Path of the Dead

by Mark Edward Langley

  A pale moon floated high in the changing sky as if chasing the sun into twilight. As the swift tropospheric winds propelled a swath of Cirrus spissatus clouds across the sky in what seemed like time-lapse imaging, their shadows ran over the land on their march across the mesa. The screen door slammed shut behind him as he walked over and sat in the rocking chair that faced the swing on the opposite end of the porch. He tugged gently at the tan leather ribbons with the blue-and-turquoise beads and reverently turned back the flap with the jingling cones. He could smell the cedar even before his fingers reached inside the pouch and felt the hand-smoothed wood.

  It had been a gift from his father when he was small. A gift passed down through four generations to his young hands. His great-great-grandfather had made it in the time before Custer was killed at Little Big Horn. Arthur marveled at the hand-carved masterpiece, from its sloping mouthpiece to its carved eagle’s-head tip. He took a moment to adjust the carved block on the flute’s nest and moistened his lips. A gentle breeze lightly tossed the thin leather bands that held the block in place as Arthur inhaled and placed the flute to his lips. The second he closed his eyes, the music took flight, and as his fingers answered its bidding. His heart and mind began to fill with the peace and harmony that would help guide him down the long road he now must travel.

  As his song came to an end, Arthur opened his eyes and let the final note trail off into nothingness. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Ak’is had managed to find his usual place on the porch and had been resting comfortably, listening to the tones cascading from his flute. Arthur smiled. He rested the flute across his lap and thought of Sharon’s father in Kayenta. Had anyone told Edward? Jake had said nothing of that, so it was best to think no one had. If Edward had seen the news or been told by a neighbor, he would have called. Or was he simply too distraught to call? Arthur returned the flute to its pouch and stood. “You want to go see your grandfather?” he asked Ak’is.

  The wolf-dog made no reply. Not even a perk of the ears or a lift of the eyebrows.

  Arthur nodded. “I’ll leave you some water, then.” It would be better for him to make the 156-mile trip from White Mesa to Kayenta by himself. And he would have to do it tonight.

  * * *

  The two-and-a-half-hour drive from White Mesa to K-Town had given Arthur time to think about how to tell his father-in-law that his only daughter had been kidnapped by a lunatic. The conclusion: there was no easy way. He would simply have to say it.

  Since Arthur’s father died, Edward Keonie had become more than a father-in-law. He would seek Edward out for his deep knowledge of Navajo tribal tradition and for his expertise with horses. And when an important answer eluded him, Edward was his mirror and his sounding board. Arthur rubbed his brow and rolled down the window of the Bronco to let the cold evening air help keep him awake. It was now after eight o’clock on what had been a very long day. He felt as though he had been chasing the sunset through the windshield of his truck and never catching up to it. He had watched it transform from a blazing fire to a seductive purple and mauve to black velvet canvas sprinkled with flickering diamonds that seemed to have been flung there solely to help him think.

  He turned the rust-spotted Ford from Highway 160 onto 163 at the brightly lit Fina gas station and drove north to Canyon Drive, where he turned right and followed its winding path around a maze of manufactured homes to Juniper Street. This was the back way into Edward’s mobile home community, and the easiest way get to his place. He turned left onto Juniper, which soon ran too quickly into Aspen, where he stopped to think some more. The truck idled. More thought. He was looking straight ahead at the grayish end of Edward’s modular house, illuminated in his headlights, and he could feel his anxiety beginning to build. His mind drifted back to the day he and Sharon surprised her father with his birthday present, successfully prying him loose from his disheveled double-wide of forty years and replacing it with twenty-first-century living. Edward subscribed, body and soul, to the philosophy of minimalism. He didn’t need all the trappings and distractions the rest of the world seemed to require. Arthur remembered moving his father-in-law’s bed, small dresser, table and three chairs, two-butt sofa, and two arm chairs out to the small lawn before the old rig was hauled away and the new modular house was set in place and leveled on the concrete pad. For someone almost seventy years of age, he wouldn’t have much to leave behind when he passed from this world to the next.

