by Lukens, Mark
She says she knows who the killer is. Begay’s words echoed in Palmer’s mind as he drove. Begay promised to explain the woman’s words when they got to his house, once they were out of earshot of the curious patrons all around them in the restaurant.
Begay’s home was about two miles outside of town, down a side road. It was a modest block and stucco structure with a clay tile roof. It looked neat and well-kept with rock and cactus gardens in the front—much like Joe and Deena’s house had looked. Begay parked his Bronco in the gravel driveway off to the left of the home, its oversized tires crunching over the pea-rock driveway. A small car was parked on the concrete driveway and pulled up under an awning. Palmer parked his rented sedan right behind Begay’s Bronco. He shifted into park, turned off the headlights, and cut the engine. He grabbed his duffel bag and got out. He locked the doors and pocketed the keys.
The front door of the house opened up as Palmer walked towards the walkway that led to the front porch. A thin woman stood silhouetted in the doorway with a small dog yapping away behind her.
Begay joined Palmer on the walkway, holding the Styrofoam takeout box in one of his big hands. “Come on inside.”
Palmer followed Begay to the doorway. Begay gave his wife a peck on the cheek and handed her the takeout box. A little mutt of a dog jumped at the captain’s leg, pawing at him for attention.
“Welcome,” Begay’s wife said to Palmer, smiling warmly at him. She was surprisingly beautiful, but it was a natural and healthful beauty.
After Begay gave his dog a few pats, the dog ran over to Palmer, jumping at him, showing no fear of a stranger in the house, only excitement.
“He’s our attack dog,” Begay’s wife said.
“I can see that,” Palmer said.
“Get down off of him,” the captain grumbled at the dog, but the dog wasn’t listening to him.
“It’s okay,” Palmer assured Begay, and he bent down to ruffle the dog’s fur. He stood back up and glanced around at the house. It was as neat inside as it was outside. The smell of something sweet, sugary, and recently baked filled the air. The furnishings were simple and comfortable, overstuffed couches and a recliner in front of a big TV. There were some small cacti in pots on the shelves. Native American art hung alongside modern art on the walls.
“You expecting a teepee?” Begay asked Palmer and smiled.
Palmer didn’t respond, suddenly feeling a little exposed and embarrassed. He had to admit that he hadn’t been expecting the modern amenities and décor. He’d always heard stories about Native Americans sticking to their old ways and abhorring any American culture, but this house seemed like it could be any other house in a modern southwestern town.
“Don’t listen to him,” Begay’s wife told Palmer. She gave him another warm smile. “My name’s Angie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Angie,” Palmer said and shook her delicate hand. She seemed to be the opposite of Begay in so many ways: small to his large, soft to his hard, warm to his cold.
“I made some cookies,” Angie told Palmer. “Would you like to try a few?”
“I would,” Begay said.
Angie laughed. “I know you do. I was asking our guest.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. That would be great.”
Palmer followed Angie to the kitchen, and he was handed more cookies on a plate than he wanted to eat.
“Special Agent Palmer’s going to spend the night in Elise’s room,” Begay told his wife.
Angie nodded. “I’ve got the bed turned back. Fresh sheets and a pillow.” Everything seemed to have been planned ahead, probably from a phone call to Angie earlier, warning her that he was bringing a guest home with him.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Palmer told Angie around a mouthful of cookie. “These … these cookies are really good.”
“My pleasure,” she told him.
“We need to talk some shop,” Begay told his wife.
Palmer handed the plate of cookies back to Angie, keeping one for the road. He picked up his duffel bag from the floor that the little dog had been sniffing at and he followed Begay through the kitchen to a family room at the back of the house that seemed to have been added on to the original structure sometime in the past. It was some kind of man-cave: large TV, stereo system, mounted hunting trophies on the wall, assortments of displayed rifles and bows and arrows, framed photos of outdoor adventures. In a corner was a small clay fire pit, and above that was a metal hood and flue that ran up to the ceiling. In another corner there was a desk with a computer on top of it and two battered filing cabinets beside it—Begay’s office, Palmer supposed. The whole room was dark and cozy.
Begay unclipped his police belt and hung it on a hook on the wall. He took off his green coat and slung it over the back of a leather chair.
Palmer did the same, folding his coat neatly. He set his duffel bag down beside the other chair, keeping it close. He left his gun and holster attached to his belt. He would take them off later when he went to bed—his gun was always on him until he went to bed; it was an old habit from his training days at Quantico.
Begay glanced down at Palmer’s duffel bag and then met his eyes. “It’s okay if you want to drink.”
Palmer wasted no time pulling out his bottle of vodka.
Begay was busy at the small sink behind the bar. He filled a small glass with ice cubes and brought it over to Palmer. “For your firewater?” Begay offered as he handed the glass to Palmer.
Again, Palmer felt a little embarrassed, not sure what the politically correct response should be.
“I’m just messing around with you,” Begay said, and his smile seemed genuine enough. “You want anything else with it? Soda? Juice?”
“No thanks.”
Begay nodded like he’d already figured that.
