by Susan Slater
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The vultures ate the goat. And what wasn’t eaten was sun-dried, flesh scorched to bone, knobby front legs spraddled across the sand floor of the corral. The head looked like an awful painting, one he’d seen in Santa Fe as a young man. The price tag had been $100,000. One hundred thousand dollars. Amos had never forgotten it. Someone painted pictures of skulls of animals and made a fortune. Anglos could be a puzzle.
But the disappearance of his goat’s flesh uncovered something interesting—something that hadn’t been there before the goat was murdered. Amos was certain of that. That old goat would have eaten it. As the haunches melted from bone and sank into the earth, a bump appeared. Amos waited for the vultures to eat it. They didn’t. In fact, it didn’t seem edible. Now, Amos was curious and he prodded and poked and worked the strange thing from under the carcass.
Even when he held it in his hand, he wasn’t sure what it was. It was round and black, a little bigger than a fifty cent piece but its edges curved up and the letters N-I-K-O-N were printed across its center. Puzzling, but a clue. Amos was pretty certain that its owner had already gone blind, but he tucked it into his pocket anyway. Maybe he’d show the young doc this afternoon, the head doctor, that Ben Pecos.
Amos was waiting for his daughter. They were going to visit Pansy. His wife had been admitted to the hospital at Crownpoint. For observation, they’d said. But Amos knew it was to keep her safe. She had been getting better, then a strange dog wandered up to the hogan. It sat patiently by the door every morning until Pansy came out. When it saw her it would thump its thin, hairless tail up and down on the hard ground and scramble to its feet to follow her. Amos tried to warn Pansy. Everyone knew that when a strange dog appeared that way, it was probably a skinwalker.
It was a baahagii, a terrible misdeed, to feed that dog and encourage an evil spirit, but Pansy gave it scraps. She seemed lately to have no sense of taboos, no sense of proper behavior in dangerous times. Amos wasn’t a Christian even though his daughter had gotten him to attend the white man’s church. He believed that sins were accounted for in the Navajo way—in the here and now—not in some afterlife where threats of fire had no meaning.
A taboo was a sin against nature, the natural balance of things and must be righted immediately. Punishment was always sudden and unavoidable. But the Ancient Ones expected you to take precautions. To know better. All his life he’d collected his fingernail and toenail clippings. Amos kept them in a big blue-tinted mason jar so no one could steal them and use them to witch him. A while back he’d buried that jar so that Pansy couldn’t find it.
He didn’t know what to do. He was afraid of his own wife. But when Pansy fell down yesterday and couldn’t get up, Amos had gone for help. There was no phone. It was his legs that carried him some twenty miles seeking a doctor. When his daughter found out, she renewed her insistence that they move to town. He hated to think of riding to Crownpoint with her later. He’d be cornered and unable to get away from her pleading.
+ + +
“My father wants to know if you’re free to talk a minute?”
Ben looked up from his desk. He was still thinking about what the colonel had said. His next patient was a no-show, and he’d welcomed the opportunity to catch up on his paperwork, but he recognized Mary Manygoats and motioned her in. He stood up as Mary ushered her father to a chair nearest his desk, then took one against the wall for herself.
“My father has found important evidence in the killing of his goat.”
There was no hint of trying to keep a straight face. Apparently, Mary was privy to this evidence and took it seriously. She and Ben both watched as Amos, with great ceremony, dug something from his shirt pocket and held it out for Ben to take.
Ben turned it over in his hand. “It’s a lens cap.”
Before he could add anything else, Mary was explaining to Amos, then she turned back. “This is something off of a camera? Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
More conferring, then Amos uttered a single word and sat back smugly.
“What did he say?”
“Shadow catcher. In the old days, that’s what people called photographers.”
“Where did he find this?”
“Under the goat.”
“And it isn’t yours?” Ben asked.
“I do best with an aim and fire, you know, those disposable ones.”
Amos tugged on Mary’s sleeve and said something to her. “My father says it’s fitting that a shadow catcher loses his eyes. Without sight he can no longer take pictures of the soul.”
Ben wasn’t sure what to say. He simply nodded. Who could have been taking pictures of the skinned goat? Who would have wanted to? And this loss of sight was an eerie thing. If anyone would have had problems with his sight, it should have been Amos. He was knocked out almost on top of the burning pile of rubble that night. Had his eyes been open, he might have suffered severe chemical abrasions to the cornea. Amos had been lucky.
“Someone said you had opened a hogan & breakfast.” Ben had overhead talk in the cafeteria—not very positive talk either—but the idea intrigued him.
“Yes, a college project that has been popular. I’m thinking of closing it now with my mother’s illness.”
“Did you have problems booking guests?”
“None. I advertised nationally in B&B guides. We usually had five to eight guests every weekend.”
“Did you have guests the night the Stealth crashed?”
“Last weekend? Yes. Let’s see. I left after dinner. We had four guests that evening—two men traveling across the U.S. and a man and his teenage son from Albuquerque.”
“Do you remember any names?”
