Wind Catche

by Jeff Altabef

  A few other photos pulled up by my search were taken years earlier when he was protesting the casino. One shows an angry Roundtree in handcuffs, long hair blowing in the wind, a twisted sneer plastered on his face. He isn’t alone in the picture. He’s in the center of a group surrounded mostly by Native Americans, but the other faces are blurry.

  I scan further down the search results and notice a picture dated twenty-six years ago. It’s a blurry photograph of a group of men around a campfire. I click on the photo and it enlarges. A caption underneath reads—Secret Native American Society Among the Shadows by John Dent, July 25, 1986.

  Six men appear in the photo. Four are familiar: Sicheii, Roundtree, Samuel Brooks, and Joseph Hunter. Brooks’s shirt is unbuttoned and reveals a tattoo on his chest. I zoom in on the ink, but the image becomes increasingly grainy. It could be the same two twisted arrows my grandfather and Roundtree have on their chests. Or, it could also be something totally different.

  It’s silly, but the photo reminds me of my dream this morning of the campfire and the ancient Native Americans. I can’t put my finger on it, but when I study the expressions on the men’s faces, I realize the connection. They share the same raptured look, as if they’ve been told an important secret. A chill creeps down my spine.

  I search for the article, which should be connected to the photo, but nothing shows up on the web. Secret Native American Society? I type the phrase into Google, but nothing related comes up. I try Bing and then every other search engine I can think of, but nothing connected to Roundtree or our town comes up. I’m just about out of ideas when I Google John Dent’s name. He wrote three articles, mostly about local events. None of the other articles were dated after July 25, 1986—strange. Only one J. Dent lives nearby, and he lives in Old Town, not far from my grandfather’s art gallery.

  It’s already past two when my phone pings. Katie has left me seven text messages, three emails, and one voice mail. I ignore them. She should have backed me up with Cordingly, so I toss my last pillow from my bed and go downstairs to the kitchen.

  I gobble down a peanut butter sandwich and try to come up with a plan. I could ask Sicheii about this secret society, but without knowing any more facts, he’ll likely just tell me something odd that makes no sense at all. Without more to go on, asking him will be a dead end.

  Another incoming call on my cell phone interrupts my anemic plan making activities. I glance at the number, worried it might be my mother, and find Troy’s smiling face.

  “What’s up, Troy?”

  “You’re never going to guess what happened.” He sounds edgy.

  “I’m not guessing.” He always wants me to guess at the latest news. It’s annoying. “What happened?”

  “There’s been another murder in the Reservation.”

  An acidic taste grows in the back of my throat. Two murders in two days can’t be a coincidence. We might not live in the safest town, but two dead guys constitute a murder spree for us.

  “You won’t believe who they found dead this afternoon.”

  This time I take the bait. “Samuel Brooks.” He lives in the same neighborhood as Troy and is in the photograph with Roundtree and Sicheii. It’s a silly guess, but the silence on the other end of the phone is deafening.

  “How... did you know?”

  I grip the iPhone hard. My hand turns red. “Something weird is going on. I’m worried Sicheii is involved in it.” Now that I’ve said the words out loud, I realize they’re true and they frighten me.

  “Stay put. I’ll be right over.”

  Troy arrives first on his bike, but Ella’s beat-up white Ford Fusion pulls up right behind him. A fresh dent marks the front bumper where it looks like she hit a tree, and duct tape wraps around the side mirror, which dangles precariously from the door. That’s not the only duct tape on the car—the right taillight and rear bumper both benefit from patches of tape to hold them together. I open the front door, and Troy leads Ella and Marlon into the house. It’s good to see my old high school friends again. I hadn’t noticed how isolated I had become. It must be a couple of months since we last hung out together and that’s too long. The fault is likely mine.

  I march them toward the kitchen, grinning and shaking my head.

  “What’s the problem,” Ella asks, a bite in her voice.

  “I can’t get used to you two together,” I say. “You’re barely half his size.” She’s just short of five feet and resembles a pixie with short brown hair, cream-colored skin, freckles that bunch around her cheeks, and wide, chestnut eyes. Marlon is quiet and big. He’s slightly taller and wider than Troy, dark skinned, and round in a natural, puffy way like a human cheese doodle.