  No lights were visible in either of the black faux-shuttered bedroom windows—just the wide beam of the Bronco’s headlights. Edward’s older Chevrolet pickup, dappled with spots of brown primer, sat off to the left in the dirt parking area just past the gate of the weathered plank fence. Arthur took a deep breath and drove straight across the street and parked by the tailgate of the Chevy. He switched off the engine and sat for a long moment before climbing out of the truck and closing the door. It closed with that hollow metal sound that trucks make when they reach a certain age. In that way, old trucks were a bit like people.

  The night air seemed colder, crisper now, and the smell of the fry bread and wood smoke seemed trapped in the density of it. Arthur pulled the latch on the gate and swung it open. Once through, he closed the gate and walked up the dirt path, past the small satellite dish that hung on the face of the house, to the right of the main double windows. He took the two steps onto the small porch with one stride and knocked on the door.

  Edward believed in a lot of the old ways, especially when discussing matters of great importance. For those conversations, he always used Diné. “When I speak Diné I speak the truth,” he had once told Arthur. “When I speak in the tongue of the Bilagáana, I may become a pathway to speak lies.” This would be a night of speaking Diné.

  Arthur glanced up at the moon and stars floating in the blackened sky and took another deep breath and let it out slowly. A few moments passed before the inside door swung open and his father-in-law stood before him. Under the head of white hair that seemed as fluffy as down was a creased face weathered by a lifetime of Four Corners sun. Edward’s deep-set old eyes stared down a narrow nose flanked by prominent high cheekbones. The squash necklace that matched the bracelet on his right wrist captured the moonlight and seemed to take on a life of its own. Edward Keonie flicked on the porch light so his eyes could better focus on his son-in-law.

  “Arthur.” He smiled. “Yá’át’ééh, shiye’.”

  Ever since Arthur and Sharon’s iigeh, their marriage ceremony, Edward had always greeted his son-in-law as “my son.” And Arthur had always greeted him as “my father.”

  “Yá’át’ééh, shizhe’e,” Arthur replied. “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” Edward said, opening the storm door that now seemed to have a few more holes in its screen than Arthur remembered. Edward closed both doors behind them and motioned toward the main room and the pair of worn recliners by the boxy television that threatened to crush the feeble particle-board nightstand. Arthur didn’t say anything.

  “Sit,” Edward said. “It has been a boring night.” They sat opposite each other. “My cable doesn’t work. I’ve done all the nonsense they told me when I called them. ‘Push this button, hold that button, now type this in. Are you using the right remote?’” He shook his head. “They’ll have someone out here in two days between noon and four. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with this thing. It’s becoming more of a nuisance anymore and there’s nothing really worth watching anyway—just that reality crap and a few decent dramas is all they have nowadays.”

  Edward took a rolled up pouch of tobacco from the hip pocket of his khaki jeans. Edward never offered any to Arthur, knowing he didn’t smoke and couldn’t stand the taste of chaw. Edward opened it, took out a hefty pinch and tucked it into his cheek, then rerolled the pouch and returned it to his hip pocket.

  He spoke in Diné. “I sense that you are in great turmoil, my son. Is this right?”

/>   Arthur nodded. “Sharon has been taken, my father.” He studied Edward’s face. Seeing nothing, he continued. “By a man named Leonard Kanesewah.” Arthur told him the story. “The police believe he hasn’t harmed her yet. They think he will most likely use her as a bargaining chip.”

  Edward sat with his eyes divulging no emotion. There was no hurt, no anger, and no impatience—nothing that would betray his thoughts. Arthur sat bewildered.

  “I have seen this man you tell me of, in a vision,” Edward finally said. “I did not know who he was or why he was shown to me. I saw only the blackness of his heart. Before, he traveled the path of life; now he travels the path of the dead. In my vision, I did not see my daughter.”

  “The police and FBI have roadblocks all over New Mexico and Arizona,” Arthur told him, “because they believe him to be heading to Mexico.”

