by Lynne Hinton
“My unit commander in Afghanistan always claimed that it wasn’t courage or honor that defines a soldier,” he had said, and George had stood silent.
“He said it was the sacrifice.”
And then the priest lowered his eyes. When he looked up again, the boy was already traveling down the dirt road in the direction of Datil.
George rose from the sofa, crossed himself, and opened the front door of the trailer. A dozen guns were aimed right at his head.
FORTY-ONE
Deputy Danny White was parked off Highway 60, down along the forest road that twisted and turned from Datil to Old Horse Springs, listening to the police scanner and eating a sandwich. It was a favorite spot of his when he was on duty and needed to park and take a break. He had a good view of the highway and any speeders he might want to stop, and it was a good hiding place where he could just rest and stay out of the line of sight of all the folks in the county who enjoyed telling the sheriff every location where they had seen his deputy.
Learning that lesson had taken a few years, but after hearing Roger repeat the story of Danny hanging out at the diner in the middle of the afternoon, or the deputy waiting in the parking lot in the evening for his girlfriend to get off work, he decided that being out of town and off the road was the best place to spend time when there was nothing to do. Besides, he liked being outside and alone. He enjoyed the freedom of being parked off-road in the squad car, the space to ponder, to listen to chatter on the police radio, and to think about things, especially things with Christine. And in recent months, there had been many things to think about when it came to his fiancée.
She claimed that she was going to marry him, claimed that she loved him and wanted to make a life with him. But after watching as Danny almost beat Rob Chavez to death when he thought Rob had hurt his sister, Christine had said yes to the engagement but refused to set a date until Danny found a better way to handle his temper.
She had been right. Danny knew he had problems with anger long before he started dating her. He had been involved in so many fights as a young man that he had been warned by the high school principal that if he didn’t figure out another way to settle his problems, he would surely end up fighting the wrong man and getting either killed or arrested. He had started trying to control his behavior after that conversation, but he had never learned how to control his anger. He just knew how to back away from a situation before he blew up. He knew how to walk away, but he didn’t know how to keep from getting to that boiling point. Much to his surprise, though, his anger management classes and the one-to-one sessions with the instructor were helping. He was learning things about himself he hadn’t known. For example, he was learning that he had real problems with being out of control, but that in fact life was mostly about being out of control. He was surprised that he was learning skills he would need for the rest of his life.
Danny rolled down his window and stuck his arm out. He slid down in the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. It was late in the evening, not too much going on in Catron County, and he had three more hours left on his shift. It was still warm, his belly was full, and he thought he might take a nap.
“All deputies, please be on the alert that there is an APB out on Raymond Twinhorse,” the announcement came across the scanner. “He’s driving a 1979 Chevrolet station wagon, white with brown panels. He was last seen near Highway 603, just outside Pie Town, destination is unknown. The suspect is considered by the federal agents who are tracking him to be armed and dangerous.”
Danny reached up and turned down the scanner. Raymond Twinhorse, he thought. They’re still after Raymond Twinhorse. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t understand all this attention being given to a guy suspected of robbing a bar. He didn’t understand why this guy Williams seemed to have such a need to find someone who had no criminal record and had never been in any trouble with the law.
He leaned back and recalled his conversation with a new deputy who was coming on duty when Danny was going off. As his most recent experience with uncontrolled anger, he guessed, it was the incident he would likely bring up in his next session with the class instructor.
“Feds catch that Indian yet?” the officer had asked.
“Not today,” Danny had answered.
“Why don’t they go over to the reservation at Window Rock? They take care of their own, you know.” The deputy had laughed at that.
Danny had not responded.
“I heard he went over there to Iraq and came home crazy, that he tore up the Silver Spur and threatened Gilbert that he was going to kill him and all his family.” The deputy was looking over the daily records and grinning.
“I was at the Silver Spur,” Danny finally replied, taking a few clothes out of his locker and placing them in a small duffel bag. He was planning to do laundry. “It was not torn up, and Gilbert didn’t say anything about a threat of violence.” He closed his locker and was about to walk out the door. “And it was Afghanistan, not Iraq,” he said. He wasn’t really interested in defending Raymond Twinhorse, but he did have a soft spot for veterans.
“Afghanistan, Iraq, what the hell difference does it make? That war is a waste of our money. And those guys that go over there can’t handle their shit. They go for a year, see a little action, and come home all messed up. They beat their wives, shoot each other, take drugs; they shouldn’t let them go to war if they can’t handle it.”
“Oh, and you’re so much better than that?” Danny had asked. He had never liked the new deputy, who had transferred in from Las Cruces.
“Hell, yeah,” the young man had answered. “I’ll go over there, raise hell with those desert rats, show them who’s boss, clean up the mess, and come home a hero.”
“Well, last I heard, they’re still taking names down at the recruitment station in Socorro. Why don’t you run over there and put your money where your mouth is?” Danny had asked as he was walking away.
