Zuni Stew: A Novel (13 page)

This was different.

She began quietly, explaining that she was the agent in charge of Dr. D’Amico’s case. “I desperately need to find him. I have many important questions; Jack might have the answers. I promise you that I am on his side.”

Louis Paul appeared to ignore her for a long while, silently considering his own promise. He remained silent as she pulled the rocking chair closer to him and sat down, her hands draped casually over the wooden arms. Her eyes fixed on his. When she shifted in her seat, rocking ever-so-slightly, he remained still, his expression revealing nothing.

Finally, he walked to his work bench in the niche, picked up a small mirror.

“Are you strong?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Go as sun rises. Face the sun. Look high. Signal him. Careful. Others may watch you.”

22

I
mpenetrable blackness. He closed his eyes, but there was no difference than with his eyes wide open. His ears buzzed, he needed to pee. Indigo. Deep purple. He thought he could see a faint light at the four-foot wide, four-foot high mouth of the cave. He shrugged off the blanket. Another sleepless night over.

In all of his years of medical training, sleep had come instantly. However, the sound of a bedside phone would awaken him immediately. Completely alert. Ninety-six hours since the night of the bear attack and the insane drive back to Zuni. Seventy-two hours since Lori had told him about the murders. The annihilation of his family.

He seemed to breathe slower, as if living in another body rhythm, like a hibernating bear. His heart rate had slowed, (he checked it repeatedly). Down to thirty-eight. Normally seventy-two. Mysterious calm, that’s what he called it. No sleep, yet he was extremely alert.

He splashed water from a mason jar onto his face. He pocketed the last jar of stew, crawled toward the light, stood erect on the narrow ledge. He stretched, pulling in the warmth of the sun. His dilated eyes stung. He shut them tightly. His mind was completely clear, like the cool water at the back of the cave.

He pulled off his shirt and tilted his head back. As he looked up at the sky, a black object hurtled toward the ground, streaking by the ledge by no more than a foot. He was not afraid. Watching intently, he saw the object grab a darting dove on the canyon floor. He could see it clearly as if he had binoculars. The giant bird skillfully swept away from the cliff with its prey, spreading broad blue-black wings, soaring out of sight.

He had never seen such a death executed so quickly and efficiently.

He shook the kill from his mind. He was ready for a little risk, confident he would not fall. Distance from the cave to the top of the cliff was about thirty feet. Everything shimmered in the heat waves. A wind-tortured juniper growing in sienna veins jutted out about five feet above the ledge. He got a foothold on a two-inch outcropping and sprung for the juniper
branch. It held.

He was at the top in minutes. He pulled himself to the rim, lunged over the edge and crawled to rest against the bleached trunk of a fallen alligator juniper.

The wind was stronger at the top; he planted his feet solidly beneath him. By the position of the sun, he oriented his body to face north where he mentally envisioned the pueblo. He held his arms out, aligned east and west, imprinting each change of terrain to a map in his brain. Every landmark became part of a three-dimensional screen inside his head—a topographic screen he could move through, coursing back and forth. Over and under. Fast or slow.

He closed his eyes and leaned into the wind. His heart rate accelerated, his eyes flooded with tears. He screamed the names of his family into the wind. The words ricocheted out in an explosive burst of anguish.

Rose.

Pasquale.

Tristina.

Giovana.

Nic.

Jo Lou.

Wooly.

The velocity of the wind increased, whistling as it struck the sandstone bluff. He opened his eyes. The sun blinded him, his knees gave way. He collapsed to the hard ground.

23

J
ack was out cold. No motion. No mentation. The only part of his being, his heart, pounded on. Ever-so-slowly his mind acknowledged and recognized the heartbeats. The regularity, the increasing intensity. Pounding. Pounding.

Horses hooves. Clydesdales. The parade. Milwaukee. Dad and Mother gathering all of us in front of them as bands marched by. Giant horses drawing a huge wagon. The street lined with laughing spectators. Children jumping up and down at the sight of clowns on stilts passing out balloons. An anniversary parade sponsored by Anheuser-Busch. A circus, carnival rides. Hot dogs, soft drinks. Cotton candy.

“Get your cotton candy! Fresh, yummy cotton candy!” called a vendor.

“Can we?” asked Nic. Pasquale nodded.

