Death and Desire (22 page)

T
he search for Anne and the Notahs continued the next day with Navajo policemen who had grown up on the Nation scouring the back country. Close to five in the afternoon, Trace called. “How about some dinner around seven?”

“Sounds great, but I don't want to go out. I'll go by the deli and pick up sandwiches and something sinful for dessert, and we'll eat at home. I just don't want to interact with anyone.”

“Perfect. I don't want to talk to anyone but you. I'll be at your place by seven.”

My car was fragrant with roast-beef sandwiches with au jus on the side and those razor thin potatoes that cut the line between chips and French fries. Mac was overjoyed at my return. Nothing like a dog for loyalty, or more likely he was interested in the smells from the deli bag. He sniffed the air and hovered around me expectantly.

“You're getting a treat, too, boy.”

He immediately went over to his bowl. I poured in his kibble and drizzled au jus over the dry bits. Small things gave Mac unbounded joy.

I went into the bedroom and changed into a soft tee, black yoga pants, and ballet flats. Trace unlocked the front door as I was setting two places at the table. He threw his arms around me in a bear hug. “I'm so damn happy to be alone here with you.” He buried his head in my neck and caressed my back. I let go of the tension I had been holding so tightly and clung to his warm embrace.

I ruffled the back of his hair. “It's been awful. I want it to end.”

“It'll end. I don't know how satisfying the end will feel, but we're going to get there.”

I squeezed him hard. “What if we veg out and don't talk about the case tonight? A reprieve from the grisly stuff that's happening,” I whispered.

A big grin split his face. “Sounds good to me.”

His eagerness made me smile. “Open the wine and pour. Maybe we can find a movie we agree on after dinner.”

The sandwich filled a caving hole in me, but my eyes had been bigger than my stomach.

“You through with your sandwich?” Trace asked.

I handed it to him. “When did you last eat?”

“I don't remember. I've had gallons of stale coffee, and at some point, Nez made a doughnut run.”

“Forget cop-shop doughnuts.” I lifted the cake out of the bakery box. “The deli clerk called this their triple decadent chocolate cake. I bought vanilla-bean ice cream on the way home. Want coffee?”

“No, I'll have your Scottish tea.”

I put the kettle on and Trace lit a fire.

I juggled the tea and dessert to the table by the sofa. When I sat down by him, I was struck by how big and solid he was. Here was a man I could curl up with and feel safe. I doubted there was much he couldn't handle.

He tapped my head. “You're worrying over something in there.”

“Wrong.” I put one finger on his lip. “I was thinking about how you make me feel.”

He put his tea on the lamp table and stretched out one arm, beckoning me. I slipped under his arm and laid my head on his chest, hearing his heart beat steady and strong. I basked in the warmth of being cared for. “I think you best tell me about these feelings,” he murmured.

The fire popped, the yellow light making his skin glow bronze. He slowly kissed me, then deepened the kiss, teasing my lips apart. Reaching under my T-shirt, he loosened my bra and my breasts swung loose into his waiting hands.

When he rasped his thumbs over my nipples, I sighed. “I ache for you.”

A warm, throaty chuckle rumbled in my ear. “I can take care of those feelings.”

He straddled me, one long, lean leg on the floor. He trailed kisses down my neck, nuzzled each breast, and suckled. I lifted my hips and he pulled off my yoga pants and panties. Lowering his head to my belly, he kissed the skin at my waist before licking his way across my mound.

He tantalized me, tonguing down my thigh, not touching my essence until the anticipation grew unbearable. When he finally flicked his tongue across my sex, exquisite pleasure surged through me. I screamed his name, rocketing over the brink with his mouth on me. While I was still panting, he pulled me to my feet, and led me to the arm of the sofa. He gently bent me over, and I arched to receive him. When he thrust into me, he pulled my hips up high and held me close. He drove into me so deep, he touched the sensitive ridges, and with each plunge, my pleasure built. I cried out as I came, Trace groaning with his own release.

 

We lay in bed, nestled together, softly talking as dawn broke. “You're a wonderful lover.” He kissed me.

I caressed the smooth hardness of his pecs. “You, too. I ogle your body every chance I get.”

“Next time will be even better.” He kissed me on the cheek.

Sunlight streamed through the windows. He rose on one elbow and stared at the clock. He flopped back down on the bed. “We better get a break today.”

“I declared the moratorium yesterday, and now I'm ending it. Do you have any idea where Anne is or even if she is alive?”

