by Susan Slater
She tested her equipment. She’d broadcast live from the auditorium for the noon news update. She had become an on-the-air regular, giving briefings daily, answering call-in questions. She hadn’t been wrong about this story—it was making her career. Everyone was interested and judging from the packed auditorium in front of her, interest wouldn’t diminish any time soon. But how could you expect interest to just disappear when lives appeared to be threatened? And nobody had any concrete answers. It was easy to panic over the unknown. She took a seat to the right of the podium when the moderator motioned that they were ready to begin.
Dr. Black gave an overview of the victims’ symptoms and stressed that the illness seemed contained but that prompt medical treatment was essential—within the first six hours—if the mystery flu was suspected. Preston Samuels went next and gave a brief history of the CDC, how it was a maximum security prison for microorganisms and could assign over one hundred scientists in a round-the-clock research effort if the deaths continued.
Then one of the epidemiologists gave the illness a name: Unexplained Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome or UARDS—pointing out that there were about three thousand cases of UARDS in the United States last year. Was he suggesting that they might not ever know what was causing the mystery flu? Not very comforting, Julie thought.
Another epidemiologist took the mike to explain that they were working to find out what it wasn’t and reminded the audience that most discoveries were made by ruling things out. He went on to discuss how they were considering everything from plague to paraquat, an herbicide often used on marijuana plants. And he likened the “not knowing” to how it must have been before weather tracking when a tornado or hurricane could strike without warning. There were affirmative murmurs from the audience.
Finally, someone asked about autopsies. Dr. Black took the microphone. “We’re working with the pueblo and will honor their customs whenever we can. We’ve been able to run a fairly sophisticated set of tests on one of the victims and the results have been inconclusive. Let me ask the BIA representative to present the Native American viewpoint. Ed?”
A tall Indian man in red vest and blue jeans stood to address the audience. A Santo Domingo man, he was wearing the traditional chongo, a braiding process that left a vertical knot of ribbons intertwined with black hair at the nape of his neck. Three strands of pin shell and turquoise heishi gleamed under the harsh light bar set up for filming. He spoke clearly, but haltingly, and chose his English words carefully. There was no doubt that Indian customs were complicating the search for answers, mused Julie. She listened as he described how some elders were blaming MTV, video games, and even fast food. Tewa medicine men were performing purification rites, but the BIA representative pledged pueblo support of Western medicine in the future. There was polite applause when he sat down.
“Not a lot of answers.” She hadn’t seen Ben in the audience until he slipped into a seat beside her at the end.
“How are the family interviews going?” she asked.
“They haven’t been productive yet. About the only thing that the victims shared recently was a seniors’ meeting at the community center. And four of them were in church on the Sunday before they died, including my grandmother.”
“It sounds like it’s going to take the CDC a while to come up with answers, too.”
“Have time for coffee?”
“We’re taping the spot for the noon news, and I’ve lined up one of the epidemiologists for an interview. Can I have a rain check?” Julie hoped she flashed her most dazzling smile.
+ + +
Johnson Yepa had met the Hispanic foreman at the edge of the village Monday morning and directed the crew of five men to the parcel that needed clearing. Every day since then, he had stood at the edge of the field and watched their progress. He couldn’t call it a ground breaking—not yet. It was just some preliminary road and site preparation. But he’d be signing the final papers soon. In a month, the foundation would be laid for the casino.
He stepped aside as the tree movers pulled up. He had designated fifteen trees to be moved and saved. He would make sure the journalist who did the write up knew he was a conservationist. Anglos liked to think that Indians were close to the earth.
“Hey. You there.” Johnson waved at the backhoe operator. “Don’t leave all this dirt here in one pile. I want this spread evenly—” A cloud of exhaust fumes choked off the rest of his directions as the machine jolted dangerously close and then pulled away. Pig. Johnson swore softly under his breath.
The first young cottonwood found a new home. Johnson had hired a crew from the pueblo to divert the irrigation ditch to run alongside the building site. Two piñons and a mountain juniper followed. He had the crew plant them in a cluster to the right of the entrance where the long curve of asphalt would take cars back to the valet station. His nephew would be in charge of the valets. Every kid in the village with a driver’s license would be wanting a job. Johnson would have killed as a teenager to drive BMWs, Mercedes and Lincolns—even if it had been just in and out of a parking space.
His dining room would attract only the discriminating. He would steal Mollie away from the Andersons. What did they call her? A domestic? Domestic or not, she was the best cook in New Mexico. He grinned. She was pretty good at a couple other things, too. Mollie’s soft breasts swam before his eyes.
“Hey. Watch out. You wanna get killed?” The driver of the backhoe yelled down at him. The backhoe had come within six inches of hitting him. Johnson thought of flipping him off. He needed to show the prick who was in charge. Instead, he dusted off his slacks and walked back up the road toward his office. Ben Pecos was interviewing Mary this morning about the death of the governor. He’d better be there.
