The Bible Seller: A Navajo Nation Mystery (Navajo Nation Mysteries Book 7)

by R. Allen Chappell

  “Harley, Alfred’s death isn’t something you knowingly caused, and I don’t think anyone is saying it was.” Paul hesitated, as Harley sat nervously clearing his throat, and then went on to tell him the rest of what happened at the hospital. “When Alfred recovered consciousness for the last time, he whispered something about telling where you were hiding. He couldn’t remember for sure, he said, but thought he might have told that man where you were heading.” Nearly choking on his next words, the old man forced himself to continue, “Just before he died, Alfred said, ‘Someone should warn Harley.’ ” Paul’s voice grew softer. “Those were his last words, too.”

  This didn’t make Harley feel any better, and he rose from his chair saying, “I need to get with Charlie and figure out what ta do. That man might already be on his way up there.”

  “Lucy said Thomas and Charlie were thinking the same thing; she said those boys were going to stop by here before heading on up to that country west of Tsé Bii’ Ndzisgaii. Thomas knows where your Aunt Willie lives up there.” Paul held up a finger to emphasize his next point. “That was nearly an hour ago. They should be getting here any minute now.” Seeing the doubtful look on Harley’s face, Paul threw up his hands. “Call Sue Yazzie. She should be home now. She’ll tell you.” He threw his hands in the air again. “Call her up if you don’t believe me.”

  Harley was on his way to the phone before the old man finished speaking. He knew the number by heart, and while he didn’t have a phone himself, he had memorized the numbers for Thomas Begay and Charlie Yazzie. Those were the only two people he personally knew who had telephones.

  Sue sounded out of breath when she answered, but relieved to hear it was Harley on the line. “Yes, Thomas and Charlie are headed up your way… probably be there in just a few minutes. Lucy might take a while longer; she had to stop by the store for some things they might need.” Before hanging up, Sue was adamant when she said, “Harley, don’t do anything silly––wait for Charlie, he’ll know what to do about this.”

  When Harley hung up, he was still determined to be on his way back up toward Monument Valley. Now that he knew help was on the way, he suddenly became terrified Claude Bell might somehow run across one of his clansmen up there and treat them the way he had Alfred Nakii. True, it was big country, big country but according to Eileen, this Claude Bell was a resourceful and vicious man capable of anything.

  Paul T’Sosie remained silent as he watched Harley come back to the kitchen. He could see the little man was even more distraught and still on the verge of leaving. Paul focused on talking him out of it, and again tried reasoning with him, “It will only be a few minutes until there are people here to help you Harley. It would be foolish to go it alone when they are so close.” Then he threw out the clincher. “You need Charlie up there so you have the law on your side. Charlie’s smart and so is Thomas…at least when it comes to this sort of thing.” Paul was never overly generous when it came to praising Thomas Begay––in spite of the fact the two had been getting along well the last year or so. Paul had a long memory when it came to those things he chose not to let go.

  13

  The Investigation

  Billy Red Clay sat in his tiny office looking over the latest folder from Fred Smith at the FBI; this one was the autopsy report on Gilbert Nez. Billy’s interest in the case had grown. Curiosity, maybe, plus the fact the man was, after all, related. There were two points Billy kept coming back to. Number one: the blue silk bookmark among his clansman’s meager possessions. He doubted Gilbert had been much of a reader, Bible or otherwise, and it appeared the bookmark was identical to the one found in old Benny Klee’s abandoned pickup truck.

  The second thing that caught Billy’s attention was a short note toward the end of the autopsy folder, jotted in the margin of the last page. It appeared to be no more than an afterthought, which only made it more conspicuous to the young policeman. Despite the fact the death was officially attributed to a heart attack, the forensics technician examining the blood samples apparently found certain indicators of suffocation––not enough to cause death certainly––but enough to precipitate the heart attack listed as the primary cause of death. Billy flipped back through the report. There were no marks of strangulation, nor was there evidence of any other mark of violence beyond the usual small scratches and bruises one would likely find on any indigent or homeless person. It was a rough life out there for such people. And Billy Red Clay knew it to be one that accrued its share of battle wounds.

