Abe shook the woman’s proffered hand. “No harm was done. If he hadn’t cut the yearling loose, a coyote or something would have got him for sure.”
The woman smiled again, brightening her features. “We live up the road about half a mile, Danny and I. Sometimes I let him walk down these dirt roads just for the chance to get some exercise and fresh air, though he never goes far. That’s when he saw your sheep. He loves animals. Loves them more than people.”
“I can appreciate that,” Abe said.
Danny jogged back to the truck, with Patch following right on his heels. He reached down and playfully ruffled the little mutt’s coat. “I like your dog. What’s his name?”
“Patch,” Abe said. “See those black markings covering his right eye? That’s why I called him Patch.”
Danny nodded, a questioning look lingering on his face. “But why does he only have three legs?”
“Patch was in an accident, hit by a car. My girlfriend and I rescued him. He’s practically good as new now.”
The young man’s face became serious. “I was in a car accident, too.”
Ellen Jorgenson looked at her son, who sat on the ground playing with Patch. “Danny and his dad were driving home from Sonic one night. I just had to have me a chili dog with some onion rings. On the way home, a drunk driver crossed the center line from the opposite direction, hit their car head-on. My husband died instantly, and Danny ended up with massive injuries and a steel plate in his skull. He was twelve years old when it happened—he still is.”
“I’m sorry. It must be tough for you.”
Ellen sighed and turned her head away, watching her son. “Yes, it’s hard, but it’s been eight years now. I still have my boy. He’s what keeps me going.” She leaned her head out the open window. “Danny, come on now, son. We gotta get goin’.” Before she started the truck, she scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Abe. “Here’s my phone number. If you ever need help with the animals, give me a call. He may not be real smart, but Danny’s a hard worker, he’s honest, and he’ll do as he’s told.” The stress lines on her face appeared to ease. “I thank you for not calling the cops.”
The young man waved, and Abe raised his hand in farewell as the truck rumbled away. He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket, doubting he would ever need it. He examined the cut on the yearling’s leg. He would have to hurry to make it on time for his ten o’clock lesson.
The wound was not deep and showed no sign of infection. Danny had wrapped it with clean strips of muslin. Abe finished feeding the animals and, with Patch’s help, herded them into separate fields, making sure the section they were in was not overgrazed.
Managing a sheep ranch had turned out to be more complicated than Abe had imagined—rotating pastures, checking fence lines, and making sure the animals remained healthy. But then, so had his life in general. He still tried to spend a couple of hours each day practicing the piano on Mattie Simmons’s Steinman grand, and he earned a little extra cash by giving lessons two days a week at a local middle school. In fact, it was Lina, Charley Nez’s daughter, he would be teaching that day. Abe smiled and shook his head. Lina was a chubby girl with a sweet, dimpled face. Timid at first, she now attacked the piano with gusto. What Lina lacked in aptitude, she made up for in enthusiasm.
The night before, Abe had spoken to Charley Nez on the phone and asked if he had heard of anybody trying to sell a yearling. Charley said he hadn’t, but he would keep his eyes open. Then he had told Abe about the girl’s upcoming ceremony.
“We’re having a celebration for Lina—it’s her Kinaaldá. You’re invited. Come early,” he said. “So you can be there when she finishes her race and cuts the corn cake.”
As a matter of fact, Abe was looking forward to the event. It would be his first opportunity to watch Will at work as a ceremonial singer, and he enjoyed the dances and music. But it was a two-hour drive from Bloomfield to Mexican Water, and he would have to get an early start. Charley Nez said they were conducting the ceremony there instead of at their home in Kirtland because of the hogan, plus the fact that it was a sheep camp with plenty of room and an outdoor cooking area. Abe would be pushing it if he was going to make it in time for the sunrise run.
I might need Ellen Jorgenson’s son, after all.
He decided to call her number when he returned from his piano lesson and ask if Danny would be interested in taking care of the sheep for a day.
He can come tomorrow and walk through the chores with me, and then I’ll decide if he can handle it or not.
