Hosteen sipped his water, waiting a few minutes in the silence left by Bertha’s departure before continuing. “About the rancher with an airplane? I wonder if he took pictures.”
Abe shared his recent conversation with the rancher, Hank Lovato. “No photos. Said he didn’t have his camera with him, but if he ever went back, he would be sure to bring it.”
“What kind of plane has he got?” Will asked. “Any chance he’d take us up?”
The waitress returned, pencil and pad ready to take orders, but no one had looked at the menu, so Hosteen told her they weren’t ready. Even though they hadn’t eaten all day, the men were more interested in what Abe had to say than in food. They ordered coffee all around, and the waitress bustled off.
“He has an older-model Cessna 172 Skyhawk. Seats four. We’d have to give him something for gas and his time, but yeah, I think he might,” said Abe.
“Give him a call as soon as we leave. See if you can set something up,” Hosteen said. “Think I’ll go visit the sheriff. Maybe I can talk him into forming a posse comitatus after we get a search warrant.”
Will set his cup down and looked inquiringly at Hosteen. “What’s this posse comitatus business all about”?
“To quote the law-enforcement manual, ‘It’s the common law authority of a county sheriff to conscript and arm any able-bodied man to assist him in keeping the peace or in pursuing or arresting a felon.’ Sometimes a sheriff will deputize civilians when he’s shorthanded.”
Abe drummed his fingers on the table and exchanged a look with Will. “Do you think he’d deputize us? Two guys off the street? Seems kinda crazy.”
“He’s got the authority to deputize anyone he wants, so yeah, if he felt there was a need,” said Hosteen. “He can even deputize me. I’d just as soon you two went home and waited it out. But I’m kind of shorthanded myself, and we need to get as much information on the cult as we can to make sure the judge won’t hesitate to sign a warrant.”
Abe and Will nodded in agreement.
“Okay,” said Hosteen. “Let’s order something—it’s going to be a long day.”
Hank Lovato agreed to meet them at the Cortez Municipal Airport at two o’clock sharp. They took Hosteen’s police SUV, Will riding in front and Abe in the back, a steel cage separating him from the two Navajo men. Abe was reminded once again of when he had first met Emily. He had been on his way to Chaco Canyon, running from his past and the haunting memory of his girlfriend’s death. A drifter he had met the previous night had been found murdered, and Abe’s knife was discovered near the body. Emily had taken him into custody. After being released from a night in jail, he had been ordered to remain in the area as a material witness until his name was cleared. He ended up staying with Will and his grandfather at their isolated sheep camp.
That’s how it all began. Now Emily, Bertha, Will, and Grandfather Etcitty are my family, he thought. Abe shook his head, clearing his mind of the reverie—they were nearing their destination.
“Lovato said the airport’s easy to find—right off Highway 666, on our left coming from Cortez. We’re supposed to look for a ’62 Skyhawk, white with a blue stripe on the side, red on the tail. He said he’ll be waiting.”
Lovato’s directions took them three miles south of Cortez and down County Road G to an assortment of low-slung, industrial-looking buildings and hangars, and a small terminal with a single runway. On the tarmac in front of the terminal, a man wearing a cowboy hat and boots was disconnecting the tail tie-down of a small single-prop plane.
“Must be him,” Abe said, approaching the man. “Hank Lovato?”
A weathered brown face turned in their direction, and burnt-umber eyes assessed the three men. Lovato, stocky but muscular, straightened and extended a calloused hand. “You Abe Freeman?” he said, shaking Abe’s hand. “Introduce me to your friends.”
Abe had been brief in explaining to Lovato why the three wanted to see the cult compound, saying only that he had reason to believe criminal activity was being conducted inside those walls. Lovato didn’t pursue the topic further.
Lovato asked, “Ever been up in a single-engine prop? Well, never mind. It’s a kick—you’re gonna love it. Go on; get in. Find a seat and buckle up. I’m about done here.”
