Rebecca climbed into the driver's seat of the nearest one and waved the men in. Zack climbed into the back. The jeep started up with a roar that reverberated in the narrow concrete confines.
Once out of the garage, Malden shifted in his seat to talk to Zack. "We're on our way to meet Dr. Paula Sanchez. People here call her "Momma". She's a senior tribal member and a full professor at Cal State in Long Beach, in the American Indian Studies department."
"She's also on the board of the California Indian Storyteller's Association," Rebecca said. "She's a writer and a poet, and she's been like a mother to me since my own folks died. She lost her husband and fourteen year old daughter in an automobile accident years ago. I guess our relationship has been mutually beneficial."
The jeep roared down a tunnel-like road next to a deeply eroded, bone-dry creek bed shaded by oak trees. A break in the trees gave Zack a glimpse of the wide Santa Ynez River Valley flanked by tall mountains in a jagged line against the sky.
They spun around a corner, spewing dust. The jeep stopped. Rebecca jumped out and worked the lock combination on a steel gate, swung it open. "Paula is the only one in the entire neighborhood who has her place fenced," she said as she climbed back in. "She's a naturalist, among many other things, and she always has some strange creature running around her property." She grinned. "Don't worry, no lions or tigers."
Malden locked the gate behind the jeep. They drove on. The road sloped through a grove of large oaks, speckled lightly with morning sun. The underbrush was gone, replaced by knee-high savannah grass. The effect was serene. They wound down toward the river valley past solitary trees. Zack saw mule deer grazing on nearby slopes. Another turn and a yellow stucco house appeared as if by magic. It blended into the grass, it's tile roof green with lichens. A large open porch surrounded it.
They pulled up next to a tired looking Subaru, covered in yellow dust. The jeep skidded to a stop in a dust cloud of its own.
A screen door slapped open. A tall woman, her raven hair streaked with grey tied back in braids, stepped out. She stood erect, exuded authority. "I'm glad you called when you did, Becky. I was on my way out to a meeting at the University, but I'm always happy to find a reason to cancel." Her chuckle was deep-throated, vibrant. "They have too damned many of 'em." She waved them up to the porch. "Sit down, sit down. I got lemonade, unless it's too early for you, in which case I've got coffee." She looked at Zack. "I guess you must be the FBI guy, since I know these two. That's what, inference, or deductive reasoning?" She gave a baritone chuckle.
Zack nodded. "A little of both, I'd say. Zack Tolliver, ma'am."
"Well, Zack Tolliver, you can pour me a cup of coffee, black, please. It's right there on the table." Momma Sanchez wore jeans belted above a slightly bulging tummy, boots, and a turquois and white shirt made from a hemp-like material.
They all found seats on wicker chairs. Zack poured coffee for Dr. Sanchez. Oaks draped in Spanish Moss offered shade for the house. The smell of sun-warmed grass was sweet.
"I was just watching a couple of Western Scrub-Jays, Aphelocoma Californica, out here," Paula said. "What a pair of clowns, so curious. Just before you arrived the male came right over here to the edge of the porch an' gave me the once over." She looked at Zack, her brown-black eyes twinkling. "You get those back home?"
"We've got jays in Arizona, but I don't think any are the California-whatsis," Zack said, and laughed. He handed her the coffee.
"We sure appreciate your time, Paula," Malden said. "Rebecca must have told you a grower was killed up in Rattlesnake Canyon. Zack here happened to be in town and we leaned on his boss to let us keep him for a while. He works as an FBI liaison with the Navajo in Arizona." Malden peered over at Zack. "We're glad to have a guy with his skills."
"Just what are your skills, Cowboy?"
"I think Rick is saying I'm a decent tracker."
"Zack accepts the spiritual side of the Navajo culture," Malden said. "In fact, he's here to assist an anthropology lecturer from UC Berkeley present a theory that supports the possible existence of an alternate human species."
