Thunderbird

by Susan Slater

  There were no cars parked by the hogan. All their visitors had apparently left early. He turned his head. The scent of bacon floated on the morning air beckoning him to its source. Since the visitors were gone, was the meat for him? Then Pansy appeared in the doorway and motioned for him to follow as she took off around the hogan down toward the pens. With an effort Amos pushed himself upright and sucked in his breath as the pain traveled down his arm. He swayed for a moment, then started out in the direction Pansy had taken. When he caught up with her, she was standing inside the makeshift corral that housed the Billy goat. She pointed to the ground in front of her.

  Amos gasped. Pansy was standing there calmly, but he felt his stomach lurch toward his throat. He couldn’t help himself. It was the work of the chindi. He could feel the evil. What had the poor goat done to deserve such a death? But who else would skin an animal like that? Risk becoming a wolfman? Amos had to think. The night had been a bad one—the Thunderbird, now this. Had he seen a ghost fire? He shivered.

  Then he stepped closer and peered at the goat’s head. Whatever it was that butchered his goat, it had only taken meat from the goat’s left side. He pointed that out to Pansy, but she just stared trance-like. That goat had one fierce looking, milky blue-white left eye that he’d fix on you just before he charged. But that eye could witch you, too. Amos would have killed that goat long ago had it not been for that eye and the waste of a good half of the animal because, of course, no one could eat from the spoiled left side. Amos chuckled, then held his sides in devilish laughter. Whoever did this would pay. Already he felt better knowing that the goat’s killer would go blind.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Ben, step in here a minute,” the Assistant Tribal Chairman called through the open door.

  Ben Pecos had a half hour before he was expected at the hospital. He’d left his Day-Timer in the car but he didn’t have patients until ten, and then he was booked solid until five. Six individuals, if all showed, who wanted to share their problems—who expected advice from someone they considered one of them. Which was sort of stretching the truth but it got him more appointments than the Anglo shrink the tribe had hired last year. Ben’s mother was Pueblo and his father unknown, but it gave him some leverage.

  He paused long enough to sling his jacket over a chair in the hall The cement block building that housed the Tribal offices was warm. It was that tricky time of year when one had to choose between air-conditioning or heat, and a wrong call could mean you sweltered or froze for half a day. He’d guess someone had erred on the side of heat overnight.

  He hadn’t planned on spending the morning. He’d stopped by the Tribal offices in Crownpoint to check on the funding of a grant. He’d submitted the paperwork in May. The federal government worked slow, and he’d wanted to hurry things if he could. Fat chance. It looked like the alcohol program would start up minus a counselor. Maybe he could volunteer; it was only one night a week but a night that he didn’t have to give. He caught two nights, worked the evening clinic in Gallup one night, was on call for the community council … he desperately needed another twenty-four hours in his week.

  The moment he crossed the threshold to the Assistant Tribal Chairman’s office, he felt the tension. Three men in uniform—a major and a couple of Air Force colonels—sat tersely in front of Ernie Old Talker who leaned forward with hands folded on his oversized mahogany desk. Somebody wants something and negotiations have broken down, Ben thought.

  “Close the door, please.”

  The colonel nearest him gave the order. Not even his office and he’s calling the shots. And then Anglos wonder how they tick people off. Ben shut the door and waited for the assistant chairman to indicate where he wanted him to sit before pulling up a chair.

  “I’m Colonel Anderson.”

  “Rolly Bertrand here,” the man next to him followed.

  Ben leaned across to shake hands. The men seemed relieved to be talking with someone they obviously considered “one of their own” and now wasn’t the time for Ben to mention his ancestry. He’d just see where this would lead. Seemed odd to have two full-birds on a project. Stakes must be high. The one who introduced himself as Rolly cleared his throat.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware that we lost a fighter last night somewhere on the reservation.”

  “No. I hadn’t heard.” Well, that explained the tension.

