Path of the Dead

by Mark Edward Langley

  Before he could answer, she stood and gave a slight shrug, and the unbuttoned shirt dropped to the floor. Arthur stood mesmerized. The morning sunlight slanting through the window behind him bathed her body in gold as she stepped up to him.

  “I’ve already had a shower,” Arthur said, mustering all the self-control he could to withstand this surprise attack. “And besides, Billy’s already grooming the horses for today.”

  Sharon pressed herself into his body. “Billy Yazzie can just keep right on grooming,” she said. “He won’t miss you.”

  Arthur felt her fingers walking their way up his back, the dense fullness of her breasts pressing more solidly into his chest, and her pelvis conveying the rest. She stood on her tiptoes and softly kissed his mouth.

  “Well,” he added, “I do have that tour group coming at eleven o’clock.”

  “You’re making it awfully hard for me, aren’t you?” Sharon said, smiling.

  Arthur smiled and pressed against her. “Actually, you’re the one making it hard.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sharon soared over the ten-foot chain-link fence surrounding the Alexander Municipal Airport in Belen, New Mexico, a little after one in the afternoon. The fence had been erected to keep curious animals, including any mischievous two-legged ones, from disrupting air traffic on runway 21 at the small airport, which, from fourteen thousand feet, resembled nothing more than a slivered laceration on the sandy landscape.

  The Piper’s landing was simple and straightforward for an aircraft of its size. Anything larger trying to navigate the field would have a pretty unnerving time of it. The electrohydraulic landing gear locked into place upon approach, and she soon felt the jolt and heard the chirp of rubber as the tires met the tarmac. The Saratoga PA-32R taxied toward a cluster of small planes parked near a Quonset hangar proclaiming skydive new mexico in ten-foot block letters. There, anyone wishing to experience the exhilaration of near death could shell out anywhere from ninety-five to two hundred fifty dollars for the thrill of pushing their luck. Sharon cut the power to the air-cooled Lycoming engine and listened to the familiar sputter as the Hartzell propeller spun to a stop.

  She had left the Four Corners Regional Airport in Farmington that morning with mixed emotions. It had been a long time since they made love like newlyweds, since she felt his fingertips caressing her body, his lips kissing her throat, and his strong body covering hers. But she couldn’t get the thought out of her mind that it had also been an automatic reaction to their argument. Had they both simply resorted to the only way they could still experience a connection after all this time?

  Sailing on the upper-level winds, she had tucked away her thoughts enough to enjoy the solitude of studying New Mexico’s deeply cut and textured surface. How the mountains wrinkled their way up from the vast plain, and the brown-and-ochre desert gave way to green forests; how the wandering lines of blacktop ran like varicose blood vessels across the land. When she was flying, she saw no boundaries and no counties, no fences of any kind. The land was as open and free as it had been in the centuries before the Europeans arrived and began carving things up for themselves.

  She had decided not to program the GPS, but use the highways instead. Her flight plan had taken her along New Mexico 371, past Chaco Canyon, whose massive D-shaped remains passed slowly beneath her port window as she continued south to Crownpoint. She cruised over Hosta Butte at a comfortable 177 knots, then dipped her wing and banked southwestward on the winds off Mount Powel so she could connect with Interstate 40 at Thoreau. From there, it was easy to follow I-40 around the veined terrain of Blue Water Lake and the playa at Milan, which always reminded her of a giant stingray.

  Pressing a hidden compartment, she removed a pair of aviators from their nest and slipped them on as other small towns rolled beneath the belly of the Saratoga. She floated over Laguna Pueblo and skirted the sprawling urban expanse that was Albuquerque. After lining up with Interstate 25, she headed south over Isleta Pueblo, toward her date with Mr. Harvey’s House.

  During the final leg of her journey, their conversation over breakfast replayed in her head. Had Arthur truly wanted to move forward, or was he just telling her what she wanted to hear? He certainly hadn’t shown the spark she hoped to see when she put the question to him. He had lost a lot that day, too, and perhaps, as with her, not a day had gone by that he didn’t think about it. But also, like her, he had managed to push it away and build a wall around it too high for it to climb over. Perhaps, she ventured further, he had locked it away somewhere just as she had done, deep inside the vault of her mind, where she would never find herself walking except on those dark days when the pain and loss consumed her.

