Thunderbird

by Susan Slater

  THUNDERBIRD

  Ben Pecos Mysteries, Book 3

  + + +

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  Thunderbird

  Published by Secret Staircase Books, an imprint of

  Columbine Publishing Group

  PO Box 416, Angel Fire, NM 87710

  Copyright © 2002 Susan Slater

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein. Any slights of people, places or organizations are unintentional.

  Book layout and design by Secret Staircase Books

  First trade paperback edition: February 2018

  First e-book edition: February 2018

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Slater, Susan

  Thunderbird / by Susan Slater

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1945422430 paperback

  ISBN 978-1945422447 e-book

  1. Pecos, Ben (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Navajo Indians--Fiction.

  3. New Mexico--Fiction. 4. Stealth fighter--Fiction. 5. Cattle mutilations—Fiction. I. Title

  Ben Pecos Mystery Series : Book 3

  Slater, Susan, Ben Pecos mysteries.

  BISAC : FICTION / Mystery & Detective.

  813/.54

  Author Notes

  Risking the possibility that I may never make another friend, I admit to drawing upon those I know for inspiration—thanks Kurt for owning a D-type Jag, and Cathy for sharing those fabulous Fabio stories. T-Bird is richer for your contributions.

  But thanks must also go to my agent, Susan Gleason, who over the years has supported me with her enthusiasm and undying belief that I can tell a good story. And to Connie Shelton who first invested in that belief and George Phocas who made dreams come true. Thanks to you all.

  + + +

  Books by Susan Slater:

  The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

  Yellow Lies

  Thunderbird

  Firedancer (spring 2018)

  A Way to the Manger – a Christmas mystery novella

  CHAPTER ONE

  10:05 p.m., September 14

  Moonlight coaxed the wrinkles out of the asphalt around the high school and bleached the color from a stand of nearby poplar. Tommy Spottedhorse leaned against a white Bronco with tribal insignia and waited for Brenda Begay to get out of night class. He’d asked her out for coffee and she’d said, “Maybe.” Not too encouraging but something. So he said he’d drop by and help her make up her mind. Was he pushing too hard? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was he wanted this woman to give him a chance.

  He ducked down to check his image in the side mirror and ran his palms along the bristly sides of a new burr haircut. Slick black strands stood straight up in front giving length to an angular, but rounded face. Summer sun had burned his skin a rich red-brown that contrasted sharply with his pale khaki shirt and slacks. He adjusted his badge and grinned. Overall, not bad if he did say so himself. He sucked in his stomach and stood sideways.

  “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “Brenda.” Her name swooshed out with exhaled breath. She had managed to walk up behind him and now stood two feet away. She was small boned and short enough to have to look up at him, and he couldn’t help but notice how her jeans hugged her body. She wore a blue chambray western shirt with the collar turned up, and etched silver loops hung from her earlobes. Long thick black hair, caught at the neck by a ribbon, cascaded down her back. Beautiful, Tommy thought to himself, just plain beautiful. And he’d throw in smart, too. She should almost have her degree by now.

  “I thought there was an offer of coffee, but if Narcissus is busy …” Her laugh was quick and genuine. There was a word in his language for a woman with a laugh like bells. He’d have to remember to ask his sister.

  “Well?” She was leaning toward him, dark eyes sparkling in an oval face.

  “Yes, well, uh, coffee …” The words didn’t seem to want to form a pattern. Again, that tinkling laugh. She was already opening the door on the far side of the Bronco before he moved. Quickly he climbed behind the wheel. But then the two-way squawked and he reached for the receiver.

  “Need some backup this side of Smith Lake, you free?”

  “Yeah.” His voice must have given him away. He looked at Brenda and she mouthed, “Rain check.” He listened to the details of a possible hit and run involving a van full of vacationers and a half-ton full of chickens. Then assuring the dispatcher he’d be there in under 15 minutes, he turned to Brenda.

  “I think this is one of those Murphy things.” He shrugged. She was already slipping out of the front seat.

  “Listen, it’s okay. Here’s my number at school. Call me tomorrow. I need a date for our fall festival. A hundred and fifty elementary students and their parents—think you could handle that? We have a cake-walk.”

  “Hey, cake-walks are my specialty. If it’s angel food with orange icing, it’s got my name on it.” Stupid, but she laughed.

  He watched as she climbed behind the steering wheel of Elmo the Rabbit Chaser, then turned toward him to wave. He remembered that truck from his high school days when he ran around with her brother—if he’d just been smart enough to have made a move then. Hindsight, nothing he’d ever majored in. He turned the key, pumped the accelerator and peeled backwards before laying rubber up the incline that put him on the highway.

  + + +

  10:25 p.m., September 14

  Brenda couldn’t stop smiling. Men could be so vain. But she liked Tommy—wanted him to like her. Still, there were complications, maybe insurmountable ones.

  “Damn.”

