Geistmann

by Singer, Ron

  “What do you think he’ll do here?” he asked Hank. Robinson already knew enough about Yazzie to think he might have a useful answer. A proper Navajo, at the beginning of the trip, he had volunteered the information that his maternal clan was biitsoh dine’ e’, or Big Deer People. Confiding this fact showed respect for Robinson, as well as an awareness that the biligaana was atypically curious and well informed.

  Hank had been lost in his own thoughts. Now his eyes flickered toward his passenger, but his head did not turn. For several seconds, he seemed to consider the question. Like most Dine’ Robinson had encountered, Hank’s response to a difficult question was normally deliberate, as if he somehow saw it spatially, something to walk around first, partly in order to determine the biligaana’s vantage point.

  “Well,” he finally said. “Arnold Weatherbee told me about that hozho note he left in the wall in Virginia. Mr. Geistmann likes games, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Canyon de Chelly could be a big playground for him. You’ve heard of the Long March, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” Robinson knew Hank was referring not to Chairman Mao, but to the forced displacement of the Navajo to Oklahoma in the 1860’s.

  “Well, maybe he’s going to lure us into our own long march down into the Canyon, then do something to our vehicle while we’re hiking back out. Or some other joke like that.”

  Robinson told Hank about the Orville Johnson killing and the theory developed at the Charlottesville meeting, that Geistmann might be about to play a variation on that particular “joke.”

  Hank grinned. “That’s cold, man! Not many Dine’ would do a thing like that.”

  For a few minutes, they drove in silence. Then, just after Hank had flashed his right turn signal (although there was no traffic), he spoke again. “Maybe, we should drive over to Black Mesa later.” He made the turn. “There’s a sing going on up there for a sick old lady, lung sickness. Tonight’s the last night. The coal company might send someone ‘in sympathy.’ Maybe even give the family a little help paying for the sing. Blood money,” he calmly added. “You must have read how they’re planning to make the mine bigger than ever, kick some more people down off the Mesa.”

  Robinson had, indeed, read about this rumor. But before he could reply, the sound of Navajo chanting and drumming came from the dashboard. Hank leaned forward and hit a button.

  “Package arrived this a.m.,” he said into the speakerphone. “He’s with me right here.”

  “Hey, Hank. Ya ‘a’ a teh’.” It was Peter. His accent was not too bad.

  “Ya’a’ a teh’.”

  “Hello, John,” Peter said. “Where are you guys now?”

  “Route 191 North,” Hank said, “about twenty miles from our current destination, Canyon de Chelly. Where are you?”

  “Field HQ, Albuquerque. Good hunting, gentlemen. And if he’s not there?”

  Hank laughed. “You mean, if we can’t find him there. The Canyon is big, Peter. We might try Black Mesa next. The Do’lii Dine’e clan –Blue Bird People—are having a sing up there tonight for one of the old people who got lung sickness last winter.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Robinson gestured for Yazzie’s attention. “Just a second,” Hank said into the speakerphone.

  “Ask him to send backup,” Robinson whispered.

  “You got anyone there you can send over to help us out tonight, just in case?”

  “Yes. We know about the ceremony, we had the same idea. Scott Peters is in Tuba, and he’s planning to bring over his guys. A few others may show up, too. Depends on what he wants.”

  “No shooters, though, okay? The sing is supposed to be a healing ceremony.”

  “By the way, how do you know about the sing, Hank?” Peter asked again.

  “Word gets around. Besides, Do’lii Dine’ are my dad’s grandpa’s brother’s people.”

  “Oh. Am I supposed to say I’m sorry the old woman is sick?”

  “Thanks. Bye.”

  Hank shook his head as he punched the button, cutting the transmission. “What an asshole! These biligaanas are so fucking ignorant!” He winked at Robinson. “Present company excluded.” Robinson knew the proper response: none. He guessed that Scott Peters would ignore Hank’s injunction and include marksmen in the Black Mesa contingent.

  To: unknown recip@anon.com

  From: boxholder14432@fini.org

  Subject: Librarian ETC (#13)

  VICAP, USMS TEAMS (4, TOTAL) CURRENTLY DEPLOYED BLUFF, UTAH; FLAGSTAFF & TUBA CITY, AZ; GRANTS, NM.

  LIBRARIAN W/BABYSITTER, HANK YAZZIE: NAVAJO, SKILLED TRACKER. PRESENTLY (1200 HOURS) APPROACHING CANYON DE CHELLY. PLANNING TO PROCEED BLACK MESA. AVOID AT ALL COSTS, REGARDLESS OF DISGUISE. LIBRARIAN MAY NOW RECOGNIZE YOU, AND YAZZIE CAN FIND YOU! PETERS WILL BE WAITING ON 591 NORTH. GO DIRECTLY TO RENDEZ-VOUS, MEET AS PLANNED, 2100 HOURS.

  For a few moments, the recipient looked not exactly worried, but thoughtful. Shifting into neutral, he took his foot off the gas and briefly let the truck glide. Then, he shifted again and accelerated back to his former speed.

