He stubbed out his cigarette before lighting the next in the chain. “You see, when my mother drank, she often smoked.” Sharon watched his eyes through the wavering smoke. “One night, there was a fire. I made it look like she had fallen asleep after a drunken binge, and the whole place went up. Fire department just let it burn. No water out where we were, and there was no one they could save anyway.”
“I see,” Sharon said. “And what happened to that little boy?”
Kanesewah shrugged off the years that had followed, and spoke of being taken in by his mother’s sister and her people, the White Mountain People. And when they couldn’t handle him, how they dumped him off at some Christian mission school, thinking they would be able to curb his rebellious nature. “That was where I did as I was told until I was of age and was turned loose from the white man’s school. Their god meant nothing to me. And once I was free of it, I roamed around, had odd jobs, and made enough money to hit the bars at night. That’s when the need to hunt began.”
“Hunt?” Sharon said.
He smiled. “Like the true hunter, you learn to separate the weak from the strong of the herd. One night, I found a girl in a place I never expected to be, but hey, your hunting ground changes when the prospects are slim.”
“And what kind of place was this?” Sharon asked. The morning began to brighten, the sunrise contrasting with the dark story.
“Some sex shop in Phoenix. I don’t recall the name. She was all glassy-eyed in the bondage section. Secretly, you’re all into that Fifty Shades shit. Only most of you don’t admit it. Anyway, I got her talking, and when she felt at ease with me, I offered to take her for a drink.” He grinned. “Most women are oblivious, especially the young ones. They’re always willing to talk with any guy that buys them a drink and flashes some cash. Long story short, once you’ve got them, the rest is easy. Some like to be choked. Some like to be abused. Some like to be tied up. And that’s when it gets interesting. Because I’ve got this special rope I like to use—like what I used on you … but much more fun.”
“And are you killing these women because they all, in some way, remind you of your mother?” Sharon prodded. “Or is there some other reason?”
Kanesewah paused to think about it. “Because they all need to be taught a lesson. Women are blessed creatures. You yourself should know this. You are meant to be the givers of life, not become degraded whores pandering for a handout.” He tilted his head back against the cottonwood trunk and stared up through half-denuded branches at the bluing sky. “You know, when you’re at that moment—that one final second before you watch the life disappear from their eyes—you realize that you have all the power. You get to decide who lives and who dies.” His head cocked to the left. “And how they die.” Pulling his legs up, he wrapped his arms around his knees, brought his eyes down to meet his captive’s. “The Braun girl never even knew I was there. I pulled my knife and snuck up quietly behind her. My left hand was over her mouth before she even felt my blade against her throat.”
Sharon heard the swallow that seemed to reverberate from her throat. “And do you always use a knife? Why not a gun?”
“Because a gun is for cowards,” he replied. “A gun is for killing at a distance. There is no honor in that. A knife—that makes it personal, honorable. You get to watch them as they die.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Arthur kept his eyes on the advancing road while his fingers worked the Bronco’s dial away from its usual home, KNDN radio, “all Navajo all the time.” Ak’is sat in the passenger seat, soaking up the warmth pumped out by the Bronco’s heater. Tongue protruding slightly from the front of his open mouth, he watched the rain, perking his ears every time lightning flashed or thunder rolled. Arthur settled on KCYN and the Canyon Country Morning Show. Phil Mueller was warning his listeners about the heavy line of thunderstorms pushing its way east across the windswept lands of the Goblin Valley, into Moab. The storm line had taken the shape of a large bow echo coming from Salt Lake City, curving at its farthest point past Moab, and continuing down toward Bluff, where Arthur had entered the storm. He felt as though it had been tracking him every step of the way and was now beginning to intensify as he left Blanding.
