by Aimée
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Authors’ Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Praise
Other Books by Aimée & David Thurlo
Copyright
To the Taylor staff, past and present, for their support and encouragement from the very beginning
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With special thanks to D. R. Garcia for his help and expertise in the field of law enforcement.
AUTHORS’ NOTE
The rituals described herein have been abbreviated and altered slightly out of respect for the Navajo People.
The psychiatric facility in this work is solely a product of our imagination.
PROLOGUE
Kee Dodge looked toward the east as the sun rose above a distant plateau, casting a sunflower glow off the rocks of Red Flint Pass. At this early hour he could still feel the trace of humidity that lingered in the air cooling his skin. In another few hours, it would be gone and only the heat would remain.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the rich scent of piñon that filled the air around him. His class would be meeting here again in the Chuska Mountains, one of the sacred homes of the Dineh—the Navajo People. It was a particularly good site for today’s lessons of the past. Here an Anglo named Washington and his cavalry had killed several Navajo warriors, and until recently the mapmakers had named the pass for him. But the worm was slowly turning to the advantage of the People. Navajo students had petitioned those in positions of so-called authority, and the place was now to be called Narbona Pass, after the Navajo leader killed there at the hands of Washington’s troops.
Though he wasn’t in agreement with their insistence on naming the pass after a Navajo who’d died, he was supportive of the sentiments behind it. In another twenty years when people bought new maps, they would at least know the truth.
Dodge took out the prayer sticks, clubs, and the handmade bow and arrows he’d brought, arranging them carefully on a blanket he’d spread on the ground. Attendance in his classes remained high, counter to the skepticism the college faculty had expressed at first. This new generation of college kids was much more eager to learn than any he’d taught in the past. It was as if they’d suddenly become aware of the incalculable value of their heritage.
For so many years it had been different. Young people had been determined to be just like those outside the Dineh Tah, the People’s Land. It was good to see this long overdue change.
Dodge emptied the worn cardboard box he’d hauled up the piñon-covered slope. He checked his watch, disliking the concession to Anglo ways that required everything to be ruled by the clock, then started back down to the road. He’d need to review his lesson plans soon in preparation for class, but he’d left his notebook on the seat of his pickup. The morning air was brisk, and a slight breeze blew up the mountain as he made his way carefully downhill.
Kee Dodge reached his truck just as a lone hiker appeared from around the curve of the gravel road. Although it was not unusual for the Dineh to walk great distances, this man didn’t look like an ordinary hiker, or someone out looking for a missing lamb. His jeans and shirt were too clean and neat, and even his white cross-trainers gleamed with newness.
Dodge exhaled softly, thinking how many times his own truck had broken down on this long stretch. It was almost impossible most times of the year to find anyone to help. Invariably it meant a long walk back to the main highway or on to Lukachukai.
“Pickup broke down, right?” Dodge asked with a rueful smile, disregarding the scowl on the young man’s face. “Don’t worry, nephew, I’ve got some tools here. Let’s see what we can do.”
As Kee Dodge reached over the side of the pickup bed for his toolbox, he heard the young man step up behind him. Before he could turn around, something crashed against his skull. Dodge’s world became a bright white flash of pain that quickly faded into a warm black of night. With the taste of betrayal and defeat, Kee Dodge’s wind breath left his body forever.
ONE
Special Investigator Ella Clah stood in the doorway to her living room, nibbling on a slice of honeydew melon from her brother’s garden. It was still early in the morning, but her mother was already helping Valerie Yazzie finish the velveteen wedding outfit Valerie’s daughter would wear on her wedding day in less than a week.
Ella’s mother looked up and smiled at her. Rose Destea was, like her daughter, taller than most Navajo women, and only a dozen or so pounds heavier than Ella. “Take a break from all that paperwork you brought from the police department and have a decent breakfast. That’s not the way to start a morning you’re supposed to have off.”
Ella shrugged. “There’s a lot of work to get done. We’ve had some major changes in the department. Our new police chief wants things done his way. He’s determined to recapture the faith people had in us once.”
Valerie Yazzie shook her head. The middle-aged Navajo woman wore a perpetual frown that had, through the years, become ingrained in her features. “There were so many we trusted we shouldn’t have. It’s hard to forget how they betrayed the tribe.”
“But the department is clean now, and Big Ed Atcitty is going to make sure it stays that way. He’s an excellent leader, and tough, but fair.” Ella bit off another piece of the juicy melon and swallowed. “We’re just having to do a lot of work fast to put the changes he wants into effect.”
“What you find difficult, daughter, is doing things someone else’s way,” Rose said with a smile. “You’ve always had definite opinions on how things should be handled.”
Ella smiled grudgingly. “Well, I suppose that’s true.”