8
Monday, April 9, 1990
Department of Family Services, Navajo Nation
Shiprock, New Mexico
Emily and Hosteen worked on separate computers in the Office of Personnel Management for the Shiprock Agency of the Navajo Nation. It was a slow, tedious procedure, partly because of the massive turnover in Bureau of Indian Affairs and tribal employees. To make the task more difficult, they learned that some had transferred to a different agency so their records weren’t accessible.
“Looks like we’re going to have to visit all the personnel offices in the Navajo Nation to get a match,” Hosteen said. “This is going to take a long time.”
Emily, stiff from bending over a computer monitor for the past two hours, rubbed the back of her neck. “Or, we could make a few calls to Window Rock and sweet-talk some people into doing the personnel search for us—have them fax us the names of social and health-care workers who were employed during the time frame when the girls went missing.”
“Good thinking. We have a couple of names to start with—Amy Stark, a social worker, and Phillip Harris, home health-care provider. He’s still employed, but there’s no recent info on Stark. I’ll check Harris’s schedule in the Admin office on the way out. If he’s anywhere close, we can drop by for a visit.” Hosteen pocketed his notepad and pulled his tall, solid frame to a standing position. “I’m ready for lunch. How about you?”
Emily realized they had been together all morning without sniping at each other, and it felt good. Maybe he’s not such a prick, she thought.
“I could go for some Chinese, and the Wonderful House in Farmington is on our way to the Checkerboard. But first, I’ve got one more name to add to our list: Wayne Mackey. A social worker. He was recently transferred here from the Northern Agency. Toadlena falls in that region. Maybe he worked there when Mary Jo Claw disappeared.” Emily shut down the computer and stood. “Let’s eat. After lunch, we’ll call Admin in Window Rock and take a drive out to talk to the families you saw yesterday. It’s going to be a long day, Joe.”
One of the difficulties of working for law enforcement on the Navajo Nation stemmed from the fact that its territory encompassed twenty-seven thousand square miles. No matter where you were, it took a long time to get to where you were going. The Checkerboard area, home to two of the families on their list, wasn’t even on the reservation. It comprised a vast section of BIA land east of Farmington, under the joint jurisdictions of the federal government, county, and Diné.
It was after seven by the time they completed their interviews and returned to headquarters. A cold wind blew down from the north, stirring up the dust and sending tumbleweeds skittering across the road, and an icy chill through Emily’s bones. She felt achy from the long day of riding in Hosteen’s vehicle and couldn’t wait to get home. But first she wanted to read the fax sent from Window Rock, the seat of government, and the capital of the Navajo Nation.
“Listen to this,” she said to Hosteen. “Amy Stark quit her job and moved on in 1986, but both Mackey and Harris are still employed by the Navajo Nation. Harris transferred from the Northern Agency two years ago. Now, both he and Mackey work the Eastern and Checkerboard. What was the name that family out by Crownpoint mentioned as their social worker?”
“The only name they knew him by was Mac. We’ll run a check on both these guys first thing tomorrow.”
“We need to catch them at ho
me and question them in person.” Emily yawned. “I want a hot shower, some of my mom’s green-chili stew, and a good night’s sleep. Feel like I’ve been eating dust all day.” Emily walked toward the door, stopped, then turned around to face Hosteen. “We almost got along today—amazing.” She grinned. “I hope it lasts.” Before she left, she added, “About that Chevy van . . .”
Hosteen laughed, displaying perfectly aligned white teeth. “Forget the van, Emily. We’d be looking for a needle in a haystack, and we don’t have time.”
Emily had a nagging hunch the van was significant, and it frustrated her that no one else did. “Well, like I said. Almost.”
Emily still lived with her mother. She liked the convenience and her mother’s companionship. She’d had a rebellious streak as a teenager that ended with the tragic death of her young son. The feeling of remorse would forever haunt her. Her mom was her rock.
Emily came out of the bathroom in her robe, a towel wrapped around her wet hair. “Mom, where’s my blanket dress? The one I wore for my Kinaaldá ceremony?”