  Billy was not yet born when Gilbert Nez left the reservation, for what he thought would be a more exciting life. In fact, Billy had never seen the man growing up…except in photos. He recalled one in particular: a shot of Gilbert holding his Uncle Thomas when Thomas was a boy, likely no more than four or five years old. Both were smiling: Thomas looking up at Gilbert, possibly thinking this is the way it will always be.

  The only other picture was the medical examiner’s decidedly morbid autopsy shot. Billy looked again at the photo attachment on the inside cover of the folder. Even in death, he could see the resemblance between father and son.

  Gilbert Nez’s frequent absences, and later mistreatment of his wife and child, had caused Thomas’s mother to give her son her own family’s name…Begay. Gilbert’s half-brother at Navajo Mountain, John Nez, had taken this in stride though the bulk of responsibility for Thomas’s upbringing would now fall to him––a common tradition among the Navajo. John, had, in fact, remained the central male figure in the boy’s early years and still played an important role in Thomas’s life. The elder Nez was the polar opposite of his brother, Gilbert. John Nez, now on the Tribal Council, had become a man respected in his community––being married to a white woman had not diminished his standing in the least. His wife Marissa, an anthropologist affiliated with a prominent university, now continued her work from the vantage point of an insider and was the envy of many of her peers.

  Billy Red Clay wondered if he shouldn’t just let this entire Gilbert Nez thing pass, for what most conceded was a natural death––the death of a person who no longer mattered to anyone.

  We’ll see what Fred Smith has to say about it, Billy told himself, as he gathered up his hat and sidearm. He turned and shook his head as he looked around his cubbyhole of an office, wondering how long it would take until he could wrangle an office like Charlie Yazzie’s. He was nearly to his unit when FBI Agent Fred Smith, himself, pulled into the parking lot, and spotting the Navajo policeman, changed course to intercept him.

  “How are you Billy?” The agent smiled, rolling down the window as he pulled into the space next to the policeman’s. “You are just the guy I wanted to see.”

  Billy came up to the agent’s car thinking nothing looked so official, or intimidating, as a plain, unmarked vehicle with government license plates and a two-way antenna––the average person took it to mean very serious business indeed.

  “Well, I’m glad you caught me, Fred. I was just going over the report you sent on Gilbert Nez. Thanks for that, by the way.” The Navajo policeman hesitated, considering the matter he really wanted to go over with the agent. “I was just on my way to see Charlie Yazzie. I’m sure you’re already aware of the Alfred Nakii assault. More than that now, I’m afraid. Charlie just called to tell me he passed away only a short time ago.”

  The FBI man shut off his engine. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I was on my way to lunch when the call came through to the office.” The agent grimaced as he eased himself out of the car, obviously favoring one leg. “Fell off my son’s bike yesterday; I was trying to show him how to turn without having a wreck…when I had one.” Both men grinned as Agent Smith held out an official looking manila folder.

  “Oh, what’s this about?” Billy frowned. “Not something I screwed up, I hope.”

  “No, no…not at all. Just had this in from the lab this morning and thought you might like a little heads-up. It’s the results from our little foray down to Rosie’s place; Albuquerq
ue’s take on some of what our boys found. When we were going over the suspect’s room, I noticed something I thought needed more clarification than we were able to implement at the time.”

  Billy took the folder he was handed but didn’t bother opening it. He knew Fred intended to say more, and didn’t want to miss the agent’s personal take on the report. He preferred hearing it firsthand; he could read the actual report later. In Billy’s experience the nuances of the spoken word often told more than the dry wording of an official report. A lift of his chin encouraged Fred to continue.

