by Sandi Ault
I didn’t say anything.
“Now go home.”
I looked up at the ceiling and drew in a breath. “What am I supposed to do? Can’t you at least transfer me back to Range? I could do my old job.”
“Why don’t you go see that doctor?” He looked down at his desk, ripped the card right out of the Rolodex, and offered it to me.
I didn’t take it. Mountain moved in beside me, eager to go. “I’m not going to take this lying down.”
Roy lowered his hand to the desk, the card still in it. “Listen, this is a delicate situation. We need to be as careful as mice or it could go real bad. We’ve got to get someone in here who can mediate.”
I snorted, then swung the door open and made to leave.
He called to me. “Jamaica?”
I turned and looked at him.
“Are you going to tell me what happened to your face?”
“No,” I said. And I went out the door.
11
The Nachi
When I came out of the BLM office, a package waited on the front seat of my Jeep. The slim brown parcel was a flattened cylinder perhaps sixteen inches long. It was neither taped nor tied, but the paper, cut from a grocery bag, had been folded carefully and tucked at each end. I unfolded these tips and began to unroll the wrapper. Whoever had made the bundle had turned the printed side of the bag inward so that only brown kraft paper showed on the outside. I thought of Kerry—perhaps a rose? Or a print of one of his photographs? Maybe he’d had a reason to leave the ranger station in Tres Piedras and come to the Forest Service offices next door to the BLM. I felt a twinge of eagerness. Maybe this day is taking a turn for the better.
But once I had removed the wrapping I couldn’t be sure of that. The object within was a peeled willow branch, perhaps an inch in diameter, which had been painted blue on one side and yellow on the other. The thicker end of the branch had a series of carved grooves and notches. The other end of the stick had a crown of feathers tied to it with a wrap of white leather thong. The feathers—seven of them—were the stiff wing feathers of the nighthawk, slim and pointed, dark gray with a wide bar of white about midway up the length. As I lifted the wand from its packet, I saw grains of blue and yellow cornmeal in the paper beneath it.
I looked around the parking lot. Two BLM vehicles, Roy’s truck, Rosa’s old Dodge Charger. And next door at the Forest Service, just a few of their trucks and a station wagon. Nothing extraordinary.
I looked at the feathered object again, turning it over, examining it from all sides. A thin strip of thong slipped from among the feathers and dangled from the stick. On the end of the leather thong was a tiny bear fetish. Momma Anna! She’s from the Bear Clan! This must be from her. I looked around again to see who might have brought the cryptic gift. No one in sight.
I loaded Mountain into the back of the Jeep. As I was standing beside the driver’s seat, tucking the mysterious feathered wand back into its wrapping, a car pulled into the space next to me. Noah Sherman, reporter for the Taos Times, got out of his vehicle and came around the back of mine. I leaned into my Jeep to toss the package on the passenger seat. The parcel was lighter than I estimated, and sailed across the seat and onto the floor.
“Ms. Wild? Can I talk to you a minute?” Sherman asked, pulling a steno pad from the bag dangling off his shoulder, juggling a camera to one side as it hung by its strap from his neck.
“What about?” I frowned, leaning farther into my Jeep to retrieve the misplaced item. Mountain stuck his head out the opening where the door had been and eyed the stranger.
Sherman took out a pen, balanced his steno pad on his thigh as he thumbed to a fresh page, and then asked, “I understand you witnessed the death of Jerome Santana?”
“My boss already gave a statement on Saturday,” I said.
“Yes, but he wasn’t there when Santana died, was he?”
“I don’t have anything to add to what he said.” I rubbed Mountain’s head to calm him. And me.
“The BLM statement said it was an apparent suicide.”
“That’s what the statement said, all right,” I said, pulling my keys out of my pocket, indicating I was ready to leave.
“A tribal spokesman has told the press that Jerome Santana was involved in prayer rituals near the bison confine when he was killed by a sudden stampede.”
I kept my eyes toward my Jeep. “They said near the bison confine? Is that how they put it?”
“In so many words,” Sherman said. “There was some indication that they believe the stampede might have started when you drove up.”
“Did they say why Santana was performing the rituals at the bison pasture?”
The reporter laughed. “Hey, correct me if I’m wrong, but in an interview, it’s the reporter who’s supposed to ask the questions. Is there going to be an investigation at the BLM?”
I turned then to look at Sherman. “Why would you ask about an investigation?”
He winced at the marks on my face. “How did that happen?” was all he could manage.
“Wild animals,” I said. I hopped into my Jeep, started it up, and began backing carefully alongside Sherman, who appeared shell-shocked and unable to move.
“They got your Jeep, too, huh?” he said, fumbling again with his camera as I pulled past him, then turned and headed out of the BLM parking lot.
12
Diane
I called Diane Langstrom from a pay phone near the plaza, asked her if she had a few minutes. “I’m glad you called,” she said. “I have to do something to get out of my stinking little cubicle. I’m going stir crazy looking at all this paperwork. I’m on the way to the gym; meet me there in fifteen.”