  She slammed on the brakes and clutched the steering wheel until the bald tires bit into the pavement, and the pickup sashayed to a stop. That was close. The furry flag of a tail carried parallel to its body had barely moved as the coyote trotted across the highway. She watched as the thick plume disappeared into the brush. She could swear that he knew she would stop. And it had been a male; she was sure of that, too. Who could miss the jaunty nonchalance? That hit-me-if-you-dare attitude? What stupid bad luck. The animal had crossed her path and now, ten-thirty at night, she’d have to double back and take a two-rut dirt road some forty five miles out of her way.

  Unless she wanted to brave the consequences. Her Anglo friends would laugh, but didn’t they have their black cats and ladders and cracks in the sidewalk? And it wasn’t so much that she was afraid; it was her mother who would know because something would happen—maybe the baby would get a sore throat—and silently, not in words but in looks, her mother would upbraid her. And she’d be right. It never failed. Ignore a taboo and the Ancients got the last laugh.

  Luckily the coyote had been moving right to left, traveling south. Had it been the other way around, had he been heading in the northern direction of evil spirits and darkness, she would have had to retrace her steps and cancel her journey. No way. She had to get home; there was work tomorrow. And besides, the coyote crossing her path was mostly an omen—dangerous only if she ignored him altogether. She was showing him deference and putting herself out—surely that would be enough. Sometimes the Ancients jus
t had to cut a person a little slack.

  She looked at the tangle of books and papers that had flown off the seat when she stopped. Child Development 410 taught by Dr. Ben Pecos, psychologist from Crownpoint—the last class she needed before graduation. She felt a blip of excitement. With a B.S. in elementary education from the University of New Mexico, Gallup Branch, her life was finally about to begin. Living in a trailer behind her mother’s hogan, sacrificing, always thinking of Mariah first …

  Thoughts of the baby’s father drifted across her memory, and she pulled down those invisible shades that kept her from dwelling on something she couldn’t have. Yet, he was coming for a visit. His squadron would be moving to New Mexico for maneuvers in a couple months. He’d been vague about the mission, something about testing aircraft. He’d be stationed at Holloman Air Force Base near Alamogordo, a good five hours drive southeast of Gallup. But he seemed close just being in the same state. Frankfurt had been half a world away. Mariah was three and this would be only the second time he’d seen her. But he sent money. A lot of men wouldn’t even do that. Yet, if she had any sense she’d go out with Tommy Spottedhorse and give their friendship a chance to turn into something.

  Brenda pushed the gearshift into reverse and stepped on the gas pedal. The truck, now old and more than a little tired, whined its discontent at being forced to back up. The windows were down and the breeze felt good. There had never been air-conditioning, but she’d put in a radio powerful enough to pick up Albuquerque, even out here. And she’d splurged on a CD player, too, with speakers in the doors. The guy who put it in suggested that her sound system might be worth more than the truck. He said it tactfully and added that he’d be glad to transfer the system to a new automobile when the time came, no extra charge. She thanked him. She hoped the transfer wouldn’t have to happen for awhile. She’d grown up seeing the truck’s tan hulk parked in front of the house. Parting wouldn’t be easy.

  She jolted to a stop, turned, then accelerated slowly watching for the dirt road that left Highway 666 and angled to the east. She hummed along with Reba McIntyre, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. The September night was mild without a hint of fall. What breeze there was ruffled her hair, pulling wisps across her forehead.

  Abruptly, the radio faded, fizzling like a sparkler before going mute. She fiddled with the knobs. Its lights glowed reassuringly above the push-button dials. That was strange. It was on, but she couldn’t bring in a station. Then from nothing, a faint static rippled and skipped over the airwaves; its jarring staccato a far cry from the Country music she’d been listening to. She stopped once again on the edge of the highway before she would nose the truck down a short incline to join the barely discernible tracks that led home. It had to be the antenna. Maybe it had jiggled loose.

  She pulled the emergency brake, tugged the gearshift into neutral and jumped out. But that wasn’t it. The antenna was fine, firmly fixed to the fender and extended to its limit. Odd. The truck might be twenty years old but a radio less than two months old wouldn’t just quit working. Brenda frowned. It was bad enough that she was committed to driving an extra two hours out of her way, but it didn’t seem fair to have to do it in silence.

  “Merde.”

  The word slipped out. Her mother hated her to curse. She hardly spoke English, but she recognized those words. It was better if the word went unrecognized; so, “shit” in French it was, had been since she’d learned the word at boarding school. She didn’t know when she’d find the time, but she’d have to take the truck into Albuquerque and have the radio fixed.

  She climbed back behind the steering wheel, the wooden bead seat cover snagging her jeans. She popped the emergency brake and eased the truck into gear. Hopefully, she could nurse the truck along another year and have a good paying job before she had to junk it and buy a new one.

  “Ow.”

  Her head grazed the roof of the cab as the truck slipped sideways and bounced heavily across a rut cut deep by last year’s runoff. The road itself was just the sandy bottom of an arroyo some thirty feet across with a three-foot rim. The once-a-year riverbed was usually smooth, only occasionally littered with boulders or other debris stranded by high water. She would need to pay attention; she hadn’t come this way in awhile.

