by Mark Lukens
The older man shook his head slowly in frustration, sighing again, his breath misting up in front of him in the quickly dropping temperature. “I don’t really know. I don’t believe a human could’ve done damage like that with his bare hands. Nobody could be that strong.”
“So what are you saying?” Palmer asked.
Alonzo shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t have any answers right now.”
“What about the other crime scene?” Palmer asked. “The one in town?”
“I sent Susan Dorsett over there. The chief of police here,” Alonzo looked around like he might spot the large man somewhere.
“Captain Begay,” Klein corrected.
“Yes, Captain Begay. Sorry. He told me that he would have a twenty-four hour guard on duty outside the home while Susan was there.”
Palmer looked towards the Navajo police vehicles; all three of them were grouped together and parked the farthest away, closest to the dirt trail that led out of this canyon. The three Navajo police officers stood together in a small group watching everything in silence. “Captain Begay seems to be trying to help as much as he can,” Palmer said and looked back at Alonzo.
“Sorry, guys,” Alonzo said. “This one’s going to take a while before we can find anything useful. And speaking of that, I need to get back to work.”
The doctor finished his bottle of soda in a few swallows. Then he turned to head back to the mouth of the cave, the interior lit up in the darkening afternoon now that the construction lights were on.
“You guys working through the night?” Palmer asked Dr. Johnson.
“Yeah,” Johnson said, turning back around to them. “Some of us might try to catch an hour or two of sleep in one of the vans. Sleeping in shifts.” He paused for a moment and then added: “It’s going to be a long night.” He nodded and walked away.
Palmer looked at Klein. “What about you? Are you working through the night?”
“I’m going to stay for a little while, but there isn’t much to do until forensics comes up with some more evidence or the DMV comes back with whose vehicles are still here and which one might be gone.”
“You got some people you can talk to about your Navajo radicals theory?”
“Yeah,” Klein said. “And remember, it’s your theory too.”
Palmer didn’t want to argue with him.
“I’m staying at a motel in town,” Klein said. “There’s plenty of other rooms there.”
Palmer nodded. “Thanks, but Captain Begay asked me to stay the night at his place.”
Klein looked shocked. “He did? Lucky you.”
“We’re going to grab a bite to eat in town. He said he wants to tell me some things.”
Klein nodded and pretended to not look intrigued.
“I think he knows more about what’s going on here than he’s letting on,” Palmer said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Captain Begay left one officer at the dig site and worked out a schedule so there would always be one police officer there near the edge of the dig site, watching over things. Palmer told Begay that he didn’t need to do that, but the captain insisted and Palmer thanked him for all of his help so far.
Fifteen minutes later Palmer was following Begay’s Bronco as the afternoon quickly turned to evening. And forty-five minutes later they were back in the small town of Iron Springs. Begay pulled into a diagonal parking space in front of the Mexican restaurant. Palmer parked his rental car a few spaces down from Begay’s Bronco and he got out. He met the captain at the front door of the restaurant.
“The food’s good here,” Begay told him.
Palmer nodded—he believed him.
They entered the restaurant and it was bigger than it looked from the outside. The place was about half-full and looked like it could seat a hundred people at full capacity.
A plump waitress met the captain before he was barely inside. “Captain,” she called out and then she escorted him and Palmer to a table in the back that must’ve been “Captain Begay’s table.”
Palmer sat down at the table so he could face the door; an old habit of his. He had noticed the patrons nod and greet the captain as they walked by, and he noticed the lingering stares directed his way. He was wearing his FBI “uniform,” a dark suit and tie with black sunglasses. But it was more than that, people just seemed to get a feeling that he was the law, the authority, and most people tensed up around him whether they realized it or not.
Palmer took his sunglasses off and tucked them away inside his suit coat as the waitress laid down a simple-looking menu in front of him. No menu for Begay, Palmer noticed.
“I’ll have an iced tea,” Begay told the waitress.
Palmer glanced down at his menu, turning it over to where the alcohol would usually be listed. He was pretty sure that liquor wasn’t served here on the Navajo Reservation, but even a few beers would be okay right now.
“Sorry, no alcohol served here on the Rez,” Begay told Palmer with a smile.
Palmer locked eyes with the man, and then opened his menu. The captain was sharper and more perceptive than he had given him credit for.
“It’s been a tough day,” Palmer grumbled, using that as his excuse for searching for something to drink.
Begay nodded in agreement. “Eat something if you’re hungry. I told my wife we would stop by here and pick something up. I’m going to grab a to-go box for her.”
Again, Palmer nodded and then studied the menu again.
“Enchiladas are good here,” Begay offered.
Palmer just nodded. He wasn’t a connoisseur of food, especially since his wife had left him. He just ate these days to satisfy his hunger, and only that much … which often amounted to only a small meal or two a day. He didn’t have favorites or cravings. His freezer in his condo was packed with frozen dinners, his pantry with cans and boxes of convenient foods. A lot of times he would just pick something up … a hamburger or some kind of sandwich, whatever was easy. He didn’t need anything to interfere with the only thing he even cared about in his life anymore … his work and catching these monsters who roamed in the darkness, monsters that many citizens never even knew about. His life now was made up of mere functions to serve the higher purpose of his work. So, yeah, the enchiladas would be fine. They would provide the calories and the nutrients that his body needed to keep going. What he really craved right now was a few sips from one of the pints of vodka in his duffel bag which was now locked in his car.