Rose turned her attention back to the hem she was pinning. “This is going to be such a lovely wedding dress!”
“You’ll be making one for your own daughter before too long,” Valerie commented mischievously, nodding toward Ella. “She will want to trade in her gun belt for a cradle board sooner or later.”
Ella choked on the piece of melon and reached to the kitchen counter for a napkin. “Don’t count on it.”
Rose sighed and looked at Valerie. “See how she is? I’ve just about given up hope.” She paused, then with a tiny smile added, “but not quite.”
As the telephone rang and interrupted them, Ella gave the phone compan
y a mental high-five. She’d been literally saved by the bell. “I’ll take that.”
“You might as well,” Rose muttered. “It’s probably for you. They won’t leave you alone, even on your morning off. I never get any calls in my own home anymore.”
Ella chose not to comment. It was an old argument. Her mother couldn’t understand her dedication to police work and the incredible sense of purpose it gave her. In truth, she found it difficult to explain to anyone. Only another cop could understand that addiction to the incredible highs and lows of the work; the need to restore order to a world that resisted at every turn. Ella walked down the hall to her room, closed the door, and answered the phone.
“Hold for Police Chief Atcitty, please,” said the crisp voice of Big Ed’s secretary.
Ella sat on the edge of her bed, waiting. More than eight months had passed since she’d resigned from the FBI and moved back to the Rez to stay with her widowed mother. She gazed around her room, lost in memories. Most of what was around her was less than a year old. The fire, months back, had spared the house but ruined everything she’d left behind from her youth. All traces of the girl she’d once been were gone now, and she had more than a decade’s worth of new memories and new mementos to replace them. She stared pensively at her framed FBI diploma and gilded marksmanship trophies on the shelf. Last in line was a recent photo showing her being sworn in as a tribal police officer.
Ella was hard pressed to say which of her career achievements filled her with the most un-Navajo-like pride, but she was definitely proud of her new job. It had been created especially for her, here on the Navajo Rez, and it required her own special skills. She was special investigator for the Navajo Police, and answered only to Big Ed. The job gave her the autonomy she’d dreamed of throughout her career, though on the downside, the paperwork load was pretty incredible.
“Shorty, you there?” a familiar gravelly voice asked.
“Yes, Big Ed. What’s going down?” Ella was getting used to the nickname Big Ed had given her, although she stood a head taller than her boss and most other Navajo men as well.
Big Ed had been given his nickname because he was shaped like a barrel with arms. Stories around the station claimed Big Ed had never been knocked off his feet by a perp. She believed them.
“I need you to drive over to what we’ve always called Red Flint Pass, though it’s getting yet another name now. Maybe you know it as Washington Pass. A college history class was supposed to meet there. Seems someone murdered Kee Dodge out there before his students arrived.”
“Kee Dodge, the historian?”
“Yeah. His students showed up this morning for class and, from what I hear, stumbled upon the body. Get over there and take up the case. I’d like a preliminary report before lunch. I’ve called the M.E. She’ll meet you there along with our crime-scene team. We have a patrol officer in the area already. He’ll give you whatever backup you need.”
“I’m out the door, Big Ed.”
Ella reached for her gun belt and adjusted the pancake holster so that it lay flat against her waist. Beneath a jacket, her weapon barely showed, and that was great for plainclothes work. Fitting her .22 backup pistol inside her custom-made boot strap, she strode out of her room.
“I have to be going now. I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” Ella called out to her mother, waving to Valerie as she passed through the living room.
“So, what else is new?” Rose said with a sigh. “Just be careful.”
“Always.”
Ella went to her navy blue unmarked Jeep. It was the perfect vehicle for the kind of rough terrain that comprised most of the Navajo nation. She took the map from the glove compartment and checked the route. It would be a fifty-minute ride at posted speeds, but she could knock a good ten minutes off that in a hurry. She opted for the hurry, knowing that a fresh crime scene would yield the most information.
The drive south on Highway 666 was almost a straight line, but once she turned west at Sheep Springs, Ella had to slow down a bit. Soon the road turned to gravel, and her Jeep left a long, serpentine dust trail as it climbed the mountain road.
When Ella arrived, several vehicles were already parked on both sides of the road. Jimmy Frank, a young but experienced patrolman, was questioning one student. Her gaze then shifted to the half-dozen young adults some distance away, silently awaiting their turn to be questioned. They were dressed casually in jeans, like college students anywhere. Jimmy was going with established procedures, not letting the words of one witness shape another’s.
She studied the officer for a moment. Jimmy was in his early thirties, yet he looked so different from the way he had at sixteen, except for the slight belly that pushed against his shirt, hinting at what would come with middle age.
