Wild Indigo (18 page)

“Does Sam come here for Head Start, too?”

“Well, he used to. Now he's in elementary school. But I heard his old granny sent him and his brother to the Indian School in Santa Fe this week. Probably got too much for her to deal with—she's hard of hearing, you know, and I think she's losing her sight, too. Angel keeps saying that Sam ran away. He doesn't understand why his friend had to leave.”

By this time the display was up and the cursor prompted for a user password.

“I know this.” Madonna smiled. She typed quickly. “Angel told me one night when I was putting him to bed and we'd talked about secrets. I shared one with him, and he shared this one with me.”

Once I had access to the computer's desktop, I pulled out a chair and sat down.

“That's funny,” Madonna said. “Usually there's a picture of an angel right there on the desktop, right in that corner. That's an icon for his file. It's not there now. In fact, there used to be a lot of stuff on the screen when you first booted up, shortcuts to files with pictures and documents in them. It looked like a comic book. Now it's all blank!”

I scanned the contents of the hard drive. “Everything's been deleted. Nothing but native applications, no document files, no picture files, nothing. It looks like there's nothing on this computer that wasn't there when it came out of the box.”

Madonna drew up. Her face looked stern. “What happened to my husband's letters to Angel?”

“I don't know.” I looked around. “Could they have switched the computers around? Could another one of these be the one?”

“No,” Madonna said. “See that microphone resting on the top of the monitor? He used that to record little messages for Angel. He had voice-recognition software—none of the other computers had it. He worked with that software for a long time on the computer at home to get it to work with his native tongue.”

I checked the list of recent applications on the hard drive and saw SpeakAloud. I tried to find the application but had no success. “Maybe he has another code or a password on this.”

“If he does, I don't know it.”

“Does anybody else use his computer here? Any of the kids? That Ron guy?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. You saw that I had to use a password to log on. Unless somebody knew it, I don't think they could even get to the desktop.”

“How about Contreras? Does he use computers when he teaches the kids the language?”

Madonna laughed. “Are you kidding? It's a miracle that guy will even allow Indians to drive cars around here. He doesn't want much to do with anything that's going to change the way the pueblo has been for the past few centuries. If he could, he'd turn back the clock and I'd be chewing a buffalo hide to soften it tonight—after I served dinner and washed everyone's feet.”

I looked through the items atop Santana's desk: a pile of papers including a PC supply house catalog, files of grant paperwork for the computer literacy program, letters to the high school requesting that students be given opportunities to use computer equipment; a stack of blank data CDs; a ream of printer paper; and some sticky notes. Above the monitor, tacked to the wall, were a list of the students' names and phone numbers, a photo of Madonna with Angel as a baby, another photo of Angel on the lap of a department store Santa Claus, and a group shot of the Head Start kids sitting in their semicircle on their pillows, with Contreras at the hub, his back to the camera. I turned and looked toward the area where the small children studied their native language. It was as if the photo were taken right from in front of Santana's desk—everything lined up perfectly in the picture just as I saw it from where I stood.

“Did your partner and Contreras get along?”

“Oh, I think they had their differences, but they worked them out. I know when Hunter was looking for space for his language program, my husband really wanted them here. They could have used the Indian Center—which has much nicer rooms—because that program is federally funded. They wouldn't have had to share a room like this. But Hunter didn't want any of the white people who worked there to overhear the language and maybe learn some of it.” She chuckled at this. “My husband made the high school kids come one day and move all the computers over against one wall to make space for them. And he wanted Angel in the program, too.”

“Can I see your computer at home?”

“Oh, we don't have it anymore. I sold it.”

“You sold it?”

“Yes. After a point, my husband was always working here, never at home. He didn't use it anymore. I figured we could use the money.”

When I returned to town, I stopped at the vet clinic to see my beloved Mountain. “My name's Steve,” the tech told me, offering his hand. “I'm the one taking care of your wolf today. He's still not conscious, but his pulse rate has stabilized and we're not as worried about respiratory failure—at least for right now. We're just hoping he'll come out of this coma. We've moved him to one of our large cells with its own run. We put him right on the floor, and even for a while packed him with some ice. It's so hot today, and it's cool on that concrete slab. Atropine affects the body's ability to regulate temperature, so we have done everything we can to keep him cool. He's just resting, and we're checking on him every half hour or so. We have him on some IV fluids to keep him from getting dehydrated. There's nothing else we can do.”

“Can I see him?”

“Sure, c'mon back.”

