Ghost Medicine (8 page)

“Of course, I’ve destroyed the three we’ve seen beside the road between here and the highway,” Truman said. “I’ve also come across dead animals strung up on fences. When I find crap like that, I get rid of it. Someone’s out to scare people, and there’s no
sense in creating a panic.”

“How long ago has it been since you saw either of those things?” Ella asked.

“Let me think,” Truman said, then stared at the floor for several seconds. “Two weeks ago, maybe less.”

“One of those charcoal drypaintings was left right in front of our drive,” Eileen said, and shuddered.

After everyone had eaten another piece of fry bread in silence, Ella wiped her lips
with one of the paper towels and stood. “All right. Thank you both,” she said. “We’ve got to get going. Maybe Mrs. Yazzie will be able to add to what you’ve already told us.”

“If we hear or see anything that might help, we’ll give you a call, Investigator Clah. Do you have a card?” Truman asked.

Ella gave him hers, then walked with Justine to the door.

“One last thing,” Truman said, “that is,
if you don’t mind a little advice.”

Ella stopped. “Go ahead.”

“Mrs. Yazzie is a hard-core Traditionalist, and if you start talking about skinwalkers, she’ll probably throw you out.”

“Good to know, thanks,” Ella said.

“Not too long ago, I noticed that she’d brought in a
hataalii
and had a Sing done,” Eileen said. “I don’t know for sure, but I have a feeling she found something on her property
that scared her.”

“Thanks,” Ella said, stepping outside.

“And for the fry bread, too,” Justine added.

They walked back to the car in silence. Soon they were on their way up the road, which now ran west toward the Chuskas.

“Those two are in serious danger if there’s one or more Navajo witches working this area. You don’t disrespect crazies and get away with it, not for long, anyway,” Ella said.

“Do you suppose that’s the real reason our friend was killed—he came across a ritual he wasn’t supposed to see?”

“Maybe.” Ella remembered her own father, who, like Harry, had fallen prey to skinwalkers. But with her dad, it had been a lot worse. They’d carved him up like some horrific art exhibit. It had been over fifteen years, but the memories were still as sharp and clear in her mind as if
it were yesterday. She’d carry those images to her own grave.

She brushed the memory aside and focused on the present. “Let’s keep pushing for answers and see what we get.”

“Maybe Mrs. Yazzie saw something we can use, particularly if Truman’s right, and she was driving around that day,” Justine said.

“I hope so, but the odds are against it. A Traditionalist worried about skinwalkers would probably
keep to herself and avoid looking at strangers.”

Ella accessed the MDT to check out the tags on the vehicles at Truman John’s place. “No police record for either. Let’s see what else I can get.” A moment later, she continued. “John has a BA in secondary education from NAU in Flagstaff. Eileen Tahoe graduated from Chinle High. Both are Arizona Navajos. Truman was riffed last year from Kirtland
Central. Eileen has been working full-time at the Little Bear Café for the past two years.”

Justine smiled. “Bet she’s a cook. That fry bread was yummy.”

“Yeah.” Ella smiled. “If you weren’t such a bundle of energy, cuz, you’d be rolling instead of walking. I have to run my butt off, literally, just to stay even.” Ella almost sighed as she thought of how it had been for her when she was in her
twenties and thirties. She’d eaten like a horse back then and never put on any weight.

Time … it wasn’t always a friend.

*   *   *

The Yazzie residence was about a half mile farther down a rutted dirt road, and consisted of a rectangular wood frame structure with unpainted, weathered wooden trim and a roof that was missing a few shingles. A small medicine hogan stood in the back, about a hundred
feet away.

Ella pointed to a double stack of plastic water barrels in the meager shade of the roof overhang. “She doesn’t have a well, so she has to haul water in. That means she can’t afford a garden.”

Justine parked within view of the front of the house, about twenty feet from a red Ford pickup. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

Ella shrugged. “Give it some time. If Mrs. Yazzie
is home and worried about skinwalkers, she’ll have to decide whether or not to trust us.”

Minutes passed slowly. At long last, they saw a gray-haired woman and a dog herding about twenty sheep down the long slope of a hill west of the residence. After the livestock was gathered into a sturdy pen cut from cottonwood branches, she waved them toward the house.

Ella opened her car door. “Let’s go,
partner.”

