A familiar voice, calm, melodic, got his attention and he looked into the grinning face of Officer Emily Etcitty of the Navajo Nation Tribal Police.
“You can put the gun away, cowboy. The Indian is taking over now.”
Abe’s mouth cracked into a wide smile. Under any other circumstances he would have taken her in his arms. Now he just laughed and handed the two guns to one of the local lawmen.
Vicente DiMarco, Vito Benavutti, and the biker, still holding his gut and breathing heavily, were cuffed and led away.
Abe draped his arm around Emily’s shoulder, then, realizing it would appear unprofessional to the other officers, chuckled and dropped it. “Where’s the ape who made a run for it?”
“He didn’t get far. He’s already in custody.”
Abe still had a lot of questions, but only one that couldn’t wait. “Bowman—is he going to make it?”
“He was alive and alert when the ambulance picked him up. I don’t know the extent of his injuries, but he’s tough. They found Agent Wilson knocked unconscious behind a Dumpster on the side street and transported her to the hospital, too.”
“Bowman’s a good cop, has a big heart, too. I’m willing to bet he’ll pull through, but his days with the FBI might be over.”
They reached the car, brushed broken glass off the seat, and got in, with Abe behind the wheel.
“Would you have used that gun, Abe?”
Abe turned on the ignition and paused before answering. “I don’t know, Em. Who knows what anyone is capable of doing until the situation arises?” He blew out a long stream of air. “I guess so.”
39
Emily wanted to stick around until the doctors declared Bowman out of danger, so the three of them, counting one happy dog, shared a room at the Hampton Inn in Dumas. And that was fine with Abe—hot showers, steak dinners, and a soft bed. To make it even nicer, Emily slept in the same room, and the Navajo Nation picked up the tab. After they checked in, Abe took advantage of the opportunity to clean up and rest while Emily met with authorities at the Dumas Police Station and filed her report.
That first night alone with her, Abe felt hesitant and unsure. Though he wanted more than anything to crawl into Emily’s bed, hold her in his arms, and make love, he didn’t pursue it—afraid of rejection. They dressed and undressed in the bathroom, slipped into their separate beds, and pulled the covers up, then talked half the night. He learned that the other FBI agent, Peters, had been discovered unconscious near his post. He had, evidently, been ambushed by the bikers, and was recovering in the hospital with minor injuries.
“Damn. No wonder he never showed. What else did you find out, Em?”
Emily explained the connection between Vicente DiMarco and the Aryan Brotherhood as Bowman had described it to her on the long ride to Dumas.
“Bo got filled in on this bit of information just before we left Datil. The Feds had been keeping tabs on DiMarco and his involvement in the drug trade for quite a while, trying to gather enough evidence to form a solid case. The Aryans had partnered up with the Kansas City Mafia. The skinheads manufactured meth and sold it to DiMarco. He distributed it through his connections in the Midwest, and when he needed some strong-arm or dirty work done, he called on the Aryans.”
“So, who killed Easy Jackson?” Abe asked.
“The Aryans. They had more than one reason. Jackson wanted to break ties with the gang, but getting out of the brotherhood alive wasn’t an option, and DiMarco wanted him eliminated because of what he knew about the tapes. So they were getting paid for a job they planned on doing anyway.”
“How do they know DiMarco’s hit man didn’t kill Jackson?”
“It wasn’t Benavutti’s style. He would have put a bullet in the back of Jackson’s head instead of slitting his throat.”
“But where’s the proof the Aryans killed Jackson?”
“When rats are trapped, they start to squeal. Those three we picked up started pointing fingers at one another. One of them finally confessed to killing Jackson, but said it was DiMarco’s idea. I don’t know what kind of deal was made. According to the skinheads, DiMarco arranged the killing, but he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.” Emily went to the mini-refrigerator, pulled out a couple of cans of Miller, and handed one to Abe. “That motorcycle you heard at the campsite probably belonged to the skinhead that killed Jackson. The DA will get more from those goons we picked up because they will no doubt go for a plea bargain,” she said as she pulled the tab and settled back on her bed.
