Death and Desire (4 page)

Huh-huh-huh-huh
. Panting. A dog? I was driving fifty-five miles per hour. I couldn't hear a dog outside the car! It must have been the engine; the car was overheating. Sweat prickled my scalp, but I was shivering I was so cold.

Fast, hard footsteps pounded the pavement. In the rearview mirror, I saw a creature in skin leggings, naked from the waist up, running behind the bumper of the Rav, keeping up with the car. His arms and legs were working like pistons. In a nanosecond, he was gone. A man? He was hairy and huge, maybe six feet tall or more with long, wild hair. I pushed the Lock button even though the doors automatically locked when the engine turned on.

I sped up to seventy miles per hour. The dry landscape rushed past the windows. Warmth wafted around my left ear. Wisps of foul-smelling breath curled around my face. He was running right outside my
closed
window. Red eyes bored into me. Fur covered his face. I jerked my head away from his penetrating stare. He spurted ahead of the car. A long, ratted fur tail flicked as he bolted into the greasewood and was gone.

Instantly, the dread and foreboding lifted. I tingled with terror and heard the rasp of my own breathing. I stamped on the accelerator and the Rav flew on the straightaway close to ninety miles an hour. Up ahead, a cattle hauler approached, and I tapped my brakes. He gave me the friendly finger wave, and my heart slowed when he nodded as we passed. I pulled the Rav to the shoulder, did a U-turn, and followed the cattle hauler toward Basha's. I swiveled my head, watching for anything out of the ordinary. I didn't feel any presence, but unease gnawed my gut. I hugged the bumper of the cattle hauler back to Tuba City and Bidziil.

 

I locked the car and entered the cool gloom of Basha's Grocery, called hello to the Navajo girl working the register, and hooked it back to the butcher shop. Bidziil was hoisting the carcass of a young lamb up onto the table. His eyes met mine. “
Ya-ta-hey
.” He wiped his bloody hands on his apron and nodded to the back door.

I dawdled, reading the cereal boxes for a minute, then followed him. This time his battered pickup was closer under a cottonwood tree. He leaned over the passenger's seat, shoving open the creaking door. I slid in.

“You're frightened,” he said, searching my face for answers.

“Yeah. I need you to explain something to me.” I blurted out the story of the man-beast who kept pace with my car.

He jerked open his truck door and recoiled from me.

I clutched his forearm and hung on to his worn flannel shirt. “Wait. Wait. He wasn't real. It was just my imagination. It couldn't be real. Please talk to me.”

“He's an
Ant iihnii
, a Navajo witch. Did you make eye contact with him?”

“Yes,” I stammered, remembering the red eyes.

“He looks into your eyes and steals your soul, taking you as his partner in evil.”

“No! No, he didn't. I turned my head away. Why did he come to me?”

He vacillated. “Evil has many reasons. Tell me how he looked.”

I shivered, remembering the tail. “He was tall and had the arms and legs of a man, but fur on his face and disheveled hair. And he had a long tail.”

Bidziil's face set in a stony mask. “The coyote is his shape-shift. I will not speak anymore about this. Speaking of the evil calls the
Ant iihnii
to you. You must go now.” He wrestled his arm from my grip.

“You can't leave me like this! What can I do if he comes back? And why did he come after me after I talked with you?”

“He did not come because you visited me. He seeks to feed on your energy and power.
When
he comes back, you must not look directly at him and you must pray for your soul.” He stared at me. “You need an amulet. Keep it on you.”

“An amulet? Where do I get one?” I asked confused.

“A Singer. You must receive his blessing to make it strong. Now, I must go.”

“Wait,” I begged, still dragging on his shirtsleeve, not wanting to be alone. Bidziil scowled at me.

“I should have warned you. Your brother's house was broken into and his hard drive was taken so his killers have his e-mail and perhaps his photos. If you and Niyol talked on e-mail about what he saw, you could be in danger.”

He stared out the front windshield at the adobe wall of Basha's. “He sent me many e-mails and a picture also. I will protect my family. Have you spoken to Gage yet?”

“No.”

