Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1

by Joseph Lewis

  George felt pity for him, disgust for the men, and curiosity as to why anyone would want to strip a boy naked, handcuff him and execute him. He chewed on his lower lip and then stopped himself. His grandfather had often, too often, reminded him that one of the Dine’—one of the Navajo people—didn’t give away one’s thoughts with expressions on one’s face. Eyes shut, he held his breath, then let it out slowly and evenly, calming himself. Then he raised his binoculars, studying the scene again.

  The fat man, with his back turned away from George and near the dead boy’s feet, pissed a puddle that was quickly swallowed up by the hot sand. George watched as the fat man shook himself, then zipped up and faced the dead boy, muttering something to the tall, skinny man with the beard.

  George studied the fat man’s face; thick lips, broad, flat nose., dark brown hair, slicked with something other than sweat, parted sloppily on the right side of his head, big hands with thick, fat fingers, too far away to tell the color of the fat man’s eyes. For sure, a biligaana, not interested in hozro.

  George shifted over to the tall, skinny man with the scraggly black beard, bare in spots, thick in others. Not neat, but sloppy. Something about the beard—hiding something? Hair, brown. Hands, small. Fingers, narrow. George watched as the skinny man pulled out another cigarette—Marlboro—and smoked, looking up into the hills, almost directly at George. With the cigarette clamped in his teeth, the skinny man pulled out his pecker and he too, pissed near the dead boy’s body.

  George decided that, like the fat man, he was a biligaana. Maybe Hispanic. Neither of them knew or worried about the dead boy’s chindi, his spirit. They were both ignorant of the Way, of hozro, and his grandfather would be disgusted with them.

  He flashed his binoculars back to the van and saw a third man, but because of the sunglasses and baseball cap, he couldn’t get a good look at him. In fact, George couldn’t tell if the man was particularly tall or short, slightly built or muscular, though his arms looked lean and tight. The hair under the baseball cap seemed long and dark, pulled back by the cap. George shook his head slightly in frustration, and then trained his binoculars back on the two men.

  He watched both men discuss something while standing on either side of the dead boy, the fat man doing most of the listening. George shook his head, angry at how they defiled the boy, first pissing at the boy’s feet, then talking over him like they would over a kitchen table. Finally, he watched them walk back where all three men got into the van.

  George studied the van; Chevy, newer looking, black or navy blue, probably stolen. His cousin, Leonard, worked out of the Tribal Police station at Window Rock, and stolen cars with stolen plates were big crimes on the rez. So were murder, rape, rustling and everything else that went on in the world. His grandfather had lectured him that the Dine’ were losing their way and becoming more like the biligaana.

  George didn’t move from his spot until the van had driven from sight, and just to be safe, George waited another twenty minutes before standing and stowing his binoculars in one of the saddlebags. He took out his canteen and drank warm water, wiping some across his face. Then he mounted Nochero, the big black stallion he had befriended two years previous, faced it down the hill and fingered the turquoise arrowhead around his neck.

  A talisman to ward off evil.

  And angry chindi.

  Just to be safe, in case the talisman didn’t work, he pulled the .22 from the scabbard.

  George stopped about twenty-five yards away, what he thought was a safe distance. Nochero, impatient to get moving again, stomped its front hoof into the sand, flicked its tail at flies, snorting softly. George patted the stallion’s neck and then dismounted. He pulled off his boots and pulled out a pair of moccasins from his saddlebags. He sat down, pulled his socks off and shook sand from them before stuffing them into his boots. Then, after slipping into his moccasins, George stood up and faced the dead boy.

  The Navajo boy of fourteen, who stood facing the death scene, was afraid of the dead boy’s chindi. But George reasoned that if he were to help find the dead boy’s killers and bring them to justice, the chindi would be satisfied and leave his family’s land. The worldly boy of fourteen, who wanted to join the tribal police like his cousin, was simply curious. He saw this as an opportunity to win respect and admiration from his family, and his grandfather, in particular. However, George was Navajo first and foremost.

  So in a loud, calm voice, as confidently and as friendly as he could manage, said, “I have come to help find your killers. I want to help you. What was done to you wasn’t right. I can only help if you allow me to come near. I bring you no harm.”

  He bent down, and as he walked toward the boy, picked up dried sticks and several stones no bigger than his fist.

  “I’m coming now.”

  Taking care not to contaminate the crime scene, he stepped lightly, laying down the sticks and stones two yards away from the body, well away from where the two men had stood. He took the shirt off his back and tore it into narrow strips and stuffed all but one into his pockets. Then he picked up one stick and tied the strip of cloth in a knot like a kite tail and stuck the stick into the ground where the skinny man had stood, marking a footprint. He took another strip of cloth and stick, found the shell casings and marked them. Carefully, he moved to the other side of the boy, took another stick and strip of cloth and marked the fat man’s footprint.

  Then George knelt down and studied the body. A fly danced on the boy’s shoulder, then onto the wound on his head. George waved his hand scaring the fly away temporarily, knowing that eventually, there would be nothing he could do. He touched the boy’s shoulder gently, as if in apology, then got up and finished marking footprints, the skinny man’s cigarette butts, and finally, the van’s tire tracks.

