Blackening Song (21 page)

The animal came up, tail wagging, and rolled onto its back, asking to be scratched. This was no illusion. Ella breathed a sigh of relief. “Maybe it’s a good thing you came, Dog. At the moment, the last thing I want to be is all alone out here.” She petted the old hound, then stood up. “Let’s go home.”

The
dog shook itself, licked her hand, and scampered back toward the house. Ella followed it, angrily conceding another victory to her faceless enemy. Before she could take another step, she heard the sound of a large animal moving rapidly through the brush behind her. The mutt stopped, then came to stand by her side. Ella was surprised to hear the low, deep, guttural snarl that came from the dog. Hair
stood up along his backbone. This was the first time she’d ever known him to show any aggression.

“Come on, boy,” she urged and headed quickly back to the house.

TWELVE

Midmorning the following day, Ella loaded boxes filled with her father’s clothing into the back of the truck. She’d volunteered to take them to Reverend Williamson, who’d donate them to poor non-Navajos. Navajos wouldn’t want things that had belonged to the dead.

The drive to the church helped her relax. She hadn’t slept after discovering that someone had been keeping tabs on her and
watching the house. The incident had shaken her belief that her mother was safe. Then, to make matters even more frustrating, she’d missed a call from Peterson. She’d tried to reach him at home, but he wasn’t there. Now she was forced to wait for him to call back.

Ella drove slowly, trying to organize her thoughts. Her mother would not allow any of their male relatives to stay at the house for
her protection, nor would she go and stay with her sister Merilyn. Rose steadfastly maintained that Ella herself was the one in need of protection. Ella had begun to wonder if her mother was right. So far her successes had been few, and her own life had been threatened more than once.

The church parking lot was deserted, except for a van and the garishly painted church bus. Reverend Williamson
was doing carpentry work by the entrance. Seeing Ella drive up, he climbed down the ladder and smiled. “I see you brought the clothing.”

“Yes. My mother said you’d find a use for my father’s things,” she said, climbing out of the pickup’s cab.

“I sure can. I give them to a mission in Farmington. No sense throwing out perfectly good clothing.”

Despite her rational belief that the clothes were
harmless, it seemed creepy to give away clothing that had belonged to the dead. Out of respect for her father’s beliefs, and for the sake of harmony, she decided not to say anything about it. “If you’ll tell me where to put the boxes, I’ll unload them.”

“Just leave them on the patio. As soon as my wife returns, we’ll load them into our van and take them to town.”

Ella worked quickly, eager to
leave as soon as possible. As she set down the last box, Williamson returned. He said, “Have you made any progress in the investigation?”

“It’s not my case, officially,” she answered, surprised he’d asked. Maybe Williamson had realized that he, now in her father’s position, could be the next target, if stopping the church was the murderer’s goal.

“I know that, but I can’t imagine that buffoon,
what’s-his-name, Blalock, getting anywhere without your help.”

Ella had to smile. Even Anglos were having a hard time accepting Blalock.

“He’s certainly not very personable, but he’s quite competent,” she said out of respect for a professional colleague.

“I certainly hope so,” the reverend muttered, a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

Ella patted the top of the box. “This is everything,”
she said, fastening her cop’s scrutiny on the reverend’s face. He could be putting on an act. After all, he was the only person she knew so far who had gained from her father’s death. “I’ll be on my way now.”

As she turned away, she caught a glimpse of a figure standing on the hill behind the church, watching. Sudden anger shot through her, and she strode toward her truck. Williamson shouted
something, but she didn’t take notice. She hopped behind the wheel and in a flash was under way, tires spinning in the gravel. She raced straight uphill, hoping the wildly fishtailing truck would stay together. “I’ve got you now, buddy boy,” she muttered under her breath.

Seconds later, she slammed to a stop. A cloud of gravel rose around her as she leaped out, gun in hand. “Come out from behind
the rocks. Now!”

Two elderly Navajo men stepped forward slowly, eyes wide.

“Is this the way all FB-Eyes introduce themselves?” the older of the two asked. His coal-black eyes transfixed her coldly.

