Abducted Innocence (Emily Etcitty)

by Sandra Bolton

  15

  Wednesday, April 11, 1990

  Women’s Compound

  Unknown Location

  Before they escorted her to a small room at the end of the hallway, the women stripped Emily of her silver-and-turquoise bracelets, her handcrafted silver conch belt, and the conch bells and beads attached to her dress. They took her mother’s turquoise necklace, her beaded moccasins, and her silver hairpins. Her long, black hair fell from its carefully combed Navajo bun into loose strands, draping her face and shoulders like a veil. She felt violated and enraged, robbed of her identity. As she shuffled her bare feet along the wooden surface of the floorboards, she told herself to stay calm.

  Wait for your chance. She repeated this mantra over and over. Don’t fight them until the time is right—until they remove these chains and you can figure this out.

  She remained passive while they led her into a cold room with one small, barred window situated too high to allow her to peek out at her surroundings. The room was furnished with a straight-backed wooden chair, a small table, and a cot-size bed. On top of the tightly made-up bed lay a long, plain, white-cotton nightgown and scratchy-looking underwear reminiscent of earlier times. The walls were painted white and were bare—except for a single poster listing a set of rules.

  One of the women, a faded midfifties brunette with muddy brown eyes, clad in a ridiculous pink dress made from the identical pattern as the others’, took a set of keys from her pocket and unlocked Emily’s handcuffs and shackles. After removing the chains, she indicated a door in the back of the room. “Go now, shower and cleanse your body. Take your bedclothes, and place your heathen dress outside on the floor. We will wait fifteen minutes. If you’re not out by then, we will come in and assist you. Remember, we are the only ones who can lock and unlock doors.”

  Emily quickly looked around the small bathroom. She saw the essentials—toilet, sink, shower, a bar of soap, towel, toothbrush, and toothpaste. A second small window was installed above the toilet.

  Yiiyah, Emily thought. It’s a crazy religious cult kidnapping girls. What am I going to do? I’ve got to keep my cool for now.

  She bit her lip, showered, put on the ridiculous underwear, and pulled the Puritan nightgown over her head. When she emerged from the bathroom, the woman who seemed to be in charge was waiting.

  “From now on you will be dressed correctly and adequately covered at all times,” the woman said, indicating the chair where a long pink dress—made in the identical style as the others—and a pair of thick leggings lay. High-topped boots sat on the floor by the bed. “Modesty is a virtue, and the body is a sacred vessel that must be kept pure and ready for the Prophet. When you hear the bell in the morning you will get up, wash, comb your hair, and get dressed so our spiritual leader will not be offended by your unholy immodesty. Someone will come for you to make sure you have combed your hair correctly. Do not be late.” She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Emily heard the lock click. She stared with loathing at the outfit laid out for her. She tossed the clothes off the bed and pushed the chair under the window, trying to look out. Acres of cultivated land, a part of a water tower, sheds, the tops of buildings, and a tall white spire came into view but did not give her any clue as to her whereabouts. Even though the area was well lit, a tall wall completely encircled her prison. Emily climbed down and replaced the chair, then kicked it in a fit of frustration and anger. She scoured the room for anything she might be able to use as a tool or weapon, but there was nothing except the list of rules staring back at her.

  SINGLE FEMALE RULES FOR DAILY LIVING

  Wake-Up Call is 5:00 a.m.

  Only Plain Soap and Water Are Allowed for Bathing and Cleaning

  You Will Wear No Adornments in Your Hair or on Your Body

  Keep Your Room Immaculate

  Remain Silent Unless Spoken To

  Worship Service Led by the Matrons Is from 6:00 a.m.–7:00 a.m. Daily

  Breakfast in the Dining Hall is 7–7:30

  Chores Will Be Assigned by the Matrons after Breakfast

  Lunch Is at Noon, Dinner at 6:00 p.m., and Evening Worship at 7:00 p.m.

  Bedtime Is 9:00 p.m.

  REMEMBER: CLEANLINESS, MODESTY, AND PUNCTUALITY ARE VIRTUES THAT PLEASE OUR LORD AND PROPHET.