“The man with the fifteen-year-old was a Harold Anderson. The boy’s name was Jerome. The other two were from Iraq or Iran—one was a professor. I don’t know about the other. And I can’t remember their names.”
“Tell me about the Andersons.”
“I felt sorry for the kid. His father gave orders, chose all the activities. Said his wife wanted him to spend some positive time with the boy. He had picked the research topic for his kid’s history class paper—Structures of the Southwest. It was the father’s bright idea to start by spending an overnight in a hogan. The father was getting ready to retire and he had some parenting to catch up on. Or so he said.”
“Did they seem close?”
“Not exactly. The boy did everything his father suggested but wasn’t very enthusiastic.”
“Probably just the age. At fifteen it’s not too cool to like what your parents like.”
“Jerome was enthused about his dad’s car—I remember that. He went out after dinner and just sat in it.”
“What kind of car?”
“I have no idea. I’d never seen one before. It was shaped like a bullet and the driver and passenger rode in the open. According to my mother, no one stayed the night.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. But no one was at the hogan when my mother brought the flock back.”
“Odd.”
“I thought so but I’ve been too busy to give it much thought.”
“What time did she get back?”
“Probably around eleven—maybe a little earlier.”
“Seems unusual that the guests would pay and then not stay for breakfast.”
Mary shrugged. “People do strange things. One woman left when she found out we didn’t wash the sheepskin rugs every day. Can you imagine?”
Amos tugged on Ben’s sleeve then pointed at the lens cap. He seemed to want Ben to take it.
“He thinks you’ll know what to do with it,” Mary interpreted.
Give it to Tommy, Ben thought. And he had more to share with Tommy—could this Mr. Anderson be Colonel Anderson? Hap could be a diminutive of Harold. And if he could place him at a hogan a scant mile from the site on the night of the crash, was it just a high school research paper that brought him there? That would make fo
r an awfully big coincidence.
+ + +
“Don’t you see? It was Ronnie Cachini that Edwina met at the Center. The tattoo nails it.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t be such a skeptic. Ben, I think Mariah did see her mother last night.”
“Tommy—”
“No, listen to me. We now know that Ronnie wasn’t killed. Why couldn’t Ronnie and Brenda have stayed in the area? They could hide on the reservation. No one would find them and they’d know their way around. It’s the perfect cover.”
“The question is still why. Why would a man who apparently faked his death not take off? Put as much distance between himself and this place as he could?” Ben looked at his watch. It was almost seven, and they were still arguing the case long after the pizza had disappeared.
“I don’t know.” Tommy leaned back on the couch. “I can’t get over how upset Mrs. Cachini was. The shock of losing a son, then getting him back, only he’s not exactly here. It’s criminal the way she’s being emotionally jerked around. And the Begay family … I’m assuming the same two agents called on them?”
“Sam didn’t say anything this afternoon. They may not know yet.
“They won’t accept it easily … the part about Brenda being an accomplice. Brenda’s grandfather was a code-talker during World War II. Damn. I still feel I’m not putting the right things together somehow.”
“Like what?”
“Hell, if I knew that—”Tommy abruptly stopped, took a deep breath. “Tell me again exactly what Mariah said.”
“I can do one better. I have a copy of my notes.” Ben brought his briefcase to the couch.
“Lee’s see. Supposedly, her mother told her to be good … that she’d be back before the snow came. When do you have the first snow around here?”
“It can be any time. Usually after Halloween but sometimes not until after Thanksgiving. Then again, I’ve known good weather to hold until almost Christmas. But it would give them a month to go elsewhere and come back.”
“Are you now saying you’re not so certain that they’re still around?”
“Maybe. It’s possible they really were sighted in California.”
“Oh … here’s a good part. Mariah thinks they live in the ground.
“Who?”
“Her mother and father, I suppose. She asked me if I knew her father. She knows that he ‘drove’ airplanes.”
“But what about where they live?” Tommy leaned forward. “Mariah thinks they live …”
Ben looked on the back of one of the pages torn from a yellow legal pad. “Here it is. She said that they live in a hole in a hill with a little hole for a door.”
“A little hole for a door? Ben, that’s it. I knew it was right there. Brenda and Ronnie are living in a cave. In Chaco. It’s got to be. For whatever reason, they stayed around. Couple this with the stuff in Edwina’s diary and I think we’ve got proof.”
“Maybe, yes—maybe, no. Edwina never mentioned a woman. In fact, had there been another woman, there might not have been sandwiches.”
“So, Brenda stayed hidden. They decided it was better for him to forage for food on his own.” Tommy paused. “Maybe Brenda’s injured. What if she couldn’t go with Ronnie to get food? What if she had to stay in the cave? Remember Amos Manygoats’ wife said she saw someone carrying a woman away from the wreckage.”
“She indicated that one of them was an alien. I’m not sure we can rely on her observation.”
“So, she’s a little excitable and her eyesight isn’t very good.”
“Tommy, do you know what you’re saying? Brenda and Ronnie could have caused Edwina’s death—lured her to their hideout. And if they did that, who’s to say that they didn’t kill that man who burned with the plane? All this does is point a finger at those two being involved in two deaths. A lot of money could be made by the sale of the electronic equipment on that plane. How can you be so certain that Brenda wasn’t in on it from the beginning?”
