by Susan Slater
“Is that all?” The clerk behind the counter was staring at him. Must have asked twice, Johnson decided. Lately, he could just drift off, leave the real world, sometimes forget where he was.
“Yes. And add a bag of ice.”
He loaded everything into the back of the Bronco and stopped a moment to admire the white deck chair folded behind the seat. He had ordered it from a catalog. One of what seemed to be hundreds that came to his post office box in the pueblo every other week. He wondered how he could stop this mail. He knew the post office employees were enjoying it. Sometimes he’d find ads circled or pages with their corners turned down. Sometimes the items were jaunty mariner’s caps or nautically striped t-shirts, once an ad for red and blue boxer shorts had been marked with a lewd comment penciled in the margin just below the small mast of the sail boat motif that decorated the waistband.
The deck chair had come unassembled. Johnson was proud of the way he had put it together, using neatly capped wood screws and painting the pieces a glossy white. Across the back he had stenciled ‘The Dream Catcher,’ in a marine blue with silver feathers hanging from the ‘D.’ His wife complimented his work and wanted him to make another one for the back yard, along with laying sod and building flower boxes. But she didn’t know that he wouldn’t see the spring. She didn’t know that he would need to go with the spirits soon.
They were everywhere. Sometimes, like tonight, their eyes would peek out from behind parked cars, follow him, peer over his shoulder. Lately, he had begun to hear them talk. Just murmurs, but loud enough to block out the voice of someone talking to him, someone in the same room. At first, he tried to answer back. Explain. Make them see why he did what he did. What he had to do. He was the leader of his people.
He parked on the strip of paving to the right of the marina office. His was only one of four cars. He had missed the crowds of late summer—the families taking advantage of Labor Day weekend to enjoy time together before returning to school or jobs. Late October wasn’t exactly the height of the season. But the lake was beautiful this time of year. Beautiful in its quietness.
He picked up the deck chair and decided he’d have to come back for the groceries. No use risking a nick to save time. Now that was an Anglo thought. Johnson paused to consider, then stepped up onto the floating walkway that led to slip seventy-three.
The Dream Catcher was outlined against the autumn sky. A fiery sunset spread behind her, warming the paleness of the blue backdrop and tinting everything in its path with a blush of pink-gold. Johnson slung the folded chair over his shoulder and maneuvered the dangling ladder with one hand. He hoisted the deck chair over the side first, then followed. He stood on the deck and watched the sun set before going back for the groceries. Suddenly, his stomach rumbled. He needed to fix something to eat. He rolled two slices of white bread around chunks of Velveeta, opened a bag of Cheetos and poured a glass of Seven-Up.
He carefully sponged the counter, put what needed to be kept cool in the small bar fridge next to the gas cook stove, and climbed back on deck with his dinner.
The now gray-pink light lasted a long time. Johnson watched a slice of moon pop up from under the horizon, as if it had sprung from the water, to climb above the semi-circle of hills. The black night sky started to twinkle with tiny points of light. Johnson shivered. It had gotten cold. The chill seemed to lift off the surface of the water and drift across the deck, settling under the chair. He went below and came back with a blanket and another sweatshirt.
He liked to muse on the origins of his people and the ceremonies that made them strong. He even recounted the mistakes he had made. During the last winter solstice, when the sun deity reported to the others on what had happened during the year, he had been marked for death. And Johnson had chosen to ignore the warning. Even animals who will die during the upcoming year are marked in some way, a bird is missing a feather or two from its tail, a deer has a slit in its ear.
Even then there was a chance he could have averted death. He could have put pine gum on his forehead, under his arms, and on his elbows and knees. But he didn’t. And because he didn’t, he couldn’t attach himself to the sun’s rays. He couldn’t stay in the light, among the living. Johnson sighed. So much had happened. He heard the short haunting hoot of an owl from the wooded area behind the rental cabins. The gentle rocking of the boat was soothing. He dozed fitfully then awoke thinking he had heard voices. He listened. Nothing. Only night sounds.