  Smith smiled at this common Navajo tactic. He learned, early on, that many Diné gain a greater understanding from a personal interaction as opposed to reading that same information. Over the years Fred had developed a good knowledge of how the Diné process information, he’d grown up with them and his thinking in that regard had been formed at an early age. His grandfather was a trader to the Navajo and Fred spent a good bit of his summer vacations working at the trading post in that isolated stretch between Bloomfield and Cuba, New Mexico. This was the primary difference between Smith and the former agent in charge––Fred understood the Navajo.

  “On the bedside table in the suspect’s room at Rosie’s, I was pretty sure the bookmarker I saw in that Bible was the same as the previous two we turned up; the one in Benny Klee’s pickup, and the other one the coroner found on Gilbert Nez. I thought it was about time we took a closer look at them. There’s obviously a correlation there somewhere.” The agent shrugged. “The Sheriff’s Office still maintains they’re most likely handouts from a local religious canvasser. But they have not, so far, been able to make that connection. Sheriff Schott says they’re still looking.” Both lawmen smiled at this.

  Fred Smith gave a dismissive wave of his hand before going on. “Our lab did say the items were identical in manufacture. It didn’t take our people long to find where they were from. The Phoenix Bible Outreach Center runs a rehab organization––drug and alcohol addiction mainly. They recently had a team leader attacked and killed; authorities suspect a parolee in their program may be responsible. There was an eyewitness according to the center’s director, but both she and the supposed murderer have disappeared. No one is sure what part the woman played in the murder…if any.”

  Billy wondered out loud, “So you think one or both of these people are responsible for the Klee murder?”

  The FBI Agent shook his head, and frowned at the folder in Billy’s hand, before going on. “We, of course, immediately verified all of this information with our Phoenix office. The alleged attacker is a real bad boy with a serious rap sheet to his credit, including at least two priors involving murder, already to his credit. Prosecutors, so far, seem unable to bring homicide charges that will stick––mainly because witnesses seem to turn up dead before they can testify. One witness, a former partner of the suspect and a fellow inmate in a Federal Corrections Center, was found murdered in his cell.” Fred stopped for a moment to consider if he’d covered everything and then debated how best to fill the liaison officer in on something that wasn’t mentioned in the report.

  “You do understand, Billy, what I’m about to tell you has not been cleared for official release, and definitely is not for local dissemination, at least not yet. This is strictly between you and me for the time being.” The agent winced, as he shifted his weight to his good leg, and rubbed the injured knee for a moment before going on. “The suspect’s name is Claude Bell. He’s thought to be accompanied by a female companion; a small, younger looking woman, possibly with red hair, and also from the Rehab Center. Her name is Eileen May and she is part Navajo. The woman seems to have no priors beyond a DUI and one or two public drunkenness charges. The Bible center’s director claims she was a model participant in their program and was there, apparently, of her own volition. She was scheduled to complete the program in only a few more weeks and then be sponsored by an aunt in Utah.”

  Billy Red Clay was taking all this in, but couldn’t help wondering where it was going.

  Agent Smith shifted back and forth from one leg to the other, testing the bad knee, then frowned and went on. “I guess the bottom line is…the director doesn’t think it likely she would take up with Bell of her own accord. She was one of their top Bible salesmen and apparently well liked by her fellow team members.” Here the FBI man leaned back against his car slightly to ease the obviously increasing discomfort of the knee. “The director believes this Bell character may have taken her against her will. An elderly area resident told investigators she spotted the pair driving off in the woman’s car not long after she heard sirens at the Center.” Fred Smith shook his head and held up a hand to signal he was finished. “I’m going to go get this knee wrapped, Billy. It’s really starting to hurt.”

  The Navajo policeman gave the agent’s leg a sympathetic nod and then stood watching him pull out. All he could think of was the death of Gilbert Nez. This Claude Bell was in the same area at the same time Gilbert was at Rosie’s. Bell might even have been watching from his room above the bar. Or the owner may have tipped him off when Thomas was talking to Gilbert. In either case, he might well have followed the old man on the off chance he knew something about the woman. For Gilbert Nez, this chance encounter with his son might have led to his death.