  Robinson ate the same things he had eaten in 1980: the Navajo taco, beet salad, and green jello, in which pieces of fruit cocktail were suspended. Yazzie tucked into the cheeseburger special, followed by apple pie a la mode, everything washed down with a large iced tea and free refill. Unlike Fedoruk, Hank apparently knew who would be picking up the check; there was no scuffle.

  ”We might not get to eat later,” he explained, wiping his mouth on a big paper napkin.

  “I hope not,” Robinson said.

  After lunch, there was time for a leisurely reconnaissance drive along the southern rim road of the Canyon. In spite of Hank’s guess about a “Long March” prank, Robinson would have liked to detour for a short hike down to, say, the renowned White House ruin in Canyon del Muerto. But he was already tired, and the day promised to be long and stressful. He also guessed that Hank had no interest in hiking down the steep trail and back. They were just looking, hoping to catch some luck, or if not, killing time before starting for the Mesa.

  They settled for stops at several overlooks, including White House, where Robinson used Yazzie’s powerful binoculars to scan the petroglyphs, the arid and majestic red cliffs, and the bluebird-colored sky with its puffy flat-bottomed cumulous clouds. Even the distant views from Tseyi and from Sliding House, Face Rock, and the rest, were wonderful. How had this place remained so blessedly unchanged?

  When they reached the last overlook, Spider Rock, Robinson vowed to return as soon as he could, for some hiking, or even for a ride across the Canyon floor. He expected that the Lodge still used the Unimogs for their tours, the converted Army trucks he and Judy had enjoyed bouncing around in. Drawing on a mnemonic device, he even remembered the name of their driver and guide, a Dine’ bull roper, joker, and show-off –-in short, a real hot dog: the driver’s name was Frank.

  At the Spider Rock overlook, Yazzie turned the cruiser around and looked at his watch. “It’s only three. It’s about an hour and a half from here to Chilchinbito, and sunset isn’t till six-thirty, so if we get started now, we can take our time and still arrive way before dark. My guess is that, if he’s coming, it will be after dark. The FBI guys should be there before that, it’s only two hours from Tuba.” He accelerated. “This guy sounds frightening. God help us!”

  Backtracking to Chinle, they took 191 North again to another small town, Many Farms, where they turned left onto 59, heading north-northwest. The next town, also small, was Rough Rock, where they saw a big school and, on almost every spigot, spring, and wellhead, warnings about poison from the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Just past Rough Rock came Chilchinbito.

  As they inched into the tiny, apparently deserted town, from off to the right they could hear chanting and the sound of rattles. Yazzie had told Robinson the sing had been going on all day. on a cleared piece of ground right behind the chapter house, so he was surprised when, wit
hout stopping or explaining, Hank drove right through the hamlet and out the other side. By now, the landscape was scarred and pitted with abandoned strip mines. He knew there was also a closed uranium site near Rough Rock. What a place for a school – or for anything!

  A few miles on, Hank said, “There’s still plenty of time, so we’ll go up to 160 first and into Kayenta. I have a hunch he’ll come down on 591, a dirt road from Kayenta, less traffic that way. I also want to check out the airport.”

  “There’s an airport there?”

  Hank grinned. “Well, sort of. Five or six flights, total, in and out, per day.”

  After fifteen more minutes, they turned left onto 160, and five or ten minutes later, they were at the airstrip, which was southwest of the small town of Kayenta. Hank pulled over, and they saw a single plane sitting silently on the grassy, potholed runway, a twin-engine prop painted in camouflage colors, license number MT-4, in big red letters.

  “That’s Monty Tsinojinie’s crate,” Hank said. “He flies coal company execs in and out, mostly. Monty’s a straight shooter, no drug smuggling. He’s probably getting ready to bring that exec down to the sing tonight. If I were him –Geistmann—assuming he’s coming, too-- after I finished my business, I’d leave from right here.” He nodded toward the airstrip, then reached forward and punched a number into the phone panel. The call was picked up after four rings.

  “Monty? Hank Yazzie. Ya-a-ateh. Where are you?”

  “Ya-a-ateh. Home,” said a deep, sleepy voice. “Where are you?”

  “Sorry I woke you up. At the airport, looking at your crate.”

  “How does it look?”

  “Fine. You flying today?”

  “In about an hour and a half. I’m bringing a big shot down to the strip at Chilchinbito. He’s going to the sing. Wants to show the flag, I guess.”

  “What else is new? Which guy is it?”

  “Oh, one of the really big kahunas, a veep, or something. They didn’t tell me his name. But, hey.”

  “How come they’re not using one of their own egg-beaters?”

  “Who knows? Low profile? Less noise? And who cares? Hell, it’s money for Monty.”

  “Anything else flying in or out of K-port tonight, you know of.”

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing flying, or nothing you know of?”

  “Nothing I know of.”

  “You going to wait out there for the guy, to bring him back?”

  “Yep. Might even check out the sing, myself. It’s your great-granddad’s people, ain’t it?”

  “Yep. See you there. Keep an eye out for suspicious strangers.”

  “Whoa! You kidding me, Hank?”