“It’s in the cedar chest. Why do you want your dress now?”
“I’m going to wear it Wednesday, to run with Lisa Nez. And my moccasins. Do you think you could fix my hair before leaving for work—the way you did it back then?”
Bertha Etcitty was a no-nonsense woman. She put her hands on her hips and peered over her reading glasses at her only daughter. “Why? Are you starting puberty again—having a second childhood?”
“Mom, this is important. It’s part of the investigation I told you about. I want to make sure nothing happens to the girl.”
“Well, why don’t you just run in your jogging pants and tennies instead of a dress and moccasins?”
“Because I want to look like a young girl celebrating her Kinaaldá. I need to draw this guy in if we’re going to catch him. Don’t worry—I’ll have my Glock and a radio with me at all times, and there’ll be plenty of people around. I won’t let anything happen, but I don’t want to scare the perp away either. Joe Hosteen will be close by as backup.”
Bertha wrinkled her nose at the mention of Hosteen’s name. She had heard enough stories from Emily to have formed the opinion he was an arrogant asshole who rejected his Navajo blood. “Have you discussed this plan to lure the perp in with anyone else, or are you thinking in your stubborn mind that you can do this all by yourself?”
“I discussed it with Abe. He and Will are going to be there, too, Mom. Don’t look at me like that.”
Bertha’s face brightened a little when she heard her son’s and Abe’s names mentioned. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. It sounds like you’re going off on your own again, Emily. I’ll bet the captain doesn’t know anything about this.” She shook her head. “Okay, I’ll help you get ready. Now eat your stew before it gets cold.”
After eating, Emily placed a call to Charley Nez’s home. Charley’s wife, Millie, answered the phone.
“Millie, this is Emily Etcitty with the Tribal Police. How are you?”
“I’m good, Emily. Excited and busy—fixing the food and getting ready for my daughter’s ceremony. Charley butchered a sheep. Is there a problem?”
“No problem, but you heard about the missing Benally girl, right? Just to stay on the safe side, I’d like to be there at your daughter’s ceremony.”
“Of course you’re invited, Emily. Your brother is going to sing, and perform the blessing.”
“I know. Millie, I don’t want to just be there, though. I want to wear my Kinaaldá dress and run alongside Lina.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. After a moment Millie spoke up, concern in her voice. “You don’t think . . . ?”
“No, no,” said Emily. “It’s simply a precaution.”
9
Tuesday, April 10, 1990
Mattie Simmons’s Churro Sheep Ranch
Bloomfield, New Mexico
At eight a.m. Emily and Hosteen met with Captain Todechine to discuss their progress on the case.
“We came up with names of two people who might have come in contact with the victims and had been in the vicinity at the time of their disappearances. We’re going to try to question them today,” Emily said.
“Who’re we talking about?” asked Todechine.
Hosteen handed a copy of the report they had generated the night before to the captain. “Two males—Phillip Harris and Wayne Mackey—a home health-care worker and a social worker. They’d both be in a position to know when and where a Kinaaldá was about to be celebrated.”
“And since their work involves home visits, they’d be familiar with the territory,” Emily said.
Todechine arched his eyebrows. “Check them out and let me know. One more thing.” He picked up a note from his desk. “This came in from the evidence technicians. The tracks where the Benally girl disappeared—they came from Toyo Tires, seventeen-inch P235/75R15s.”
“Meaning what?” said Hosteen.
“Meaning they could have belonged to a 1990 Chevy G20 van. Get on it,” said Todechine.
“I knew that van was the key!” Emily said, unable to contain a self-satisfied smirk.
Hosteen winced.
Emily stopped to talk to the desk sergeant, Arviso, and asked him if he could spare anyone to run a trace on a 1990 Chevy van with Colorado plates.
Arviso looked up and frowned. “Probably thousands of them out there. It’s going to take some time, and I’ve got all officers out on the road.”
“We’re under pressure from the captain, Sarge,” Emily said. “We need to know if the registration matches either a Phillip Harris or a Wayne Mackey. It concerns the investigation of the missing girl.”
