Never-ending-snake

by Thurlo, David

  Ella smiled. “Nice try. But you’re not missing classes.”

  “How about if I stay home just for today? Dad might get lonely. His guard’s on the job so he won’t be good company,” Dawn said.

  Ella knew from the intensity in Dawn’s eyes and the way she waiting for her reply, scarcely breathing, that this was important to her. But their safety was even more important. “You’ll have to go to school, daughter, and pretend that everything is normal here. We don’t want to risk anyone who’s looking for your father to guess why you stayed home. That means no calls home, or texting anything that might give a clue. If you slip up and tell anyone, even your best friends, your father will have to be moved for his own safety—and ours. And if that happens, you might not be able to see him for days.”

  “Mom. Can I stay home for just one day?”

  “Afraid not. And he’ll probably spend most of his time sleeping. What he needs most is peace and quiet,” Ella answered. “You can see him before you go, and as soon as you get home this afternoon.”

  “But . . .”

  “No, it’s settled. Now hurry and get ready so you can spend a few minutes with him before you have to leave,” Ella said. “And no texting your dad either, in case you’d thought of it.”

  Dawn sighed loudly. “Okay. If Dad wants to borrow my laptop, can I loan it to him?”

  Ella considered it, then nodded. “All right. Just don’t be surprised if he never gets around to it. Besides, I don’t want him tempted to work. He needs to rest.”

  Dawn wolfed down breakfast, then went to see her father.

  A short time later Justine drove up. Ella went to check on Kevin one last time, but found her daughter in the hall, school bag over her shoulder, watching him through the door.

  Dawn placed both palms together, held them to the side of her face, and tilted her head to one side, signaling that he was asleep.

  Ella smiled and blew her daughter a kiss, then hurried outside.

  When they reached the highway, Justine glanced at Ella. “Where to next, boss?”

  “There seems to be some confusion about when, exactly, IFT signed on with the tribe. Those mixed signals are coming from people who should know, so that makes me curious, particularly because that’s what Adam was working on when he was shot. I’d like to track down some of the lesser-known members of the Prickly Weed Project and see what they have to say. I figure we can go to the project’s office in Shiprock and introduce ourselves. I think they’re located across the street from the community college in that old warehouse.”

  “They are. A lot of the people who did the research and the grunt work on that proposal came from the community college.”

  When they arrived, the enclosed parking area was nearly empty. They entered through a side door and found a young Navajo woman in her early twenties busy on the phone. A middle-aged Navajo woman with an air of authority came into the room just then, saw them, and smiled.

  “Hi, I’m Professor Frieda Beard. I teach botany at the college and volunteer here. Can I help you . . . officers?” she asked, noting the sidearms at their belts.

  Ella introduced herself and Justine. “We need to learn more about the Prickly Weed Project, Professor. Can you help us?”

  “You certainly came to the right place,” she said, taking some coffee from the pot in the corner of the room and offering them some.

  Ella and Justine accepted, taking foam cups of the hot brew.

  Moments later, they were sitting around a circular table on the shaded concrete loading dock, which looked down on the parking area and their vehicle. It was a beautiful sunny day, the temperature cool and pleasant, and to the west they could see the Carrizo Mountains, which lay over in Arizona.

  “Where would you like to start?” the professor asked.

  “I understand that the project has many staunch supporters,” Ella said, sipping her coffee, which, though dreadful, was marginally better than that available in the machine at the station.

  “Most of the support comes from people like myself who understand what’s at stake. There’s a real need for new ways to fuel our cars and our machines. This project could make our tribe a player in the energy industry.”

  “Yet, there’s some opposition to it,” Ella said. The Navajo Way taught that everything had two sides, and it was so with this, too.

  “Yes, but having people like Councilman Begaye and the late Adam Lonewolf in our corner has allowed us to push this forward. Adam, in particular, never hesitated to face the opposition and stand his ground.” She paused, then in a soft voice, added, “The tribe really suffered a loss with his death.”

