The Ties That Bind

by Andi Marquette

  "Who found him?" Chris's questions were crisp and clipped out of long habit of taking reports and collecting concise information.

  "Um--" I searched my notes. "A guy named Tom Manyhorses. Simmons talked to him and took a statement. She said he's an older rancher guy out there who was on his way to town on Wednesday. She's originally from that area. She asked him who else lived out there and he said two other families, but they don't need to pass by the spot where Bill was to get to town. The road dead-ends just past Manyhorses' place."

  "So it's not beyond reason," Chris mused aloud, "that it would take a few days to find Bill's body."

  "Seems that way. I think we're going to go out and have a look at the area. Sage and River both want to." Can't say I'm looking forward to that.

  "Injuries?"

  I looked at my notes again. "Consistent with getting hit by a car. The ME concluded that Bill was hit on his left side. From the way the bones fractured, the point of impact came from behind, so the car was traveling on the right side of the road, as it should've been, and its right front end hit Bill hard enough to knock him off the road and twenty to thirty feet away from the graded part. From the photos of the scene, it would have been easier for him to be walking on the road itself because both sides have that dirt pile from grading along the edges. And if it was dark, it would have been easier to just stay on the road."

  "So lots of internal injuries and broken bones? Did he land wrong?"

  "Yes and yes. His neck was broken. ME thinks he died quickly."

  Chris was quiet for a moment. "The driver must have known he hit something," she said. "But kept going."

  "Yeah. If it was someone from Ridge Star trying to keep Bill quiet, that would explain why he kept going. He ran Bill down and bailed. But if it wasn't, then Bill's death might have been accidental, and the guy we're looking for might be somebody who freaked out when he realized he'd hit somebody. So his death might not even be related to Ridge Star."

  "That still doesn't explain what he was doing out there without a car and without ID."

  "I asked Simmons about that, because I was trying to be Detective Thorough-pants like you, and she checked the crime scene notes and even called the guy who did the processing and no, no ID. Not even money in his pocket." I flipped the page on my notebook, which now was on the hood of my car. "Okay, more weird stuff. There was a length of rope around his left wrist, tied in a pretty good knot. The other end was frayed and kind of rough, like he'd rubbed it on a rock or something to cut it."

  "Huh," Chris said, and I knew she was thinking about that.

  I waited for her to continue.

  "So maybe he was tied to something," she added. "He couldn't get the knot loose--was his other wrist tied?"

  I took another sip of coffee. "No evidence of it. No marks, either."

  "He couldn't get the knot loose, even with his free hand. So he did the next best thing and hacked through it with something. Maybe a rock, like you said."

  "All right, scenario time," I said. "What if some Ridge Star thugs decided to scare Bill? Really scare him, since according to Tonya and his former coworker--this Jamison Purcell we talked to yesterday-- Bill had been getting beaten up and warned to quit digging into Ridge Star affairs and it wasn't working. So they took him out to the Rez, smacked him around, threatened him, threatened to do not-sonice things to Tonya, and then left him out there to 'think about it.' Maybe they had every intention of coming back to get him and see if the tactic worked. But Bill managed to get away and he got hit by a car, accidentally. The thugs go to get him the next day, he's gone, and they figure 'good riddance'. They check the usual haunts, don't find him, problem solved."

  "Plausible," Chris agreed. "After all, why would they tie him up somewhere then let him go and run him down? I'm not feeling that angle. If they wanted to do that, they could have beaten the shit out of him, laid him out in the road, and finished him off. But that seems like a lot of work. Plus, wouldn't they have seen his body if they left him then went back?"

  "True. And it is a lot of work. I'm wondering if maybe they thought if they took him out there and left him and something happened to him, Bill's rep as a drunk and sometime rabble rouser might point investigators in a different direction. Maybe whoever took him out there wanted it to look like he got drunk and pissed somebody off in a bar." I flipped through my notes again. "This is kind of a mafia approach. Get the guy, take him somewhere to scare the shit out of him, leave him for a while."

  "If that's what happened. What kind of rope was it? Did you see a picture?"

  "How is it I know you so well?" I asked with a long-suffering tone. "Because I did get that information. Plain ol' nylon. The kind of rope you can find in any hardware or Walmart-type place."