I took the back way through town and parked my Jeep in the shade. I improvised and hooked Mountain up with his leash to the hitch on the back, where he could lie under the rear of the vehicle.
“Sorry, buddy, you’ll have to stay back here,” I told him as I poured water from an insulated bottle into the collapsible dish I kept in the back.
He wagged his tail and nosed at the dish, slopping a little of the liquid onto my shirt. I laughed.
“Here ya go, baby wolf,” I said, and as he lapped, I nuzzled my nose in the thick cape of fur just below his neck.
He tossed his head and dropped to his front elbows, a position I’d learned meant, Let’s play!
I took a wide stance, spread my arms, like a goalie at the soccer game. But before I could brace myself, the wolf lunged into me, knocking me down. He collapsed on top of me and began licking furiously at the red welts on my face, which sent pain shooting through my skin.
“No, no, sorry, buddy,” I said, shoving him off me, getting up to avoid more tongue contact. “I guess I’m no match for you today.”
My four-legged companion looked worried.
“No, it’s all right, it’s okay,” I said, reassuring him with some long strokes. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Here’s a little yummy for you.” I reached into his pack in the back of my Jeep and gave him a rawhide bone to worry on.
When I came in the locker room Diane was sitting on the long bench, removing her shoes. She rose to her feet, looking at me. “What happened to you?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
She moved in closer, tipped her head, and winced at the sight. “Crap. That’s got to hurt.”
“Not too bad,” I said.
“You gotta tell me.”
This was getting old. I thought for a moment, then decided to make up a story, spare myself some trouble. “My wolf,” I said. “We were just playing, he didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“No way.” She continued to gape.
“I’m afraid so.”
“I hope he’s had all his shots.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s current. I’ll be fine, too.”
“I hope so. Looks like it might scar. But you know what? It kinda looks good, in an odd sort of way.”
I tried to smile, but it hur
t. “You know, I thought that, too. It kind of looks like war paint, something like that.”
She went back to her gym bag and continued changing. “So what’s up that couldn’t wait?”
“The tribal council is accusing me of causing the stampede, being responsible for Santana’s death. The fact that I was out there off duty when it happened, not on business, it makes it bad for me. I’m suspended.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Stopping to look at me again.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
She closed her eyes. “Aw hell. What are you going to do?”
I sat down on the bench. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you…I don’t know.”
We were both quiet a minute. Then Diane stepped into her spandex shorts, tugged them up to her waist. “Come work out with me. We’ll brainstorm.”
I thought a minute. “Okay, let me get some clothes out of the Jeep.” I went out to my car and found Mountain still diligently gnawing away on the big rawhide bone I’d given him. Although he wagged his tail when he saw me, he soon went back to his treat as if I didn’t exist. I delved into the cargo area among my gear in the back: a CamelBak that I faithfully drained and refilled after every use, hiking boots, running shoes, Mountain’s pack of food, treats, and supplies, a fully outfitted pack of my own, all manner of clothes, blankets, even survival food. When you lived and worked in the kind of terrain I did, you learned to be prepared. I found a T-shirt, some shorts, and my running shoes and took them back inside.
Diane was working out on the heavy bag when I came in, big padded gloves on her hands, a film of perspiration on her bare abdomen and upper body. The bag was swaying pretty good, showing the power in her punch. I got behind it, held it for her. Right away, I had to work hard to hold it still.
“Roy actually suspended you?” she panted, still punching. Right. Right. Right. Left. Right, left. She was forcing the bag back with every jab, hitting hard.
I tried to anticipate her strikes, keep from letting the bag swing. I was starting to sweat. “He said it was for my own good.”
“But that’s bullshit about you causing the stampede. He didn’t go for that, right? He’s just doing what he has to?” She started working uppercuts: right, left, right, left. Heavy now in the left. Her feet dancing.
I had to dance around, too, to keep the bag between us. I was starting to heat up, working pretty good to hold against her forceful blows. “He said he was going to get some legal advice, that he had to open an investigation. Meanwhile, I’m hung out to dry. I’m trying to figure out what to do. But one thing this tells me: I was right about Santana’s death being suspicious. They wouldn’t be pointing their fingers at me if they weren’t afraid I knew something. Otherwise, they’d be busy mourning, comforting the family, getting it behind them, whatever. They think I know something. Trouble is, I don’t know whatever it is they think I know.” I was sweating pretty good now.
Langstrom stopped punching the bag, stood stock-still. I peeked around the side of it just in time to see her foot suddenly fly like a speeding projectile up from the floor and straight toward me at eye level, striking the bag next to my face with such force that it sent me reeling backward, sprawling onto my behind on the floor.
Diane came to stand above me, pulled off a glove, and offered me her hand. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”
I took the hand up and dusted off my shorts. “Man, that kick was like a bullet coming at me. That’s some serious power you got in that leg.”
She pulled off her other glove, threw them both to the side. “I told you. You should try hapkido. It’s good stuff. I know how to break a man’s hand five different ways.”
I smirked. “I’m a resource protection agent. I don’t have to break hands for a living.”
She smiled. “You never know. C’mere.” She raised her palm and waved for me to move closer.
