by Aimée
Ella stood up and turned her head away from the bag, breathing deeply. “Go back inside. I’ll explain later. No reason for you to have to breathe this stench too.”
“I can help you,” Justine said, then pulled rubber gloves out of her back pocket. “Is this what I think it is? Furman’s garbage?”
“How did you know?”
“I was walking past Big Ed’s office when you went to talk to him. I overheard enough to figure out what you were doing.”
Ella shrugged. “Don’t take it personally. I was just following a hunch.”
“No problem. How did you get a search warrant? We didn’t have enough evidence.”
“I didn’t need one for this,” Ella answered, explaining where she’d found the sack. “But nothing we find in here would be considered conclusive evidence. Any defense attorney would argue that whatever we found in the bag could have been planted there by someone else after Furman brought it out of his house.”
“So what’s the point?”
“It might help us build circumstantial evidence, and with luck, it could give us another clue we can follow up on.”
“Have you found anything yet?”
“No, but I just got started,” Ella answered.
Justine crouched next to her and began sorting through a gooey mess of leftover salsa that had smeared several utility bills. “I want you to know I’m not personally involved with Furman,” Justine said softly. “I just didn’t want to admit, even to myself, that I might have misjudged the man. I thought you’d lose all faith in me if my informant turned out to be the Packrat. Not that I’d blame you,” she added.
“I suspected that might be it.”
“But after you left, I did some more checking on my own. Furman has only one living relative on the Rez, his grandmother, Lena Brownhat. She lives about fifteen miles from the mouth of Dry Wash. Maybe we should go talk to her.”
As Ella neared the bottom of the sack, she pulled out a small piece of foiled paper, then unfolded it. “I’ve got something. Chewed gum.”
“We can check it against the piece we found at the Dodge crime scene.”
“It’s still circumstantial, but it might help us build a case. I want you to take it in to Albuquerque yourself. Fly over there, and tell them that we must have results as quickly as possible.”
“It might take a couple of weeks for a complete work-up, although we could get some info within twenty-four hours.”
“The sooner you get there, the better then,” Ella said.
“I’ll take care of it right away.” Justine took the gum from Ella, placed it in an evidence pouch, and strode back inside the building.
Ella placed the rest of the trash back inside the bag, then tossed it in the Dumpster. The flies were pleased.
Removing her gloves and tossing them into the Dumpster too, she went inside to give Big Ed a report. The moment she walked into his office, she saw him recoil.
“Cripes, what is that smell?”
Ella explained what she’d done and what she had found. “I’m going to have Justine fly it over. In the meantime, I’m going to go talk to Brownhat’s grandmother. Justine tracked her down.”
“That’s fine, but do us all a favor. Take a shower and change clothes before you go. You can’t subject an old woman to this smell. No one deserves that.”
* * *
As she left Shiprock, Ella checked in with the dispatcher, to give a full report of her route and destination. Once she drove down into the canyon, she was sure the terrain would block the signal.
She glanced at the map one of the patrolmen at the station had made for her. It started with an easy drive along the Teece Nos Pos highway, but as she left the highway and turned north, there were suddenly fewer obvious landmarks except the mountains to the west. Weaving along the badly rutted dirt road, she finally reached Dry Wash, a large, meandering arroyo that eventually fed into the San Juan. Two small hills flanked it like silent sentinels.
Ella drove slowly down into the wash, a vague feeling of unease filling her. The shack where the skinwalkers’ tunnels had originated from was only about five miles south, and the sun was going down.
She chided herself for allowing memories to disturb her, but her uneasiness grew. Ella continued on through the canyon, then the road left the winding wash and she saw a wide valley opening up ahead. She could just about make out Lena Brownhat’s shack in the distance, up against a hill.
Ella went over a small ridge and had started down the slope when a gunshot blasted through the air. The bullet took out her right front tire, and the Jeep swerved abruptly to the right. As Ella fought to keep control, two more shots whined overhead, forcing her to swerve in the opposite direction. There was no cover on the slope, but there were some large boulders at the bottom. Ella swerved the Jeep back and forth to throw off her attacker’s aim and tried to radio in. As she’d suspected, the terrain was blocking the signal.
A round smashed through the windshield, leaving a spider-web pattern. It had missed Ella’s head by inches. There were at least two gunmen, firing from two different directions. More gunfire erupted, forcing her to keep her head down. She could barely see where she was going.
She could smell gasoline, so a bullet must have hit the gas tank or fuel line. At least there was no sign of fire yet. She slammed on the brakes at the bottom of the hill and spun the vehicle sideways. Grabbing her shotgun and its ammo sling, she crawled out of the car, radio at her waist. Behind her was a boulder about the size of a refrigerator. It was the only thing in sight that would give her cover for now, but with that advantage came a disadvantage: it would block her vision too.
Ella racked a shell into the shotgun’s chamber then checked the clip on her pistol. It was full, and she had two spare clips in her pocket. She had plenty of firepower, though it was short-ranged. If they approached, she’d take them out. Providing she held out until morning, her absence would be noticed and someone would start looking for her. Her mother and brother would make sure of that by calling the station.
