A large coil of razor wire, attached to steel poles at ten-foot intervals, topped the wall. The poles supporting the wire bent outward. Emily made a loop in the rope, lassoed a pole, and pulled herself to the top.
She looked around, breathing heavily, relieved no one had seen her, knowing more challenges were ahead. The sharp-edged razor wire, coiled and treacherous as a poisonous viper, curled directly above her head. Emily held tightly onto the rope while she cut strands of wire with her free hand. The thick line resisted, but she kept at it until a coil sprang loose, snapping back and slicing her cheek, nearly causing her to lose her grip.
“Son of a bitch,” she hissed, wiping her bloody face with a shirtsleeve. This was another time when Emily wished there were swear words in Navajo. They would be so much more meaningful than the English that didn’t do justice to the way she felt.
She dropped the wire cutters in a back pocket and, grasping the top edge of the wall, pulled herself up, surveying the surroundings while she caught her breath.
Get the rope, she reminded herself as she scooted toward the pole where it dangled. She wouldn’t need it to get down from the wall, but she figured it might come in handy later. She hung the rope over her shoulder and studied the grounds. Her high vantage point provided a view of the spreading ranch outside the prison compound’s walls. Numerous structures, some of them appearing to be private dwellings, were laid out in gridlike fashion around a towering temple that shimmered, white as a moonlit ghost, in the surrounding spotlights. The other buildings were dark, shut down for the night. Street lamps and spotlights lit the road, and she saw a small structure she thought must be a guard post.
While she studied the road leading away from the compound, a vehicle approached, driving slowly, its spotlight probing the sides as if looking for anyone trying to enter or escape—as if looking for her. She ducked and flattened her body against the wall, realizing she would not be able to follow the road without being detected by whoever was in the guard post or on patrol. She had previously considered slipping into the back of a van and hiding until someone drove it out of the gate, but Betty had informed her it would be impossible. All the vehicles were locked and the keys returned to the Prophet’s right-hand man at the end of each day. Whenever someone needed a car or truck, the keys had to be signed out by the driver.
Now, as she observed the road, she rethought her plan.
Stay away from buildings and roads.
She decided to remain in the shadows, move away from the compound, and take her chances in the open country. She swung her legs up and over the side of the wall, holding tightly to the edge, then twisted her body around and lowered herself to the ground.
The spotlight of the patrol vehicle swept the fence, and Emily crouched, waiting for it to pass. Once it turned, she headed away from the houses and dashed, almost crawling, toward a clump of trees. She ran through the orchard, using the trees as shields to check if anyone was following her. When she reached the other side, she was far enough away from the lights of the compound to let the full moon guide her. A deep ravine with flowing water ran along the back side of the orchard, and an irrigation system channeled water into the orchard. Acequias, the Spanish called them, though Emily doubted this place shared water with any of its neighbors.
Beyond the channel of water, Emily could make out the dark outline of a mountain range dominated by a singular sharp peak, and all at once she knew where she was. “Dibe Nitsaa,” she whispered in wonder. One of the six sacred mountains of the Diné, named Mount Hesperus by the Spanish, Dibe Nitsaa was located in the Plata Mountains north of Mancos, Colorado. She was on land that had once been part of Dinétah, the traditional homeland of the Navajo people.
This ravine in front of me must be Navajo Wash, she told herself. If I follow its southerly course, I’ll meet up with the highway and be heading home.
Tears of relief streamed down her cheeks as she silently thanked her ancestors for leading her to this point.
The journey was easy at first. She washed her blood-streaked face with cold water from the canal and made good progress through flat pastureland, always keeping the channel of water in sight. Emily checked the moon’s position again. She figured she had been walking for close to three hours when the terrain gradually began to change. Outcroppings of rocks, cacti, and sage dotted the land. As the moon dropped lower, so did the terrain. The wash tumbled into the ravine, sometimes disappearing from view. When the moon descended to a point just above a range of mountains, she reached the edge of a deep canyon and a five-foot-high, tightly strung barbed-wire fence. She might be able to cut the fence, but she knew she would still have to climb down into the ravine, cross it, and make her way to the top to get off the compound and look for a road.