  Sharon turned her head briefly to look out the side window and wiped away a tear. After regaining her composure, she let her thoughts continue. That morning, the past had been ripped from the vault and thrown over the wall, where they would be forced to deal with it. She had thought that confronting the past would somehow free them to live for the future. But his reaction had shown her that the division between them, which had begun slowly at first, had quietly grown into an abyss too great to bridge.

  It had started when little things began to creep into their daily life. They had begun to spend more time apart—not only because of work, but while at home, too. The horses seemed to require more of Arthur’s attention, while she just lay in bed watching television, reading, sleeping, or awake and staring at the ceiling, trapped in her own thoughts. She had also begun to snap at him for things that never bothered her before. Innocuous things such as not replacing the paper towels before they were gone, not keeping fresh bottles of water in the refrigerator, not reading her mind and having the pot ready and boiling on the stove whenever she wanted hot tea.

  She remembered being a basket case for most of the first year, while Arthur tried to walk on eggshells, tiptoeing around in fear of triggering one of her emotional avalanches. Nothing he could do or say was done right or said correctly. And whatever he had done right was always grounds for confrontation because it wasn’t done the way she had always done it. She shook her head, wondering how he had even managed to stay around. Other men would have simply cut and run. Maybe he still would if he got the chance.

  Sharon climbed out of the cockpit and onto the wing of the Saratoga as the mild weather of a new month brought the cool of October against her face. Shutting the forward cabin door, she carefully made her way down the sloping wing—a feat she had long ago realized was not easily accomplished in Michael Kors pumps, which was why she had taken a few minutes to change into a pair of neon walking shoes before leaving the Mesa. The rubbery soles of the pink-and-green shoes made it easier to descend the wing and absorb the ankle shock of hopping down onto the tarmac. She set down her overnight bag and went through the necessary procedure of securing the aircraft. Then she stood and smoothed out her tailored tan slacks and tugged at the end of her matching single-button jacket to look fresh and presentable.

  The temperature hovered in the low seventies, and the mild breeze that roamed freely across the west mesa of the Albuquerque Basin filled the air with the mixed scents of aviation fuel and catclaw blossoms. Since Sharon last visited the airport, it had tried to move into the new century. She remembered reading in an aviation journal about the addition of a pilot’s lounge with such unheard-of amenities as updated restrooms, showers, internet access, a conference room, and a kitchenette for those looking to take a break from whatever travels they found themselves on. Her black hair shimmered in the morning sun as she watched the KZRV news van pull up and stop.

  Oscar Hirada waved and pushed open the passenger door. Sharon climbed in and tossed her overnight bag in the back. “Right on time,” Oscar said. “I was hoping to at least have time for a nap before you plopped down in that thing you call an airplane.”

  “Hey, hey!” Sharon replied. “Don’t be knocking my bird.”

  Oscar h
ad dressed in his usual blue jeans, white Nikes, and Carlos Santana concert T-shirt from Las Vegas. His thick black hair was raked back over his head, and his mustache had been artfully groomed to droop past the corners of his wide mouth. To top off the look, he wore the wraparound sunglasses that he said made him look like Danny Trejo. Sharon just grinned.

  “What?” Oscar said.

  “Nothing,” she replied, inwardly rolling her eyes as Oscar put the van in gear. “You know how to get to the Harvey House, right?” She took a compact from her purse, popped it open, and began applying makeup with a small round pad while trying to balance her reflection in the two-inch mirror.

  “What, you think I’m unprepared for this journey?”

  Sharon glanced over her left shoulder with an amused grin. “I seem to remember someone who said they knew the way to Bandera Volcano and somehow we ended up in the Valley of Fires.”

  Oscar mumbled something in Spanish, and the van lurched away. Sharon laughed and finished doctoring her face with the puff, closed the compact, and returned it to its assigned pocket in her purse.