“No and no. I know a lot of places she isn't. As long as you kicked the door open, have you seen any coyotes?”

“No, I haven't. I haven't felt the icy cold or impending doom since we smudged.” I pointed at my bag. “The rest of the grasses and hyssop are in that bag and it stays by me.”

“Keep it there. Maybe the strength of our prayers turned the evil back on him. If we're lucky, he was burned by the evil he conjured and he's weakened.”

“How is Yanaha?”

“She still has the cough. After a week of cajoling, demanding, and finally threatening, I got her to let me take her back to the clinic. She asks about you every time I speak with her.”

“I'll visit her today and take her the other half of that cake. There's cell service now so I can stay in touch if anything breaks, but I don't want another day like yesterday where Louis and I sat around worrying and making phone calls and turned up nothing.”

“That's a cop's life. Wait and wait and then all hell breaks loose and you chase the investigation to the finish.” He rolled out of bed and stretched his back, his muscles rippling. He sidled to the bathroom and called over his shoulder as he stepped into the shower, “Tell Yanaha I love her.”

Y
anaha was delighted I was coming to visit. I had half the decadent chocolate cake wrapped up on the front seat for her. She was the grandmother I no longer had. My beloved Mc Whorter grandmother, Elspeth, had outlived her son and had shared her wisdom with me until she passed.

My drive through Kaih Canyon was uneventful. I was tense, but the sky remained a clear blue and the wind didn't blow a sandstorm. I rounded the sandstone wall that gave way to the wide space where her hogan was. The creek was running fast from the spring rains and the willows had sprouted pale green leaves since I had last visited.

She peeped out her door and slowly shuffled out to meet me. “I am so happy to see you, Granddaughter.” Her bony hands held tightly to my arm. “I've made coffee and I have a lamb stew and fry bread.”

She was racked with a coughing fit before we reached her door. She caught the worried look on my face and patted my arm, reassuring me. “I still have the cough, but I'm better.”

The hogan smelled of warm bread and the rich scent of simmering meat and herbs. She had added nearly a foot of weaving to the rug since I had last visited.

Her hand shook as she carried the full coffeepot to the table.

“Let me help you.” I took the coffeepot from her.

She returned to the table with a pot of Betsy's cream and a sugar bowl. “You're wearing your pouch.” She smiled approvingly.

“I wear it all the time. Thank you.” I fingered it protectively. “Trace gathered grasses and hyssop and smudged my house.”

“I know, my dear. He says you haven't had any more trouble.” She sipped her coffee.

“Have you had any problems?” I asked.

“I saw three shapeshifters together on the ridge above the willows.”

“Did they see you?”

“Yes, I suspect their performance was for me.” She sipped her coffee.

I waited for her to tell her story.

“A sliver of new moon lit the night. They had built a large fire on the ridge above the willows. In the firelight, I could see them walking upright with the legs of a coyote and arms of a man. They danced around the fire, throwing back their heads and letting their long fur play about their shoulders. Their chanting and high-pitched laughter filled the night, and the booming of their drums bounced off the canyon walls and thrummed in my chest. The night held only a touch of crisp, cool wind, but I was cold, so bitterly cold. Sand and small rocks skittered down the cliff as they danced. At last, one of them threw back his head and howled and the others joined him in an unholy shrieking. The fire flashed up and died. The moon slid behind a veil of heavy clouds, and suddenly the ridgeline plunged into darkness and silence. I waited, shivering in my coat. The dry leaves under my willows by the creek rustled and I heard snuffling sounds. Shadows moved through the willows, and I fled into my hogan. The hyssop and my prayers protected me.”

“What happened?”

“I heard footsteps around the hogan, unspeakable wails and screeching. I didn't go outside until the sun was high the next morning. Scattered bones of small animals had been hurled along the creek.”

“When did this happen?”

“More than a week ago. I've seen nothing since I cleaned my hogan with the smoke of sage and cedar.” She walked the few steps to her stove and carefully ladled up bowls of the fragrant stew.

“Are you afraid? Would you like me to take you in to town?”

“Thank you my dear. My home is here.”

“But the danger . . .”

“We deal with what comes our way, child, if it does come.”

She set a bowl in front of me with lamp chunks swimming in a rich brown gravy with carrots and potatoes. “My mother made this for us children when the spring lambs were fat and tender.”