Abe slid into the seat next to the cockpit while Will and Hosteen settled in the back two. When Lovato finished inspecting the outside of the plane, he strapped himself into the cockpit and began a preflight check of the control panel instruments. Apparently satisfied with the readings, he turned on the master switch and opened the throttle.
“I got a chance to listen to the radio during my lunch break, and I heard the story about the missing Navajo girls and police officer. Just put two and two together, so this flight is on me. If those bastards out there had anything to do with it, I’ll help any way I can to nail their asses.” Lovato checked to make sure there was no one behind the plane and turned on the ignition switch, holding it until the engine caught.
The Skyhawk bounced down the runway and slowly began its ascent. A cloudless blue sky promised good visibility, but contrary winds buffeted and rocked the small plane. Abe glanced back at Will, noting the pained expression on the man’s face and his tight grip on the armrests.
He’s terrified of flying, Abe thought. But he’s doing this for Emily.
“Hang on,” said Lovato as a violent gust pitched them up and down. “Coming up on the right.”
Abe peered out the window at a barren landscape scarred with arroyos, washes, hogbacks, and outcroppings. Mesas sprung up out of the buff-colored desert, now showing pale patches of spring green. Random buildings denoting isolated ranches were scattered over the harsh terrain. Miniature cattle dotted the land. Looking north, the rugged La Plata and the San Juan Mountains loomed menacingly. A thin ribbon of blue snaked through the brown earth, parallel to the black strip of highway.
“Navajo Wash,” said Hosteen, who had been quietly studying the land. “It’s running fully now, but come summer it’ll be bone-dry, except during the monsoon rains.”
How well Abe remembered those summer rains and the flash flood that had trapped Emily in a raging torrent of mud and water.
Has it already been two years? I managed to save her then. Can I do it now?
Ten minutes later the sight of what he thought must be an apparition caught Abe’s eye—the sun glanced off a gleaming white cathedral spire surrounded by a carpet of green grass, houses, outbuildings, shops, and cultivated plots of land.
“Jesus Christ,” said Abe. “It is a goddamned city.”
The aerial view of the cult’s property presented an astonishing and formidable fortress. The enclosed buildings were backed up to a steep mesa and surrounded by a high wall with guard posts at each corner. A shimmering white temple capped with spires and encircled by manicured lawns and flower beds loomed, tall and imposing, at the center of the ranch. The area where the women were working lay behind yet another wall. A cement sidewalk led directly from the front of a dormitory-like structure inside the wall to the entrance of the temple. Abe counted at least twenty large houses, several hangar-size storage sheds, barns, and silos, plus a fleet of heavy equipment. It appeared the ranch had its own water tower and sewage-treatment plant, plus an array of solar panels. In fact, they had everything they needed to live off the grid and be self-sufficient—cattle, goats, chickens, orchards, cultivated fields.
“Can you get closer?” asked Hosteen, who was readying the camera he had brought along.
The Cessna dropped and swooped low, revealing more details. They were close enough to make out the shapes of people—women in long pastel dresses bent over the earth, wielding shovels and hoes. Their faces turned up at the sound of the plane but quickly reverted back to their task when a tall woman in blue walked by. Abe could not distinguish their features, dressed as they were, and with hats covering their hair.
“Emily could be one of those women,” said Will.
Abe’s heartbeat incre
ased with each click of the camera shutter. As the plane zoomed closer, his eyes settled on a structure—a dormitory-like building enclosed behind a high wall. “You’re right—Emily and the girls. We’ve got to figure out a way to get in there,” said Abe. “And get them out.”
Later that afternoon, after gathering all the information they could find regarding the Harmony Home Ranch and its occupants, Abe, Will, Hosteen, and Sheriff Turnbull met with Phil Brewster at the Cortez Journal office. Together, the five men worked on the proper preparation of the affidavit that needed to accompany the search-warrant request.
“The facts need to be spelled out explicitly and provide sufficient probable cause to issue a proper warrant,” Hosteen told them. “We have to write this in a way that will give us permission to search the entire premises and to question everyone who lives within the confines of the ranch without being in violation of privacy rights.”
