Wild Indigo (9 page)

I called Diane Langstrom from a pay phone near the plaza, asked her if she had a few minutes. “I'm glad you called,” she said. “I have to do something to get out of my stinking little cubicle. I'm going stir crazy looking at all this paperwork. I'm on the way to the gym; meet me there in fifteen.”

I took the back way through town and parked my Jeep in the shade. I improvised and hooked Mountain up with his leash to the hitch on the back, where he could lie under the rear of the vehicle.

“Sorry, buddy, you'll have to stay back here,” I told him as I poured water from an insulated bottle into the collapsible dish I kept in the back.

He wagged his tail and nosed at the dish, slopping a little of the liquid onto my shirt. I laughed.

“Here ya go, baby wolf,” I said, and as he lapped, I nuzzled my nose in the thick cape of fur just below his neck.

He tossed his head and dropped to his front elbows, a position I'd learned meant,
Let's play!

I took a wide stance, spread my arms, like a goalie at the soccer game. But before I could brace myself, the wolf lunged into me, knocking me down. He collapsed on top of me and began licking furiously at the red welts on my face, which sent pain shooting through my skin.

“No, no, sorry, buddy,” I said, shoving him off me, getting up to avoid more tongue contact. “I guess I'm no match for you today.”

My four-legged companion looked worried.

“No, it's all right, it's okay,” I said, reassuring him with some long strokes. “You didn't do anything wrong. Here's a little yummy for you.” I reached into his pack in the back of my Jeep and gave him a rawhide bone to worry on.

When I came in the locker room Diane was sitting on the long bench, removing her shoes. She rose to her feet, looking at me. “What happened to you?”

“It's hard to explain.”

She moved in closer, tipped her head, and winced at the sight. “Crap. That's got to hurt.”

“Not too bad,” I said.

“You gotta tell me.”

This was getting old. I thought for a moment, then decided to make up a story, spare myself some trouble. “My wolf,” I said. “We were just playing, he didn't mean to hurt me.”

“No way.” She continued to gape.

“I'm afraid so.”

“I hope he's had all his shots.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “He's current. I'll be fine, too.”

“I hope so. Looks like it might scar. But you know what? It kinda looks good, in an odd sort of way.”

I tried to smile, but it hurt. “You know, I thought that, too. It kind of looks like war paint, something like that.”

She went back to her gym bag and continued changing. “So what's up that couldn't wait?”

“The tribal council is accusing me of causing the stampede, being responsible for Santana's death. The fact that I was out there off duty when it happened, not on business, it makes it bad for me. I'm suspended.”

“You're kidding, right?” Stopping to look at me again.

“Do I look like I'm kidding?”

She closed her eyes. “Aw hell. What are you going to do?”

I sat down on the bench. “I don't know. I thought maybe you…I don't know.”

We were both quiet a minute. Then Diane stepped into her spandex shorts, tugged them up to her waist. “Come work out with me. We'll brainstorm.”

I thought a minute. “Okay, let me get some clothes out of the Jeep.” I went out to my car and found Mountain still diligently gnawing away on the big rawhide bone I'd given him. Although he wagged his tail when he saw me, he soon went back to his treat as if I didn't exist. I delved into the cargo area among my gear in the back: a CamelBak that I faithfully drained and refilled after every use, hiking boots, running shoes, Mountain's pack of food, treats, and supplies, a fully outfitted pack of my own, all manner of clothes, blankets, even survival food. When you lived and worked in the kind of terrain I did, you learned to be prepared. I found a T-shirt, some shorts, and my running shoes and took them back inside.

Diane was working out on the heavy bag when I came in, big padded gloves on her hands, a film of perspiration on her bare abdomen and upper body. The bag was swaying pretty good, showing the power in her punch. I got behind it, held it for her. Right away, I had to work hard to hold it still.

“Roy actually suspended you?” she panted, still punching. Right. Right. Right. Left. Right, left. She was forcing the bag back with every jab, hitting hard.

I tried to anticipate her strikes, keep from letting the bag swing. I was starting to sweat. “He said it was for my own good.”

“But that's bullshit about you causing the stampede. He didn't go for that, right? He's just doing what he has to?” She started working uppercuts: right, left, right, left. Heavy now in the left. Her feet dancing.

I had to dance around, too, to keep the bag between us. I was starting to heat up, working pretty good to hold against her forceful blows. “He said he was going to get some legal advice, that he had to open an investigation. Meanwhile, I'm hung out to dry. I'm trying to figure out what to do. But one thing this tells me: I was right about Santana's death being suspicious. They wouldn't be pointing their fingers at me if they weren't afraid I knew something. Otherwise, they'd be busy mourning, comforting the family, getting it behind them, whatever. They think I know something. Trouble is, I don't know whatever it is they think I know.” I was sweating pretty good now.

