Death Walker (7 page)

She stared at the iridescent green insect, remembering the way of the
Dineh
and trying to reconcile herself to her own past as part of the tribe. Skinwalkers, although they had been with the
Dineh
since the beginning of time, represented an evil that had no place in the present. It was up to her to use
all the modern police techniques at her disposal to bring them, or whoever wanted to impersonate them, to justice.

Ella brushed the fly off and stood. She’d combine knowledge with experience and bring both to bear on this case. She’d solve it, relying on logic to guard her against superstitious fears.

She picked up the press release and the envelope she’d retrieved with the photographs of the
dry painting and walked out. Locking the door, she strode down the hall, her thoughts racing. Tache had spread the word, and all the offices were closed and locked. Crimes steeped in lore and tradition evoked deeply rooted fears, but it was no different anywhere else. People on the outside laughed when they read their horoscopes, or saw a black cat cross their path, but some part of them wondered.
What the
bilagáana
world feared went by different names, that’s all.

She’d nearly passed the evidence room when, almost as an afterthought, she decided to go in for one last look. Fishing the keys out of her pocket, she unlocked the door and went inside. Harry Ute had tagged most of the evidence for delivery to the FBI tomorrow, and she’d added the bomb to the shipment. There was nothing new
here, but something continued to nag at her. She stared at the pouch containing the evidence from the ash painting and saw the small attached note Harry had left for the techs. Although the particles were minuscule, he was almost certain that what had looked like ashes had actually been nothing more than ground-up charcoal briquets. The discovery made a bell ring in Ella’s head, and questions leaped
to the foreground of her mind.

Ten minutes later, Ella was racing down the nearly deserted highway toward her brother’s home. Clifford had been accepted and welcomed by the tribe after last year’s trouble. In fact, in the eyes of some, he was a hero. Public sentiment had shifted in his favor since it had been learned that he’d successfully battled the skinwalkers and had protected the tribe as
well as his family. She envied his new status, wondering if the same would ever be true for her.

As she passed the Chapter House, she noticed there was only a small gathering of teenagers hanging around outside the entrance. The well-publicized accident today had cost many Navajos a loved one. Maybe this explained the uncharacteristically poor turnout. A country-western band was playing inside,
and she caught the rhythmic thumps of ground-shaking bass. Both the Anglo and Navajo culture had staked their footholds. But unlike gatherings of young people on the outside, there was no liquor on the Rez to complicate teen activities, at least officially.

After another thirty minutes, Ella slowed to take the turnoff that would lead to Clifford’s. He and his wife Loretta were going to have another
child, but the pregnancy so far had been troubled. Loretta was constantly ill, and had taken several falls. In Ella’s opinion, the death of their first child still weighed too heavily on them. Their son had died during Clifford’s fight with the skinwalkers, one of many casualties.

Her brother had been doing a Blackening Song to purify the land when Loretta had unexpectedly gone into labor. She’d
delivered the child stillborn. In those days, Ella hadn’t really believed that the two incidents were related, but she’d learned a few things since then.

The porch light up ahead flickered through the gloom of night as she turned down the well-worn path to her brother’s home. The small adobe structure had a new addition to it, built in preparation for the family they hoped to have.

She parked
a polite distance from the front door and waited with the headlights on to be invited in. She didn’t have to wait long. Loretta came to the front door and waved, recognizing Ella’s vehicle even in the dim light that came from the porch.

Ella grabbed the file with the photos, then went inside.

Loretta led the way to the kitchen, offering Ella some stew and fry bread. The tantalizing aroma made
Ella’s mouth water, and suddenly realizing she had skipped lunch and dinner, she found herself unable to decline. It was more than her appetite though; she needed the familiarity and the normalcy of food just as badly as the nourishment. “I’m still working, but I’d love some.”

Loretta smiled. “Sister-in-law, work or not, you have to eat. How can you ever attract a man of your own if you’re just
skin and bones?”

Ella grinned back, knowing that the comment was Loretta’s way of teasing her, more than an actual observation. “I don’t want to attract any men. I want to intimidate the bad guys. And I can do that best by being a lean, mean, fighting machine.”

