by R. S. Scott
“I’m not going to shoot anybody, that’s ridiculous.”
“Nothing ridiculous about fighting fire with fire,” I speculate.
“I hear you. I’m just not going to go that route of shooting people. That’s just not how I do things,” Pastor says.
“Pastor, Tracy Monroe had no problem walking in here starting up some shit. That was just one incident, just one. You need that pistol.”
“I don’t feel I need it,” Pastor says.
“But you allow us to come in here, armed to the teeth. Ready for hell’s gates, then hide behind our hardware when your words fail? Pastor, learn to use your pistol, besides the biblically juiced verbal cannon you have, learn to use your gun. We won’t always be around you know,” I tell him.
“I’ll think about it, Son.”
“Saint Peter swung a mean broadsword.” I glare at Pastor. “If you’re not comfortable with it I can teach you.”
“It’s not that, Son. What would the people think?” Pastor says.
“What do you think they think now when you hide behind us when your words don’t work?” I ask him.
Pastor sits quietly.
“When the jailers came for Jesus, it was Saint Peter that pulled out his blade and sliced an ear off of one of those guys,” I remind Pastor. “Think about it. It takes tremendous skill to take off just an ear in the heat of battle. It takes a true swordsman in every sense of the word to pull that off. He would have killed them all if Jesus didn’t stop him. I’m not saying you are Jesus, but these are indeed desperate times. Maybe you should evolve with it because Peter might not always be around with his 9mm.”
Pastor smiles. “I’ll think about it.”
CHAPTER 10
It’s been weeks since our technological upgrade. The backup power supplies were the most difficult to facilitate. Our new IP closet at Dilcon Station no longer needs an air conditioner with recent falling temperatures. Microwave antennas now link our small rural offices, but stormy weather conditions deem it a hopeless endeavor, even with our satellite linkups.
Old Man Taylor arrives as merry and jolly as a drunken clown at a party. He ties up his horse to the end of my truck. He wears a Santa hat and Santa boots.
“Holy crap, Santa Claus is here. Taylor, come on! Not there, your horse hates me,” I say and open the door for Santa as he makes his way up the steps. “You look good, Sir. I need to designate a horse parking area with a trough.”
Karen pulls up in her patrol truck and climbs out hastily. She glares at Taylor with her hair in a wet ponytail. “Taylor, this better be damn important.”
“You mean, Santa, this better be damn important,” I say pointing at Taylor’s boots.
Taylor pulls out a leather-like pouch from his bag. “This is your new weapon against the skinwalkers.” He smiles in an exuberant, jolly fashion.
Karen and I share a glance. “A leather pouch? Taylor, is this leather or a dead animal’s dried stomach?” I inspect the pouch. “Damn, Taylor. That’s hardcore right there. Are you drunk?” I smile and back away from a weaving Taylor struggling to mimic a statue.
“It’s leather, elk leather, you kids!” Taylor then explains the strange grayish powder in the pouch. A mixture of cedar ash, corn pollen, and grave dirt.
“That’s grave dirt? Taylor, damn it!” Karen turns uneasy. “What are you doing with that in here? Where did it come from? Wait…who’s grave did you pillage to get that?”
“The practitioners of that variation fear death,” Old Man Taylor says. “They are desperate to live and stay alive because they know what it would mean to truly die. They die a little every single day. They fear this.” He points at the pouch. “They fear death.”
“Taylor,” Karen looks on in exasperation, “Grave dirt? With corn pollen? Aren’t those not to mix?”
“Child,” Taylor adjusts his belt by pulling up his pants and teetering on his toes. “Pollen is powerful medicine, as is cursed earth in darkened form. One is life, and the other is death.” He pulls out his flask. “Here, this batch is really good.”
“I’m not drinking that. Corn pollen and grave dirt. That’s just great. Wonderful.” Karen backs away.
“It’s protection, a deterrent.” Taylor seems proud and smiles. “I help you again, this day. See you later, dear children of the sun!” Taylor walks out the door waving his flask in the air, leaving his morbid pouch on Karen’s desk.
