The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

by Susan Slater

  “You wanted to talk?” Johnson waited, but Bob seemed to be intent on studying the casino. Johnson wouldn’t push, that was the Anglo way, badger a person to talk and explain. The Indian way was to wait. The elders told stories of waiting hours for a person to express himself.

  Johnson looked past the site to the mountains. The day was becoming overcast and hazy. The purple-gray peaks had blurred edges, their tops blunted by stringy clouds. A large black grackle was poking at something in the freshly turned earth about thirty feet in front of him. Weeds pushed up through the flattened soil at the edge of the asphalt.

  One rain and the desert bursts into life. Survival, Johnson thought. Seeds could be dormant for years and then spring up, even cracking asphalt. That’s why his parking lot was six inches thick.

  “Let’s walk down that way.” Bob pointed toward the river. Johnson nodded. He thought Bob was being a little overly cautious; no one could hear them now this far from the building, but he kept quiet. It was humid. His white shirt was sticking to his back. Usually, Johnson didn’t walk any more than he had to. He hated the film of dust that covered his Ropers. He should have suggested bringing the tribal truck.

  They walked in silence but could hear the river now. Johnson knew the water would be cold. It came from the mountains. Snowfall had been good the last few years; the river was running full this fall. He could remember years when it had only been a trickle this time of year. And he could remember floods when the water was brown and churning, tossing boulders along as easily as marbles.

  Bob had stopped by the side of the old cottonwood. Even his black Harley Davidson t-shirt showed a stain of sweat between his shoulder blades. He leaned against the trunk. Johnson stood behind him and waited.

  “Douglas Anderson isn’t real pleased with all your answers. Like about what happened to the packet.”

  Johnson had to strain to hear. Bob was facing the river and his words floated above the water and away from him. Johnson walked around Bob to stand beside him. He was almost tempted to find a handful of smooth rocks to skip across the water, but thought better of it. He put his hands in his pocket. Bob seemed to be waiting for him to say something. Johnson looked straight ahead.

  “You know you’ve gotten yourself in the shit, don’t you?” Bob said.

  Johnson swallowed. He looked away to his left and followed the rising arc of a kestrel with a sparrow in his talons. He felt uncomfortable. Somewhere within, his brain was getting a message that he had to pee. Too much running water. Always happened to him. He knew if he didn’t say anything, Bob would continue. Anglos couldn’t stand silence in conversations. Johnson stood mute.

  “I’d like to hear your side of the story.” Bob squatted by the four foot wide trunk of the cottonwood and stripped a fallen branch of its leaves. Johnson watched and thought of the nun who taught him in fourth grade.

  “What do you want to know?” It wouldn’t work to act dumb for too long, but he needed to find out what Bob wanted to hear. Tell Anglos what they want to hear and they’ll go away.

  “Oh, I guess about the pumpkin seeds and what happened to the packet. Maybe how this thing could have gotten out of hand. How there could be ten deaths and maybe more. You know, things like that.” Bob continued to squat and watch the river. His voice was soft and flat. Johnson couldn’t read it, but the hair on his arms prickled. And, he didn’t have an answer. He’d thought about it. The questions would intrude upon his thinking at all the wrong times—in a meeting, in the middle of the night, when his wife was trying to tell him something. How could the deaths be related? What did a handful of pumpkin seeds have to do with the construction worker or Peter Tenorio and his fiancée—or Jennifer? Of all the deaths he hated that one the most, a young beautiful girl ….

  Johnson didn’t see the blow coming. Bob pushed up from a crouch and used his weight to pin Johnson against the tree, his right fist finding Johnson’s solar plexus. Johnson crumpled. Something sour spread over his tongue and oozed down his throat.

  “You little son of a bitch. You think you can hang us out to dry, don’t you?” Bob’s voice was a snarl about two inches from Johnson’s ear as he dragged Johnson upright by the collar of his shirt. Johnson felt the two plastic pearl buttons on the collar tips pull through the cloth.