  As he went to mark the footprints made by the man wearing the baseball cap, something caught his eye, and he squatted down to study it closer. Between two tire prints, on the side of the van away from where George had sat watching the scene, he saw a dark spot on the sand. Careful not to touch or disturb it, he took one last stick and strip of cloth and marked it, thinking that it looked like blood, knowing that if it was, there might be more in or on the van. At some point, the men must have hurt the boy before killing him.

  At last, after marking every footprint and anything else of note, George knelt down at the boy’s body and touched the boy’s shoulder again.

  “I will leave now, but I will be back with help. I will take care of you.”

  George walked away slowly, reverently, got on Nochero, took one last look at the dead boy and rode off to call his cousin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Every now and then, Brett heard one or more of the boys weeping out of despair or loneliness. He could tell by the proximity or the voice who it was. He tried to shut his ears to it, but nothing he did could drown it out. Survive! Everything came down to survival, and Brett knew it, so did the other eleven boys.

  He sat in the middle of the bed in a pair of stained beige-colored boxers with his chin resting on his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs. He had just had his fourth date of the day, and he knew he might have two or three more by dinner time and probably two or three more before he fell asleep that evening.

  He never really slept though. Sleep was a rare commodity, and if it ever arrived, it was fitful and in snatches. It had been this way for the twenty-two months, two weeks and four days since he had been dragged off his bike and thrown into a van while on his way to meet some friends for a pick up basketball game at his middle school.

  Brett had learned to close off all emotions after the third week or so in captivity. He was unreadable, and that was one way how he and the other boys survived. The only thing he couldn’t control was the pure, unadulterated hate emanating from his large brown eyes. None of the guards or dates could read him. Only three other boys knew him well enough to guess at his feelings because they, like Brett and the rest of the boys felt the same things: disgust,
anger and hate, along with the sense that somehow, some way, they needed to survive. So neither he nor the other eleven boys betrayed any feeling, any emotion, and they did what they needed to do to survive.

  Though he hadn’t been in them all, from what Brett could tell, all of the rooms were basically the same: concrete gray walls with chipped and faded green linoleum, windows that had been sealed shut with thick plywood and covered with steel bars. There was a cheap nightstand that had a box of tissues and a container of antiseptic hand wipes. A small garbage can sat on the floor near the bed. Each room had a beat up, stuffed chair that matched neither the bed nor nightstand. In Brett’s room, the chair teetered back and forth because one leg was an inch or so shorter than the others. Its cushion had white stuffing leaking out of a tear in the back.

  The boys were about the same age. All were locked in separate rooms that contained a lumpy double bed with faded sheets of a non-descript color that was either light green, faded yellow or tan. Perhaps the sheets and pillow cases had just been washed so many times the color had been faded to nothing distinguishable. The sheets and pillow cases were supposed to be washed every week, but that didn’t happen. In fact, Brett couldn’t remember the last time he had clean sheets. As a consequence, they smelled of cheap cologne, and of something deeper, darker. They had a greasy, slick feel to them. Yet, Brett tuned it all out. Used to it.

  Brett’s room, third on the left from the door and across from the glass control room, had been his from the time he had first arrived. All meals, if you could call items from the various fast food menus meals, were brought to him. He left his room only to shower and use the toilet. Brett tuned it all out, including the date he was with, no matter what the date did to him, Brett wasn’t there.

  Instead, Brett imagined himself on the track sprinting the 100 meter or the 200 meter, almost always winning because that was what had happened in almost all his races. He pictured himself on the basketball court playing with his traveling AAU team. Before he was kidnapped, he was the starting point guard, playing tough defense or setting up the offense. Before he was dragged off his bike, he played football for his middle school as a starter at halfback and free safety. So he’d imagine himself on the football field taking the pitch from his friend Austin Hemple and racing around the right side dodging a defensive end or linebacker, eluding a cornerback or safety on his way to the end zone.

  In any case, Brett didn’t operate in the present. He was absent, away, in another place and time, knowing that this was the only way he was able to survive. He had coached the other boys to do the same.

  He had never imagined himself living this kind of life. He had never imagined that this sort of life had even existed. It certainly wasn’t anything he had wanted to do- ever. So he and the other boys learned to channel all of their hate and all of their disgust onto the men and guards. It was the only way they were going to survive.

  He and the boys couldn’t say no, couldn’t resist and couldn’t even hesitate. To resist meant being taught a lesson in front of the other boys. They had to learn this lesson because their life depended on it: don’t resist, don’t say no, and don’t hesitate.

  He and the rest of the boys suspected they were in Chicago because every now and then, the guards would complain about the Bears, the Bulls, the White Sox or the Cubs.

  Fuck the Bears.

  From the time he was little, Brett had been told that he looked like a miniature Tom Brady. He had a compact, solid build neither short nor tall with the same intense eyes, but brown, and without the real Tom Brady’s cleft chin. But being from Indianapolis, he was a rabid fan of the Colts, and Brett knew for certain that Peyton Manning was the best quarterback in the NFL. Tom Brady couldn’t touch him. So in his mind, any comparison to Tom Brady, even if he did look like him, was an insult. And he really didn’t give a shit about the Bears or Bulls.