“Why don’t you?” the other deputy replied. “Oh no, wait,” he added. “From what I hear, you’re already messed up and the only action you’ve ever seen in this county is that dog that bit its owner on the ass and a little old lady speeding home from church.” He laughed. “I guess you don’t have to go to war to find out you can’t handle your shit.”
With that, Danny had calmly placed his bag on the floor where he was standing, walked over, and punched the deputy in the face. The young man had not fought back, had instead screamed some obscenity and run out of the locker room. Danny remained surprised that he had not been called to the sheriff’s office to talk about the incident. “Maybe I’m not doing as well as I thought,” he said, laughing to himself.
He sat in the car and thought about Raymond. He wondered if the young man’s problems in coming home from the war were anything like the problems Danny faced without ever having left New Mexico. Did Raymond struggle with rage and the loss of control the way he did, even though they hadn’t faced similar experiences? He wondered how Raymond would fare if he was picked up by the FBI and thrown in prison. How long would he survive that kind of environment?
Danny didn’t really know Raymond Twinhorse at all. He was eight or nine years older than the young veteran, and they had never run in the same circles. Danny had been a jock in high school and had remained close with the other athletes, even those from different classes. They still met to play ball on the weekend and often attended high school games together.
Raymond, Danny thought, had been kind of a loner in school, sociable but probably not all that popular. He had heard that the boy was smart and won a lot of awards for his grades, and he remembered that Raymond had always been in ROTC, the group of kids the football players loved to harass. He helped out Bernie King when he was a teenager, working on the ranch, and he was often seen hanging around the garage with his dad. But in all the time they had lived less than a few miles away from each other, Danny had not spoken more than a sentence to the boy. He wasn’t even sure he’d recognize Raymond if
he ran across him, although lately there had been more than one photograph of him floating around the station.
Danny had actually not seen Raymond Twinhorse since he returned from his tour in Afghanistan. He had been away for a buddy’s wedding the weekend of the homecoming party, and since then, even though Christine had tried to organize a double date with Trina and Raymond, they had not gotten together. And yet, he had not pushed for an introduction. He had not been thrilled about meeting the guy. The truth was that he didn’t really think the two of them would have anything in common. And since Danny might be called upon to arrest Raymond, now a suspect in a robbery and in drug dealing, he was glad the double date never worked out. He was glad Christine had been unsuccessful in getting them together since he didn’t like socializing with men he had to drag to jail.
“All officers. . . .” The sudden announcement made Danny jump. He had gotten quite comfortable in the silence of the afternoon. In fact, he was almost asleep.
Danny turned up the volume as the county dispatcher continued. “It is believed that the suspect in the white station wagon is now heading east on Highway 60 in the direction of Datil. If you see the vehicle, please contact FBI Agent Lewis Williams,” and then she called out a phone number. There was some static and then the words, “Do not approach the suspect alone. He is believed to be armed and dangerous. Call the FBI if you see this vehicle or the suspect, Raymond Twinhorse.”
Danny sat up, placing his hand on his revolver. “Where are you going, Raymond?” he asked out loud, and then, just as the words left his lips, a white station wagon came speeding around the curve behind him, snaking and swerving down the dirt road, heading squarely in his direction.
PART FIVE
FORTY-TWO
Father George wasn’t sure what was happening. The guard escorting him out of his cell and through the main exit wouldn’t explain anything. He had shown up that afternoon, barking orders at the priest to get out of bed and walk to the cell door. When George did as he was told, sliding out of his cot and moving toward the front of the cell, shuffling his feet in the flip-flops that he had been given, the guard opened the door and placed handcuffs on his wrists. He started walking away and glanced back at George, who was still standing at the door. “Let’s go,” he instructed. And without knowing where he was going or what awaited him, Father George had followed.
The arrest, the processing, the almost twenty-four hours he had been jailed at the detention center in Albuquerque, none of it had been as bad as he expected, but then again, he had expected the worst. The previous evening, just as the sun was setting, George surrendered to the FBI agents who had surrounded Frank’s home. He walked out of the trailer, his hands high above his head, and was immediately thrown to the ground by Agent Williams.
George was sure that he had a few bruises on his back from the agent’s knee grinding between his shoulder blades, and his arms were sore from being yanked behind him. But aside from being handcuffed and then grabbed by the shirt collar and forced down to his knees, there had been no other physical mistreatment to endure. Far worse had been the mental struggle the priest faced, his struggle with dread and fear.
Williams had been so angry about Raymond getting away and the priest refusing to answer his questions sufficiently that George was convinced that more physical harm would be coming to him at the federal officer’s hand. He tried not to be overcome by his fear of Williams, but the hostile agent was a big man and it was clear that none of the other officers present for the arrest would have stopped him if he wanted to rough George up.