I stepped forward. Her left hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me off balance as she caught me by the throat, gripping me with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. She held me there by the neck, pulling hard down and forward on my wrist, keeping me off center and ready to tip. She was looking right into my eyes. “I could have killed you right then,” she said.
I tried to straighten, but she held my wrist painfully tight, still pressing with the other palm against my throat. “Okay, Diane,” I said, “you can let go now. I’m impressed.”
“Where’s the weak point?” she asked, still holding me hostage.
I thought a second. Then I twisted my forearm away and down and broke her hold. As soon as I freed my wrist, I brought my other arm up and struck her forearm from underneath, driving her palm away from my neck.
She smiled. “Right. Good.”
“It was a lucky guess.”
“No, it was instinct. You’ve got good instincts. You’d be good at this. We ought to spar.”
“I think we just did.”
“Yeah, a little bit.” She walked to the corner of the room, where she picked up a towel and wiped at her neck, her chest. “That’s what you do when you’re faced with a threat, Jamaica. Look for the weak point. There’s always a weak point.” She threw me the towel.
I mopped my chest and neck, too.
She walked back to me and stood inches from my face, looked into my eyes, daring me. “I’ll help you on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You gotta spar with me. I’ve been looking for a worthy opponent, and you look to be the one.”
“Look, I gotta get my job back. Maybe after that.”
“Shit. You’ve got time now. You can spare a couple hours a week. You want me to help or not?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Let’s get started.”
13
Good Hunting
Diane let me drive her personal vehicle—a Suburban—while she drove the FBI’s Crown Vic to the tribal offices. She had called ahead to say that she needed to meet with tribal officials to “clarify some things.” Her job was to run interference so that I could find the child who had come to tell me about the buffalo wandering out on the mountain.
“C’mon, buddy.” I gestured to the wolf to climb in the back of Diane’s car as I loaded in his pack. He balked. Strange things, unusual surfaces, anything out of the ordinary often frightened him and made him skittish and unpredictable. Mountain lowered his ears and wagged his tail, clearly a little afraid.
“No, c’mon, big guy. It’s all right. I’m going to drive it, see? It’s just for an hour or so. I’ll get in front and you’ll be in back, just like my Jeep.”
He lay down on the ground, pleading with me not to force him into this big metal box he didn’t recognize.
I bent down and comforted him, scratching behind his ears. “You trust me, baby wolf?”
He wagged his tail.
“It will be all right, I promise.” I took hold of his collar, but Mountain started backing up, straining against me. He weighed more than a hundred pounds and had a lot of strength in that chest of his. It was getting to be a real tug-of-war.
I stopped pulling and looked around. How could I get the wolf to cooperate? I didn’t see anything to use as a bribe. Then it occurred to me to get in the back of the Burb myself. I climbed in, patted the floor in back. Mountain balked a little but sniffed at the open door. I spoke calmly to him, reassuring him, holding my open palm out to invite him in. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s nice in here, see? Come on in and be with me.” I patted the floor in back.
He put one paw up on the floor of the car, as if to feel it with his pads. His tail continued to wag. His ears were up; some of the fear was gone.
I unzipped one side of his pack and started rummaging among his toys, pretending to be looking for one to play with. “Oh, look! Here’s a rope toy! And you can’t have it.” I put the toy in my mouth and began shaking my head, making a growling noise.
That did it. Mountain leaped into the Suburban and aimed right for my face. I
pulled the rope out of my mouth just in time, threw it toward the back of the car, and exited the side door just as the wolf lunged into the far back to retrieve the object. I closed the door.
Mountain looked at me with hurt and surprise. I’d tricked him!
“Sorry, buddy,” I said, and walked around to the driver’s side. I climbed in. “I had to do it.”
Before I took the back entrance into the pueblo, I wrapped my head and upper torso in the blanket Grandma Bird had given me. I drove slowly down the dirt lane toward Momma Anna’s house, figuring the child had to live somewhere nearby, since he had come there on foot. I examined children at play in fields, standing on bare dirt lots, and riding bareback on horses in corrals, looking among them for the face that matched my memory. I got to Momma Anna’s, which was at the end of the road. I looked around in frustration, then spied a seldom-used course through some brush leading off to a diagonal after the graded area played out. I pulled to the edge of the road, raised my binoculars, and looked farther down the track. One house stood far back in a field, a place so run-down it might not have been inhabited. I decided to check it out.
Weeds had grown up in the yard, and on one side of the house there was an old Camaro on cement blocks with high clumps of white rice-grass waving around its concrete footings. Plywood covered the only window on the facade of the house, but there were dogs napping in a patch of bare dirt in front, their tails occasionally whipping about to ward off flies. I pulled up beside the dry-docked Chevy and cut the engine on the Suburban. I examined the yard and the face of the old adobe. Other than the dogs, who showed no more interest in me than to raise their heads slightly and then drop them to the dirt again, there was no sign of life. I lowered the driver’s window to listen for sounds, and a gust of hot wind blew. A flag of colored fabric flew up at the rear corner of the house, giving away the unseen clothesline behind it, obviously hung with wash.