Abducted Innocence (Emily Etcitty)

by Sandra Bolton

  The papers were signed, one copy given to Herman Tallbrother and the other sealed in the envelope. The men shook hands. Abe whistled for Patch, but before they got back in the truck, Emily decided to question the clan about Darcy Benally. She was sure they had heard of the kidnapping in this tight little community.

  “Did you find out anything new?” Abe said when they were back on the highway.

  “A couple of things.” Emily pushed back a stray strand of hair. “One I already knew—the Diné don’t approve of Navajo women cozying up with white men.”

  Abe put his hands in his pockets, looked down at the dirt, and kicked a rock near his foot. “Did they come right out and say it to you?”

  “No, they didn’t have to. It’s easy to pick up on silent Navajo rebukes.” Emily patted Abe on the knee. “Don’t worry. I’m used to disapproval. The main thing I wanted to know was if they had seen or heard anything new about the missing girl.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Well, the Tallbrother men and Junior participated in the search party, so they know someone in a vehicle kidnapped the girl. Junior supplied a piece of interesting information. I wanted to know if they had noticed any unusual vehicles hanging around. I didn’t expect much, but one thing he said got my attention.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Last week, they were buying supplies at the trading post for the sheep camp. Junior didn’t want to go inside, so he hung out on the porch. He said a white van with tinted windows pulled up. He couldn’t see who was inside. After about ten minutes, it left. He thought it strange they kept the motor running the whole time.”

  “No one got out? Kind of weird.”

  “Yeah, and it just so happened the Benally family was inside the store at the same time.”

  “Did he notice the make or model of the van?”

  “A Chevy utility van, white, newer model. He didn’t get a license plate number, though, because he didn’t think it was important at the time. The van left when the Benallys came out of the trading post. Junior talked to Darcy and her mom and dad for a few minutes before helping his father and uncle load the truck. Said he forgot about it until I started asking questions.”

  “Kind of a slim lead, Emily. Lots of white Chevy vans out there.”

  Emily sighed. “I know, but it’s all I’ve got for now. I’m curious about whether they know anyone with a Chevy van or have seen it around.” Emily let her eyes wander over the landscape. Steep canyons and jutting sentinels of red sandstone contrasted with new growth of grasses and wildflowers. Even the scant spring moisture that had arrived was enough to transform the desert into a veritable oasis. “The turnoff is up ahead on the left.”

  Abe rolled down the window and watched Emily as she walked toward a cluster of people in front of a hogan. There was a large gathering at the Benally place—extended family, clan members, neighbors—still looking for Darcy, waiting for any word from the police.

  “I’ll wait in the truck while you talk to them,” Abe said. “Take your time.”

  Ten minutes later she returned. “No one remembers seeing a Chevy van, and they don’t know anyone who owns one.”

  Abe turned the key in the ignition and glanced at Emily. “A dead end, you think?”

  “Maybe. There’s one more person I’d like to talk to while we’re out this way. Okay, Abe?”

  “Does that mean I get to be your sidekick again?” Abe said with a rueful grin. “Backup to the bodacious lady cop?”

  A year ago he had become a reluctant partner in their pursuit of Easy Jackson’s killer. But Abe had a strong motive—he had been accused of the murder at the time. By helping Emily, he had cleared his name but had also put his life in danger more than once.

  “You don’t have to—there’s no obligation.”

  “I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to help you, babe. It’s the least I can do. So, where are we headed now?”

  “Darcy’s grandmother mentioned another person who might have noticed the Chevy at the trading post—old Tom Crow—a half-breed who lives alone in Shiprock near the cutoff to Route 666. She said he was walking around with a spray bottle and a rag when they left, doing what he usually does. Watching people and trying to earn a little pocket money by washing tourists’ windows. When he gets money, he usually spends it on booze. Tom only has one good eye, but he never misses much. If there had been anything out of the ordinary, he would have noticed.”

  “Route 666. The number of the beast,” Abe said.

