Slickrock Paradox

by Stephen Legault

  “How did they take it?”

  “I don’t know. Even though the tribal police are overseen by the Bureau of Indian Affairs, communication between departments isn’t so good.”

  “Did you know that she worked with Dead Horse Consulting doing archaeological surveys for our friend Isaiah?”

  “Yes. Did Isaiah tell you that?”

  “He did. First he comes at me as if the girl’s disappearance two years ago was headline news on CNN and then he acts as if he’s never heard of Dead Horse Consulting. He’s had them on the payroll of his various development schemes for as long as I’ve known him.”

  “He’s a big player, Silas. He’s got two dozen people working for him. Maybe he just farms it out and they hire who they want.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Listen, we’re working with the feds to chase this thing down. You’ve got to let us do our job.”

  Silas held up his hands. “Say no more. I’m just curious.”

  “Careful with that, Silas. You know what they say about cats and all.” He stood up and offered his hand. Silas took it. “Listen, Silas. Jacob Isaiah, well, he’s a serious man and serious about his business. He’s been here since before they started pulling uranium out of the ground back in ’54. He’s likely to be here after both you and I are buzzard bait. I make it a point to stay out of his way. It’s just some friendly advice from me to you.”

  “I appreciate it, Dex. I do.”

  Silas closed the door behind the sheriff. He had every intention of getting in Jacob Isaiah’s way if it meant understanding what connection the Wisechild girl had to his missing wife. He looked around the store. He hadn’t sold a book in a month; maybe he wouldn’t wait for the following week to resume his search. There was a lot of country on the Hopi Reservation that he could search by car.

  SILAS WAS OUT THE DOOR by eight the next morning. Now, at midday, he was on the long and nearly empty stretch of highway that ran across the northwest corner of the Navajo Reservation. He drove down the length of Black Mesa, where in order to understand the roots of Penelope’s environmental activism in the American Southwest, Silas had turned early in his search for her. What he thought of as her “college-student” fascination with the work of Edward Abbey had led her to this part of the Colorado Plateau many times. It was only a couple of hours from Flagstaff, and it was here in Abbey’s novel of malcontent, The Monkey Wrench Gang, that the band of eco-saboteurs had struck at the nerve center of the coal industry that was ripping into the heart of the Hopi and Navajo lands. Since the 1960s the Peabody Coal Company, one of the largest coal companies in the world, had been digging into the rich deposits of coal found on Black Mesa.

  He couldn’t see them from Route 160, but just south and east were some of the largest man-made holes on the planet. It was here, when Penelope first started to get involved with conservation work, that she came. When Silas asked her what she hoped to accomplish, she said that it was enough at first to “bear witness.” He had returned to marking his papers, and she had returned to the Hopi and Navajo Reservations many times.

  Silas wondered if the Wisechild woman and Penelope had known each other. Or maybe Penelope’s disappearance was somehow linked to the work that Kayah had been doing when she was murdered?

  He drove on, his mind buzzing with questions. It was early in the afternoon when he turned off Route 160 at Moenkopi and headed into the heart of the Hopi Reservation, a smaller reservation completely surrounded by the sprawling Navajo Reservation. They were different people, with different cultures, but they were inextricably linked by geography. He steered the Outback up the southwest side of the incline of Black Mesa and into the Fourth World of the Hopi. According to Hopi creation myths, the previous three worlds of the Hopi had been destroyed by the creator when witchcraft led their people to do evil. The Hopi emerged through a crack in the earth—believed to be at the heart of the nearby Grand Canyon—to the Fourth World, where they now dwelled.

  The landscape that greeted him on the Mesa was open, wide and far-reaching, the color of milky tea. Russian thistle, the invasive plant better known as tumbleweed, blew across the road. Cows dotted the landscape, their ribs and hips jutting like invitations to the turkey vultures that soared high above. The panorama of dust was flat, with reefs of stone on the horizon surrounded by a tan landscape dimpled with flat-topped mesas, and otherwise starkly barren.

