“Just be naked when I get there,” Arthur replied.
“Ooh, I like it when you’re assertive.”
“You just like it when I’m firm.”
“Anything less is disappointing, baby.” Sharon chuckled then added, “He lives in Nenahnezad. I’ll text you the directions.”
“Nenahnezad? That’s two hours back the way I came. Wish I’d known that before I left Kirtland.”
“Hey, my source only just called me back,” she informed him, then added jokingly, “Stop complaining. You’re lucky I still put up with you and love you so much.”
“Just give me the address,” Arthur replied. “I’ll use the GPS on my phone to find it.”
“You do know,” Sharon said, “most new vehicles come with GPS navigation built in? And only you could grow attached to that rust bucket.”
“Hey, this Bronco’s a classic,” Arthur joked. “And those rust spots give it character.”
Sharon laughed. “Only in your mind.”
“At least I don’t drive a pregnant banana.”
“At least I have GPS,” Sharon reminded him. “Nenahnezad is a CDP community, babe. Your phone GPS may have trouble helping you navigate a Census Designated Place. Just follow the directions I’m sending you, okay?”
“Okay. But if I get a chance to talk to this kid,” Arthur told her, “I won’t be home till about nine or nine thirty.”
Sharon sighed. “Well, it won’t be the first time I ate dinner alone.”
Arthur grinned. “Now who’s complaining?”
He could sense the smirk on her face when she said, “Oh, shut up.”
Arthur felt the two front-end stabilizers keeping the big tires of the Bronco in check as his hands gripped the wheel a little bit tighter in an effort to maintain control. “I know those girls are scared and hiding somewhere,” he said. “No one has seen them since that night, and if this kid knows anything about them, hopefully he can lead us to them so we can find out what they know.”
“We?” Sharon said.
“Me and Jake. If I find out, I want the Navajo Nation Police to pick them up. They can question them and keep them safe. I have a feeling there’s more at stake here than just the lives of two innocent boys.”
“How so?” Sharon said.
“After talking with Elias Dayton, the feeling I had in my gut has gone from bad to worse.”
“I just wish you didn’t have to check this kid out right now,” Sharon said. “The sooner you get here, the faster you’re going to be allowed into the big top.”
Arthur smiled. “Okay, can we stop with the circus references now? I think we’ve worn them out.” He spoke softly when he said, “Ayóóʼánííníshʼní.”
Sharon’s voice turned quiet at the words I love you. He knew she adored hearing them, even reveled in their simplistic beauty, because they meant so much more now than ever before.
He waited.
“Ayóóʼánííníshʼní, sheʼashkii,” she replied. “See you when you get home.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Arthur said.
* * *
Arthur shot the Bronco across Highway 550 and parked under the large portico by the gas pumps of the Apache Nugget Casino’s Travel Center. It didn’t take him long to gas up, grab a snack of beef sticks and a cold bottle of sweet tea before getting on his way again. By the time he rolled into Nenahnezad on BIA Route 36, it was twenty minutes past eight and the sun was sinking toward nightfall with all the fire and splendor the Creator could paint with his masterful brush.
After turning off Route 36 and burping across the cattle guard, he rolled down to the three-way stop, past the pink modular home Sharon’s directions told him about. He turned right toward Fruitland, the direction confirmed by the green state road sign, and soon felt the pavement begin to slope as he drove past a motley crew of derelict trucks and cars scattered haphazardly among the sage and scrub, past the scattered ramshackle homes to where he eventually found himself rolling under a string of power lines before driving through an excavated section of earth as the road curved down toward the next left turn on Sharon’s directions.
He paused briefly by the concrete drainage ditch to watch the murky brown water move off to parts unknown. After pulling on the headlight knob, he turned left and drove through the Chapter community of less than eight hundred.
