Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  Jim stared at him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “You know, that’s white man’s stuff. We don’t believe in buying and selling the land. We only live on Mother Earth for a short time. If we take care of Mother Earth, she takes care of us. If we don’t, we die.”

  Dawson jotted down the comment. “So, you’re opposed to this uranium mine?”

  “They shouldn’t be sticking tubes into the land. It disturbs Mother Earth.” Jim fell silent.

  Dawson folded his notebook and slipped it into his back pocket. “I’d like to get a picture of you two, if you don’t mind.”

  They looked at each other, then at Dawson. He had them each put a foot on a steel pipe and look at the camera.

  “It wasn’t right what they did to us Navajo, moving us off the land like that,” Jim said as they walked back.

  “Why did you move?”

  “People got to live somewhere.”

  Dawson nodded. It was one of those painfully obvious statements to which he could only grunt in agreement. He offered to take Perkins back to Gallup, but Perkins declined, saying he wanted to stay a while. Hosteen Jim would take him, maybe grab a bite to eat in Gallup. Dawson shrugged and waved goodbye.

  ***

  Inside his hogan, Hosteen Jim poured coffee into a chipped enameled metal cup for Perkins, then emptied what remained of the pot into a ceramic cup with a broken handle for himself. He settled onto a simple wooden bench and Perkins sat in a molded plastic lawn chair. They sipped coffee in silence.

  After a few moments, Jim asked, “What do you think that white boy really wanted?”

  “A story, I guess. I’m glad to help,” Perkins said. “It’s about time someone looked into this whole deal.”

  Jim looked at Perkins and shook his head in disgust. “You’re crazy. It’s been twenty-five years. You can’t turn back the clock.”

  “What’s right is right. What’s wrong is wrong.”

  “You white people like to say ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ Why don’t you pay attention to your own advice?”

  Perkins sat with his elbows on the armrests, his shoulders hunched. He had nothing to say, so he sipped his coffee. Jim’s dogs started to bark. They turned to the noise. “Speaking of dogs…”

  The dogs barked wildly, as if an invasion were headed their way. Then two gunshots resounded like firecrackers, and the barking ceased.

  “Who the hell is that?” Perkins said.

  Jim’s face dropped. He groaned as he rose quickly, putting his coffee cup on the kitchen table. He stepped to the door, reached for his 30-30 lever action Marlin rifle, and lifted it to check for bullets.

  He opened the door and squinted into the late afternoon light. A burst of three shots slammed into Jim’s chest, knocking him backwards, sending him stumbling as he fell with his arms outstretched. The rifle clattered to the floor.

  Perkins dropped his coffee cup on the floor and crouched, glancing around the hogan in panic for a place to hide. Nothing. He scrambled for the rifle, picked it up, and pointed it to the door. The last thing he saw was three men silhouetted at the doorway, their weapons firing at him.

  Chapter 29

  Gallup, New Mexico

  The towering neon cowboy hovered over the parking lot of the El Rancho Motel as Dawson carried his bag to the lobby. Inside, he perused the varnished pine decor while the clerk found him a room named after a 1950s Western movie star whose name he’d never heard. The man was pictured on his room door with a smiling face, a white cowboy hat, and a neatly tied neckerchief.

  Dawson tossed his travel bag on the bed and headed for the motel’s noisy, well-lit restaurant. Aromas of Mexican cooking saturated the air and stirred his hunger. A thin woman with jet-black hair tied behind her head brought him a frosted mug of beer. Dawson sipped as he waited for his Navajo taco, then placed his laptop on the table. He flipped it open, connected to the motel Wi-Fi, and signed in to his e-mail. His mind wandered as he read.

  What was Sam doing out in the Gallup area in the first place? Land in that corner of the country was not the kind of thing that would attract a speculator, even Sam. Unless it had uranium on it. But the uranium claim, such as it was, had surfaced after the ranch had been sold. Had Sam approached the rancher Anderson about selling? Or, was it a setup, as Perkins contended?