  It was nearly four o’clock when Silas drove into the tribal seat of Kykotsmovi Village, or K-Town, as it was known locally. After a bloodless feud in 1906, those who wanted to foster closer ties with the outside or white world had settled here to create the modern Hopi government. It was located on the Second Mesa, and though Silas knew he’d have to backtrack to find the family of Kayah Wisechild, the only person he knew on the Hopi Reservation lived near K-Town.

  He followed a narrow winding track that wove down through the sage and rabbit brush to a double-wide trailer sitting on the edge of a dusty arroyo. This was Roger Goodwin’s place. Goodwin was a professor of cultural anthropology at Northern Arizona University. He also taught courses in the university’s groundbreaking Applied Indigenous Studies Program, which focused on the Hopi. He was an Anglo, and one of the few outsiders who had been accepted into the Hopi clans.

  There was no vehicle in the yard and no lights on at the house. Silas stepped out of the car, went to the back and opened the hatch, and took a can of Dr Pepper from the cooler. Alcohol of any kind was prohibited on both the Navajo and Hopi Reservations. He walked over to a sickly cottonwood and sat down on a broken lawnchair in its shade and waited. An hour passed when a pick-up truck finally came barreling down the road. Silas waited in the shade of the tree as the rusting 1970 Ford came to an abrupt halt next to the trailer. Two people were riding in the back and three in the front. The two in the bed of the truck had kerchiefs over their faces and sunglasses on, and as the truck skidded to a halt, they hopped out, grabbing packs. He waved to them and raised his can of Dr Pepper and they waved back. The driver’s door opened, its hinges popping loudly, and Roger Goodwin stepped down. He paused when he saw Silas reclining in the shade.

  “Been here long?” Roger asked, as his two passengers unfolded themselves from the bench seat and headed toward the trailer.

  “About an hour.”

  “Can you wait five more minutes while I shower?”

  “No trouble. Want a soda?”

  “In a minute. Let me drop my stuff.” The lanky man grabbed a rucksack from the back of the truck and followed his passengers into the trailer. Silas heard the generator roar to life, shattering the stillness. Ten minutes passed and the man emerged. “You said something about a soda?”

  Silas was about to push himself up on his cane when the man waved his hand. “I’ll get it. You want another?”

  “Back of the car. Yes please.” Roger went to the Outback and returned with two cans of Dr Pepper.

  “It’s good to see you, Roger. Got yourself a new batch of vassal laborers, I see?”

  “We call them graduate students, Silas. Maybe you remember them? Eager, willing?”

  “I remember grad students alright; handy for getting your research done, as I recall. I see you’re working them even on a Saturday.”

  “Billed as a cultural anthropology hike . . . What brings you to the Fourth World, Silas? It’s been, what, two years since I last saw you?”

  “I need some help,” Silas said. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “For Penelope, Silas, I know. Every one of my students has a picture of her in their pack.”

  “That’s kind, but no, a local girl. I’m looking for her family. Her name is Wisechild. Grew up on the Third Mesa. Did an undergrad degree with you.”

  “Yes, of course.” Roger spoke in Hopi and then translated for Silas, “‘Her breath has passed from her body.’ She was found up in your neck of the woods. It’s been all over the local papers.”

  “I know, Roger. I found her.”

  THEY SAT ON the
tailgate of Goodwin’s truck. Silas told him the whole story, including the dream. The anthropologist was silent for a long time after Silas had finished his tale.

  “Death is a strange thing for the Hopi,” he finally said. “When a person dies in the Fourth World, their spirit lives on and descends into the world below, where they can carry out their day to day lives. This happens on the fourth day after death, when their soona, or substance of life, is released. There are many different beliefs around this on the Mesas. Some believe that when this happens, a person’s spirit can play tricks, trying to convince others to join it on the journey.”

  “How do the Hopi manage when a person has died but the body has not been found?”

  “About as well as we do, Silas. Maybe a little worse. These people have very ancient beliefs in the katchina, their gods, and in many different entities of the underworlds. These include some very unsavory characters, taking the form of witches. When a girl like Kayah Wisechild goes missing, they believe it is the work of these dwellers of the underworld. They move among us, sometimes taking human shape, and sometimes causing all manner of trouble among people.”