  “Answer me, you little bastard.”

  Johnson’s tongue seemed to be getting in the way. He sputtered and felt Bob’s grip loosen. Maybe if he just tried the truth.

  “I don’t know what went wrong.” The second blow caught him on the ear and the ringing in his head almost closed his eyes.

  “Gotta do better than that.” Bob’s biceps stood out on his arms, rock hard from hours in a gym. He was only a head taller than Johnson but seventy pounds heavier. Johnson’s feet were sliding and banging against the tree trunk trying to get traction, but Bob held him propped there, pinned at the shoulders, his knee between Johnson’s legs.

  Then, as Johnson would remember the story later, a spirit in the form of Lorenzo Loretto rose from the base of the tree behind them, waving his cane in the air and yelling garbled threats. Bob sucked in his breath, slipped backwards, lost his footing and fell. He released Johnson and the two of them sprawled on their backs in the loose rock.

  “Who the hell is that?” Bob sputtered.

  “One of our spiritual leaders. He is close to going to the other side now and isn’t with us much in this world.” Johnson used his best pious and reverent voice. He could see Bob trying to figure out what to do. Bob struggled to his feet and backed away from Lorenzo who was still yelling, spittle spilling from the corners of his mouth.

  “Can you get him to shut up?” Bob asked.

  “I can’t disturb an elder.” Johnson lied but inwardly thanked the spirits for their help. Bob studied Lorenzo and finally decided that he wasn’t capable of understanding anything even if he had overheard. He turned to Johnson.

  “Let this be a warning. No crap. You don’t know anything. You didn’t see anything. And that damned packet of seeds better not show up anywhere. Got that?” Bob was still moving away from Lorenzo and motioned Johnson to follow him.

  Johnson looked down at the wet circle that outlined his crotch and then noticed that the knee of Bob’s leathers had an identical dark spot. He smiled to himself and followed Bob back up the road.

  ELEVEN

  Ben watched the blue and gold poncho go bobbing by the open door as Sandy walked into the Tewa clinic. If Julie had wanted to stay on his mind, she couldn’t have planned a better way than giving Lorenzo her poncho.

  “Are you free now? We need to talk somewhere outside; I don’t want to be disturbed,” Sandy said.

  “Sure.” Something’s wrong, Ben thought. Sandy looked upset, older, maybe the result of a sleepless night; his skin looked puffy around his eyes.

  “Don’t get in the way of any machinery,” Mary called after them.

  Sandy paused in the doorway. Even a mile away they could hear the roar of earthmoving equipment. “What’s going on? They were digging around down there a month ago.”

  “They’re building a casino.”

  “A casino?” Sandy looked surprised.

  “The old governor would never allow it. If he had lived, this wouldn’t happen. Gambling’s as bad as alcohol,” Mary said.

  “What kind of gambling? Bingo?” Sandy asked.

  “Blackjack, and slot machines, that other stuff. Some of us demonstrated against it, but we lost.”

  Ben watched Sandy hesitate as if he wanted to ask more questions but didn’t know what else to say. Something was bothering him, that was for sure. They walked toward the river. Ben remained silent and waited. The day had just a hint of fall. A feel to the air that heralded an unanticipated early coolness. The leaves on the cottonwoods were yellowing and beginning to collect along fences and settle beside the road. Indian paintbrush was a scarlet splash sprinkled among drying sunflowers. A flock of seedeaters took off in a rush of wings as they neared.

  S
andy stopped and pointed to an outcropping of rocks close to the river bank. “Let’s sit over there.” Ben sat next to him and waited. This has got to be serious, he thought, and not easy for Sandy to talk about. “What if I told you that preliminary work done on the packet of pumpkin seeds you got from Lorenzo indicates that the original virus might have been manmade?” Sandy stopped and was looking at him. “A virus from another part of the world that was manipulated to act as an untraceable illness that killed quickly. A clever, malicious plot—”

  “That’s murder.” Ben interrupted, then sat there and couldn’t think of anything else to say. The word ‘murder’ played over and over in his head. It didn’t make sense. “Do you know for sure?”