  I hate these crazy people, she thought as she paced the room. What was that movie? Stepford Wives. Cloned women who can’t think on their own. Or the book I read a while back—The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. This place is madness. But so far they haven’t hurt me—or Lina either, I hope. Her thoughts went back to the first missing girl, Darcy Benally. Maybe Darcy is here as well, and I’ll be able to see both girls in the morning. Poor Lina must be traumatized. If anyone lays a hand on her, I swear I will kill them.

  After Bertha Etcitty had driven away, Abe stood outside and gazed listlessly at the stars. He had no idea what they were going to do tomorrow, or where to begin their search. Abe missed his dog and wished Patch was with him to offer some small comfort. He sighed and rubbed his head. Ever since the concussion he’d gotten two years ago when he’d run blindly through the desert seeking help for Will, he’d been plagued by recurrent headaches. The kick McCaffey had landed on the side of his head didn’t help either.

  McCaffey—yeah, that was the name I heard the men say when they pulled him away.

  Abe hurried into the main house and began searching for a phone book, not caring if he disturbed more than one sleeper at that hour with his calls.

  There were three McCaffeys listed in the Farmington area. An irate older woman answered the first number he dialed. She said there was no man in the house and slammed the receiver down before he could get another word in. With the second call, he hit pay dirt. The phone was picked up on the fourth ring by a male voice he knew he had heard before.

  “McCaffey?” Abe said.

  “Yeah. Do you know what time it is? Who the hell are you?”

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning, and I’m the guy you tried to kick the shit out of last night.”

  “What the fuck—”

  “I know your name, I know where you work, and I know where you live. I’ve got friends on the Navajo Police Force. All I have to do is press charges, and you are probably out of a job, in jail, and possibly facing a charge of attempted murder.” Abe waited through the silence on the other end of the line.

  “What do you want from me?” McCaffey hissed. “Why’d you call?”

  “I want the same thing I did when I stopped to ask you a question, asshole. I want to know if you saw a white van on the pipeline road—and if you did, what direction it headed.” Abe waited for the reply.

  A long pause followed. “And if I tell you what I saw, you won’t press charges? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Yeah, well, shit. A white Chevy utility van came down the pipeline road. Made me mad. They’re not supposed to be out there, and someone’s been vandalizing the gas line.”

  Abe’s heart thumped. “Which way did it turn? North or south?”

  “North—toward 666. Okay, I gave you what you wanted. Now are you going to back off?”

  “Maybe,” Abe said, and hung up. In the morning, he would call Hosteen to see if the cop had any new information.

  He returned to his house, collapsed on the couch, and had almost drifted off when he heard whining outside the door. As soon as the door cracked open, Patch let out a sharp bark and wagged his tail.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you,” Abe said, scooping up the dog in his arms. “Have you been taking good care of Danny and the sheep?” Abe scratched his dog and ruffled his fur. Back on the couch, he fell asleep almost immediately, his arm draped across Patch, who was curled up on his chest, sleeping as well.

  16

  Thursday, April 12, 1990

  Mattie Simmons’s Sheep Ranch

  Bloomfield, New Mexico

  Once again Abe’s eyes popped open
to a sound at the door. This time, it was a little after seven in the morning, and the persistent knock was accompanied by an agitated male voice.

  “Abe. Abe. Wake up. I can’t find Patch. Is he in there?”

  Danny Ferguson must have panicked when he awoke and discovered the dog missing.

  Patch jumped off the couch and began barking. Only half-awake and still groggy, Abe stumbled to his feet, felt the pain in his knee, and limped to the door. “It’s okay, Danny. He’s right here with me.”

  “I was scared he ran away or got stole,” Danny said.

  Abe smelled chili and realized he had left the Crock-Pot on warm all night. “Patch wouldn’t run away. You hungry?”

  Danny, his hair sticking up, brushed at the straw stuck to his shirt and pants, and sniffed at the same smell. “Nah. I’ve got to get the chores done, and Mom said she would bring me some hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls this morning.”