  On the way from the airport into town, Sharon noticed that some of the storefronts had changed names since her last visit to New Mexico’s Bethlehem. A sudden realization washed over her that change was inevitable and could not be diverted or postponed. She wondered, what with change being such a constant, if she were to become pregnant from this morning’s lovemaking, would it be a change for the better or for the worse? Could Arthur have been right about us not having the time? She hated second-guessing herself and was busy settling the whole train of thought snugly into a corner of her mind when she saw the rotating sign of the Wagon Wheel restaurant looming high above South Main Street.

  “Pull in there, will you?” Sharon motioned with her chin. “I have to pee.”

  Four minutes later, Sharon emerged from the restaurant and stood briefly in the bright sunlight until she located the KZRV news van. She walked across the parking lot, expecting to see Oscar behind the wheel with his seat leaned back, listening to Santana Live, but he must have had to answer his own call.

  Sharon took a moment to pull her Blackberry from its storage pocket in her purse and check the time. Arthur would be in his element about now, sitting tall on his horse, leading a group of tourists on a trail ride. Some European or Japanese tourist yearning to be John Wayne had no doubt gotten him to dress them in Old West garb, while others would be content to fill their cell phones with images from the trail in New Mexico. Arthur had often remarked that he never felt more at home than when he was on a horse, without a road or building in sight. She could see it every day and wondered whether she would ever find that kind of contentment.

  She tucked the phone back in its pocket, looped her purse over the passenger-side mirror, and slipped off her blazer. Draping it over her left arm, she retrieved her purse from the mirror and yanked open the van’s swing-away door. She froze.

  “You look even tastier in person.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Arthur held a slack rein, leaning back in the saddle while the chestnut stallion descended the narrow dry wash. He redistributed his weight and sat straight as the horse crossed the sandy bottom, then leaned forward as it surged up the far bank. In three strong strides, it pounded up through the silt and pebbles to solid footing above. Arthur wheeled the chestnut around to face his small group and said, “Cross at the same spot, but let your horses pick their way down and up.”

  His group today consisted of a middle-aged German couple with choppy accents, a younger couple from Australia with suntanned faces and blond hair, and an almost elegant dark-haired woman in her mid to late forties from Concord, New Hampshire. When they had filed up the worn path out of the arroyo, Arthur turned his horse to the north and studied his afternoon shadow on the ground. Then, glancing toward the sky, he pretended to figure out their direction using the sun. Tourists loved that sort of thing. It supported their belief that Native Americans could never get lost as long as they could follow the sun’s path across Father Sky. Arthur never had the heart to tell them this particular old Indian’s secret of marking the trails with subtle piles of stones so you always knew where you were.

  In fact, the only thing the position of the sun had told him was that their six-hour ride would soon be coming to an end. Part of him was glad. But another part was a little wistful because he hadn’t talked them into doing a pack ride and camping out for the night. He grinned to himself. That was always fun, helping them imagine the kinds of creatures that prowled the high desert night.

  “Is that a coyote?” the New Hampshire woman asked, pointing to an animal striding between clumps of buckhorn and yucca. Her face was soft, but her mannerisms were that of a strong woman who didn’t need a man to bring balance or meaning to her life.

  “His name is Ak’is,” Arthur said. “He’s been following us since we left.”

  “I never noticed him before,” the middle-aged German remarked. His looks reminded Arthur of the actor Gert Fröbe. He had paid extra to be decked out in the Hoss Cartwright hat with the tall domed crown, calf-length oilskin duster, bandanna, and chaps. Arthur had already taken his picture four times. Meanwhile, his wife had given him the impression that she was on this adventure only because her husband had wanted it and couldn’t wait to be done with it all and back in the world of roofs and walls and paved surfaces and cars.

  “He’s pretty good at keeping his distance,” Arthur explained. “Likes to be on his own.”

  “Is he some kind of dog, then?” the Aussie woman asked, shading her eyes with her hand.

  “He’s a wolf-dog: Siberian husky/timber wolf mix.”