Seeing communities like this always took him back to his days growing up on the rez. He remembered a life of taking baths at the watering hole while his father pumped the freezing water as he stood under it, bathing as quickly as he could because they, like everyone else, had no running water. He remembered pumping the water for his father, just as he remembered living with no electricity until he had joined the Marines and gotten out of the grip of rez life. Looking around, it seemed like nothing had changed in the last twenty-seven years, even with all the good intentions of others and government dollars. And that truly saddened him enough to wonder if there would ever be a time when things would change for the better.
The farther he traveled the more he found himself moving into Jason Aquino’s world. The small farms were behind him now, but the poverty ahead of him was gut-wrenching. Since the road system that ran through Nenahnezad was a mixture of tribal roads, county roads, and Bureau of Indian Affairs roads, it was hard to know where one ended and another began. But he followed Sharon’s directions to the letter, ending up on BIA 365. To the north was the San Juan River, to the south was the long-stretching Navajo Coal Mine, operated by the Navajo Coal Company, and somewhere between the two lay Jason Aquino’s single-wide manufactured home.
It wasn’t long before he turned off 365 and drove through the wire fencing that surrounded the Aquino property. His headlights managed to illuminate a string of clothes flapping in the eighty-three-degree breeze. Arthur wagered the clothes had already been dried by the earlier heat of the day and were now simply enjoying the mild evening. Another house of equal proportions sat behind Aquino’s, but he saw no lights on inside and no vehicle parked outside of it. Arthur parked the Bronco by a 1970s white Nova. It was blotchy with gray and brown primer and sitting at the end of the Aquino home. He killed the lights and engine and let the hollow sound of the door echo as it slammed shut behind him.
At the front door he paused, thinking that an unexpected knock at this time of night was not something that would be welcome. He eyed the primered Nova again, took a deep breath, and risked the knock. A minute later the door opened and someone he could only assume to be Jason Aquino’s father stood looking down at him. Arthur noted the brown skin, the straight black hair, the flatness of the straight nose, and the dark-brown eyes that stared questioningly down from under narrowish brows.
“Yes?” the man said in a Filipino accent, “What do you want?”
“My name is Arthur Nakai, and I’d like to speak with your son, Jason. Is he home?”
The man’s eyes scanned the dirt yard, the flapping laundry, and the occasional traffic that passed by on BIA 365, before settling back on Arthur. “What’s this about? You police?”
“No, I’m not the police. Just a concerned friend of a family who experienced a tragedy.” Arthur kept his hands at his sides and made no quick movements. “I’m investigating the murder of the two boys out by Flat Iron Rock. Maybe you’ve heard about it?”
“Yes, I have,” the man said. “A terrible thing. But what does that have to do with my son?”
“I was told that your son is friends with two girls the boys hung out with. Jennifer Peshlakai and Tiffany Maldonado.” Arthur remained calm and polite. “I need to see if he knows where the girls might be. They haven’t been seen since the boys were killed, and their parents are worried. You would be worried too if Jason were missing.”
The man called out something in Filipino over his shoulder, and a young man of around seventeen appeared behind him. The man spoke more
words in his native language, and Jason Aquino nodded. “This is Mr. Nakai. You need to answer his questions. Tell him what you know,” his father prodded, grabbing him by his arm and moving him to the forefront of the conversation in the doorway.
“Hello, Jason,” Arthur said, holding out a hand. Jason shook it and returned the greeting. “I’m looking for two girls I think you know, Tiffany Maldonado and Jennifer Peshlakai. Do you have any idea where they are? Their parents are worried.”
Jason stood still, his arms tight at his sides and his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans. Nervous. His father shoved a hand into the back of his left shoulder, causing him to lose his footing for a second before reclaiming it.
“If you know, tell him!” he commanded.
“I—I do know where they are,” Jason said sheepishly, staring at his feet. “They’re scared and made me promise not to tell anyone.”
“That’s good, Jason,” Arthur told him calmly. “You’re a good friend. But the girls need my help. I need to find them. Did the girls tell you anything about what happened that night?”