Go for it, she told herself as she extracted the heavy-duty wire cutters from her pocket, thanking Betty once again.
Clutching whatever handhold she could reach—roots, rocks, juniper branches—Emily sidestepped, slowly descending the slick slope of the ravine. She could hear water below, churning over rocks at the bottom. Dark shadows obscured her vision.
As she reached for what she thought was a root, it moved, and she heard an unmistakable rattle. She jerked her hand back before the snake could strike and tried to back away, but lost her footing in the process and began a rapid slide down the rocky slope. Emily fought to maintain her balance on the uneven surface, but snagged her foot on a root and fell, tumbling over brush and sharp rocks. She didn’t stop until she landed on a boulder at the bottom, near the water’s edge. Her arms and face were scratched, bruised, and bleeding, her leg bent at a grotesque angle. Emily tried to move, and searing pain, worse than anything she had endured since giving birth to her son, shot through her knee and up her spine. “Shiká anilyeedá! Someone please help me!” she cried until numbness, along with a certain detachment, crept into her body.
21
Friday, April 13, 1990
Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office
Cortez, Colorado
Abe leaned against his truck in the gray predawn, checking for Will’s headlight every few minutes, his dog watching every move. He hadn’t slept well, and his knee still ached, but not as much. He had called Will earlier. They would ride in Abe’s truck to meet up with Hosteen at the sheriff’s office in Cortez. “Bring the guns,” Abe had said, referring to the shotgun and antique pistol that belonged to Grandfather Etcitty. “They may not deputize us if we don’t have our own weapons.” Tense, edgy, his stomach churning and mouth dry, he had turned down Ellen’s offer of breakfast, opting for only a cup of coffee, but now he wished he had eaten something. He had poured the remains of the pot into a thermos to drink later, as his stomach was too unsettled for a second cup.
“It’s Friday the thirteenth, Patch,” he said, stooping to ruffle the dog’s fur. “A hell of a day for a showdown.” A single beam appeared on the road, and Abe opened the truck’s door in anticipation of Will’s arrival. When Patch tried to jump in, he stopped him. “Not today, buddy. No place for a dog.” God, how I wish things were peaceful and normal, the way they were before Emily disappeared.
Will parked the Chief in front of Abe’s house and opened the passenger door of the pickup, placing the shotgun and an old revolver on the floor behind the seat, and sighing heavily. “Life was a hell of a lot easier to deal with when I stayed drunk.” He slumped in the seat beside Abe. “Let’s get those sons o’ bitches and bring our girls home.”
Abe pumped the gas pedal until the engine caught. “You look like shit,” he said, glancing at Will’s stony face, bloodshot eyes, and grim-set mouth.
“Humph,” Will snorted, slumped in his seat. “You’re not too cute yourself, asshole. Don’t count on wowing any women today.”
“Yeah. Well, there’s only one woman I want to impress, and I don’t think she’s going to care what we look like when we find her.”
Will remained silent during the remainder of the trip, and the small talk ceased, each man s
eemingly lost in private thoughts while the scenery, straight out of a Western movie, flew by. The sun peeked over a mesa top, casting a brilliant palette of orange and pink across the eastern sky. Bruised, purple cumulonimbus clouds were beginning to form along the northern horizon, carrying with them the threat of afternoon thunderstorms. The morning air felt cool but bore a slight odor of rotten eggs, attributed to the chemical methyl mercaptan that was added to odorless natural gas as a way of detecting leaks. An ugly yellow-gray cloud hovered low in the west—emissions from the massive Navajo Generating Station. They turned north, away from the twisting San Juan River that flowed through Farmington, and onto Highway 666. The land stretched into a high desert prairie sprinkled with the spring colors of new grass, yellow blanket flowers, pink prairie primrose, and gray-green sage. Abe glanced at Will, thinking he might have fallen asleep, but he saw the Navajo’s eyes were open and staring straight ahead.
“Yesterday’s plane ride . . . Will, I know you don’t like to fly. You did good, buddy.”
“Humph,” Will mumbled as they drove past Sleeping Ute Mountain and onto the last stretch before Cortez and their meeting with Hosteen. Will was obviously in no mood for conversation.