It took awhile, but as darkness descended, she began to hear the cautious movement of those who were trying to force her out from cover. She remained still, hardly breathing, then detected someone moving to her right. In the darkness before moonrise, it was impossible for her to discern a shape.
Ella concentrated, aligning the faintly glowing tritium dots on her pistol sights. When she heard the noise again, she aimed in the direction of the sound and fired two quick shots. She heard a gasp, and the thud of a body striking the ground. Soon there was another scrape, like clothing brushing against a branch, but this time to her left.
As she waited, listening, it seemed that the darkness was filled with whispers. She touched the fetish in her pocket and remained quiet. There were more than two others out there now, yet they were holding back. They had seen that she wouldn’t be frightened into doing something stupid and that her training was excellent. If they approached, the first two or three would be killed, regardless of what happened to her. Her enemies had lost their advantage.
Ella heard the sound of something being dragged away somewhere off to her right. She fired two shots in that direction and shifted her position slightly in case the brief flashes had been noted. There was a moment of utter silence, then suddenly the wailing cry of coyotes rose high in the air. Her flesh prickled, and she shuddered. Skinwalkers. It was Peterson Yazzie’s friends, and probably he as well.
They hadn’t followed her, she was sure. At least two had been in position, waiting for her to go by. That meant that they must have known where she was going. Searching for an answer, she tried to put herself in Peterson’s head and think like he did. Suddenly she knew precisely what had happened. Peterson had come after her not as a common criminal intent on revenge, but as an ex-cop turned bad. Needing an edge, he’d undoubtedly purchased, or had someone purchase, a police scanner. She’d given him the information he’d needed to ambush her by reporting in.
Hours p
assed, expanding into lifetimes. Silence settled over the land. She suspected she was alone now, but she still couldn’t venture out into the open. If she came out of the shadows, she’d be completely vulnerable. It was important to remain close to her car. The vehicle and the boulder provided her only cover.
Ella stayed awake and alert all through the night. The hum of the insects seemed like a song that reverberated with promise to anyone who could survive the dangers hidden in the darkness. Although weary, her nerves were so taut it was easy to keep watch. As a law enforcement officer she’d faced death and cheated it many times. Those narrow escapes had made her more attuned to life and appreciative of what it held. What didn’t kill you made you stronger, so a great philosopher had said. He must have had some Navajo in him.
It was close to sunrise when Ella heard vehicles in the distance. Darkness lingered only in the lengthy shadows that still hid from the predawn light. Ella, still cautious, came out slowly. Peterson might have left someone behind to strike her down just as she began to feel safe. Catching a glimpse of red and blue lights in the distance and hearing the sirens speeding toward her, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Ella pulled out her handheld radio and got Justine almost immediately. For now at least, it was over.
* * *
Ella accompanied Justine back uphill to the position where the gunfire had begun. They collected and tagged blood discovered in a large, dried-out splotch on the ground.
“This won’t give us much without a suspect to link it to though. And I doubt they’ll check the guy into a hospital,” Justine said.
“I agree, but follow it up anyway,” Ella answered.
They searched the ground carefully for spent shells, footprints, or anything else that might give them a clue.
“They were skinwalkers, I’m certain of that,” Ella said softly.
“If you never got a clear look, how do you know?” Justine challenged quietly.
“I’ve dealt with them before. The howls of rage and frustration…” Ella shook her head slowly. “It’s a half-human, half-animal sound. You don’t soon forget it.”
Justine nodded, accepting her explanation. “I was afraid for you,” she admitted. “When I came back from Albuquerque, it was four in the morning. Mechanical problems kept us from taking off for hours. Then I learned your mother had left several messages for me. She and your brother were worried because you hadn’t come home or called. They felt that you were in danger and needed help. But they didn’t know where you were. I asked the dispatcher to give me your last ten-twenty and started out this way as quickly as possible.”
Ella nodded. She had no doubt her mother and Clifford had sensed something was terribly wrong. It was part of that special ability the three had always shared, the legacy passed down through their ancestors that had always made them unique. “You need to go over this scene, but I have to get going to Lena Brownhat’s. I’m taking your vehicle, since mine’s out of commission. You can ride back with the other officers if you finish before I’m done.” Ella paused, then added, “I’m worried about Mrs. Brownhat. The gunfire must have frightened her.”
“Maybe. Depends how sharp her hearing is, and the direction the wind was blowing last night. She’s in her seventies.”
“I’ll go check on her. In the meantime, make sure you issue an alert that our calls are being monitored. From now on, if you need to talk to me about something important, switch frequencies. Use Tac two. The ordinary scanners can’t pick up our tactical channels.”
Justine nodded. “I’ll also let Big Ed know. He wants me to report back as soon as possible.”
“I’ll catch up to you later.”
* * *
Ella drove across the grassy knoll to the wooden shack nestled against the hillside. She parked fifty feet or so in front of the door and waited. Time stretched out, but no one came to the doorway. Ella felt her muscles tighten as she looked farther up the hill, then down toward the river at a half dozen or so sheep grazing on the tall grass. What if the old woman had come out to see what was happening last night and been shot? She wasn’t sure how discriminating Peterson and his allies had been prepared to be.