After three hours’ work, Hosteen and Sheriff Turnbull seemed satisfied with the document. Tina Brewster typed it up, providing the sheriff with two copies and Hosteen with one. It had been a long day that was running into night, but they finally had something to show for it.
20
Thursday, April 12, 1990
Women’s Compound
Harmony Home Ranch
When the women completed their day of yard work, they trudged, dusty and back-weary, to the dormitory. The matron, waiting at the open door, instructed them to remove their shoes before entering, shower, change into clean clothing, and report to the chapel in half an hour. After completing a day’s labor, they were required to study Scripture and thank God for the incredible privilege of serving him and the Prophet.
“Your clean clothing is laid out on your beds. As most of you know, you are not allowed to keep personal possessions of any kind in your room, but I have assigned each of you the correct size. Leave the soiled items and towel by the door for Betty to gather.”
Every word coming from the woman’s mouth was an affront to Emily’s ears, another slap in the face, but she pretended to meekly comply while her mind focused on a means of escape. Earlier in the day, she had observed a small plane flying directly overhead and wondered about it. There was no way she could signal the pilot, and it left quickly. She’d wanted to scream with frustration.
While the others gathered in the chapel, Betty and another woman had the task of going from room to room with a laundry cart. Betty had promised to hide the tools and her son’s clothes in the cart and slide them under Emily’s bed when the other woman wasn’t looking. Emily had wanted a crowbar, but Betty said she would not be able to take an item so large from the toolshed without arousing suspicion.
“You’ll have to make do with a screwdriver,” she had said in a breathless whisper. “I have the wire cutters and rope. They’re under my dress.”
Emily knew that Betty was taking an enormous risk in agreeing to help her, but she also believed that the woman’s desire to leave this place and find her husband was stronger than her fear. Now, as the matron’s voice droned on and on, Emily’s heart pounded while she played out her plan in her head.
Stay calm, she reminded herself. One step at a time.
Abe would have stayed in a motel in Cortez overnight, but he needed some gear and a change of clothes. In his haste to start looking for Emily, he had forgotten everything. When he tried to call Ellen to let her know he was coming home, no one answered.
She’s not at home because she’s at my place with Danny.
He tried a few more times, then drove the eighty-four miles from Cortez to Bloomfield. Anxiety, anger, and fatigue gnawed at his mind and body. The judge would not see them until tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, and the sheriff wouldn’t make a move to deputize anyone until Hosteen had a search warrant in hand. He and Will had argued with the Navajo cop, lobbying to break into the compound on their own. Hosteen said he’d have them arrested if they tried—that they’d screw up the investigation. In the end, they grudgingly relented.
Of course, Hosteen was right, but when Abe approached the ornate gate to Harmony Home Ranch, he pulled off to the side of the road. Staring at the gate, clenching and unclenching his fists, he felt as if his blood would boil and his head would explode. He got out of the truck and walked to the gate. Grabbing hold of the bars, he shook them as hard as he could and yelled at the top of his lungs. “Emily! Damn you people to hell, you filthy sons of bitches. If you lay a hand on her or those young girls, I’ll hunt you down and kill you!” Sitting back down in the driver’s seat, spent and exhausted, his body trembled so much he could barely drive.
When he turned off the ignition in his dark driveway at ten thirty, he knew sleep would not come easily. He saw the Jorgensons’ truck parked near the front of his house, the lights off, Danny and Ellen evidently tucked in for the night. Abe walked to the barn and heard Patch scratching to get out. When he pushed the door open, moonlight fell across the sleeping form of Danny Jorgenson, illuminating his guileless boy-man face, completely relaxed in untroubled slumber.
Patch danced at his feet, tail wagging, whimpering softly. Abe reached down and stroked the dog’s coat. “Okay, boy. I missed you, too. Quiet now. We’ll take a walk.”
