Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  Books shrugged.

  Eddie let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan and struggled back to his knees. His eye patch had shifted, granting Othmann an unwanted view of a black sunken hole. Was that what Xajiinai was? Black and bottomless? Not like his father’s portrait at all. Maybe Eddie was the portal to communicate with the dead, to communicate with good ol’ Pops.

  “What did they say you did?” Othmann asked.

  Eddie took several deep breaths. His good eye seemed unable to focus. “They said … they said I touched my sister’s boy. But I didn’t.”

  Othmann walked around to the front of his desk, careful not to block the camera’s view. “And what did you tell the FBI about me?”

  “How did you know it was the FBI?”

  “Eddie, it’s time to be honest. I need to know I can trust you. Now, what did you tell them about me?”

  “Nothing. Why would I talk about you? They were asking about my nephew.”

  “Did you tell them about the carving?”

  “No.” Eddie’s voice was high.

  “What do you think, David? Did he talk?”

  “He talked. A man that can’t take care of his dog isn’t loyal to anyone.”

  “Are you loyal, Eddie?”

  “Yes—”

  Another knee to the back of his head.

  They waited.

  Books wrinkled his nose. “I think he shit himself.”

  A minute passed.

  Eddie regained consciousness. He groaned. Blood dripped from his nose onto the plastic.

  “Oh man.” Eddie pulled at the seat of his pants.

  “Stay on the tarp,” Othmann said.

  The broken man sat back on his knees, swaying. A silver and turquoise squash-blossom necklace, which Eddie usually wore beneath his shirt, now hung exposed on his chest. It had been handed down through his family, originally belonging to his great-grandfather, who had been the chief of his clan before the Long Walk. Its craftsmanship was some of the best work Othmann had ever seen. But no matter how tough things had gotten for Eddie, he had never parted with his great-grandfather’s legacy.

  “Eddie, Eddie. Why are you doing this to yourself? It’s a simple question. I already know the answer, but I want to hear you say it.”

  “Okay … but don’t let him knee me anymore. I’m seeing double.”

  “David, don’t knee him anymore.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Eddie stared as Books unbuckled his belt. Books pulled it from his waistband and grasped both ends in his right hand, letting the loop dangle by his side.

  Eddie whimpered.

  “What did you tell the FBI about me?”

  Eddie licked his lips, smearing the trickle of blood from his nose, spreading it wide, giving himself a clown’s red mouth.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I got scared. Real scared. I was never in trouble like that before.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I used to make jewelry for you, and when I couldn’t do that anymore, I started getting you things.”

  “What things?”

  “I told them about the prayer sticks … and the artifacts.”

  “Did you tell them about the Chaco carving?”

  Eddie hung his head.

  “And they want you to talk to the grand jury, right?”

  “I’ll disappear. I have a cousin in California. I can hide out there. Really. I won’t talk to them again. I promise.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  Books dropped the belt loop over Eddie’s head.

  The silversmith clawed at the thin strip of leather.

  Othmann stared into the dying man’s empty eye socket.

  Later that night, in the environmentally controlled vault below, while replaying the hidden-camera footage, feeling the effects of Cuervo Black and a line of Christmas powder, Othmann would think about this moment and tell himself he saw his father staring out of that depthless black hole, the tip of his cigar glowing with the brilliance of hellfire, and his wrinkled lips mouthing the words You’re a little light in your goddamn pants!

  SEPTEMBER 24

  FRIDAY, 9:38 A.M.

  BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Supervisory Special Agent in Charge Dale Warren thumbed through a copy of that month’s issue of Model Cars Magazine, pausing on an article about applying alclad chrome to bumpers and grilles. His cell phone rang. He recognized the number and answered.

  “It’s assigned,” he said. “I gave it to one of my … older agents.” Dale disconnected the call without waiting for a response.

  Then he picked up the 1952 Moebius Hudson Hornet convertible parked at the edge of his desk and eyed its bumpers. The metallic paint was dull and pitted from a poor application he’d attempted the previous summer. He laid the car back down and returned to the article.