  Due to the many unexplained phenomena occurring on Route 666, the desolate span of highway was referred to by many as “The Devil’s Highway” or “The Highway to Hell.” Emily had told Abe she discounted the stories about demons, devils, and fiery semis rumored to haunt that particular stretch of road, but no one could downplay the number of unexplained accidents occurring there each year. Most law enforcement officers attributed the unusual sightings and high accident rates to excessive alcohol consumption. Since it was against the law to sell alcohol on the reservation, calculating businesspeople had established liquor stores and bars at both ends of that particular length of roadway. In Emily’s mind, drunkenness explained a lot.

  “It’s not far out of our way, I promise,” Emily said, “and there’s nothing satanic about the name. It was the logical choice for the sixth spur of old Route 66.”

  Abe grinned at her and narrowed his eyes. “You sure? ‘Let him who has understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. His number is 666,’” he quoted.

  “Revelations,” Emily said. “Drilled into me by the mission schools.”

  Tom Crow lived in a tumbledown shack on a junk-laden piece of land a mile beyond the intersection of 64 and 666. Emily found him sitting in an old lawn chair in front of his house, a bottle of Ripple clutched in his hand, one bleary-but-good eye trained on the new arrivals. With skin the color and texture of wrinkled parchment, hair a wispy cloud of gray smoke, and clothes smelling like they hadn’t been washed in a month, the shrunken man scowled at Emily as she emerged from the truck. A yellow dog, all skin and bones, barked halfheartedly and got Patch’s attention.

  “Who’re you?” Tom Crow mumbled.

  “Tom, it’s me. Emily Etcitty. Remember when I bailed you out and bought you dinner?”

  “Who?” He took a long swig of wine. “Oh, yeah. You’re the lady cop. Whatta ya doin’ out here?”

  “I need your help now, Tom. I want to know if you saw a white Chevy utility van at the Teec Nos Pos Trading Post at any time last week.”

  Tom Crow closed his eyes. In the prolonged silence, Emily thought he had fallen asleep. She was about to shake his shoulder when he opened his eyes and spoke.

  “Sons a bitches never give a guy a break when he’s down on his luck. Seen that van lotsa times. Don’t even roll their fuck’n window down when I tap on it askin’ if they want a wash job. But I seen ’im. Seen ’im when he cracked his window and told me to get lost. Seen ’im drive down this road, too, goin’ north, comin’ south. Drivin’ this same ol’ Highway to Hell. He’ll get there soon enough, stingy bastard.”

  Emily’s pulse quickened. “This is important, Tom. Can you describe the person in the van?”

  “Hell, no. Saw his eyes for a second, top of his head is all.” He yawned and took another drink from his bottle of cheap wine. “Told ya. Window was cracked.” He spit a stream of tobacco into the sand. “I’m getting tired of talking. It’s past my nap time.”

  “Just a couple more questions, Tom. Is there anything at all you can remember about the van or the guy inside—like the color of hair or eyes? Did you notice the license plate?”

  “Colorado plates, I know for a fact.” The yellow dog who had been lying near the chair began scratching halfheartedly at his ear. Tom Crow looked at the truck and at Abe sitting in the driver’s seat. “Dark, curly hair—looked kind of like that fellow there,” he said, nodding at Abe.

  5

  Saturday, April 7, 1990 />
  Highway 666

  Near Shiprock, New Mexico

  Looks like me?” Abe said. “Great. Am I the go-to guy for every crime committed out here?” They were back on the highway, headed toward Shiprock and a diner in Kirtland Emily wanted to stop at for lunch.

  “Old Tom is ornery. He never got a good look at whoever was inside, just the top of his head. But he did say the van had Colorado plates. I’m calling this in as soon as we get back. I also want to find out if Hosteen turned up any other cases involving missing girls. After we grab a bite to eat, let’s head home.”

  “You can’t let this go, can you, Emily? Not even for a day.” Abe felt a wash of disappointment. He had wanted them to have some time together without the distractions of work.

  “Sorry, Abe. Because of the missing girl, it’s personal with me. This is who I am. It’s what I do.”

  Abe sighed. “I know your job is important to you, but we have so little time together. It feels like you are somewhere else.”

