Abducted Innocence (Emily Etcitty)

by Sandra Bolton

  OTHER TITLES BY SANDRA BOLTON

  A Cipher in the Sand

  The Emily Etcitty Mysteries

  Key Witness

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Sandra Bolton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477848685

  ISBN-10: 1477848681

  Cover design by Ray Lundgren

  To my children,

  Tim, Terry, and Todd

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Friday, April 6, 1990

  Huerfano Substation

  Navajo Nation Tribal Police

  Navajo police officer Emily Etcitty picked up the incident report dropped on her desk by Officer Joe Hosteen. She raised her eyebrows and flashed him an annoyed look, which he responded to with a sardonic smile and shrug. She had finished her shift and was filing the final reports—and looking forward to spending time with Abe, her musician boyfriend, at his place near Bloomfield.

  “Sounds like female stuff to me,” Hosteen said, giving it little significance and, therefore, delegating it to Emily. “Captain Todechine said a woman might handle it better.”

  Emily skimmed the dispatcher’s report. “A missing girl out at Teec Nos Pos.”

  “Yeah, missing for only four hours when the family called it in. Probably nothing but another pissed-off teenager acting out.”

  “This was called in over three hours ago, Joe. Why didn’t you give it to me right away?”

  Officer Hosteen’s eyes were black and sharp as pinpoints, his nose and bone structure chiseled angles, his mouth a thin line. He reminded Emily of a Picasso painting. There was nothing soft or sympathetic about Hosteen. He and Emily had clashed on several occasions in the past over police procedures and didn’t particularly like each other. Now that both were in contention for promotion to sergeant, the friction had increased. Only one would be selected.

  “I was tied up on another case. This missing-girl report didn’t strike me as being particularly urgent—probably a runaway who took off to Grandma’s house when she didn’t get what she wanted.”

  Emily studied the report slowly and methodically for a second time, pausing at the end. It was not uncommon for a thirteen-year-old girl to go missing for a few hours; it was, however, unheard of for one to disappear during her Kinaaldá, the Navajo puberty ceremony practiced by traditional families celebrating a girl’s transition into womanhood.

  “You didn’t even read this, did you?” She pursed her lips and stared at him. “I’ll head on over there and talk to the family,” she said.

  You sexist pig, she thought to herself.

  The trip to the village of Teec Nos Pos on the Arizona side of the reservation took an hour and a half. On her way, Emily drove past the looming monolithic rock formation the Anglos called Shiprock. Someone had given it that name because it resembled a clipper ship sailing the gray-green desert. Emily knew it by its correct name—Tsé Bitʹ aʹi, Winged Rock, after the great bird who brought the Navajo from the north to their present land.

  After she had left the familiar landmark and the town of Shiprock behind, the land opened up once again to scattered mesas, washes, canyons, and the occasional trailer or hogan. Traffic thinned out on Highway 64 to sporadic pickup trucks, giving Emily plenty of time to let her mind drift back to her own Kinaaldá. She remembered how proud and excited she had been to wake up and discover signs of her first menstrual cycle, knowing the spots of blood on the sheet meant there would soon be a four-day celebration ending with a feast. A young girl brought up in the Navajo tradition would not run away at a time like that.

  The sun had dropped behind a sandstone cliff and was casting fiery-orange flames across the western sky when Emily reached the nearly deserted village. She made a quick stop at the Teec Nos Pos Trading Post to ask directions to Jim Benally’s residence.

  “Two miles out of town, you’ll see a dirt road—make a right turn,” said the shopkeeper. “About three more miles, you’ll be there. Half the town is looking for Darcy. I’d be there myself if I didn’t have to keep the store open.”

  Damn, Emily thought. Dozens of other footprints have probably obliterated the girl’s tracks, and it’s going to be dark soon.

  She hurried back to her Chevy Blazer, sped toward the Benally home, and arrived fifteen minutes later. Before leaving the SUV, she called in her location to headquarters.

  The scene that greeted her looked disconsolate. A long wooden table placed under a spreading cottonwood tree was covered with casserole dishes and desserts that remained untouched. Flies buzzed around plates of roast lamb, mutton stew, green chili, and beans that sat congealing in the chilly evening air. A traditional round corn cake that smelled slightly burned had been abandoned. A medicine man chanted prayers, but no one appeared to be listening. Several women huddled together trying to comfort one another while one of their group—probably the mother—cried despairingly. Children clustered together in front of a hogan, their faces somber, their eyes round. She saw no men or teenage boys. Emily assumed they were all looking for the girl. She approached one of the women, introduced herself, and, speaking in Navajo, asked for the mother of the missing child.

  “I am Nina Benally, Darcy’s mom,” a plump woman dressed in fancy clothes snuffled through tears. “Why have they sent only one person? Why have you taken so long?”

