Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  “Now everybody’s gone,” Henry said. “Any idea where?”

  “Dibe said she had a ceremony up at Window Rock. They were heading up there to get ready for it. Guess Klah and Jazz went along.”

  “Do they have a stock trailer? I asked.

  “No, but when Left-Hand’s rodeoing, he rents one.”

  “Left-Hand?” I asked.

  “‘Klah’ means left-handed,” Henry said.

  WE DROVE back to Albuquerque in relative silence, each nursing his own thoughts. Paul was home from his job at the country club and hard at work on his second vocation, writing an article on the local Greek Orthodox church’s approach to Christmas that he hoped to freelance to a regional magazine.

  After a bite to eat, I phoned Gene at home and talked things over with him before phoning Charlie, also at home, and asking him to start locating cow pasture landing fields west of town. Then we assembled in the den to discuss what Henry and I learned today. Paul heard both of us out before commenting.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he asked. “Jazz went with the Hatahles back to the big rez. He’s trying to get home without getting caught by the cartel or Silver Wings or whoever’s after him.”

  “That don’t hold water,” Henry said. “He’d call me. All he’s gotta do is ring me and yell help.” He got up and paced. “Maybe I better head home. If he’s up there, he needs to be able to reach me.”

  “That might be exactly what you need to do, but let’s think this through first,” I said. “He can call Louie or his uncle Riley if he reaches the rez. If he can, that is. I keep remembering that in the Bisti case, our missing man got hit in the head and lost his memory, at least some of it. What if Jazz had an accident on that bicycle? After all, it was abandoned at the side of I-40. What if he’s having trouble remembering things?”

  “Amnesia?” Paul asked.

  “Possibly. Or else he knows he’s in danger and doesn’t want to endanger anyone else. You know, I’m intrigued by this fellow Klah’s pinto pony. If they all went to the reservation, why isn’t the neighbor taking care of it too?”

  “You said he’s a rodeo hand,” Paul noted. “Maybe he’s off rodeoing.”

  “According to their neighbor, he’s recovering from a broken leg,” Henry said.

  “There’s more than one way to make money at a rodeo besides competing,” Paul said. “They use stable hands, vendors, clean-up guys, clowns.”

  “That’s true. And maybe that’s the way it is.” Henry punched the air. “Dammit! We oughta be able to find him!”

  I cleared my throat. Both of them looked at me. “I’ll call Hazel and have her check hospitals for a man with amnesia. But there’s something bothering me more than the fact Jazz is still missing,” I said. “I faxed Gene a copy of that poster Henry took from the chapter house. He confirmed what I was thinking. That’s not an official APD poster. It’s something Zimmerman printed up on his own.”

  “Which means…?” Henry asked.

  “It doesn’t mean anything, but it sure makes it seem like Zimmerman’s looking for Jazz, not the police department.”

  “I thought Gene put out an APB on Jazz.”

  “He did. But this poster is above and beyond. Zimmerman’s got something going that has nothing to do with Gene.”

  “You said he claims Jazz and me are in the trafficking business,” Henry reminded us.

  “And that doesn’t sound right either. Even though Lieutenant Bolton confirmed that’s Zimmerman’s opinion… in a backhanded way.”

  “What are you saying?” Paul asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud. But if we’re just conjecturing, it wouldn’t be hard to make a case that Zimmerman is searching for Jazz just a little too hard.” I felt compelled to add, “Of course, he’s Vice and that’s a whole other kettle of fish. It’s possible that someone told him you and your brother are involved in trafficking, and he’s just trying to do his job.”

  “Then why the unofficial wanted poster?” Paul asked.

  “Exactly. And who found the bicycle they got the prints from? Gene can’t find any report of it. Lonzo Joe nosed around on the rez, and they didn’t find it. And another thing, normally Zimmerman would ask the fingerprint boys to get him a set. But he called personally.”

  “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” Paul asked.

  “The traffickers need protection, don’t they? Who better than a cop? And that explains the leaks we’ve experienced,” I said. “When I called Gene earlier, I asked him some of the same questions. He didn’t have answers, but he’s beginning to have questions, just like we do.”