  Ella shrugs. “You know what they say, opposites attract. Besides, I like my guys big.”

  “And we all know Ella’s way tougher than Marlon,” Troy adds. More than a trace of amusement sparkles behind his eyes.

  Ella chuckles. “Just don’t call me—”

  “Tinker.” Troy and I complete the sentence for her.

  We all laugh and it feels good. I feel a little more like the person I was before switching schools.

  “Billy Trout will never be the same,” Marlon says. We all smile and think back to eighth grade. A few of the older boys started calling Ella Tinker. She marched toward Billy, the largest of the bullies, kicked him hard in the shin, and pounced. Marlon and Troy pulled her off him, but not before she left the boy with a bloody nose, two black eyes, and one cracked tooth. No one dared call her Tinker again.

  “He deserved it. Besides, he left me with no choice. No way I’m going through high school called Tinker. I’d rather cover myself with sugar and kick a beehive.” Ella speaks in one quick burst.

  When we reach the kitchen, Troy asks, “So how did you know Sam Brooks was murdered? You couldn’t have just guessed. What’s going on?”

  “I didn’t know for sure.” I lean against the center island.

  “How did you guess, Juliet?” Troy rubs his hands together. His eyes are suspicious, narrow slits.

  “I was surfing Roundtree’s name to find some clues why he was killed and came across an old photograph.” After a few keystrokes on my laptop, the old picture pops up and I hand the computer to him. He holds it low so Ella and Marlon can see.

  “Secret Society?” Marlon rumbles, his voice as deep as a desert well.

  “I don’t know what that’s about, but my grandfather’s in the photo, plus Brooks, Roundtree, and Joe Hunter. I don’t recognize the other two guys.”

  “That one is Edward Taylor,” Ella says. “I recognize him from old pictures at school. He died five years ago. I think he had cancer. He was also a medicine man.”

  “Another medicine man. What are the odds of that?” A nervous fluttering twists my stomach. We have a puzzle and the first pieces are fitting together, but a little voice in my head tells me it’s going to be complicated, and I’m not sure I’ll like the picture when all of the pieces fit together.

  “This doesn’t prove anything,” Troy says. “It’s probably just a coincidence.”

  “Did you find anything else about this secret society on the internet?” Ella asks.

  I shake my head. “Nothing. Even when I Googled John Dent’s name, only some old articles and an address for him in Old Town came up.”

  She takes the laptop from Troy. “Did you look through The Sentinel’s archives?”

  My blank expression tells her everything she needs to know.

  “My uncle works at the newspaper. For their 50th anniversary last year, they placed all of the old editions on their website under archives so people can go back and look at them.” She glances up from the computer. “It was in all the papers. They’ll probably go totally electronic soon anyway. The cost of paper keeps going up, and they make most of their money on e-advertising. I’d be surprised if anyone prints a paper ten years from now.”

  Troy shrugs, and Marlon eyes the refrigerator. He’s always grazing.

  “A
re you guys hungry?” I ask. “We have leftovers in the fridge.”

  Marlon swings his wide frame toward the fridge. “No need to trouble yourself.” He opens the door. “I’ll help myself.”

  Ella has The Sentinel’s website up on the laptop and clicks the Archives tab. “Do you remember the date of the photograph?”

  Marlon carries a plate of fried chicken in one hand and a drumstick in the other. “Did you know there are more chickens than people in the world?”

  “Where’d you get that from?” Troy asks.

  “Snapple cap. And the date on the photograph was July 25th 1986.” The words compete for space with chicken. I shoot him a look and he shrugs. “I have a good memory.”

  “Like an elephant,” Troy jokes.

  “You’re just jealous,” Ella says.

  My world goes fuzzy. One moment Ella is typing on the laptop and the next, my mind swims, my legs buckle and a splitting pain cracks open my skull. A jumble of voices all mutter at the same time. They don’t make any sense. I squeeze my ears shut and shake my head from side to side. Worried I might fall, I lean heavily against the counter and luckily, the pain and noise vanish as quickly as they came.