  Unless Sam had been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, Dawson thought, he’d been a front man. It was the only logical explanation. Pulling the whole thing off would have required advance planning, advance knowledge, and help. Madsen was perfectly positioned to make it all happen. But Madsen couldn’t be overtly connected to the land swap. Which explained the blind trust.

  Yes, Sam had landed in a field of clover.

  With the mining operation at a standstill, probably forever, there was no way to prove or disprove the claims that the value of the ranch land had been inflated. There was no one to complain. The Hopi were happy, the Navajo got some land, the Canadians would get uranium, maybe, and Sam Dawson had twenty thousand acres of developable land along the border. But how had it all gone wrong for Sam? Who had killed him and why?

  His food arrived, steaming and glistening. Dawson dug into the red chili and beans piled on the fry bread and cut into the puffy dough.

  When the waitress took his plate away, he felt stuffed, but ordered a flan pudding and a coffee. As he was finishing his flan, a Gallup police officer strode into the restaurant, surveyed the clientele, then went to the counter where he talked to the waitress who had served Dawson. The cop handed her something. She nodded and pointed at Dawson. His stomach sank as the policeman sauntered to his table. “Are you Kyle Dawson?”

  Dawson looked at the man. “Yes.”

  “You need to come with me.”

  “Why?”

  The cop squinted. “Are we going to have a problem here?”

  Dawson sighed and shook his head. “Let’s go.”

  He paid his bill, followed the officer to his cruiser, and was directed into the back seat. He watched the officer through the wire mesh divider as they drove to the Gallup City Police Station in silence, stopping in a parking lot bathed in blue-green light from the humming street lamps. The officer led Dawson by the elbow through a sterile lobby to an interrogation room.

  A thick coat of tan paint covered the concrete block walls. Dawson was directed to sit in a metal folding chair at small table. A moment later, a plain-clothed officer entered, along with a rotund Navajo policeman in a crisp brown and tan uniform. The Navajo’s name tag read Chee. The plain-clothed cop, a beefy man with light brown hair, a ruddy complexion and gray eyes, introduced himself as Detective Allen.

  Dawson nodded. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”

  “We’ll get to that.” Allen looked at Chee, then back at Dawson. “This here is John Chee of the Navajo Tribal Police.”

  Dawson nodded again.

  “Were you with a man named Frank Perkins today?”

  Dawson swallowed. “Yes.”

  “How about this man?” Chee handed him a worn and creased photo of Hosteen Jim.

  Dawson nodded. “Yes. Hosteen Jim, I believe was his name.”

  Chee looked at Allen and nodded.

  “Why? What’s going on here?”

  “They were both found dead this evening.”

  Dawson’s heart sunk. He swallowed hard. Hell. They think I did it. “Dead?”

  “Shot to death.” Allen paused. “In Jim’s hogan.”

  Dawson sucked in a deep breath, his mind reeling.

  “Do you know anything about that?” Allen asked.

  “No. I don’t.”

  Allen frowned. “You don’t? Are you sure about that?”

  Dawson looked as his hands. The implications were not good. He’d been followed. But it made no sense to kill Perkins and Jim. Whoever had killed them did not want him digging into the Rancho la Peña land swap. It’s a warning. But it won’t stop me. Not now. Dawson felt his anger smolder. They didn’t need
to kill those two. But he was on the right track. “Bastards,” Dawson muttered aloud.

  “What was that?” Allen said, glaring at him.

  There was no sense toying with these two. Best to lay it all out, even if it was not simple. “I met with Perkins earlier today. I interviewed him to get some background about a land swap that took place twenty-five years ago. Then we went to the mine site.”

  “The uranium mine site?”

  “Yes. What’s supposed to be a uranium mine, not far from Hosteen Jim’s place.”

  “Why were you interviewing him about that?” Chee asked.

  “I’m a reporter. With the Washington Herald.”