There was no need for a flashlight under the radiance of the full moon. Abe found the path leading to the river and followed it until he reached the large cottonwood gracing its bank. A fallen log lay at the edge of the river. He sat, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, soothed for a time by the smell and sound of water coursing over rocks. Abe was not cut out for confrontation and violence—he had once been a quiet, introspective man, a peace-loving musician. His life had changed dramatically since coming to New Mexico. Tomorrow morning he would be carrying a gun, and be expected to use it if necessary—a thought he still could not quite come to terms with. “Why is there so damn much evil in this world, Patch? How could anyone take children—or a girl who needs medication—from a happy family celebration and lock them away for his own filthy pleasure?”
Patch looked up at him while he continued addressing the dog as if he expected an answer.
“I want Emily back. I don’t want her hurt, and I don’t want her involved with scum like this anymore. I’m tired of this shit.”
Patch barked and Abe shook his head, sniggering mirthlessly at his foolishness. “Okay, okay. We’ll walk.” They wound their way along the riverbank and circled back to the house. When he returned, he saw a glow in the window, and Ellen Jorgenson, her bare feet tucked under her, sitting in the rocking chair. She looked up expectantly when he opened the door, but he shook his head, anticipating her question.
“I’ll get my things and leave now,” she said. Walking to the couch, she began gathering the blanket and pillow where she had evidently been dozing.
“Thanks for staying, Ellen. Sorry I’m so late. I’m leaving for Cortez again first thing in the morning. Do you mind if Danny stays another day?”
“Of course I don’t mind. Danny will be thrilled, and I’ll stay with him tomorrow and as long as need be. I wish I could do more.”
Abe tried to suppress a yawn. “You’ve done more than you can imagine, Ellen.”
“You look beat. I’ll go now. You need your rest.”
Abe nodded. “Thanks. You don’t know how much I appreciate your help. I’ll square it with you and Danny when this is over, promise.”
She smiled and walked to the door. “No need. Good night, Abe.”
Emily walked back and forth across the small room, too wired to sit still and wait for the opportune time to escape. Betty, as promised, had left a towel-wrapped parcel under the bed containing men’s pants, a shirt, and a cap. There was more—a pair of wire cutters, a screwdriver, a long rope, and a file. After the lights-out hour, Emily stood on a chair in the bathroom and worked methodically and quietly to remove the window and frame. Once she took the frame out, the thin metal bars were easy to dislodge.
The women went to bed early, but she had no way of telling
the exact time, so she watched the moon. When it reached its highest point, she would leave. She had already changed into the young man’s clothes, several sizes too big, and felt grateful that Betty had thought to include a belt. As she paced the room in her clumsy boots, she pondered her escape.
Should I follow the road and take a chance I won’t run into anyone, or should I bushwhack it and follow my instincts?
Having no idea about the lay of the land, she decided to try following the road. The full moon would provide enough light, but would also make her more visible to others. In the dark men’s clothing, her hair tucked under the ball cap, she hoped no one would notice her.
Emily noted the moon’s position. It was time to move. With the rope and tools stuffed into the pockets and waistband of her pants, she climbed onto the chair once again, grasped the edges of the window opening, pulled herself up, and wriggled through. Looking down, she saw that a drop of about twelve feet awaited her. Luckily, thick grass covered the ground.
Tuck and roll, she reminded herself as she pushed her body out and away from the window.
She hit the ground, knees bent, with a thud. She went into a roll. Crouching low, her legs throbbing from the jolt, she hurried to the shelter of a shrub and waited for any sign someone might have heard her. From her hidden vantage point, she scanned the wall, looking for the darkest, most advantageous location to attempt her climb. The bright moon, both her friend and nemesis at this point, provided a clear view. When after several minutes no lights appeared in the windows, and no one emerged from the dormitory, she made a run toward the nearest shed and pasted her body against its wall. Advancing in short spurts, she arrived at a section of wall near some trees, and partially hidden in shadows. Emily assumed this would be the most dangerous part of her escape. She would be in open view of anyone looking her way, and she did not know what lay on the other side. She uncoiled the rope, checked her pocket for the wire cutters, and took a deep breath.
No turning back now.
After sprinting to the wall, she crouched again.
Abducted Innocence (Emily Etcitty) Page 13