Blackening Song (8 page)

Blalock ordered coffee for both of them, then waited until they had been served and were alone again. “Listen, you know how graphic a medical examiner’s
report can be. Are you sure you want to deal with it?”

“I’ve already seen the body,” she said, forcing her voice to stay calm and clear.

“Yeah, but you didn’t stand there and study it. This is more clinical and … well, worse.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She opened it. At least photos weren’t included. She read the report, her stomach
churning painfully. Her father had been speared and stabbed to death with edged weapons, then scalped. His ears had been cut off and were missing. All the tendons from his legs, arms, and neck had also been taken.

She swallowed convulsively. Anger and sorrow mingled within her until she could barely draw in a breath. Wordlessly, she closed the folder and slid it back across the table. Without
looking at Blalock, she stood and went directly to the ladies’ room. By the time she got there, her legs were shaking and she could barely stand. She leaned against the wall, gulping air, and sank slowly to the floor.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. The magnitude of what had been done to her father hit her full force. The cold, matter-of-fact detachment of the report combined with the vivid image
her father’s corpse had branded in her mind to fill her with black despair. She’d known about the threats. How could she have failed her own family so miserably? She sobbed for what seemed like forever, then finally forced herself to stop. She would continue to fail them unless she got up, washed her face, and went back out there. Blalock didn’t have a prayer of solving this case alone. No one
would talk to him about the things he’d need to know, and even if they did, she doubted he’d understand any of it. She might not believe, but at least she understood.

Ella washed her face, straightened her clothes and hair as best she could, then returned to the table. Blalock watched her speculatively, as if trying to assess how big a mistake he’d made by showing her the report.

She sat down
and leaned back, doing her best to look calm and professional. Her mouth was still dry, but she rejected the idea of trying to pick up her coffee cup just yet. “Let’s start with what you need to know. What’s on that report doesn’t explain what you’re dealing with.”

“I gathered that.”

“Traditionally, a mutilation like this was done to a slain enemy warrior who’d fought bravely. A medicine man
could use the stolen items for his medicine bundle. This was supposed to be a powerful ward against the medicine man’s enemies.”

Blalock’s eyes narrowed. “Do you realize the implications of what you’re saying?”

“I am
not
telling you that my brother did it. What I am telling you is that whoever framed him knows a great deal about old Navajo medicine and traditions.”

“We have evidence that places
your brother at the scene. Remember the concha from his belt?”

“That concha might have been one he crafted as a gift or a spare. Or maybe it was one stolen or lost weeks or even months ago. What you have is nothing more than circumstantial. Don’t try to lead me into any false conclusions with fancy footwork. It won’t work.”

Blalock shrugged. “Tell me this. Do you believe your brother is capable
of killing someone?”

“His father? No.”

“How about in self-defense?”

“Even if my father had attacked him—and I assure you he wouldn’t have done that—Clifford would have offered no resistance.”

“Is it possible he might have killed his father to increase his own powers as a medicine man?”

Ella struggled to keep her temper in check. “You’re looking at it wrong. Clifford isn’t that kind of medicine
man. Murder would be the undoing of everything he claims to be, everything he’s worked for and represents to the People.”

“So you’re saying that there’s another Navajo medicine man out there, who wanted some extra power?”

“Not a Singer,” she answered softly. “Today this type of crime can only be associated with skinwalkers. They traditionally gather power by whatever means they can. They subvert
rituals and use them to hurt others. Traditional beliefs give them a very strong hold over people and can do a great deal of harm.” She took a swallow of water, trying to keep her voice even. “Someone may be using our ways to put bizarre twists on what might otherwise be a straightforward case,” she added softly.

“You still believe, at least partly, in this kind of stuff, don’t you?” Blalock
asked.

“I acknowledge the harm it can do. That’s reality and has nothing to do with beliefs.”

Blalock locked the report in his briefcase. “You’ve had a good career in the bureau, so don’t screw it up now. Stay out of this. If you hear anything, come to me and let me handle it.”