  “Do you think Adam made some enemies because of where he stood on this?” Justine asked.

  “Oh sure,” Professor Beard said without a second’s hesitation. “In fact, I was with him at one chapter house meeting when things got especially ugly. But Adam stood his ground and argued the point through logic—not anger—which is more than I can say about some of the others who spoke. The land use issue is the biggest single obstacle this project’s faced. Unless the current occupants agree to turn over the necessary acreage, the tribe will be forced to take the fight to court and a ton of bad publicity is sure to follow. Mind you, it’s still a small price to pay considering the potential payoff, but our politicians are hoping to find another solution.”

  Ella heard a car pulling up down below in the parking lot next to the loading dock. Glancing over Frieda’s shoulder, she saw Alfred Begaye climb out of his late-model luxury sedan and head toward the steps leading up to their level.

  Frieda followed Ella’s gaze. “If you push Alfred to give you the details, he’ll fill you in. Or you can just ask people who attend the East Fruitland Chapter House meetings.”

  A second later Alfred stepped up onto the concrete loading dock. “I didn’t expect to run into you again so soon, Detective Clah,” he said coldly, not even acknowledging Justine.

  Frieda got up, and with a hurried good-bye, made a fast exit through the open doorway leading back inside.

  “We’ve been looking into the land issue, Councilman Begaye,” Ella said. “You never mentioned that the Prickly Weed Project had stirred up a serious controversy.”

  “It’s not our project that’s the cause of the violence you’re investigating. It’s that damned casino. Gambling—it never brings anything good.”

  The young Navajo receptionist they’d seen earlier stepped outside and looked at Alfred. “I thought I heard your voice, Councilman. You have a call from the tribal president, sir,” she said. “Something about a meeting?” Then, as the phone began ringing again, she ducked back inside.

  Alfred looked at Ella, then Justine. “I’ve got business. Are we about through here?”

  “Sure,” Ella said, standing.

  As Begaye hurried inside, Ella took a deep breath, wishing the coffee had been stronger. “Partner, before we do much of anything else, I need to stop by the Totah for a double shot of their brew. This java is not only dreadful, it’s weak.”

  “You didn’t get much sleep last night, I take it?”

  “No, not really, which is why I need strong coffee right now.” Ella walked back to the SUV with Justine.

  They were only a few feet away from their vehicle when Ella noticed an elderly man making his way slowly across the asphalt. In his late seventies or thereabouts, he moved carefully, as if his body were a mass of aching joints. Ella watched him step closer to Begaye’s sedan, and bend over. His back was to her so she couldn’t see what he was up to.

  As she narrowed the distance between them she suddenly realized that he was scratching something onto the side of the car. “Hey, you, stop that!” Ella yelled.

  Ella was less than ten feet from him when he spun around and began waving an ice pick back and forth in a clear, threatening gesture.

  Ella froze in mid-step. “You don’t want to do that, sir. I’m Special Investigator Ella Clah of the Navajo Tribal Police, and waving an ice pick at
someone carrying a gun is not a good idea.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and an instant later, he took off in what was probably his version of a run.

  “Stop where you are,” Ella ordered as Justine circled around, blocking the way out the open gate. “Don’t make things worse for yourself,” Ella added. Even from several yards away she could hear him breathing—wheezing was more like it.

  The man suddenly stopped, and leaned over, hands on his knees. For a moment, Ella thought he was having a heart attack, but as she approached, his breathing evened and he stood up straight again.

  “Begaye had it coming. He’s a traitor to all the Diné,” he managed, his breathing still labored, but less raspy. Then he lifted his arm, still clutching the ice pick in his hand.

  FIFTEEN

  Justine reached for her pepper spray, but Ella signaled her to wait. “You’re already having problems breathing and a shot of pepper spray will make things a lot worse for you,” Ella said. “Drop the ice pick, sir.”

