His contentment with the new rig’s stock appearance had faded quickly, however—so much so that after only a month, he had driven it to a four-wheel-drive shop in Farmington for a suspension lift and bigger, more aggressive tires that better adapted to the changing terrain of the area. All in the name of apprehending felons, of course. Arthur grinned and punched his heels into the chestnut’s dark flanks. The big horse responded by bursting into a gallop toward the corral. The other horses quickly followed its lead, their hooves digging into the fine sandy loam and kicking up clods behind them.
Captain Jake Bilagody of the Navajo Nation Police relaxed on the side porch of Arthur’s home, watching the riders come into view. His uniform shirt was clean and starched, just as it had been for the past twenty-five years of active service, and his pressed trouser legs had the same razor-sharp creases as always. His imposing frame filled the porch with a presence that seemed to pulsate from him like echo waves on a radar screen. Arthur sometimes wondered what it must feel like to be on the losing end of a confrontation with such a commanding figure.
Jake had tilted a rustic straw-seat chair back and taken up his usual position, with his polished boots resting on the wooden porch rail, as he sipped one of Arthur’s ice-cold Santa Fe Nut Brown Ales. He looked on as Arthur led his guests to the corral and had them dismount for group pictures, taken with their phones. As the big German shrugged out of his duster and unbuckled the heavy leather chaps, Arthur took a moment to shake hands with each of them and thank them for spending the day with him, and for the liberal gratuities they were pressing on him.
Billy Yazzie had already begun unsaddling Arthur’s horse as the guests walked carefully toward the parking area, some of them massaging tender backsides. Billy shook his head and grinned. Arthur helped him unsaddle the remaining horses in the corral. Once the bridles were off, saddles racked, and blankets properly stored, he reflected on how smoothly the day had gone. Billy began the task of making sure the horses had enough water and feed as Arthur looped the circle of rope over the gatepost and headed across the hard-packed open ground to the house. The tourists drove away, leaving a small cloud of dust in their wake and waving as they passed. Arthur smiled politely and waved back as he stepped up onto the side porch.
“Who’d you have today?” Jake asked, finishing his last swig of Santa Fe Nut Brown.
“Two Germans, two Aussies, and a woman from New Hampshire who thought Ak’is was a coyote.”
Jake removed his hat and wiped the barely damp bottle across his forehead, then rocked his chair forward.
Arthur noticed. “What’s the matter, Jake, beer flat?”
Jake grinned halfheartedly. “Let’s go inside, huh? Get outta this glare.”
“Sure,” Arthur said. “I need to wash down the dust anyway.”
They walked together in silence along the back porch to the kitchen door and went inside. Arthur let the screen door slap the jamb behind them. As Jake pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat, Arthur pulled open the refrigerator door and grabbed a beer from the spill-safe plastic shelf. He held up another, but Jake declined, saying he was on duty and shouldn’t even have had the first one. Arthur twisted the cap off and sat across from his friend, apologizing for the dishes stacked in the sink. Jake waved him off, reminding Arthur that he himself was now a bachelor again and was fully aware of how dirty dishes could multiply.
Arthur grinned sympathetically, aware that the mention of Jake’s new single status was not an open invitation to discuss the recent past. After twenty-five years of marriage, Jake and Nizhoni Bilagody had finally agreed that what had bonded them together in the beginning was now gone. He remembered Jake sitting in that very chair nine months ago, telling him about the night he had simply looked across the dinner table at his wife and thought to himself that she would never again be the woman he married. “That time is gone,” he had said, “never to return.” Then he added somberly, “Some things you just know.” There had been too many changes in them both, too many things that turned their daily life together into a struggle, and their love had quietly, gradually faded until they were just two people living in the same house. No more than friends, no longer lovers. “You know what love is?” Jake had asked him. “Love is a myth. A myth kept alive by greeting-card companies, candymakers, and songwriters. It begins as a strong fire but burns out over time.” He had noticed Arthur watching him as he lamented, then shrugged and warned Arthur with a wagging finger, “Don’t let the fire you two started with turn to ashes. Trust me on this. Once the flame of love goes out, you can no longer breathe life back into it. It is gone forever.”