  She put a hand on his leg. “I’m here with you now, and I’m hungry. Pull in up there on the right—Doc’s Diner.”

  The parking lot overflowed with pickups, fracking trucks, and eighteen-wheelers loaded with pipe and rigging. Abe found a small space that would accommodate the Toyota and squeezed in.

  “Looks like they’ve got a crowd,” he said. “I don’t want to keep Patch waiting long.”

  “They’re always busy, but they have fast service, and the food is great. Come on. We can get it to go if you want.”

  They stepped into the crowded diner, and Abe scanned the room for an empty booth or table. The customers had segregated themselves—one side of the room was crammed full of Navajo workers and families, the other with Anglo men in various-colored coveralls branded with the names of oil or natural-gas companies. Emily’s brother, Will, had told him how the low-paying entry-level jobs—roustabouts and roughnecks—were delegated to the Native Americans while the higher-paying positions were given to the white men. Abe cursed under his breath when he noticed the cold, reproachful stares coming his way from both sides of the room. He quickly ushered Emily toward a booth where a pair of burly men in red coveralls were picking up their tab and preparing to leave.

  As the men walked by, they leered at Emily. Abe heard them snicker. “I bet he orders red meat,” one said. “Seems to be his preference.” They both laughed, and Abe, feeling his stomach knot up and his pulse quicken, turned around, balling his hands into fists. The barriers he had so carefully built up during his lifetime broke down when he heard the man’s remarks about Emily, and a blind rage took over. He’d had enough of the offhand comments, the silent rebukes, and the racial slurs.

  Abe planted himself in front of the larger of the two, a potbellied brute at least six inches taller, with a shaved head and a scruffy beard. “You say something to me, or does shit just naturally fall out of your mouth whenever you open it?”

  He saw the rigger’s face turn red as his eyes narrowed in anger.

  Emily stepped forward, placing a hand on Abe’s arm. The other went automatically to the place where she usually carried her holstered Glock.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she said to the rigger.

  “You Injun-lovin’ son of a bitch,” the man said, ignoring Emily as he drew his fist back and prepared to throw a blow. Abe was smaller, but brawny and fast. He caught the big rigger with a belly punch and heard the wind whoosh out of him like an inflated tire. The other man jumped in, grabbing Abe by the shirtfront.

  “Navajo Nation police officer,” Emily said, moving in front of the man and brandishing her badge in his face. “Step back and drop your hands to your side. Unless you and your friend want to spend the night in a jail cell full of red men, you had better turn around and walk away.”

  The man hesitated, looked around the diner at all the eyes fixated on him. “Screw it,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” He released Abe, threw a twenty on the table, and helped his buddy, who was bent over, gasping for breath. They no doubt knew better than to get in trouble with Navajo law enforcement on reservation land.

  “What an idiotic thing to do,” Emily said, glaring at Abe.

  She didn’t have to tell him. He knew it was dumb. He had even spent most of his life avoiding that kind of violent behavior.

  “I know. But why do we have to put up with this shit, Emily?” he said, gesticulating with a swing of his arm at the patrons in the diner. “Why can’t they accept us?” Most of the crowd had turned their eyes away or resorted to stealing sidelong glances at the pair.

  “Get used to it,” Emily said. “If you’re going to live here, accept the way it is. My people have lived with this kind of discrimination all our lives.”

  I should be used to it, Abe thought. Sharon had been a beautiful dark-skinned woman, so the two of them had often been on the receiving end of racially biased remarks, especially from his own mother.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “I’m sorry I made a scene, but not sorry I busted the fat asshole. He deserved it, and I’ll tell you what—it felt good.”

  What happened to the old Abe? The guy who used to smolder inside but turn away from confrontation? I’m not looking for trouble. I don’t want to hurt anyone or anything—but I’m not walking away anymore.

  He grinned, feeling pleased with himself. “I’ll fix you lunch at the house. It’ll be better than anything you could get here.”

  They walked out of the diner and got in the truck.

  “It had better be good,” Emily said. “Because I’m famished and pissed. You know, if I hadn’t pulled out my badge, they’d probably still be scraping you off the floor. Promise me you won’t pull any more stunts like that.”