  "I'm glad I'm rubbing off on you, chica," Chris said, a smile in her voice."The rope's not going to pan out as any kind of lead, then. What else? Did the perp do anything to his tattoos?"

  "No. Which could mean whoever it was wasn't planning to kill him and thus make it hard to identify him." I re-read that section of my notes.

  "Why take his wallet, then?"

  "To make it hard for him to do anything if he managed to get away, maybe? No money, no calling cards, no ID, no credit cards. Unless the wallet fell out when he was hit. But the crime scene team didn't find it. They ID'ed him through dental records. He was going to one on a regular basis." I picked up my cup again. "None of this makes much sense. I'm coming up with more questions for every one I think I can answer. What the hell?" I swallowed my irritation.

  "The nature of the beast," Chris said, trying to be soothing.

  "Fuck. Speaking of beasts..." I told Chris what Sage had said about Ellen and the time she'd spent on the reservation. When I finished, Chris didn't say anything for a few moments. I sipped my coffee in the interim, waiting for her to tell me she was going to call the psych ward.

  "Esa, this is a bit out of my jurisdiction," she finally said, in a tone I recognized as her "okay, I'll humor you a little" approach. "And I don't know much about Navajo beliefs. But you live here long enough, and no matter what culture you are, you eventually hear about things like skinwalkers. Did Sage tell you specifically what she saw on the Rez?"

  "No," I responded, a little relieved that she wasn't dismissing me. "But I told you I looked some of this shit up, after that weird incident on the porch, and there are accounts of non-Native people seeing things that might have been a 'walker while driving across the Rez. It seems to happen at night, and the witches try to hurt people by scaring them off the road. Or whatever else they can do to make people get hurt. If this shit is true, it's creepy as hell." Though I was trying to avoid using the full term for "skinwalker," even talking about them in as benign a way as I was with Chris was making me uncomfortable. What's wrong with me? It's not even my belief system.

  "All right," Chris said with what sounded like resignation, "since you're already on this road, I'll come with you for a bit. I did hear a couple of stories a while back from the state patrol. A couple of guys saw something out there, south of Gallup. Two separate cops. Both said whatever it was looked like it attached itself to their vehicles but then they realized that the thing was running alongside, keeping pace. Which would be consistent with descriptions of skinwalkers, since they're supposed to be really fast."

  I took a huge swallow of coffee. Running alongside a car?

  "I remember, too, a cadet in the academy with me from Grants said that most people know not to travel the Rez after dark. If you're new to the area, someone'll tell you that. I went to a training session in Gallup a few years ago. Three days, two nights. And even the guy running the session told us it wasn't a good idea to go onto the Rez after dark, but he said it was because it was isolated and if anything happened to you, it'd be difficult to get help. But one of the Indian guys said it was because weird shit happened out there."

  When she finished, I had a bad case of the willies. Right there in the parking lot of the Super 8, in eig
hty-degree heat, and I didn't like the way this conversation was going. "Excuse me, Officer. I'm looking for Detective Chris Gutierrez. Have you seen her? Tall, dark, rational?"

  "Haven't seen her. But if you see Dr. K.C. Fontero, I'm looking for her. Medium height, cute, logical. Sometimes she researches strange shit, though."

  "Touché," I said and Chris laughed.

  "Kase, you of all people should know the power of belief when it comes to human cultures. Your mom's an anthropologist, your dad does religious studies. And you're Ms. Sociology. Belief makes people do loco shit. It makes people see what they want to see, not necessarily what's actually there. I'm not saying strange things don't happen. I am saying that what people interpret as strange might not be so strange, but when there are beliefs in play, then stuff that isn't weird becomes weird because people want their beliefs validated. They want there to be weird shit because it's a cultural legend and it makes them feel part of something."

  "Damn, Chris. You want my job? Since when did you start graduate work in cultural studies?"

  "Since I've been hanging out with you. And I was a psychology major," she said with a "duh" tone.

  "Thanks for the reality check," I said with a laugh. "But that doesn't mean weird stuff doesn't exist."

  "I'm not saying it doesn't. I'm just saying keep a foot on the ground. So how'd the reading of the will go?" She changed the topic, much to my relief.