  Troy grabs my waist. I didn’t even notice him move toward me. “Are you okay, Jules?”

  All three faces stare at me nervously. I don’t like their expressions, especially Troy’s, so I shake him off and lie. “I’m fine. I haven’t eaten anything in a while. I got a little dizzy.” Apparently, the new me lies constantly.

  Marlon thrusts the plate of fried chicken toward me. The last thing I want is to eat something, but what choice do I have? I grab the smallest drumstick and bite into the chicken with fake gusto.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to lie down or anything?” Troy asks.

  “I’m good.” To prove it, I finish the chicken leg in three bites and hope to keep it down.

  Ella types in the date for the article and flashing red words appear - Improper Date. “That’s odd.” She tries the day before. The newspaper appears on the screen. “Hmm,” she says, and tries the date after. Another newspaper pops on the screen.

  “Someone’s deleted the July 25th issue from the archives,” she explains. “I wonder why. The issue before and after are both available online. Every issue The Sentinel has ever published is supposed to be on the archives. That’s what they said.”

  “It’s obvious,” Marlon rumbles.

  We all stare at him. This time, he holds a chicken wing in his hand.

  “Someone doesn’t want us to read what’s in that paper.”

  I have a sick feeling he’s right.

  “We can ask your grandfather,” Troy suggests. “I’m sure he would remember an article written about secret Native American societies with his picture attached to it. There’s probably an easy explanation for all this.”

  “No way. We need to know more before I ask Sicheii. I have a feeling this is more complicated than a newspaper article. Too many coincidences are lining up, and I don’t like the way my grandfather is in the middle of them.”

  I retrieve the laptop from Ella and type in a search for Dent. The address for J. Dent in Old Town flashes onto the screen. “We’re going to have to visit Mr. Dent and ask him.”

  “Let’s go for a drive,” Ella says.

  Marlon places the now empty plate into the sink. “I’m in.” He takes Ella’s hand and marches toward the front door.

  I know it isn’t right, but a twinge of jealousy stabs me in the side. I’ve never had a real boyfriend. I sneak a furtive glance at Troy, who follows the happy couple a step behind. He’s always been around, but our relationship has never been more than just friends. I’m not sure why, or if I want it to be more. He’s had many girlfriends over the last couple of years, but we have an unspoken agreement. I never ask about them, and he never tells me.

  How stupid is that?

  Ella zips through traffic on her way to Old Town, revving the engine hard, swerving around a slow moving station wagon and plowing across a light she claims had just turned orange. She drives the way she thinks: fast and on the edge of chaos. I try not to look out the window as we screech to a stop inches away from a truck stopped at a red light.

  Troy sits in the backseat with me and we share a look. Driving with Ella is a little like riding a roller coaster without the safety features.

  “How did you guys find out about Brooks?” I ask no one in particular, hoping to distract myself from the swerving and screeching of tires.

  “Marlon lives a few blocks from his house. He saw police cars and his brother at the scene,” Troy says.

  “His brother?”

  “Yeah. He started working for the sheriff’s department a few weeks ago,” Troy says.

  “Good for him,” I say.

  “If he doesn’t screw up, I’m hoping he’ll get me a job after high school,” Marlon says.

  “With your brother, that’s a big if,” Ella shoots me a look in the rearview mirror. “He was late for his first day. He forgot to set the alarm.”

  “Could happen to anyone,” I say. “Some of us aren’t morning people. How did Brooks die? Was he tortured like Roundtree?”

  “My bro didn’t give me the details, but he looked white and his face puckered up like he was about to lose his lunch. I could tell from his expression Brooks was murdered. I don’t know about torture.”

  “The two killings have to be connected.” I sigh. A sick feeling tells me these murders are tied to the photograph and my grandfather. I just need to figure out how the pieces fit together before Sheriff Daniels or the killer.