Arthur let those remembered words sink in for a moment. “So … what did you drive your shiny new vehicle all the way out here for?”
Bilagody stopped playing with his bottle.
“There was a murder in the Cibola this morning,” Jake said. “A sixteen-year-old white girl from Michigan, named Renée Braun. Chaves County Medical Examiner says she was killed with what appears to be a hunting knife—multiple stab wounds.” Jake paused. “He also said there was evidence that her killer raped her after she was dead.” The Navajo cop shifted in his chair and muttered, “Sick fuck. Anyway, the feds are going on the assumption this killing may be linked to other murders with the same MO over the last fifteen years, because of the way her body was laid out.”
Arthur took a swig of beer. “Laid out how?”
“Her legs were straight and crossed at the ankles, while her arms were swung above her head and just out to the side, elbows slightly bent, like she was flying. Like a bird, you know?”
“Or an angel going to heaven,” Arthur said.
Jake paused to consider that and then added, “But that’s the telltale. The feds never released any info about how the other women’s bodies were laid out, so it can’t be a copycat. Must be the same guy. Their big break came this time when they discovered the killer had left behind some fingerprints along with some well-deposited DNA.”
“What kind of DNA?” Arthur asked, twisting the bottle in his fingers.
“Medical examiner found semen inside the girl’s body, as well as saliva mixed with the girl’s blood on her vaginal entry. The killer has never left any evidence before, which means either this killing was unplanned or he was rushed for some reason. That’s why the FBI isn’t so quick to say anything to the press just yet concerning the girl’s body. Their guy has never been this sloppy, so there’s a slim chance it might not be the same person.”
Arthur took another swig of beer and said a prayer quietly to himself for the girl in his head. “So why come to me? Feds need me to track him?”
Jake took off his hat and placed it on its crown on the table, then ran a big hand over his black hair to the back of his neck. “Arthur … Bill Blackhorn of the Belen Police Department telephoned me about an hour ago. A car that was reported stolen from a campground in the Cibola was later discovered in a restaurant parking lot in Belen.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “He also told me that some witnesses put a KZRV news van in that same parking lot a few hours before the car was discovered. The station has tried to contact the van but couldn’t get a response. And neither Sharon nor her cameraman are answering their cell phones. They both go right to voice mail.”
Arthur’s hand tightened around the damp brown bottle. Jake’s eyes darted around the kitchen before returning once again to Arthur’s. “Some State boys found the news van abandoned at a construction site in Polvadera. One male was found in the back, strangled with coax cable.”
Arthur’s tone was flat. “Oscar.”
Jake nodded, “Yeah.”
“What about Sharon?”
“We don’t know. Forensics went over the van and matched some of the fingerprints found on the steering wheel to ones that were found on the Braun girl’s body.”
“They can do that?” Arthur said.
Jake
nodded. “There is a very small window and a special light source has to be used with film and whatnot, but it can be done.” He paused. “Anyway, the Federal database came back with a name: Leonard Kanesewah. A Chiricahua Apache from Arizona, with a record since he was a teenager. The feds think he stole another car in Polvadera and is heading for Mexico with Sharon as his ticket to ride. They found her purse and cell phone in the van.” Jake rubbed his leathery chin. “They’re considering him armed and dangerous, and now they’ve added kidnapping charges, so a BOLO has been issued across the four-state area and his picture will be on every newscast.”
Arthur’s mind worked quickly. “What kind of car is he driving?”
“Look, now, I know what you’re thinking,” Jake countered with that familiar wagging finger. “I don’t need you out there playing Charles Bronson.”
