Blackening Song (28 page)

Ella peered out the window. The security guard was nowhere in sight. Behind her, she heard her brother begin a prayer for protection. Hoping it would be enough, she unlocked
the door and slipped out silently.

The terrible sense of aloneness she’d known since childhood crept through her. It seemed destiny had found her at last. Her efforts to escape seemed as futile as those of a bird trapped in a sealed room, beating desperately against a pane of glass, trying to find freedom. She had to accept her brother’s extraordinary abilities, however she explained them. She
had to rely on her own finely honed skills as a federal agent. Together, she and Clifford would support and help each other, like the children of Talking God, until they found a cure to the terrifying threat they faced.

*   *   *

Dozens of trucks were parked at the ceremonial grounds; that Ella was not driving her own truck would not be noticed. She studied the crowd as she approached. She would
have preferred to mingle, but there wasn’t much chance of that. She’d tried that at the barbecue and had failed. Her best chance was to stay in the shadows of the cedar fire, listen, and learn.

Wilson, an eligible bachelor, was bound to be in demand. He was in a much better position than Ella was to circulate, unattached. During intervals in the ceremony there would be public dancing, and many
of the young women would probably ask him to dance. If he wanted to be released from the duty, he would be forced to pay a forfeit to whoever had selected him. It was all done in fun, much like Sadie Hawkins dances outside the Rez, but it would give him the perfect chance to talk to many people. Ella hoped Clifford was right about Wilson’s loyalty.

Ella drew to one side. Her above-average height
gave her a clear view of the proceedings. The Queen was carrying the medicine man’s rattlestick aloft. The wood pile in the center of the grounds was lit. Decked out in their finest jewelry and colorful, traditional, velveteen blouses and skirts, the Queen and her debutantes sat down, surrounded by their chaperones. The voice of the chorus rose in the air, beginning the dancing song.

Bright tongues
of orange flames and bursts of sparks illuminated the area, casting lively shadows that swayed in rhythm to the Foot-Together Dance going on around the fire. As an unmarried man, Wilson would be there somewhere. As a widow, Ella was expected to remain in the general gathering, outside the firelit ring. For the first time since she’d returned to the Rez, she felt like she knew where she belonged.

Ella envied the laughing young women, many of whom were still in their late teens. Those not dressed traditionally wore their most attractive western wear, similar to Ella’s outfit: a dark red Western-style shirt, blue jacket and slacks. Although she looked like many of the people around her, right down to her boots, she couldn’t remember ever being so carefree.

She caught sight of Wilson, dancing
by the fire. From the line of young women already gathered nearby, she had a feeling she wouldn’t see much of him tonight. A spark of envy touched her. It would have been nice to be able to have fun, laugh, and take part.

Herman Cloud left a small group of elderly men and walked toward her. He stood beside her and for several long moments they both made a great show of watching the dances in
rapt concentration, as if nothing else mattered to either of them.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be interested in a gathering like this. Have you come looking for a husband?”

Struggling not to choke, Ella kept silent. If she tried to answer him right away, she’d sputter like an engine missing a spark plug.

“Wilson Joe maybe?” Cloud prodded.

Ella shook her head slightly. “No, I just wanted
to watch. I’ve been away for a long time.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, as if he didn’t believe a word she’d said.

Suddenly, over the drums and the chorus, she heard a loud pop. An unnatural silence immediately settled over the gathering. As Ella shifted, reaching beneath her jacket for her weapon, all she could hear was the roar of the fire and the crackling of cedar. That had been a gunshot, and
whatever was happening was not part of the ceremony.

Ella worked her way forward, looking over the heads of the people backing away from the fire. Dread filled her as low murmurs began; she heard women crying. As the crowd before her thinned, she saw Randy Tsosie lying on the ground. The
hataalii
was dead. Nothing else could explain the total stillness of a body lying at such an awkward angle.
His limbs were bent like a marionette’s whose strings had suddenly been cut. A deep crimson stain was spreading over his shirt.