  14

  Up Country

  Harley Ponyboy waited nearly twenty minutes for Thomas Begay and Charlie Yazzie before jumping in his truck, and despite old man Paul T’Sosi’s entreaties, turned toward the highway where he was out of sight before the old man finished cussing.

  It was clear to Harley his friends had been somehow delayed, or perhaps decided to head directly up to Monument Valley without stopping by Thomas’s place. To his mind there was no telling when, or even if, they would show up. After hearing about Alfred Nakii, he knew time was no longer on his side. There would have to be a new plan––a different place for Eileen and him to hide––and it had to happen now.

  The sandstone spires were already throwing long shadows as he turned west off the highway toward his Aunt Willie’s camp. Harley hoped it hadn’t been too depressing for Eileen out there. It had only been a day but he suspected she might already be growing anxious. Hopefully missing him was part of that. He thought the recent turn her life had taken was enough to make anyone depressed. He was, in fact, becoming depressed himself just thinking about it. As he neared the second turnoff, he saw a person standing by the road. The boy––the one seen herding sheep earlier that morning––waved him down. When Harley pulled over, he could see the youngster had been crying, but was wiping his face on a sleeve to prevent Harley from noticing.

  “Is everything all right here?” Harley glanced across at the hogan, saw no vehicle in sight, nor did he see any sign of the old man and woman that had been there that morning. “Where are your people?” He asked in Navajo, thinking that might be the reason the boy wasn’t answering. He figured the boy to be no more than nine or ten years old.

  He could see the child was doing his best to control his voice. “I…I can’t find my grandfather or grandmother,” he finally choked out. “They weren’t here when I brought the sheep home. The truck’s gone, too. They never, both of them, been gone at the same time.” He wiped his nose again before going on. “My grandfather can’t see good enough to drive––too old to drive anymore.” The boy looked off down the road, “I don’t know why they would leave me here?”

  Harley thought for a moment the boy might start crying again. “Well, maybe they just went into town to get groceries or something.” He was having another premonition this might be just the start of bigger problems…for both of them.

  “No, they just went shopping two days ago. They only go to town every couple weeks, sometimes only once a month.” The boy again sniffled a time or two then caught his breath with a quick gulp. “My grandmother says she can’t take those bumpy roads more than that. She’s the one that has to drive.”

  Harley was not quite sure what to do; he c
ouldn’t leave the boy alone out here in his present state, not with night coming on. But it was urgent he get on up to Willie’s and make sure they were all right. The boy’s people, after all, might have just run down the road to a neighbor’s, or perhaps one had fallen ill, or been injured somehow and needed to go in for medical attention. There was probably a perfectly logical explanation. In his heart, however, Harley Ponyboy knew it might be something far more sinister. If I take the boy with me and the old people show back up, they won’t know where he is and that would be worse. Harley looked again at the boy and finally shook his head as he motioned for the youngster to get in the truck.

  The boy, sensing what was coming, had taken a step back––immediately declaring he couldn’t leave the sheep by themselves. They had been having trouble with coyotes, he said, and their dog was going to have puppies soon––she couldn’t fight them off by herself. They’d had a big male coyote get in the corral only the night before, but had heard the commotion and his grandfather scared it off before it could do any harm to the sheep…or the dog.

  Harley knew exactly how this boy was thinking; he had herded sheep in this country himself and probably around the same age. Those sheep were the boy’s responsibility, and quite probably, all his family had of any value. The boy knew he was the only one left to make sure nothing happened to them. That’s just how it was out here on the Diné Bikeyah.

  Harley slowly came to a decision: he nodded and reached up to the gun rack in the rear window, passing the boy his old shotgun. “Do you know how to shoot this?”

  The boy gave the shotgun a cursory look, saw nothing he didn’t already know about, and nodding back, took the handful of shells Harley offered; then turned and started back toward the hogan.