  “Will there be some rest now that her remains have been recovered?” asked Silas.

  “There will be a ceremony. I was under the impression that the FBI would be transporting the bones back to Salt Lake for further study.”

  “I don’t know the answer to that question. I can make some calls. Can there be a ceremony without the body?”

  “There will be some ritual, but nothing final. Given the nature of her death, there will be no rest,” said Roger.

  “Do you know her family?”

  “Oh yeah. They’re good people.”

  “Can you point me in their direction? I’d like to talk to them.”

  “Sure, I can do that. And then send someone to find you after a week of driving around the Mesas. How about I take you there in the morning? It will help if I’m with you.”

  “To translate?”

  “Yes, but also for more than just the language. More as an ambassador.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “You want to come inside? It’s Rachael’s turn to cook tonight. She’s pretty good.”

  “I need to find a place to camp,” said Silas, looking around as if a Big K Campground might materialize out of the desert scrub.

  “You can camp here. Come in, talk with the students, eat our food, then pitch your tent wherever you want. In the morning we’ll drive over to Third Mesa.”

  Silas nodded. Roger hopped down from the tailgate and offered Silas a hand.

  BY EIGHT THE next morning they were in Goodwin’s truck, bouncing up the rutted track to Indian Route 2. They drove mostly in silence, Goodwin from time to time pointing out a cultural or natural feature and commenting on its significance. In a little under half an hour they turned north onto a dirt track and then again onto a two-lane, rutted path that wove across the top of Third Mesa.

  “Anything I need to know?” Silas asked.

  “Just like anywhere else. Respect. That’s the place there,” Roger said, pointing to a trailer parked against a small sandstone butte. A tiny, dry wash snaked across the scrubby field, several rain tanks next to it. “Down the wash a ways the family grows corn. It’s about their only source of income besides the government.” Roger and Silas continued on the path and noticed that in addition to a dilapidated Chevy pick-up in the yard, two dusty but new Yukon SUVs were parked by the trailer.

  “Stop here,” Silas said forcefully. Roger stopped in the middle of the tracks.

  “Friends of yours?”

  “I don’t know. They look like government vehicles.”

  “Nobody out here drives a truck like that,” agreed Roger. The two men had stopped a quarter of a mile away, the butte partially obscuring the trailer and concealing them from view. Silas reached into the pack at his feet and pulled out his Nikon binoculars.

  “Definitely government,” he said, looking at the plates. “Don’t know who’s driving them. Oh, wait a minute . . .”

  A man stepped out of the trailer. “Agent Dwight Taylor. Assistant Special Agent in Charge,” said Silas.

  “This going to be trouble?” asked Goodwin.

  “I don’t know. He’s from the Monticello office. He’s leading the investigation into Ms. Wisechild’s murder. I’ve been dealing with him for the last three and a half years, you know, with regards to Penny.”

  “So you’re old buddies then?”

  “Something like that.”

  Three more people stepped out of the trailer. “I see two more FBI men, including Taylor’s partner, a Utah man named Nielsen. I don’t recognize the fourth man.”

  “Let me have a look.” Goodwin trained the binoculars on the men. “The feds are pretty obvious. I don’t know why they all look alike, but they do. Even the yokel-looking guy is clearly a G-man. The guy with the white shirt and the tan slacks, I don’t recognize him. He’s certainly not Hopi.”

  Silas took the binoculars back. “We’ll find out in a minute.” The two SUVs were bumping along the pitted track toward them. Goodwin put the truck in gear and steered so that his left wheels were in the outside track, leaving room for the SUVs to do the same. They came up to the duo slowly and stopped when the lead vehicle’s window was adjacent to Goodwin’s Ford. The window of the black Yukon slid down. Agent Taylor was behind the wheel. The man Silas didn’t recognize was in the passenger seat.

  Agent Taylor said, “Hello, Dr. Pearson, funny meeting you here.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, Agent Taylor.”