Langstrom stopped punching the bag, stood stock-still. I peeked around the side of it just in time to see her foot suddenly fly like a speeding projectile up from the floor and straight toward me at eye level, striking the bag next to my face with such force that it sent me reeling backward, sprawling onto my behind on the floor.

Diane came to stand above me, pulled off a glove, and offered me her hand. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

I took the hand up and dusted off my shorts. “Man, that kick was like a bullet coming at me. That's some serious power you got in that leg.”

She pulled off her other glove, threw them both to the side. “I told you. You should try hapkido. It's good stuff. I know how to break a man's hand five different ways.”

I smirked. “I'm a resource protection agent. I don't have to break hands for a living.”

She smiled. “You never know. C'mere.” She raised her palm and waved for me to move closer.

I stepped forward. Her left hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me off balance as she caught me by the throat, gripping me with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. She held me there by the neck, pulling hard down and forward on my wrist, keeping me off center and ready to tip. She was looking right into my eyes. “I could have killed you right then,” she said.

I tried to straighten, but she held my wrist painfully tight, still pressing with the other palm against my throat. “Okay, Diane,” I said, “you can let go now. I'm impressed.”

“Where's the weak point?” she asked, still holding me hostage.

I thought a second. Then I twisted my forearm away and down and broke her hold. As soon as I freed my wrist, I brought my other arm up and struck her forearm from underneath, driving her palm away from my neck.

She smiled. “Right. Good.”

“It was a lucky guess.”

“No, it was instinct. You've got good instincts. You'd be good at this. We ought to spar.”

“I think we just did.”

“Yeah, a little bit.” She walked to the corner of the room, where she picked up a towel and wiped at her neck, her chest. “That's what you do when you're faced with a threat, Jamaica. Look for the weak point. There's always a weak point.” She threw me the towel.

I mopped my chest and neck, too.

She walked back to me and stood inches from my face, looked into my eyes, daring me. “I'll help you on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“You gotta spar with me. I've been looking for a worthy opponent, and you look to be the one.”

“Look, I gotta get my job back. Maybe after that.”

“Shit. You've got time now. You can spare a couple hours a week. You want me to help or not?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Let's get started.”

Diane let me drive her personal vehicle—a Suburban—while she drove the FBI's Crown Vic to the tribal offices. She had called ahead to say that she needed to meet with tribal officials to “clarify some things.” Her job was to run interference so that I could find the child who had come to tell me about the buffalo wandering out on the mountain.

“C'mon, buddy.” I gestured to the wolf to climb in the back of Diane's car as I loaded in his pack. He balked. Strange things, unusual surfaces, anything out of the ordinary often frightened him and made him skittish and unpredictable. Mountain lowered his ears and wagged his tail, clearly a little afraid.

“No, c'mon, big guy. It's all right. I'm going to drive it, see? It's just for an hour or so. I'll get in front and you'll be in back, just like my Jeep.”

He lay down on the ground, pleading with me not to force him into this big metal box he didn't recognize.

I bent down and comforted him, scratching behind his ears. “You trust me, baby wolf?”

He wagged his tail.

“It will be all right, I promise.” I took hold of his collar, but Mountain started backing up, straining against me. He weighed more than a hundred pounds and had a lot of strength in that chest of his. It was getting to be a real tug-of-war.

I stopped pulling and looked around. How could I get the wolf to cooperate? I didn't see anything to use as a bribe. Then it occurred to me to get in the back of the Burb myself. I climbed in, patted the floor in back. Mountain balked a little but sniffed at the open door. I spoke calmly to him, reassuring him, holding my open palm out to invite him in. “It's okay, buddy. It's nice in here, see? Come on in and be with me.” I patted the floor in back.

He put one paw up on the floor of the car, as if to feel it with his pads. His tail continued to wag. His ears were up; some of the fear was gone.

I unzipped one side of his pack and started rummaging among his toys, pretending to be looking for one to play with. “Oh, look! Here's a rope toy! And you can't have it.” I put the toy in my mouth and began shaking my head, making a growling noise.

That did it. Mountain leaped into the Suburban and aimed right for my face. I pulled the rope out of my mouth just in time, threw it toward the back of the car, and exited the side door just as the wolf lunged into the far back to retrieve the object. I closed the door.

