Ghost Medicine (7 page)

“That’s the way it looks so
far,” Ella said. “Ralph, go over the cases Harry handled while he was with our department and see if he had any run-ins with skinwalkers or suspected skinwalkers. Dwayne, I’d like you to search and see if any of the enemies he made while in the marshals service are from this area or have voiced credible threats. Although it appears likely that his murder is related to something currently happening
on the Rez, we can’t afford to overlook anything.”

Benny stood. The former L.A. sergeant was the most recent addition to their team. Like Ella, he’d returned to the Navajo Nation after a long absence to serve his tribe. “I’d like to bring up another possible motive—the victim’s personal life. I understand he was divorced and had a daughter. Maybe there’s a custody battle in the works. Also, he
seems to have retired from the marshals service long before retirement age. We need to find out what happened there.”

Ella turned to Officer Tache. “When he dropped by the station last month to visit, did he share anything about that, Ralph?”

“He said that his job with the marshals service had cost him his marriage and he was tired of never being anyplace for long. He’d come back, where his
roots were, to start over, but there were no current job openings with the tribe,” Ralph said. “When Bruce Little offered him work, he jumped at it. From here, it’s only a two-and-a-half-hour drive to visit his kid on weekends.”

“Did he ever mention anything about his ex-wife having a boyfriend, or did he have another woman in his life that you know about?” Blalock asked, glancing very briefly
at Ella.

Justine and Neskahi also turned her way for a second.

“Okay, guys, for the record, I dated Harry for several months back in the day,” Ella said, “but that was before he met Selina—
never
after. What we had was over a long time ago, and, no, we didn’t see each other after he returned.”

“How about the Navajo woman who was at his apartment the night before last? She may not have been a
one-night stand,” Justine said. “Maybe she had a jealous boyfriend, or it’s possible she was upset because Harry wasn’t moving things along more quickly. She could have learned Harry’s schedule and set him up to be ambushed.”

Blalock eased back in his chair. “Or maybe she was just a few hours of company for a lonely man. Until we track her down, there’s no way for us to know.”

“Agreed,” Ella
said. “County has a description, and both our departments are actively searching for her now.”

“Are you
sure
you want county deputies looking for a woman who might be connected to thefts of county property?” Blalock said. “I trust Sheriff Taylor and the few county deputies I’ve worked with personally, but I’ve also been burned by bad cops and bad ex-cops.”

“Sheriff Taylor’s people have been
told that she’s a person of interest because she was seen with Harry before he was killed, nothing more. If they find the woman, we’ll conduct the interview.”

“Make sure I’m in on that,” Blalock said.

“You’ve got it,” Ella said. “Watch yourselves out there, people, and if anyone hears anything more specific about skinwalker activity, come to me right away.”

FIVE

As they headed back into the remote community west of Shiprock where Harry’s body had been found, Ella noted how tightly Justine was gripping the wheel.

“The one advantage the rumor about skinwalkers will give us is that most of the People will stay away from the area—Modernists and Traditionalists alike,” Ella said. “We all grew up hearing about Navajo witches, but even those of us
who don’t believe in that will still try to steer clear.”

Justine nodded. “You’re right. Though logic tells me there’s nothing to those stories, a part of me still feels uncomfortable when I have to deal with stuff like this.”

“On the Rez we grow up listening to whispers about skinwalkers digging up bodies for corpse powder, and using bits of bone for ammunition. That’s creepy and not something
you just forget.”

Justine nodded. “Yeah, that’s for sure.”

Ella glanced around, getting her bearings. They’d turned off the mail route to a smaller, thinly graveled road. Ahead was a gray stucco pitched-roof frame house. Two narrow ruts led from the road to a pair of vehicles parked twenty feet from the front door.

“This is the teacher’s place. Truman John wasn’t there when Benny and Joe stopped
by yesterday, but maybe we’ll catch him today,” Ella said.

“Truman John’s got to be a Modernist, and not just because he’s got a college degree. He’s not only got electricity and a phone line, he’s got satellite,” Justine said, gesturing.

A line of telephone poles running alongside the road continued north to Rattlesnake, and then to the large community of Shiprock to the east. Two lines split
off the closest pole and led to the roof of the house.