+ + +
Ben watched Johnson Yepa walk toward him. He really found it impossible to like the man. He was just a general pain in the ass with a knack for knowing how to irritate.
“Ben, how you doing?” Johnson held out his hand and looked up at him. “Ever get that alcohol program going? You know that’s just the kind of thing we expect from IHS. A little preventive medicine.”
Ben almost didn’t extend his hand. He hated the moist grasping that Johnson called a handshake.
“Start-up should be in October. But let’s talk about today. I’ll meet with Mary and then I’d like to ask you some questions. Will you be free in an hour?”
“Don’t know. Hard to say. I don’t think I can help.” Johnson looked away, and Ben thought he feigned interest in something over by the highway.
“You don’t think you can help because of time, or you feel you might not know anything that might be helpful?”
God, the man could fidget; he had the attention span of a sparrow. And Ben knew that whatever came out of his mouth next would be a lie. He’d probably forgotten about being interviewed this morning. Mary had rolled her eyes when Ben had asked about the schedule.
“Both of you were with the governor in the days before he died. I can start with you and then talk with Mary or the other way around.”
“Uh, I just remembered I’ve got an important meeting in Albuquerque at ten.” Well, there was the lie.
“Will you be sitting in on the interview with Mary?” Ben waited at the door for Johnson to follow him inside.
“No. You go ahead.”
Mary transferred her phone and motioned for him to follow her down the hall.
“We can meet in the lounge. Most of the staff have taken leave to prepare for the feast day on Monday. You won’t be dancing?” she asked.
Ben tried to read the question. Chiding? Facetious? “Not this time.”
“Come to our house to eat. Bring your girlfriend.” Girlfriend? Julie. He’d forgotten that Mary had met her.
“Maybe I will.” Actually that wasn’t such a bad idea, Ben thought. He planned on seeing more of Julie but this mystery flu thing was taking up a lot of time—for both of them.
“Do you mind if I record our c
onversation? I’m not very good at taking notes.” Mary nodded and he placed the compact recorder between them.
“I want to reconstruct the days preceding the governor’s death. I want to know things like his habits—did they change, did he complain of anything? I’m not just interested in aches and pains, I’d like to know about anything that seemed to upset him. Was he spending longer or shorter hours in the office? I want you to add anything that you think might be important or just something you think I might be interested in. I’ll ask you about his diet—whether he ate at his desk, or went home for lunch. Do you have any questions before we start?”
Mary shook her head.
“Then, let’s start with how long you knew the governor.”
“All my life. He was the father of my best friend in school.”
“Think about the week he died. Was it a more stressful week than usual?”
Mary paused. “No. He was upset by the deaths of the old people. They were friends. He talked about ...” Mary looked at Ben, then glanced away. “He talked about their spirits. There had been a warning.”
“How was that?” Ben turned up the audio button. They still considered him an outsider. She was reluctant to talk about beliefs with him.
She looked up accusingly. “The cemetery. It has several new spaces, surely you know that they will be filled.”
He’d flunked again. He wasn’t thinking of that. Ben waited, but Mary didn’t continue. He decided to change the subject.
“Tell me about his eating habits. Did he eat the same things everyday? Did he eat here at the office?”
Mary chuckled. “Every day he ate fry bread with beans. His niece would pack his lunch and I would microwave it. It took him a long time to trust the microwave. One time he put some aluminum foil in, and it scared him.”
“What did he drink?”
“Always a Coke. He drank three, maybe four Cokes a day.”
“Junk food?”
“No. Not too much. He ate lots of seeds and nuts. He always kept a basket on his desk full of seeds, pumpkin or sunflower. Sometimes, he had piñon nuts.”
He spent an hour with Mary before walking home. The irrigation ditch was full. Three-foot-wide canals dispersed the water from the main artery and wound in and out of dirt-packed back yards under clotheslines and beside the Mission School playground. The water formed a cheerful little stream that gurgled and hurried along the edge of the village to reach the fields of corn. He paused by the cemetery and looked at the fresh mounds of earth. Three of the graves had new crosses. Doors and more than one chicken coop had given up planks for the carved wooden markers that dotted the quarter acre in front of the church. He had purchased the bronze plaque and marble headstone for his grandmother in Albuquerque. It looked out of place.
The older markers were bleached a slate blue from exposure. The plastic flowers tied to their bases gave a surreal touch that defied change. Their eternal reds and yellows were muted by a coating of dust. A row of fuchsia and white cosmos leaned against the barbed wire boundary on his left. He’d plant flowers on his grandmother’s grave next spring.
The hum of machinery about a half mile to the south caught Ben’s attention. Through the dust he could just make out a Euclid and several backhoes. They were on Indian land. He followed the road that took him away from the village and toward the river and mountains and noises of civilization.
Large orange earthmovers lurched forward and turned, bounced backward and turned, all the while churning up dust and sending bits of rock and hard clay sailing through the air. The machines whined and belched fumes that rippled around them in the still air. One of the drivers motioned him back and pointed to his head. Probably wants me to wear a hardhat, Ben surmised. He moved closer to the road and thought he’d watch a minute from a safe distance. Whatever was going on, it was a massive undertaking. This was an impressive collection of machines.