  “Yáˈátˈééh alníˈíní,” Emily said, saying the traditional evening greeting. She shook the woman’s hand softly while diverting her eyes and giving Darcy’s mother time to calm herself. “I came as soon as I received word your daughter was missing. Tell me what happened today.”

  Nina Benally sat up straight and drew in a long breath before speaking. She uttered her words slowly, deliberately, as if trying to preserve dignity in front of an officer of the law. “It is the final day of my daughter’s Kinaaldá. I dressed her this morning in her woven-rug dress, turquoise and shell jewelry, and washed her hair with yucca suds and combed it with the grass comb.” There was pride in her voice, but tears streamed down her face as she continued. “I tied her hair with buckskin in the traditional way.” The mother’s lips quivered as she fought to control her
emotions.

  Purple shadows loomed over the mesa. It would soon be too dark to see prints. Emily knew time was crucial if she was to find any trace of the girl today, but also understood she must not hurry the mother. “Please go on, Mrs. Benally. What time was it when you last saw your daughter?”

  “Today was to be the final day of her races before we began the feast and celebration—one this morning and then the evening run. She left after sunrise, about seven thirty, excited, so proud, and wearing a big smile. The children followed her, as is the custom, but my Darcy ran so fast she left them all behind. They came back without her and told us she had been teasing them and laughing when they last saw her. She never returned from her morning race. It is only a little over a mile. What could have happened to my daughter?”

  Emily waited, listening to the woman’s sobs until they subsided. “Mrs. Benally, it will help if you can answer some questions. Do you know the time when the children returned?”

  “Nine o’clock, maybe. The kids had already been looking for Darcy. We waited for her until noon. When she still hadn’t come back, I worried something had happened, so my husband went into town to call the police. He is out on the trail now, looking for our girl.” Nina Benally could no longer keep up the facade of dignified composure. She made a keening sound while praying, beseeching the gods to deliver her daughter home safely from whatever evil had taken her away.

  Emily placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder and patted lightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Benally. I will do everything in my power to find Darcy. If you have a recent picture of her, it would be a great help.”

  The family had called headquarters at noon to report the girl missing, but Hosteen had sat on the report until after three thirty.

  Why had the asshole waited so long?

  Emily left the woman and walked to a group of children. “Yáʹátéé shaʹalchimi. Greetings, children. I want to help find Darcy. Will someone show me where she began her race this morning and which direction she went?”

  All but one of the children cast their eyes down, looking too frightened to leave the protection of the pit fire and the adult women.

  “She started here, at the hogan, and ran to the east,” a round-faced boy of about ten said. “They are afraid of the skinwalkers,” he added, indicating the other youngsters. “But I will show you the way.”

  Of course. She ran toward the east in a circular path, symbolizing the movement of the sun, the cycle of life. She would face the sun to return. How could I have forgotten so much?

  “With your mother’s permission only, and you have to promise not to run ahead,” Emily said.

  After radioing in her status, Emily retrieved a flashlight and camera from the Blazer. A breeze had picked up, bringing a sudden chill. April in the northeast highlands of Arizona can be sunny and warm one day and snowy the next. She donned her jacket and met the boy in front of the hogan.

  “My mother said I can show you the path as long as I am not out of her sight,” the boy said. “She rubbed corn pollen on me for protection.”

  “All right, let’s go, but only a little ways. When we reach the path, you have to turn around. It’s getting dark.”

  “I’m not afraid of skinwalkers,” said the boy.

  “I know. You are brave, but this is police work. I just need to know where to start.”

  “Here,” said the boy when they were about fifty yards from the hogan. He pointed to a narrow path scuffed with numerous tracks. “Do you want some corn pollen?” He had stopped sounding so brave and looked anxiously back toward the safety of the hogan and fire.

  “No, but thanks—I can manage now. Run back to your family. I’ll wait until you are there.” As she watched the boy scamper away, she thought about the stories she had listened to as a child about skinwalkers. Those malevolent witches, according to legend, were capable of transforming themselves into coyotes, wolves, bears, or any animals they wished. Shape-shifters, they were called. It was rumored they used mind control to make people do anything they wanted, especially harm themselves in some way. Emily shook off a chill, telling herself she didn’t believe any of it. She beamed her flashlight on the trail, searching for moccasin tracks amid the disparate tread marks of sneakers.

  They were easy enough to find—small, flat indentations usually off to the left. When Emily came upon an entire footprint, she took a picture, thinking it looked like a size six or six and a half woman’s. The weight on the forefoot was embedded deeper than the heel, and the soles were smooth, indicating the probable print of a Native American—a people accustomed to running by putting the forefoot down first. Emily surmised the girl was probably of medium weight. She made a mental note to ask the mother about her height and weight when she retrieved the photograph.

  A coyote howled from a mesa top, startling Emily and sending a shudder down her spine. She reacted automatically by reaching for her gun, stopping with her hand on the butt of the Glock 19 in her hip holster.

