As he picked his way through the darkness that covered the mesa, he had a thought and abruptly changed course, toward the small hogan of Harold Tsosie. He stopped and honked twice. That had always been their signal for Harold to come out.
Harold was an elder who lived in the old way. Long ago, when he was a young man, he had built this cone-shaped hogan of angled branches covered in bark, grass, and earth that rose to a single smoke hole at the highest point. This was said to please the sun god, Johano-ai, as it shone on the dwelling, because it would look down upon it and see a reflection of itself. The single wood door faced east to receive the sun’s blessings each morning and catch its warming rays.
Harold Tsosie had always loved horses. He had trained them many years ago, when he worked as a young man for a ranch that had long since faded into memory. Now he could remember those days only with a fondness that came from old age. Harold didn’t think much of motorized vehicles, either. He never trusted anything that would cost you more money to keep running than you could get if you sold it. His only transportation was and had always been a horse he kept in a small corral and shelter near his hogan. There had been many horses, but always only one Harold.
Arthur spent a few minutes working out the arrangements with Harold to check on his horses while he was away, explaining that Billy Yazzie would be hauling a load and unable to tend to them. Harold told him not to worry, that it would be an honor to care for them.
The old Ford turned south onto Highway 170 just as Arthur cracked a window to let out the built-up heat that was starting to bake him. Ak’is kept a watchful eye out the windshield, panting lightly.
Arthur’s mind began to work through what Edward had spoken about the night before. During the drive back from Kayenta, he had been too tired to push his mind to make sense of it. As he passed Four Corners Regional Airport in the predawn, the lights of the airfield glowed softly behind the small scrub-brush hills on his left. His mind continued to run through multiple scenarios as he approached the traffic lights where La Plata Highway met Highway 64. Turning west onto 64, he got the Bronco up to speed on the small incline that angled away from the airport as the fenced-in lot of Singleton’s Mobile Homes slid by on his right. Arthur smiled, remembering the day he and Sharon had gone there to purchase Edward’s manufactured house.
Arthur understood that the feds were counting on Kanesewah to head south, but Edward’s vision had spoken of one who traveled the path of the dead, yet he is not dead. North was all that could mean, Arthur figured, since one traveled the distance of life as the sun travels the sky, from east to west. But when making the transition after death, one ascended from south to north. It was something, but it still gave him really nowhere to start and no real lead to where on earth Kanesewah would be heading. All he could do now was hope that Jake Bilagody had new information that would be worth something to him when he got to Shiprock. Something a little more solid than an old man’s dream.
CHAPTER TEN
The flags strung from the four poles outside the Shiprock District Navajo Nation Police station waved in the wind as Jake Bilagody parked his beefy new Suburban in the long parking lot opposite the Wells Fargo Bank across Highway 491. He lurched slowly out of the truck feeling more tired than usual and flexed his hands against the arthritic stiffness that always seemed to hit him in the morning. But this morning, even his badge seemed to weigh him down. Or maybe it was the fact that he had managed to get only four hours’ sleep in his own bed after his drive back from Window Rock last night. In by 1:00 a.m. and up by 5:00 a.m. was no way to live at his age.
Ever since the Window Rock chief of police resigned, citing political differences with the tribe, Jake and the other captains from the six districts had been pulling double duty as acting chief for the entire Navajo Nation while running their own district offices. He wondered when the decision would be made to promote someone into the position full time or else locate a candidate outside the force, who would be happy to accept the over sixty-three thousand dollars a year they were offering as salary. Presently, all he was hoping for was to put a stop to the commuting.