Loretta laughed. “Not exactly the way I’d describe you, though I’m sure it’s the way you love to see yourself. In my opinion, you’re
too thin. You’re lean from lack of eating, and if you keep skipping meals you’ll be too weak to be a fighting machine.”

Ella looked greedily at the food Loretta placed before her. At least some fences had been mended. There had been a time when her sister-in-law and she hadn’t had much to say to each other. “I gather my brother isn’t home?”

“He’ll be back in a little bit. He went over to see
Betty Natoni. She still lives alone in that hogan out near Dry Wash. Betty said that she’d been struck by a whirlwind and hadn’t been feeling well. She wanted your brother to do a Wind Chant.”

Ella nodded. Betty was in her eighties, a proud woman who adhered to the old ways. She would no more go to the PHS hospital than she would move out of the hogan she’d lived in since she was a child.

Ella
ate her mutton stew, lost in thought. There had been a time when she would have claimed it was foolish to turn down the progress that had come to the People from the outside. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She still resisted clinging only to the old ways, but she had also learned that there was much to be said for them.

To walk in beauty, to find harmony—that carried a value all its own. Nowadays most
people agreed that one’s mental state affected health. Navajos had been saying that since long before Columbus was even born. Progress wasn’t as easy to define as Ella had once believed.

Loretta recognized the roar of a pickup’s engine and went to the window saying, “Here’s my husband now.”

Loretta met Clifford at the front door. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said.

“It took longer than I expected,”
Clifford said softly.

Ella came out of the kitchen, bowl still in hand. She could see the weariness etched on her brother’s face as he took off his denim jacket and placed it on a big hook beside the door. “Hi,” she said, greeting him with a wave of her spoon.

Clifford looked past Loretta and smiled at her. “Good, I see you’re finally eating something that isn’t smothered in ketchup. But it’s
Friday night. Why aren’t you out with one of the men from the tribe?”

Ella rolled her eyes. “I’m working.”

His eyes clouded for an instant. Then as if sharing his wife’s concern, he forced a thin smile. “You’re
always
working.”

“Just like you,” Ella countered with a smile.

“Good point,” he agreed.

“Can I talk to you for a few minutes? I need your help figuring something out.”

Loretta took
the empty bowl from Ella’s hands. “You two go ahead,” she said gesturing to the sofa. “I’ll be in the kitchen making some coffee.”

As soon as Loretta was out of view, Clifford gave her a worried glance. “I’m glad you didn’t say anything to Loretta. I don’t want her worried. I’ve been hearing gossip about the murder then that accident all day. Is it true? Are they back?”

There was no need for
Clifford to explain who “they” were. Ella could see the touch of fear that made Clifford’s eyes narrow, accentuating the patchwork of tiny lines that framed them. “That’s what I want you to tell me. I don’t know what’s going on, brother, but I think we’re being manipulated.”

She recounted what she knew about the murder of Kee Dodge, carefully avoiding mentioning the victim’s name. “I brought
you photos of the dry painting. I’ve tried researching those figures, but I couldn’t find anything even close.”

“You’re certain about the ashes?”

“The killer used powdered charcoal.”

“Charcoal?” His eyebrows knitted together. “Let me see the photos.”

Ella retrieved the file she’d brought. “Here they are, from a variety of angles.”

Clifford studied the photos carefully, laying them out side
by side on the coffee table. Silence stretched out for a long time, but Ella was careful not to interrupt. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to her, Clifford glanced up. “These are just poorly done stick figures. I have no idea who or what they’re supposed to represent, if anything.” He paused thoughtfully. “And something else. Skinwalkers use ashes to create their dry paintings, not ground-up
charcoal. And normally their goal would be to depict the person or people they intend to kill. There’s nothing in these pictures that resembles the murdered man.”

“So these figures could represent a future target?”

“Yeah, but they seem more like some wild combination of the Holy People and plant life.” He shrugged. “Were you able to make anything more out of it?”

She shook her head. “No. That’s
why I brought the photos to you.”