“I’ll stay with the girls and Jo Lou,” said Rose, smiling down at the twins in the double pram.

Jack and Nic were already running through the falling leaves toward the white-clad man hawking the pink clouds of spun sugar. Pasquale close behind.

Jack was mesmerized. Completely mesmerized.

The man grasped the cone at the narrow end between two fingers and his thumb, broke into the web of floss near the spinner head, and picked up a starter of melted sugar. With a lightning-flash motion, he lifted the cone out of the pan, wrapping the floss in a figure-eight spin, creating a giant air pocket. He presented the diaphanous pink cloud to the smaller, ten-year-old, wide-eyed Jack.

A wintery blast of wind gusted down the street, picked up the translucent cloud of spun sugar, dropping it directly on Nic’s head. The gauzy pink mass was plastered on his head. Sticky sweet strands stuck like glue to his thick black hair.

Everyone laughed.

The wind whistled more intensely, striking the sandstone bluff. Milwaukee faded. The music stopped. The cotton candy gone. His family vanished. Jack was alone.

24

L
ate afternoon. Thunderheads developed, white towers against cobalt sky. His perch on the ledge was gradually being engulfed in shadow. The rocky surface was still hot to the touch. Then a cool breeze and the smell of rain.

He was hungry. Also edgy, nervous. Ready to pounce, to attack. By his watch, it was nearly six o’clock. He didn’t see the figure approach the east-oriented cliff. But he heard the scraping sound. He spotted the top of Tito’s head. Black hair tied in a chango knot with red cloth.

“God, am I glad to see you.”

“
Keshshi!
Hungry?” Tito said, pushing a canvas bag toward him.

“Tell me what’s going on. How soon can I get out of here?”

Tito, unlike his father, was somewhat informative. “My Father has ways of finding out things. He trusts FBI woman. He thinks it is unusual to be out here by herself, but she is a top agent. Tops in her class at their training center. Sharp shooter. Self-defense. She was at the funeral for your family. She wants to ask you questions.” A rare smile. “And, she’s single.”

“When do I meet up with her? Or Bill, or your father? Someone has to tell me what’s going on, and why I’m in hiding.” He scratched his developing beard. “I’m going crazy—I’ve got to get out here.” He had asked these questions before. No answer. In frustration he said, “Look, Tito, I owe my family. I have things to finish.”

“We know that. You will leave at the right time.”

“And when the hell will that be? Tomorrow at six o’clock, or twenty-fours, a week, a month?”

“We don’t talk like you. We say ‘by planting time,’ or ‘in four moons.’ It is now Orion, our warrior in the east; this is your June. Do not rush my Father.”

“Your father is a very important man, right? Very wise.” Tito nodded. “I respect that. Can you tell me what he does, what is his title, or position? I want to know.”

“Hard to say in words. Especially to a non-Zuni. He is a mediator between human and spirit worlds. I know he can visit the Inner World. He can call on
spiritual helpers from Unseen World for guidance. Everything in our universe comes from
A’wonawil’ona.
All creations, including Life Spirit, links humans with all of Nature and the Cosmos. We are one with animals, plants, even rocks under our feet.”

“But rocks are inanimate objects,” said Jack.

“Their power is dormant. Remember Nature. It will teach you. This rock,” he said, tapping his boot on a boulder. “This rock has a spirit like a hibernating bear, or a seed that has not been planted. That is why we believe in fetishes.” He removed a small turquoise fetish of an eagle from his shirt pocket. Held it in his hand. “I am now touched by the spirit and power of this bird. When you understand the eagle spirit, you understand your connection with spiritual web that moves through all. With work and prayer, I can share the eagle’s ability to soar high, to see even the tiniest movements below.”

Jack nervously changed position. “Early this morning I saw something that blew my mind. I’ve never seen a bird so fast.”

“Describe it.”

“It looked like an oil droplet from a distance; closer, it was like a sleek, black rocket streaking toward the ground. It made a quick kill, soared up, turned, disappeared.”

“A falcon. Common here. The perfect predator.” Tito explained how the bird could pull up to twenty-five G’s in a fast climb, way more than any human pilot could endure. A falcon, particularly peregrine falcons, can fly two-thousand feet above ground.