  SEPTEMBER 24

  FRIDAY, 10:31 A.M.

  JONES RANCH ROAD, CHI CHIL TAH (NAVAJO NATION), NEW MEXICO

  Joe pulled his Tahoe behind the marked Navajo Police vehicle and stepped out. They were parked on the side of Jones Ranch Road in Chi Chil Tah, a small Navajo community twenty miles southwest of Gallup, consisting of a school, a small housing development, some scattered trailers and ranch homes, and a chapter house, the Navajo equivalent of a town hall. The blacktop had ended about four miles back, and now he stood on hard-packed clay surrounded by piñon trees.

  The officer, who had been leaning against his ride’s front fender, approached. He wore the tan uniform of the Navajo Police Department, and wore it well, crisp and clean. A rookie.

  “Agent Evers?”

  “Call me Joe.” He flashed his credentials, then slipped them back into his sport coat. He didn’t ask the officer’s name. His name tag read R. BLUEHORSE.

  A big grin spread across the officer’s face. He reached out and pumped Joe’s extended hand with all the enthusiasm of a teenager being given the keys to the car for the first time. “Glad to meet you. I’m pretty new to the force. My first week out on my own and I caught this case. Lucky, I guess.”

  Lucky? A cold case? Lots of work and little chance to clear it. The kid had no idea.

  Joe pulled his hand to safety. “Sorry, I’m a little late.” Mornings had become more and more difficult for him over the past year.

  Bluehorse looked at Joe’s shoes. “Did I tell you it was in the woods?”

  The cuffs of Joe’s wrinkled khakis sat atop a pair of tasseled loafers. No doubt boots would have been a better choice. “They’re old.” They weren’t.

  The officer seemed to be waiting for something.

  “You want to show me what you found?”

  “Isn’t there anyone else coming? You know, to process it.”

  “I need to check it out first.”

  Officer Bluehorse looked down the road one last time, as though willing there to be more attention to his find. Then he walked to the north side of the road and set off through the woods. Joe followed.

  This was the high desert, six thousand feet above sea level, just enough rainfall to support life. The trees were spread far apart, with a sprinkling of sage, rabbitbrush, and brown grass between them. The scent of sage was strong, almost overpowering. Joe studied the distance between trees. He guessed a car could zigzag a path through these woods if the driver didn’t care about beating the vehicle to hell.

  “I plan on putting an application in with BIA or FBI when I finish my bachelor’s,” Bluehorse said.

  “Go with the FBI. They offer dental.”

  “Really?”

  Joe smiled, something he’d not done in some time.

  “Which would you recommend?”

  “Either,” Joe said. “FBI if you don’t care where they send you. BIA if you want to work reservations the rest of your life.” And don’t mind being screwed over once in a while by your supervisor.

  “I think I want to work reservations.”

 
; Enjoy the screwing.

  “So how did you find the vehicle?”

  “We were searching for a missing hunter, and I just came across it.”

  They arrived at a shallow arroyo. Joe slid down and could feel loose soil spill into his shoes. When they climbed out on the other side, he was breathing hard. It had to be the elevation and not the four or more beers a night—usually more—he told himself.

  “Hold on.” Joe leaned against a tree and took off his shoes, one at a time, shaking them out as he filled his lungs. “What made you run the vehicle?”

  “The bullet holes.”

  “Bullet holes? Why didn’t you tell me about them when I called?”

  Bluehorse shifted his weight to his other foot. “The car’s been here a long time. They could be from hunters having target practice. I didn’t want to sound the alarm. And you didn’t ask any questions.”

  “I shouldn’t have to ask.”

  The officer lowered his gaze. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  Joe hadn’t meant to come off so harsh. “The news didn’t mention bullet holes.”

  “I haven’t turned in my report yet. I wanted to keep that and the location quiet until you arrived.”

  “That’s great, but how did the story even get out?”

  “This is Navajo land,” Bluehorse said. “There are no secrets. I guess someone in the department talked.”

