Death Walker

by Aimée

  The Todacheene house was quite small, a square gray-stuccoed wood-frame house set under a stand of cottonwood trees. A large, well-tended vegetable garden was next to the dirt track, and farther down were fields of alfalfa that needed cutting. Nobody was in sight around the house, but Ella could see an old green Ford pickup parked by the end of the vegetable patch. Nearby, a tall, skinny Navajo man in his fifties was working with a hoe, cutting weeds beside a small ditch.

  Ella parked at the end of the dirt trail so the man could see her and waited. He looked over after a few minutes, then stood up straight and waved. She got out and walked around the garden, approaching from the side.

  As Ella got close, the man stopped his work and leaned on his hoe. “You’re Big Ed’s detective, aren’t you? The one they call L.A. Woman?”

  Ella nodded, managing a smile. That nickname had stuck, despite the fact she’d resigned her FBI post in Los Angeles months ago. She stopped and appraised the man. She wasn’t sure if he was scowling at her, or merely squinting in the bright daylight. The blue bandanna he wore kept the hair from his eyes, but did little to protect him from the blazing sun.

  “People call me Stubby, from when I was a fat little kid,” Todacheene muttered. “I wondered when you’d come asking about my water-hog neighbor. Not a day went by that he didn’t open the gates to flood one of his fields. Did you know half of his crops rotted away each year from all that soaking? You’d think he’d consider our needs, but no, he never did. I guess now, with that lazy daughter of his left to do the watering, I’ll finally get my share from the big ditch. She’s never been much use around the farm, if you ask me.”

  “Then you didn’t get along with your neighbor?” Ella managed to get a sentence in as Stubby stopped to take a breath. She got the feeling he was trying to make her think he was an old grouch.

  “Get along with that old mule?” Stubby turned and looked toward the Dodge home, and his voice trailed off. When he turned back, his eyes were old and sad. “Not when it came to water, I suppose. But he was a good man, and asked us over whenever they butchered a sheep, or baked a basket of corn, or brought in the melons. I suppose I always got all the water we needed. I guess I liked him most because he liked to argue too. We liked disliking each other, if you know what I mean.” Mist formed in Stubby’s eyes, and Ella suspected this time he was quite sincere.

  “Would you mind if I asked where you were the morning he died?” Ella had to know, despite the possibility of upsetting Todacheene even more.

  Stubby shrugged, and his voice was uneven at first. “That’s the kind of question you get the big bucks for asking, I guess. No need to think about it. I was watering my upper field. When he was gone teaching, I had a chance to get enough flow to irrigate even there. You can ask my other neighbor. He helped me open the gate by the river.”

  “Thank you for your time, sir.” Ella nodded. “I’ll leave for now. May I come back later if I think of any more questions?”

  Stubby shrugged and began cutting weeds again. “You know where I’ll be. Here, or a few yards farther down the row. Come back if you want.”

  Ella turned and walked back around the garden to her car, noting the melons and squash growing larger by the moment in the New Mexico sun. All it took was decent soil and a bit of water to meet the needs of the People, she decided.

  * * *

  It took Ella over two hours to reach the stretch of reservation that led to Haske’s daughter’s home. It was in a new traditionalist’s community that had sprung up in the middle of nowhere, just off the main highway.

  As she approached the cluster of houses, she noted that a large number of them had beehive ovens in the back. Many traditionalists preferred to bake bread the old way. Quite a few had hogans nearby, too, for religious purposes.

  Ella continued to study the area as she drove up. A large sheep pen filled the air with the familiar fragrance of animals and dung. Two women, one old and the other young, probably mother and daughter, were busy washing wool from freshly sheared sheep. For a moment, it felt as if she’d stepped back in time. Yet there was a serenity here that drew her. She was slowly becoming aware of her increasing affinity toward the old ways, although she’d never thought of herself as a traditionalist. Certainly cops, though many were conservative, didn’t generally fit that description.