  “We’re conducting a murder investigation.”

  Silas asked, “Who’s your co-pilot?”

  “This is Charles Nephi. He works for Senator C. Thorn Smith.”

  “US Senator,” said the man sitting next to Taylor. “He’s currently in Washington on the nation’s business, so he asked that I come to offer his condolences to the family.”

  “Senator Smith represents Utah,” said Silas. “This is Arizona.”

  “Yes, but the remains were found in our state. The senator thought . . .”

  “I see,” said Silas. “Nice gesture to make.”

  “What brings you here, Dr. Pearson?”

  “Same as Mr. Nephi. Paying my respects.”

  “And who is your pilot today?” asked Taylor, smiling.

  Goodwin extended his hand and Taylor shook it. “Roger Goodwin, from NAU.”

  “Somebody else I have to call ‘doctor,’ I presume?”

  “Roger will do just fine.”

  “You’re not getting involved in this investigation, are you, Dr. Pearson?” asked Taylor.

  “I’d say I already am, wouldn’t you, Agent Taylor? I just want to tell them how sorry I am about their daughter and let them have some closure. Nothing more.”

  Taylor regarded them a moment. “Good enough. Please don’t overstep your boundaries, Doctor.”

  “How do I know what they are, Agent Taylor?”

  “When you overstep them, I’ll let you know pretty quick.”

  Silas said, “Goodbye Mr. Nephi. Tell the senator hello. My wife is—was—a big fan.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Nephi as Taylor rolled the window up. The two SUVs passed on down the track. Silas watched them disappear in the cracked side mirror of the Ford.

  “Penelope really a big fan?” asked Roger.

  “Are you kidding? C. Thorn Smith is the senator who killed every single piece of environmental legislature brought before the Senate. If the environmental movement has an arch enemy, he’s it. I don’t know anything about his minion there, but I doubt he’s any more sympathetic than his master. Maybe even less so.”

  “You think he knew who you were?”

  “I doubt it. Taylor is probably filling him in. I wonder why he felt it necessary to come all the way out here. I mean, nice sentiment, but usually a letter will do. Seems a little odd to be riding along with the FBI.”

 
“Budget cuts,” said Goodwin. “Maybe they’re carpooling.” He put the truck in gear and crept on toward the trailer. They parked outside for a minute while dogs sniffed and then peed on their tires. After a moment a young woman appeared at the door to signal that they had been noticed and that they could approach the house.

  “That’s Kayah’s older sister, Darla. She lives at home to take care of her folks,” said Goodwin. They both opened the doors and stepped out, Silas taking his cane. There was a breeze blowing across Third Mesa, and the air was lightly scented with sage. It was hot, but not oppressively so.

  “Um waynuma ?” said Goodwin as he walked up to the trailer.

  “Um pitu ?” said the woman. She was about five-foot-two, with a lean face and long dark hair. Silas immediately wondered if this was what Kayah Wisechild had looked like.

  “Owí. This is Silas Pearson,” said Goodwin. “We’ve come to pay our respects to your mother and father. May we speak with them?”

  “You can come in. They will be happy to see you.”

  “The government men were just here,” said Roger, walking up the wooden steps to enter the trailer.

  “They told us not to worry, that they would find whoever did this to my sister.”

  Silas looked at Roger and twisted his mouth to indicate his skepticism. The two men stepped into the trailer. It was small and clean and smelled like freshly cooked corn. A couple in their late fifties sat in the living area on twin floral pattern chairs next to the open kitchen. Silas and Roger stopped. Roger said, “Owí, nu’ waynuma.”

  “Um pitu ?” said Mr. Wisechild.

  “Owí,” said Roger. “This is Silas Pearson. He is the man who found your daughter. He’s come to bring his condolences.”

  The man and woman looked at one another. “Do you want to have coffee?” the man asked after a moment.

  “Yes, coffee would be good.”

  “I am Leon, and this is my wife, Evelyn. You’ve met our eldest daughter, Darla.”

  “We’ve met.” Darla went to the kitchen and plugged the coffee maker in.