabinet contains a wealth of information. I suggest you read it all.” I turn to Officer Trevor. “Keep an eye on him.”

  Trevor points at Agent Ellington.

  “Yes, him, too. Good day to both of you.” I return to Dilcon station.

  Karen stands in front of my desk exasperated. “You let Simon go? What the fuck?”

  “Yes I did. He sang.” I glance up from my paperwork as Karen had stumbled into Dilcon station smelling of sheep manure. I hug my nose. “What the hell is that smell?”

  “You let him go? We had him and you let him go!”

  “Holy shit, is that you?” I cautiously point my nose in Karen’s direction. “Damn.”

  “Gladys needed help with her fucked up sheep. Those fucking things! One of them bit me. They just don’t seem to be afraid of me—or any of us. There was one that had blood coming out of its mouth. It had chewed its tongue.” Karen composes herself. “You let Simon go? Why the hell would you do that? He was our ticket!”

  “Simon and his smelly ass is no ticket we can count on.” I continue hugging my nose. “So, what happened with the cannibal sheep?”

  “Gladys shot it while the rest of the sheep just stood and watched.”

  “None of them ran?”

  “None.”

  “Wow.” I pause. “That’s not how sheep react to violence.”

  “Yeah, what went on with Simon? This better be good,” Karen says.

  “Peter Yazzie hired Simon to look into his affairs and identified Daren as the one that’s been sabotaging his business and screwing his niece, Tracy Monroe.”

  “So it was the Monroes that took down the Chief? But it would seem the Chief is a Monroe. The Monroes took down one of their own?” Karen pulls off her sheep-smelling shirt.

  “I think the Nelsons took down the Chief,” I surmise, “But why is the Chief’s widow at the Monroe house? Gladys is there as one of them.”

  “It would seem then that the Monroes killed Daren. But you’re right. What is his widow then doing at that house? Why is Gladys there? It makes no sense.” Karen finds a clean shirt from her locker.

  “What if the son, Wade Monroe, brought in the Nelsons to take down his uncle, the Chief? From what Old Man Taylor tells me, Daren was deep into the dark arts.” We share a silence. “I’m going to track down Tracy Monroe and see if she wants to talk.”

  “The whore?”

  “We go way back.”

  “OK,” Karen smiles.

  “It’s not like that. Agent Tom is at Ganado station. He seems smart but cocky.”

  “Jeremy is also babysitting an FBI guy named Paul…something. I’m going to call Jeremy and give him a heads up. I’ll fax him your report as well.” She glances at my report. “Wait,” Karen scans my report, “Simon agreed to work his premonition magic in return for the Taylor kid? Rebecca Taylor? Old Man Taylor’s granddaughter?”

  “Yes. This is getting worse and worse by the hour,” I surmise.

  “Oh my God!”

  “Are the Monroes and Nelsons still held in Winslow jail?” I ask.

  “Yup.”

  “I’m headed there. I want to talk to Tracy. Keep an eye on the Rebecca kid, take her to the church if you need to.”

  “Why?” Karen asks.

  “Simon is an idiot, but he’s good at what he does. While I was talking to him,” I pause, “He lifted a pen from the desk.”

  “Did you see him do it?”

  “No, but I felt it.”

  “You felt it? What the hell does that mean?” Karen straps on her sidearm.

  “Karen, the child Rebecca, find her. Simon is after her, so go.”

  She collects her recently cleaned AR15. “We need to stop by the church.”

  “Why?”

  “Pastor can pray over our guns. Keeps us safer.”

  “Karen, what the hell?” I grimace. “Praying over guns?”
/>
  “Just try it. It works.”

  “Fine.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Karen calls to say she has brought Rebecca Taylor to the church against the initial protests of her stepmother. The stepmother was then convinced of unseen dangers as her sheepdog wandered into the house whimpering, followed by audible footsteps on her roof. The child was not fearful, but the stepmother’s hysteria could not be consoled. Officers from Teesto station assisted. A huge dog was seen fleeing into nearby trees.

  I arrive in Winslow as the sun sets in a brilliant orange hue to the west. I notice a few federal agents making note of my arrival to meet with Tracy Monroe. They lead me into the police interrogation room. Tracy Monroe is led in and is seated opposite a large steel table. I sit across from she who defines then defiles the night abruptly. Her unnatural charisma carries with it a strong tangible defiance. She waves at me.

  “Hey! Shyboy! Damn, you’ve grown up!” Tracy smiles at me from behind a table. She gets up and starts walking to my end of the table.

  “Sit down, Tracy. You’re not allowed on this side.”

  “Shyboy, since when has that stopped me?” She overemphasizes each word with lips a sultry red as the midnight is black. She licks them slowly.

  “Tracy, sit!” I command.

  She smiles coyly and plops down on a chair opposite our shared, centered table. I turn and nod at the double pane mirror to my right.

  “Are there really cops behind that mirror?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I tell her.

  She smiles. “Fuck you! You bastards! You have nothing on me!” She wags her middle finger at the mirror and pulls up her shirt exposing her breasts.

  “Tracy, be cool, what’s the matter with you?” I get up and push Tracy to her chair. “Don’t do that, please. Pull your shirt back down.” I motion to the mirror.

  “I’m thirsty, can we go out for a drink somewhere?” she says.

  “No, please behave.”

  “God. You’re so boring.”

  “Thanks,” I reply.

  “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  “It is, though.” I get comfortable in my chair.

  “How do you figure?”

  “Any accusation of being boring from a ‘whore’ is a compliment, a strong one at that.”

  She glares at me fuming.

  “We need to talk,” I command.

  “Fine,” she says as she fumbles with her arms. “I always thought you’d be an engineer or something. A doctor, or maybe an artist, but surprise! Here you are! Officer Steve Keller.”