The cold beer tasted good. He gave her an appreciative look. “Thanks.” Abe repositioned his pillow and leaned against the headboard, letting everything she told him sink in. He realized he was no longer a murder suspect and let out a whoop of joy. “Goddamn. That means my name is cleared, Emily. I am a free man.”
She laughed at his reference. “Yes, you are, Abe Freeman, free to do whatever you want.”’
“Let’s drink to that,” said Abe, reaching across so they could click cans. He closed his eyes, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted, relishing the moment.
Abe finished his beer, set it on the bedside table, and faced Emily. “It’s all beginning to make some sense,” he said. “Except this—what did Corazón and the Mexican Mafia have to do with anything?”
“This is something Bowman and I didn’t get a chance to discuss, though I’m curious as well. Maybe he can fill in the gaps when we talk to him. If we get the chance . . .”
“We will. He’s going to be all right,” said Abe. It was more hope than certainty. “I wonder what’s going to happen to Marilu.”
“She’s still pretty shaken. The authorities have taken her to a private drug rehab establishment up north. She will probably require long-term psychological counseling as well.”
“Did you talk to her before she left?” Abe said.
“For a short time.” Emily smiled. “Marilu was crying when I last saw her. No more tough, bitchy attitude—just a sad young woman. She told me she was sorry she came after me with the knife, sorry she gave us so much trouble, and she thanked us, especially you, Abe.”
“The kid had a hard life,” Abe said. “I hope she can turn it around.”
After several minutes of quiet, Emily whispered, “Are you lonesome over there?”
“Yeah. Want to join me?” Abe scooted over and watched in the semidarkness as Emily stood up and pulled the oversize T-shirt over her head. He could barely make out the outline of her naked body, but when she crawled in beside him, he felt the taut smoothness of her breasts and the warmth of her strong legs as she snuggled next to him. He ran his hand over those breasts, traced the curve of her hip, her flat stomach, felt the wetness between her thighs. Emily crawled on top of him and he entered her. Lost in their lovemaking, they didn’t care what the occupants in the adjoining rooms heard.
The following morning, they visited the hospital. Robert Bowman had undergone surgery and remained in critical condition in the ICU with a ruptured spleen, several broken ribs, and a smashed vertebra. He wasn’t allowed visitors, so the two returned to the motel room. After Emily wrote her report, they spent the remainder of the day relaxing and getting reacquainted. In the afternoon they played tourists, walking hand in hand through the town and visiting the Window on the Plains Museum and Art Center. In the evening they feasted on barbecue at the Alley Café and, after stuffing themselves, returned to the motel to sprawl on the bed and watch reruns of classic movies, followed by a night of lovemaking.
On the third day the doctors deemed Bowman out of danger and moved him to a room of his own. When they arrived, the attending physician, a perfunctory-appearing Asian man with a name tag reading “Dr. Lee,” informed them the FBI agent was awake, and allowed a brief visit.
“You can talk to him, but make it short. He’s heavily medicated and in a lot of pain. He needs rest.”
Bowman’s large frame, bulked up by layers of bandaging, filled the narrow hospital bed. His brown-sugar head, proppe
d on pillows, offered the only splash of color in a sea of white. Despite the monitors registering every heartbeat, and tubes delivering oxygen through his nose and liquids through his arm, Bowman managed a grin when Abe and Emily entered the room.
“You look great in white,” Abe said, smiling down at the prone body.
“Thanks. It’s my new fashion statement. You two are looking pretty good.” He gave Abe a knowing wink. “I see you survived without any battle scars. Ever think of applying for a position with the FBI, Freeman?”
Abe laughed at the offhand remark. “I’m not pushing my luck. Glad you can still give me shit, though.”
“What’s the damage, Bo?” Emily said.