  “I’ve heard they don’t make good pets,” the Aussie husband said. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of black Ray-Bans. Arthur wondered why he hadn’t given them to his wife.

  “That depends,” Arthur said. “They’ll generally do right by you when given enough love and freedom.” He watched the creature’s long trotting strides. “We have an understanding.”

  “Why did you name him A Kiss?” the New Hampshire woman asked.

  “Ak’is,” Arthur corrected. “It’s a Navajo word meaning ‘friend.’ I found him as a pup at a shelter in Albuquerque. He needed a home; I needed a friend. That was six years ago.”

  Arthur slipped the strap of his canteen from around his saddle horn, unscrewed the top, and let it dangle from its small chain against the blanket-covered sides. He drank a mouthful and reminded his guests to stay hydrated. “Don’t chug-a-lug it, though. Just a swallow at a time.” He didn’t need anyone throwing up on the horses or the tack.

  The trail he had chosen took them in a wide arching horseshoe pattern through Arthur’s part of northwestern New Mexico. He had handled the usual tourist questions with ease, trying to teach them a little about the Navajo way of life, and a respect for the land that most people had long forgotten. Now his guests were twenty minutes away from their vehicles, and he was the same distance from a comfortable chair and a cold beer.

  Arthur swung the big chestnut around and gave a few whoops like a bloodthirsty raiding party. Tourists seemed to like that, too. It echoed off the cliff strata and reverberated across the open air, like a fleeting ghost that quickly diminished into silence. Now galloping at a strong pace, Arthur smiled between whoops. When he looked back, he noticed that two of the three women were losing stride. He slowed the big chestnut stud to a canter to let them catch up, then rode casually with them the rest of the way.

  Arthur’s mind tipped back to a morning conversation with Sharon a few weeks before. He remembered her pouring coffee, setting the carafe down, and saying, “I just think I’m done with this job. It’s bled me so much I can’t bleed anymore.”

  He remembered getting up and rinsing their dishes in the sink.

  “I wish I could be like you,” she had said. “I wish I could just leave it all behind and not think a
bout all the awful things going on in the world right now.” She sighed. “Sometimes, being a journalist is like looking at the world through a filthy window. Every day, I go to work wondering what kind of cruelty humankind has inflicted on itself the night before.”

  He remembered his mind working to figure out where this was coming from, then deciding to venture a guess. Arthur Nakai, Navajo shrink. “I think, after years of developing a thick skin against what you were reporting, you find yourself questioning your own objectivity.” He grinned inwardly at the memory.

  Sharon had watched the steam rising from her coffee. “Maybe,” she’d said. “Do you ever regret leaving the Shadow Wolves? I mean, they were such a large part of your life for so many years. And you had that friend, right? The one who got shot.”

  Arthur nodded. “Abraham Fasthorse.”

  Sharon smiled. “That’s him.” She paused. “Don’t you ever miss it?”

  Arthur had rested his backside against the kitchen counter, both hands gripping the edge lightly, and thought briefly about her question. “Not really,” he finally had said.

  After three tours in the marines, he had spent the next twelve years of his life searching 2.8 million acres of Tohono O’odham desert for drug smugglers and UDAs. Some of the Shadow Wolves had even been shipped to Uzbekistan to teach the locals how to cut sign and track down their own smugglers. Most days in that job, he just left the house hoping to come home with the same number of holes he went to work with.

  He remembered snorting a laugh and saying to Sharon, “When they dissolved US Customs and dumped us in with the Border Patrol is when the bureaucracy kicked in. Under the guise of ‘Homeland Security,’ they confined us to seven-square-mile patrol areas and hamstrung us to the point where we couldn’t be as effective as before. It’s only improved slightly since then.”

  As they topped the small rise at the end of the trail, Arthur noticed the arctic-white Chevrolet Suburban of Jake Bilagody parked alongside his ranch house. The sunlight glinted sharply off the light bar that stretched across its pale roof. The Navajo Nation Police Department of District Two in Shiprock had acquired three new vehicles that year, and Jake, being captain, had claimed one to replace his Ford Expedition that had seen better days.