In gray light a beautiful carpet of blond and black fur lay completely inanimate against cold cement. The tech opened the cell gate and I went in. I touched Mountain's face. I could hear small breaths. I put my hand to his chest. A weak heartbeat. I sat on the floor and looked at him, touching his feet, his legs, his face, his ears. I raised one of his lifeless paws and pressed it over my face. I always loved the way his pads smelled, wild and warm and wolflike. A place on his foreleg had been shaved, and a bandage secured an intravenous valve connected to a long plastic tube leading to a bag of clear liquid that hung from the wire cage wall. I maneuvered myself behind him and lay down, pressing my body into his back. I could feel the weak whisper of life within him, fighting for a foothold. Tears poured from my eyes and I felt like my chest would split open. I pushed myself closer and ran my fingers through the long, beautiful ruff at his neck. I stroked his side and buried my face in the back of his head. I willed my heart to open and beat for both of us, my lungs to breathe enough air to feed his body, too, my spirit to dive into the uncertain abyss between life and death and find Mountain, lift him up, and bring him home again. I thought for a brief moment that if he died, I wanted to die, too, to go with him and never be apart from him again. And I cried aloud, such a wail that Steve opened the door and looked in on me—then said nothing and closed the door again.

A voice woke me. “Ms. Wild? We're about to close for the evening. I thought I'd let you know. You're welcome to stay—I'm going to sleep on a cot here in the surgery room and keep an eye on Mountain. In fact, we're about to hook up another IV to give your wolf some liquid nourishment. But I thought you might like to know we're closing up the clinic and everyone else is leaving.”

I lifted my arm from around Mountain's neck. I felt his nose, and it was dry, but there was a little breath coming out. “What time is it?”

“It's seven. The doctor has already left for the day.”

“I have to go somewhere. But I'm coming back when I'm finished.”

“Well, okay, I guess that would be all right. Just knock at the back door, around behind the building.”

I knelt on the concrete floor and lowered my face into the crook of Mountain's neck. “I'll be back, buddy, as quick as I can. Wait for me, okay?”

I stopped by the market just as Jesse was locking the door. “
Buenas tardes,
Jamaica!” he said. “Hey, got a new car?”

“I'm sorry to ask this, Jesse, but could I come in and just pick up a few things, really quick?”

“I guess so. Hey, where's Mountain? Isn't he with you?”

“He…I…” I closed my eyes and tried to compose myself.

Jesse opened the door and stood aside for me to enter. As I walked through, he patted me on the back. “There, there, now. Tell me where El Lobo is. I want to know.”

“He's at the vet. I think someone poisoned him.” In spite of myself, I started to cry. “I don't know if he's going to make it.”

“Damn! Who does a thing like this? I hear about it every other day here in Taos—somebody's always either shooting a dog or putting some antifreeze down to poison it. How did it happen? Did someone come all the way out to your place out there, or what?”

“I don't know. I don't know. Just…will you ask your wife to pray for him?”

“You damn betcha! I'll have her go down to the
sanctuario
this evening and light a candle. Maybe I'll even go with her. You go ahead and get what you need—I have to get something out of the back.”

I wandered around trying to find some things to take to the family feast at the pueblo. I finally settled on a bagged salad mix, some cherry tomatoes and cucumbers, a can of black olives, a bottle of lemon vinaigrette, and some cold, peeled, precooked shrimp from Jesse's meat cooler. As hot as the day still was, I thought a cold shrimp salad would be a good dish to bring. When I got up to the register with my basket of items, Jesse stood over a huge parcel on the counter wrapped in butcher paper. “No charge tonight,” he said. “I already counted up the register. I don't want my accountant to get confused.” He began stuffing my items in a paper sack.

“No, I…Just let me write you a check and you can put it in tomorrow's earnings.”

“No, I ain't gonna take your check. You got enough going on, just get on out of here.”

“Jesse, you don't have to do this. I want to pay you for these things.”

“Go on, now,” he said, shoving the sack in my arms, “or you gonna make me mad. You don't want to see me mad, I'm telling you.”

I sniffed back more tears. “Thanks, Jesse. You're a dear.” I put an arm around the man and gave him a hug.

He was clearly surprised, and a little embarrassed. “Go on now,” he said. He followed me out of the store with his large parcel, barely able to hold it up with one arm while he locked the door. I was loading my groceries into the back of the CJ when Jesse came up and tossed the big paper-wrapped bundle onto the rear deck. “That's for Mountain,” he said. “It's part of a side of elk. He's going to need his strength when he recovers. Red meat is good for that. Don't worry, it's frozen. I predict by the time that thaws out, you'll have El Lobo back home and he'll be as good as new.”

My mouth opened but I couldn't speak.

“Don't say nothing to my wife about that,” Jesse said as he walked toward his pickup. “She don't need to know that I got a crush on some wolf. It would make her jealous, and I wouldn't be able to live with her like that.”

At the gas station in Cascada Azul, I went to use the pay phone and called the ranger station in Tres Piedras. My voice came out in a whisper. “He's still alive.”

“Where are you?” Kerry asked.

“I have to go to the family feast at the pueblo. Then I'm going back to the vet clinic. There's a guy there named Steve—he's going to spend the night and watch Mountain, keep him hydrated. I'm going to spend the night there, too, after the feast. I brought some things.”

“I'll come when I get off work. Do you need anything, babe?”

I gulped. “I need Mountain.” My voice was a soft cry.