“Do not endanger my nephew's life or my family's.” Bidziil took out a crumpled wad of paper from his shirt pocket, wrote on it, and thrust it out to me. “My nephew's cell phone number.”

He slid out of the truck, slammed the door, and entered Basha's back door.

I unfolded the note and saw Gage's name and number in Bidziil's spidery hand.

On the way back to Flagstaff, I called Gage's cell phone. I left him a voice mail asking him to call me. The greasewood shrubs moved in the desert wind, spooking me.

Humans execute the work of evil. There's no such thing as shapeshifting. Purveyors of evil were not shapeshifters. They were
human.

L
ouis was yakking in the bull pen with another photographer when I strode into the station. I jerked my head toward my cubicle. He got up, followed me into my workspace, and perched on the single chair. “Whatcha you got going on?”

I was trembling and breathless, but I blurted out, “On the Navajo Nation between Tuba City and Flag, a Navajo dressed like a coyote ran behind the Rav. I could feel his breath on my ear! Bidziil says he is a shapeshifter intent on stealing my power.”

Louis jumped to his feet, his eyes wide, his mouth slack.

“Do you believe in shapeshifting?” I asked.

He surprised me with his answer. “I won't tell you I don't believe.” He paced the small office, agitated and combing his hair with his fingers.

“You think they're real? That it really happened out there?” I asked, incredulously. “Why? Have you seen one?”

“No, I haven't.” He rolled his shoulders. “But I've lived here most of my life and heard the stories my Navajo friends tell. One of them just wasted away after a shapeshifter made a charm of bone dust from his dead infant son. Did you look into the shapeshifter's eyes?” he asked urgently.

“A few seconds. It's not rational. Human cells can't mutate into animal cells and then back again.”

“You're trying to bind evil within the boundaries of western scientific thought. Evil is not bound by rational science.”

“This is creeping me out. I believe evil is done by humans in human form.”

“I'm good with that, too, but I believe there are things we can't explain. Like Navajos who practice the Witchery Way and can shapeshift.”

I made the gimme gesture with my hands. “Talk to me.”

He sighed. “The most common animal shapeshift is the coyote. Navajos avoid coyotes and call them ‘The Trickster.' Shapeshifters curse people—suck the power and soul out of them, and the person sickens and dies.”

“How long is
too
long?” I was worried about the few seconds I had looked into those glowing red eyes.

“Longer than your couple of seconds,” he reassured me. “But you need some protection.”

“I'll be fine.” I tried to convince myself more than Louis. “Mac's a great watchdog—he barks at anything that moves. I have the Smith & Wesson, too.”

“Good dog. Great little firearm. You can take care of any human threat, but you can't shoot to death a shapeshifter.”

“What do you mean? Bullets won't kill him?”

“Yeah, we're talking about a creature that walks through walls, turns himself into a cold mist, and travels supernaturally. Bullets don't harm a shapeshifter. They must be shot with an arrow tipped in ashes.”

“Well great, Louis.” I sighed. “That's not likely to happen, but maybe a gunshot will scare him away.” I immediately regretted the comment. Louis was trying to help me. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snarked at you. I'm scared.”

He put his arm around my shoulders. “Me too. Can you hit a target?”

“Absolutely.”

“Eric and I will go to the range and check you out. Little practice won't hurt any of us. Now that Niyol has been murdered, I feel like I need to shoot a target or two.”

I touched Louis's hand. “I had a temporary flight of imagination out there on an isolated stretch of road. I may have even unconsciously known something about shapeshifters and my mind just created the vision. I can't morph into a coyote.”

“Yep, I don't believe you can either. But you're not a practicing Navajo witch whose patron saint is the coyote. You need to contact a Singer for a blessing.”

“Enough,” I squeaked. I paced the small cubicle on Louis's heels. “I need to do something constructive.” I stacked all the paper on my desk into parallel piles like the neat freak I was. “Let's work on the story about the reopening of the old mine.”

“I'm game.”

“Opening an old uranium mine is a nice cover story. Looting graves and selling ancient pottery is a better story.”

“Whoa . . . Okay.” He rubbed his chin. “Witches gather corpse dust to use in their charms. You're interested in looted burial sites. Maybe that's what drew the
Ant iihnii
to you.”