I didn't want to think of fuzzy little lambs while I ate. I took a spoonful, and the flavors of bay and roasted meat exploded in my mouth. “The stew is delicious.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “You almost seem surprised,” she said amused. “The cake will be such a treat for me.”

I refilled her coffee cup and mine. She shifted in her wobbly chair. “Three boys are dead and Gage,” she said softly. “I knew his father and uncle. The Notahs will want to bury Gage and his son together. Anne needs to be there for the funeral,” she said wistfully. “So many dead since Niyol was killed.”

“I'm sorry. Do you know how Atsa Begay is doing?”

“She has stayed with her people. She held her head high when Trace told her that Sani's car had been tampered with.”

Yanaha's wide eyes brimmed with fear, and she grasped the edge of the table. The Formica table rocked on the dirt floor, and the cake plate jittered across the surface. Rolling waves of pressure built until a shockwave thundered through the narrow canyon, releasing the stress. The cake splattered on the dirt floor in a dark ooze.

Outside the small window, sand rained down, pitting the glass. I took Yanaha's arm, hurrying her to the door. “Get outside away from the house!” I grabbed a blanket and pulled Yanaha out in the open space on the canyon floor. Bits of paper and grit flew through the air. I helped her to sit on the ground and threw the blanket over her. “Stay here. I don't know if it's safe to be inside.”

“The mine,” she yelled frantically, muffled by the blanket. “They've had an explosion at the mine. So many will be dead.”

“Do you have your phone on you?”

“It's on the table.”

I ducked through the hogan door, grabbed her phone, and snatched a bottle of water. I backed out quickly, unwilling to test the strength of a homemade roundhouse in a blast zone. I ran back to her and dropped her cell and the water in her lap. “Call Trace and tell him. He'll send help.”

I broke into a run to my car, jerked my gear bag off the front seat, and jogged toward the canyon opening. Smoke and debris sifted down on me as I neared the construction trailer that was Chavez's office. A huge whoosh of fire erupted into the sky behind the trailer. I dropped to the ground in a tight ball. When I looked up, the Quonset hut where Torres had claimed the men were barracked was engulfed in fire. Men were running, some stumbling, screaming wildly, twisting and turning to paw at the fire on their backs. The door to Chavez's office trailer swung open, and a wild-eyed Torres ran out and leaped off the bottom step.

“Jose, what happened?”

He swung his head in my direction but didn't answer, just stared at me with bright, fearful eyes. He stumbled, righted himself on the handrail, and bolted past me without a word, headed to a line of SUVs. He wrenched open the car door, over cranked the whining engine, and finally spun out on the hard-packed road.

“
Mis manos
.” I turned to see a teen holding his charred hands out in front of me. He swayed on his feet. His face was fiery red and blistering around his blue lips. He sank to his knees. Two young men grabbed him under his arm pits shouting, “
Vamanos
,” and hauled him away.

The acrid smoke darkened the scene with a stinking chemical murk. I crept up to the ragged hole torn in the side of the big Quonset hut. The metal roof was torn open. Jagged metal sagged down into the floor space. The front wall was reduced to a hunk of molten metal, and red liquid was streaming down off the back wall. The men milling outside had garish red stains on their clothes and faces. This wasn't a barrack. There were no rows of burned-out beds. Glass bottles and shards littered the floor, and the intense heat had charred and twisted large metal pots. Smoldering countertops curled on the floor.

Two boys, not out of their teens, huddled together by the blown-out opening.

“What is this place? What were you doing in there?”

“
El polvo blanco
,” he stuttered in Spanish.
The white powder.

I was dumbstruck. Meth lab. The stinking leach pits had covered the distinctive smell of fifty million dollars' worth of meth cooking.

Police sirens and the whanging of fire engines roared into the clearing. I pushed my way through a group of aimlessly wandering workers to the second Quonset hut that stood unscathed. The door stood ajar, and I eased the door open, praying it wouldn't squeak. On well-oiled hinges, the door swung wider. Faint
narcorrido
music was playing inside. Here was the empty dormitory for the workers. Rows of dirty thin mattresses were spread on the floor. The smell of sweaty clothes and the hazy scent of beer and unwashed bodies ripened the air. Two sinks, a toilet, and a small shower stood open against the back wall. No privacy for these men. There was only one door into and out of the hut—a hazard in itself. A small walled-off cubicle hugged the far back wall by the shower. I walked over quietly, put my hand on the knob, and bent my ear to the door. I heard rustling and then a soft mewing.