  “Nope, see you later.” Yazzie cut the transmission. “We’ll drive back now.”

  “When we see Peters,” Robinson suggested, “we should ask him whether he has this airstrip covered.”

  “The Bureau always covers the local air options. I know Peters; he’s thorough. He’ll have the roads covered, too. The main ones, anyhow.”

  Robinson thought for a moment. “Did you hear what Geistmann did to the FBI in Virginia?”

  “Not really.” Did Yazzie sound amused? Or was he hurt because he was outside the information loop?

  Robinson explained how Geistmann had drugged Rocker and the dogs and their handlers in the woods, snowshoe-ed around the ambush, glided away, then eluded all the roadblocks. Throughout the account, Yazzie wore a big grin, especially when Robinson was describing the glider, with its picturesque logo.

  “He sounds like a pisser. And Peters is a pro! Oh, well, situation normal,” he commented. “Yep, I bet he’s planning to fly away again. But in a plane this time.”

  By then, they had backtracked to Kayenta, where, after a few more turns, Yazzie swung the cruiser onto an unmarked dirt road heading south-southeast, back toward Chilchinbito. Robinson assumed this was 591. A minute later, without any warning, Hank bumped the cruiser off the road, braked, killed the engine, and punched another number into the phone panel.

  “Jenny? Hank Yazzie. I need you to run a plate for me: AZ 2843N, Nancy.”

  “Hi, Sluggo –I mean, Hank. Right. Just ... a ...sec.” Robinson could hear Jenny’s keyboard clacking. Thirty seconds later, she came back on the line. “Got it. Registered to a Ms. Winston Marbury, lives down in St. Johns. Want the phone number?”

  “Not yet. Any flags?”

  “Nope. Apparently, Ms. Marbury is still in possession of her eight-year old Dodge Ram, gray in color.”

  “That’s the one. Can you get me a few more facts about her?”

  “Call you back in fifteen or twenty.” The connection was broken.

  “Did you see the truck, John? North side of 160 next to NTUA, the power company building.”

  “I did. Just before we got into Kayenta. A slim guy, leaning on the passenger side door looking out into space. Typical cowboy outfit, very handsome guy.”

  “Watch that ‘handsome’ stuff! Anyhow, assuming the guy was Winston Marbury, he’s married.”

  “Very funny. But I thought you Navajos were supposed to be tolerant of gays. Isn’t there a story about First Man and First Woman, when they split up for a while?”

  “Whatever. I have some shocking news for you, John. Not only have I never heard that story, I don’t even speak Navajo. And, yes, I’ll admit it: I’m homophobic.”

  A silent interval followed. Robinson knew they were just passing time until Jenny called back, which, ten minutes later, she did.

  “Hank? After I ran the truck through ADOT, I checked the Marburys’ tax records.”

  “Any flags?”

  “Nope. They divorced in September oh-five. She’s a nurse, he’s a short-order cook who has one DWI from six years ago, nothing much else.”

  “I guess she got the truck. But why is he driving it?”

  “Boy, are you cops suspicious! I know, don’t say it, it’s your job to be suspicious. Well, if it’s his truck, she probably just registers it in her name to save on the insurance. Or they could be sharing it.”

  “Or maybe they’re back together by now. Anything else?”

  “Let’s ... see here. Okay, the guy’s one-third Apache, the rest non-N.A. Oh, yeah, here’s one more thing may interest you. About three years ago, he was arrested for slashing all four tires on a police cruiser parked on his street. I think it was yours, Hank.”

  “Very funny. Thanks, Jen, see you.”

  “Hey, a girl’s got to have fun, too. Later.”

  Robinson was struck by the joking banality of most Navajo conversations in English. After phoning the truck description into Albuquerque HQ, Hank re-started the engine, and they bumped their way back down toward Chilchinbito. By now, it was almost five-thirty. Twenty minutes later, they parked the cruiser behind a hillock just off 591 and about a hundred yards above the chapter house. Yazzie killed the lights and the engine. Then, unlocking the back compartment, he took out two pairs of night-vision goggles.

  “Here,” he said, giving a pair to Robinson. “Just in case. Ever use these before?”

  “I went on an Outward Bound once when I was in college, and they taught us. Has the technology changed?”

  “Don’t worry, these are probably a hundred years old, FBI hand-me-downs.”

  Yazzie slammed the compartment door and locked the van. Each man put his goggles in his backpack, and they strolled along the road toward the chapter house.

  “There’s probably just enough light left for us to see the last batch of sand paintings. Maybe even get a bite to eat.”

  Up ahead, Robinson could see people laying out materials for fires, and opening folding chairs. He could smell fry bread and mutton stew, and he saw steam rising from the big pots on the side of the chapter house away from the road. He was very nervous.

  Episode 12

  Episode 12.

  Wednesday, April 2-Thursday, April 3, 2008. Albuquerque, New Mexicao; Kayenta, Nageezi, and Chilchinbito, Arizona.

  In Bea
uty may I walk.

  All day long may I walk.

  Through the returning seasons may I walk.