Robert Bowman reached for a glass of water and grimaced, so Emily held the glass close to his lips as he sipped from the straw. Afterward he lay back. “Ah, nothing that can’t be fixed over time. But don’t think I’ll push my luck. Time for a job change.” He took another sip, and Emily replaced the glass.
“How’re Agents Wilson and Peters?” said Emily.
“The doc said Wilson has a cut on the head and a concussion, but she’s okay, in another room, and will probably be dropping by for a visit with me in a couple days. Peters is in worse shape, but he came out of the coma this morning. They’ll both pull through. They’re tough like me. What about Marilu?”
“Marilu’s safe and sound, off to a quiet rehab center at some undisclosed location. She’s in the Bureau’s hands now, but she wanted me to tell you she would testify.” Emily smiled down at Bowman’s expectant face. “She said thanks, too. We got the bad guys, Bo—DiMarco, his ape, the skinheads, and the tapes. But there’s a couple of things I haven’t figured out. Do you feel up to talking?”
Dr. Lee poked his head in the door and gave the visitors an impatient look. “Five minutes,” he said before leaving.
“What’s not clear?”
“Corazón,” Abe cut in. “What did he have to do with any of this?”
Abe thought Bowman had fallen asleep. His eyes closed and he didn’t respond right away. After a few minutes, Abe looked at Emily and she shrugged. They started to leave.
“My boss dropped by to see me a short time ago. The FBI had been questioning some former members of the Mexican Mafia and picked up a few details we didn’t have before.”
Abe and Emily turned and waited for Bowman to take a sip of water before he continued.
“Seems Easy Jackson couldn’t keep his mouth shut and Corazón was an eager opportunist,” said Bowman.
“That’s it?” Abe said.
“Jackson bragged to anyone who would listen. Said as soon as he got out he and Marilu were going to cash in on a key that would make him a rich man. No telling how much he blabbed, but friends of Corazón got wind of it and put him onto Jackson. Corazón was on Jackson’s tail when you saw him in Clayton, Abe.” The agent’s voice sounded tired when he added, “The Aryans reached him before the Mexicans, but no one knew what happened to the key.”
“And you didn’t know this ahead of time?” said Emily.
“No. I was in the dark as much as you till a short time ago.” Bowman closed his eyes again and Dr. Lee beckoned at the door that it was time to leave.
Emily planted a kiss on his forehead. “We’ll keep in touch, Bo. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”
“Take it easy.” Abe squeezed the other man’s shoulder. He hoped Bowman would find his niche, just as he longed to find his own.
Abe and Emily spent a final night at the Hampton Inn. Their lovemaking was tender and desperate, as if both knew it might be the last time. Neither spoke of the future, and long after Emily’s breathing had taken on the rhythmic cadence of slumber, Abe remained awake. Early the next morning they loaded their few belongings into the Bronco and, arm in arm, strolled with Patch through the quiet predawn streets of Dumas, Texas.
After walking several blocks in silence, Emily stopped and faced Abe, taking both his hands in hers. “You can stay, you know. Will and Grandfather would welcome you. Will wants to become a hataali, a traditional healer, and Grandfather has agreed to teach him when his strength returns. You could find a job around Farmington—the gas rigs are booming now. The money is good and you can bunk at the sheep camp with Will and Grandfather until you get your own place.”
“Emily, I wouldn’t be happy doing that kind of work. I’m a musician, not a gas or oil rigger. My love is music . . . I hope I can get back to my music. It’s been a long time since I wanted to, but I think I’m ready. I miss my piano. But the truth is I’m not ready to settle down. I still have some things to work out in my head.”
“You don’t want to take a chance on me again, do you?”
“It’s not you, Emily.” Abe’s mind flashed back to the scene in the bedroom just before he placed the pillow over Sharon’s face, so drawn and full of pain, her eyes begging him to end her suffering. He blinked back tears, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. “There’s something I have to tell you, Emily—it’s about Sharon.”