  “Sounds good. Go ahead. Take Patch with you. You can feed him when you’re done. I’m going to have to take off early again this morning, or I’d help you. I’d like to talk to your mom when she gets here, too.”

  “Okay, Abe.” Danny whistled, and Patch bounded off with him toward the barn.

  Abe yawned, filled the coffeepot with water, put two large scoops of Folgers into the basket, and limped over to the main house to call Hosteen while he waited for Bertha and Will.

  “Joe Hosteen,” said the voice on the other end.

  “Hosteen, it’s Abe Freeman. You told me to check back with you. Have you got anything new?”

  “Freeman, I’m surprised you’re up and about. Just got my coffee and getting ready for a briefing with the boss before we hit the road.” There was a brief pause while Abe assumed Hosteen was taking a drink. “Here’s what we’ve got so far. Names and mug shots of two former Bureau of Indian Affairs employees we’re pretty sure are involved. So there’s an APB out on those two and the white Chevy utility van. Had a search team working on it all night. The girl is diabetic—she needs her daily dose of insulin. She could go into shock, possibly die, if she doesn’t get it.”

  The thought of Lina dying for lack of her medication felt like a knife twisting in Abe’s gut. He swallowed hard. “How much time does she have?”

  “No one knows for sure. It could be within a day, or she could hold out longer, depending on whether her body is manufacturing any insulin at all.”

  “We’ve got to find them as soon as possible. What about that van you traced to Cortez? Did you find the owner?”

  “It was a white utility van registered in Montezuma County, Colorado, to a Wayne Mackey—a social worker employed by the tribe. We think he’s got a partner, Phillip Harris, who’s a medical technician. They did some fieldwork on the rez and the Checkerboard, and both disappeared before the girls came up missing. We’re not a hundred percent certain, but they’re our main suspects.”

  “Harris and Mackey. White guys. Any idea where they might be headed?” Abe asked.

  “Nothing definite, but we questioned Mackey’s mother. She said he left a couple years ago to join a religious cult, and she hasn’t seen him since.”

  “Do either of them have an arrest record?”

  “Some misdemeanors, nothing too serious or heavy. It doesn’t look like personnel did much of a background check when they were hired by the rez, though.”

  “Where does the mother live? Is somebody keeping tabs on her?”

  “Yeah, Freeman. She lives in Cortez, and we’ve got it covered. I know you’re worried, but lots of good cops are out there looking for Emily and the girls. Just remember what I said, and stay out of the way.”

  “Okay,” Abe said.

  Right, he thought.

  “Keep me posted, Hosteen.”

  “I’ll try. By the way, it’s Joe. Hey, you want to press charges against McCaffey?”

  “Not right now,” Abe said. “I’d rather you put all your energy into finding Emily and the girls. I called McCaffey early this morning. Told the asshole either he said which way the van headed or I’d press charges. Took about thirty seconds before he fessed up. The van turned north, toward Colorado. That’s where I’m headed now.” He hung up before he could hear Hosteen’s protest. When he got off the phone, he saw Bertha’s Honda, followed by Will on his Chief, pulling into his driveway. Ellen Ferguson’s truck was parked beside the barn.

  Will looked like hell. The burn scars on his face were more prominent than ever. Right now he was the palest Indian Abe had ever seen, but he met Abe’s eyes and gave him a thumbs-up, indicating, Abe hoped, he was back on track again. Ellen came out of the barn with a plate containing fresh cinnamon rolls and joined the group. She glanced at Abe’s black eye and scrapes but didn’t comment.

  After introductions, Abe invited everyone inside. Maybe the others could use some coffee and one of Ellen’s cinnamon rolls. He was too wound up to eat, even though he hadn’t had anything in more than twelve hours. Last night, lacking any appetite, he had gone to bed, leaving the chili still warming in the Crock-Pot. While Ellen and Bertha picked at their rolls, Abe shared what he had learned from Hosteen about Mackey and Harris.

  Will listened quietly, sipping his coffee but turning down the offer of food. Apparently, everyone was too anxious to eat. When Abe mentioned the direction the van had headed, Will spoke up. “We’ll go down every side road going north on 666 until we find something. If we run into any local ranchers, we ask if they’ve seen a white van pull into any of the ranch roads or any unusual activity. We can each take a section and meet at a designated spot at noon.”