After he had been handcuffed, he was ordered to sit against the rear wheel of a car while they searched the trailer. Two armed agents stood in front of him. When the exhaustive search had been concluded and it was clear that George was alone, one of the agents had yanked him up by his shirt collar and dragged him over to Williams, who was waiting by the trailer steps. The priest had been forced to his knees, with the two agents still behind him and a gun at his back, while being interrogated by Williams, who loomed over him.
“Where is Raymond Twinhorse?”
George shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll ask you again, Father. Where is Raymond Twinhorse?” Williams’s voice had been calm but very sharp.
“I don’t know. We were here, and then he left.” He had decided not to tell the lie that Raymond had not been with him.
“Where did you find him?”
“Up near Techado Mountain.”
“You were in Ramah earlier?”
George nodded.
“How did you know where he was?”
He had shrugged. “Just a lucky guess.” When he looked up at Williams, he had wanted to ask for a lawyer and be done with this very uncomfortable interview, but he had known that the longer his conversation with Agent Williams went, the more time Raymond would have to get to Roger.
“Where is Raymond Twinhorse now?” Williams had asked again, leaning into George, his face close to the priest’s.
George shook his head, trying to pull away from the agent. “I don’t know,” he had answered again, feeling the barrel of the gun jammed into his back.
“You left Techado Mountain together, you drove to Frank’s trailer, you called Malene Benavidez, and then he stole your car and left you here?” Williams paused. “Is that what you’re saying?”
And George had sat back on his heels and stared up at the agent, his confidence growing a little. “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he had replied.
“You gave him your car?” Williams demanded, lording over the priest.
“I did,” George answered.
“And where was he going in your car?” The agent would not give up.
“Again, Agent Williams, I don’t know where Raymond Twinhorse went in my car,” he had lied.
Williams had immediately pulled his cell phone off his belt and made a call. He gave a description of the car that was already on file—since he had been following Father George for a while—and reported that it was likely to be somewhere in the area of Pie Town.
Straining to see the watch on Agent Williams’s wrist, George had just been able to make out the time. It had been almost half an hour since Raymond drove away, and Father George was hopeful that he’d had enough time to get to Datil and that Roger had come up with some plan for his release. He had waited, his head bowed.
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” Williams had sneered.
Father George didn’t answer, kept his head bowed.
Williams had kicked him, not hard but forcefully enough that George winced.
“You and these hillbillies from Cartoon County, you all think you’re above the law, but I’m here to tell you I can lock you up for a very long time. I got obstructing justice, aiding and abetting a fugitive, hindering the process of prosecution, and a whole list of laws about national security at my disposal for assholes like you that can get you in the same prison as terrorists. And the funny thing is, there’s not a damn thing you or your Mexican sheriff or your dumb-ass rancher church folks can do about it.”
Father George had not responded. He knew it was best just to keep quiet. He certainly had not wanted to antagonize the agent any further. Williams had kicked him again, calling him a name that George didn’t remember ever being called before. And that had been the extent of his interview. One of the agents behind him had jerked him up to a standing position, walked him over to a car, and thrown him in the backseat. “Take him to Albuquerque” was the last thing he had heard Williams say.
About twenty-four hours had passed since that encounter, and the only human contact George had had since his arrival at the detention center was a guard bringing him his meals: dinner after he had been in the cell for what seemed to be about five hours, breakfast before the sun rose, and a sandwich just before he had been ordered out.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked the guard, walking at a brisk pace, trying to keep up. “I don’t know a lot about
the law, but I’m pretty sure I have a right to an attorney.” He followed the man.
The guard said nothing. The two of them moved through a number of corridors, several large steel doors magically opening and closing as they passed through.
“I demand the opportunity to make a phone call,” George said, his voice a little louder this time, but still there was no response.
The guard led him through a final door, and George recognized where he was. He had arrived in the front of the center, the same place where he had started when he came to visit Frank. He glanced around and saw no one. At the desk the guard picked up a manila envelope, and George was given his personal belongings—his watch, a ring, his wallet and shoes, a crucifix necklace, and rosary beads. The guard unlocked the handcuffs and pointed to the front door.
“You are free to go,” he said, then turned and walked away.
As George made his exit with no understanding of what had just happened and what he was allowed to do, he heard a familiar greeting.
“Buenos dias, Father.”
George lifted his face, felt the warmth of the sunshine, and took in a deep breath. “Buenos dias, Roger,” he replied, glad to be outside, glad to be free. He stood for a moment, enjoying the outdoors, his eyes closed. When he opened his eyes and looked around, he saw that the parking lot was filled with people. It appeared as if everyone from Pie Town was standing there to greet him, and when they saw him approach they immediately let out a loud cheer.
The sheriff slapped George on the back and opened the rear door of his squad car, and as the priest started to get inside he noticed someone in the front seat. He saw the long black hair, now twisted in the traditional Navajo bun, and he smiled.
“Hope you don’t mind another rider,” Frank Twinhorse turned and said.