  The Air Force needed permission to investigate, take troops across what was probably sacred land. And if Ben guessed correctly, it would take numerous trips before the case was closed.

  “Was there loss of life?” Ben asked.

  “We have reason to believe the pilot landed the plane but didn’t have time to escape before there was some type of explosion. All the more need to get in there today,” Colonel Anderson added curtly. He seemed to be the one without patience.

  “Where did this happen?”

  The major stood to lean over the assistant chairman’s desk. “With your permission, sir?” The major paused to look at Ernie, and waited for a nod. Good, Ben thought, at last a little deference for local rank. The young man moved a pencil holder and stapler, then unfolded and smoothed a map across the felt blotter.

  “Approximately here.”

  Ben leaned close. The map was the one issued by AAA entitled “Indian Country” and probably was as good as any he’d seen when it came to pinpointing back roads. The colonel was pointing to an area between Crownpoint and Chaco Canyon above Standing Rock. Desolate country. A few sheepherders but not much of anything else.

  “Sir, we have a team on standby to go in …” the major offered after getting the nod from Colonel Anderson.

  Still Ernie Old Talker didn’t say anything. He just pushed back, stood and moved to the window behind his desk. Ben could see the elementary school playground in the distance. Bright dots of color grouped around the swings or slipped down the slides. Ernie took his time, then turned back to the group and nodded.

  “I will have our people lead you. But I must ask for silence. I want nothing written down about any shrines or sacred places; I want nothing photographed, nothing disturbed. We will decide what road you will use to enter the site and will post sentries to check your vehicles coming and going. Our laws will not be violated. There are those who say that the air space above a sovereign nation under treaty with the Federal Government should not have to worry about this sort of thing—that maybe you overstep your boundaries as it is.”

  Rolly started to say something but seemed to reconsider.

  “As you wish.”

  “I will expect full restitution for any injuries to our people. Ben, I want you to canvass the area within a mile radius and seek out anyone who might have inhaled toxic fumes from burning plastics or other materials. We need to be represented by Indian Health Services on this one. I’ll let your boss know that I’ve borrowed you for a few days.” Ernie made brief eye contact with Colonel Anderson before looking away. “The Tribal Council will determine what payment is due for damage to life or the grounds. It’s eight fifteen; I will expect a report by early afternoon.” He rose. “Gentlemen,” Ernie walked around his desk. “Any questions?”

  “We’ll reconvene here at one thirty.” Colonel Anderson turned to Ben. “Ready to go in five minutes?”

  Ben nodded. He resented the interruption in his morning. But it wasn’t exactly something he could turn down. And it wouldn’t do any good to tell the assistant chairman that he was a psychologist and not a medical doctor. But he agreed, IHS should know what’s going on. Contamination of any kind—water, foodstuffs in the area, not to mention possible toxic fallout-could lead to serious medical problems. Ben was a “floater” for the time being anyway. Assigned to the hospital in Crownpoint and surrounding area after the clinical director in Hawikuh had requested his transfer.

  Ben stopped at the secretary’s desk to use the phone. He pushed a wayward lock of dark brown hair out of his eyes, squinted at the numbers on the phone and vaguely wondered if h
e needed glasses. He was only thirty-one; did that make a difference? The receptionist at the Crownpoint clinic answered on the second ring and took the message that he’d be tied up until late afternoon.

  The parking lot was crowded with vehicles and Air Force personnel—a lot of milling about and looking officious, Ben thought. This wasn’t going to be an easy day. He sensed that the two colonels disliked each other. There was a wariness, not to mention a feeling of one-upmanship that made him give the two of them a wide berth.

  Why’d he let himself get roped in? Then he saw Tommy leaning against his Bronco. Always the observer, arms folded across his chest, the ever-present tribal police uniform looking crisp and spotless, mirrored sunglasses hiding inquiring eyes. The term “good cop” came to mind—far wiser than his twenty-six years—young, eager but with a good head on his shoulders.