Palmer accepted the glass of ice and he poured some of the vodka into it. He drank all of it down in a few gulps. Then he looked at Begay and lifted the bottle a little in the universal gesture of: Want some?
“No thanks,” Begay said. “I don’t drink. I’ve seen what it does to people. What it does to their lives.”
But you’ve got a bar in your man-cave, Palmer thought, but didn’t say anything. He wondered if Begay used to drink. He wondered if he was tempting him as he poured another two fingers of vodka into his glass of ice.
Begay gestured towards one of the leather chairs situated in front of a massive stone fireplace. The captain sat down in the chair he had draped his coat over like he’d been marking his territory, claiming “his” chair.
Palmer drank a few more sips of his vodka, the ice cubes clinking a little. He sat down in the leather chair a few feet away from Begay’s chair, a wood table in between them littered with magazines and a dog-eared paperback western novel.
Palmer was ready to have his question answered. He could tell that Begay was drawing this out, perhaps even enjoying the suspense he was wielding over him. But enough was enough. It had been a long day of horrors like he’d never seen before, and he was exhausted. No more games.
“Who did that old lady in the restaurant say the killer was?” Palmer asked again.
Begay sipped a can of soda and looked at the cold fireplace; he seemed to be crafting his answer.
It felt to Palmer like he had interrupted some kind of ritual that Begay took part in at the end of his working day, like he was rushing him right now when he needed time to sit down and decompress from the day.
“I’m not supposed to be drinking these,” Begay said, glancing down at the can of soda that was practically swallowed up by his hand. “Angie won’t be happy, but this is like a special circumstance.”
Palmer guessed Begay was either pre-diabetic or he already had the disease. To each their own poison, he wanted to say but didn’t.
“Who’s the murderer?” Palmer asked again, staring at Begay, waiting for an answer.
Captain Begay stared at the dark fireplace like he was collecting his thoughts. “I don’t th
ink you’re going to like what that old woman had to say.”
“Try me.”
“She says the Ancient Enemy killed John and Deena.”
“What’s that? Some kind of Native American legend?”
“It’s a monster. The words she was using tonight actually translate more as skinwalkers or shapeshifters, but the words still equate to roughly the same thing.”
Palmer didn’t say anything—he had learned a long time ago when to stay quiet and listen. He waited for the captain to continue.
Begay took another sip of his soda and then spoke. “I know this Ancient Enemy legend is something that you’re not going to believe, but you asked me what the old lady said so I told you.”
Palmer still didn’t respond. He had a bunch of dead bodies now in two different locations with varying degrees of mutilation, no obvious clues left behind by the killers so far, and seemingly no motive, so he was open to hearing any theories right now. Even one as far-fetched as this Native American legend might be. A clue still might somehow surface from it, some random piece of information that might send Palmer in a different direction. His earlier theory of Navajo protestors came back to him. If that theory was true, and things had gotten out of hand, then maybe these people would cover up their crimes with some Ancient Enemy or skinwalker legend, like Klein had suggested. Maybe the pieces were beginning to fall into place. And maybe it was time to play his cards with Begay.
“Do you know of any people or a group of people living around here who might protest something like the archaeological dig site?” Palmer asked.
Begay’s eyes narrowed even more as he studied Palmer for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe some of the local people wanted to protest the archaeologists. Maybe things turned violent. Things went too far.”
Begay didn’t answer. He finished the rest of his can of soda down in a few quick swallows. Then he got up and went behind the bar. He grabbed another can of soda out of the small refrigerator and took his time walking back to his leather chair.
“So, that’s your theory?” Begay finally asked after he sat down in the chair, the springs creaking, the leather crackling. “You’re thinking that some Navajo radicals did this?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just throwing ideas around.”
Begay didn’t look like he believed that.
“I need to explore all possibilities,” Palmer added.
Begay nodded like that was perfectly reasonable. “There are some who oppose the excavation of artifacts … of our ancestors … on our land. They protest sometimes, and they make their views clear. But they know that the choice is up to the council. I’ve never seen any real violence, though. Maybe some property damage here and there, some theft … but murder? And brutal murders and mutilations like these?”
“Maybe whoever did this is trying to send a stronger message.”
“But there wasn’t a clear message left behind,” Begay said.
“Maybe ‘don’t come here anymore’ was the message left behind.”
“There were no clues left behind,” Begay reminded Palmer. “These guys would have to be master criminals to leave no clues behind.”
“No clues that we know of yet. Our guys will find some clues eventually.”
Begay sighed in frustration. “You have to admit that this is not a normal crime scene. You saw those bodies, the way they were arranged together, forced together. The skin peeled off carefully in some places. Bones and muscles literally torn from the body. You saw that John and Deena’s faces were peeled away.”
“There’s an answer to all of that,” Palmer said.
“You think protestors did all of this to send a message?”
“Our guys will find the clues,” Palmer said again and then realized how accusatory his voice sounded.
Begay’s eyes shifted to the doorway.
Palmer turned around in his chair, expecting to see Begay’s wife standing there. But she wasn’t there.
“It’s late,” Begay said, dismissing the conversation for the night. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“Look,” Palmer told him. “I don’t want to argue with you or upset you, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions either. Let me talk to the forensics guys in the morning and see what they’ve got. Then we’ll take it from there.”