  But it was the scenic route. That brought a chuckle. With the full moon sparkling across the packed sand, and the air carrying the scent of piñon and juniper, things could be worse. She started to hum, then stopped to watch a jackrabbit try to outrun her. Which wasn’t difficult to do. Top out she could only go about twenty-five miles an hour on the infrequent straightaways, much less than that around curves. The rabbit cut in front of her at the first corner and was gone.

  The blast of static startled her. She quickly snapped off the radio then realized that the sound wasn’t coming from the dash. It was higher, overhead. She stuck her head out the window and scanned the sky. Could they have put high wires, electrical transformers of some kind out this way? But who were “they”? The tribe wouldn’t have tried to electrically annex this part of the Rez, miles of sheep camps and the once-in-awhile hogan? It wasn’t economically feasible. And since Anglo-introduced, bottom-line thinking had invaded the reasoning of the elders, she knew it had to be something else.

  Flashes of light danced across the eastern horizon. Lightning? She didn’t think so. Lightning didn’t move horizontally, zigzagging along the top of a mesa in short-lived bursts of illumination, like little explosions. She’d never seen anything like that before. Well, maybe, on the Fourth of July.

  Now, she was curious. She slowed until the pickup rolled to a stop. She tugged on the emergency brake, shut the engine off and just sat there. Something didn’t feel right. The air was prickly, charged like before a rain. But there wouldn’t be rain; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. And this was the end of the normal monsoon season. Any moisture was highly unlikely. Yet, there was a feeling, something in the atmosphere. The windshield was too bug-laden to see clearly; so, she stepped out into the night.

  She felt herself frowning and tried to relax as she listened. Nothing seemed really out of sync. The sounds of chirping insects were melodious and soothing. But it struck her that their cadence was hurried, frantic even, much too fast for a normal night—a night that wasn’t overly warm. In fact, there was too much activity in general. She should never see rodents scurrying about in the open. Normally, they would seek the camouflage of low bushes. But there were no owls, or nighthawks. With all this furry food out in the open, not one winged predator swooped down to take advantage. It was like someone had taken a giant stick and stirred up the ground around her but didn’t tell the birds of prey.

  She gasped and clapped her hands over her ears as a sound, faint, high above her, difficult to define but not unlike the hum of a tuning fork, reverberated across her eardrum in a finely modulated shriek. Then as she scanned the moon-bright sky, an object, black wings aimed back ward along its sides, glided across the broad flat surface of the moon that was suspended above the mesa to the east, and for one microsecond in time its shadow looked for all the world like the Batman insignia.

  She burst out laughing. Could she be lucky enough to have Val Kilmer or George Clooney pop out of the sagebrush needing a ride to town? Probably not. And the smell. The air was filled with the pungent odor of fuel. She cupped her hands and hooded her eyes to rake the horizon. The hum was so distant now that she didn’t trust her ears. Could it be only the remembered sound that seemed to vibrate in her head? Certainly the mysterious aircraft had been swallowed by the night. Or maybe it hadn’t existed at all.

  Her gaze swept across the horizon to the east, angled to the west, then she froze. Squarely in her vision was this … thing. What could she call it? It had to be a plane of some sort. But not one that you’d see everyday. It was just a wedge, a black triangle with chopped angles and a sharp, pointed nose flying low, maybe five hundred feet above her. She watched it bank slowly to its right before leveling, wings dipping
slightly, then straightening to accelerate toward her, lower, and lower …

  She screamed and dove under the truck.

  Even sticking her fingers in her ears couldn’t deaden the sound, this whining roar that felt like an axe was splitting her skull. Then the sound stopped in a grinding screech of metal and whoosh of wind that peppered the hood of the truck with sand. Then this, too, stopped. She waited. The silence was stifling but she didn’t dare move. Not until she was certain that the thing wasn’t coming back.

  Finally, she inched her way on her stomach toward the front of the truck. She tried not to think of scorpions or centipedes or snakes—the desert’s normal inhabitants that didn’t take kindly to intruders crawling across their territory. Taking a deep breath, she peered out.

  In the distance the air was cloudy with dust that swirled upward in a rolling blanket of grit obscuring her view. But one thing was certain, something had landed just beyond the rise at the edge of the arroyo.

  She rolled out from under the truck, pulled herself to her knees and stood as a flare burst above her, the reddish phosphorous glow hanging only a second in the desert sky before quickly blinking out. Was someone in trouble? The pilot. Of course. What if he’d been injured?

  She half crouched, but ran the thirty feet to the edge of the embankment, then scrambling upward she threw herself under a thick green mass of chamisa, rabbit brush thick enough to hide her flattened body as she stretched against the sandy rise.

  There it was, and it was a plane. Probably, a Stealth Fighter. She’d bet anything that she was looking at the radar defying plane that was usually kept under wraps. It was awesome, even with a twisted mass of cholla cactus hanging rakishly from one swept-back wing. The pilot had landed in a belly flop that had torn the undercarriage, peeling away the sheet metal and tilting the plane to the right. He’d been lucky not to have gone up in flames.