“Are you going to get a blessing?” I asked him.

“Gal, I'm not seeing them. You are.”

“Okay. Got it. Consider it being worked on.” I flopped in my chair. “Why don't we do some work, act normal, and put this aside for a while?”

Louis walked over to me, leaned into my face, and said, “Sure, we can do that.” He lightly touched my back between the shoulders. “As long as you remember, Eric and I got your back.”

“I feel better knowing you're there.”

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he said.

“I want you to go with me to Dinetah Mining.” I pulled out my cell and called the Dinetah Mining and Engineering news and information number, a fancy name for their public-relations office whose job it was to keep their image of a dutiful, environmentally sensitive mining company spit polished. A cheerful receptionist answered and put me through to Charlie Ramos, head of PR.

“Hello, Mr. Ramos. I'm Taylor McWhorter from KNAZ.”

“How can I help you?”

“I'd like to talk with Mr. Chavez about reopening the mine.”

“Of course. How about tomorrow around two? That will give me time to get one of our engineers lined up. After you speak with Mr. Chavez, our engineer can take you out where they are building a road,” he replied.

“Perfect. I'll be bringing a cameraman with me. Thanks for the opportunity.” Way too easy. Ramos had something he wanted to showcase with a little TV coverage.

 

Louis and I left the station for the mining company on a bright spring morning that still had a bite of winter in the wind. “What exactly do you want me to get in the cover footage?” Louis shifted the camera bag on the floor of my Rav.

“Footage in those finger canyons without being obvious about it. We're shooting a straight interview with Chavez in the construction trailer and then the engineer is taking us on a tour of the grounds. That'll be your opportunity.”

“Are we looking for heavy equipment tracks in those canyons?”

“Definitely.” I turned to him. “Or any signs of digging in the canyon walls. I looked at a topo map and the whole area where they're building the road is riddled with finger canyons. Some of them go back for miles to dead ends. Others dump out into dry streambeds. Rain sluiced down those canyon walls for thousands of years, picking up all kinds of artifacts and reburying them.”

I searched the small parking area for a spot of hard-packed sand, angling the wheels before I put the Rav in park. As soon as we stepped out of the car, loud Mexican music, not the popular Tejano genre, boomed around us. I grew up in New Mexico, but this music was different. More languid and soulful.

The mine headquarters was a cluster of buildings, two large Quonset huts and a couple of metal buildings that might have held supplies. Dinetah's construction trailer, set apart from the others, had a makeshift wooden sidewalk up to the door. The wind funneled sand under the trailer, throwing up piles of grit around the door. “What the hell is that awful smell?” Louis asked.

“Some chemical stink. God only knows what it's doing to our lungs.”

Louis yanked the door open. “Get inside quick.”

The receptionist looked up when we entered. “You must be the guys from KNAZ.” Her English bore a soft Spanish patois. “I watch you guys every night.” She thrust out her hand, a ring on each finger and her thumb.

“We're those guys. Thanks for watching.” I shook her jeweled hand. “Mr. Chavez is expecting us.”

She scooted out from behind her battered metal desk. “Let me see if he's ready for you.” She knocked softly before she opened a well-oiled metal door. “He'll see you now,” she called from the doorway.

I was surprised at Mr. Chavez's office. The office was well appointed with a dark wood executive desk and credenza, nice side chairs, and a gorgeous old Persian carpet on the floor. He rose and I studied him as he crossed the room to us. Medium height, erect bearing, short, styled hair, and smooth manicured nails. His face was a mask of supercilious authority.

“Thank you for the opportunity to talk with you, Mr. Chavez. This is Louis Dubois, my field producer and cameraman. He'll get your microphone set.”

Mr. Chavez shook hands with Louis.

“We'll sit across the desk from each other. Light good for you, Louis?” I asked.

He read his light meter. “Perfect. We won't need any portable lights.”

Louis adjusted Chavez's chair and got him seated. He clipped the microphone on Mr. Chavez's tie.

“Are you a local from Arizona?” I asked to put him at ease.