  Abe patted Patch on the head. “We’ll be home soon, boy,” he said. But instead of promising her anything, Abe winked and began humming Vivaldi’s “Spring” from The Four Seasons, his free left hand drumming on the steering wheel in time to the music.

  “You’re forgiven,” Emily said, licking her fingers after devouring the last bite of her Reuben sandwich. “For the moment.”

  Abe grinned, took a swig of beer, and carried their plates to the sink. “I’m going to hose out the back of the truck and check on the sheep. Want to keep me company?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll join you in a couple of minutes. First, I need to call headquarters to let them know about the van with Colorado plates, and see if Hosteen came up with any other missing girls.”

  When she stood, Abe wrapped his arms around her. “This is our time, Em. Will is going to be here all day tomorrow, and you are leaving tomorrow afternoon. We have the rest of today alone. Let’s make the most of it.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her, felt the heat rising in his body. The desire to make love right that minute nearly derailed his plans to go outside and work, but she gently pushed him away.

  “After this call, I’m all yours. No more distractions.” Emily gave him a lingering kiss, her moist lips parting, her tongue teasing his. “We can spend the rest of the afternoon in bed. How does that sound?”

  Abe grinned. It seemed like a good idea—and proved to be even better than he thought. Their lovemaking began with a fierce intensity, both bodies demanding more until they collapsed in exhaustion. Their mutual desire quenched, all other thoughts put to rest for the time being, they slept in each other’s arms.

  Will arrived the next morning while Abe was busy preparing potato latkes. He might have abandoned his Jewish religion and his family when he left New Jersey, but not the food he had grown up eating. Latkes were one of his favorites, and he wanted to share the special treat with Emily and Will.

  He watched as Will Etcitty climbed down from his old Chief motorcycle, his scruffy black cowboy hat pulled down to partially hide his scars. Will stood outside, beeping the horn on his Chief—the Navajo way of announcing someone’s arrival. Abe was always glad to see Emily’s brother. He had learned a lot about sheep from him, but he didn’t look forward to the ta
sk that lay ahead. Will had come to help Abe castrate the young male lambs and to dock their tails.

  Emily interrupted her preparations of green chili, tortillas, and eggs. It was going to be a Jewish-New Mexican breakfast in the best tradition. Both she and Abe were hungry after their arduous night of lovemaking.

  “Come in, Will, and stop making so much noise. The coffee is ready, and breakfast is coming right up.”

  Will Etcitty had quit drinking—and gradually gotten down to an optimal weight. After being laid off from his geologist position with a mining company, he had focused his life on the teachings of his aging grandfather. He had mastered the traditional songs and prayers of a Navajo healer, and had learned the proper uses of medicinal herbs and how to read sand paintings. Now he was recognized by his people as a hataalii, a powerful medicine man, and was much in demand for ceremonies.

  Will maneuvered his strapping body into a kitchen chair and, grasping his mug with both hands, took a sip of hot coffee. “Yá’át’ééh abíní,” he said. “Are you ready for some Rocky Mountain oysters, Abe?” he chuckled softly.

  Abe carried a plate of crisp latkes to the table. He saw the grin on Emily’s face as she brought over three plates of fried eggs and a pot of green chili.

  “Okay, I give up. What the hell are you talking about?” Abe said.

  “Sheep nuts,” said Will. “’Course, they’re kind of puny coming from little lambs. But deep fried with a little hot sauce, they’re damn tasty.” He laughed when he saw the expression on Abe’s face.

  “I’ll try just about anything, but I’m not even going to think about lamb nuts.” Abe dug into a crispy latke smothered in green chili. “Gotta say, though, New Mexico green chili tastes pretty darn good on Jewish latkes.” He took another bite, chewed slowly, and looked at Will. “What are you up to next week, buddy?”

  “I’m performing a Kinaaldá ceremony near Mexican Water for the Nez girl. Charley got in touch with me yesterday; I’m going to be there Tuesday and Wednesday.” He stopped chewing when he noticed Emily’s expression. “What’s the matter, sis?”