“That you still love her and you always will? I know that. I’m not asking you to give that up, Abe. You know what I have been struggling with, and I need time to heal as well.”
Patch had run out of ammunition after peeing on every wall and hydrant within reach. The little dog stood looking at his master as if asking, What’s next? “Let’s head back,” Abe said. “You don’t know my story, Em, not all of it.”
They turned around and retraced their steps to the motel. “So, tell me your story, Abe.”
He took a deep breath. With his face turned away, and voice husky, breaking at times, he said, “Sharon was dying, and I helped her. I held the pillow over her face until her breathing stopped.” He had never said the words aloud before and held his breath, wondering if Emily would hate him now, as he often hated himself, but feeling at the same time less burdened, as if the load of guilt he carried had become a little lighter.
She said nothing at first, but took his hand and walked with him to the Bronco. Before they got in she stopped and took both his hands in hers. “In our culture death is nothing more than a change of worlds, not to be feared, and when it is inevitable, assistance is welcome as long as it is swift and painless. Your Sharon understood this.”
“I don’t know, Emily. In my culture it would be murder.”
“Not murder, Abe Freeman. There is a poem, in Navajo,” Emily said. “I will try to translate it for you: ‘When the time comes, when the last breath leaves me, I choose to die in peace to meet Shi’dy’in’—the creator.’ My people value the right to choose, as Will did. He did not want to die in a strange hospital far from the Dinétah. Your loved one also valued this choice. If you wish, Grandfather could help you unburden your mind by performing a purification ceremony.”
Abe wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, unabashedly letting his tears fall.
They drove back over the flat plains and low mesas and canyons, then on through the Duke City, as Albuquerque is often called, and, leaving the city, turned toward the west through the checkerboard BIA land into the dramatic and beautiful landscape of the Diné.
Abe spent the following day in the sweat house, while the ancient medicine man chanted healing prayers and Emily poured water over hot stones. When he stepped out into the cool night air, his mind felt clear, his body cleansed. Emily poured ladles of cold water over him, rinsing away not only sweat, but the weight of his burdens.
At dawn the next morning, as the breaking light extinguished the stars, Emily walked with Abe to his truck. He had packed the night before, and was ready to leave. Patch, still sleepy, curled in his usual place, riding shotgun.
“Will you be back?”
Before he climbed into the truck, Abe looked into her eyes, dark pools of mystery. “I don’t know. I plan on stopping to spend a few days with Sally. She deserves to know what happened. Then, I have an ocean to see, and then . . .” He took her face in his hands and kissed her softly. “
I don’t know.”
As he drove away, a fiery sunrise erupted, forming a halo around Dzil Ná oodili, the sacred mountain where Changing Woman gave birth to her warrior twins. He looked back and saw Emily, standing tall, regal as a mythic warrior in the golden light.
Abe swallowed the lump in his throat and scratched Patch between the ears. “I’m going to miss this place, boy.” He knew in his heart that was not all he would miss. He stepped on the accelerator, stirring up a tail of dust, obliterating the image of Emily, fighting the urge to turn around, and set his sights on California.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to give thanks to those friends and acquaintances who have assisted me in making this book a reality. Thanks to Steven Havill, for being the impetus that started me on this journey. Your writing workshops, tutorials, and nagging insistence that one must write every day were invaluable. And thank you to Pat Walsh, Steve Anderson, and John Johnson for always being there with your edits, critiques, encouragement, and friendship. I couldn’t have done this without you. Finally, I would like to thank my wonderful family for their continued love and support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2014 J.F. Johnson
Sandra Bolton lives in Raton, New Mexico, with her dog, Sam, and cat, Fidel. When not writing, she can be found hiking and looking for inspiration for her next story in the rugged Southwestern landscape. Key Witness is her second novel. Her first, A Cipher in the Sand, was published in 2011. She is currently working on a sequel to Key Witness.
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