  “We’re going to run into some locked gates and ‘No Trespassing’ signs,” said Bertha.

  “After we cross the border into Colorado, we’re on the Mountain Ute Reservation and will be until about twelve miles south of Cortez,” Will said. “They won’t be on the reservation anywhere. Neither Navajo nor Utes would let them stay.”

  “Maybe we can get a map of that stretch of highway,” Abe said. “Who would have one—county assessor? Might save us some time, and we can find out who owns the land.”

  “Good idea,” said Bertha. “Abe, you see if you can get hold of a map. It’s Montezuma County. Will and I are going to start looking around and asking questions. We’ll meet in Cortez at noon. There’s a Mexican Restaurant called La Casita on Main Street.” She turned toward Will with a stern, matronly look. “Will, you’re going to be needing something in your stomach.”

  “I’m okay, Ma. Look,” he said, addressing everyone at the table. “I stumbled last night, a moment of weakness. I’m not proud of it. But I got back up. It’s not going to happen again.”

  “Well, I know son, but you still need to eat.”

  To appease his mother, Will grabbed a cinnamon roll.

  Abe looked at Ellen. “Do you think Danny can handle the work if I have to stay away a few days? I’m not coming back until we find Emily and the two girls, and I’d like it if you both stayed at my place while I’m gone.”

  “Of course, Abe. It’ll make it easier all the way around, and I can keep an eye on things for you. Just do what you gotta do. Find those lower-than-a-rattlesnake’s-belly bastards who took the girls. And don’t worry none about your little dog. He’s in good hands.” Ellen turned toward Bertha and took her hand in both of her own. “I’m so sorry this happened. But I just know you’re going to get your daughter back.”

  “We better get started,” Abe said. He pulled a couple of twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet and gave them to Ellen. “In case you need anything.”

  “Did those men beat you up?” Ellen asked, making eye contact with Abe and lightly touching his bruised face.

  “No—that’s a different story,” Abe said, brushing her off. “If you’re all right with everything, we’re leaving now.”

  There was one thing he had to do first. He had never left Patch for any length of time, except for his stint in the hospital and the night he spent in jail when Emily arrested him as a possib
le murder suspect.

  When the little dog bounded up to Abe at the sound of his whistle, Abe picked him up and scratched his floppy ears. “You be a good boy and help Danny out,” he said, petting Patch’s head. “You can’t go this time. I’ve got some work to do, but I’ll be back soon. Promise.”

  Emily thrashed around on the narrow bed and punched the pillow. She hadn’t felt this helpless since she was forced, at the age of five, to leave her family and attend the government-run boarding school. When the official van had pulled up, she had hidden behind her grandmother’s long skirt, clinging to her leg. They had to drag her away kicking and screaming.

  She finally fell into a brief and restless sleep, marked by a dream that coyote had changed into a skinwalker and took the form of a hideous woman wearing a long pink dress.

  A clanging bell from outside her door brought her to a sudden, disoriented wakefulness.

  “Get up, wash up, and get dressed. You have fifteen minutes,” the shrill female voice blared. Emily rolled out of bed and onto her feet. Her clothing lay strewn across the floor where she had thrown it the night before. The chair leaned on its side against the wall. The predawn, casting barred shadows into the room, did nothing to lift her spirits.

  What next? Emily said to herself. I wonder what these freaks have in store for me and the girls today.

  After replacing the chair, she went into the bathroom to wash. Fifteen minutes later she was clothed in knee-length, white-cotton pantaloons and a shift, long wool stockings, and a pale pink dress that came to the tops of her boots. A quartet of middle-aged women who frowned in disapproval fussed over her long, black hair.

  “Sit down,” the tallest of the four said. “Your hair will never do.” One woman pulled a hairbrush from a deep pocket and roughly pulled it through Emily’s hair, forming two tight braids that she pinned to the top of Emily’s head. Emily couldn’t see what they had done but assumed it had to be a style similar to theirs.