  Each boy was cute, bright, and each boy was a decent athlete. Brett excelled in track, football, and basketball, Tim, in basketball and baseball, Johnny, football and baseball, Patrick, basketball and soccer. The other boys were similar that way.

  Even in captivity, there were leaders among the boys. Tim and Johnny led with kind words and gentleness, while Brett led with his actions. He had taken on the role of nurse, checking a boy for this pain or that malady. He was a listener who encouraged the boys to do sit-ups and pushups to keep themselves fit and as a way to fight boredom. But even with the sit-ups and pushups, the boys grew skinny.

  Brett understood that boredom and loneliness were very real enemies. Long hours in solitary confinement with no one to talk to drove him crazy, so he did algebra problems in his head or tried to remember passages of books that he had read, but he’d reinvent the characters and the endings.

  After almost two years in captivity, Brett had wondered if his parents and younger brother were still looking for him or if they had given up and forgotten him. Besides dying alone in captivity, this was his biggest fear, and he tried to shove those thoughts out of his mind as quickly as they would arrive. But arrive they would. Quietly, silently, like fog on a landscape: not there one minute, then suddenly filling the landscape like a thin white woolen blanket leaving Brett cold instead of comforted.

  The boys had their own code used to communicate with each other that Brett and Tim had devised. A serious of clicks, gestures, even simple looks and slight nods were used to communicate. Their code included names the boys gave the men and guards.

  Sometimes, the boys were given gifts. Brett took the gift, but never accepted the gift. To accept the gift was to somehow accept that what was happening to him was okay, was alright. But nothing about what had happened since his kidnapping was okay or alright. It was all very wrong and not okay at all.

  So he took the candy from Hershey, giving a quarter piece to Tim, a quarter piece to Johnny and half of it to Patrick, one of the youngest of the boys and also one of the newest, only in captivity for six months. He took a cheeseburger from Burger Man but gave half to Johnny and half to Patrick. Though hunger gnawed at his insides, he had never taken anything for himself.

  Recently, Brett and Tim had speculated in quiet whispers while in line for the morning shower that one of the boys was going to go away. It happened every month or so, usually when a boy had been sick for a while. Sometimes it happened when a boy got older. Johnny and Ryan had been sick for a while and neither of them had been having as many dates as the rest. Johnny had been held captive the longest, but Tim had been captive almost as long as Johnny. Because Johnny was his friend, Brett gave him whatever food or candy he could, encouraging him to drink a lot of water, to get better. They had to keep each other safe. They had to help each other survive.

  It was all about survival until they could get help or escape. Brett didn’t know how, but he knew that somehow, some way, they needed to survive until help arrived.

  Whenever that might be.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pete Kelliher got a headache whenever he read in a car, and he had a sonofabitch grinding him smack-dab in the middle of his forehead. Of course, it could have been because of fatigue or the fact that he had only two cups of coffee instead of the six he would normally have by this time of day. He stuck a finger in the report, rubbed his eyes, readjusted his sunglasses and looked out at the lonely landscape of sand and sagebrush, butte and mesa. How could anything or anybody live out here? he wondered. God! Did we screw the Indian!

  His mostly gray flat top screamed military, but he was miles from that. He grew up in the Vietnam era, and for his eighteenth birthday was gifted with the draft number of twenty-five and that year, they took anyone up through the two-hundreds. But thank God for allergies and asthma!

  Pete had decided early on, however, that if drafted, he would go in as a Conscientious Objector because he’d rather carry a medical kit or a camera than a rifle, odd choice for a guy who spent the lion’s share of his life in law enforcement. But he had actually only pulled his sidearm less than six or seven times
by his count and never fired it, and he didn’t plan on firing it in the near future either.

  Pete was mostly serious, mostly quiet except to grumble about this or that, and off the job, kept to himself content to watch a Clint Eastwood or John Wayne movie in the dark of his living room in his three bedroom Colonial. A bowl of popcorn would be in his lap and a plastic twenty ounce bottle of Diet Coke on the side table. Of course, this would be after polishing off a small pepperoni and sausage pizza with extra cheese.

  He was an average looking fifty-five year old, a bit over-weight and on the short side. He had barely managed to pass his yearly fitness exams, waiting until a month or so to begin the process of getting himself back into shape, and each year it took longer and the margin of passing became less.

  He could put on an Armani suit with a Rolex on his left wrist and size nine Gucci shoes on his feet and still manage to look rumpled and disheveled. There was nothing rumpled or disheveled about Pete’s mind, however. Many of the younger agents sought out his opinion or insight on a particularly tough case, and members of his own team deferred to him in meetings and strategy calls.

  “Summer, what do you make of this kid?” he asked, rereading the report.

  Summer Storm, his partner, slouched in the front seat with her head leaning against the passenger window. She received her first name because she was born in the backseat of a station wagon on a hot July night with hail, thunder and lightning rocking the car. Her parents thought first of Hailey, but settled on Summer, liking how it sounded together: Summer Storm. Pete saw her—and even treated her—as his daughter, and she grumbled about it, but Pete paid no attention.