He wrapped the blanket tighter around him and turned in the chair, so his arm cradled his head.
He dreamed of skimming the water in The Dream Catcher. When others would try to follow, they would get caught in a giant net and he would slip through. When the head of the turtle-man appeared at the front of the boat, he wasn’t surprised. Johnson waved him to come forward, then rose to embrace this deity, throwing open his blanket as the turtle-man climbed aboard.
“I welcome you, turtle-man, as my guest. Please, enter my humble house above your water-home. You do me great honor.”
The turtle-man didn’t answer but his great glassy eyes watched Johnson. His black slippery skin shed water. Leaving a puddle on the deck, he sidled forward on flippered feet, slipping under the weight of the yellow shell humped behind his neck. When the turtle-man held out his hand, Johnson took it, wondering at its rubbery feel. The turtle-man led him to the side of the boat and motioned toward the water.
“You do me an even greater honor by inviting me to your home at the bottom of the lake,” Johnson said.
The turtle-man reached out to steady Johnson. Friendly, reassuring. Then he motioned Johnson to step up beside him on the edge of The Dream Catcher. Johnson did so and gazed out across the water. He sighed.
“I will go with you now,” he said.
In slow motion, poised hand in hand, Johnson and the turtle-man jumped, pushing upward and outward, gracefully curving in the air before tumbling beneath the surface of the water. Johnson watched the bubbles swirl around and around caressing the turtle-man, then tickling him as he sank in the turtle-man’s home. Johnson breathed in, letting the water fill his lungs, until all he could see was a blinding patch of white light that stretched into a path filled with deities beckoning him to follow.
+ + +
“What is it, Gloria?” Sandy looked up from his desk.
“Has Johnson Yepa been admitted to the hospital?”
“Johnson? No. I don’t think so. Why?”
“He didn’t come home last night. His wife is worried. He was gone all weekend.”
“Where’d he go?”
“She thinks he might have gone to Elephant Butte. But she’s not sure.”
“Maybe she should call authorities at the lake.”
“That’s what I told her.” Gloria turned to go back across the hall.
Sandy adjusted his reading glasses and looked at the numbers on his computer screen. No wonder he always had a stiff neck. He needed new glasses. But maybe he was finding it difficult to do the cost accounting because he hated to crunch numbers. Follow-up reports were always tedious. Sandy hated the paperwork that went with program management.
“Dr. Black?” Gloria was in the doorway.
“What now?” He tried not to sound exasperated but knew that he’d failed.
“It’s about Johnson Yepa.”
“Again? Don’t tell me, he just showed up at his office.”
“No. He’s dead.”
Sandy pushed back from his desk and turned to look at Gloria. “Dead? How did it happen?”
“He drowned.”
“A boating accident?”
“They don’t know. But it doesn’t look like it.”
“Foul play?”
“They don’t think so.”
Sandy turned back to his desk. Stunned. No, more like paralyzing shock. But maybe they were the same thing. He couldn’t think straight. He needed to contact Ben. He wondered if Ben or Julie had found out anything. It seemed impossible that Johnson was dead. An
d suspect that he would drown, unassisted.
+ + +
“What do you mean, he took your hand and just jumped over the side?” Douglas Anderson, Sr. poured another cup of coffee.
“You had to be there. No lie, he took my hand, all the while calling me the turtle-man and saying how he wanted to visit my home, and he just followed me to the side of the boat and then jumped.” Junior lavishly spread an onion bagel with cream cheese.
“Was he on something?”
“Don’t think so.” Junior’s words were muffled by a mouthful of bagel. A trickle of butter dropped to the neck of his sweatshirt and left a dark stain.
“How can you eat at a time like this? You killed someone. And now you’re eating like a pig.”
“What’s wrong with you? Haven’t you been listening to me? I didn’t kill anyone.” Junior put the bagel on his plate. “We have the extraordinary good luck of having an intended murder victim help us out by committing suicide, and you’re pissed.”