  She followed the directions her brother had given her and went to the last house facing the mesa. A large collie lay on the front porch and scarcely looked up as she parked. A young woman cradling an infant looked out the window.

  Ella stepped out of the vehicle and leaned against the door, clipping her police ID badge to her shirt pocket so there would be no question as to her identity. The Jeep, of course, had no official markings. Tucking the file with the photos under one arm, she waited.

  Several moments later, a young girl—about eight—came out to meet her. “I was sent to get you, police officer lady. Will you come around back to the hogan with me?”

  Ella smiled at the little girl. Her hair hung loose almost to her waist, and she had large red lips that suggested she’d eaten a popsicle in her recent past. She wore old jeans with an elastic waistband and a large Washington Redskins T-shirt that probably belonged to her brother.

  Even here, in this traditionalists’ enclave, the old and the new were always side by side. She followed the girl around the house. Leonard Haske was just outside the hogan on his hands and knees, crushing some herbs in a shallow bowl. She watched him in silence, knowing he’d speak to her when he was ready.

  He finally glanced up. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need some information, uncle. My brother suggested I come to you.”

  Haske picked up the bowl with the herb mixture and carried it inside the hogan, gesturing for her to follow. As they stepped through the blanket-covered doorway, Ella saw him touch the leather medicine pouch at his waist. A beaded ear of corn was woven at its center. Words memorized long ago came back to her reminding her that corn was the gift of life.

  Haske took a pinch of the contents of the pouch and scattered it inside the hogan. He then placed several other substances he’d collected into a bowl and burned them. Soon a pleasant smell permeated the hogan. “This is done to keep evil away while you and I speak.”

  Ella nodded slowly. Reaching inside the large envelope, she pulled out the photos she’d brought. “Do these mean anything to you?”

  Haske studied them carefully, then finally shook his head. “This was not done by a hataalii. If anything, it’s the work of a blasphemous fool.” He sat back and closed his eyes.

  Ella waited, uncertain if she was being dismissed. She was acutely aware of each minute that ticked by, but she remained still.

  Finally Haske opened his eyes and looked at her. “Do you feel it?”

  His gaze was oddly penetrating, and Ella had to force herself not to look away. “Feel what, uncle?”

  “Close your eyes, and allow everything that surrounds you to touch you. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe here,” he assured her.

  Ella did as he asked, wondering what he expected from her. As she quieted her senses and forced herself to relax, she felt an odd stirring that made her flesh prickle. It was a unique sensation, like electricity running in waves over her skin. The second she opened her eyes, it disappeared.

  Haske smiled and nodded. “So what I’ve heard about you is true. You do have the gift.”

  She wasn’t sure what to answer. The sensations that had coursed through her had probably been attributable to that odd incense. “I’m a good cop, uncle, and I’ve learned a lot about people. Believe me when I tell you that I’ll fight whatever disrupts the harmony of the Dineh,” she answered.

  Haske’s eyebrows knitted together. “You don’t accept it? I would have thought…” He shook his head, then shrugged. “No matter. It’s yours to use or not. Now tell me how I can help you.”

  “Do you know who might have wanted to kill the man who taught stories of our people’
s past?” she asked directly. Then, seeing the startled expression on Haske’s face, she chided herself for bluntness. At least she’d remembered not to use the name of a dead man in Haske’s home. “I’m sorry to bring such talk here, to this place”—she gestured around the hogan—“but in truth, I can’t think of a safer place.”

  Haske’s expression relaxed somewhat. “The herbs and the protection that surround us here are as real as the gun you wear at your waist,” Haske answered.

  Ella tugged at her cotton windbreaker, making sure it covered her weapon. She felt self-conscious wearing it here, but she had no choice. Regulations were regulations.

  Haske took a long, slow, deep breath. “Trouble has come to our people again. You felt it when you attuned yourself to your hidden senses a moment ago. There’s an imbalance, as if the evil is waiting, and growing as it does. The death of the elder triggered disharmony like a wave across a lake. Those people on the bus felt its force and even that man in Farmington. We are all in danger now.”