  “Yeah, do it or she’ll drop you,” Alfred said, from somewhere behind Ella.

  Forcing herself not to react to Begaye, Ella met the old man’s gaze. “Now.”

  With a long sigh, he did as she asked.

  Ella stepped up and quickly kicked the ice pick away. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “I’m known as Dinéchilí,” he said, opting for the traditional way of introducing himself.

  The nickname meant “stockily built man.” “My clan is the Salt People, and I was born for the Black Streak Wood People,” he added, referring to his father’s clan. He gestured to what he’d scratched into Begaye’s car. It was the word anaashii, the Navajo term for squatters. “That’s exactly what his people will be if they move into my clan’s land with those prickly weeds of theirs.”

  Ella was familiar with the term etched into the vehicle. With no place to go, and the population of the tribe soaring, Navajos sometimes moved onto unused land that wasn’t theirs, setting up trailers or building hogans. “Ownership” of land on the Navajo Nation had always been a complex—and volatile—issue.

  Alfred stood by his car studying the damage, then muttered a loud oath. “Emerson Lee, you crazy old man! Ruining someone’s car isn’t going to get you sympathy from anyone,” he said, then spat out another curse.

  A security guard came up to them and took Emerson’s arm, but Alfred shook his head. “No, just let him go.”

  The guard looked at Ella, waiting for her reaction, and she looked back at Begaye. “Are you sure you don’t want to press charges?” Ella asked. “Two police officers were witnesses to the vandalism.”

  “No way I’m pressing charges,” Alfred said, biting off each syllable, then looking at Emerson, he added, “Just get out of here.”

  The old man smiled at Ella. “Can I have my ice pick back now?”

  “Forget it, old man,” Alfred answered before Ella could speak. “Leave it right where it is, or I’ll have them put you in jail right now.”

  Emerson looked at Ella, and seeing her shake her head, walked away, muttering in Navajo.

  “Why did you let him go?” Ella asked Alfred, more curious now than ever. “Those scratches are going to take serious bucks to fix—for you or your insurance company.”

  “The old man doesn’t have the money, and if I’d sent him off to jail he would have become a martyr to those standing in the way of the project.” Alfred shook his head. “No way I’m giving him any more ammunition.”

  Alfred took several photos of the damage with his cell phone, then glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get going. I just found out I’m needed in Window Rock. Are we through here?”

  “Sure. I can find you if I need you,” she added with a smile.

  Alfred glared at her, then taking one last look at the word scratched on his car, cursed and slipped behind the wheel. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” he said, then drove off.

  Justine came up. Until now, she’d purposely stayed back, not wanting to interfere with the way Ella was handling the situation. “I think we need to find out more about the ones who oppose the project. If Emerson’s willing to break the law in broad daylight in front of witnesses, what are the others capable of doing? And who are they?”

  Frieda Beard came up behind them. “That’s an easy enough question. At the heart of the problem is a local contingent of the Salt People Clan and a parcel of land that has been theirs to use for decades. When Eleanor Lee was alive she had grazing permits and lived off her sheep and a bit of farming. When she passed away, her son Emerson turned the place over to his daughter, Trina Morgan. Since she has a full time job, Trina sold off her grandmother’s sheep and let the grazing permits expire. That’s why the tribe can now legally take back the land. It isn’t being used and the tribe has plans for the bulk of it.”

  “Yet Trina and Emerson are still planning to fight?” Ella asked, confused.

  “Oh yeah. The second Trina heard what we were planning to do, she and her husband Chester immediately brought in sheep. Then they took their dispute to the chapter house, so they could get public opinion on their side. After hearing their story, a lot of others who live in the area suddenly panicked, thinking that the same thing would happen to them. Face it, lots of people forget to renew their grazing permits—lack of money or just not paying attention—so they don’t want her to lose. But the laws regarding land on the Navajo Nation are clear—basically, use it or lose it. Bringing in sheep after the fact isn’t going to change anything.”