“Taylor, thanks,” I say and follow the old man to his horse. “And it’s too early for getting high on your tequila, alright?” I lower my voice away from Karen.
“I haven’t slept yet, Son,” he says climbing onto his horse.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because I needed to bring you that,” Taylor replies.
“It’s that important?” I ponder.
“It is. Treat it well.” I wave as he rides away. Strapped to his saddle is a scabbard, hoisting a lever-action rifle. I walk back into Dilcon station.
“Steve, get that shit off my desk.” Karen does not touch the pouch with her hand. She uses a stapler to move it in my direction. “Take it.”
“No, he gave it to you,” I say.
“Please?” Karen pleads.
I pick up the pouch with my right hand and put it on my desk.
“Are you serious?” Karen glares at me. I feel a pair of judging eyes question my sanity.
“If he’s right about this, it could help us,” I tell Karen.
“Steve…” Karen implores.
“Think about it,” I tell her.
“He’s supposed to be a born-again Christian, and he brings us that?”
“Quit judging,” I tell her.
“I’m not judging.”
“Yes, you are,” I say.
“No, I’m not,” Karen says.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I am not, Keller,” Karen affirms.
“Yes, you are. You’re passing judgment on the decisions of another that have nothing to do with moral laws that you don’t follow yourself. That makes you a hypocrite.” I sniff the pouch. “It doesn’t smell like corn at all.”
“Keller,” Karen looks on, “That’s pollen and grave dirt. Grave dirt!”
“It just might work. There’s nothing organic in here. It’s all dry. Just ash, pollen, ground corn, and dirt—or so he says. I’ll keep it if you don’t want it.”
Karen wipes the vacant area on her desk. “Keep it over there.”
“Hey, what kind of rifle does Taylor carry?” I ask.
“An old 30-30 I think. I’m going to get me a burrito at the Roadkill. You want anything?” Karen asks.
“No, I’m good.” I start on the pile of reports that I have yet to read.
Two days ago a sheep ranch in Tolani Lake area was attacked. A massive massacre of 32 heads in the darkness of night. The head of the family went out with a rifle and a flashlight. His flashlight failed, and he was heard screaming as two rounds echoed from his gun. The son and mother then went out with flashlights, both armed with semi-automatic pistols. They found the father huddled near a water trough. He had bite marks on his arms matching the jaw line of a goat. The family contacted Tolani Lake station. Jeremy arrived with a massive spotlight. Beyond the sheep corral were several pairs of glistening eyes. Jeremy had brought night vision and could not make a precise identification of the large contorting shapes that hosted the glistening eyes. He fired a round from his rifle. The shapes scooted away with incredible speed, far and away from his field of vision.
Leupp station reported a home invasion that ended terribly. The invaders were confronted by a decrepit old Navajo man armed with a hammer. The attackers quickly overpowered the old man, but within a day, two of the boys died. One strangled himself with a television power cord, the other wandered into traffic on Interstate 40 and was hit by an eighteen-wheeler from Virginia. The driver of the eighteen-wheeler claimed he did not see the boy enter traffic. He felt an impact then found a bloodied mess.
L
eupp station also reported a frightened boy at the elementary school who did not want to go home. The grandmother of the child later arrived with a heavy kitchen knife. Officer Christopher Benally from Leupp station confronted the grandmother, but she only smiled and began stabbing herself in the right torso with the knife. She laughed while spitting out blood from her punctured lung. She died when her knife entered her heart. It was ruled a suicide.
Jeremy from Tolani Lake station was summoned to a cave among some sandstone crevices south of the southern Hopi border. An anthropologist from Northern Arizona University gathered what looked like the human remains of a small child.
Winslow PD reported of some grave robbers. The bodies of infants were taken.
Teesto station was attacked by three large animals described as “ugly coyotes” and a bear, a “dirty filthy bear.” Senior officer for Teesto responded to a distress call from neighbors, Karen also responded. Senior Officer Holden McCabe fired three rounds from a 7mm magnum rifle at an escaping coyote, and the coyote tumbled from absorbing the shots but managed to escape.