  Edward shook his head and waved his right index finger. “As I have already told you, he now travels the path of the dead, yet he is not dead. The police are lost in the smoke of the demon, and it is blinding them.” Edward waved his dark, leathery hand from side to side. “They will not find him. In my vision, I did not see my daughter.”

  Arthur waited.

  Edward sat in the recliner with his forearms resting on the worn chair arms, his old hands hanging over the ends. He raised his right hand and tapped with the tip of his index finger next to his eye. “I have seen a brave warrior with a strong heart fighting this demon.”

  Arthur waited some more. The visions of an elder were said to be powerful and were to be heeded. “In my vision, the demon with the black heart is battled by a brave warrior with a strong heart. The battle is one of wits and cunning and is waged on a field of white, where the strong heart will overcome his enemy. The vision has shown me this.” Edward paused, reached for a small coffee can on the table beside him, and spat into it. “You are the warrior with the strong heart, my son.” Pause. “It is you who must fight this demon.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sharon Keonie Nakai drifted into consciousness, helped along by the bouquet emanating from the stained sofa where she lay. She tried to move but couldn’t. In place of the cable, a black nylon rope crossed over the top of one foot and under the arch of the other, then wound around her ankles and looped through the binding that held her wrists behind her back. Every time she moved her feet, it pulled her hands back, tightening the bonds. Her hands and feet tingled, and the duct tape covering her mouth smelled of adhesive and thick saliva, which had a nauseating effect every time her tongue tried to push between her lips.

  The first thing tumbling through her foggy memory was that the car had come to a stop, a door had opened and shut, and then there was only the feeling of helplessness as she lay in the dark, smelling oily rags and tire rubber. She had no way of calculating how much time had passed or how far they had traveled before the trunk lid sprang open and the man stood above her, staring down and smiling. She remembered struggling with him as he pulled her from the trunk, and him dragging her toward the cinder-block house underneath the carport. And then she recalled the moment his big hand smacked the side of her head with a force that turned everything black.

  She looked around the room. It was Navajo Housing Authority construction. Sand-colored walls, garage-sale mismatched chairs and sofa haphazardly arranged, windows covered in what appeared to be aluminum foil and duct tape. No telephone that she could see. She registered the location of the front door and how many foil-covered windows were visible. Then she looked for anything that could serve as a weapon if she somehow managed to get free of the ropes that bound her. She also noted the pile of camping gear, flanked by two duffel bags, in a corner of the room. Maybe one of them contained a gun, not that it would do her any good at the moment.

  “What the hell did you bring her for?” an angry Latina voice said. “I mean, what the fuck?”

  “She’s our insurance policy,” Kanesewah replied bluntly. “She stays.”

  Sharon’s eyes moved to the woman’s face as she leaned into view from the kitchen doorway and then disappeared.

  “Your insurance is awake,” the woman snapped.

  Kanesewah stepped into the room, a stick of beef jerky moving in his mouth as he gnawed on the end. He stopped a few feet from the sofa, reached up and grabbed the moving jerky, tore a piece off, and chewed it. He squatted down in front of Sharon, both feet flat on the floor, and balanced his forearms on his knees, his head at a slight tilt as if he were examining her.

  “You, me, and my woman are going to be leaving soon,” he said, pointing at Sharon with the remaining bit of jerky. “And don’t even think about running, because you can’t. Those ropes are nice and snug. I’ve had a lot of practice.” He popped the last piece of jerky into his mouth and chewed. “It’s funny what turns a woman on these days. Tie ’em up and they get all hot and wet—that is, until they realize it’s not foreplay. Then the ropes become more pain than pleasure because the more they struggle, the tighter they get. And when they finally lose strength from exhaustion, they strangle themselves. It’s really something to watch. What I remember most is that they all died with their eyes wide open, staring at me while I watched them struggle for that last breath.” He gave a dry laugh. “But you don’t have to worry. I’m saving you for something special. You’ll see.” He reached out and gently caressed Sharon’s cheek with the backs of his curled fingers. She didn’t recoil—just tolerated his rough touch as it ran slowly down to her chin. He grabbed her jaw in his thick fingers, which smelled from the greasy jerky and set off her hunger. “And if you even try to signal anyone we come across for help, I will kill them. And then I will kill you, insurance or not. Do you understand?”