  “Tommy.” Ben waved and started toward the Bronco. “Hey. Want a front row seat?” The grin hinted of relief at seeing a familiar face.

  Ten minutes later a regular convoy pulled out of the parking lot in front of the tribal offices. Three white Broncos with four-wheel drive and the tribal seal on their sides led the way followed by two jeeps and an air-conditioned sedan driven by an airman, first class-probably some flunky assigned to the colonels, Ben decided. He wasn’t sure how far the sedan could go; they only had so much paved road before it would be cross-country, across arroyos—rougher terrain than the Buick was used to, from the looks of it.

  Tommy led the way. The first stretch of washboard after they left the asphalt rattled Ben’s teeth so badly that he clamped his jaws shut, and it took an effort to keep them that way. The road was worse than he remembered. He watched Tommy lock onto the steering wheel and keep the car close to the right side of the road, one wheel in soft caliche powder. Thank God it didn’t look like rain. Ben would hate to be caught on roads like this during a gully washer. Slick and treacherous before they turned to muck that would mire all but the best four-wheel drives. The ankle deep ruts that jolted the Bronco attested to the fact that rain had stranded a few people out here and not too long ago.

  They rode in silence since talking might prove injurious to their health. Ben glanced back through the clouds of yellow dust to see how the Buick was faring. It was keeping up. The young airman was pushing it. Something to be said about how you drive when the vehicle isn’t your own.

  Tommy loosened his uniform collar. Ben thought briefly of the threesome in Ernie’s office. Uniforms did things to people. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to interact with the men after today. Neither colonel had seemed particularly sympathetic to issues of culture.

  And then his thoughts slipped to Julie. Didn’t they always? He teasingly told her they needed to get married so that he could concentrate. And they would have been married by now if her mother hadn’t had surgery and begged them to wait until Christmas. Julie was with her now in Arizona. But she promised to be back next week.

  He had thought of asking her what was wrong with the picture. They get engaged and dear ol’ Mom suddenly has a medical crisis. Actually, elective surgery—something that could have waited. Absolutely page eighty-seven text-book perfect. And Julie refused to discuss it. The conversation, one-sided as it was, escalated into hurt feelings and a not exactly romantic evening before she caught the plane in Albuquerque.

  He needed to change things, say he was sorry but most importantly, lay off criticizing. Wasn’t he being insensitive? He’d never been in her position. His mother was dead by the time he was five. His adoptive mother was restrained, never one to meddle. Julie’s upbringing had been so different—banker father, socialite mother. But like him, an only child. In a peculiar way that was a bond.

  He thought of waking beside her, reaching out, touching, then drawing her to him warm and soft, sleepy but willing … and how much he missed her. She’d called from Phoenix, but things seemed strained. He guessed it was up to him now.

  A sudden jolt snapped Ben out of his reverie. His head had just grazed the top of the Bronco’s roof “Hey, you’re going to lose your passenger.”

  “Sorry about that. Tough to see some of these boulders embedded in the road.”

  The road, Ben noticed, was now an arroyo, wide and winding, banked by four-foot sloping sides. The going was easier on the hard-packed sandy bottom and somewhat smoother. But the day was heating up. Nine thirty and the temperature was already in the 80’s. Unusual, but then the whole summer had been a hot one. And the tribal car was without air-conditioning. Ben cranked down the window. Better. There wasn’t as much dust and the breeze felt good.

  “Is somebody stuck up there?”

  Ben pointed through the windshield at a truck parked in the middle of the makeshift road about a hundred yards ahead.

  “Looks like a junker.”

  Tommy seemed so sure. Ben wondered how he could tell. He had seen some pretty sorry looking vehicles on the reservation that were still making it around under their own steam.

  “Stop anyway, just in case someone needs a hand.”

  Tommy pulled up alongside the tan truck and pulled the brake after he shut off the engine.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this is ol’ Elmo.”