“That’s because nobody took your wife,” Arthur interrupted. “All I want to know is what kind of car he’s driving.”
“Just let the feds handle this,” Jake pleaded. “The minute they have anything solid, I’ll pass it on. You just need to sit tight and let them do their job.”
“Bullshit!” Arthur leaned forward in his chair. “Some lunatic has my wife, and you expect me to just sit here on my ass doing nothing?”
“I’m telling you to stay put for your own good,” Jake insisted.
“And I’m telling you, no, I don’t believe I will,” Arthur said. A moment of tense silence passed before Arthur repeated his question. “What kind of car is he driving?”
Arthur watched the wheels turning in Jake’s mind. He was trying to figure out how to keep Arthur’s name off the FBI’s radar as anything more than the grief-stricken husband. Jake knew that trying to stop him was a fool’s errand. He also had to know that Arthur getting involved was probably Sharon’s best chance at coming out of this alive. “They think he’s driving a gray Chevy Impala, late-seventies model, plates out of Socorro County. Belongs to an eighteen-year-old kid who lives not far from where the van was found. Kid reported it missing late this morning. Thought his mom was going to be upset with him; that’s why he waited so long. That waiting gave Kanesewah about a four-hour head start. News outlets will be reporting the vehicle description on the air soon, asking anyone who sees it to call their local law enforcement office.”
“What makes the feds so sure he’s heading south?”
“Because from Belen it’s only three and a half hours to the Mexican border, so the law of averages favors that’s where he’s going. Kanesewah knows he jumped the gun with his last kill. Knows he fucked up. So if he’s as smart as they seem to think he is, he’ll run. Grabbing Sharon just gave him something to bargain with in case it doesn’t look like he’ll make it.” Jake stood and picked his hat up off the table. He paused and gave his friend a sympathetic look. “I can’t stop you from going after Sharon, because I’d be doing the same damn thing if it were me. But just do me a favor and be careful. If the feds can tie the other killings to this bastard, there are bound to be more bodies before this is over.”
“Why do you say that?” Arthur asked, knowing full well the answer.
Jake put his hat on his head and cocked it a little to one side before resting his right palm on the butt of his holstered gun. “Because he enjoys it.” He paused. “Guys like him just don’t start killing like that for no reason. I bet he got his start a long time ago. Whatever set him off is what keeps him killing. And the fact that he’s been able to keep it down to about one murder a year shows that he was able to keep his thirst in check.” Jake opened the kitchen door and glanced back at Arthur. “If it is him, then he was able to quell his lust for a few years. Maybe there was something or someone that made him stop. Or maybe he was just lying low, biding his time. Maybe whoever had been filling whatever void he has couldn’t fill it anymore. For whatever reason, he’s going to kill again.” Jake exhaled sadly. “And when he does … I just hope you’ve got Sharon back.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Leonard Kanesewah took the last drag from his sixth cigarette in an hour before flicking it out the Chevy’s window. He savored every curl of icy menthol as it swirled around inside his lungs while the radio brought the Four Corners area an up-to-the-minute report with the same information it had force-fed them ten minutes earlier.
The broadcaster’s disembodied voice rehashed the story of the KZRV-TV news van being found in Polvadera, with cameraman Oscar Hirada dead inside from strangulation. The corner of Kanesewah’s mouth twisted upward with the memory of how the Mexican had fought against the cable as it slowly cut that deepening furrow into his throat, crushing his larynx and sealing off his lungs from the outside world until he fought no more.
The broadcaster ended the story by repeating that KZRV’s weekend news anchor and field reporter Sharon Keonie Nakai’s whereabouts were still unknown. Kanesewah exhaled slowly and watched as the grayish smoke got sucked out his open window. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. He watched as the twisted grin transformed itself into a satisfied smile.