Ella glanced at the clock on the dashboard. She’d wait another two minutes, then she was going inside, invited or not. A breath later, Lena Brownhat appeared in the doorway. The elderly woman was dressed in a traditional long skirt and a faded yellow blouse. She wore a brightly colored scarf around her head. Mrs. Brownhat studied the car for a moment, then waved for Ella to come inside.
With a sigh of relief, Ella got out of her car and walked to the door. The shack had a peculiar dusty, decaying smell. It was as if the dwelling had enveloped the scent of something that had outlived its time and usefulness. Ella glanced around, letting her eyes adjust to the semidarkness, and took a seat in an old folding chair that was offered to her.
“The plastic on the seat is torn, but it’s still good,” Mrs. Brownhat said in the loud voice those who couldn’t hear often adopted.
“Are you Furman’s grandmother?” Ella asked in an equally loud tone, though keeping her expression gentle.
“That is my grandson’s Anglo name,” Lena Brownhat said. “Is there some trouble?”
Ella noted her surroundings without making any obvious glances that might be considered rude. Mrs. Brownhat had an old iron bed, and few possessions. Her food was mostly canned goods, but there were plenty lining the wooden boxes that served as cupboards against the plywood wall. A big plastic garbage can probably held flour or cornmeal. Everything attested to the poverty and the marginal living found throughout the reservation. For those from big clans, there was always a circle of family members or relatives around them. This woman, Ella knew, had outlived her contemporaries. Furman should have seen to her welfare, but that now seemed as likely to happen as the sun rising in the west.
Ella measured her words carefully. Lena Brownhat had enough to handle living out here. “I need to know about him, that’s all.”
Lena’s eyes sparkled with intelligence. “My grandson has done something bad, I can tell. I can tell,” she repeated.
“You sound as if you were expecting that.”
“I have been,” she admitted, practically shouting the words, and oblivious to the fact. “He was never the same after his mother died. They lived way out on the reservation, even further than this place. They were not close to Shiprock or any town at all. My son preferred it that way. He made a good life because he was a hard worker, even though he never went to the tribe’s school. I’d brought him up to speak Navajo only. He appreciated our ways.”
Ella nodded, wanting the woman to go on at her own pace.
“Then one winter my daughter-in-law grew ill with a fever. They waited, thinking that she would improve, then a hataalii was called in. But she got worse, not better. Finally my son decided to take her to a medical doctor at one of the clinics. But their car was old, and it was winter. It wouldn’t start, no matter how hard he tried. He had sold his horses just that fall. My son ran miles to the highway to get a car to stop. The one that did held an Anglo man and his woman, but they couldn’t understand him. They didn’t let him into their car.”
“Did your daughter-in-law die?”
Lena Brownhat nodded. “By the time a Navajo man in a pickup came by to help, it was too late. Even the Anglo doctors with all their medicine and machines couldn’t stop the fever. She died. My grandson was only twelve at the time, but he blamed his father. Furman said that if they’d been just like everyone else, and turned their backs on the old ways, his mother would have still been alive. Eventually my son couldn’t stand seeing the hatred in his own son’s eyes. He went out one winter night and just sat down in the snow and froze,” she said, her voice fading.
“Does your grandson ever come to see you?”
Mrs. Brownhat shook her head. “I took him in after his parents were gone, but he kept running away to the town. He wanted nothing to do with our ways. He couldn’t stand liv
ing out here, following our rituals. He hated everything Navajo. He said that useless people like me were dying out, and that those who continued to teach the old ways were hurting the young people.” Her voice broke, and she lapsed into a short silence.
“I tried, but I couldn’t make him understand,” she continued. “One day the people at the tribal welfare office came and took him away. They said he needed proper schooling. They put him in a boarding school at Chinle. I didn’t try to stop them. I thought maybe he would be better off there.”
“How would he feel about enemies of the tribe, like Peterson Yazzie?”
The old woman’s eyes grew wide. “You mean the skinwalker?” Her voice was still loud, but much more muted than her normal speaking level. Seeing Ella nod, she sighed. “I can tell you for sure that he hates them just as much as he hates hataaliis. I saw my grandson last year when I went to Shiprock to trade some wool for supplies. He told me he was glad that you had killed so many skinwalkers. He said they were like vultures on the modern world.”
“Do you think he would ever join with them, if only to destroy those who teach the Dineh the old ways?”
The woman considered it, then shook her head. “I know Yazzie escaped,” she said. “Every so often, my friend’s daughter comes by in her car. She brings me food, and reads the newspaper to me.” Lena gave Ella a long, thoughtful look. “My grandson would never help a skinwalker. He would try to destroy him. They’re part of the old ways, too, you see. What he might do is learn all he could about them, then use that knowledge to hunt them down.”
“Your grandson has enrolled in the community college. He’s a good student. Maybe he’s changed.”
Lena closed her eyes slowly, then opened them again. The gesture spoke of weariness and sorrow. “He is very smart, and when he puts on his act he can fool almost anyone. Don’t let him trick you too: He believes it is his mission to destroy the old ways. He would never give up on that.”
Ella stood up. “Is there someplace I can take you? Anything you need?”