  Sandy sighed. “We’re close enough. We need the more sophisticated equipment of the CDC, and we’ve sent them samples. We’ll know something for sure by next week.”

  “Who would want to kill pueblo people? My grandmother, Peter Tenorio, Jennifer—is it some racist thing?”

  “I don’t know. It could be. Do you think there’s any chance we could find out where Lorenzo found the packet?”

  “That’s tough. It’s hard to say what he understands and what he doesn’t. We could try. He really likes Julie. Maybe she could find out something.”

  “Great idea. In the meantime, I’d like you to do some snooping. I don’t know what we’re looking for, but I have a feeling it’s under our noses. We can’t turn anything over to the feds until we get the official word from Atlanta. You’re in a good position to find out what’s going on, but be careful.”

  Ben decided against telling Sandy he’d already been shot at. Could that incident have something to do with this? He’d be careful, but he wanted to know the killer—the person who had killed his grandmother and the others.

  + + +

  “I can’t believe it.” Julie had stopped eating. She sat idly twirling the strands of spaghetti with fork and spoon. “It’s murder but more heinous—if that can be possible—because of the ramifications. This could have spread anywhere. There was no way to contain it, at least, that we know of. So, we’re talking a mass murderer.”

  “Maybe that wasn’t their first intention. Look at this list. Who on here would seem to be important? Like, politically important?” Ben shoved a napkin toward her with ten names listed.

  The ten people who had died—nine from the pueblo and the Hispanic construction worker. At the bottom were the names of survivors. Julie put down the fork and spoon and held the napkin close to the glass container holding a flickering votive candle. So much for a romantic candlelight dinner at Mama Mia’s restaurant.

  “There’s only one possibility. It’s easy to see when you look at the list. The governor.” Julie beamed. “Do I get any points?”

  “You’re right. But he was the sixth victim. So, why didn’t it stop there? Or better yet, why wasn’t there just that single death?” Ben went back to doodling on a napkin.

  “Maybe they covered up their tracks with the other deaths.”

  “Maybe.” Ben didn’t sound convinced.

  “I think it’s a good idea to start with Lorenzo. When can we question him?”

  “How ’bout tonight? He’s usually in the community center until nine,” Ben said.

  “Great. Take me by the station to pick up my recorder and drop off some copy.”

  + + +

  It took her longer to find the recorder than she’d planned. Someone had borrowed the one she kept in her office so she went down to check one out of the equipment room.

  “Working late, kiddo. What’s so hot?” Bob Crenshaw held the door open for her.

  “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Well,” Julie hesitated, but then decided it might be better if her boss knew what she was doing. “There is a possibility that the Hantavirus could have been planted.”

  “Say that again.”

  “Someone might have come up with the virus in a lab and sort of turned it loose on the world.”

  “Why would someone want to do that?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out.”

  “Do you have any evidence?”

  “It’s too much to try to explain now, but let’s say that a handful of pumpkin seeds are going to tell us a lot. I’ll keep you posted. I may know more after I talk to someone in the pueblo tonight.”

  “You going out there alone at night?”

  “No. Ben Pecos is with me. He’s been a great help with interviews.” And don’t make judgements about my private life like everyone else around here does, Julie thought.

  “Just be careful, kiddo.”

  + + +

  Bob’s hands left a damp outline as he gripped the edge of his desk.

  What should he do? Take her out now? Or wait. He could still use her. He’d put a rookie in this job to be useful, so that he’d have an inside track, and Julie was still valuable alive. But what if she had the packet? If she did have the packet, who else had seen it? His knuckles burned where he had slammed his fist into the equipment room door. They had been so close. That screw-up Johnson. Stupid people drove him nuts. Stupid women, stupid men; it made no difference. There should be a test at birth and the flunkouts drowned.