  “What’s to fight? Unused parcels of land serve no one, and the Tribal Council can do whatever it wants,” Ella said, still trying to understand.

  “You’re right. The tribe could just take the land like it did before when the coal companies moved in. But people still remember all the bad things that happened after that particular land grab. In exchange for some jobs, we ended up with poisoned water wells, dead livestock, and land no one could use even after the mines shut down. People were victims of so-called progress once before and those memories linger,” she said. “Of course this is a totally different situation. Our politicians are spearheading the project and placing their reputations on the line. That’s one reason everyone wants to go the peaceful route—to convince people instead of forcing something down their throats. And that was what Adam Lonewolf did best.”

  “I’m surprised that any politicians are taking a stand on a volatile issue like this one,” Ella said.

  “If the opposition gains enough strength, the support the project currently has will disappear. That’s the nature of the beast, so to speak.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to get going. I teach at the college and I’ve got a class in another half hour.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Ella said, standing up.

  Five minutes later, they were on the way back to the station. Blalock had requested a meeting to update them on the Bureau’s efforts to track down leads in D.C. “I wonder if he got anything from the surveillance video at the casino,” Ella said.

  “I guess we’ll know soon enough,” Justine answered. After a brief pause, Justine added casually, “How do you think it’s going to work out with Kevin in the house?”

  Ella heard the unspoken thought within the question. That was the advantage of knowing your partner well. “It’s an interesting setup, I’ll say that much. Of course Dawn loves having her dad at home. But Kevin knows he and I won’t ever rekindle our old relationship, I’ve made that clear.”

  “Others may not be so convinced. Have you thought about how Ford’s going to react once he hears about this?”

  “As much as I trust Ford’s ability to keep a secret, I’m not going to share police business with him unless he’s directly involved—and this time, he’s not.”

  “Do you remember when we tried to look into Ford’s past and get more details on the kind of work he’d done? The Feds’ warning to back off really took me by surprise,” she said, laughing. “Has he ever told you more about his pa
st, off the record?”

  “Some. I know he worked in Intelligence, but for the most part those years are still a mystery to me. That’s a book he either doesn’t want to open, or can’t. I honestly don’t know which it is.”

  “So there’s always going to be a side of Ford you’ll never know,” Justine said. “There are a lot of women who’d be intrigued by that.”

  “Ford’s secrets aren’t the problem in our relationship. It’s what I already know about him,” Ella said softly. “His beliefs require him to at least try and convert those around him, and when it comes to dogma he’s not big on compromise. The few times I’ve heard his sermons that’s come across clearly. Up to now I’ve pushed all that aside, figuring it would work itself out, but I’m not sure that’s something we can do in the long run.”

  As they pulled up to the station, Ella noticed that Blalock’s vehicle was already there. “I hope he’s got some answers for us. This case keeps winding around itself and we need a solid lead that’ll help us break that cycle.”

  Less than three minutes later Justine and Ella walked into Big Ed’s office, closing the door behind them and taking a seat. Their chief was behind his big desk, talking to Agent Blalock, who was seated in one of the small armchairs.

  Glancing to Big Ed, who nodded, Blalock began. “Bureau agents in D.C. have been checking places where Adam hung out—starting with the extended-stay hotel he used. They were given access to his room and, there, found receipts and vouchers that marked a trail they could follow. They’ve been trying to determine where he purchased the board game he had with him at the airstrip. Since there’s no label on the box, that made things tougher. Agents have visited every retailer within walking distance that might offer that game, but they’ve had no hits. They’re now checking area office supply and shipping outlets that offer shrink-wrapping service. So far we’ve got zip.”

  “That board game is the key to the suspect and the money,” Big Ed said.

  “I agree, and so does the Bureau,” Blalock answered. “Our agents will keep pounding the pavement.”