A local medicine man was then found walking in the middle of the main highway hours after the Teesto attack. He had slain his only grandson. He then sliced his throat when confronted by Officer Holden. He carried three 7mm bullets, a leather pouch of tobacco and a silver watch in his pocket. His hogan was set ablaze by his neighbor. Holden suspects murder but does not go into detail about the reasoning behind his suspicion. There were no other wounds on the medicine man’s body other than the throat.
Karen walks in and plops a Roadkill burrito in front of me. “Eat up, Keller. You need it for your growing personality.”
“Thanks,” I say and start gnawing on a folded tortilla with fried potatoes and ham scrambled in eggs. “Has anyone followed up on that Leupp school kid with the suicidal grandma?”
“Someone from child protective services picked him up. He’s in Flagstaff,” Karen says.
“Has anyone talked to him?” I ask.
“Umm, ask Jeremy.”
I finish my Roadkill burrito and call Jeremy. He tells me that child protective services are currently tied up in a federal dispute over the matter, and that the FBI are involved indirectly, but the details are still fuzzy. I spend the rest of the morning reading more reports alongside Karen who is busy working the phones and requesting the whereabouts of persons of great interest.
“Karen, we need to talk to this kid. What sort of grandma kills herself like that, in front of people?” I fumble through other related reports. “What is going on with our people? They’re all going crazy.”
“Yeah.” Karen comes walking back into the front offices combing her hair. “FBI are here, shit.”
Our late morning FBI meeting is poignant and to the point. Apparently, they already had copies of our reports and had interviewed the Monroes, the Nelsons, and Simon. The eldest Nelson, as well as his next younger brother, was uncooperative and very much combative. Tracy and her father still manage to confound the agents. The agents are weary and leery of everything they say or do. We convene in our small conference room. A seemingly highly conscientious suited agent sits before me. Agent Tom stands near the doorway awkwardly. I inquire of our FBI colleagues on their findings regarding their numerous interviews with reservation folk now deemed suspected killers.
“We’re still gathering evidence, Officer Keller. Testimonies were non-conclusive.” The suited man does not look at me as he adjusts his glasses.
“In other words no one admitted guilt?” I return.
“Not exactly.” He eyes me callously.
I glare at our supposed informal benefactor. “Are you going to share your findings?”
“They were non-conclusive.” He returns to his paperwork in front of him.
“So, no then?” I ask.
Tom fidgets in the back while his new partner sits smiling. “So do you have anything new to report regarding Rebecca Taylor and her well-being?”
“No.” I sit glaring at Tom. “Hey, Agent Tom, a question for you.”
“Steve,” Karen says sounding nervous.
“Yes?” Agent Ellington stands at attention.
“You didn’t get too close to Tracy, did you?” I ask him.
“No,” he says.
“Good for you,” I say and nod.
The new FBI agent sits smiling. “Officer Keller, do you know the whereabouts of Anthony Keller?”
“No, I haven’t heard from him in years,” I say. “Why?”
“Phoenix bureau searched a townhouse in Scottsdale two days ago. The home had been vacated. Representatives from the bank went in and then called Scottsdale PD, and they contacted us.”
“What was in there?” I ask.
“The bones of three adult human females, some dog pelts, and a reloading work area in the back for 9mm cartridges, hollow points. There was also a computer, several laptops, and a fish tank with a dozen dead fish.”
I sit glaring at the new agent. “And?”
“Anthony Keller is your cousin, is he not?” He asks.
“He is,” I say.
“No one has reported him missing in the past month. His townhouse apparently has been vacant that long, have you seen him?”
“No,” I say and glance at Karen. “You?”
Karen shakes her head.
“We also found a chest under his bed. In it were various ceremonial items, some feather wands, a gourd rattle, a quartz stone, pouches of pollen and such. Underneath that was the corpse of an infant, a baby. It had its limbs removed. Only a head and torso remained.” The dark suited agent glares into my good eye.
“Damn.” I sip water, hiding my reaction.