  Bob Crenshaw looked around his office. There wasn’t an award worth receiving in the business that wasn’t already on display. He had put his life into this station. His life and someone else’s money. He let people believe that he had old family wealth while the truth was his connections might be upsetting to some.

  The one million dollars that the investment group needed for Tony Chang, needed in order to buy the tainted seeds, was easy to get. His friends jumped at a chance to buy into the action. They wanted into reservation gambling in the worst way. Only the Andersons couldn’t know. Then, after it was too late, the silent partners could become visible. They would buy him out; he’d sell the station and disappear—set for life. Bob leaned back in his chair. Everything—he owed everything to his friends in New York. They had controlled Vegas; they intended to control Indian gambling. They needed this casino. He needed this casino. His cut would buy his independence.

  He’d sold his soul for money thirty-five years ago; he’d buy it back the same way. He had been groomed by their money. A juvenile on the way to life in prison who did a big favor for someone high up in the organization. As the years went by, there had been other favors. Some little, some big. They didn’t forget. But a screw-up and he’d be dead. He’d always known that. Learned to live with that. This time he’d have company—the Andersons, Tony, and Johnson Yepa. But if all went well, he’d spend the rest of his life watching the waves wash up on the shore.

  He paced the room, then took his revolver from the bottom drawer and headed toward the parking garage. Just a little scare. If she got hurt, it would slow her down. Keep her from getting the interview tonight. That might be important. He looked at the Harley. It wouldn’t be good to take the Hog. Fast, but too easy to recognize. Now, what would blend in out there? What would look as if he lived on the reservation? Bob saw the pickup that belonged to the sound tech. Yes. Beat to shit. Dark color. Nothing to distinguish it.

  He raced back inside. “Tim, I got a little bike trouble. I need to run home for some tools. Any chance I could take your truck?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be here a couple hours, so take your time.” Tim dug in his pocket for the keys. “Automatic choke farts around sometimes, but it doesn’t flood out very often. If it does, just give it a few minutes.”

  Bob caught the keys in midair. “Thanks, bud. I’ll see you later.”

  The top level of the garage was quiet this time of evening. Everyone was inside working on something for the ten o’clock news or keeping the network shows going out to most of Albuquerque. Interesting that he, of all people, was a major influence on the lives of others.

  Ownership had its privileges. Censorship and endorsement were two of them.

  Shit. He’d never noticed t
he rebel flag license plate on the front of Tim’s truck. A little mud would obscure that. And might as well do the license plate in back while he was at it. He’d stop on his way out, scoop up a handful of moist dirt from around a recently watered evergreen. Probably should take the gun rack down, too. That would do it. Nondescript to a tee.

  He pumped the gas pedal once. The truck roared to life. Needs a muffler but no one would notice that on the highway. Bob shifted into reverse and laid a couple feet of rubber. Not bad for that gear. He just hoped it had something at the top end. He needed to catch up and fast. Julie must have a ten minute head start. He wasn’t sure what they were driving but they should be easy to spot.

  + + +

  Julie sat next to Ben on the front seat of the pickup, the list on the napkin still in her hand.

  “Let’s start with the governor. Who stood to gain from his death,” she said, “Johnson Yepa?”

  “Not really. He could have been elected governor in his own right at some other time. And I don’t really get the idea he likes the responsibility much.”

  “Would there have been a casino if the old governor had lived? I remember a lot of protests last year and, as the chairperson for the All Indian Pueblo Council, the Tewa governor was in a position to keep things from going forward,” Julie said.

  “You’re right. He was adamant. He thought a casino would ruin the pueblo way of life. He blocked all debate on the topic.” They fell silent, giving this some thought.

  The forty-seven miles from Albuquerque to the pueblo were flying past. The highway was the darkest stretch in the state on a moonless night. Only one truck had passed them in thirty minutes. Ben saw headlights of an approaching car about two miles ahead. There wasn’t a lot of company.