Mountain looked at me with hurt and surprise. I'd tricked him!

“Sorry, buddy,” I said, and walked around to the driver's side. I climbed in. “I had to do it.”

Before I took the back entrance into the pueblo, I wrapped my head and upper torso in the blanket Grandma Bird had given me. I drove slowly down the dirt lane toward Momma Anna's house, figuring the child had to live somewhere nearby, since he had come there on foot. I examined children at play in fields, standing on bare dirt lots, and riding bareback on horses in corrals, looking among them for the face that matched my memory. I got to Momma Anna's, which was at the end of the road. I looked around in frustration, then spied a seldom-used course through some brush leading off to a diagonal after the graded area played out. I pulled to the edge of the road, raised my binoculars, and looked farther down the track. One house stood far back in a field, a place so run-down it might not have been inhabited. I decided to check it out.

Weeds had grown up in the yard, and on one side of the house there was an old Camaro on cement blocks with high clumps of white rice-grass waving around its concrete footings. Plywood covered the only window on the facade of the house, but there were dogs napping in a patch of bare dirt in front, their tails occasionally whipping about to ward off flies. I pulled up beside the dry-docked Chevy and cut the engine on the Suburban. I examined the yard and the face of the old adobe. Other than the dogs, who showed no more interest in me than to raise their heads slightly and then drop them to the dirt again, there was no sign of life. I lowered the driver's window to listen for sounds, and a gust of hot wind blew. A flag of colored fabric flew up at the rear corner of the house, giving away the unseen clothesline behind it, obviously hung with wash.

Two children raced around the side of the tumbledown dwelling and stopped short when they saw the car. One of them was the boy I'd been looking for. I called to him. “Hi there, son. Remember me?”

Both boys looked at me suspiciously. But the younger child, the one I'd spoken to before, stepped tentatively forward.

“Remember?” I coaxed. “You came to get me the other day?”

The older boy reached for his playmate but too late. The youngster started toward the automobile, dropping the stick he'd been carrying in their play. “I know who you are,” he said, smiling nervously.

I pulled the blanket away from my hair, realizing this was probably not helping. “I guess I must look a little strange, don't I?”

He nodded his head. I got out of the vehicle, struggled out of the blanket, closed the car door behind me, and stood looking down at the little man.

He looked at Mountain, who was hanging his head out the window, having moved up to sit in the driver's seat of Diane's car.

“That dog looks like a wolf.”

“Yes, that's a wolf cub. He's still just a puppy, about nine months old.”

“No way. A
real
wolf?”

“Yes, a real wolf. You want to pet him?”

“No!”

“Okay. That's okay. What's your name?” I asked.

“Don't tell her, Sam!” the older child called, still staying back near the house.

I held up my hands, as if to show I meant no harm. “It's okay, I don't blame you,” I said, looking right into the older boy's eyes. “I don't blame you for being cautious.” I held his gaze until I felt his resolve melt a little.

Finally he spoke directly to me: “How did you get that?” He raised his hand in the general direction of my face.

“Wild animals!” I grinned.

“Wow,” he responded, but he stayed his ground.

“Wow,” Sam echoed. Their black pupils shone as large as quarters, and they stared at me with naive fascination, uninhibited by shame or propriety.

I lowered my hands slowly, and then I squatted down. I looked at little Sam, then back at the older boy again. “Let's take this slow, okay?”

Sam nodded at me and began to squeeze at his fingers, not sure what to do next.

“My name's Jamaica,” I said. “I work for the BLM. We talked before when you came to tell me about the buffalo on Saturday.”

“I know who you are,” Sam said.

His friend stepped a little nearer. “Don't tell her anything, Sam,” he warned. “Remember, you're not supposed to talk to anyone.”

I looked again at the elder boy. “You're right,” I said to him. “It's good not to talk to strangers. But Sam and I are not strangers. He's talked with me before. And he knows who I am, that I work for the BLM. He came to get me at Momma Anna's—”

Sam interrupted, “Did that wolf do that?”

“No, no, he's my friend. He would never hurt me. He's very gentle, he loves me. No, this was…an accident.”

“I don't remember your face like that,” he said and reached out and traced one of the raised red lines with small brown fingers. I tried not to wince.

“It just happened yesterday,” I said, “but it will heal.”

He pulled his hand away. “I don't know. My friend Anthony got cut by his brother with a knife. It goes like this”—he made a long diagonal line across his own face—“and it didn't never heal.”

“Well, I'm hoping this will. So you do remember talking to me before. And you remember what we talked about?”