  I got her caught up on what had transpired at the attorney's office and then at Purcell's house. When I finished, I took another swig of coffee, now lukewarm, and waited for Chris's take.

  "Wow. Bill isn't the man we thought he was."

  "I know. The go-to guy at work. The protective partner. And the guy who took it on the chin several times for his coworkers while he faced down the man."

  "Has Simmons interviewed Purcell?"

  "I didn't get that impression. She wasn't forthcoming, though." Neither was he, for that matter.

  Chris didn't say anything for a moment and I knew what was coming. I braced for it.

  "Esa, you know how I feel about this."

  I kept quiet.

  "You're poking around in a murder investigation."

  "We're trying to find out more about Sage's father's death," I corrected, a little petulantly.

  "And he may have been murdered. You need to bring Simmons in on this."

  "Chris, this is investigative journalism we're doing. I'm going to call Simmons with my information after we talk to Bodie. If she comes with us, he won't tell us anything. You know how this is. People will talk to me, they'll talk to family members of dead people, and they might even talk to a journalist. But they will not talk to cops, especially if there's freaky shit going on with safety at Ridge Star."

  "Dammit, this is bullshit, Kase. Simmons has to be there. You have to make sure this shit is admissible in court. Goddamn, this is going to be a clusterfuck of monumental proportions. And I am going to have to kick your stubborn ass." She swore in Spanish-- something she did with me when she was frustrated.

  Great. Now my best friend is pissed at me. "Chris," I started.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you? First paranormal shit and now you're screwing around in a murder investigation. Where the hell is your head? Where the hell is it?"

  Ouch. "Dammit, I don't know!" I retorted, irritation and frustration welling in my throat. "I don't know anything anymore. My girlfriend's father is fucking dead and it's causing all kinds of crap between us. I'm trying not to lose my shit and run away from this whole fucking mess, trying not to be a patronizing logical asshole with her while she and River sort through the remnants of their messed-up childhoods, and I'm trying to balance all of this along with a legitimate inquiry into a death." I wanted to cry and scream and throw the phone against the closest car. Instead I kicked the rear tire on mine. Hard. Pain shot up my foot. "Fuck!" I yelled.

  "Fuck fuck fuck." Tears stung my eyes and my foot hurt like hell.

  "Kase," came Chris's voice.

  "Goddammit," I said, choking on tears. "I'm fucking stressed out and I don't know what to do." And I probably broke my fucking toes. Fucking idiot. At least I was wearing my hikers.

  "Kase, listen to me."

  "And my fucking sister is bi and dating a woman that came on to me a week ago," I added for good measure. "Shit." I wiped at my eyes.

  "I'm sorry," Chris said, and for some reason that made the tears come faster.

  "I don't know what to do," I whispered. "I don't know."

  "I'm really sorry, Kase," she said in a tone so gentle that it started a fresh round of tears. "I wasn't thinking about the stress you're under. You know how I get with cop stuff. When are you coming home?"

  "I don't even know that." I sniffed and wiped my eyes on my T-shirt. We're talking to Nestor Bodie today and maybe swinging by Bill and Tonya's afterward. Sage has to be back by Thursday afternoon because she has a workshop to do. I guess when Sage is ready, we'll come back." I sighed. "This is so fucked. This whole thing." I started pacing, and flexed my toes to see if I had broken them. A little sore, but I could bend them. Not broken, then. Thank God. How would I explain that to the others?

  "All right, when you're done with Bodie and you finish with Tonya, come home," Chris said after another uncomfortable silence. I knew she wanted to tell me again to bring Simmons in on the Bodie interview, but she kept it to herself. "You need to regroup."

  That was the damn truth. I inhaled deeply then exhaled. "You're right. I'm sorry I lost my shit a little," I finished, contrite.

  "If you can't lose it like that with me, then who can you lose it with? Do you want me to come up?"

  I knew Chris would do whatever she had to do if she thought I was going to fly off the handle or if she thought I was in some kind of danger. "No, but thanks. I just needed to vent. I'll call you tonight to tell you about the interview." I scuffed the toe of my good foot on the asphalt, wishing Bill Crandall hadn't been so fucked up, wishing he hadn't been anywhere near Farmington or Ridge Star, and wishing none of this weird paranormal shit was clouding my rationality.