They walked back to his truck. “You won’t be able to solve this on your own. You’re dealing with too many things you
don’t understand,” Ella insisted.

“Once the tribal police realize I’m going to be right there, every step of the way, I’ll get their cooperation. They want this solved too.”

“They’ll investigate, but what makes you think they’ll take you into their confidence?” Ella asked pointedly.

Blalock smiled slowly as he started the pickup. “They don’t want an outsider’s interference, and the only way
they’re going to get rid of me is to help me find answers.”

Not far from the Destea home, Ella asked Blalock to pull over. “I can walk from here,” she said. “It’s less than a quarter of a mile to the door.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he warned. “You don’t know who might be hiding out there.”

“That’s why I want to be on foot,” she answered. “I’m much less likely to be noticed.”

“You’re
sure?”

“Yeah. Driving with your headlights on, you make the better target.”

Blalock muttered a curse as Ella swung out of the truck’s cab. He drove off and she started to jog home. She didn’t want to stay outside any longer than absolutely necessary. Cold desert air filled her lungs as she crossed the canyon, stopping briefly every so often to look around.

Her mother was sitting on the porch,
the mutt at her feet; both stood up as she approached. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing. Blalock. Did you know they call him FB-Eyes?” She pointed to her own, emphasizing the meaning, but failed to coax a smile from her mother.

“I don’t like that man,” Rose said soberly. “He understands very little for a man who knows it all.”

As usual, her mother’s observation was right on target. “He’ll learn.
He has to.”

“No, I don’t think he will.” The women went inside. “He hasn’t so far, despite his mistakes.”

“There’s more than what you’ve told me already, isn’t there?”

Rose nodded slowly. “A while back he went after one of our people, a young man who belonged to your father’s church. The boy had been homesick and came home from the navy without leave.” Rose’s expression hardened in anger.

“Mom, according to the law, the FBI can arrest someone for that,” Ella said warily. “What happened?”

“The boy saw him, started to run, and Blalock grabbed him. Broke his arm in two places. His brothers were so mad FB-Eyes had to call the police for help. Nothing was done to Blalock—he said he was attacked and used force in self-defense. He got away with it.”

“Don’t judge all agents by this one,
Mom. He’s a very bitter man, but a good investigator. He’s just out of his element here.”

“Let’s not talk about him any more.” Rose crossed her arms across her chest. “By the way, Peterson stopped by to pick up his truck. I reminded him that we must bury our dead, but he told me it’ll be a little bit longer.” Rose shook her head as she and Ella sat down together on the sofa. “I’m very worried
about this. There are things that need to be attended to. His favorite belongings, like that old pipe you called his ‘Sherlock Homes’ pipe, are part of his essence, of everything he was. They must be buried with him. For him to find peace, we have to do our part.”

“Will our relatives be gathering to receive some of Dad’s things?”

“No. They’re afraid, because of the way he died. But there will
be a Christian ceremony. The congregation from his church wants one, and I will respect that for the sake of his memory.”

“Not a graveside service, surely.” She couldn’t imagine any Navajos going to that. They’d want to stay as far away from a burial as possible. According to age-old teachings, even to look upon the dead was hazardous.

“No, no, a memorial service at Reverend Williamson’s church,
where your father preached. I’d like you to come with me if you will. It’s tomorrow morning.”

“Of course.” Ella knew that only the dedicated Christians among the Navajos would attend the service, and she wanted to see who they were. Loretta’s suspicions could be correct.

“I expect it will be a small gathering,” she said wearily.

“What time will it start?”

“At eight. Since we can’t take the
truck, thanks to all this rain, we’ll have to leave just after sunrise. It’s a long walk. Peterson offered to pick us up at the highway and drop us off at the church, but he was hoping I would say no. I did.”

Ella nodded. She was beginning to remember just how much walking one did on the reservation. “Sunrise, then.”