Clicking off the radio, he switched on his CB and turned the knob to WX. He tapped the button and scanned for the closest NOAA signal. As soon as he heard the Stephen Hawking–sounding voice from the small speaker, he stopped the scan. With the voice of NOAA keeping him company, he weighed the idea of calling Jake Bilagody and telling him what he had learned at the house where Billy found the gray beater Impala with the rolled-down windows. Then he thought about how he was going to figure out where Kanesewah was heading, and how he would go about finding him. But mainly, he thought about Sharon. Did she know he was coming for her? He wondered whether she had been harmed. And he wondered at what point Kanesewah would decide that he didn’t need her anymore … or whether he already had.
He pushed through that thought as he stared out the windshield at the successive curtains of wind-driven rain. His hands gripped the wheel, fighting the hard gusts that pushed the Bronco toward the right shoulder and then sheared abruptly, causing him to steer left over the dividing line. If it got any worse, he would have to pull off somewhere and sit it out. But that would only increase the distance between him and Kanesewah—and bring him that much closer to running out of time. The decision had already been made for him. There was no stopping, no turning back.
He pushed past the reddish-khaki shores of Recapture Reservoir, now darkened by the heavy rain, and skirted around South Peak, then swung past the Abajo Mountains and entered Monticello. Crossing the intersection of Highways 191 and 491 at a green light, he turned into the parking lot just past the TacoTime sign that stood above a white propane tank and parked in an open spot. After telling Ak’is to wait in the truck, he pulled up the collar of his denim jacket and got out. He jogged past the pumps and the smell of gasoline and went inside the Shell station.
After a brief stop to void his bladder, he grabbed a square bottle of Pure Leaf tea for himself and a bottle of water for his furry partner, along with two packages of beef sticks. Back in the Bronco, he opened the bottle of water. Ak’is sat patiently, eyes riveted on Arthur’s hands. He watched Arthur crack open the tea and drink a mouthful before capping the bottle and setting it in the center console’s cup holder. The predator eyes stayed on Arthur as he opened the console and pulled out a collapsible silicone water bowl. It had been Sharon’s idea—she hated the cheap plastic collapsible cups because they always broke. He popped it open and poured water into it. Ak’is lapped it dry before returning his attention to the not-yet-visible beef sticks. Arthur tore open a package and pulled two sticks from it. He bit down on one and gave the other to Ak’is. He hadn’t finished chewing his stick when Ak’is was staring at him again, waiting for more. Arthur smiled, rubbed the big furry head, and gave him another half stick.
After devouring the rest of the processed beef, he tossed the empty packages into the truck’s console, along with the collapsible bowl, and turned the key. The wipers flung the falling rain clear as he checked the gas gauge. He had enough to make it to Moab, so he rolled back out onto 191 and continued north. Noticing a small row of semis parked in a larger lot north of the station, he wondered whether Billy had ever parked here on one of his runs. He remembered hunting near here, at Range Creek in the Blue Mountains, long before he met Sharon, before Waldo Wilcox sold the land to the State of Utah. He had liked being in this part of the Tavaputs Plateau, moving silently through its thick forests in search of a browsing muley buck. You had to catch them at night or just before dawn, he remembered, because they preferred to shelter during the day.
He passed the Canyon Motor Inn—just a few cars in the lot—and the Bureau of Land Management field office. He was looking for somewhere Ak’is could empty his bladder and whatever else needed emptying, and the BLM lot seemed a little too
civilized. He would have to find a more suitable place out of town.
He drove on through the steady rain, up the gradual incline out of town, where the hillside rose to his left and fell away on the right, down to the now drenched valley floor. Where the road crested, he crossed the southbound lane and pulled over by the city of Monticello’s hamburger-shaped wooden thank you, come again! sign. He let Ak’is out. The wolf-dog darted past the sign, sniffed at a scrawny patch of snakeweed, and hiked his leg, then moved on with his nose hovering just above the ground. He soon found a suitable spot to arch his back and make a deposit, then galloped back to the truck and jumped in.
Arthur shook his head. Nothing worse than the smell of wet dog. Reaching into the back seat for a blanket, he wiped the animal down and tossed the blanket back onto the back seat. He told Ak’is to follow it, and the animal curled up on the blanket and lay down.
