by R. S. Scott
“Just this past summer I was happy. I thrived and cared for things that mattered little, now I don’t sleep well because of terrible nightmares, and the nearest dark corner terrifies me,” I say.
“Son, what do you want from me?” Taylor opens his eyes.
“I don’t know what I want or why I’m here. I guess I want to know more about it, so I know how to fight it. It would seem the darkness is powerful, far beyond what we as police officers can deal with. We’re finding old hogans with burnt bodies in them, with the locals saying they killed skinwalkers in it, but then the feds still want a murder investigation. So they brought in their task force and started asking questions, pushing people around like white cops do. In doing so, they hurt an old woman who didn’t want to be bothered. They broke her arm, and with a fall she hit her head hard against a cement floor. She was airlifted to the Flagstaff hospital but died two days later. Four days after her burial that same agent died of a heart attack in Pennsylvania on his driveway. They looked at his body and found he had a brain tumor the size of a plum and on top of that, cancer, in his bowels, and cancer in his brittle bones.
“From one standpoint, I am an officer that upholds the laws of the land. Without laws, we live in chaos. Without laws, we live in anarchy. Without laws, we live as in days of yore where evil men live as they please in dangerous ways committing cruelty. Inflicting pain as they please and it was tolerated. Sometimes accepted and respected. With laws, we have order and stillness among the people where one does not live in fear of dangerous individuals who thrive to torment and pillage.” We sit in silence.
I continue, “I guess from where I am, the old days are over. Today we live in harmony, free of the wickedness of the past. Long ago, evil men were just tolerated. Now we put them in jail and subject them to laws, laws that govern our lands and make evil a crime. If you think about it, it’s the white man’s laws and his rules. Rules we adopted for obvious reasons. We are a conquered people, so we adopt their rules as our own. We go to their schools and learn their ways. I guess that is how I see things.”
The old man adjusts his folded legs. “When the Japanese fought us, we understood it as they attacked us. We, as we were, are now Americans. This is all our country now, or so it seems.”
We sit in silence for an eternity. I finally continue. “In history classes at school, it is usually the white man’s stories and his conquests of war that are glorified. They take great pride in what they consider freeing of the black man and freeing of what they consider the uncivilized, where savagery abounds. But even now are frightened, even of themselves. Like caged animals bent on the destruction of his brother, they cower behind their rules and oppress those they fear, even if that fear is unfounded. They press on trying to understand their fears, so they approach that which they oppress with open arms. Then seem surprised when it bites back and claws at their souls, punishing their wickedness. They wonder how they can now have enemies. How can they now be hated? How can advancement be so dismissed and utterly rejected? How can the introduction of civilization, as they see it, be so rejected and violently refrained from? I say it is because they ignore the very thing they fear. They ignore and suppress their own ability to be content or have lost the ability to do so. They look so far ahead that they then ignore what is directly in front of them, I don’t want to be like that.”
The old man stokes the fire. “Where did you get this other help from?”
“Sergeant Christopher Benally from Leupp station. His family works some sort of shapeshifting centered on a bear pelt. We don’t trust him anymore. In Phoenix, they fought as we watched. It was ugly, the room and even the air we breathed turned ugly. The monster is dead, but it seems the legacy of the monster endures. It’s like we defeated him, but we really didn’t. Like we only snared its limp while it conjured a distraction so that it now laughs from its lair next door as it hides among our children and their children to come. It seems as long as Chris lives, its legacy lives on somehow. Not only does it live on, but it has also come into our midst as police officers,” I say.
The old man tosses another cut of cedar on the embers.
“I guess I’m wondering what am I fighting really? It would seem arresting men solves nothing. We’re fighting a ghost that exists nowhere and everywhere at the same time. In Phoenix, in Pennsylvania, along I-40, outside my car door as I’m driving home at dusk, in the dark hallway of my home in Phoenix. Every day I know I’m losing this fight, yet it seems I am not but just faltering. Every passing day I’m losing courage, I’m losing hope. Soon I will give up my struggle and just leave. With that, it would seem they have won. Everyone on that side, I don’t want that to happen, so I press on,” I say.