“Because Brenda wasn’t planning on being out there that night. She had other plans—we had other plans and then I got called for backup. I know, she could have been setting me up—I’ve thought about it a thousand times. But I can’t believe that. I don’t have any good reason that places her at that crash site, but I believe there’s an explanation. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Then why is she hiding? Why are they hiding?” Ben asked. “You need to be investigating with an open mind.”
“Who says I’m not? I don’t have an explanation. I’m just making damn sure I don’t condemn the innocent. That’s more than I can say for some people.”
Ben wasn’t sure if he fit in that category but he didn’t want to ask. “Tommy, where’s the diary?”
“Safe.”
“But you still have it?”
“I didn’t have time to do any copying, but I will in the morning.”
“The colonel asked for it.”
“How does he know I have it?”
“The guys at the Information Center. Then he called Edwina’s mother. Tommy, you’re not making any points with the military on this one. I’m beginning to agree with the colonel. It comes real close to obstruction of justice to keep evidence.”
“Is that your opinion or the colonel’s?”
“Both, I guess. I’m more concerned as to what Colonel Anderson might do. He’s not a man who likes to be crossed. And somehow you’ve managed to get crosswise with him.”
“What’d you do? Kiss ass? Yes, Colonel; No, Colonel; whatever you say Colonel—it’s obvious Mr. Spottedhorse isn’t playing ball, Colonel.”
Ben had never seen Tommy this angry.
“You know better than that. You’re being unreasonable. I don’t like the colonel any more than you. But he has a point. I think you’ve gone into this investigation determined to save Brenda at whatever cost—make her the good guy even if it means covering up evidence or just delaying its getting to authorities. You have no right to tamper with, or hide, anything you find out. You’ve stopped investigating with an open mind.”
Tommy stood up, dug his billfold out of his back pocket and put five dollars on the coffee table for his half of the pizza, then walked out the door.
+ + +
He was mad. But was Ben telling the truth? A good friend just trying to be helpful? Was Tommy’s own perspective that colored that he wasn’t being rational? Maybe. But he was tired of talking, second-guessing those who couldn’t defend themselves, and he had a hunch. And to prove that he was right, he had to visit the cave where Edwina was killed. And what better time to do it than when he wouldn’t be seen by the rangers? It was almost straight up seven; it would be pitch black in an hour.
If he was right, there was every possibility that he’d find Brenda. Hadn’t Mariah seen her mother just last night? He couldn’t explain why Brenda would visit her child and then leave again, go back to the caves. She could have slipped away from her captors but was afraid of what they might do if they found her gone. But shouldn’t he be making that singular—captor? Ronnie Cachini and no one else? But that didn’t make sense. What reason would Ronnie have to threaten Brenda?
He rolled down the driver’s side window of the Bronco. The night had a distinct feel of fall but the cool air felt good on his face and neck.
Tommy couldn’t stand admitting that he might be wrong about Brenda. He was never wrong when it came to people … well, almost never. Someone could threaten harm to Mariah, and Tommy knew that Brenda would do anything to protect her.
The night was overcast. Maybe that was best for what he wanted to do. He gunned the Bronco up 5th Street and turned left onto Highway 371.
+ + +
Ben saw the headlights of the Bronco flash on and watched the SUV back out of the driveway and turn north. Had he expected an apology? Not really. Not right away. Tommy had to do some soul-searching first. Ben just wondered if he’d been too hard on him. But if Ben couldn’t speak frankly, who could? Tommy n
eeded to be looking at all the possibilities and not let his thinking be swayed. Given time, Ben thought Tommy would react like the good lawman that he was—at least Ben hoped that he would.
Suddenly the apartment seemed cramped. Ben flipped on the TV set but saw it barely flicker to life before he snapped it off. Television wasn’t his thing and certainly not tonight. He felt like doing something, not staying caged up. This might be a good time to drive over to Gallup and finish up the last two weeks’ paperwork. Seeing patients one night a week didn’t seem like much of a workload, but last month he’d seen twenty-seven individuals and three families. He needed to add his notes to the charts of eight.
+ + +
“So, where are we going? When I agreed to drive I didn’t think we’d be going cross-country.”
“Listen, tonight’s perfect. I say we take a little scouting trip. Maybe even leave our mark.” The passenger was turned away staring at the landscape as it rushed by.
“It’s been three days. You don’t think it would be a little suspect to have duplicate mutilations so soon after the first ones?”
“Something a month from now or six months won’t make a difference. We need to capitalize on the alien hysteria now.”
“I think we’re asking for trouble,” the driver said.
“I think you’re losing your nerve.” The passenger had turned back to lean across the console.
“Maybe I am.”
“Then let’s just do a circle.”
“Where?” The driver’s agitation had turned to testiness. “I think the site’s been chosen for us.”
“Chaco? No way.”
“As close to where that ranger died as we can get. Pull over a minute, I want you to look at these sketches. I was thinking of something like the maze of life.”