  “Hell, tell Lieutenant Enriquez… uh, Gene to call in Zimmerman and get some questions answered,” Henry said.

  “I suggested that. But Gene’s balking. I think it’s because of Zimmerman’s boss, a lieutenant named Bolton. Who is, by the way, on CAHT’s board.”

  “Who’s CAHT, and what does that matter?” Henry asked.

  “I see.” Paul ignored him. “CAHT leaks. Bolton’s on the board, and Zimmerman—who seems to be going off the reservation, if you’ll pardon my pun—reports to Bolton, squaring the circle.

  “So what do we do?” Henry asked.

  “You have a decision to make. Go back home or not? I’m going to try to find where that pinto went. And Milton Atcitty mentioned another horse too. Something about a squash blossom necklace buying a horse.”

  “You’ll need me to get answers. I’ll call Louie and let him know what’s going on,” Henry decided.

  “Another thing, I called Charlie and asked him to start looking for a wind-sock airfield west of town.”

  “Why?” Paul asked.

  “Think about it. Nesposito met a plane at Black Hole and died. Jazz was riding a bicycle twenty miles west of town. How far could he have gone on a bicycle?”

  “That doesn’t necessarily tie those two things together,” Paul said.

  “Nope, but west does. He was spotted on the west side before he escaped, remember? And Henry saw the Asian driver on the west side.”

  “West it is,” Paul said. “You guys don’t think you’re going to leave me behind tomorrow, do you?”

  “What about work?” I asked. “Sunday’s another big day at the pool. Especially Labor Day weekend.”

  “I’ll call in. My other job takes priority this time.”

  I smiled inwardly. Paul was going to make a good investigative journalist.

  Chapter 25

  JAZZ SUFFERED in silence. He was sick to his stomach and needed green tea, but that wasn’t the real problem. He could hardly walk. And when he did, he moved stiff-legged like a kid who’d soiled his pants. The first night on One Sock, the roan Dibe purchased for him, left his inner thighs stinging and burning. After two days horseback, Jazz couldn’t bear anything on his legs. Eventually they arrived at Alamo, and Klah received permission to move into his parents’ abandoned mobile home. Most of the windows were broken, but it provided some shelter from the tail end of New Mexico’s monsoon season, which had struck with a vengeance again yesterday.

  At the moment he lay on his back with his naked legs in the air while Klah painted his bare flesh with liniment, something that added to his pain. Klah assured him that when the stinging went away, his flesh would heal faster. He bit down on a twig to keep from shouting aloud.

  “Damn, man! You’re killing me,” he gasped at length. “I need some more of Hosteen Pintaro’s witch’s brew.”

  “Almost out of the tea, man. You need to make it last.”

  Nonetheless, Klah handed over a nearly empty canteen. Jazz took a slug, resisting the urge to guzzle all of it.

  Almost immediately his innards settled, although the sensitive flesh on the inside of his legs continued to burn. He lowered his legs, resting them across Klah’s thighs. The moment grew intimate, sensuous… but he felt nothing but gratitude for his companion’s attention.

  Was this what it was like? Love? Having someone care for
him at difficult moments. As his rebellious guts settled down, he reached for Klah and pulled him atop him. Despite agitating his legs again, the warm body pressed against him felt good and comfortable, even with the rough denim of Klah’s trousers and shirt between them.

  “L-Left-Hand,” he started. No, this called for true names, not nicknames. “Klah, up until a couple of months ago, I was a happy-go-lucky guy having a good time living my life. I don’t remember it all, but I remember that much. I had people who cared for me… you know, family. But I didn’t have one thing I really craved. I didn’t have a lover. That’s not quite right. I didn’t have anyone who loved me.”

  He drew a breath that almost turned into a sob. “That’s what got me into all this mess. I started looking for someone who’d be mine. Mine alone.”