“I don’t like it that you left the body. Didn’t we agree that you’d dispose of the body?” Douglas knew he was sounding peevish. Everything seemed to upset him lately.
“But I didn’t have anything to cover up. I didn’t have to strangle him or bash his head in. I just went swimming with him. And watched as he chose to drown. He never even fought for air.”
“If you’re lying to me ...”
“Dad, why would I lie? I’m in this as deeply as you are. I thought you’d be happy that I’d been spared having to physically do away with someone. This whole thing is making you jumpy.”
“Bob Crenshaw thinks we have to get rid of the reporter.”
“That girl?”
“Yeah. Seems she’s been a little too snoopy. Bob thinks she may be on to something. May go to the feds with a lot of questions, put them on our trail.”
“So, what’s he going to do?”
“He says not to worry. Says he’ll take care of it.”
Douglas pushed back from the table. How could he condone another death? Was there no end to the number who would have to be killed? He was too old for all this dying. He’d talk to Bob. Maybe he was overreacting. Could be the girl wouldn’t have to be killed. She was such a pretty thing. Her whole life was ahead of her.
FOURTEEN
Julie leaned back in her office chair and stared at a blank monitor. Ben had left a message for her this morning on her voice mail. “Johnson Yepa is dead. Some sort of accident at the Butte or could be suicide. I’ll come by this evening. I don’t want to miss that home-cooked meal you promised. We can talk then.”
Johnson Yepa would not have committed suicide. But did she know that? No, just instinct. And what good was instinct? Nothing she could go to the feds with. She had contacted the coroner. There was no evidence, or as he had emphatically put it, “Not a snowball’s chance that anyone helped him drown.” So what was bothering her?
Anderson and Anderson, Inc. seemed to be on the up and up. No history of bilking the public. In fact, just the opposite. Douglas, Sr. was known for his philanthropy. He’d made millions in real estate in Santa Fe. She had put a call in to the State Gaming Commission. She’d check on the casino backers, find out who the principal investors were. In addition, she’d get a list of any consultants or contractors. Somewhere, there might be a clue, some tie that might be damning. If there were no surprises, she’d have to admit her sixth sense was failing her.
She was discouraged. She wanted to nail the killer or killers. The one who had killed Ben’s grandmother. To boost her standings as an investigative reporter? Or to help Ben? Probably the latter. It was painful to think that he would be leaving in a couple months. She had to make some decisions. Unhurried ones made with a clear head. The phone interrupted.
“I’ve got someone from the Gaming Commission on one.”
Julie reached for a pad and pencil. This better be good. If the casino wasn’t the common denominator, she’d be fresh out of ideas. She picked up the phone.
“Julie Conlin? Ed Tafoya, State Gaming Commission. How can I help you?”
“I’m gathering material on the Tewa casino. At this point, just doing some background on the principal investors, contractors, any contacts that the tribe might have had in getting this thing off the ground.”
“I can probably help you. That’s all public record. Let’s see. Anderson and Anderson, Inc. are listed as consultants. Romero Construction got the original bid for building, but reneged about two weeks into the job. They were followed by James, Inc. out of Albuquerque. To the best of my knowledge, they’re still on the job.”
“Do you have a list of names—those behind Anderson and Anderson, Inc.?”
“Well, there are two corporations. One is the original real estate company based in Santa Fe. The other is an investment company. Which one do you want? Wait a minute, looks like both did consulting with the pueblo.”
“Let’s take the real estate company first.”
“Principals are the two Andersons, Douglas, Jr. and Sr. Then someone named Evelyn Coffer, an Edward Martinez, Walker Smith, that’s the former governor, P. Walker Smith, Andrew Wellington and Martin Sawyer. Got those?”
“Yes. Reads like a who’s who of Santa Fe, doesn’t it?”