“What was the price of their involvement?” Old Man Taylor asks.
“Chris wanted to protect the girl and saw no other options than to fight fire with fire, or so he says. Tracy, well, it’s complicated there. I was frustrated and pissed, so I got drunk at the casino bar with Jess’s friend Hailey, but turns out it was Tracy, so I let her peer into my soul with her magic.” Taylor looks up angrily. “I know, I’m sorry, but when she did, she got herself spooked. She says she saw our son, sitting beside me. She gets herself checked out and really is pregnant. So, at her own free will, she defeated the other goon. That left Simon by himself, and he ran.”
“How does she now carry your child?” Old Man Taylor asks.
“I left DNA with the feds, so we’ll know soon if I really am the father,” I say.
“Son, how did she get that close to you?” Old Man Taylor asks.
“She claims to have impersonated my girlfriend Jess. I knew somehow as it was happening, I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“You wanted her touch,” Old Man Taylor says.
“Yes, not Tracy, Jess,” I say.
“Son, don’t be like the men of your family’s past. Be like your father, be a man of character.”
“I trusted her, Jess. I trusted Jess. I belong to her, or used to.”
“But that night you knew you were being deceived and accepted it.”
“That’s not totally how it happened.” We sit in silence listening to the fire. “Christmas is coming soon. Somehow I don’t really care.”
“Son, always be courageous, always be brave. Do the right thing always, always be kind and compassionate to those around you. That is my advice to you.”
I step out into the darkness, the cold night. The noisy dogs are silent. The night sky displays its might with a massive array of stars and distant clouds. The air is crisp and cold. I get in my patrol vehicle and glare at my side arm and my shotgun.
I get out of the car again, and return to the old man’s house, banging on his door furiously. “Taylor! It’s me Steve, the Keller boy!”
A husk of a man peers through the steel security door. “Boy, I had just crawled into my warm bed!” He appears wearing a nightcap worthy of Shakespearian times with a fluffy ornament on top.
“Taylor, please bless my sidearm so that it will be accurate and straight!” I pull out my 9mm pistol.
“Son, go home. You can do that on your own. Have some faith in your abilities.” He shoves a flask into my grasp and closes the door. “Don’t bother me like that again. Drink that. You might feel better.”
“Sorry, Sir.” I walk back to my patrol vehicle. “Abilities?” I start up the engine and turn on the heater. I sniff the flask. It’s yucca home brew.
I put the massive beast of an automobile into drive and head down the frozen dirt road toward home. The tires crush the frozen flakes making a surreal chalkboard sound.
CHAPTER 17
“Holden. Morning, my friend. How are you?” We shake hands. I enter Teesto station.
“I’m good. Come on in. Right over there.” Holden points to the corner of Teesto jail. “That corner, the same spot Simon was sitting and spitting, farting and just being a disgusting human being. Right there. I get more coffee filters for our coffee maker and there she is, on all
fours, licking the ground on the same spot Simon was sitting. Tracy was on all fours with her tongue out.” Holden shakes his head. “That woman is just disgusting. I’m telling you.” He takes off his new hat.
“Nice hat,” I observe.
“Thanks. I picked it up in Flagstaff.”
I inspect the cell.
“I hear she kissed you with that same mouth, is that right?” Holden asks.
I look over to the place where Simon was farting and being a disgusting human being and stifle the urge to evacuate my esophagus of my fantastic bacon breakfast.
“There’s a sink over there if you need it,” Holden offers.
“I’m fine, thanks, I’ll be alright. Then what happened?”
“She gets up, smiles, and steps back. In that motion of stepping backward, she just fades away. If she is carrying your child, I don’t know what to tell you.” Holden points to the corner camera. “That camera was blank. It shows me talking at nothing, nothing at all. It was like she wasn’t even here with me mumbling away.”
“How about when you shot Simon out of the tree?” I ask as we walk outside.