A man operating a roller stood in the cab and leaned out over his piece of equipment to check its progress before turning and flattening the strip of land to his right. He had taken his shirt off and his muscular back was streaked with sweat in half-dried yellow-orange clay stripes. The man had tied a bandanna around his mouth and nose. He leaned out once more to inspect the earth in front of his slow-moving giant and then, as Ben watched, he toppled forward, over the machine and spilled spread-eagle onto the roller and under it. The roller barely paused as it ground his body into its freshly smoothed path. Continuing in a straight line, the machine lazily inched forward.
Ben screamed at the driver nearest him and bounded over the piled dirt. A burly older Hispanic man had already reached the maverick roller and turned it off, but not before its back wheels had also bounced over the body. Ben knew before he knelt beside the man that there was nothing he could do. Death had been instantaneous.
The body had been badly crushed but Ben checked for a pulse and noticed an elevated temperature. The man was burning up, and it wasn’t from the sun. Then he noticed the bright pink cast to the man’s left eye. Could death have occurred before the fall?
When the ambulance arrived, the men helped load the body. “Take him to the University Medical Center, the OMI. I’ll call ahead; someone from the Indian Hospital, probably a Dr. Sanford Black, will meet you there.” Ben watched the ambulance spin out of the soft dirt and tear off up the road with flashing lights and siren. That seemed anticlimactic. He turned back to the group of subdued men. “Anyone hear this man complain of feeling ill?”
“Yeah. He was sick yesterday, but he needed the money bad so he came back today.”
“What were his complaints?” Ben thought he knew before the man answered.
“He had the flu.”
“Is he from around here?”
“Peña Blanca.”
“How long have you been on this job?”
“’bout three, I guess, four days.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“I am.” The older Hispanic man stepped forward.
“I’d like the address of the man’s family.”
“Sure. I can get it for you. Over here.”
Ben followed the man to a pickup parked beside the road. The truck’s side panel read Romero Construction. He jotted down the telephone number.
“You don’t think we got a problem, do you? I mean, some people died here a couple weeks ago. Could we catch this sickness?”
“I don’t know, but you might want to knock off for today anyway.” Ben glanced at the group of men gathered a short distance behind them. In shock, all of them.
“Yeah. I’ll do that.” The foreman handed him a slip of paper with the man’s name and address.
Ben needed to call Sandy, have him meet the ambulance at the OMI. So much for being lulled into thinking that this thing was over. Just a few deaths of old people and then nothing. Maybe they were looking for a virus, a killer that didn’t discriminate among age groups after all, and if they were ... Ben didn’t want to think of the consequences.
FOUR
Lorenzo had two favorite summer nap spots. One was under the four-hundred-year-old cottonwood beside the river and the other was in the balcony of the mission church. He had wanted to watch the big machines dig up the earth on his way to the river, but the flashing lights had warned him away. He had stood at the edge of the field and waited for them to leave. The lights went around and around in jerky half circle splashes of red and then rushed up the road to the highway. They went so fast, Lorenzo could see a man’s spirit had been left behind. Or maybe the spirit was mad and was cursing that spot and those machines. Lorenzo turned and hobbled back to the mission church.
The cool darkness surrounded him as he climbed the curved stairs to the balcony. The rough board benches were lined up six deep with an aisle between. Lorenzo lowered himself to the floor where he could look through the bannister at the altar. A four-foot-tall Virgin mother held out her arms in welcome. Her blue plaster of Paris robes fell away from her body and formed a base for the
statue. Her hair was blonde, her hands pale cream with pink nails. Someone had draped a rosary around one wrist and there was a necklace made of corn kernels around her neck.
Lorenzo knew the Summer Mother and the Winter Mother of his people. When they had lived beneath the lake in Sipofene, supernaturals, men, women, and animals all lived together. There was no death. Now the blackness stalked his people. The medicine men would call upon their powers to chase it from the village. But the blackness was strong.
Lorenzo thought of the beginning of a Tewa prayer: Within and around the earth, within and around the hills, within and around the mountains, your authority returns to you .... The spirits were listening. When he was younger, he visited the earth navels on the four sacred mountains, lakes or nan sipu where the spirits lived. He would go to the spirits and ask for their help. He must plan a trip to the mountains.
+ + +
The construction worker had been rolled onto a table with a drain in one end by the time Sandy got there.
“I’m waiting to get the go-ahead for an autopsy. There shouldn’t be a problem. Anything we should know about so far?” Sandy questioned the technician who was absently wiping his hands on the front of his lab coat.
“It was just like you thought. His lungs are filled with fluid.”
“Want to venture a guess as to whether he had stopped breathing before or after the accident?” Sandy asked.
“I won’t know for sure for awhile, but I think he was technically dead before he hit the ground. He must have stood up to get more air in his lungs and blacked out. I don’t think he was breathing from that moment on.”