  Haske’s words were making her skin crawl. She tried to shake off the feeling. “Have you heard of any skinwalker activity, uncle?”

  “No. But there is danger surrounding us, and it is close at hand. It’s pressing around you and me right now.”

  “Do you think someone is after you?” she asked, prodding for clearer answers.

  Haske shrugged. “I’m not worried about myself. I’m ready to join my ancestors when it’s my time. But you still have much to learn and much to do.” He paused. “Your brother helped my wife many years ago when she was ill and I wasn’t here. Out of respect to him, I will sing a blessing over you.”

  He began the words of a chant. The song filled the hogan with a feeling of power so strong it became an almost tangible presence. It was as if the elements were amassing themselves protectively around them. As the last note faded, he released a pinch of corn pollen into the air. “May your trail be in pollen,” he concluded.

  Ella thanked him, knowing that there was no higher blessing. Pollen increased individual power, and it cleared the path of danger. Pollen signified sustenance, light, and life.

  Ella returned to her Jeep with a smile on her face. It was a ceremony she’d seen performed hundreds of times, yet it still made her feel refreshed, renewed somehow.

  She started to drive toward the station, but then changed her mind and took the turnoff leading home. She’d stop there for dinner, then go back to work.

  Shortly after seven, Ella walked inside her home, scratching Dog as he got up to greet her. She called out to her mom, and received an answer from out back. Rose was gathering a freshly washed bedspread from the clothesline.

  “I’ll be inside in a minute,” Rose answered. “A letter arrived for you today. It’s on the kitchen table.”

  Ella saw the envelope and picked it up, noting there was no return address. Always wary, she tore it open carefully and pulled a note from inside. As she read the message, her knees buckled, and she dropped heavily onto the chair behind her.

  “What’s wrong?” Rose asked as she came through the back door. “You look as if you don’t feel well.” Looking down at the letter Ella held in her hands, she added, “Bad news?”

  “You could say that. It’s from Peterson Yazzie.”

  “Hasn’t he been confined to a psychiatric hospital?”

  “Yes, but he’s claiming responsibility for Kee Dodge’s murder and the bus accident. He warns that even from there, his reach is deadly.”

  SIX

  Ella studied the letter, knowing with every instinct she possessed that it was genuine.

  “We have not finished with you yet, dear Ella,” Peterson wrote. “Our signs are everywhere for you to read—from the death of the old man, to those fools in the bus on the highway. Our reach is deadly, you know that now. No matter where you go, you are not safe. You can keep no secrets from me. Even your most private files hidden inside your office are available to me whenever I wish. You are outmatched, cousin. You’ll come to regret the day you returned to the reservation.”

  Peterson Yazzie’s handwriting was quite familiar to her, and as she read each word, it was as if they were being spoken aloud in his voice.

  Whether or not he actually was responsible for Dodge’s murder was another matter entirely. People like Yazzie banked on fear, using it as a tool so often it became second nature to them.

  “That man is capable of many things,” Rose said quietly. Leaning against the kitchen counter, she studied Ella’s expression.

  “He’s crafty, all right,” Ella answered, “and he’s got one heck of an intelligence network.”

  “Remember his past reputation makes it easy for him to intimidate people and get what he wants.”

  Ella looked up at her mother. She didn’t want to discuss the details. Peterson’s claim that his people could enter her office whenever they wished annoyed her, particularly because it had been true once. But what bothered her most was Peterson’s mention of “signs” left at the crime scene. No details of the ash painting or the bone fragment had been in her press release. Yet it was almost as if he knew. She knew for certain that no unauthorized person had entered her office since the time when the key had been removed and a message left.

  She looked at the date stamped on the envelope. It had been mailed yesterday. Of course by now news had traveled from the student witnesses to their friends and relatives. Still, his oblique reference to that painting unsettled her.

