Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  When Joe finished, Bluehorse, Rushingwater, and Sleeping Bear came inside. Rushingwater nodded to the front door, and Nightwind and the other three men moved outside to wait. An obedient bunch.

  Joe led Rushingwater into the kitchen. Bluehorse followed. Sleeping Bear sat down on the couch.

  Joe placed the shotguns on the floor in the kitchen. Then he removed the rifle clip and shells from his pocket and placed them next to the shotguns. He took out his notepad.

  “Is your real name Dwight Henry?” Joe asked.

  “Not anymore. It is the white man’s label. My name is Hawk Rushingwater.”

  “Okay, but is Dwight Henry printed on your CIB?” Joe asked, referring to his Navajo Certificate of Indian Blood, which was used by the tribe to establish membership.

  “Yes.”

  Joe asked for Rushingwater’s date of birth and other identifiers. Rushingwater responded readily. When Joe asked his employment, Rushingwater smiled.

  “I am president of Navajo NOW and tribal chief of the Peoples of Diné.”

  “Is Navajo NOW a chapter of AIM?”

  “No. They have lost their way. They no longer represent the will of our people.”

  “Tell me about the Peoples of Diné.”

  Rushingwater’s chest puffed out. “In 2007, the United Nations adopted a Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. Based on that and the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties, it’s clear the United States has consistently violated its treaties with Native American tribes. I have petitioned the United Nations to formally recognize the Peoples of Diné as an independent country.”

  Joe wanted to ask how that was working out for him, but he rephrased his question. “Has the Peoples of Diné been recognized?”

  “Not yet, but we are confident. Our sister tribe, the Lakota, are also seeking independence. My brother Russell Means was leading that effort before his death.”

  “Where is headquarters for the Peoples of Diné?” Bluehorse asked.

  “Here,” Rushingwater said. “All great accomplishments start from humble beginnings. Did not the United States start from the whisperings of men meeting in backrooms and dreaming of independence?”

  “I guess,” Joe said. “But we’re here on a different matter. What do you know about Congressman Edgerton?”

  “His vehicle was found. I figure that is why you came.”

  “If you knew, then why did you have your war chief out there with a rifle?”

  “I believe it was one of your country’s forefathers, Samuel Adams, who said ‘No people will tamely surrender their Liberties, nor can any be easily subdued, when knowledge is diffused and virtue is preserved.’ I have to stay vigilant of those who try to stop my work.”

  Joe was growing weary of the freedom-fighter rhetoric. “So you believe the Navajo Nation should be an independent country. Did you feel that way in ’88?”

  “I was not as politically savvy those early years.”

  “So your actions spoke louder than your words back then.”

  “I wasn’t afraid to force change, no. I wanted to see my brothers and sisters break free of the slavery we call reservation life.”

  “Was Edgerton part of the problem? He was a member of Congress. The same Congress that set up the reservations.”

  “He was only one of many.”

  “You wrote letters to him, right?”

  “I spoke to BIA agents back then about those letters. My answers satisfied them. Do they not satisfy you now?”

  “Your letters concern me.” Joe pulled copies from his inside jacket pocket. Three letters, two pages each. “Are these the letters you sent him?” Joe did not hand them over, but instead held them up for Rushingwater to see.

  “It has been many years.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can jog your memory.” Joe turned to a page he had marked up. “You wrote, ‘Your government has consistently treated Native Americans as animals. You force us to live on reservations like cattle slowly dying on barren lands. You force us to submit to a blood quantum for membership. The only other uses for a blood quantum are the tracking of Thoroughbred and dog pedigrees. Are we dogs? Are we not eligible for inclusion under the belief that all men are created equal?’” Joe looked up. “And here you quote the Declaration of Independence. I liked that part. ‘When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…’ You go on quoting, and then you write, ‘Those who support our cause are our brothers. Those who oppose our cause are our enemies. Where do you stand, Congressman Edgerton?’” Joe paused. “Did you write those words?”

  “I did. And I am proud of them. Those words were from my heart, the heart of every oppressed Navajo.”