The next movement of the media symphony featured the family of Renée Braun. Kanesewah imagined the girl’s father standing before the throng of microphones and reporters, his wife sobbing at his side as he lectured the media on how the killer should be put down like the rabid animal he was. He also reassured them that he would make sure he was in the courtroom every day of the trial and standing front and center at the killer’s execution. The broadcaster’s voice returned, announcing that FBI Special Agent in Charge Frederick Thorne had stepped up to the microphone for a scheduled news conference that they were now joining in progress.
“At approximately nine o’clock this morning,” Frederick Thorne began in a calm and measured manner, “the body of sixteen-year-old Renée Braun was found in a shallow grave in the Cibola National Forest by campers out for a morning hike. She had been brutally murdered. Forest rangers then contacted the county sheriff and the United States Bureau of Land Management. During their investigation, the Sheriff’s Department discovered similarities to other murders committed over the past fifteen years and contacted the FBI.”
The press room at the Gallup office of the FBI remained quiet as Thorne went on. “We believe the suspect, Leonard Kanesewah, to be heading south in a gray Chevrolet Impala to flee to Mexico with a hostage, Sharon Keonie Nakai.” Thorne rattled off the license plate number as the microphones and cell phones recorded it quietly. “Mrs. Nakai, as you all know, is a well-respected reporter for KZRV-TV news, and her safety, while locating and apprehending Mr. Kanesewah, is our main concern. We have had no contact from Mr. Kanesewah and are already following up on several leads that have been called in to our mobile command post. We feel confident that this situation will be resolved quickly.”
“What precautions are being taken in case he isn’t heading south as you suspect?” barked a reporter.
“We are working very closely with all local law enforcement agencies in the Four Corners area, including the Navajo Nation Police, the New Mexico and Arizona State Police, and all pertinent sheriffs’ departments.” Thorne’s answer then took on a more textbook tone—a ready-to-order statement filled with all the buzzwords that reporters and the oblivious public expected men in his position to recite in order to offer a false sense of order to a disordered world. “Now, I want to reassure the public that they are not in any danger, but should you see anything, please report it to authorities quickly and do not engage Mr. Kanesewah in any way. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
“Is it true that the girl was sexually assaulted?” one reporter called out.
Other reporters’ voices sprang into action like a colony of gulls fighting over a bag of French fries. But apparently Thorne had left the room.
Kanesewah chuckled briefly, turned off the radio, and listened to the wind buffeting past the Chevy’s open windows. Since the FBI had now given a description of th
e car, he would have to get rid of it sooner than he had planned. He checked the dash clock, hoping he still had enough time to make it to where she would already be waiting with her car. He was also glad that the noise from the trunk had finally stopped. All that kicking and muffled screaming had given him a headache. Now there was nothing but quiet and peaceful scenery approaching through the windshield.
He reached over to the passenger side of the front seat and grabbed the Nokia flip phone that he had found during a quick search of the glove compartment. He had made sure to keep it close at hand, resting next to his Marlboro hard pack. He had noticed how Special Agent in Charge Thorne had left out the part about the positioning of the girl’s body, and the missing panties, and ignored the question about sexual assault. The feds were playing it close to the vest. He set the phone in his lap for a moment and pulled the pink panties with the little white bow from his pants pocket and sniffed them again. It had been quite a long time since he smelled that kind of sweet scent. He took another deep breath before shoving them back into his pocket with his thumb. He inserted the battery he’d removed from the phone the moment he found it in the glove compartment, knowing the FBI would be trying to ping the car owner’s GPS, flipped it open on his lap, and pressed the center button to power it up. Then he quickly dialed her number.
“It’s about time you called!” Gloria Sanchez said. “You’re all over the fucking TV!” She paused. “Is it true what they’re saying? That you killed that girl and all those others?”
“Baby, you know me,” he said. “Do you think I could really do something like that? They’re just trying to pin that shit on somebody, and they picked me because they’ve got nobody else. That’s why we’ve gotta move. I need time to think of a way to fight their lies.”
Path of the Dead Page 3