  Shake it off, she told herself as she continued forward.

  She was looking for the spot where the other children had turned back, leaving only the girl’s tracks. Relieved, she noted that the men in the search party had ridden their horses along the side of the trail as not to disturb the tracks.

  About a mile down the path, Emily came upon a dirt road. She crossed it, saw that the trail remained unmarked by footprints on the other side, and discerned that the dusty lane showed signs of fresh tire treads. The vehicle had made a sudden stop, judging by the skid marks. It appeared to have backed up, made a U-turn, and headed in the direction from which it had come. The horses had also stopped there. The riders had dismounted, followed the moccasin tracks, and then returned to their steeds. The horse tracks continued along the road in the direction of the vehicle. Emily snapped a few close-up shots, being careful not to step on anything, then returned to the spot where she had last seen Darcy’s prints. They appeared jumbled. The dirt was disturbed as if there had been a scuffle, and there were other shoe prints—not children’s sneakers, but large cowboy boots, maybe two different pairs.

  As she bounced the light around, something else caught her eye. Partially hidden behind a rabbit bush was a single deerskin moccasin. She decided it was time to call for assistance. If a skinwalker had taken Darcy Benally, he wore size eleven or twelve boots and drove a four-wheeled vehicle. It looked like dinner with Abe would be a little late.

  2

  Friday, April 6, 1990

  Mattie Simmons’s Churro Sheep Ranch

  Bloomfield, New Mexico

  Abe Freeman watched from the gate of the corral while his dog, Patch, chased the last of the Churro sheep into their enclosure. His little three-legged mutt was a natural, but of course he had received excellent training. He had learned the ropes of herding from the two dogs at Emily’s grandfather’s sheep camp. Abe locked the gate and marveled at how much his life had changed in the past two years.

  He had fulfilled his promise to Sharon, his first love. Her death was still a painful memory. He had carried a small vial of her ashes to the Pacific Ocean, where he’d scattered them in the bay off the coast of San Francisco.

  I told you someday we would see the Pacific, baby. Well, here we are, not quite like we planned, but it’s the best I can do.

  The next day, Abe had found a job as a dockworker. He lived frugally, saved his earnings, and thought more and more about New Mexico and Emily Etcitty, the Navajo cop who had once arrested him as a murder suspect—and later became his lover. On a late October morning, he loaded his dog and gear into his camper, found a pay phone, and called Emily at her mother’s house near Huerfano. “I want to come back if you can put up with me,” he told her.

  Abe had been in New Mexico for a week, staying at the trailer with Emily’s grandfather and her brother, Will, when Emily showed up with news about a wealthy Texas businesswoman who kept a breeding herd of Churro sheep at her ranch outside of Bloomfield. The woman needed a caretaker, someone who could tend t
he sheep, deliver the lambs to Navajo buyers, look after the property, and keep up the sprawling New Mexico Territorial ranch house. In turn, the woman would provide a reasonable salary plus living quarters in the guesthouse—a small two-room adobe that fit Abe to a tee.

  Abe counted the ewes and their suckling lambs and herded them into the barn. April was the middle of the lambing season, and he was in charge of two hundred breeding ewes and twenty rams, plus the four llamas that served to guard the flock from coyotes and marauding dogs. Also, there were still thirty yearlings to deliver to Navajo herders that month. He thought he might have miscounted but wasn’t sure. He had only come up with twenty-nine young sheep.

  The jangle of a telephone interrupted his woolgathering, and he left the barn to answer the call. He didn’t have a phone in his place, and no one but the owner and Emily knew the number in the main house. Abe quickly unlocked the door and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Abe. I’m sorry. I’m going to be late,” Emily said in a breathless voice. “I’m out at Teec Nos Pos, involved in a case—a missing girl. Had to hike a couple of miles, and don’t know what time I’ll be finishing up here tonight.”

  He tried to hide his disappointment. The steaks and bottle of wine he had splurged on would have to wait. “Don’t worry. Do what you gotta do. We can have a late dinner.” Even though he knew it came with the job, Abe felt his heart rate increase when Emily worked late. His brow furrowed and his grip on the phone tightened. “Are you all right out there? Anyone else with you?”

  “Not yet. I radioed for assistance, and they’re on their way. As soon as the crime-scene investigators arrive, I’ll turn things over to them. I need to return to headquarters, write my report. When I’m done, I’ll head on to your place.”

  “I’ll be waiting. And be careful. Anything special I can do in the meantime?”

  “Have a hot bath ready, and a warm bed with you in it. There’s a definite chill in the air.”

  “You got it. I’m going to build a fire in the kiva, make it nice and cozy.”

  “Sounds great. I’ve got to go now, question the mother and father of the girl some more. See you in a couple of hours.”