  Ella swings the car into a parking lot on the East end of Old Town and screeches to a stop between two white SUVs with out-of-town plates. Old Town consists of a collection of narrow winding cobblestone streets, which are too tight for cars. Locals rarely come to Old Town except to work. As a young girl, I used to go with Sicheii to his art gallery during the weekends when Mom went to her office. We spent many hours in the ice cream shop next to his gallery. I always got chocolate and rummaged through the red rock souvenirs they sold from large plastic boxes.

  As we pile out of the car, I ask, “Do you guys know if Brooks had a funky tattoo on his chest?”

  They all shake their heads.

  “Why?” Ella asks.

  “Roundtree had weird ink on his chest. I saw it in one of the pictures. Maybe it’s a clue.” I don’t mention my grandfather’s tattoo. I feel bad about withholding information from my friends, but I don’t want to make my grandfather seem more like a deranged killer than he already does. After all, he’s still my grandfather. There must be some explanation for these murders that doesn’t involve him wielding an antique hatchet.

  The streets are mostly empty, it being that lazy time after lunch and before dinner. The address for Dent lists him on 3rd Street. While Old Town attracts mostly tourists, many of the old brick buildings still have apartments above the storefronts.

  My legs grow heavy as we approach Sicheii’s gallery on the way to Dent’s place. We pass two restaurants and one t-shirt shop. I slow to a creep when we cross the street and onto the block with his gallery. I stop at the ice cream shop next door and feel a little foolish. My relationship with Sicheii has always been complicated. He’s not like a normal grandfather who sits in a rocking chair, reads books, and goes to school plays. He has an edge, a wild side he’s always shared with me in glimpses. It probably has to do with his medicine man training. He just sees life differently from most. I worry that edge has led him into real trouble this time.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to just ask Jake about all of this?” Troy asks as we stand on the edge of his building, just before the windows. “I’m sure he’ll give us a simple explanation.”

  I snort. “When has my grandfather ever given a simple explanation? I need to understand what’s going on before we talk to him.” I inch forward as we reach the corner of his store and peek through the window.

  “Who’s talk
ing to Lisa?” Ella asks. “They seem to be having quite an argument.”

  Lisa is waving her arms around, her face squeezed tightly together. She leans forward aggressively. Ms. Arnold crosses her arms against her chest, her face flush.

  “She’s one of my teachers from Bartens. I didn’t realize they knew each other, but they both went to Arizona State.” I start to feel a little dizzy. I’m sure they’re arguing over my grandfather, and the argument has something to do with these murders. I have no idea how or why, but I had better find out soon.

  “Well, whatever they’re fighting about, they certainly seem angry,” Ella says. “I don’t see any sign of your grandfather.”

  “He’s probably upstairs,” Troy says.

  Ella checks the windows above the gallery. No light sneaks past the drawn curtains. “It looks like he’s out to me.”

  I don’t like waiting around on the street by the gallery. I keep expecting Sicheii to jump out from behind me like he’s done a hundred times before. I bite my lip to gain control over my imagination. The pain helps.

  I’m about to suggest we move along when a wet, sticky, tongue licks my fingers. I look down and find a chocolate cockapoo staring up at me. My attention was so fixed on studying the gallery I didn’t notice the dog sneak up on me. He’s knee high, has beautiful chestnut eyes, curly fur, and a cute little soul patch of gray fur on his chin. He cocks his head to one side as if he’s asking me to rub the fur on his head, so I oblige, and swear he smiles at me.

  A middle-aged woman jogs toward us. “Come back, Charlie!” she shouts as she crosses the street.

  “Don’t worry, the Dog Whisperer has him,” Ella tells the red-faced woman.

  “I’m so sorry. He never runs like that. I don’t know what got into him.” She picks up the end of his black leash.

  Charlie sits at attention and stares at me. He drags a smile from me because he could be the cutest dog I’ve ever seen. “I just have this effect on dogs.” I shrug. “They seem to like me.” Dogs have always acted weirdly around me. I don’t know why. Troy used to joke that I smell like a milk bone, but he stopped when I stomped hard on his foot and elbowed him in the gut the last time he said that two years ago.