  “Elmo?”

  “Brenda Begay’s truck. It was her dad’s.”

  Ben got out, walked around the truck and had to admit it didn’t look promising. This vehicle had seen better times but it had all its glass. Didn’t that indicate someone hadn’t given up on it? He looked in the windshield, then opened the driver side door. The keys were still in the ignition. So, it wasn’t a junker. He had been right. Maybe someone was taking a leak. Ben shut the door and walked around to the front and scanned the surrounding area. Strange. Who would leave his vehicle and hike out of sight to attend to a call of nature? You’d have all the privacy you’d want standing right here. He leaned back against the hood. Then on impulse walked to the front of the truck and raised the hood. The engine was cold. This truck hadn’t been driven in a while.

  Ben went around to the passenger side and opened the door. The seat was empty. He checked the glove box. Insurance, registration, proof of purchase—all in order. The owner’s name was Brenda Begay. Tommy was right.

  Ben walked back around the truck and leaned in the Bronco. “This is Elmo.”

  “What?” Tommy was out of the Bronco, door slamming. “There’s no way she’d come this way. The highway cuts through right above her mom’s place. This makes no sense. She’s fifteen miles, at least, from home. Brenda has a daughter. She’s probably three now. Her mother takes care of her when she’s gone, but I can’t imagine Brenda not wanting to take the shortest route home.”

  Ben passed him the registration. He could feel the dread, the fear, start to intrude upon his thinking. She had left right after class as far as he knew. He hadn’t kept the group late. But if what Tommy said was true, why was her truck here? The truck could have just given out. Maybe she had no choice. Maybe she had to take her books and walk home. But fifteen miles …

  Quickly, Ben jumped into Elmo’s cab, pumped the gas pedal and turned the key in the ignition. One turn and the engine roared to life. It even sounded pretty spry for its age. So it hadn’t left her stranded. The blast of country/western music attested to a working sound system—new and expensive from the looks of it. Brenda wouldn’t park her truck out here and leave it.

  “Get out of there.”

  The arm reached in the open door and yanked Ben sideways.

  “You’ve just contaminated possible evidence.” Colonel Anderson glared at him, seeming reluctant to drop the hold on his arm.

  “Evidence? Of what?” Ben was furious. What gave this man the right to jerk him around?

  “Anything this close to a crash site is treated as suspicious until proven otherwise.”

  “How do you know we’re that close?” Tommy pushed between them.

  Colonel Anderson dropped his hand and stepped back, “According to the aerial photo—”


  “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

  Tommy lowered his voice as the others walked toward them led by Colonel Bertrand, but he didn’t try to disguise his anger. There was no answer as the colonel turned on his heel to confer with the group of Air Force personnel.

  Ben watched Tommy chew his lower lip. Tommy was furious, but so was he. All this bended knee, please allow us to search for our missing … all a sham. Apparently, the military only needed permission in the daylight. But Brenda. What did they know about her?

  “Are you sure about how far it is to Brenda’s house?” Ben asked. It was still difficult for him to estimate distance when the landscape didn’t have markers—at least not ones that he was used to.

  “About fifteen miles, maybe a little less. She wouldn’t walk from here. But there’s got to be a logical explanation for her leaving Elmo.”

  “Such as?”

  Tommy just shrugged his shoulders. He looked stricken. Was there something personal between him and Brenda? Could be. But Ben couldn’t remember seeing them together. “I saw her about ten. We were supposed to go for coffee but then I got this call for backup. She left just after I did which means she’d reach this point at about the time the aircraft was supposed to have crashed.”

  “Over here!”

  The yell interrupted their discussion. An excited Colonel Bertrand was beckoning to them.

  Ben and Tommy hurried to the edge of the arroyo and climbed up the sloping, sandy side and there it was—the charred mound of debris. Ben hung back as the military team swarmed into action. They would take samples, measure, document—it would take hours, days even.