  Sharon nodded.

  “Good.” His hand moved from her jaw to test the fullness of each breast as it filled his palm. Sharon watched as his breath quickened and his eyes locked with hers. “Like I said, I’ve got real sweet plans for you. And I don’t want you to miss one minute of them.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Arthur Nakai’s breath fogged in the cold morning air and mixed with the exhaust curling up from the rear of the Bronco as he loaded the back of the truck. Even after living here most of his life, he still hated these frosty mornings. And sometimes, as winter drew closer, the afternoons weren’t much better with their icy winds and frigid temperatures. At times like this, when the skies were gray and the snow dappled the high desert like icing on a coffee cake, the damp air would creep into his body in search of a healed bone and make him remember the pain, while the cold penetrated deep enough to make his beating heart quiver in his chest. Although there was no snow on the ground, this was still one of those mornings, most likely enhanced by his lack of sleep. So he did as he always did on such mornings: simply turned up the collar of his shearling-lined denim jacket and tried to pay it no mind.

  Movement on his left drew his attention as Ak’is stepped into the Bronco’s headlight beams from the darkness beyond the corral. He moved quietly forward and stopped a short distance away. “Well,” Arthur said, “I wondered where you’d run off to. Figured you had a hot date or something while I was gone.”

  Ak’is closed the distance, and Arthur felt the animal’s solid, muscular mass against his legs. Then the wolf-dog wandered a few paces away and lay down on the cold, hard-packed ground. Resting his head on his front legs, he stared up at Arthur.

  “You know something’s wrong, don’t you?” Arthur said. Ak’is raised his head and listened, adjusted his front paws slightly, stretched out one back leg behind him while keeping the other leg tucked warmly under his body. “Mama’s not here and you’re wondering why. Well, I have to go find her for us.” Ak’is simply stared, twisted his head slightly to the left, and perked his ears. “Don’t worry,” Arthur promised. “I’m going to bring her back.”

  He finished loading the Bronco and tucked his .338 Winchester Magnum hunting rifle with its Nikon sco
pe and leather scabbard beneath the faux Navajo blanket he used to cover the rear cargo area. The blanket was one of those mass-market forgeries produced in Mexico. He had picked it up out of pure necessity some years back, at a store in Santa Fe. The clerk had stared at him with a confused look but said nothing. It was the kind tourists always bought because most could never afford the traditionally woven real thing. When over 750 hours of weaving went into a blanket, there was a reason for the high cost of craftsmanship.

  He picked up the carry-on suitcase Sharon had given him for when they traveled off the ground and slid it under the blanket with the rifle. His oilcloth duster went on top of the blanket before he slammed the tailgate and swung the spare tire carrier back into locking position. Pausing for a long look around, he smelled the sage and felt the cold crispness of the morning against his face. The cold air always had a way of reminding him he was alive. Looking up at the vast array of stars that filled the black vault above, he thought of First Woman, writing the laws with them until Coyote came along and, in his impatience, grabbed the blanket upon which she kept the stars and recklessly tossed them into the sky. Arthur hung his head in reflection. Perhaps one day he would become the teacher to a son.

  He cleared his mind and climbed into the Bronco, closed the rear window, took the GPS from his coat pocket, and tucked it into the glove box along with his night-vision binoculars. The two Glock 19C pistols—one holstered on his right hip, the other nestled in a shoulder sling under his left arm, brought with them the comfortable familiarity of his past. Ak’is now stood steadfast in the headlight beams, eyes shimmering like two golden rings. Arthur fastened his seat belt and waited for him to move. When he didn’t, Arthur shook his head and opened his door. Ak’is trotted up and jumped in, lunged across his lap, and sat in the passenger seat. Arthur just looked at him, closed the door, and began the drive to Shiprock. At least he would have someone to talk to.