  Joe slipped his foot back into his second shoe. He patted the trunk of a tree. “Is this oak?” he asked, trying to stretch out the break a little longer.

  Bluehorse perked up. He peered toward the tree’s canopy. “A real fine one, too.” He touched the bark with his hand. “There’s a lot of oak here, mostly down by the canyons. The name Chi Chil Tah means ‘where the oaks grow.’ My grandpa was Hopi, a kachina carver. Do you know what they are?”

  Joe did. Small colorful carvings of Indian dancers representing various spirits.

  Bluehorse continued in a soft, almost sad voice. “He used to take me out this way when I was a kid to gather wood. Most kachinas are made from cottonwood root. It’s soft and easy to carve. But my grandpa made a special oak kachina for men with what he called ‘the wandering spirit.’ Oak is heavy, he’d say; it plants the man firmly with his family. He also made it for people who suffered great losses because oak was strong and could bear great burdens.”

  “He sounds like a wise man.”

  “He was. He died a few years back.”

  Joe’s chest tightened. He felt for Bluehorse. For this young man’s loss. He thought of Christine, his own loss. Memories flashed through his head like a silent montage. Images of her. Images of them. He pushed them out of his head. Those memories were for the nights when he lay awake in bed, not having had quite enough alcohol to dull the pain, to bring on the blackness and the comfort of oblivion. On those nights, his memories would infiltrate his mind like termites, trying to destroy his will to go on without her. He stood in the woods now, struggling to catch his breath, but he couldn’t. He faced away and inhaled deeply. After a bit, he turned back. Bluehorse had his eyes closed and his left ear pressed against the tree.

  “We’d sometimes wander these woods for hours till we found the right tree. He’d say he could hear the tree’s energy, its life. He’d take wood only from a healthy tree, never a sickly or dying one.” Bluehorse pushed himself off the trunk, turned, and started again through the woods.

  Joe followed. He knew he had just witnessed something profound, something that should have given him a flash of insight into the human condition, or some glimpse of a universal truth. Instead, he just felt dull. His head hurt, memories of Christine still fighting to get back in. He trudged on, following the young officer, weaving between trees both living and dead.

  They hiked the next ten minutes in silence, Bluehorse in front, maintaining an easy pace; Joe, some distance behind, breathing hard, trying to keep up. Finally they arrived, quietly, solemnly, forgoing any discussion that might herald the journey’s end.

  Between two dead piñon trees, surrounded by sage and rabbitbrush, painted in shadows, out of place in this seemingly untouched wilderness, sat the remains of a bone white Lincoln Town Car.

  Bluehorse had not downplayed its condition. There was little left. The doors were angled open, seats missing. The dash had been ripped apart, its wire innards dangling. Only brittle shards remained of the rear window. All the tires were gone, the axles resting on an assortment of logs and stones.

  Joe made a slow circle around the remains. He detected the faintest scent of engine oil, surprising considering all the years the vehicle had rested there. Yet, at the same time, he knew the longevity of odor. He had been to many body recoveries over the years. And he knew how strong the smell of decay could be even after a decade under the earth, as if the dead refused to break their connection with the living.

  The vehicle’s vinyl roof was shredded and its four headlights broken. Its front bumper lay lopsided, like a stroke patient’s smile. Three evenly spaced bullet holes cut across the windshield. Possibly some idiot’s idea of target practice, but it challenged the idea that Edgerton had simply skipped out with the money, which had always seemed a little too storybook for Joe.

  He bent down by the rear bumper. On the left, faded, peeling, barely legible, was a sticker that read EDGERTON FOR CONGRESS. To the right of that was DUKAKIS FOR PRESIDENT IN ’88.

  “Nice work.” Joe was being honest, but he wished the officer had waited three months to call it in. That way, Joe could have read about it at his new job. If he could find a new job.

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “Call me Joe.”

  “So what’s all the fuss over Edgerton? I mean, I know he ran off with some money, but it’s not like he killed anyone.”