After getting himself a hot mug of black coffee from the break room, the commuting police chief sat behind his desk and began going over some of the community’s complaints about the poor response times to reported crime. He flexed his fingers again, remembering how, when he spoke before the Navajo Nation Council’s Law and Order Committee, he had stressed that the department was currently facing several challenges. He had explained that whereas most rural areas of the United States had about four officers for every thousand people, his officers were stretched terribly thin due to the vast area they had to cover. In the Navajo Nation, they had about half an officer for every thousand people. And you could not police effectively with that kind of ratio, he had explained to deaf ears. He laid down the papers and wrapped his stiff fingers around the coffee mug, letting its warmth sink through to his bones. He had just taken a mouthful of coffee when Special Agent in Charge Frederick Thorne of the FBI sauntered through his open office door.
“Any luck so far?” Jake asked.
Thorne carried off the square-jawed, Dick Tracy look well for a young man—so much so that Jake wondered why he hadn’t become a Calvin Klein model. The pay was surely better. Thorne held one hand against the long black tie that matched his crisp black suit and sat in one of the wooden chairs that faced the chief’s desk. “Not yet,” he replied. “But I have every confidence my agents will locate Mr. Kanesewah and take him into custody, dead or alive.”
Bilagody swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Aren’t you forgetting he has a hostage?”
“Not at all,” Thorne replied. “Mrs. Nakai’s safety is of the utmost importance. I only meant that if Kanesewah wants to make the hard choice, we are prepared to accommodate him.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Jake said. “But this isn’t the Old West anymore. We don’t generally shoot the suspect as our first option.”
Agent Thorne smoothed a pant leg with his hand and disregarded the comment. “I hope Mr. Nakai isn’t going to be a problem. I don’t want him getting involved in a federal investigation and making things worse. You have spoken with him as I asked?”
Jake rocked back in his office chair and interlocked his fingers across his belly. “He’s still in shock,” he said flatly. “But he knows how things work, and promises me he’ll stay out of it and let you do your job.”
“For his sake, I hope so,” Thorne replied. “And for yours.”
Jake rocked his chair forward. “Don’t threaten me, Agent Thorne. I’m old enough to be your father, and I’ve been in this district too long to put up with that. And let me remind you that you’re on Navajo land at our invitation, no matter what crimes the FBI thinks it’s responsible for.”
Agent Thorne stiffened. “I don’t deal in threats, Chief. I deal in facts. And if Arthur Nakai even looks like he’s getting involved in this, I will haul his ass in so fast, he’ll be too dizzy to figure out where he is.”
Jake folded his arms on his desktop. “If Arthur Nakai gets involved, Agent Thorne, it’ll be you who can’t figure out where he is.”
Thorne’s eyes rolled. “Look, I know all about his background. I’ve read his military and Homeland files. And I understand why he may feel the need to interfere, but you need to control him.”
“Control him?” Jake said. “If it were my wife some lunatic had kidnapped, a whole damn Bureau full of suits wouldn’t be able to stop me from trying to get her back.” Jake lowered his head and ran his tongue between his teeth and lower lip as he looked up at Thorne. “Just because I know the man personally doesn’t mean I can control him any more than I can control the wind. I can promise you that.”
* * *
Thorne’s reply was interrupted as Arthur Nakai appeared in the doorway of Jake’s office, carrying a large insulated cup of coffee. He had stopped for gas at the
Fina station on the way into Shiprock. He liked their strong coffee, but it needed a lot of cream to tame it.
“Promise him what?” Arthur said.
“Arthur,” Jake said. “We were just discussing you. This is Special Agent Frederick Thorne up from the Gallup FBI field office. Special Agent Thorne, Arthur Nakai.”
Thorne stood briefly and the two politely shook hands.
“I figured the FBI was here when I saw that menacing black Suburban parked outside,” Arthur said. “You know, you guys should really go for something a little less conspicuous. Maybe a matte-black finish instead of the glossy paint job—get that whole Agents of SHIELD thing going for you.”
Frederick Thorne grinned wryly but did not respond to the barb. Arthur walked past him and sat on the low credenza filing cabinet by the window, sipping his coffee. Maybe he had used too much cream.
Arthur sliced into the uneasy silence with a question to the FBI. “What are you doing to find my wife?”