Hundreds of people hurried to their cars. It would be impossible to stop any of them now—she’d be trampled. She caught a glimpse of Wilson standing still as the crowd swirled around him. For a moment their eyes met, then the confused mass of people swept him up and carried
him away.

The chill of death hung in the air, and the fire looked dim and anemic to her eyes, somehow void of heat. The site would be abandoned now; no other ceremonies would ever be performed here. She saw a few white visitors working their way forward, but knew the
hataalii
was beyond their help. Two Navajo police officers were also approaching. Ella knew if she stayed, they would notice her
and start asking questions. She had nothing to tell them.

She turned and headed for the pickup. When she reached it, Wilson was leaning against the cab.

“How did you get here so fast?” she asked.

“I let the crowd carry me out, then jogged around the fringes to find the truck,” he answered somberly. “Did you see what happened?”

“No, I was too far away. When I saw the police move in, I left.”
She shrugged.

As people continued to race past them to get to their cars, Ella and Wilson sat together inside the truck and waited for traffic to clear. He told her, “I heard a sound like firewood popping loudly. Then the Singer staggered back, clutching his chest, and fell to the ground. His eyes were still open, but he’d stopped breathing. I thought it was a heart attack until I saw the blood
staining his shirt. People panicked right after that, and, well, you know the rest.”

“We’re thirty miles from the construction site. Do you think people are going to link this to the troubles there?”

“It’s already started. I heard some claiming that the figure of a coyote appeared in the flames.”

“Group hysteria.”

“Maybe. But then again, maybe not.”

She looked around. What had been a field
full of cars now held fewer than ten vehicles and a cloud of dust. Ella muttered a curse, knowing she had to get involved whether she liked it or not. Her training as a law enforcement officer just wouldn’t let her walk away. She got out of the truck; Wilson followed her.

“Let’s find the police before they find us. Head for the first cop you see, and make sure you don’t look hostile. They don’t
know if the killer is still around and are probably pretty jumpy,” Ella advised, turning in a complete circle as she looked for the tan-uniformed officers she’d seen only a few minutes earlier.

Wilson searched too, and in a few minutes, as the dust thinned a bit, they found the officers near the body.

Wilson identified himself and related what he’d seen, then answered questions about the events
preceding the shooting. After they gave the officers as many names of potential witnesses as they could remember, Ella took the opportunity to ask them for news of her father’s case. Chief Clah wasn’t around to stop her, and she was hungry for any new information the department might have uncovered. Unfortunately, they could tell her little other than that they’d been sent everywhere by Blalock,
looking for Clifford.

When asked, Ella said she had no idea where Clifford was. Technically, this was not a lie, since, at that precise moment, she really didn’t know. It was, however, enough of a deception to cost her her career.

Hearing that a forensic team had been dispatched, Ella realized Blalock was probably on his way too. Since she and Wilson had given statements, and Blalock knew how
to get in touch with them, they were free to leave.

The air was still dusty, and it wasn’t until they reached the highway that fresh clean air streamed through the truck’s windows. Ella took a deep breath. Wilson wiped the sweat and dust from his eyes with a handkerchief.

The killing at the dance had taken Ella by surprise. What worried her most was how her mother would react to the gossip that
would soon get around. First a Navajo Christian minister was killed, now a
hataalii.
Would Clifford get the blame for this too? Undoubtedly there were people who might claim he resented Tsosie, an older and more prominent
hataalii.
As she rocketed down the highway, she wondered how much more her mother would be able to take. Rose was a strong woman, but everyone had limits.

As Ella turned down
the dirt track that led to her home, she saw an ominous glowing light just over the rise. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.

“What the…” Wilson spoke for the first time since they’d left the ceremonial grounds.

Ella increased her speed, though the ground was too uneven to be safe. “Hang on. Mom’s in trouble!”

Several times she hit deep ruts that sent both of them bouncing against the
roof of the car despite their seat belts. Closer, the glow became a stream of orange that rose into the night like a sunlit curtain.