“Twelve-gauge ballistic bean bag round right in his rib cage. He broke that branch and that one.” Holden points at his massive pine tree with snow on it. “Lands right here on his head, looked a mess with a broken leg, arm and his shoulder, tries to create some drama. I cuffed him and told him he had the few moments to speak to heal himself. Then I was taping his mouth shut. He didn’t believe me, so I started dragging him into the cell, and he starts crying. I took off the tape, and he healed himself, then the tape went back on. I’m thinking maybe I should not have done that,” Holden says.
“No, you did good.” I glare at the massive pine tree.
“I had the devil in that cell, and I let him go.” We stand silently. “I regret that,” Holden says.
“Ganado also had him, and I let him go. Don’t sweat it. It seems that new laws are needed that cover this sort of crap,” I say.
“Yeah,” Holden agrees.
“Maybe we can start with a list of items of conduct, with respect to the type of craft used and the level of influence, perhaps?” I suggest.
“The problem is going to be getting accurate information. None of them are going to divulge that at any level.”
“True, so true,” I say.
A recent urgent report revealed a missing Gladys Monroe. FBI had stormed the Monroe compound and found a drunk Daryl Monroe playing a trumpet in the basement corner of a building near the compound gate. Upon checking the other buildings on the Monroe compound, they found a ceremonial hogan at the center of the enclosed buildings. At a far corner of the hogan were clothing and paperwork belonging to Gladys Monroe. When Daryl was asked about the items, he denied any wrongdoing and refused to cooperate with the feds that had invaded his compound. He offered them a roasted mutton lunch that they declined.
Ganado station sends an update. Simon is back and trashed a local trading post. The trading post attendant had been dragged outside and hung by his ankles from the entrance door with a leather horse bridle. The elderly attendant claims that Simon had been looking for a ceremonial gourd rattle and a special blanket, a blanket that was made famous in local papers years prior. A Chief’s blanket. Simon took the rattle but not the blanket. Simon’s attempts to break into the local safe had failed. It has been deemed Simon alone can be apprehended, but with his soldiers by his side, he is nearly unstoppable.
I echo Holden’s concerns regarding Christopher and his true intentions. We both predict it won’t be long until the inevitable happens. I relay info to Holden of what I’ve seen when he fought Simon’s soldier. The ugliness of it all, the twisted nature of seeing the incredible up close, the all-encompassing madness that nearly collapsed my senses. The tangible thickening in the air as they fought, the many voices from the soldier that spoke with such commanding authority, it was frightening.
When the soldier’s dead body was brought to Albuquerque for an autopsy, many surprises were uncovered. The teenager was determined to be in his early teens but with the muscular build of a professional athlete, abnormally tall and immensely strong. His joints were that of a middle-aged man, knee and hip cartilage were nearly gone with bone spurs sprouting on his lower lumbar spinal column. No one has been able to ID the teen as of yet. Holden keenly points out that neither teen could be identified but seemed to know nothing else but their craft. Perhaps trained as soldiers would in bootcamp.
“You’re a damn genius, Holden.” I slap his arm as we pour over a map of Northern Arizona.
“I’d guess somewhere up near Chinle or even toward Kayenta. Someone is taking in kids and making soldiers out of them,” Holden says.
“So, Simon hires or somehow takes two of them and brings them to Phoenix and on the way hits Leupp Chapter House,” I speculate.
“Chris kills one and Tracy takes down the other one. I bet Simon didn’t see that coming with his crystal gazing shit.” Holden has been swearing more and more.
“Wait, he’s a crystal gazer, and he didn’t see that coming?” I am a bit confused.
“That’s more like fact-finding shit, not the future crap that Tracy does,” Holden says.
“What the hell does Tracy want with Simon?” I ask.
“Ask her, the mother of your son there.” Holden pats my shoulder. “Just tell her not to lie,” he laughs.
“Yeah, thanks, Holden.” I inspect the Teesto jail floor as Holden returns to his desk. There is considerable chatter on the radio. Holden listens intently.