Ella studied him carefully, returning her pistol to its holster. The man wore his long gray hair tied back. A silver and turquoise squash blossom hung from his neck. There was an authoritative air
about him, and despite his age, he stood ramrod straight.

“Who are you, and why were you watching us?” she demanded, less sure of herself now. He seemed indignant, but not threatening.

“I’m Samuel Pete,” he answered calmly. “We’re here because of you.”

“What do you mean?” Ella asked, remembering Wilson had said this man was an excellent bow-hunter, skilled in tracking—someone who could have
managed the skin-walker’s illusion.

“I’m Herman Cloud,” the other man said. “We were curious about you. There’s been a lot of talk.”

Ella’s gaze shifted to him. Cloud’s hair was salt and pepper, his face lined with deep furrows that attested to long days in the sun. He wore old work jeans and a long-sleeved chambray work shirt. His belly hung over the thick silver belt buckle at his waist.

“Everyone knows we’re on your brother’s side,” Samuel Pete added sternly, “except you, it seems. You don’t lack confidence, L.A. Woman, but you do lack common sense.”

She stared at him aghast. So that’s what she’d been dubbed. “Why do you call me L.A. Woman? This is my home too.”

The man chuckled softly. “You don’t act that way.” He glanced down at her gold Seiko watch, a gift she’d given herself
years ago, after she’d closed her first case. It had taken months to pay off on her only credit card.

“I am part of the Dineh.”

“In some ways, maybe.”

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough to know that you rush headlong into things you don’t understand. In the FBI, don’t they teach you how to survive?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” she countered, rankled by his attitude, especially
since he was right. “Were you keeping watch over my home last night?”

“No, but we do try to keep an eye on your mother during the day. It’s the least we can do for your brother. At night, once you’re there, your mother shouldn’t need extra protection,” Samuel Pete answered.

They appeared to be sincere. “Will you help me? Do you have any idea who might be trying to frame my brother for my father’s
murder? Perhaps you’ve heard others talking…” She allowed her words to trail off, hoping one of the men would fill the silence.

“We know your brother has made enemies, but we don’t know who’s doing this to him. If we did, we would pass the word, and our people would handle it themselves. We don’t need you,” Samuel said.

“Handling things yourselves would be a mistake. Unless my brother is cleared
in a way that the courts accept, he’ll never be free to go on with his life.”

“We’ll do our best to help him, but we can’t give you answers we don’t have.”

Ella knew that these men could be a wealth of information if they chose, but getting them to trust her was another matter. “Can I count on you for help if I find out anything?”

“Your brother has many friends,” Samuel Pete responded, without
giving a clear answer. “We’ll be around.” The two men turned and walked off.

“Wait! At least tell me where I can find you if I need you.”

Neither man slowed. They walked off down the side of the highway. Ella kicked the right front tire of the truck, hard. Instead of gaining needed support, she was losing ground.

Dejected, she got back into the truck and coasted down to the church. Reverend
Williamson was sitting on a wrought-iron bench. “I tried to tell you,” he said, coming over to the truck. “I’d spotted them before, hanging around. Either they knew you were coming, or else they followed you here.”

“They didn’t follow me,” she said flatly. “Did you tell anyone I was coming?”

“My wife knew, and some of the women’s auxiliary.” He paused. “I think that’s all.”

Which meant everyone
had known. You had to work hard to keep secrets on the Rez. “No harm done, Reverend.”

“Thanks for bringing the clothing by.”

“You’re welcome.” Ella headed back to Shiprock, passing Cloud and Pete by the side of the road. Engaged in conversation, they never looked her way.

Since she had to pass the college, she decided to look for Wilson. With luck, maybe she’d run into Blalock somewhere along
the way. She wanted to see if he’d completed the background check on Wilson. On second thought, perhaps she should wait. He was probably still annoyed with her for losing him in the desert.

She went by the old college—a wing of the old boarding school—and saw Wilson’s vehicle in the parking lot. Ella maneuvered her truck into a visitor’s parking space. Inside the building, she walked the empty
halls until she found his name on a door.

The minute he saw her, Wilson’s smile widened. “Hey. I tried to call you this morning, but you’d already left.”