Arviso gave her a long-suffering look. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, I owe you one. If you find out anything, give me a call. Hosteen and I’ll be in my vehicle checking the addresses on those two.” She caught up with Hosteen and said, “Joe, I’m driving today.”
The truth was, Emily disliked being the passenger. Passenger meant “passive” in her mind, and she wanted to be in control of the situation that day—they were closing in on something big. She could sense it.
Hosteen didn’t say anything, but he slid into his seat looking sulky, like a man unaccustomed to riding shotgun with a woman.
The addresses they had for the two men turned out to be duds—vacant, dilapidated buildings. They tracked down the owners and learned they had never even heard of either man, and said that no one had lived in either house for years. Their mail was delivered to a post office box in Farmington.
Next, they stopped at the personnel office and asked where the two were scheduled to work that day. They discovered both had put in for an emergency leave of absence, Mackey claiming his mother was ill.
“Damn,” said Emily. “Both have address duds and put in for leave at the same time? That’s too coincidental, don’t you think?”
Hosteen raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. We’ll talk to their coworkers, maybe get some insights about these two. Like where they hang out, who their friends are—anything that might help.”
“Right. Dzil ná oodili is the nearest health center. Someone there should be able to fill in a few blanks.”
Interviews with coworkers there and at Human Resources failed to turn up anything other than a vague description of two Anglo men—both in their early or late forties with no distinguishing marks. Mackey was described as having a ruddy complexion, being a little overweight, and having light-brown hair. Harris was wiry, shorter, and darker-skinned. Coworkers remarked he spoke with a Texas accent, but both men kept mostly to themselves. They all said the same thing—the pair often carpooled to work and shared a government vehicle when making home visits, but rarely interacted with other staff members.
The day was nearly shot, and, so far, they had failed to produce any useful leads.
“We might as well call it quits,” said Hosteen. “We’re not getting anywhere, and I’m damn tired. Are you still planni
ng to run in that race tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course. I told Charley Nez I’d be there, but it’s going to be an all-day affair.” She slumped in her seat, tired and cranky, not wanting to talk. The crackle of the radio broke the strained silence.
“Ten-four, dispatcher. What’ve you got?”
“Got one match on your suspects. A 1988 Chevy Vanagon, registered in Montezuma County, Colorado, to Wayne Mackey. License-plate number: Uniform—Papa—Yankee—Five—Four—Niner. Home address listed at 1159 Chapman Road, Cortez, Colorado. I’ve got his mug right here in front of me. Do you read?”
“Ten-four. Put out an APB right away, and notify the Cortez Police Department of a possible hostage situation at that address.”
“Ten-four, Etcitty.”
After the call, Emily turned to Hosteen, her skin prickling. “Did you get that down, Joe? He has to be one of our kidnappers. Now we need to make sure the girl is all right and nail his sorry ass.”
10
Wednesday, April 11, 1990
Mattie Simmons’s Churro Sheep Ranch
Bloomfield, New Mexico
Mexican Water lay a half hour’s drive from Teec Nos Pos, on the Arizona side of the Navajo Reservation. Abe had set the alarm for four thirty a.m. to make it to the Kinaaldá in time for Emily’s sunrise run with Lina Nez. It was pitch-dark when the shrill buzz pulled him from a restless sleep. He sat up abruptly, sweat beading his forehead, the remnant of a disturbing dream tainting his thoughts. In the dream Emily was calling for help, her arms stretching out to him as she began to sink into sand, but Abe could not move. His limbs felt as heavy as a load of bricks, and he could not lift them to reach her, no matter how hard he tried.
Abe shook his head. He went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and hurriedly dressed. He went out the door, reluctantly leaving Patch behind, and left a house key under the mat for the Jorgensons. The day before he had shown Danny where he kept tools and animal feed, and had told him how much grain to give the sheep in the morning. Patch would help the young man separate the animals into their proper grazing areas, and as an added assurance, he had written everything down on a notepad for Ellen.
Abducted Innocence (Emily Etcitty) Page 5