The jail floor is concrete as are the walls, reinforced with a steel cage. There is one reinforced window near the rear wall, far too high for anyone to crawl through. There are no ventilation ducts in the cell, there is one above the key locker but that is outside the cell.
“Hey Holden, that air duct up there. Have you checked it for any incantation pieces? Pouches, bones, things like that. That’s a way in if you think about it.”
“Steve! Jeremy is checking out a sheep herd east of Tonali Lake area. Shepherds shot at a skinwalker coming down from Hopi country. Sheepdogs picked up its scent.”
“From Hopi country?” I enter Holden’s office. “Is that right?”
“Might have circled around from Tuba City area,” Holden says.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think this will endure and continue.” Holden sighs. “The feds are making a mess of things but rousing things, as well. Their witch hunt just might be going better than we give them credit for.”
“Are you going out there?” I ask.
“No, I have a panicking elder coming, something about a walking cougar. Gladys Monroe is still missing. The feds won’t admit it, but they can’t find her. And that other FBI babysitter is missing too, damn kids.”
“I’m headed back to Dilcon,” I exit Teesto station.
I contact the feds and express my concerns regarding dealing with Daryl and his people. Premonition is nearly perfected in their family. Direct contact is ill-advised. I contact Karen. They found Tony’s girlfriend. Or what was left of her hanging upside down from a saguaro cactus just east of Apache Junction, a suburb of Phoenix, Arizona. I call Pastor to locate Old Man Taylor and to be diligent protecting the young Rebecca with recent events unfolding. I contact Sharon from Leupp station to assist. She’ll be at the church in forty-five minutes.
“Damn, one thing after another. An actual skinwalker, shit. Here we go.” I pack more ammo and pull two MP5 machine pistols from the Dilcon armory. On my way out, I spot the gray leather pouch from Old Man Taylor, a ‘deterrent against the skinwalkers’ as he called it. I pack that, too.
A frantic call on the emergency frequency band from Jeremy. He fired twice on the skinwalker as it crossed his path. The rounds had no effect until Jeremy used Karen’s ammo, Karen’s blessed ammo.
“The walker tumbled. Shot it again and same thing. It went down. Shot it a third time, and it stood up on its rear legs and sped
off toward the Monroe compound. It’s really moving. I’m headed there!” Jeremy sounds excited and weary.
I check in with dispatch that I’ll be coming to the Monroe compound from the southwest road. I call Sharon to move in from the west. She returns that she has her rifle with her. I commend her efforts. A lot of commotion on the radio from the feds at the Monroe compound, shots are fired.
In the distance, dust rises slowly as ballistic cracks echo between the three lava buttes surrounding the collection of ranches. I check in with the feds, informing them of my approach from the south. I park quickly and pull my sidearm. Officers timidly approach a fallen entity just outside the Monroe compound.
“Watch yourselves, don’t get too close,” I warn the feds, “Don’t touch it.”
The entity hisses and growls as a cornered, violent animal would. Blood oozes from visible bullet wounds to its torso and legs. Its face painted black and white, leggings of coyote pelts as well as a hooded mask of a coyote skull. Its body painted in streaks of white and murky mush. Around its neck are several more pelts and small pouches. It is unable to rise on its legs, so it crawls like a snake would, hissing and growling like a rabid animal would. Moving slowly in continued jerking movements, it inches closer and closer to the Monroe compound gate. It contorts its body to mimic a snake.
It raises its hand motioning toward the Monroe compound. “Traitor!” He speaks in Old Navajo, a male voice. “Traitor!” He slowly continues his snake-like crawl toward the Monroe house. Officers follow with guns pointed, unsure what to do.
Jeremy approaches the commotion. “Holy shit! Look at that! We caught us a walker!” He continues to the Monroe gate, walking safely around the fallen entity. Jeremy uses a small iron pipe to bang on the Monroe compound gate. “Daryl! Come out here you bastard!”
“Jeremy, what are you doing?” I approach Jeremy as the human snake continues his slow deathly crawl. “Jeremy?” I aim my pistol at the crawling, bleeding entity. “Jeremy!”