Thorne stuck out his chin to loosen the collar of his starched white shirt. “We are doing everything we can to facilitate the apprehension of Leonard Kanesewah and bring about the safe return of your wife.”
“Couldn’t have put it more bureaucratically myself,” Arthur replied. “You figure on finding her in this office? Because if you do, I don’t think you’re really doing everything you can.”
Thorne placed his hands on the chair arms and stood up, squaring off to face Arthur. “Look,” he began, “I understand how you feel—”
Arthur rose from the credenza, coffee in hand, and again disregarded the Navajo taboo against interrupting someone speaking. This was getting to be a habit. “I hardly think you do, Agent Thorne,” he said, “so don’t presume to tell me you know how I feel.”
“I think Agent Thorne can rephrase that a little better, Arthur,” Jake offered, trying his best to diffuse the situation. He flexed both hands. They were starting to feel cold and stiff again. “Isn’t that right, Agent?”
Thorne gave a sideways look to the chief. “What I meant was, I can imagine how you must feel.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks, if for no other reason than to have something to do with them. “We have been following up on every lead coming in ever since this hit the news sources, and I’ve got men stretched from here to the Mexican border trying to locate him.”
“And my wife,” Arthur added.
Thorne exhaled, nodded. “Of course. Her safety is of the utmost importance.”
“So you’ve said.” Arthur sipped his coffee and swallowed. Maybe he would add some sugar next time. “But more than forty-eight hours have already passed. And once Kanesewah hit the hardball, any chance you had of locating him fell to some average citizen spotting him eating a cheeseburger or taking a leak.” Arthur paused. “And your chances are getting more remote by the minute.”
“Hardball?”
“Asphalt, blacktop, paved road,” Arthur rattled off. “Once they hit that, your chance of tracking them went to hell.”
Thorne seemed to study his shoes for a moment, then looked up at Arthur. “Then I guess it’s good the FBI has something called modern technology among its many assets.”
Arthur smirked and kept quiet about Edward’s vision. He knew the FBI wouldn’t put any faith in anything they couldn’t slap a label on and shove into an evidence box. “I knew cocky bastards like you when I was in the sandbox,” Arthur said, glancing at Jake before returning his attention to Thorne. “They never lasted more than a few weeks.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Mr. Nakai.” Thorne’s face turned deadly serious. “I’ve seen my fair share of action—maybe not in-country like you, but I’ve seen it just the same.”
Arthur said, “Let me break it down Barney-style for you. I don’t know whatever criminal justice class they pulled you from, but what you’ve seen and what I’ve seen are not the same. I’ve had AK rounds rip through corrugated metal and fly past my head like a swarm of bees. I’ve seen an eight-year-old boy pick up an RPG and had to take him out before his finger could pull the trigger. I’ve carried my brothers back after having their legs blown off by IEDs. So, you see, I’m not especially interested in what you’ve seen.”
Thorne took a deep breath, then turned to Jake. “Be sure to keep me informed if anything should come your way, Chief.”
Jake stood and offered a hand across his desk. They shook. “The minute I hear anything,” he said.
Thorne started to offer his hand to Arthur, who pretended not to notice as he turned to look at nothing outside Jake’s office window. Thorne buttoned the second button of his suit jacket and walked out.
A few seconds passed before Jake said, “Well, that sure was like watching two kids pissing to see whose stream could reach the electric fence.”
“Don’t you start,” Arthur replied.
Jake chuckled.
“Did he give you have anything new?” Arthur asked.
“Just what he told you.” He nodded toward Arthur’s coffee cup. “You want a refill on that?”
Arthur downed the last dregs. “Is it fresh? I don’t drink tar, and I know how cop coffee can taste.”
Both men filled their cups in the break room, Arthur adding three sugars and an inch of cream while Jake seemed satisfied with black. Arthur motioned with his head toward the parking lot, and they stepped outside into the brisk morning air.