  “We know that. Why are you interested in a land swap?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “We have time.”

  For the next hour Dawson explained about the swap of the ranch land with the border land, and the claim that uranium was buried deep in the ground. Even as he talked, Dawson felt sick that Perkins and Jim were dead. It was because of him. They had done nothing wrong. But now Dawson had to worry about himself. He was a person of interest. He told the two cops that he’d left Perkins with Hosteen Jim at Perkins’s request. They were old friends. Hosteen Jim was going to drive him back to town later.

  “Why didn’t you stay?” Allen asked.

  Dawson shrugged. “I had all the information I needed. I wanted to get back to the hotel. I was tired and hungry.” There was nothing more to tell. “I have a photo of them on my phone. It’s the last time I saw them.”

  By the time Dawson got back to the hotel, he was dying for a drink. But the town was closed up, tight as a drum and the hotel restaurant and bar were dark. As he approached the door to his room, he saw it was slightly ajar. What the hell? He paused, trying to remember if he had left it open when he’d gone to dinner. He eased the door open. His clothes were scattered, his travel bag emptied, the mattress flipped on its side. My God! His stomach knotted and he sucked in a halting breath. He felt violated. He picked up his bag and glanced around the room quickly. Dawson sighed, remembering that he’d carried his laptop with him. Thank God they didn’t get that.

  He fished through his travel bag. His plastic flask was still in the side pocket. He unscrewed the lid and drank. He could report the break-in, but he’d had enough of the police for one night. They’d released him less than thirty minutes ago with the warning that he could expect to hear from them again. Dawson was sure he would.

  He checked his cell phone. There were a dozen messages, all missed because he had given the phone to the cops while he was being interrogated. All from Frankel. It was 1:00 a.m. in Washington. “Shit,” he muttered. What the hell. The phone rang several times, and Dawson was about to leave a message when Frankel answered with a groan.

  “This is Dawson.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Frankel snapped, sounding awake.

  “I’m in Gallup.”

  “I know that. I spoke to the Gallup police. What are you doing there?”

  “Trying to figure out how my father ended up with twenty thousand acres on the U.S.-Mexico border.”

  “The cops told me that two guys were murdered there today. And they were questioning you. You were the last person with the dead men. Is that true?”

  “Not the last because I didn’t kill them. One of the dead men had all the background on the land deal. He was with a Navajo. I was only with them for an hour or so.”

  “Jesus, Dawson.”

  “Now my room’s been ransacked.”

  Frankel groaned again. “Did they get your computer?”

  “No. I had it with me.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “This is Gallup, not Kandahar.”

  “Do me a favor and get the hell outta there. Okay?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m done here.”

  “Madsen’s holding a press conference tomorrow at noon at Rancho la Peña. Can you get there in time?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “Call me when you arrive, okay?”

  “Sure.” Dawson hung up. His head thumping, his body aching, he wanted nothing more than to flop down on the mattress and sleep, despite the mess. Instead, he gathered up his clothes and stuffed them in his bag. Less and less was making sense. He had been followed because someone didn’t want him talking to Perkins or Hosteen Jim. They were tracking him. Maybe he’d be lucky to make it back to El Paso.

  He looked at his phone and found the photo of Perkins and Jim that he’d shown the police. Perkins’s wife would want to see it, too. His last photo alive. He dialed Perkin’s number, hoping his wife would answer.

  She picked up on the first ring. “This is Elizabeth.”

  “This is Kyle Dawson. I was with Frank this afternoon.”

  She choked back a sob, and in a groaning voice, asked, “What happened?”

  “I don’t know what happened. Or why.”

  She groaned, sounding unsure.

  “Can we talk a minute?”

  “Okay. What do you want to say?”

  “I took a picture of Frank and Jim before I left. I thought you might like to have it.”

  “I suppose,” she said, choking back a sob. I’m sorry, but I can’t stop crying. Fifty years. We’ve been married fifty years …”

  “I understand.”