Pickup trucks—some newer models, others weathered and worn—were lined up in front of the building shared jointly by the judicial department and the sheriff’s office. Hosteen had recruited six additional Navajo men to join the posse—two off-duty officers from tribal police, and four civilian volunteers. They hunkered in separate groups near the entrance of the Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office, the Navajo turning their heads as one to watch when Abe parked, and he and Will emerged from the truck. It was early, not yet eight o’clock, and Hosteen stood off to the side with the two Navajo lawmen and the sheriff, waiting for the arrival of Judge Mobley and his signature on the search warrant. Hosteen looked up and nodded when Abe and Will approached.
Charley Nez, Lina’s father, stood among the volunteers. He shot a steely-eyed look at Will before spinning around, showing his disdain for the new arrivals.
“Yá’át’ééh abini,” Will said, greeting the group with the traditional Navajo “Good morning.” All the men returned the greeting and acknowledged Abe and Will’s presence in a polite manner—except for Charley Nez. Will walked up to him so they were face-to-face.
Nez clinched his fist as if ready to fight. “You brought this trouble on my child, yee naaldlooshii. You are a skinwalker, posing as a hataalii.”
Will raised his hand, and Lina’s father took a step backward but remained in his hostile stance. “Charley, I am not your enemy. We are together in this bad business—brothers, one people—searching for your daughter, Lina; Henry Benally’s daughter, Darcy; and my sister, Emily, who also has a mother in grief. You all know my shimá, Bertha Etcitty. She taught some of your children, brought you supplies when you needed them. You know my grandfather, a respected elder, a singer who came whenever anyone sought his help. You trusted them. Now, trust me. Any bad feelings you have against me, we will resolve at a later date. We need to remain united in this effort to find our loved ones, no matter how much anger you feel toward me.”
Charley Nez did not respond, but dropped his clenched fists and hung his head, staring at the ground.
Abe had watched in silence, relieved that Charley Nez had not acted on his anger. Now was neither the time nor place for a confrontation. A few minutes later a dark sedan pulled into a reserved parking place in front of the sheriff’s office, and a portly white-haired man stepped out. He smiled at the group standing near the entrance and signaled to the sheriff and Hosteen to follow him inside. Forty-five minutes later, the two men emerged. The sheriff, standing on the top step of the building, held a sheaf of papers in one hand and addressed the crowd.
“Gather ’round men, and listen up. My name is Tom Turnbull, and I’m the sheriff of Montezuma County. I want to thank you all for coming here and volunteering.” Despite his small stature and slow East Texas accent, Sheriff Turnbull came across as someone you wouldn’t want to cross. There was not an inch of flab on his trim, muscular body; his eyes were sharp, and his voice was booming. “Judge Mobley has signed a warrant enabling us to search the entire premises of the Harmony Home Ranch and to confiscate any and all evidence listed in this affidavit. It is within my power as the sheriff of Montezuma County to deputize you so you can assist me in fulfilling this investigation. After you repeat the oath of office, I will swear you in as onetime deputies and read you the terms of this affidavit. If there is anyone who thinks he can’t follow these terms, you best turn around and head on back to the reservation now. Understood?”
The volunteers nodded in agreement, and Sheriff Turnbull read the oath.
“Repeat after me, filling in your name. I . . . do solemnly swear . . . that I will support the Constitution of the United States . . . the Constitution of the State of Colorado . . . the Home Rule Charter for Montezuma County, Colorado . . . the Ordinances of Montezuma County, Colorado . . . and that I will faithfully perform the duties of the Office of County Sheriff . . . of the County of Montezuma, of the State of Colorado, in which I enter.”
After the men had repeated the oath, the sheriff swore them in and read the scope and limitations of the warrant aloud. “Since we do not want to alert anyone we’re coming, we will be utilizing a no-knock warrant,” Sheriff Turnbull said.
“What does that mean?” Abe asked Hosteen.
“Means we can break down the gate if necessary and enter unannounced.”