Paula leveled a thoughtful gaze at Zack for a moment. She looked back at Malden. "We've had growers killed out there before. What's special about this one?"
"There's more goin' on out there than before. The death of the grower was an assassination, pure and simple––a rival cartel, no doubt. After the shooting, the killer walked off the way he came. We tracked him up until his footprints disappeared in a large pool of blood. Something bad happened to the assassin. There was so much blood whoever it belonged to couldn't have survived." Rick put his palms up. "But no body."
Zack watched Paula's face, saw a strange look come and go.
"Where do I come in?" she asked.
"I was hopin' you'd give Zack here a little background about the nature of the area we'll be in. You know, what do those hills mean to the Chumash? Why is the place so special to the tribe?"
Paula grunted. "Well..." She looked at her guests. "Would anyone like more to drink? This will take a while."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Momma Sanchez has many titles," Rebecca said, her hand on the woman's arm. "The one dearest to me is her position on the Board of the California Indian Storytellers Association. No one knows as many Chumash legends and myths as Paula."
"That sounds like my cue to tell the legend of Zaca Lake," Paula said. "Okay, then. Listen closely, Cowboy, this one's for you."
"I'm ready," Zack said.
"A long time ago," she began, "before the white man ever set foot upon this land, a powerful sachem lived in a Chumash village in the foothills of the mountains. The village was in a lush green forest by a lake where a great river began its journey to the sea. The people were happy and prosperous. The sachem was well respected. He held a seat in the chiefs' council and advised the village elders. He was a wise man, but more than that, his eyes could pierce the veil of the Upper World and see what was to come. He used this gift to help steer the course of the village and so it was that the people were always prepared when drought dried up the land, or when the great serpent that held up the Middle World moved and made the earth tremble beneath their feet.
"The sachem had a beautiful daughter. She was known the length and breadth of the valley not just for her beauty but also for her kindness toward all creatures. It was said that the birds would land on her palm, that the deer would follow her when she walked in the forest. A more gentle soul did not walk the earth. She was beloved by her father beyond all things. But jealousy was in the hearts of many.
"One day the wise sachem prophesied that a great calamity would befall the village. For the first time his vision was unclear, he could not see the nature of the disaster and so was unable to help the village to defend against it. Soon a great fire came and the entire village burned. The people survived only by leaping into the lake where the flames could not reach them. All of their possessions were gone. "The people were angry at the sachem. They forgot he had warned them of a calamity. They forgot that he too had lost all his possessions. Instead, they blamed him for their misfortune. The council decided the sachem should be punished. They declared he must give up his most beloved possession––his beautiful daughter. She was to leave home and enter the Upper World, lost to this world forever.
"Greatly angered and saddened by this injustice, the wise sachem prepared his beloved daughter for her journey to the place where the Middle World meets the Upper World. He watched her walk away from the village and into the forest for the last time. The sachem was mad with grief, inconsolable. He would neither eat nor drink. Soon he weighed less than the leaf blown about by the wind and it was apparent that he, too, would soon follow his daughter into the Upper World. Before he departed, the sachem had one last terrible prophecy to foretell. One day the paths his daughter trod so gently through the forest would become rough and uneven, the lush grasses and green trees would dry up and wither, the birds that came to her hand would grow large and
ugly and mean-spirited, the animals that followed her with adoration would become dangerous and prey upon all who came that way. It came to pass as the wise sachem foretold. To this day no person passes that way without fear."
There was silence on the porch. Paula broke the spell with another baritone chuckle. "Well, that's the myth. Kind of beautiful, in its way, don't you think?"
"To this day campers and hikers claim to see an Indian maiden walk among the trees," Rebecca said.
"I suppose anything that ever happens up in those canyons is laid at the door of that prophecy." Malden smiled.
"Has much happened?" Zack said.
"There've been a number of disappearances, all unofficial, of course."
"Mostly related to the drug trade, wouldn't you say?" Rebecca peered at Malden.