  “So was Congressman Edgerton an enemy?”

  “There is no threat in that letter. It was a warning that the American government was creating an oppressed population that someday might rise up against its oppressors.”

  “You’re right: Your threat was veiled. But you asked him what side he was on. Did he side with the American government? Was he the first casualty of your uprising?”

  “Is the congressman missing or is he dead?”

  Rushingwater was no dummy.

  “I’m exploring the possibility that he’s dead, since we found his driver.”

  “What would I have gained from killing him secretly? Movements need attention. If I had done anything like that, I would have announced it and garnished the attention of the press—”

  “Garnered,” a voice from the living room said. It was Sleeping Bear. He sat on the couch, bored.

  Rushingwater seemed unruffled. “I would have garnered the attention of the nation to our cause. But I did not know if Edgerton was an enemy or not. He never answered the letter.”

  “He was working on legislation to protect Native American history and also to allow casinos on the reservations.”

  “Casinos. I guess that has proven beneficial to my people. The white man gave us reservations, but we gave them casinos. Over time, we shall see who the losers are. In that sense, we are the house.”

  They talked for another twenty minutes, but Joe got nowhere. He would read a passage from a letter, even mock it to see if Rushingwater would rise to the bait and show his anger, but he remained calm, responding to each quote with a call to end the oppression. He had twenty years of rhetoric at his disposal. Joe tired. He asked Rushingwater to submit to a polygraph.

  “No, Mr. BIA. Believe my words or don’t. I will not play the bilagáanas game of technology.”

  “When was the last time you traveled down to Mexico?”

  “I’ve never been outside the United States, and I try not to pass beyond our four sacred mountains.”

  Joe ended the interview a few minutes later. Rushingwater agreed to talk again if Joe had additional questions. He also agreed not to have his war chief on alert should Joe return.

  “What do the pins in your map represent?” Bluehorse asked.

  “Supporters. We are growing in membership every day.”

  Joe looked at the map again. There were maybe a hundred pins. He had been about to say good luck, but he stopped himself. He wasn’t going to wish someone success in seceding from the United States. Too many people had given their lives to hold the country together, including Native Americans.

  Outside, Sleeping Bear followed them to the Tahoe.

  “Why are you with this crowd?” Bluehorse asked.

  “I believe in the cause,” Sleeping Bear said.

  “To break away from America?” Bluehorse asked.

  “To see our people return to our traditions. And that requires greater independence.”

  Bluehorse seemed thoughtful.

  Joe took Nightwind’s rifle from his front seat. He handed it to Sleeping Bear. “Do you think your leader could kill someone?”

  “Words are his only weapon.”

  “You were there when my partner was attacked be
cause of his words. And I’m sure you know your leader was arrested for assaulting an officer. He’s no Gandhi.”

  “That was during the MacDonald riots,” Sleeping Bear said. “He threw white paint on a Navajo officer. Symbolic. Not violent.”

  OCTOBER 7

  THURSDAY, 2:31 P.M.

  NEAR JONES RANCH ROAD, CHI CHIL TAH (NAVAJO NATION), NEW MEXICO

  The Yamaha YZ250 bounced over the ground, ripping through rabbitbrush and patchy brown grass. Books followed no trail. The bike’s skinny tires blazed their own path, leaving behind ragged furrows in the clay and torn flora. He took his time, focused on what was before him, and paid particular attention to avoiding the flat cacti, whose thorns could easily cause a puncture and strand him out here. If that happened, he’d rethink his plan. His getaway didn’t include pushing his bike for miles. He checked the GPS.

  Two minutes later, he arrived.