“What do you think?” Arthur asked. “Think I should give Jake a call?”
The dog just stared up from his relaxed position on the seat and licked his lips, as if savoring the lingering taste of beef stick.
Arthur thought more about his idea as the truck idled in the rain. If he told Jake about the house, Jake would have to inform Special Agent Thorne. Soon after, Thorne would have his suits all over that house, thick as the flies in the kitchen. And he couldn’t forget about the rain. He remembered the preceding wind that had blown in with the thunderheads as they trampled like a herd of bison across the darkening sky, bringing with them the early smell of rain. But what if it hadn’t rained at the house? Would the G-men be able to pick up the sign he had found? Probably not. But if they did, Thorne would surely realize that his suspect wasn’t heading south, but north to God knew where. Arthur grinned. He would pay to be the fly on that wall when Thorne told his superior of that new revelation.
But where was Kanesewah heading, and for what reason? Arthur pondered that for a moment. If he were the fugitive, he would stick to the smaller roads and use the interstate only when there was no other way to move. And since he was probably changing cars more frequently now, he would be harder to track. To find Sharon, he would have to think like Kanesewah. Did the man have any family in the north? Did he have any pals or old girlfriends who might live up here? Oh, hell with it. He fished his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, brought up his contacts list, and tapped Jake’s office number in Shiprock. It took an extra moment for his cell phone to be rerouted to the phone on Jake’s desk, but soon he heard it ringing. Three rings later, the acting chief of the Navajo Nation Police picked up.
“Bilagody.”
“Jake? It’s Arthur.”
“How’s the moose hunting going?”
“Not too bad,” Arthur said. “I found Kanesewah’s car. It’s parked behind a tan cinder-block house just across the Utah border, off One Ninety-One.”
“Any sign of Sharon?”
“They were already gone by the time I got there. But I found three sets of tracks, including Sharon’s. Kanesewah’s got another woman with him. She’s probably just a little over five feet tall and between one fifteen and one thirty, judging by the size and depth of the footprint.”
Jake grunted. “Thorne’s gonna be pissed when I tell him his boy fled north.”
Arthur disregarded the statement. “Does Kanesewah have any reason to head north? Any family you know of?”
Jake said nothing for a moment. “None I can recall hearing about.”
“Can you buy me some time with Thorne?” Arthur asked. “Sharon’s tracks prove she’s alive.”
Jake groaned. “Now, you know Thorne would have my badge if I withheld information.”
“Yeah,” Arthur said, “and?”
“Don’t give me that shit! What am I supposed to tell him if he asks me to my face? You want me to lie to a federal agent? The word ‘obstruction’ comes to mind.”
“She’s alive, Jake; that’s what I know. Now, are you going to buy me some time or not?”
In the silence, Arthur could almost hear Jake weighing the possibilities, struggling with duty over conscience. Finally, conscience won out. “I’ll give you eight hours, no more. Clock starts this minute.”
“Thanks. I’ll owe you one.”
“You’ll owe me a big fat one if I’m still around after all this and not under investigation. Lying to the FBI helped get that Illinois governor an extra five years, you know.” Jake took a deep breath and let the weight of his chest push it out. “Besides, right now I’ve got a neighborhood search in progress for some yahoo that took a potshot at a Navajo Utility Authority employee today, so I figure I can do the dance steps with Thorne later.”
“What?” Arthur said. “Where?”
“Up around Fort Defiance,” Jake explained. “I’ve got men from two districts up there working with some Apache County Sheriff deputies and an FBI agent Thorne sent over.”
“You have an idea who took the shot?” Arthur asked.