"Mostly, yes. That's why the disappearances are unofficial––the people who disappear are unofficial."
"Is this legend our concern?" Zack cocked an eyebrow.
Rebecca shook her head. "That whole area around Zaca Lake and Zaca Mountain is important to my people. Zaca Lake is thought to have a passageway our people used when they came here from the Channel Islands. The Old People used to make offerings there every year." Rebecca turned to Paula. "Isn't there a story about Zaca Lake?"
"There are many," Paula said, and laughed. "The Chumash name for Zaca Lake is Ko'o', or water. The word Zaca, on the other hand, means in the bed and was the name of a village located where Zaca Station is now.
"Zaca Lake was formed, according to the myth, by Thunder, one of two brothers from the Upper World, when he sat down and made a great hole in the earth. A man from the village saw him and said insulting things. The village people ran away in fear. When they returned the man was gone and so was Thunder. The huge hole was filled with water. So there it was––Ko'o'."
"The people in that village had trouble getting things right," Zack said.
"That they did, Cowboy. Another myth tells of a girl who drowned off the Channel Islands. Her Chumash lover used the lake as a pathway to follow her soul to the celestial realm of the souls. He brought her back through the gateway located at the bottom of the lake."
"As you can see," Rebecca said, "my people have a lot of tradition and ceremony associated with that region. When the drug cartels moved in and began growing marijuana, the issue became much more sensitive."
"Right. When growers went missing the cartels sent re-enforcements and the whole business escalated," Malden said.
"It's gotten so bad, the Tribal Elders Council has threatened to take the issue before the Tribal Administration." Rebecca frowned.
"To what end?"
"Leverage. The Chumash Tribe has its fingers in many projects dear to state and federal government. We supply a lot of financial support. The Tribe could threaten to rescind some of that, could force the government's hand to police the area. They could even establish an official Allotment for the Chumash there and keep everybody out."
"I for one think we should have done that a long time ago," Paula grumbled. "The forestry service is doing the best it can. They just don't have enough people."
Malden nodded at Zack. "You see how sensitive it all is. The murder of the grower is bad enough, but if word of the blood with no body to go with it got out––well, you can imagine how that legend will take on legs."
"This whole business could become a hot button issue for the tribe, the state, and the federal government." Rebecca looked earnestly at Zack.
Zack glanced at Malden. "So I'm supposed to be the guy who can keep this all in check?"
"Nah. You'll be the guy we point to when it all goes to hell," Malden said, and grinned.
"We'll find somebody from the Tribe to join you up there. If the Tribe is represented, there should be fewer incidents or complaints from our end," Paula said. "One last thing, Cowboy. This may be important, or it might be meaningless. There are stories about––how shall I put this––a presence, something or someone who protects that forest, who hunts those who would desecrate it." Paula turned to Rebecca. "Becky, you know more about it."
"I don't know much," Rebecca said. "Hunting is regulated in the National Forest, right down to the types of weapons and projectiles for hunting mammals and game birds within particular seasons."
"Only with a valid California hunting license," Malden interjected.
"But it is permitted, and there's plenty of enticing game out there for hunters. But people don't hunt anymore in the Zaca area."
"That's right," Malden said. "The purchase of licenses has fallen off. We figure it's on account of the drug cartels. If you show up near one of their grows with a weapon, you could end up in a shootout."
"I'm sure that's part of it," Rebecca said. "But this other presence has something to do with it. Some claim to have seen it."
"What does it look like?" Zack said.
"A giant Indian."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Malden drove north. The truck hummed past vast vineyards and elegant tasting rooms. To the east low clouds touched the tips of the San Rafael Mountains.
Malden glanced at Zack. "Now you have the folklore for this area." He gestured with his left hand toward the mountains. "What are your thoughts?"
"Very often myths and legends, no matter how absurd, have some kernel of truth. Part of our job here may be to sort out which kernel it is."
Malden nodded. "I didn't expect Paula to volunteer to ask a tribal member to join us. She must be taken with you." He grinned at Zack.