As Ella approached the crime scene, she noted the body was facedown next to the driver’s side of a pickup parked about fifteen feet off the road. The students and patrolman were staying as far away from it as possible, although Officer Frank had positioned himself facing the scene so he could ask relevant questions while keeping the crime scene under observation. Logic and cultural beliefs were destined to continue clashing inside them for another generation at least. Ella knew that she would not be the last to have to try and live in two overlapping worlds. Even among the new generation of Navajos, fear of the chindi remained, though most would outwardly deny it.
Ella nodded to Jimmy, who continued his interview, keeping the witnesses away from the scene. Walking in a slow, inward spiral around the pickup, Ella studied the ground around the crime scene, making a visual search for evidence. Carefully selecting where she stepped, she finally arrived at the body. There were no recognizable tracks here on the hard ground so close to the road.
As Ella got her first close-up look at the corpse, bile rose to the back of her throat. Blood had begun to cake the gravelly earth beneath the head and neck of the body. The victim’s skull had been bludgeoned, and the soft, pulpy matter from within the wound mingled with sharp pieces of bone, giving it the appearance of carelessly ground beef.
Ella forced herself to gulp several deep lungfuls of air, grateful that her sense of smell was the least stimulated by what she saw. She crouched next to the body, forcing herself to think clearly and calmly, relying on her training and the memory that this was not the worst corpse she’d ever seen. Kee lay chest down. From what she could see, he’d been strangled with leather shoelaces, probably after being hit on the head with some kind of tool or club. From the look of the head wound, the strangling had probably been a waste of time.
Although Dodge’s back was to her, his face was turned to the right. She noted that his right eye was being held open by an object that had been imbedded in it. It was a piece of something hard and white, discolored at the entry point by blood and aqueous fluid. She leaned closer, trying to figure out what it was, suppressing a shudder.
Ella stared at the object, moving to within a foot of the face. Though she heard the gasp that came from the students who had turned to watch her, she never looked up. Her gaze was fastened on the object she was now certain was a piece of bone. That was a trademark of skinwalkers, yet something didn’t feel right about this. Bone ammunition was their signature, true, but this was too garish. It was almost too flagrant a warning sign.
Relying instinctively on her training to make sense of what she was seeing, Ella mentally categorized the crime as “staged.” The killer had spent time trying to leave an obvious impression in the mind of the investigator. The killer could have continued to bash his victim’s skull to a pulp, but instead he’d chosen to deliver a coup de grâce through strangulation. Speculating about the object imbedded in the victim’s eye, she wondered if perhaps he’d needed to preserve the face to complete the gruesome picture. This crime had definitely been planned in detail.
Next Ella shifted her attention a few feet to her right and carefully studied the pattern drawn on the ground with ashes. It was approximately two feet wide. The ashes appeare
d to have been trickled through someone’s fingers in the manner used for a dry or sand painting. She could make out some figures in the center, but she didn’t recognize any of them.
Hearing another vehicle approaching, Ella stood and walked carefully around the truck. As she watched, the medical examiner’s wagon pulled up and a middle-aged Navajo woman of ample proportions emerged. Dr. Carolyn Roanhorse slid her large black briefcase off the front seat, then strode briskly toward Ella.
Ella watched Carolyn approach. The woman was in her mid-fifties and had a cool, businesslike demeanor that Ella liked, although Ella had always suspected it was more a defense than anything else. Carolyn’s job as medical examiner had made her a near pariah within the tribe. Few Navajos wished to be around someone who might carry ghost sickness.
Carolyn nodded to Ella in greeting, then followed her to crouch low beside the corpse. She gave the body a quick once-over. “Nasty way to die. Probably took a while.”
The statement, typical of Carolyn, also met her official obligation to pronounce the obvious. “What do you make of that object in the victim’s eye?” Ella decided to ask.
Carolyn studied it, then glanced up. “The same thing you did, I’ll bet.”
Ella met Carolyn’s gaze. “Okay. Before you get too involved over here, would you mind glancing at this?” Ella pointed to the dry painting.
Carolyn stood up reluctantly and stepped over for a closer look. “That’s out of my area of expertise, but I do know only skinwalkers do dry paintings in ashes. Whoever did those figures, however, must be a real beginner,” she said bluntly. “I can’t even guess what they’re supposed to be.”
“Yeah,” Ella agreed with a wry smile.
Carolyn moved back to the body. “You think this has something to do with the skinwalkers who were involved in your father’s murder?”
“Some of them are still at large, so I suppose it’s possible, but I’d have to have more proof before I’d reach that conclusion.” Ella ran a hand through her shoulder-length black hair, pushing it away from her face. “Personally, I’m hoping this crime has a conventional motivation behind it, like revenge or jealousy. Because if it is skinwalkers, then this is just the beginning.”