Three minutes later, they were standing in the center of a small living room. Mrs. Yazzie was in her late sixties, wearing a long-sleeved blouse and floor-length pleated skirt. Her home was simply furnished, with woven rugs on the floor and simple wooden chairs around what was clearly an old picnic table. Instead of a sofa, a wooden bench had been placed beneath the window. Despite
two open windows, it was warm inside.

“Did you see any strangers or unfamiliar vehicles around here this past Tuesday, aunt?” Ella asked, using the term to show respect for a woman of the tribe who was her senior.

Mrs. Yazzie gripped a deerskin medicine bag in the palm of her hand so tightly that her knuckles turned a pearly white. “I heard about the shooting on my radio, but I didn’t hear or
see anyone Tuesday. My grandson and I went shopping in Farmington, then stopped on the way back at the new grocery store in Shiprock. They had a sale on bread and Spam,” she said. “My grandson enjoys these day trips as much as I do now. He’s been lonely since his wife left to help her mother over by Window Rock. The woman had a stroke and needs extra help right now.”

“Your grandson, you mean
the one who lives close by?” Ella asked, trying to avoid saying his name aloud.

She nodded. “He runs a café in Beclabito, so he usually isn’t home until late except on Tuesday, his day off. He’s a good boy, always watching out for his
shimasání,
” she said, using the Navajo word for “grandmother.”

“I’ve been told that he’s had some problems with your neighbor to the north,” Ella said. “The teacher.”

“If you ask me, that young man’s just looking for trouble to give himself something to do. I told my grandson to stay away from him,” she said, neither confirming nor denying.

“Have you or your grandson had any problems with your other neighbors?” Justine asked.

“No, but everyone’s scared. It’s very dangerous here now,” she said in a whisper.

Ella could see the .30-.30 Winchester standing in
the corner of the room behind the door. It was probably loaded. “Dangerous how? Tell me,” Ella said, and reached into her jacket pocket, bringing out her beaded medicine pouch. The sight of it seemed to allay the woman’s fears somewhat. “It’s okay to talk about it, aunt. We’ve got the right medicine.” Ella gave Justine a nod, and her partner brought out her own bag.

“Deerskin, with beaded trim,
just like mine,” Mrs. Yazzie observed. “You must know the
hataalii
who lives just west of the Gallup highway.”

“He’s my brother,” Ella said, and smiled.

“And my second cousin,” Justine added.

“Tell us about the troublemakers in this area,” Ella insisted gently. “Do you think they might be responsible for what happened to the man in the pickup?”

She expelled her breath in a soft hiss. “The
evil ones cause problems for everyone. That’s why I tried to contact the
hataalii
again today. I want him to give my home some extra protection.”

“My brother took his family to their sheep camp up by Red Rock, so his son can learn how to care for their livestock. He should be back in a day or two.”

“I don’t want to wait that long. I’ll try to get the Singer from Cudei to come over,” Mrs. Yazzie
said, then looked toward the kitchen. “I have to tend to my stew. Do you need something else?”

Ella sensed that finding out Clifford wouldn’t be readily available had frightened her. Pressing Mrs. Yazzie now wouldn’t get them anywhere. She was too on edge already. “I’ll leave my phone number here on the table,” Ella said, placing a business card by the base of the lamp. “Call if you have any
problems we can help you with, or if you remember anything that might help us solve the crime.”

The woman nodded, but didn’t speak.

Ella glanced at Justine, who recognized the signal and walked toward the door. Ella followed.

Mrs. Yazzie remained silent, but accompanied them to the porch, then closed and locked the door as soon as they were outside.

“She’s really frightened,” Justine said
as they reached the SUV. “Do you think she knows more than she’s telling us?”

“Maybe.” As Justine drove back toward the road, Ella looked in the rearview mirror. Mrs. Yazzie was still watching them from the window. “My gut tells me that she’s convinced skinwalkers are responsible, but she’s afraid to point fingers and have them chopped off—or worse.”

“She’s an old school Navajo,” Justine said.
“If someone tries to give her a hard time, or she thinks she’s being witched, she’ll take her rifle to them.”

“That’s what worries me,” Ella said. “We need to speak to her grandson, Norman Yazzie, but if the schedule we got is right, he won’t be home now. Let’s go visit another one of the neighbors instead,” she said, checking her notepad.