Zack glanced at him. "What's with the Cowboy bit?"
Malden shrugged. "I dunno, because of Arizona, maybe? She gives pet names to people she likes."
Zack changed the subject. "You spend every day out in that backcountry. You ever see the giant Indian, or the Indian maiden?"
"Naw, never have. To be fair, I cover a lot of other ground besides the Zaca area." Malden peeked at his side mirror. "I won't say I haven't felt as if something was around on occasion. The wilderness can get lonely." He smiled. "I've got a good companion in Toker, though."
"How will we get to the crime scene from here?"
"Well, a bird could fly right over Zaca Peak there to Rattlesnake Canyon in no time. But by road, we'll need to drive north up Foxen Canyon. It's long, but real scenic." He inclined his head toward the window. "Sit back and enjoy the ride."
Foxen Canyon was long. The valley grew wide as they progressed north. Vineyards alternated with cattle grazing, private ranches alternated with tasting rooms. A twin-spired chapel high on a promontory came into view.
"Sisquoc Chapel," Malden said. "It was erected by one of the pioneer families in the valley. We'll turn into the Sisquoc Winery just behind it."
They drove down the winery entrance road lined with olive trees, on beyond the tasting room to the fields. Malden engaged the four-wheel drive; they bumped across the river valley on a dirt access road. Once they entered the fold of the hills, the canyon narrowed. The road steepened, followed the meandering creek bed. They drove past a primitive campground to an open area where two dry streambeds met.
Malden pointed left up a steep canyon. "That's Rattlesnake Canyon. We'll drive the road that climbs it. We can walk to the crime scene from up there."
The truck inched up the road in low range, around hairpin turns. The canyon fell away on Malden's side. At one extra wide turn Malden pulled off onto the shoulder, parked up against the cliff face.
"Here we are," he said. They climbed out. Malden flopped his seat forward and let Toker out. The dog ran around in circles, delighted to be free. The men meanwhile grabbed their packs from the truck bed. A faint trace of a trail dropped precipitously off the road shoulder.
Malden pointed across the canyon. "Up there is where we were last night. You see the cliff you rappelled down. Bring your eye down a bit. The marijuana crop is in there somewhere. They picked a good spot for it––you can't see it from the cliff above and you can't see it from over here. You pretty much have to stumble
on it like those lost hikers did."
"How do we get there from here?"
"Follow me."
Toker led the way down. Malden followed. Zack skidded more than down-climbed the loose shale. The terrain leveled, a ridge led toward the arroyo. It wasn't a trail so much as bare rock. Coyote brush grabbed at Zack's pack. Beyond the ridge, the path wound toward the head of the canyon and dropped again. Zack watched Malden plunge down another near vertical drop, kicking up dust. Zack slid down behind him. They ended up on a rock ledge. It spanned the canyon, a waterfall, had there been any water.
"You good?"
"I'm fine." Zack wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "How on earth did you find this trail?"
"I spend a lot of time out here in my line of work. Toker over there helps. He can smell which way the sembradores go."
"If you know all this, why are they still here?"
Malden held up two fingers.
Zack stared, puzzled.
"There's just the two of us," Malden said. "Between us we patrol the whole length and breadth of the Los Padres National Forest from the Santa Ynez Mountains north the San Luis Obispo County. We're not in one place very long."
Across the natural ramp, the trail became steep, stayed that way until it intersected a well-worn path across the slope.
"They call this El Camino de Burro," Malden said. "It's a connector trail. It takes you all along the length of this ridge. The burros travel along it to the most recent grow. The trail stays mostly in chaparral, it can't be seen from the air."
"Which way today?"
"We go that way a short distance." Malden pointed to the left. "From there we'll climb to the base of the cliff and work our way along."
It was another sweaty scramble to reach the cliff base where they found a worn, level path. Zack was grateful for the reprieve for his leg muscles. Soon he heard voices.
ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI) Page 8