“Agreed,” Begay said.
Moments later Begay showed Palmer to the guest bedroom down the hall and then left him alone.
Palmer entered the bedroom, which had been turned into a “cute” guestroom. It was homey with homemade blankets and local art on the walls. No TV or phone, but that was okay—he was ready to close his eyes for a few hours. He could still see the touches of their daughter’s presence in the bedroom: some old photos of her on the walls, a collection of horse-riding trophies and ribbons on top of the dresser.
He took off his suitcoat and laid it over the back of an antique chair. He unclipped his belt and laid that over his suitcoat, but he brought his service pistol to the end table and set it down next to the lamp. He removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, stripped it off. He found an extra hanger in the small closet and hung his button-down shirt and pants up on it. Only in his T-shirt, boxer-briefs, and socks now, he dug his pint of vodka out of his duffel bag and took a sip. His mind had been going a hundred miles an hour all day, and now it was time to let his thoughts wander. Sometimes when he quit focusing so closely on a case for a few hours, new angles of looking at things would come to him.
After a few more nips from his bottle of vodka, Palmer screwed the cap back on and set it down next to his gun. He made sure the bedroom door was locked, turned off the lamp and crawled into bed. The sheets smelled fresh, the blanket was warm.
He lay there for a moment staring at the dark ceiling, thinking about his conversation with Captain Begay. It was true that things weren’t adding up with these murders, but he wasn’t ready to blame these atrocities on some Native American ghost story just yet.
PART 2
MONDAY
CHAPTER 14
Colorado—the cabin
Stella held onto Cole’s jacket as he drove the snowmobile down the lonely snow-covered road that wound through the seemingly never-ending woods. David was tucked in between them. It wasn’t a comfortable ride, but necessary. They were heading south, back to Cody’s Pass. Heading south probably wasn’t the best of ideas, going right back to the town where Cole had robbed the bank and a man was killed, but they needed to get away from that cabin and the horrors that were there.
But it would follow them. The Ancient Enemy would never give up until David was dead and David’s threat to that thing’s existence was eliminated.
Stella’s hands were freezing even though she had gloves on. Her fingers were starting to cramp up from holding on to Cole’s coat for so long now. Cole had told her before they left to beat on one of his shoulders if she needed to stop. But she didn’t want to stop—she wanted to put as much distance between them and that thing as possible.
David seemed okay. He held on to Cole, his arms around Cole’s waist. He had the hood of his coat up over his head, the drawstring cinched, but he was blocked from most of the freezing wind by Cole and Stella’s bodies.
There wasn’t anyone else on this road; the snow was too deep for most vehicles. This was the same road Stella and David had been driving on a few days ago when the blizzard hit, when Cole and his band of criminals had run her Suburban off the road and then carjacked it.
That seemed like such a long time ago.
The events of the past few days swam through her mind even though she wanted to forget them. She and David had fled from the archaeological dig site in New Mexico, driving farther and farther up into these snowy mountains in Colorado. A massive snowstorm moved in and the blizzard got much worse as Stella drove up this mountain road. And then Cole had run out in front of her Chevy Suburban and she ran off the road so she wouldn’t run him over. Cole and his band of bank robbers took ove
r her truck, and all of them continued up the road. But her truck’s radiator had been damaged and the engine started to overheat. They had no choice but to take refuge somewhere. The first place they found was a driveway that led through the woods to Tom Gordon’s cabin in the middle of a giant clearing.
Tom Gordon’s cabin. She remembered Jose and the other bank robbers finding the owner of the cabin stuffed down inside the large freezer in the kitchen, his eyes torn out without a trace of blood left behind. That cabin where all the other horrors had happened, where the rest of Cole’s crew had been killed one by one and taken over by that thing out there, the Ancient Enemy that had followed her and David from New Mexico.
Stella couldn’t explain exactly what that thing was—the Ancient Enemy. But she’d begun to form some theories; these were theories she hadn’t even shared with Cole yet.
But she knew two things right now as they sped down the snow-covered road.
One: that thing, the Ancient Enemy, whatever it really was—it would be coming after them again, even if it was injured somehow (which she wasn’t sure of and David didn’t seem to know, either). It wasn’t dead; she was certain of that. And she was sure that it would come after them … after David. It still needed someone to kill David before he became too powerful to fight it, before he gained enough knowledge to fight back.
And that led to number two: they needed to get back down to the Navajo lands. If David was a true shaman like he seemed to be, then he needed some kind of training before that thing caught up to him. She never should’ve taken him away from the Navajo lands, but she hadn’t known of David’s true power at the time. She couldn’t have known it until she’d seen the Anasazi writings and symbols he had scribbled down inside the notebook in the cabin. When they got back down to Navajo lands, Stella would find an old man she’d heard stories about—a man named Joe Blackhorn. Supposedly he lived alone in a remote corner of the Reservation. She’d never met the man before, and she had no idea if he was even still alive, but she’d heard the rumors about him. They had to try to find him; they didn’t have any other choice.