She was getting tired of being snubbed and treated like a pariah. Wilson’s warmth was invigorating. “I was hoping you can tell me more about Samuel Pete and Herman Cloud.” Ella told him about her encounter.

“Pete lives on a little farm just
west of the Hogback, but he’s always on top of things. I figure he’s in his late sixties, but it’s not slowing him down. It’s too bad you couldn’t get him to open up to you. He probably doesn’t know anything that you could take to court, but I’d be willing to bet he’s heard plenty.”

“And the other one?”

“Herman is about ten years younger than Samuel, and the two have been fast friends for several
decades. Both are staunch traditionalists. They’ve always supported your brother in spite of his youth because he’s very dedicated to the old ways.”

“Can they be trusted?” Later she’d see if her mother and Peterson shared Wilson’s evaluation. Although she liked Wilson, she still wasn’t 100 percent sure he was trustworthy.

“Yes, I’m certain of it. They’d also make formidable allies—if you could
earn their trust.”

“I can try,” she answered. “By the way, have you heard they’ve nicknamed me L.A. Woman?”

He chuckled. “The college kids started that, after hearing stories about you from their parents.”

“I suppose it could be worse.”

“Oh, far worse,” he agreed, then chuckled again. “Besides, I always liked the Doors.”

She shot him a stony look. “Is there any chance that you can talk to
Samuel or Herman and find out what they’ve overheard or suspect? Maybe you could persuade them to talk to me.”

“I can talk to them, but I doubt they’ll tell me any more than they told you. I know them because of Clifford, but they don’t approve of some of the life choices I’ve made. I don’t hold to the old ways as much as they think a teacher should.”

“Well, that’s that, then.” She took a seat
at one of the student desks.

“By the way, I ran into Paul Sells at the gas station. He was scared, shaking like a leaf. Peterson had come to see him, apparently on your behalf, to pick up a message Paul had for you. But Paul doesn’t want to talk to a cop, even Yazzie, so he just said somebody was following him.”

“What was Paul’s real message to me?” Ella watched Wilson carefully. “Did he say?”

“Yeah. He told me to tell you to concentrate on taking care of yourself. He would take care of his sister.”

“Did you try to find out why he was so scared?”

“I did. I figured the stakes were too high not to ask. He and Loretta have been seeing packs of coyotes, late at night. Only he’s convinced it isn’t real coyotes, but skinwalkers in coyote shape. Apparently he picked up a small swatch of
cured pelt that had been snagged by a juniper behind Loretta’s home.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“He’s armed to the teeth. No one could sneak up on that house. Someone’s always keeping watch. He and his uncles take turns.”

“Good.”

There was a light knock at the door, and an elderly Navajo woman, wearing dark slacks and a cotton blouse, entered. Wilson took a small bundle of Navajo-language textbooks
from her hands. The woman eyed Ella skeptically. Ella suddenly remembered what it felt like to be sent to the principal’s office.

Wilson quickly introduced them. “Bessie Tso, this is Ella Clah.”

“L.A. Woman,” Bessie said softly, and nodded. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Bessie is our cultural anthropology professor,” Wilson added.

Ella studied Bessie Tso. Her face was remarkably free of wrinkles.
Her eyes glowed with an unmistakable fire. This was a bright, alert woman who’d fought to attain whatever she had. Despite her weight, Bessie’s movements were limber, and Ella had the impression that Bessie’s body wouldn’t dare disobey her. One thing perplexed Ella, however. This woman seemed as modern as Ella herself, yet seemed vaguely disapproving of her. “Pleasure to meet you, Professor.”

“I’ve heard a great deal of talk about you, but I’m still not certain where you stand.”

“On what?”

“The church for one, and the college.”

“I think it’s up to the community to decide what it wants,” Ella answered.

“Yes, but do
you
think both should be erected, and that they’ll fulfill a useful function?”

“They will to those who want them.”

“Oh, come on! Only a politician gives nonanswers like
that. You must have an opinion of your own.”

“I
am
giving you answers, though obviously not the ones you want to hear,” Ella said a little more sharply than she’d intended.

“No matter how long you straddle the fence on issues like these, sooner or later you’ll be forced to make a choice. Be prepared. It’s not enough to stand aside and let things take their course.”