“Enchiladas sound great,” Palmer said and closed the menu and pushed it towards the edge of the table. He looked around and caught the stares of a few of the citizens of this small town. Most of the people seemed to be Native Americans, but it seemed that there was a healthy mix of whites and Hispanics in the group as well. The eyes that looked back at him were eyes of shock, suspicion, fear, and curiosity.
“I guess everyone in town has heard about the murders,” Palmer said in a low voice when he looked back at Begay.
“News like that travels fast in a small town. Cops talk. People talk.”
Palmer nodded. He was sure that in the homes of people in this town guns were being loaded, threats and promises were being made to loved ones to protect them from the killers lurking out there in the darkness.
“John and Deena were good people. Now they’re dead … slaughtered. And their son is missing.”
The waitress came back for their order. Begay ordered two enchilada plates and a sweet iced tea for Palmer. He also asked the waitress if she could have an enchilada plate ready to go for his wife when they left. It seemed like a common request from Begay.
Palmer felt suddenly anxious and fidgety. He usually liked the challenge of solving a puzzle, but this puzzle felt so different. For the first time in his life Palmer felt like he was out of his league, like he was dealing with someone (or something) much more cunning and dangerous than he was used to. There were too many things that didn’t make sense about these murders.
The foo
d came fifteen minutes later and Palmer was happy with the distraction. He commented that the food was good; it was something he always said to be polite. They made some small talk as they ate.
“Married?” Begay asked Palmer.
“Divorced.”
“Kids?”
“One,” Palmer told him. “She’s at college.” He thought about adding that they didn’t stay in touch with each other much since the divorce, but decided not to.
It turned out that Begay had two kids away at college; there would be no following in their father’s footsteps into law enforcement. Maybe they were the kind of kids who couldn’t wait to escape this small desert town and explore the world, Palmer thought.
Begay watched Palmer like he’d had his quota of small talk for the night. “What do you think? You got any theories yet?”
Palmer pushed the pieces of his second enchilada around on his plate with his fork, dragging it through the salty red sauce it was drenched in. He didn’t have to tell Captain Begay anything … he really wasn’t supposed to discuss anything about the case with him now that the FBI had taken over, but Begay’s query seemed innocent enough, just curiosity for curiosity’s sake. And it also seemed like Begay had some ideas of his own, ideas that Palmer would like to find out about. Begay had already proven himself to be a very perceptive man, and he was a worried cop because twelve people had been slaughtered in his county under his watch.
Palmer shrugged as he stared at Begay. “Not really. No theories yet. I’m going to check in with the forensics team tomorrow morning. See what they’ve come up with.”
Begay seemed like he wanted to say something, like he was wrestling with how to phrase it when he was interrupted by a high-pitched screeching noise.
A tiny woman who could’ve easily been a hundred years old rushed up to their table, her dark eyes wide with fear, her nearly toothless mouth opened in a scream. Her hair was wild, her clothes a little disheveled. She was screaming something to Begay in Navajo, pointing a crooked finger right at Palmer.
Captain Begay stood up and laid a gentle but firm hand on the woman’s bony shoulder. Another woman rushed up to them and tried to escort the ancient woman back outside, but the old woman didn’t want to leave. She kept shouting at Begay.
Eventually the younger woman got the old lady calmed down enough to get her to leave.
“What was that all about?” Palmer asked him.
Begay leaned in closer to Palmer and spoke in almost a whisper. “She says she knows who the killer is.”
Palmer didn’t expect that. “Who did she say it is?”
“Come on back with me to the house,” Begay said. “You can sleep in one of the kids’ rooms.”
Palmer waited for an answer to his question.
“We’ll talk about it at my house,” Begay said in an even lower voice. “You can bring your bottle of vodka inside if you want to.”
That sounded good to Palmer. He stood up and grabbed for his wallet but Begay waved him off. “It’s already been taken care of.”
Palmer nodded, but he opened his wallet and left a generous tip for the waitress.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Captain Begay’s home
Special Agent Palmer followed Captain Begay to his house. They drove farther down the main street, leaving the buildings and streetlights of the town behind them. Without the streetlights, the world was so dark with an amazing display of glittering stars above the desert landscape. The buildings of downtown gave way to houses of different types and styles. The homes looked shut up tight, doors and windows locked and then double checked now that a killer was on the loose.
She says she knows who the killer is. Begay’s words echoed in Palmer’s mind as he drove. Begay promised to explain the woman’s words when they got to his house, once they were out of earshot of the curious patrons all around them in the restaurant.