  Edgerton’s vehicle was no longer there, of course. The FBI had towed it away. At least that’s what the news had reported, which was a shame. He would have liked to have laid eyes on the cause of Mr. O.’s troubles, which now were his troubles, since he’d been recruited as the cleanup team. How his boss was connected to the whole missing congressman thing was a mystery to Books. And he really didn’t care. If Mr. O. didn’t want to say, that was fine with him. He would be gone soon enough. Only last night, after he’d gotten back from his visit with William Tom, he’d found Mr. O. lying on the bathroom floor, naked, crying, begging his daddy not to take away his dolls, white powder on the counter, a puddle of his own urine next to him. Books knew it was time to beat feet. He’d seen guys in Philadelphia, a successful businessman, a shortstop for the Phillies, a city councilman, the wife of a big developer, all of them, each of them, take the sleigh ride straight down. And Mr. O. was zipping down that same mountain right now. No controls and no brakes. The crash would be ugly, and Books hoped not to be around for the aftermath.

  After the phone call the previous day, his boss had not stopped talking about the agent.

  “That son of a bitch isn’t going to let it drop.” They were standing in the study. Mr. O. went to the cabinet and took out a Navajo mask, the same one the professor had photographed.

  “That fat worm Trudle is going to pay, too. But first we take care of Evers.” Othmann gave Books the look: the This is why I pay you so well look. “I want him dead.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t care. But as far from here as possible.”

  “What’s he got on you?”

  His boss didn’t reply at first, and Books could almost see the paranoia swirling around in the crazy bastard’s head.

  Mr. O. held up the mask. “It’s against the law to own one, and apparently Evers wants to get a search warrant to look around.”

  “Just turn it over to him. Why take on the trouble?”

  “That’s why I don’t pay you to think. I don’t let anyone take from me. Not that little fuck Eddie or this big fuck Evers. No one takes from me.”

  Books hadn’t liked the agent from the start, so taking him out was almost a perk. Most people, even cops, were intimidated by Books’s size. But not Evers. Books had wanted to knock that arrogant look off his face when he’d first met him at the door, but he wasn’t an idiot. You never messed with a cop unless you knew you’d get away with it. And in a little more than an hour from now, he would get away with it.

  He turned the bike’s engine off.

  Mr. O. had made one call and had gotten the coordinates to where Edgerton’s vehicle had been found. He also learned the caliber of the round, so that Books could use it to pique Evers’s interest.

  Books walked to the road. He picked a spot ten feet into the tree line, knelt down, opened his backpack, and took out the barrel and then the stock of a Browning .30-06 lever-action takedown rifle. He slid the barrel in place, listening for the click. He checked the scope. Clean. He liked a lever action on his rifles. It had a nice cowboy feel to it, like in the old Westerns.

  Jones Ranch Road was clear. No cars, but there was life. Across from his position, a prairie dog stood on its hind legs. It, too, seemed to be watching the road for vehicles. Books lowered the weapon and sighted on the animal. Its head filled the target ring of the lens.

  “Bang,” he whispered.

  OCTOBER 7

  THURSDAY, 3:44 P.M.

  JONES RANCH ROAD, CHI CHIL TAH (NAVAJO NATION), NEW MEXICO

  They’d left the asphalt about a mile back and were now traveling along a gravel road. It stretched out before them, seemingly endless, disappearing into a horizon of trees and blue sky. No vehicles around. No witnesses, either. The same road Edgerton and his party had traveled all those years ago when they vanished.

  “It feels wrong,” Joe said. “He knows us, but we don’t know him.” He slowed to a stop a little more than a hundred feet from the turnoff they had used to get to Edgerton’s vehicle.

  “It’s the rez,” Bluehorse said. “People do strange stuff here.”

  “Yeah, but his voice didn’t sound native.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Joe had thought about having Stretch and Sadi come out to provide backup for the meet, but the incident at Mickey’s with Sadi was still too raw. He didn’t want her or Stretch out here judging how he was running this case. And besides, meeting sources on the rez was pretty common, even with those who wanted to stay anonymous and didn’t trust cops. Neighbors often ratted on one another and were afraid to be found out. Then why did this meet bother him? Because of the voice. It had seemed disguised, yet he’d thought he’d recognized it. When—

  “What do you want to do, Joe?” Bluehorse asked, this time his tone more insistent.

  Joe didn’t know.

  OCTOBER 7

  THURSDAY, 3:48 P.M.