“I'm not supposed to talk to anyone.”

“Wait! It's okay. You don't have to say anything.”

Then the older boy came to stand beside Sam. He placed a protective arm around him. “All my brother and me were doing on Saturday was practicing for the footraces,” he said.

“And what's your name?” I asked him.

“Rolando.”

“I'm Jamaica.”

Rolando extended a cautious hand and shook mine. “You still look kinda good, even with that,” he said.

I smiled. “Thanks.” I turned to the smaller boy. “So your name is Sam?”

“Sam Dreams Eagle. I think you look pretty, too. I don't mind that.” He gestured at my face.

I smiled again. “So how did you know you could find me at Momma Anna's?”

“I see you there a lot. I have a friend who lives behind there. He always talks about you, says you are pretty.” Both boys giggled.

“And why did you come to me about the buffalo? Why not go to someone in the tribe?”

“We were just practicing for the footraces. That's all we were doing.” He edged backward.

“Listen, I'm glad you came to get me. It was a good thing you did, Sam Dreams Eagle.” Mountain, tired of being confined, and lacking his usual center-of-attention status, yipped at us and pawed at the window, now covered with drool and nose prints. I stood up. Both boys looked nervous. Rolando began to hop back and forth on his feet. He started backing up. Sam stepped back, too.

I held up my hands. “It's okay, I'm just going to walk over here by the car and give Mountain a little pat so he'll calm down.” I moved back to the Suburban and reached through the opening and rubbed the wolf's head. I kept my eyes on the boys. “Is this where you live?” I pointed to the run-down abode.

Rolando was already pulling at his brother. He whispered something in his ear.

Sam turned and they started running and giggling, then Sam let out a shriek of laughter as Rolando raced away ahead. “Bye!” they both called back to me, and disappeared behind the house and into the field beyond.

When I got back in the car, I saw drool and smears all over both the driver's-and passenger's-side windows. Hair and paw prints decorated the bucket seats on both sides of the Suburban.

“Diane's gonna kill me!” I told Mountain.

He wagged his tail.

“Okay, buddy, I'm sorry to have to do this, but…” I got out and went around to the side door of the car. I lashed Mountain's leash to the back of the bench seat in the middle of the vehicle, then hooked the leash to his collar, forcing him to remain in the rear of the car.

Mountain yipped at me and strained against his confinement.

“Sorry, big guy,” I said, and closed the side door.

I had to stop at the crossroads where Rattlesnake Road led off the main paved thoroughfare leading to the pueblo, to let a small herd of sheep pass. They were being led by two young boys carrying long aspen sticks. As I waited, I looked around and saw Hunter Contreras loading a bale of hay into the bed of a pickup from a pile of bales in the pasture beside the road. He looked at the Suburban. I no longer wore the blanket around my head and shoulders but hoped that the tinted windows were enough to disguise me. Hunter's face broke into a broad smile and he started toward the car.

I sighed.
Busted.
I rolled down the window. “How ya doin'?” I asked him, forcing a smile.

“Get you a new ride?” Contreras asked, extending a large, warm hand right into the vehicle. Then he saw my face and sobered. His hand hung in front of my chest.

I took the big palm and squeezed it. “No, this is my friend's car. I borrowed it.”

“What happened there?” He nodded at my face.

“I got hurt,” I said. “It's not that bad really, just fresh. It'll heal.”

“Looks bad,” he said. “Something claw you?”

“Just an accident,” I said. “It's nothing.”

He shook his head in quiet disagreement, looking disturbed. Then he collected himself somewhat. “Come to see the family?” he managed. “Most of 'em are still at ceremony.”

“No,” I said. Then I wished I hadn't been so truthful. I tried to think of an explanation for being there.

He waited, my silence not concerning him so much as the matter of my face, which obviously still bothered him gravely.

I waited, too. I didn't know what to say, how much to trust this man, whether to admit that I'd been there at the pueblo that day looking for the child who told me about the buffalo escaping their confines.

Hunter seemed to read my mind and managed to shift gears. “You know, I heard what they are saying about you—about the stampede and all that. I couldn't believe it.”

I shrugged. “It's not true. The pen was open when I got there. I was trying to get Santana out.”

Contreras winced at my mention of the dead man's name.

“I'm sorry,” I hurried to say. “I'm so sorry, I forgot I'm not supposed to…”

“It's all right,” he said. “You're not from here. I might break some of your cultural traditions, too,” he went on forcing a small smile onto his broad face. “We are the ones who have to keep our own traditions. We don't expect others to do it for us.”