  “He and Hosteen Jim were such good friends.”

  “I’m sorry. I feel responsible.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I supposed I shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s been threatened before not to talk about that land deal.”

  Dawson swallowed hard, his chest gripped with guilt. “Before? When was that?”

  “A long time ago. When you showed up, Frank got excited all over again. He wanted to talk about it so much. But it made me deathly afraid. I knew bringing up all that stuff from the past only meant trouble.”

  “Who would want to kill him?”

  “It’s been going on for years. It all started when he first wrote that report critical of the land swap. He was told to keep his mouth shut.”

  “By whom?”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is that the government didn’t want Frank making a big stink about it. But Frank was stubborn as a mule. If he got something in his head, it stayed there. No matter what the consequences.”

  “But you never expected he’d die because of it.”

  “No. That’s why Frank and Jim were friends. Jim built that hogan where he did just to keep an eye on that mine. Just to be a nuisance to the mining company. It was not right to kill him. It’s just not right.”

  Elizabeth’s words rang in his ears as he drove back to Rancho la Peña. Nearly six hours later, the sun peaked over the Franklin Mountains when he pulled into Jacquelyn’s driveway. He was exhausted.

  Chapter 30

  Rancho la Peña, New Mexico

  The morning sun was already high and hot. On the Mexican side of the border crossing, a line of semitrailer trucks stretched into the distance as Customs agents checked for contraband with drug-sniffing dogs, mirrors on telescoping handles, and scanning devices.

  Dawson parked beside a fleet of green and white Border Patrol vehicles sprouting antennae. He sipped the last of his cold black coffee.

  This was supposed to be a press conference, a news event, but he knew it was little more than a campaign stop for Madsen. Dawson couldn’t disguise his disgust with the campaign’s gratuitous pandering to the values of God, mother, and apple pie that had become the staple of campaign rhetoric. He was puzzled by candidates who claimed they were going to take America back. Take it back from whom? The majority of voting Americans?

  Dawson knew Madsen all too well, going back to when Madsen was first elected the Santa Fe County district attorney. He’d watched Madsen climb the political ladder, jumping from the county to state attorney general, then to the U.S. House and finally the Senate. Madsen lived in a sprawli
ng adobe mansion worth a modest $15 million outside of Santa Fe in an exclusive area called Cielo Encantado. Madsen was an ideal candidate for the conservatives. No scandals. An American success story. A politically powerful man. A force to be reckoned with.

  Dawson approached the handful of news reporters waiting near a cluster of microphones on a lectern that stood at the front door of the Border Patrol offices. He lifted his sunglasses and wiped sweat from his temple.

  A piece of paper was thrust at him by Jodie Serna. He’d last seen her at his father’s funeral, dressed in black. Today she wore her New Mexico outfit: turquoise cowgirl boots, tight jeans, a short-sleeve blouse, and a colorful scarf. She paused in front of him. “Glad you could make it. The senator’s prepared remarks. He’ll take a couple of questions once everyone has spoken.”

  Dawson nodded. He folded the press release without looking at it.

  “I thought you returned to Washington,” she said. “Are you back on the presidential campaign now?”

  Dawson shrugged. “Only since I’m in the neighborhood. I need to talk with Madsen. Alone.”

  “Sorry. We’ll have to work it in sometime later. I promise.”

  “I’m not asking for that sit-down interview you’ve been promising me for...what... two months?”

  “What is it about?”

  “His involvement with Rancho la Peña.”

  Jodie frowned and shook her head. “First, there’s nothing to talk about. And two, it’s way, way off topic. We’re in the middle of a campaign.” She wheeled and walked away.

  Dawson gritted his teeth. Off topic? Nothing’s off topic, Jodie. He unfolded the press release and scanned it. His head jerked up in surprise and shouted after her, “Jodie!”

  She stopped and turned.

  “You have a suspect? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shrugged. “Justice Department. It’s out of our hands.”