*   *   *

Rose prepared a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs with green chiles,
black coffee, and fry bread, then ate almost nothing. Ella washed the dishes, then she and her mother left for Reverend Williamson’s church. As they crossed the rugged landscape, heading for the main highway, Ella asked, “Mother, what do you believe? Will Dad be in the Heaven he always spoke of? Or did our relatives guide him to the Underworld?”

Her mother smiled wanly. “If they did, he probably
fought them every step of the way. Your father never liked to admit when he was wrong.”

There was a huge lump in the back of Ella’s throat. “I really miss him. He’d always help me think things through, then let me make up my own mind. He never put down my opinions, even when he didn’t agree.”

“He loved you very much. He would have never admitted it, but you were his favorite child. He missed
you terribly, but he always publicly supported your decision to make a life for yourself outside the reservation, particularly after your husband died. He even understood your wish to stay away. Or at least he thought he did.”

“What do you mean?” Ella asked, instantly on her guard. Sometimes her mother’s intuition was unsettling.

“Your reasons for leaving and staying away were … complex, far
beyond what your father believed. I’ve always known that.”

“What do you think my reasons were?” she asked softly.

“Your father believed that life here wasn’t challenging enough for you.” Rose lifted her long blue velveteen skirt as they crossed an area filled with stunted junipers. The buckskin squaw boots she wore were much more suited to walking than Ella’s black flats. “But I knew that was
only a small part of it. You were trying to avoid things you didn’t understand or want to face.”

“Doesn’t everyone do that, to one extent or another?” she whispered.

“No,” Rose answered gently. “Your brother faced fears and uncertainties of his own, yet he chose to learn the way of the
hataalii
and study Navajo medicine to protect us and the tribe.”

“But he wasn’t always successful,” Ella observed
softly.

“No, not always.”

They continued in silence until they finally reached the highway. As they walked along the gravel shoulder, an occasional car or truck roared by; the passengers often staring openly at the two women. Almost without exception, those cars were from out of state. Most New Mexicans, Indian or not, were used to seeing her people walking along roads in what appeared to be
the middle of nowhere.

Ella was glad she’d decided to wear slacks. If she’d opted for a long skirt, like the one her mother was wearing, she’d probably have fallen on her face by now. The ground was soft and slippery in places where the shoulder was narrow or eroded away.

Ella and her mother were certainly a sharp contrast. Ella was dressed for work in the city, complete with coordinating jacket
to hide the pistol at her waistband. Her mother wore a traditional blouse and skirt, concha belt, and many turquoise strands, or
heishi,
as a necklace. Rose’s hair was in a tight bun while Ella allowed hers to fall loosely around her shoulders.

The church’s tall steeple loomed in the distance. “Your father gave his first sermon there,” Rose said sadly. “He devoted his entire life to spreading
the gospel to the Dineh, but his god wasn’t powerful enough to protect him.”

“Ours wouldn’t have either,” Ella answered gently. “I remember something you told me once.” Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper as she recalled part of the Navajo creation story. “When our god Slayer went out to kill the monsters that preyed on the land, he met Cold, Hunger, Poverty, and Death. Cold warned Slayer
that without him, it would always be hot. There would be no snow, no water in the summer. Slayer had to let him live, and that’s why we still have cold.

“Then Slayer turned to Hunger, who said that without him, the people would lose their appetites. Slayer knew that he couldn’t destroy Hunger.

“Poverty, unlike the others,
asked
to be killed, but also said that if he was destroyed, old clothes
would never wear out and all people would be ragged and filthy like him. Slayer allowed him to leave unharmed.

“Finally, Slayer faced Death. Slayer wanted to destroy him, but Death said that without him old men wouldn’t die and give up their places to the young. He assured Slayer that he really wasn’t his enemy, but a friend. Slayer spared him, and that’s why we still have death.”

“I told you
that story when you were a child. I’m surprised you remembered it all so well. You seemed to think it was like … what did you call it?… a fable.”

“And Daddy was angry with you for telling it to me.”

“But he accepted my reminder that you had a right to know both his way and mine.”