“No, I'm from Mexico City. Of course, I am a citizen of this country also. I studied mining at the Instituto Technologico in Mexico City.”

“Ready when you are, Taylor,” Louis said.

Chavez straightened in his chair. “And in three, two, one . . .” Louis counted us down. The red light blinked and Louis pointed at me.

“Mr. Chavez, thank you for having us here at Dinetah Mining and Engineering.”

He nodded his approval.

“You reopened the mine recently. Dinetah Mining was founded by Naalish Tsosie. How long has uranium been mined here?”

“Mr. Tsosie was mining here in the 1930s, but long before his operation, in the late-nineteenth century, they were mining ore here with picks and shovels. Burros hauled out the ore.”

“Mr. Tsosie closed the mine because he thought it was played out. What prompted you to reopen it?”

“Our experts told us that new ways of mining would make the business profitable. Oilmen extract oil and gas from old fields through fracking. Miners have developed new ways of separating the uranium from the rock. We remove vast amounts of rock from the mine and crush it.”

“Crushing releases the uranium?”

“No.” He sniffed. Educating me was a chore for him. “The crushed rock is dumped into large pits. We spray the crushed ore for ninety days with the leaching agent, loosening the uranium's bond with the rock. We pump out the solution to our on-site plant for processing. It's called leach-pit mining.”

“What is the leaching agent?”

“Sulfuric acid.”

“Wells are the primary source of water for most of us on the Colorado Plateau. Is the groundwater safe?”

“Of course,” he said irritably. “The pits are lined with six feet of heavy clay. Clay is impermeable to acid. We take every precaution.”

“It's not only the groundwater at risk, is it Mr. Chavez? There are millions of tons of radioactive tailings from the uranium mine, all leaking radon gas. The wind drifts the dust and gas over much of the reservation.”

Chavez stiffened in his chair, clasped his hands together on the desk, leaned forward, and spoke into the camera lens. “Heap leaching produces a different kind of tailing from block or cave mining. The majority of the uranium is removed from the tailings by the acid. We take our commitment to the environment very seriously.”

“But the mine tailings are radioactive. Do you monitor the release of pollutants from the tailings?”

He sniffed again. “Of course. We are well within safe limits. We have never had a problem.”

“We noticed armed guards at the gate as we came onto the property. Why do you need them?”

“The mine is a soft target for terrorists. An explosive device in the mine would release high levels of pollutants into the jet stream. Again, every precaution has been taken. We are good neighbors to our Navajo friends.”

He leaned back satisfied with his environmentally sensitive performance. “Now you may visit the mining site.”

I thanked him for his time while Louis rolled a few frames of cover footage of the office.

At the door of the trailer, Chavez introduced us to Jose Torres, his site engineer. Chavez nodded and left us in “Torres's capable hands.” Torres motioned us to follow him. We slogged through the shifting sand, much of which was now inside my shoes, to a late-model four-wheel drive Jeep. Torres drove to a pit surrounded by chain-link fencing, where he parked and got out of the Jeep, jangling the car keys. Louis and I walked behind him to the fence. Yellow water lapped in the crevices between the crushed ore. Louis pulled his T-shirt over his nose. “The stink is god-awful.”

My eyes watered and my nasal passages burned. I buried my nose in the crook of my arm. Louis adjusted his focus and slowly panned the pit.

Torres held a handkerchief over his nose. “You get used to the smell,” he said cheerfully. Louis and I backed away from the fence. Torres coughed into his hand. “That's the worst of it.”

“How do they handle the wind drift when they spray the acid on the rock?”

“The men wear protective gear, and no one else is allowed near the pits when they're spraying.”

“How far does the wind carry the acid spray?” The stench clung in my nose and lungs. My skin felt like I had mild sunburn.

“Not far. It's safe. The men's barrack is upwind of the prevailing winds. And the acid-uranium mixture sinks to the bottom of the pit and is pumped out. Nothing leaches into the groundwater,” he reassured us.

We followed Torres back to the Jeep. “We'll ride out to the mine site where we're building a new road.” Louis and I climbed in the back and I caught Louis's eye.

I tapped Torres on the shoulder. “What happens if something blunders into that acid pit?”