  “At the time, it was pretty big. Right after the Iran-Contra scandal. People were upset about political corruption. I think Edgerton became everyone’s target. Also, it was sort of a mystery. What happened with all the money? Sort of like D. B. Cooper.”

  “Who’s D. B. Cooper?”

  Joe grinned. “When were you born?”

  “1990.”

  “Forget it.” Joe turned his attention back to the Lincoln. “Why don’t you give me your take on this?”

  Officer Bluehorse straightened. “Yes, sir—I mean, Joe.” He walked to the engine compartment.

  “The whole car’s been stripped, even the engine.”

  Joe looked under the hood. In place of the motor was a pile of sticks and shredded bark. A pack rat’s nest.

  “At first I thought the vehicle may have been put here after being stripped somewhere else. But I found an old trail right over there.” Bluehorse pointed north. “It’s overgrown now, but that must be how they got the engine out. Also, I found some of the engine parts under the car, so that told me they dismantled it here. Same with lug nuts and some dashboard pieces.

  “I can’t be sure, but it looks like those three shots through the windshield were fired from a downward angle. My guess is the shooter was standing on the hood and fired down into the dash.”

  Joe poked his head inside. A gouge ran down the front edge of the dashboard, over the missing radio console, showing the trajectory of a round. It seemed unlikely the shooter had been aiming for the occupants.

  “And there’s something else,” Bluehorse said. He closed the driver-side door and then walked around to the passenger side. Joe followed. They squeezed between the piñon tree and the front passenger door. They crouched down. Joe looked to where Bluehorse pointed, at the now-closed driver-side door. The door’s plastic panel had long since been removed, and Joe could see the fabricated metal frame and mechanical components inside. A single bullet hole, round, jagged, had ripped into the frame at the base of the window, just below the pop-up lock lever. He hadn’t noticed them on his walk around the vehicle, but he had noticed that the paint had peeled at the top of the door and that rust had begun working its way down from that same corner.

  “I don’t kn
ow the caliber,” Bluehorse said. “But it’s big.”

  Joe walked around and examined the hole. After a moment he said, “Forty-five.” This bullet hole was interesting—and troubling. It was larger than the rounds in the windshield. He looked down. At first he thought he was looking at a brown carpet, but then he realized the entire floorboard was covered in rodent droppings. The rug had been removed.

  “You want to stay involved with the investigation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re going to have to keep quiet about what we do, even to your supervisors. Is that going to be a problem?”

  Bluehorse hesitated. “The chief asked me to keep him updated.”

  “You can keep him updated, but we’ll have to agree on what those updates will be. If that makes you feel uncomfortable, tell me now. I can’t have any more leaks to the press.”

  “I don’t think the chief would leak to the press.”

  “That’s the deal, Bluehorse. I like how you’ve handled it so far. I think you should be part of the investigation, since you’re the one who found the car, but it’s your call.”

  “Are you going to bring out a crime-scene team?”

  Joe shrugged.

  “Okay. I’m in,” Bluehorse said, smiling. “But please give my chief decent updates, so I don’t lose my job.”

  “Welcome to the team.”

  “What’s next?”

  “Well, we have no idea if the bullet holes are related to Edgerton’s disappearance. It could’ve been some hunters having fun.”

  “What if it wasn’t?”

  “That’s why we cover our asses and bring in an FBI evidence team.”

  SEPTEMBER 24

  FRIDAY, 12:49 P.M.

  JONES RANCH ROAD, CHI CHIL TAH (NAVAJO NATION), NEW MEXICO

  Officer Bluehorse watched Joe’s Tahoe disappear down the road. He couldn’t help but grin. He was on the case. Only a rookie and he was going to be working one of the biggest cases to hit the reservation since … since he didn’t know when.

  He wanted to tell someone, but he didn’t know who. He’d have to wait until he got home tonight. He saw himself sitting around the dinner table with his folks, forking a few peas, offhandedly mentioning the investigation. Oh, by the way. That Edgerton case. The BIA wants me to work it.