  Holding Klah close, he told it all, starting with meeting this hunky Albuquerque private detective who turned down his advances because he was already committed to someone else, and thinking how great that was. He told of looking for such a lover on the reservation and in Farmington without success. As the words tumbled out of him, more and more of his past opened up to him, and names danced at the edge of his mind, still elusive but close.

  “You already told me this. None of that stuff cuts no ice.”

  “Not all of it, and I need you to hear it all. It’s important to me.” Jazz waited for Klah to nod. “So I went on the internet and met this guy named Juan Gonzales. We danced around, sending emails and talking on Skype. I got comfortable enough to come to Albuquerque and meet the dude.”

  Jazz’s sigh came right from his soul. “It was wonderful, Klah. He liked what I liked. He was interested in what interested me. And he was a great lover. That was my first mistake. My second was believing him when he said taking a hit on a pipe would make things even greater. It did, all right. But before long I needed that pipe more and more… and more.”

  “My cousin got into crack. Bad stuff. He’s dead now,” Klah said.

  “That’s when he gave me to this guy called Silver Wings.”

  Jazz recounted his time in the bungalow at the back of the big house and the pool parties and doing things with men he didn’t even know or particularly like. He told of almost escaping but backing out because of the pipes. He told Klah everything, including Silver Wings’ attempt to kill him by trying to dump him out the open door of the airplane with Kim. His memory of his time with the traffickers now revealed to him, he told of hiding behind the seat in the plane to make Wings think he was dead and of his escape that night on a stolen bicycle. That was when Klah and Gad picked him up, still half-unconscious from his fall.

  When he finished, they both fell silent. Jazz tightened his hold on Klah. “Are you disgusted by me. By what I did?”

  Klah raised his torso so he could look into Jazz’s eyes. “Man, I thought you was gonna talk the hind leg off a donkey. I already knew what I needed to know. You’re the miracle I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Nobody’s ever called me a miracle before.”

  “I’ll bet they have. You just didn’t listen.”

  Jazz’s heart swelled, crowding his chest and making it hard to speak. “I-I love you, man.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a good man. Because you’re a good friend. Because you’re a great lover. Because my heart tells me so.”

  “Don’t worry,” Klah said with a smile. “I’m already wearing your brand and earmark.”

  “What about your girlfriend? Mai?”

  “That was sorta casual… for both of us,” Klah said. “I’ve found what I didn’t even know I was looking for. Something that makes me happier than I’ve ever been. Mai? Well, we were having some problems. It wasn’t really a solid thing for her. I have the feeling she won’t go to pieces over losing Klah Hatahle.” He sobered. “How do you know I’m not like that Juan fellow?”

  “You’re not. You’ve got real feelings for me. You not only tell me that, but you show it every day. Every minute.”

  Klah kissed him then. And as they parted, Jazz spoke in a near whisper. “But I’m afraid.” He put his fingers to Klah’s mouth to stop him from speaking. “Afraid you’ll get tired of me being sick and getting the shakes and going cranky. Afraid that someday somebody’ll show me another crack pipe, and I’ll leave you and Dibe and Gad and follow the cocaine. Afraid I’m not as good as you are.”

  “Jazz, you the best man I ever knew. And when we get you free of that shit, you’ll be even better. We gotta get you that Enemy Way. I’ll go back to rodeoing and make enough money for one. If I string together a couple of winning purses, that’ll be enough. I—”

  Jazz pulled him down and cut his words off with a soulful kiss. “You’re not going back to rodeoing until that leg’s completely healed. You hear me? I’ll either figure out how to paddle my own canoe or we’ll both put up with it until it goes away on its own. The shakes aren’t coming so much anymore.”

  “No, but you get down low, man. Real low. Sad. Sometimes I’m afraid you’ll hurt yourself. You shiver and shake in your sleep. It still has its grip on you. Tell me something. You know your name now. Why don’t you go find your people?”

  Jazz went quiet before trying to explain himself. “I do remember some of it, Klah. I know I have a mother. And an uncle, I think. But she’s not a blood. That’s why I got a honky name. Don’t think she and my dad were married. Maybe he ran off and left her, for all I know. I know I’ve met him, but I don’t remember much about that. But he’s where I got the blood.”