He shook his head, still not wanting to hold eye contact, as if that would make breaking his promise to his friends even more untrustworthy. “They didn’t want to in case the person who did it found them. The less I knew, the safer I’d be, they said.”
Arthur nodded his head approvingly. “I see.” He paused. The boy looked away. “Jason?” Arthur coaxed. “Where are they?”
The boy looked at Arthur momentarily, but did not respond.
“Jason,” Arthur prodded delicately. “Where can I find them?”
Again, his father’s hand shoved his son in the back.
Jason said, “You know where Cathedral Cliff is?”
Arthur nodded. “It’s that large volcanic formation out by Table Mesa off 491. Kind of like Shiprock, but shorter.”
“Yes. That’s it. There is a small cave at the back of Cathedral Cliff. Me and a few of my friends went exploring out there one day, and we found it.” Jason gave Arthur a fleeting glance. “We thought we might find a skeleton or something cool in there, but there was nothing. Just a cave. So when they came to me for help, I knew I could put them there so they would be safe. I’ve made sure they have food and blankets and those things you break that warm your hands and feet. I even gave them some flashlights.” His father’s hand was on his son’s shoulder now, encouraging him. Arthur could see a look of pride on his face. “They’re scared, Mr. Nakai. Very scared. They’re afraid the killer will come for them.” He shrugged. “But I told them, if the killer had no idea where to look, why did they think he would find them?”
Ah, the logic of the young.
“When did you bring them those supplies?”
“The night it happened,” Jason said. “They called me all frantic, and I snuck out and met them at the Wendy’s in Kirtland. If you have the police check, they’ll find Tiffany Maldonado’s Bronco II parked over in the Encore Motel lot. I was planning to go out to Cathedral Cliff every couple of days to check on them.”
Arthur reached out a hand, and the boy shook it again. “Thank you, Jason. You did the right thing. The girls are going to be all right, and it’s all because of you.”
Jason Aquino smiled bashfully, and his father grinned with affirmation that his son had handled himself honorably, even if it took a little prodding. Arthur pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket as he walked back to his truck. When the screen lit up, his thumb found Jake Bilagody’s number. Arthur knew he would still be behind his desk at this hour since he was still sharing his duties while acting as Window Rock chief until they could locate a replacement. Jake had never been one to shirk his duty in twenty-seven years, and he probably never would. Not even on his last day—whenever that would be.
Jake answered, “Bilagody.”
“Tell me where you are on the Tabaaha boys’ murders.”
* * *
Jake rocked back in his office chair and used his feet to oscillate from side to side. “I’ve got a man checking on what stores sell those boots you mentioned back at the site—what did you call it? A hide? Anyway, he hasn’t come back with anything useful yet. And we never recovered any shell casings, so we still have to go with Mendoza’s guesstimate on that. We’ve got a list of around forty or so folks who own the type of rifle used that we’re trying to work through from Shiprock to Farmington to Navajo City.” Jake’s pause was drawn out. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re calling.”
“I’m going to give you some information because there’s too much at stake not to.” Arthur got into the Bronco and fired it up. “Did you know there were two girls with the Tabaaha boys that night?”
Jake rocked his chair forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “I did not. How do you know?”
“Because I went back out to the crime scene this morning and did some more sign cutting. I found two separate sets of footprints among all the ones NNP left behind—both the size for teenage girls.”
“No shit?”
“Then I spoke with Margaret—”
“We tried that this afternoon,” Jake interrupted, disregarding the Navajo rule of never disrespecting anyone by interrupting them, “but she was so far in the bag we couldn’t get anything coherent out of her. That was so sad to see.”
“Well, I was there before you and got the names of two girls who were with the boys that night.” Arthur rattled off the names and where to locate the Bronco II. He could hear Jake scribbling fast. “Are you ready for the best part?”
“I’m listening.”
“Do you have anyone out patrolling tonight around Cathedral Cliff?”
“I’d have to check with dispatch. Why?”
“Because I just spoke to a boy who’s been hiding the girls out there to keep them safe.”