“Not sure yet, but they’re working their way to a house we’ve been told a guy is holed up in. The Navajo Criminal Investigations team is on their way as backup, and the Fire Department is diverting traffic from the area. We don’t know how much firepower this guy has got, so we’re not taking chances. Jake returned his thought to the conversation at hand. “Like I said, you’ve got seven hours and fifty-eight minutes. After that, I call Thorne and piss him off.” Arthur heard him chuckle. “And I think I’m gonna enjoy that.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sharon Keonie Nakai shivered, but not from the cold of daybreak that fogged her breath in the air. It was because she sat across from a man for whom killing had become a kind of retribution, where each victim was specifically chosen to represent what he despised most. She had heard of his kind before. Some psychopaths were driven by a history of rejection from the opposite sex, while others were driven by a vengeance that had its basis in anger due to childhood abuse. But all of them seemed to have that balanced mix of charm and cunning and intimidation that coupled dangerously with a need to exert control over others. If anything, Leonard Kanesewah seemed to be all those wrapped up in one demented soul. Sharon tried to swallow but couldn’t; her mouth was still too dry. She trembled noticeably, but regained her composure before he could take note of it.
She turned her thoughts to the woman, Gloria. Did he intend on keeping his promise, or was he beginning to see her as more of a liability than an asset? Their relationship seemed to be more physical than romantic, and maybe more than a little codependent. And codependence was odd for a man like him, but some serial killers, such as Robert Lee Yates, Gary Ridgway, and Dennis Rader, had been family men and active church members, and codependence never entered into their makeup. Gloria’s view of their relationship seemed a bit more rose colored, while Kanesewah seemed to think of her as just a sexual outlet. Sharon had determined that he saw women as necessary yet personally insignificant.
“And why did you kill Oscar Hirada?” Sharon asked.
Kanesewah looked puzzled. “Who?”
“My cameraman,” she said. “Why him?”
“I saw him looking at his phone. He saw me. He recognized me. End of story.” He stood up and looked down at her.
“And do you really intend to kill me once you get around Glacier?”
He smiled and said nothing.
“But I’m your insurance,” Sharon said. “The police, and by now the FBI, know you have me, and that could be used to your advantage.”
Kanesewah lifted her off the ground by her upper arms and stood her in front of him. “You’re forgetting some things,” he said. “No one knows where we are or where we’re going, so keeping you alive is really not important. You are breathing only because I allow it.”
“Will you at least untie my hands? They’re getting awfully numb.”
Kanesewah thought for a moment, twirled her around and untied the rope. Then
motioned toward the car with his head. “Now, move. We need sleep before nightfall.”
They said nothing more on their way back to the car. When they got there, Gloria awoke and gave Sharon a resentful glare. “I’m cold,” she said in a childlike voice.
“Hope you brought some blankets, because we’re not wasting gas keeping this heap running all day with the heat on. Don’t need anyone spotting exhaust from these trees.”
“They’re in the trunk.”
Kanesewah grabbed the keys, took three blankets from the trunk, and got back into the driver’s seat. He kept one and gave his girlfriend two. “Remember,” he said to Sharon, holding up the revolver. “I sleep light. If you try to leave this car, I will kill you.”
Sharon nodded. Gloria smiled. Kanesewah covered himself with a blanket, gun in hand beneath it, leaned against the door, and closed his eyes. Gloria had Sharon lie down as before, then unfurled a blanket and covered her. That task completed, she slid across the front seat and snuggled against Kanesewah’s warmth and closed her eyes. He seemed to pay her no mind.
Sharon felt the blanket slowly beginning to retain her body heat, and her eyelids grew heavy. Arthur’s face materialized on the walls of her mind, transporting her back to the day they first met at the Chaco ruins. That vision was short-lived and soon dissolved into the anguished look on his face after watching them pull the lifeless little boy from her body.
Her thoughts dredged up a mix of sorrow, rage, and self-doubt that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since they took her child, washed and swaddled him, and placed his lifeless body in her arms. And she remembered cradling him for two hours and not letting them take him. And she remembered Arthur breaking down and leaving the room as she rocked him gently in her arms, singing him soft Navajo lullabies until she allowed them to gently take him away. When Arthur returned, they did not speak. They just held each other as the wave of grief crashed over them.
Path of the Dead Page 9