  “Okay, so go see them in Farmington or wherever. Find out the rest of it.”

  “How can I do that with somebody looking to kill me? If I go home, don’t you think they’ll be watching for me there? Crap! I don’t know what to do. And…and how can I tell them what I’ve done?”

  Klah touched his arm. “Just like you told me. They not gonna hang you out to dry.” He brushed Jazz’s cheek with a forefinger. “Anyway, we’ll be safe enough here till you figure it out. Right now I gotta clean up and get you some more tea up at the minimart. We need some more of those vitamins too. Dunno what we’re gonna do about the other stuff. I can cook but not all that stuff Dibe fixed.”

  “We’ll figure it out. You got enough left in that poke she gave us for the tea and vitamins?”

  “The wolf ain’t at the door yet, but I gotta find some work to keep us going.”

  “I can help, just like I did with Gad.” Jazz frowned. “Unless you think I’ve gotta hide out in this trailer.”

  “Everybody already knows you’re here.”

  “Then save me some wash water. I’m going with you. I don’t care how funny I walk.”

  “Okay, but first I gotta show you something.” Klah walked to the front of the battered trailer and tossed aside a scruffy rug, revealing a trapdoor. “My mom….” His voice caught for a moment, but he cleared his throat and continued. “My mom stored a few things under the trailer, so my dad made her this trapdoor. If anybody comes nosing around, you’ve got a place to hide.”

  “Won’t someone see me under the trailer?”

  “Naw, there’s skirts… you know, siding around the whole thing. But it’s flimsy, so don’t go brushing against it.”

  JAZZ REFUSED to ride One Sock into the settlement until Klah said they’d need to buy a couple of jerry cans to fill with water. Jazz managed to mount, but halfway there he bailed and went shank’s pony the rest of the way. Klah laughed aloud before joining him afoot. Jazz felt like he walked almost normally as they entered the small community of T’iis Tsho, which was the Navajo name for Alamo. As best he could remember, it meant Big Cottonwood Tree. As they went, Klah pointed out things he remembered from his childhood. Jazz found it odd that this breakaway community, even smaller than To’hajiilee, had been governed by a school board for most of its existence. Even though there was now a chapter house, the school board was still responsible for the K-12 school, early childhood care, adult education, roads, and the wellness center amon
g other things, according to Klah.

  The reservation of more than 60,000 acres existed much for the same reason To’hajiilee did: people undertaking the long trek back from Bosque Redondo stopped at a spring and declared they would go no farther. Of course, many of their brethren considered Alamo ancestors to be Enemy Navajo, those who collaborated with the Spanish. “Doodaa,” responded most of those asked today. “It isn’t so.”

  Klah encountered a few people who knew and recognized him along the way, but they were all older folks. Until they reached the mart, that is. Four men about their age sat in the shade of the building, laughing and talking.

  “Klah? Klah Hatahle, that you?” The speaker was a short man with heavy shoulders and chest and spindly legs. To Jazz, it looked like everything the man ate went straight to his torso and never made it to his extremities.

  “Cheese! Good to see you, man. Thought you’d be gone from here by now.”

  “Someday. What you doing back?”

  When Klah introduced Jazz to the group, the only name he caught was “Cheese.” Probably because it was an unusual nickname. Or perhaps it was because he was disconcerted by the fact Klah gave Jazz’s name as Tsi’ izi… Bicycle.

  “What kinda name’s that?”

  “I call him Tsi’ izi on account of the first time Gad and me set eyes on him, he was riding down I-40 at night on a bicycle.”

  “Jeez, man. Was you sitting on your brains?” one of the others asked.

  “Till a semi blasted by and shoved him off in a ditch.”

  “Okay, Bicycle it is.”

  Klah poked a finger at Cheese. “This one’s real name’s Dalton Apachito. He still thinks everybody calls him Cheese ’cause he’s a honcho. But it’s really ’cause his last name means Apache. So he’s that Cheesy Apache.”

  Everyone laughed, although Jazz figured that was a story told every time the group met someone new.