Shiprock had begun stirring with signs of life, and Arthur watched as Ak’is stood guard in the front passenger seat, occasionally getting a whiff of something interesting filtering through the windows Arthur had left slightly open beneath the vent visors.
“You’d tell me if you had anything to go on, right, Jake?” Arthur said, sipping his cop coffee.
“You know I would,” Jake replied. “But my question to you is, do you have any information for me?”
Arthur looked south toward the empty parking lot of the Begaye Flea Market. The vendors were gearing up for the swarm of locals and tourists that would be coming throughout the day, searching for unheard-of bargains from would-be relic sellers willing to part with a priceless artifact at a discounted price. “I went to see Sharon’s father yesterday. He told me he’d had a vision.”
“What did his vision reveal?”
“Just crazy Navajo talk,” Arthur said, dismissing it with a shake of his head. If it led him anywhere, he would need time to figure it out himself. “Nothing you would call a mind-blowing lead or anything.”
“Your father-in-law is an elder,” Jake said. “I was always taught to listen to my elders and respect their knowledge for there was always a great significance in what they had to say. What did Edward tell you?”
“He told me that Thorne and all his men stretched from here to the Mexican border are being blinded by the smoke of the demon.”
“Uh-huh.” Jake finally sipped his coffee. “That all?”
“That’s it. I told you it was just crazy talk. What’s up with your hands?”
Jake removed one from his coffee mug and flexed it. “Arthritis, probably. I’m thinking of buying one of those creams you see advertised on TV. Who do think I should trust, Johnny Bench or Chuck Woolery?”
Arthur stared. “Who?”
Jake just shook his head. “Never mind.” He noticed the slight bulge in Arthur’s denim jacket, and the tip of the tactical holster peeking out from under the hem. “You packing your Glocks?”
Arthur glanced down. “You noticed, huh?”
“It’s kind of my thing,” Jake said. “Trained eye, and all.” He glanced through the rear window of the Bronco, noticed the scope of Arthur’s rifle visible from under the blanket. “Goin’ hunting, are you?”
“Thought about it. I figured maybe hunting elk in Colorado would keep me occupied and out of the FBI’s way.”
Jake smiled knowingly. “First season in Colorad
o for hunting elk with a rifle doesn’t start till October twelfth this year. This is only the first. You must mean moose.”
“Yeah, what I said. Moose.”
“Thought so,” Jake said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gloria Sanchez switched off the Buick’s headlights as the early morning sun spilled over the snow-capped peaks of the Wind River Range, washed down across the fertile valley floor, and pushed its way up the eastern side of the Wyoming Range. Leonard Kanesewah had fallen asleep in the passenger seat a short time after leaving Cruel Jack’s Truck Stop in Rock Springs. He had correctly predicted it to be sparsely populated thanks to the expansive Flying J Center beyond it. They had stopped just long enough to fill the Regal’s tank with gasoline and move on, keeping their visual exposure to a minimum.
They had abandoned the small cinder-block house just after midnight, heading north on 191. Now, after hours of tiresome driving to the monotonous drone of the Buick’s fresh tires, the only sound keeping Gloria Sanchez awake was Leonard Kanesewah’s thunderous snoring.
As they drove out of Pinedale, past the monolithic stone pillars and massive log timbers of the Hampton Inn, Sanchez reached up to adjust the rearview mirror and check on their unwilling passenger. Her vision was partially obstructed by the back of the front seat, so she twisted her head around over her right shoulder. Sharon was lying still and quiet under the blanket on the back seat. Of course the bitch could sleep, she thought. Why not? And why was she even here in the first place? Behind them, she caught a glimpse of Gannett Peak’s nearly fourteen thousand feet, filling the rear window. She remembered hearing stories of the glaciers that crawled through its rocky valleys, and of the private plane from Minnesota that had crashed somewhere up there one year in late October. The searchers had picked up the ping from the plane’s transponder, but it seemed lost among all the canyons, gullies, and boulder fields at that elevation. When the plane was finally located in early November, the father and his three sons had perished.
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