“Okay,” Justine said.

“While you drive, I’m going to
try to reach Clifford on the phone. I may not get him right away, but I know he’ll be checking his messages as often as possible. If a skinwalker’s really in this area, he’ll have more details.”

SIX

They’d driven about a mile when Ella, looking up after leaving a message for her brother, noticed a dead crow dangling from the wire fence that paralleled the road.

“Stop,” she said, and pointed.

“Birds sometimes collide with windows, but they don’t get hung up on fences like that,” Justine said, pulling over to one side of the road.

“Let’s take a closer look.” Ella got out of the SUV
and walked over to the fence. “Decapitated and left hanging upside down by a string.”

“The kind of thing a skinwalker would do,” Justine said.

“Yeah, he’s advertising his presence. He wants people to be afraid,” Ella said. “We need to remove this. Like it is with graffiti or tagging, by getting rid of it you show him he’s wasting his time.”

Ella glanced around, taking in the area carefully
to see if they were being watched. Except for the house they’d just left, barely visible now, there was no sign of life.

“Looks like the bird was shot.” Justine cut the string with her pocketknife and lowered the dead bird onto a bed of black ants. “Not worth collecting as evidence. Might as well let the body serve as a meal to something.”

“And at the same time piss off a nut job,” Ella said
with a mirthless grin. “Let’s get going, but keep your eye out for any more not-so-subtle messages. It looks like it’s going to be a long day, cuz.”

They soon drove past the home of Dawn’s friend, Bitsy, the girl who’d found the body. An old Navajo man with a white headband was lifting a cardboard box out of his pickup, and as they went past, he looked up, and nodded to Ella.

“That’s Samuel
Henderson,” Ella said.

“The
hataalii
from Cudei?”

“Right. Looks like Joe’s observation was right on target. Bitsy’s family are Modernists but they’d decided to have a Sing done.”

“Bitsy saw way too much for a girl her age,” Justine said. “They’re probably hoping that’ll help their daughter deal with things.”

“It’ll also keep her Traditionalist friends from avoiding her altogether. I’d do the
same for Dawn.”

“Which reminds me,” Justine said. “What’s your daughter think of her dad dating Carolyn?”

“We haven’t spoken about it,” Ella said.

“Do you think Rose knows?” Justine looked over at Ella.

“I doubt it. Otherwise, she’d be making the mother of all medicine bags for my daughter. To her, the
chindi
is as real as you and I are to each other.”

Following Ella’s directions, Justine
continued down the slope of one of the low ridges running perpendicular to the foothills to the west.

“We’re here,” Justine said at last, pointing with a fingertip raised from the steering wheel.

“This is the home of Delbert Sells, his wife, and their two elementary school children,” Ella said as Justine pulled over to the side of the road. “He’s a mechanic and she works at the Sixty-four Laundry
in Shiprock.”

A well-maintained pickup with a metal storage compartment in the bed was parked halfway down the narrow driveway. The hood was up and a big red toolbox was on the ground beside the vehicle.

Beyond that stood a lone mobile home beside a cluster of four very well established fruit trees. “Like the teacher’s rental home and the Willie residence, these people have a well,” Ella said,
pointing toward a low shedlike structure at the rear of the trailer. “Nice to be able to have a garden or a small orchard.”

A man in a dark green shirt with a label above the pocket opened the door of the home and came out onto the small wooden porch.

“Good morning,” Ella called out. “We’re police officers. Can we speak to you for a moment?”

“Yes, we’ve been expecting a visit. Come inside,”
the slender man in his late twenties said.

Mr. Sells, who introduced himself on the porch but declined to shake hands with strangers, motioned Ella and Justine inside. He then introduced them to his wife, Marcie Sells, a short, stout Navajo woman with two young kids beside her. The first- or second-graders, judging from their size, fixated on Ella’s badge at first, then her holstered handgun.

“Cori, Lexy, take your books and go read in your room while the adults talk,” Mrs. Sells said.

“Have a seat, Officer Clah, Officer Goodluck,” Mr. Sells said as his wife urged the kids down the narrow center aisle of the mobile home.

Ella motioned for Justine to take the inside seat of a padded bench and table attached to the floor, then slipped in beside her. From where she was, Ella could see
out of the mobile home’s large window. As she watched, a nondescript pickup in the distance made its way up the long stretch of road.