  "Okay," she said but she didn't sound convinced. "You know how to find me. Watch yourself."

  "I will. Thanks, Chris."

  "De nada. Hope things go well. Later."

  "Bye." I hung up and stared at the street, thinking.

  "Hey."

  I turned at Kara's voice.

  "I talked to--what's wrong?" She regarded me in that way that sisters do, when they've caught you in a vulnerable moment.

  "Nothing."

  Kara shook her head in a way that said "you are such a liar." She crossed her arms and for a second, it was like we were in high school again, arguing about something that neither of us would remember even a week later. "Kase."

  I sighed and managed a smile. "I'm a little stressed, is all."

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "No. I just did with Chris."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  "I'll tell you later. How's that?"

  "Y'know, you're not doing this sister shit very well."

  "Kare, please. I need to spend some time with it. I'll tell you later, okay? Promise."

  She relaxed and uncrossed her arms. "And I'll make sure you do. If you don't, I'll sic Chris on you."

  I groaned.

  "And Sage."

  "Oh, God. I'm doomed." I shoulder-bumped her. "For real. We'll talk later. Just let me get through the day."

  She opened her mouth to say something more but I interrupted her.

  "So who'd you talk to?"

  "The PR woman at Ridge Star here in Farmington," she said, triumphant. "We have an appointment tomorrow morning to chat with someone at the office about gas drilling."

  "So who's going?" I looked past Kara at River and Sage, who had exited the back door of the Super 8 and were approaching us, River in his customary jeans, cowboy boots, and T-shirt and Sage in a light skirt the color of cornflowers and a plain tan tee. I gaped at her.
>
  "Down, girl," Kara said, teasing me as Sage and River joined us.

  I flushed. "Sorry. So who's going?"

  "I am, because I've got the non-profit information-gathering lingo angle."

  Sage slid her arms around my waist. "K.C. should go. She's good at information gathering, too." She kissed me on the cheek and I almost felt as if everything was right with the world.

  "River?" I asked, but I had a feeling he'd say no.

  "Not sure that's a good idea. I look like the old man." He didn't say it with any animosity and he had a point. He did look like his father. More than Sage did, though the similarities between them were obvious enough that most people would guess correctly that

  they were siblings. Sage caught my eye and her expression confirmed what I suspected. River didn't want anything to do with Ridge Star, and though he did look a lot like Bill, he wasn't going with me and Kara tomorrow not because he was afraid he'd be recognized. He wasn't here to find any pieces of himself. He was here for Sage. I almost saw the discomfort emanating from him, like heat waves on a highway, and I hoped this trip didn't add to the baggage he lugged through the Montana wilderness.

  "Tonya can't meet with us today," Sage said. "She's working. But tomorrow, she can. So while you and Kara go charm Ridge Star, River and I will go over to Tonya's and look through some of Dad's stuff. See if there's anything there we need to know about."

  "Okay. Sounds like a plan." I hugged her tighter and kissed her forehead. "Ready?"

  "Shiprock, here we come," River muttered as he got into Sage's car.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SHIPROCK SITS ABOUT twenty-five miles west of Farmington, and it huddles against a dramatic backdrop of desert buttes, mesas, and sage-dotted expanses of landscape. South of the town proper juts the huge formation from which the place gets its name. The rock floats in a sea of sage and dirt, a pinnacle of volcanic stone that nineteenth-century whites thought looked like a clipper ship in some respects. Hence, its name.

  I studied it through the windshield, then glanced over at Sage as she slowed down at the Shiprock city limits. She turned south onto Highway 491, which ended up in Gallup, some eighty-five miles south, through mostly undeveloped reservation land. Shiprock is a crossroads, both for traffic utilizing the two major highways that intersect in it on their way to and through the Four Corners Area, and for the contact that comes when cultures rub up against each other. A Rez town, Shiprock was still considered part of the Farmington area, but its underlying flavor echoed much older roots that I could only imagine preceded the small frame houses and scatterings of trailers joined by dirt side roads, dust, and tumbleweeds.