He sat back on the sofa and regarded her for a very long time. “The ones we fought before would have shown more skill at dry painting, and they would have known what materials to use. Someone wants to mislead you.”

She nodded slowly. “I thought that too.”

“But, just to be sure, may I make a suggestion?” Seeing her nod, he continued. “Talk to Leonard Haske.
He has been a
hataalii
for over forty years. He’s in this part of the Rez now, visiting his daughter who just had a baby.”

“Do you think he’ll help me? No one wants to answer these kinds of questions,” Ella said slowly, “particularly when I’m the one who asks them.”

Clifford took a deep breath. “He’ll answer you because the safety of the tribe is at stake. But you’re right in saying he would
prefer not to speak of these things. Face it, it’s a subject any of us would rather avoid.”

“If you asked him, would he talk more freely with you? The tribe accepts you, but the same can’t be said for me. To most, I’m still an outsider.”

“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “What you’re sensing is the natural reaction most people have to police officers. You
do
belong here.”

“Yes, I do,” she agreed,
“but no one forgets that I chose to leave, and that I turned my back on all of our teachings.”

Clifford shrugged. “What you tried to do was foolish. You could never run away from who and what you are. Our family has certain abilities, and those would follow you anywhere, whether or not you acknowledged them. Your gift is your remarkable intuition, and look how it continues to help you.”

Ella
pursed her lips, suppressing the urge to deny Clifford’s comment. He insisted her investigative successes had a supernatural source, while she still preferred to think of her intuition as particularly sharp powers of observation, an instinct honed and developed to perfection by her training as a cop. But some things weren’t worth arguing about. “I wish I could get people to trust me.”

“Things
would be easier for you, true. But, little sister, if you have to work hard for it, you’ll appreciate it more when it happens. That’s part of your nature.”

Ella smiled. “You may have a point.”

Work finished, Ella stayed for a cup of coffee and a generous helping of local gossip from Loretta. When she left, her brother gave her a map of how to find Haske’s daughter’s home. There were others she
had to talk to, but it was already too late tonight. It was time to go home. She’d get an early start tomorrow and tackle everything fresh then.

Moonlight covered the desert in a silver-gray mantle. It looked peaceful enough, but something still made her restless. There was trouble brewing that went beyond Kee Dodge’s murder. A ripple of fear was already reaching out through the tribe. So many
deaths in such a short time—the murder then the bus accident—would feed the growing disharmony and foster chaos among them. The beliefs that sustained the People could also work against them now.

She thought of Leonard Haske. She’d only met the
hataalii
once, about fifteen years ago, but she’d never forgotten him. The man’s piercing gaze, the power and presence that held those around him in thrall,
had left an indelible mark on her. She remembered being in awe of him, thinking that nothing could ever stand up to the power of that Singer’s song. The tribe needed men like him now more than ever.

*   *   *

Across the reservation a shadow moved stealthily through the dark. It was late, but night was his ally. He was a silent hunter in search of prey. He moved swiftly and silently through the
desert, like a coyote, or better yet, a wolf. He spoke in low tones to himself, with the ease of someone who had always found himself his own best audience.

This was his time; he was finally coming into his own. He felt powerfully alive, more animal than man. He could feel the fire in his belly nourishing him even as it slowly consumed him from within.

The moon edged out from behind the clouds,
and the desert came alive with the song of its night children. He crawled toward the edge of the mesa and watched the hogan below. The Singer was preparing a sand painting by lantern light. Perhaps it was for himself. He could smell the man’s fear, and the power it gave him electrified every cell in his body.

He saw the
hataalii
look up, studying the area around him. He knew the old man could
sense the threat against him, though he couldn’t do anything about it.

He drew power from the Singer’s concerns, and felt his own strength grow. He was the invincible hunter who roamed the night. Darkness—that time which heralded the symbolic death of each day, defeating the light. Now it allowed him to view with impunity the life he would take. He threw his head back, but resisted the scream
that built inside him. The need to complete the kill thrummed through his body. But he would wait. He would do things right.