I eased the door open, and a young Navajo woman lay on a dirty mattress, her hands and legs tied to the eyebolts in the wall. Her eyes were wild with fright, and she tried to scuttle away from me in fear. “Anne Notah?” I asked.

Tears leaked from her eyes as she nodded. Her dress was filthy and torn. Her bare legs were stained with brown blood. Yellowed circles marked the dirty mattress. “I'm Taylor. Let's get you out of here.”

I had a Swiss Army Card in my gear bag more suited to taking care of a hangnail than bonds, but the tiny scissors opened enough of a hole in the fabric for me to rip the rotting rag off her mouth.

“Gage and my son?” she begged as soon as her mouth was free.

“They're not here.” That much was true, but I didn't want to tell her where they were.

“Are they safe?” she demanded. She grabbed my arm and pinched the flesh. “Where are they?”

“I'm sorry.” Her feet were still tied. She tried to sit up, and I cradled her in my arms. “I'm sorry.”

High-pitched keens of rage and sorrow filled the room.

“They were shot. It was fast. I swear it was fast.” I sawed through the filthy rags that held her legs to the bolts. “Can you walk?”

She swayed to her feet. I slipped one arm around her thin waist to steady her. I heard the front door bang against the wall and heavy footsteps approaching. I pulled her closer to me and turned us to face the door. I locked eyes with Sancho Chavez.

“What the hell are you doing?” He aimed a small caliber pistol at us.

Anne's shoulders crumpled and she leaned on me. “No,” she cried out.

“I'm taking Ms. Notah for medical help,” I said with more bravado than I felt.

“No you're not. Nosy
perra
.” He smirked, holding the gun steady. “You'll die with her. She's of no use to me now.”

Anne shuddered and slipped to the floor. His eyes tracked her. I took one step forward and he recovered. “Don't even try it,” he growled, raising the gun. I was close enough to see his finger hovering on the trigger. Smoke filtered through the open door, obscuring my vision. Boot heels thudded on the floor right behind Chavez. Two figures loomed in the smoke. “Drop the gun,” a man's hoarse voice rasped. Chavez's gun hand wavered. I pulled Anne to her feet to shelter her, not knowing if the enemy of my enemy was my friend.

Trace stepped out of the gloom shouting, “Now. Get down on your knees.” The .22 clattered to the floor and Officer Nez kicked the gun between an aisle of beds. Trace jerked Chavez's hands behind his back, tying them with plastic cuffs. Chavez threw back his head and a smug smile crawled across his face. “I will see you in hell,” he spat at me.

I blanched at the raw power in his voice.

Trace shouted at me, “You okay? Where are you hurt?”

“I'm not. Anne is.” I pointed to the small figure rocking back and forth, moaning quietly.

Nez yanked Chavez to his feet. Chavez brushed by me, spitting at my feet, and snapped, “
Chinga tu madre
.”

I recoiled from the nasty wad of mucus by my shoe. Nez jerked him roughly away from me. “
Silencio
!” He dragged him, boot heels scuffling, toward the door.

Trace bent down to Anne. “Ms. Notah, I'm Captain Yazzie. May I pick you up? There's an ambulance outside.”

Anne nodded mutely, and Trace carried her as easily as he would a child.

Outside was a riot of milling police, firefighters, and stunned workers. Trace turned Anne over to the EMTs. “How is Yanaha?” he asked urgently.

“She's okay.”

“Go back. I've been crazy worrying about you. Please,” he urged as the smoke swallowed him. “I'll call you later,” he shouted as he disappeared in the hazy din.

“Clear!” A man in an FBI jacket shouted from the steps of Chavez's trailer. He ran down the steps and joined a troop of men moving toward the three metal sheds.

I had the camera focused on the door when they breached the first shed. Inside, on sturdy metal racks, were rows of Anasazi pots carefully placed by size, largest water jug to tiny seed pots. Two Navajo policemen pushed their way up the steps and into the shed, gesturing and speaking in a rapid burst of Navajo. The agent left them in the shed and waved his men forward to the next two sheds. Both were filled with neatly arranged Anasazi artifacts.

“You guard that shed.” The FBI agent pointed to a Navajo policeman. “You, take the second. You, third one. No one gets past you, got it?” The men stood feet apart, guns at the ready, guarding their ancestral history.

What an opportunistic bastard Chavez was, making meth, looting graves, and giving bullshit interviews about how clean the mine was and what a good neighbor they were to the Navajo.