“One more thing,” the sheriff said. “It is crucial we find the Nez girl and provide medical attention as quickly as possible. There will be a medevac helicopter, and EMTs with her required insulin dose, at the site. Now, men, if you brought a weapon, you are authorized to carry it, but it is only to be used in a life-threatening situation or if I give the order. Understood?”
All appeared to be in agreement, so the sheriff had one of his deputies pass out rubber gloves and plastic evidence bags to all the men. “Use these if you see anything questionable, and don’t leave prints on anything.”
They formed a caravan and drove to the gate of Harmony Home Ranch, the sheriff in the lead, followed by one of his deputies in a heavy-duty truck. Hosteen and the two Navajo cops followed behind him, with Will and Abe and four more vehicles tailing. There were eleven stone-faced, determined men in all.
When they stopped, parked in a line along the side of the highway, Abe swallowed hard, trying to ease the dryness in his mouth. They’d soon learn what lay behind that barricade.
Will we find Emily?
His stomach clenched in a knot as the deputy took a battering ram out of his truck and slammed the steel-barred gate until the lock busted.
Emily’s eyes fluttered open to bright sunlight, and once again her body was racked with paralyzing pain. Looking at her leg, she knew it was broken and could not support her weight. The sky, though mostly clear, was ringed with dark, puffy clouds. Rain would follow, and the water in the wash would rise rapidly. She tried to move away from the edge of the wash, each inch causing her to cry out in anguish. Cold sweat drenched her forehead, but she had to move. By using her arms to support her weight and sliding on her backside, Emily slowly dragged her body to higher ground. The broken leg dangled uselessly, impeding her progress and sending sharp jolts of pain all the way to her spine. To distract herself, she hummed a song she had learned as a child from her grandmother. “The Happy Song,” Grandmother had called it, and said it was to take your mind off your problems.
“Hi yo hi yo ip si na ya. Hi yo hi yo ip si no ya. Hi yo hi yo,” she chanted through clenched teeth.
The snap of a branch made her stop. Something—or someone—was in the brush and moving toward her. Bear, mountain lion, a search party? Not knowing if it was friend or enemy, Emily reached for the screwdriver in her pocket and pulled her body behind a thick juniper bush. She froze, adrenaline rushing, her senses alert, waiting and watching.
The dim outline
of a tall, bulky figure emerged from a path through the thicket.
Bear, Emily thought. A skinwalker did this—brought me here to die, and now he has taken the form of a bear.
But as the figure drew closer, Emily saw it was a human form wearing a floppy hat and leading a donkey. The person stood tall and straight, a thick, solid body clad in a long buckskin skirt and shirt, braids protruding from under the hat. The woman pulled a forked wooden tool from a knapsack on the donkey and began to probe the earth, carefully extracting a plant, complete with roots, and put it in a bag.
Emily watched, holding her breath as the woman neared. The donkey brayed, and the woman stood still, looking around with apprehension. When she spotted Emily, she shouted and backed away.
Ute. She must be Ute, Emily thought.
The Ute Indian Tribe and the Navajo had been long-standing, traditional enemies. Historically, the Ute raided the camps of the Navajo, stealing horses and sheep; the Navajo would retaliate by riding into the Ute camps and kidnapping their women. They were neighbors now, and all the grudges and bad feelings of the past had been forgotten, or at least forgiven, Emily hoped.
“Help me!” Emily cried out in a cracked voice.
The Ute woman jumped back, grunting loudly, and pulled a hunting knife from a leather sheath at her side. She brandished the knife, waving it in a threatening manner and shouting indecipherable words in what Emily thought must be the Southern Paiute language.
“I think my leg is broken,” Emily said, indicating her injured leg. She tried to lift her head, felt dizzy. Her skin was clammy, drenched with sweat, and she recognized the symptoms of shock. She fell back, breathing through her mouth. “I need help. Please, I don’t understand what you’re saying. English. Do you speak English?”
The Ute woman, still wielding the knife, cautiously approached Emily and probed her body with the toe of her moccasin. When she touched the broken leg, Emily gasped and recoiled, feeling as if she had been jabbed with a red-hot poker. The woman bent down, the knife in her hand, and Emily swung her arms in an unsuccessful attempt to fend her off.
Abducted Innocence (Emily Etcitty) Page 14