Begay’s home was about two miles outside of town, down a side road. It was a modest block and stucco structure with a clay tile roof. It looked neat and well-kept with rock and cactus gardens in the front—much like Joe and Deena’s house had looked. Begay parked his Bronco in the gravel driveway off to the left of the home, its oversized tires crunching over the pea-rock driveway. A small car was parked on the concrete driveway and pulled up under an awning. Palmer pulled his rented sedan right in behind Begay’s Bronco, shifted into park, turned off the headlights, and cut the engine. He grabbed his duffel bag and got out. He locked the doors and pocketed the keys.
The front door of the house opened up as Palmer walked towards the walkway that led to the front porch. A thin woman stood silhouetted in the doorway with a small dog yapping away behind her.
Begay joined Palmer in the driveway. He held the Styrofoam takeout box in one of his big hands. “Come on inside.”
Palmer followed Begay to the doorway where he gave his wife a peck on the cheek and handed her the takeout box. A little mutt of a dog jumped at the captain’s leg, pawing at him for attention.
“Welcome,” Begay’s wife said to Palmer, smiling warmly at him. She was surprisingly beautiful, but it was a natural and healthful beauty.
After Begay gave his dog a few pats, the dog ran over to Palmer, jumping at him, showing no fear of a stranger in the house, only excitement.
“He’s our attack dog,” Begay’s wife said.
“I can see that,” Palmer said.
“Get down off of him,” the captain grumbled at the dog, but the dog wasn’t listening to him.
“It’s okay,” Palmer assured Begay and he bent down to ruffle the dog’s fur. He stood back up and glanced around at the house. It was as neat inside as it was outside. The smell of something sweet, sugary, and recently baked filled the air. The furnishings were simple and comfortable, overstuffed couches and a recliner in front of a big TV. There were some small cacti in pots on the shelves. Native American art and modern art hung on the walls.
“You expecting a teepee?” Begay asked Palmer and smiled.
Palmer didn’t respond, suddenly feeling a little exposed and embarrassed. He had to admit that he hadn’t been expecting the modern amenities and décor. He’d always heard stories about Native Americans sticking to their old ways and abhorring any American culture, but this house seemed like it could be any other house in a modern southwestern town.
“Don’t listen to him,” Begay’s wife told Palmer and she gave him another warm smile. “My name’s Angie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Angie,” Palmer said and shook her delicate hand. She seemed to be the opposite of Begay in so many ways: small to his large, soft to his hard, warm to his cold.
“I made some cookies,” Angie told Palmer. “Would you like to try a few?”
“I would,” Begay said.
Angie laughed. “I know you do. I was asking our guest.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. That would be great.”
Palmer followed Angie to the kitchen and he was handed more cookies on a plate than he wanted to eat.
“Special Agent Palmer’s going to spend the night in Elise’s room,” Begay told his wife.
Angie nodded. “I’ve got the bed turned back. Fresh sheets and a pillow.” Everything seemed to have been planned ahead, probably from a phone call to Angie earlier, warning her that he was bringing a guest home with him.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Palmer told Angie around a mouthful of cookie. “These … these cookies are really good.”
“My pleasure,” she told him.
“We need to talk some shop,” Begay told his wife.
Palmer handed the plate of cookies back to Angie, keeping one for the road. He picked up his duffel bag from the floor that the little dog had been sniffing at and he followed Begay through the kitchen to a family room at the back of the house that seemed to have been added on to the original structure sometime in the past. It was some kind of man-cave: large TV, stereo system, mounted hunting trophies on the wall, assortments of displayed rifles and bows a
nd arrows, framed photos of outdoor adventures. In a corner was a small clay fire pit, and above that was a metal hood and flue that ran up to the ceiling. In another corner was a desk with a computer on top of it and two battered filing cabinets beside it—Begay’s office, Palmer supposed. The whole room was dark and cozy.
Begay unclipped his police belt and hung it on a hook on the wall. He took off his green coat and slung it over the back of a leather chair.
Palmer did the same, folding his coat neatly. He set his duffel bag down beside his chair, keeping it close. He left his gun and holster attached to his belt. He would take them off later when he went to bed—his gun was always on him until he went to bed; it was an old habit from his training days at Quantico.
Begay glanced down at Palmer’s duffel bag and then met his eyes. “It’s okay if you want to drink.”
Palmer wasted no time pulling out his bottle of vodka.
Begay was busy at the small sink behind the bar. He filled a small glass with ice cubes and brought it over to Palmer. “For your firewater?” Begay offered as he handed the glass to Palmer.
Again, Palmer felt a little embarrassed, not sure what the politically correct response should be.
“I’m just messing around with you,” Begay said, and his smile seemed genuine enough. “You want anything else with it? Soda? Juice?”
“No thanks.”
Begay nodded like he’d already figured that.
Palmer accepted the glass of ice and he poured some of the vodka into it. He drank all of it down in a few gulps. Then he looked at Begay and lifted the bottle a little in the universal gesture of: Want some?
“No thanks,” Begay said. “I don’t drink. I’ve seen what it does to people. What it does to their lives.”
Palmer ignored the lecture as he poured another two fingers of the vodka into his glass of ice.
Begay gestured towards one of the leather chairs situated in front of a massive stone fireplace. The captain sat down in the chair he had draped his coat over like he’d been marking his territory, claiming “his” chair.