Tito was gesturing more than usual, his diction more precise. “Peregrines are the fastest animal on the planet. Capable of diving at speeds of two-hundred, maybe two-hundred-and-sixty miles an hour. Baffles in their nostrils keep their lungs from bursting—like jet engines. Their field of vision is peripheral, but, unlike humans...”

Jack interrupted, “Fastest animal on the planet? How do you know all this?”

“I want to be a pilot.”

“You sound like you have flown.”

“Not yet.”

“I climbed to the top this morning. I can’t explain it, but I felt like I had a compass in my head that would tell me where I needed to go.”

“It is possible. Learn from Nature. Falcons choose selective targets.
Nothing random.”

Just like his family, Jack thought.

Tito slid over the side, locking in a foot hold. “Watch the ground tomorrow.”

25

L
ate afternoon. Lori borrowed Bill’s van, transferred her gear. She had to get back to Gallup.

When she stopped at the desk to get her key, the receptionist handed her a sealed envelope. She retreated to a darkened corner of the lobby by the staircase. Turning her back, she read the typed note telling her to go to a public phone and call Brooks’ office ASAP.

Yolanda picked up on the first ring. “You need to know more. I’m sending intel by courier. Be at Coal and First Street at nine forty-five.” The line went dead. She had ten minutes to get there.

In the shadows of a side street, she canvassed the store fronts. Under the halo of a street light, she saw a trading post on the corner. Locals taking in pawn. Men—Zunis, Hopis, Navajos—stood outside the entrance of a bar, all staring at the ground, waiting for a magic bottle of Thunderbird wine to appear from the cracked sidewalk. She stayed in the shadows by a dead tree, listening to the pulsating rhythm of a train passing through downtown. Taillights heading east and west. The air smelled of stale beer, cigarettes. Urine. A car backfired. A hand touched her shoulder, pushing her aside. The Indian was drunk. She sidestepped as he fell to his knees and wretched, vomiting strings of spittle. She held her breath, pushed back a strand of hair. Steeled herself to walk to the corner. The sound of the train blasting down the tracks diminished. A full moon emerged from behind a dark cloud bank silhouetting a thin dirty cat in front of her just before it scampered between her legs.

A grey-haired man in baggy jeans and a polo shirt limped toward her and said, “Know a good place to stay? I’m lost and it’s pretty grungy around here.” Josh Flores. He partially opened a folded map, held it up, obscuring their faces.

Lori felt the envelope in the map and slipped it into her blouse. He thanked her loudly, limped away. She went inside the trading post, squinting in the fluorescent light, bought some postcards, and slid the envelope in the bag.

She took a zigzag route back to the hotel. No one followed.

The unmarked envelope contained five pages of single-spaced intel. Twenty minutes and two read-throughs, her mind was on fire, her hands ice cold. Words like
radioactivity, shipments, senators, top bosses in Chicago’s criminal world.

At the end of the list, Yolanda’s cursive writing warned:
Be discreet, remain obtuse when asked about Mr. Blue Eyes. More when I can. Yolie.

She was hungry and needed a drink. She took a shower, slipped on a navy shirt and white shorts, went down to the bar. A club sandwich and a double bourbon, water on the side. Two cowboy types tried to check her out, asked her to join them. She really didn’t know why they were hitting on her—she was poorly dressed, no makeup, and her red lacquered fingernails were a wreck. Smoothly fending the fellows off, though one was rather attractive, she left most of the sandwich and downed her drink.

Walking upstairs, her peripheral vision registered something wrong. A well-dressed, older man was sitting in the lobby, reading a newspaper. She had last seen him at the D’Amico funeral—he was Jack’s uncle, Gabriel. She ran up the stairs two at a time.

What was Gabriel D’Amico doing in Gallup? Did Brooks know Gabriel had left Chicago? She didn’t trust the telephone. Neither did Yolanda.

She sat on the edge of the bed in her darkened room. Where are the connections, and why is Jack involved?



Thunder rolled. Tumbled, growled. Rolled again. Bill went to his office window, looking between the venetian blinds. Brilliant flashes in the distance. He could smell rain. It was nearly midnight, time to quit. In the light of the single gooseneck lamp, he glanced down at his calendar. That was when the hair on the back of his neck bristled. He looked up.