  “What else does he say?” Rose prodded gently.

  “He’s goading me, but that doesn’t bother me. What does is that he seems to be in possession of information he shouldn’t have.” Ella lapsed into silence, afraid she’d said too much and raised questions in her mother’s mind. She didn’t want to worry her, and learning about the ash painting would certainly do just that.

  “Not knowing is worse,” Rose said softly. “What are you keeping from me?”

  Ella smiled. She’d forgotten how easily her mom could read her thoughts. Ella gestured down at the paper on the table. “You can read it.”

  Rose’s face contorted with a brief flash of anger, then with effort she schooled her features into stillness again. “He manipulates well. Now I understand why you have to work so hard to maintain your temper.” Rose sat down on the chair across from her daughter. “These signs—more skinwalker activity?”

  Ella told her mother about the charcoal dry painting, and what she’d found out. “If Peterson’s still behind bars, and his activities can be accounted for, then that’ll prove that this is only a skillful bluff. It’s very possible he wrote this just to get attention.”

  “That could very well be,” Rose admitted. “Let’s face it. He would certainly know how to do a proper ash painting, and so would his followers. It’s part of their training. Precise details play an important part in their rituals, as in ours, and any skinwalker would pay more attention to that than the killer did.”

  Ella stood up. “I’m going to contact Big Ed.” Ella dialed and after a few minutes managed to reach her boss’s pager. She was grateful when the return call came only a few moments later. Ella gave Big Ed a full report, then waited as he considered his reply.

  “I don’t like this,” Big Ed finally said. “I’m going to call the psychiatric hospital. A request from me personally will get us a faster response. I’ll demand an official accounting of all his movements, even if it entails talking to every nurse and guard.”

  “On another, hopefully unrelated, matter. Do you know how that bus accident happened?” Ella asked.

  “Survivors say the driver swerved to avoid hitting some sheep in the road. He lost control,” Big Ed replied, then paused. “What do you mean, ‘hopefully’?”

  “Some of the people I’ve spoken to claim that the murder was just a trigger for a series of disasters. I was just thinking out loud,” Ella explained.

  “Well, they’re wrong. We have enough on our hands already. I’ll get back to you.”

 
; As Ella hung up the telephone, she saw her mother by the stove preparing their favorite dinner dish, a Navajo taco. The aroma of the freshly fried sopaipilla filled with beans, chiles, and meat permeated the air, making her mouth water.

  Rose sprinkled some shredded cheddar cheese over the steaming food and placed it on the table before her daughter.

  Ella’s eyes widened. “I hope this is for both of us, mother.” The sopaipilla was huge, flaky, and golden, brimming over with a cheesy pinto bean mixture that spilled all the way to the rim of the plate.

  “It’s for you, and I expect you to eat every last bite of it. You’re going to need your strength.”

  “If I eat all this, I won’t be able to fit behind my steering wheel!” she protested with a laugh. “Come on, split it with me.”

  With a martyred sigh, Rose picked up another plate. She divided the portions, stubbornly leaving sixty percent of the food for Ella. “I worry about you,” Rose said. “I can’t help you catch criminals, but at least I can make sure you’re well fed and healthy. Don’t deny me that.”

  The simplicity of the statement and the strong emotions behind it made a warm rush of affection course through Ella. For a moment, she could see herself in her mother, and her mother in her. The need to provide comfort, to be needed, was very much a part of them both.

  Ella observed the way her mother held her fork, and for a moment was entranced by how similar their hands were. The bond that held them as mother and daughter was stronger now that they were both widows. Recognizing and sharing each other’s pain had drawn them together in a way good times never could have.

  The telephone rang just as Ella finished her last bite. She walked to the counter and picked up the kitchen extension.

  “Yazzie’s been under almost constant supervision,” Big Ed informed her. “He most definitely has not left the facility at any time. They are just as worried about a homicidal ex-cop as we are.”