“Got that right. Here goes with the investment company. First, the list of members includes three from the list I just gave you—Wellington, Smith and Sawyer—but add Augustine Chavez, Mr. and Mrs. Walter Monroe, and Albert Dunhill, that’s State Senator Dunhill.”
“And the principals are the same? The two Andersons?”
“Yeah. No, wait—add a couple names to that list, too. Robert Crenshaw and Anthony Chang.”
“Let me read these back.” Julie checked each name after it was verified.
“I have the names of the surveyors. That contract was subbed to a company out of Arizona.”
“Okay. Might as well get as much as I can.”
“The Wilson Brothers, Surveyors and Appraisers, Tucson, Arizona. They look like the only out of state company involved. I guess they tried to keep jobs local.”
“I’m assuming everything’s in order with their permits? A Class III met with everyone’s approval?”
“Not at first. But Douglas Anderson is persuasive. Of course, he has the governor in his hip pocket. But I’ll deny it if you say you heard it here.” Julie waited for the nervous laughter to subside. There it was again, cronyism. If it could be bottled and exported ... New Mexico wouldn’t have a worry.
“Your boss’s no slouch when it comes to getting what he wants, either. Bob Crenshaw must have lobbied just as hard as Douglas Anderson. The two of them spent months at it. Too bad that illness thing almost ruined it for them.”
Or made it all possible, she thought, as she ran down the list of names again.
And there it was. It might as well have been flashing neon. The link.
Thank God, her sixth sense was still intact.
“Listen, Ed, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’m being paged. Thanks for all the information. You’ve been a great help.”
Yes, a very great help. Now to contact the fire chief. Probably better to just run by. She grabbed her purse and stuffed the two pages of yellow legal tablet inside. She couldn’t leave the list here. A laptop and her recorder, the in-the-field paraphernalia of the working reporter and that should do it. She quickly thrust both into a canvas briefcase.
“I’ll be out this afternoon. I’ve got a couple interviews. I may or may not be back before five. If not, see you in the morning.”
The receptionist nodded, picked up an erasable marker and drew a line beside Julie’s name on the large white schedule board.
+ + +
The fire chief was in. Now, if she could be just as lucky in another way. She needed information—the most damning evidence so far. She quickly crossed her fingers.
“He’ll see you now.” His secretary pointed down the hall. “Second door on your left.”
The fire chi
ef got up immediately to shake hands.
“Yes. I do remember you. Spent an evening on a fire truck together not long back. You’re a reporter with Channel Nine.” He laughed and pointed to a chair in front of his desk. “But you can’t be here about that, that fire’s old news by now.”
Julie only hesitated for a second. There was no reason not to just get to the point.
“If you’re a Channel Nine fan, you must know that I’ve been reporting the Hantavirus story, heading up the investigation for the station.”
The fire chief nodded, frowning.
“I understand that there were several hundred cages of rodents in the Chang lab. Do you know what happened to them?”
Silence. She thought he recognized where her questioning was leading as she watched him chew the inside of his jaw so she pushed on.
“If Mr. Chang trapped locally, there’s every possibility that rodents in his lab carried the deadly Hantavirus. I was hoping that you’d had any survivors—in whatever condition—checked. I’m just tying up some loose ends to my story on the virus. It’s important to investigate any link to rodents.”
“I’m not sure I’m at liberty to say what was done with the lab contents.” She thought he looked worried.
“If, and this is just hypothesis, the rodents or any parts that you might have recovered have not been tested for the virus—”
“Yes, yes.” The fire chief got up from behind his desk and walked to a window. “That was a pretty intense fire, if you remember. Chemical fires always are.”
“I doubt that any live rodents were saved, but what if some had been frozen, preserved in some kind of chemical tanks. I noticed tanks in the back of the building.” She waited. She had him thinking and weighing the implications of a sloppy reporting job, not being careful with human lives. There was enough hysteria in the community over the virus as it was. If word leaked out that there had been a potentially dangerous situation in the northeast heights of Albuquerque ... something that could have spread …