“I know, I know. I'll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

Waiting for Serena, I remembered the maxim about being on “Indian time.” When Momma Anna invited me to come to her house, or anyplace else for that matter, even when I arrived on or before the specified time, she would always say, “You're so la-ate!” in her singsong Tiwa greeting. But if she were to meet me anywhere outside of the reservation, I might wait as much as an hour and a half, and when she arrived, she might not say anything—or she might tell me the story of what she encountered along the way, as if this were explanation for why I was made to linger alone for so long.

I sat in the CJ in a corner of the lot, the windows down due to the heat. A car pulled up and unloaded a passenger. I saw Bone Man emerge, then open the back door—and out tumbled Bob Marley, his golden retriever. Bone Man reached into the backseat and pulled out a large duffel bag. The car pulled away.

Aw, jeez. Of all the times to have to deal with Bone Man.

It didn't take long for the hippie to spot me, and I saw recognition in his face soon thereafter. He made a beeline for me. “Wow, dude! You got another car! Hey, your face looks all better, too!”

Sensing that I might be trapped if Bone Man came up to the driver's-side door, I got out of the Jeep and came a few steps toward him. Bob Marley ran to me and deposited a huge loogy of slobber on the thigh of my jeans. “So, what you got there, Bone Man? You moving or something?”

He looked behind him, his face confused. Then the lights came on. “Oh, you mean the duffel? Dude, this is some great stuff. Wanna see?”

Before I could think of an excuse not to, Bone Man had pulled a rolled-up army blanket out of the bag. He proceeded to unfurl it, then to lay out some items in a rough display. He had an assortment of crudely taxidermied parts and pieces, mostly bear—faces, paws with claws, a cased arm of a bear like the one I'd seen in Professor Mason's book, and a variety of animal tails and paws, from coyote to badger.

“What are you doing with all this stuff?” I asked.

“Indigo Falls time, man. I do a lot of trading at the pueblo this time of year so they can get their medicine right for the journey.”

“Yeah? What do you trade for?”

“Cash. A few other things.”

“Like what?”

“You won't bust me if I tell you?”

“I'm not the DEA, Bone Man. I'm a resource protection agent. Unless you're trading in endangered species or doing harm to the land, you're out of my ballpark.”

“Dude, I'm always careful about that shit. I don't want to bring bad juju to myself.” He snatched a lynx paw out of Bob Marley's jaws. “Stop that! You know you can't eat this stuff!” He started to roll up his wares in the blanket again. “Okay, I think it's probably safe to tell you—but just in case, I want you to know that I'm a member of the American Indian Church so you can't bust me for this.”

“For what?”

“I get peyote and sometimes some jimsonweed, too. I use it for ceremonial purposes only.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

He stood up, stuffed the roll back into the duffel. “No, it's true. I'm a seeker. I'm always looking for visions. That stuff helps me get my
sight
.”

“Okay, whatever, Bone Man.”

He pulled the drawstring on the duffel bag and tied it. “I probably won't get any jimsonweed this year, though. That stuff has to be doled out by a shaman, someone who really knows what he's doing, or it can poison you. The medicine man who administers it is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah, they say he left his horse standing out in the yard and just walked off without him. I guess the horse nearly died—it didn't have food or water and was tied to some tree for a couple days.”

My heart beat so hard I could hear my pulse in my temples. “What's the name of this shaman?”

“Yellow Hawk. He's the peyote chief. He's the head of the church right now, too. He's the only one who can administer the sacrament—at least right now—well, there was this one dude before him, he's my buddy Ismael. But I guess he got deposed or something like that, and he's not supposed to do it anymore. So now Yellow Hawk's the only one.”

I forced myself to breathe. “Do you know where he's gone to?”

“Dude, nobody does. Nobody's getting the sacrament for their vision quest. It's got the whole tribe worked up.”

“Excuse me,” I said, fishing in my pocket for change. “I have to make a phone call.”

Diane answered her cell phone. “Langstrom.”

“Hey, have you heard anything about a missing person out at the pueblo?”

“Not that kid again, right?”

“No, I'm talking one of the tribal elders. His name's Yellow Hawk Lujan.”

“We usually get our Missing and Endangered reports from the sheriff's office. Have you talked to them?”

“No, and I'm at a pay phone, but I know a guy who would know what's up at the S.O. Do you know Jerry Padilla?”

“Horny guy, always slobbering over your tits?”

“Yeah, that's him.”

“I could call and see what he knows. Why?”

“I think there's some foul play here. Yellow Hawk was giving Santana religious training in the kiva before he died. He's also the peyote chief and the leader of the American Indian Church. You remember that hippie guy I introduced you to, Bone Man?”

“Gawd. That guy stunk, how could I forget him?”

“Well, he says that Yellow Hawk administered the peyote and the jimsonweed at the pueblo, and now he's gone. My medicine teacher, Momma Anna, is his sister, and she also said that Yellow Hawk had disappeared.”

“Well, I guess I can check and see if there's an MEP report on him. I'll call Padilla.”

“And, Diane?”

“Yeah?”