  JONES RANCH ROAD, CHI CHIL TAH (NAVAJO NATION), NEW MEXICO

  Books was prone on the ground, not moving, when the sound of tires on gravel came from the east. He waited.

  Minutes passed.

  No vehicle.

  He crawled forward, careful not to disturb the brush around him. He saw the vehicle, Joe Evers’s Tahoe, but he couldn’t make out the occupants. He edged forward another foot and peered through his rifle’s scope. The reflection of sun and sky on windshield made it impossible to see inside. Was Evers alone? Perhaps he’d brought the professor with him. If so, Books could be tossing back Pacíficos in La Libertad by Monday, maybe scouting café sites by Tuesday.

  It felt good to have a plan. A goal. The only time Books had ever truly felt good about life was a year after he came out of juvie. He’d gotten a job at a coffee shop, a quaint little place in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, run by an old Italian named Cosimo. The old man had treated him well, given him respect even before Books had earned it. Trusted him. Let him open and close the place, even tally the register. Books stayed on for more than a year, even dated a local girl, a transcriptionist at the courthouse, Clair. Cosimo called her “Clairabelle.” Things were good.

  And then the landlord refused to renew the old man’s lease; Cosimo had been there thirty years.

  Books paid a visit to the landlord, hoping to somehow change his mind. But the daughter answered the door. Turned out the landlord was eighty-three, bedridden, and senile. The daughter ran things. So Books tried to talk to her, tried to get her to see reason, explaining that the café was Cosimo’s whole life. But all she kept saying was that he had to leave or she’d call the cops. She went for the phone. He stopped her. That’s when she told him about unloading her father’s properties. She had a buyer for the café, but it needed to be vacant. She explained all this while begging him not to hurt her. He hadn’t gone there to hurt anyone. The next day, he quit, telling Cosimo simply that it was time he moved on. Cosimo died later that same year, heart attack. The police never found the woman’s body. And no one ever questioned Books about her.

  He liked the name Rick’s Café, but maybe he would call it Cosimo’s. That sounded ni
ce. And he would offer Italian food.

  Lying there on the red clay with the odor of sage strong, too strong, all around him, he promised himself this was his last gig. He wasn’t going to die in prison, take a shiv in the face while he sat on the shitter. He wanted to go out like the old man, in the kitchen, brewing coffee and stuffing cannoli. Peaceful. Maybe even find a lady along the way. Another Clairabelle.

  It was 4:02 and he couldn’t see into the bastard’s vehicle. The son of a bitch was screwing things up. Now Books would have to move to get a clean shot.

  OCTOBER 7

  THURSDAY, 4:08 P.M.

  JONES RANCH ROAD, CHI CHIL TAH (NAVAJO NATION), NEW MEXICO

  “There he is,” Bluehorse said.

  At first, Joe saw only a scraggly forest. Then he caught movement. A man walking along the tree line, appearing from behind one juniper, then just as quickly disappearing behind the next. He wore a brown jacket, baseball cap, and sunglasses. Bluehorse opened his door.

  Joe didn’t like it. “Hold on. Let’s—”

  Bluehorse wasn’t listening. “Eddie!” He stood by his open door.

  Joe got out and moved behind the engine compartment.

  The man, perhaps twenty yards from the road, knelt.

  Joe drew his weapon.

  The man brought up a rifle.

  “Gun!” Joe fired his Glock: one, two, three rounds.

  In his periphery, he saw Bluehorse fall against the rear passenger door. Joe’s ears rang from the Glock’s loud reports. He called out to his partner.

  No answer.

  Bluehorse had on his vest, Joe repeated to himself.

  The man in the tree line moved to his left, behind a thick oak. The rifle’s barrel peeked around the tree. It barked.

  Air rushed past Joe’s head. He returned three rounds.

  Another rifle shot.

  The round punched into the engine compartment.

  He called again to Bluehorse.

  No answer. Gurgling sounds.

  Joe dropped to the hard-packed clay and peered beneath the truck.