“What the hell! Why didn’t they come to the police?”
“Because they’re just kids, Jake. Scared teenage kids.” Arthur turned on his headlights and shifted into reverse, backed up a quarter turn, put it back into drive and flung dirt before chirping the tires back onto the asphalt of BIA 365. “I suggest you get a car out there right now. I’m going home to go to bed.” He wasn’t about to tell Jake why. “If they give you anything useful, let me know in the morning.”
“Wait, so who told you where they are?”
“A friend of theirs. That’s all you need to know.” Arthur’s eyelids began to fall over his eyes like heavy curtains. He forced himself to stay awake and alert. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’ve got about forty-five minutes to get home and really intend to make them count.”
“All right,” Jake said. “I’ll get with you tomorrow.”
The moment the call ended, Arthur stuffed the phone into the cup holder in the center console, next to the half-drank bottle of sweet tea, and stuck his head out of the truck window. The cooler night air felt good and crisp against his face, the wind chilling his skin with its smoothed edges as he moved through the night. If he smoked, this would be where he would tap out a cigarette, punch the lighter, wait for it to pop, and hold the glowing round ball to the tip and breathe in all those wonderful carcinogens that would keep him awake. But he didn’t smoke anymore. That habit had gone away like his love for books. He had started reading and stopped smoking during his down time in the Marines. He really needed to pick up the reading part again. After all, he had received his first novel, a Robert B. Parker mystery, from another soldier who got it in a care package from home. Back then he had needed something that would take him to another world—Boston, in this case—and put him firmly in the gumshoes that roamed a different combat zone than he found himself in. After he was stateside, he kept it up for a few years, collecting classics and every novel he could find concerning the famous Massachusetts detective. All he had now, however, was a half-empty bottle of sugared tea and the night air. Guess that’ll have to do.<
br />
Arthur pulled his head back in, downed the remaining tea, screwed on the cap, and stuck it back in the second cup holder. Then he picked up the phone and called the number of the one person he knew would be waiting up for him.
“I think you should know,” Sharon said, “I’m lying here naked watching some ridiculous movie just so I won’t fall asleep before you get here.”
Arthur smiled. “A movie?”
“Can’t think of anything better to do,” Sharon said, then added in a playfully sarcastic tone, “No, wait. I can, but you’re not here.”
“I should be home in twenty-five,” Arthur said. “Hold that thought.”
The splintering of fiberglass that blew across the interior of the Bronco pelted the back of Arthur’s head and neck and stung like a swarm of mosquitoes all drilling his skin at once. His reaction was instinctive, a flinch and hunch of the shoulders and a ducking of the head, all while managing to keep a firm grip on the steering wheel. The instant the shot had ripped through the Bronco’s hardtop, he had dropped the phone to the floorboard. From that moment on it became a surreal mixture of Sharon’s voice screaming through the phone’s tiny speaker and a heightened sensory level consuming him, one that he hadn’t felt since his days on patrol in the Middle East.
He hadn’t been shot at in a vehicle since the combat zone, and he knew what it sounded like because it was impossible to forget. Instantly he heard the driver’s-side front tire blow with a pop and felt the steering wheel jerk sharply to the left. Sharon’s voice—frightened and disembodied—continued to scream at his feet as the engine roared and the truck rocked with the sudden loss of stability. He overcorrected the wheel and found himself heading for the rough edge of the road where the pavement dropped off a good three or four inches on the right. In a frantic rush to avoid rocketing down the embankment to whatever fate awaited him, he gave a quick tug to the steering wheel, shooting the truck back over the inside lane and bounding over the small curb of the concrete median that separated the east- and westbound lanes. The shredding Mudder tire had begun ripping at the truck’s fender well as it flopped around, making thumping sounds as it fiercely tore away at the metal. Arthur’s eyes squinted as the truck took him across oncoming traffic, sending the approaching cars and trucks braking and scattering as if they were avoiding a lunatic kid on a bumper car ride.
Death Waits in the Dark Page 9