“In the infant corpse’s mouth were fangs. The infant had no teeth but embedded in its jaw were fangs from a bear. Its eyes were missing, but in their place were cooked eyes from a falcon. We found the limbs, Officer Keller. We found them in the freezer and the refrigerator of the home. The one arm in the fridge looked like it had been feasted upon. Someone ate that baby’s arm.” The FBI agent sits watching me fidget. “Officer Keller, please, speak your mind.”
I glance at Karen. She sits pale as a ghost.
“Um, may I have some more water please?” I ask.
Tom brings me a water bottle as a tan SUV roars up to Dilcon Station. Holden approaches the door. Holden is shooed away by the FBI. He promises to return after they leave.
“Now, Officer Keller, you were saying? Your opinion please.” The dark suited agent pulls a recorder from his pocket, waves it in full view then places it on the desk. “Speak your mind, please.”
“I haven’t talked to Tony in years. I grew up with him. When we were teenagers, we all knew each other, me, Tony, Holden—and even Tracy.”
“Tracy Monroe?” He asks coldly.
“Yeah, her. So we just sort of grew apart in our late teens and I only saw Tony once in Phoenix at the DMV. I was registering my car, or trying to, when he came up behind me and scared the hell out of me. But what concerns me is what you found in his home. That’s some twisted stuff there. I’m not sure where to start, I don’t know enough about that particular area of witchcraft to comment accurately, I just don’t know.”
“Have a guess.” He smiles.
“Well, back in the day. When I was little, I heard my father tell a story about a situation that involved human bones and dead babies.” I pause to have a drink. The resident silence is deafening. “A well-loved dog had died, a neighbor had mistaken it for a coyote and killed it. A strange medicine man was called in. I say strange because he was not normal, he looked like a zombie. Everyone feared him, but they paid him what he wanted. So that evening, he does his ceremony for several hours and then leaves. He just leaves the dead dog in the field. They paid him in livestock and bars of silver, and he just leaves like that. The corpses and dead babies are associated with him. So, come the next morning the dog is alive. It was running around happy and barking, everyone was so happy, but the elders wanted to kil
l it. Saying it was an evil turn of events and must be put down, but then nothing happened for two days.” I say and drink more water.
“What happened on the third day?” The agent asks.
“It started dragging its back half. Its rear legs quit working, by evening the right rear leg became stiff and fell off. It was old and dry and rotted, the left leg was not far behind. So the family starts freaking out. They stopped the grandpa from setting it on fire but eventually the dog couldn’t walk. On the fourth day its teeth fell out, its nose dried up and fell off as well, and it became feral. It tried to bite everyone that came close. It growled and whined as the day went on. It smelled horrible, like a long-dead animal, but it was still alive. By the end of the fourth day, it was dead with its eyelids still open and no teeth.”
The dark suited agent sits nodding. “So this really happened?”
“Yeah, back in the 1950’s. Late 50’s. If this is what that is, don’t mess with it.” I warn.
“Raising the dead, necromancy? Some sort of black magic? Navajo black magic?” he asks.
“Yeah, if that’s what it sounds like.” I wonder quietly if I’ve shared a bit too much.
“So it took the dog exactly four days to die?” The agent scribbles on his notepad.
“Yes, four days.” I return.
“And Simon also works his particular version of it?”
“No, he’s a messed up crystal gazer. A screwed up, twisted version of a fortuneteller, if that makes sense. But it’s the crystal gazing that got him involved.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, the Monroes also work a form of the premonition variant, they know you’re coming before you do. They’re good at what they do.” I say and eye my informal benefactor. “Sir, what is your name?”
“I am Special Agent Dallas Coleman from Sacramento. You can call me Dallas.” We shake hands. “Tell me, why does everyone seem to fear the Nelsons so much?”
I glance at Karen who sits staring at the table in front of her. Dallas says nothing in awkward silence.
I continue. “The Nelsons work a form of black magic that is a much darker variant of what the others are doing. They seek to harm, and they’re good at it. Shapeshifting, blowguns, incantations, spells or whatever English words can describe it, they do it all. Some have even seen them fly, defying gravity like a caped superhero. Where they go when they fly off is anybody’s guess,” I say.