The unmistakable smell of smoke drifted through their open windows. Ella’s pulse was racing, her skin clammy. A heartbeat later, she realized her worst childhood nightmare had come to life. The whole right side of the house, where her mother’s bedroom lay, was engulfed
in bright orange flames.

“No, not Rose too!” Wilson uttered in a horrified whisper, but Ella did not hear.

SEVENTEEN

Terror gripped her. Breaking the paralysis that had claimed her, Ella slammed on the brakes and shot out of the pickup.

“Mom!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, but the fire spoke with a voice of its own. The wood framing the stucco house crackled and snapped, a window shattered, spraying glass out into the yard. “Mom!” Ella raced toward her home. A few feet from the door, Wilson
knocked her to the ground. “Let me go!” Ella struggled to kick free of his grip.

Rose came around the side of the house, carrying a large hose, the faithful mutt by her side. “Stop fighting and help me, you two!” she yelled angrily, as if they’d been nothing more than naughty children.

Ella almost cried with relief. “You’re all right!”

“Of course I am. Now start up another hose. I’ve already
called the volunteer fire department. They should be here soon.”

Wilson yanked Ella to her feet. “I’ll get the hose. Give your mother a hand.”

Ella helped her mother keep the line unkinked as they sprayed the base of the flames, trying to slow the fire’s spread. “What happened?”

“I’ve been having problems with the generator lately. Maybe it caused a power surge. Maybe there was a short in the
wiring.” Rose took a breath. “I was in the bedroom when I saw a trail of smoke coming from an outlet and smelled a funny odor. By the time I ran outside and turned off the power, the curtains had caught fire. It spread quickly.”

The fire was responding to their efforts to douse it. The thick smoke that billowed from the windows and the roof had turned almost white. “By the time the firemen get
here, we’ll have this under control,” Ella muttered, a nasty suspicion crowding at the edges of her mind.

“I left a message, but it’s a long way out here from town.”

“Neighbors should have come. The smoke would have been seen for miles.”

“Many went to the dance, I suppose,” her mother said hesitantly, trying to find some reason for their absence.

Remembering what had happened there, Ella felt
a chill travel up her spine. First the
hataalii’s
death, now this. Someone was trying to terrorize the community, and not just to cover the motive for a murder.

As they continued to spray water on the house, the flames were smothered, but still-glowing wood made it clear the fight was not completely over.

Rose didn’t take her gaze—or the hose—off the smoking embers. “Something’s wrong. What
happened at the dance?”

“I’ll tell you all about it after we get the fire out,” Ella said. “For now, this is more important.”

After fifteen minutes, Rose left Ella holding the hose and peered through the open window. “The fire is out,” she said, “and the damage isn’t as bad as it could have been. We’re going to be just fine, once the water is mopped up. Turn off the hose. We’ll go inside and
look around and you can tell me about the dance.”

Wilson, who’d been busy with the second hose, shut off the water and joined them. “Hang on—it still may not be safe in the house, though the fire has been extinguished. Let me get the flashlight from my truck, and I’ll check out the structure.”

Rose nodded, then turned to look expectantly at her daughter. “Well?”

Ella took a deep breath of cold
desert air. It had a smoky tang that reminded her of the bonfire at the dance. She told her mother about Randy Tsosie’s murder, then added, “I’m hoping this won’t give rise to more talk about us. Clifford is still at large, and I hate to think they’ll blame this on him too.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

Wilson entered the house. Rose moved to follow him in, but Ella stopped her, placing a hand
on Rose’s arm. “Wait. He’ll be out in a minute.”

“It’s
my
home,” Rose insisted.

“You may have to move out while repairs are made. Is there anyplace in particular you’d like to go?”

“Dog and I are staying right here. I’ll repair it myself, if no one will help.
Nothing
is going to drive me out of my home.” Together, the women moved toward their home.

Wilson met them at the door. “Two rooms have
extensive damage and a lot of water in them, but the rest seems okay.”

“There,” Rose said, looking at her daughter. “We’ll live in the undamaged part of the house while we repair the rest. And we can cook with the woodstove until the electricity is working again.”