“Looks like we lucked out,” Ella said. “With tracks leading to the Dodge pickup and that old VW Bug, somebody’s got to be home. Wonder where the man’s working these days? According to what Tache got from the tribal records, Truman was laid off from his teaching job at Kirtland Middle School last fall when the district budget got the axe.”

“What’d he teach?”

“Social studies and Navajo culture.”

“We had New Mexico history, but no courses on Navajo ways when I went to school. I had to learn that on my own at home,” Justine said, coming to a stop behind the VW.

“Write down the vehicle tags. We’ll run them later,” Ella said, looking toward the front window. A man was standing beside the curtain, looking out at them. Considering the
rumors, it wasn’t unexpected.

“Got the plate,” Justine said, jamming the small spiral notebook back into her pocket, then rolling down the electric window with a touch of the button. “It’s going to get hot today. The temperature’s climbing fast.”

“Although Truman’s not a Traditionalist, try to avoid mentioning skinwalkers directly, partner,” Ella said, opening her own window. “Even Modernists
sometimes feel uncomfortable hearing the word spoken out loud. Our culture says that’s enough to draw the evil ones to you.”

Ella got out, deciding not to wait to be invited since Truman clearly wasn’t a Traditionalist. As she walked to the front door, Justine right behind her, she saw a corral in the back. It appeared to be in good shape and clear of weeds, although there were no animals currently
in it. A big, new-looking metal loafing shed open on one side held at least fifty bales of either really bad hay, or straw.

As they walked to the front of the house, Ella’s attention was drawn to the well-laid-out and landscaped yard with its colorful desert plants, some of them mulched with straw. Most locals saved their precious water resources for crops and fruit trees. Landscaping was considered
a luxury in this community.

They’d just stepped up onto the shaded, weathered, wood-plank porch when the front door opened a crack, letting out a stream of cool air and the scent of something cooking.

“Ah, air-conditioning,” Justine said happily. “And fry bread!”

A well dressed, clean-cut Navajo man in his mid-twenties waved them inside. “I was wondering how long it would take the tribal police
to pay me a visit.”

“I’m Investigator Clah, and this is my partner, Officer Goodluck. Are you the homeowner?” Ella asked, checking to see if anyone else was in the front room. Seeing no one, she focused back on the man.

“Renter, actually, Officers. I’m Truman John. I heard on the news that the police found a body inside a truck parked just north of here on the old road. He’d been shot, right?”

Ella nodded. “That’s why we’re here. We were hoping you might have spotted something that seemed out of place or noticed someone you didn’t recognize hanging around,” she said, studying the man. He was reasonably good looking and neatly dressed in a short-sleeved oxford shirt and sharply creased tan cargo pants. His leather sandals were a smart concession to the weather.

“I don’t know how much
help we can be, Officers, because we always take the east road through Rattlesnake and missed seeing that truck. But please come in and sit down.” He led them into a small but well-furnished living room. At the back of the room was the entrance to the kitchen, where the pleasant scent of fresh fry bread originated.

Ella took a seat on the comfortable-looking sofa while Truman chose the matching
love seat across from a large flat-screen TV.

“Nice place—entertainment and education at your fingertips,” Ella said, glancing at the bookcase below the window. It held at least a hundred reference books and novels, based on their titles, and a plastic rack of DVD and CDs.

“You probably already know I’m a social studies teacher,” he said. “I’m not employed right now, but I’m trying to keep up
in my field. I hope to return to the classroom once the district starts rehiring.”

An attractive barefooted Navajo woman in her mid-twenties wearing a flowery, shapeless sundress appeared at the kitchen door. She wore only a trace of lipstick, and her long black hair was fastened at the nape of her neck with a silver barrette.

“Hi,” she said with a hesitant smile. “I’m Eileen. I don’t mean to
interrupt, but I’ve just made some fry bread. I’m going to bring it in so we can all eat while you ask your questions, okay?”

As Ella nodded, the woman stepped back out of view.

Justine smiled. “The nose knows.”

Ella looked back at Truman.

“Eileen Tahoe is my girlfriend,” he said. “She works at the Little Bear Café up in Beclabito. Unfortunately, her boss is my idiot neighbor, Norman Yazzie,
who also owns the café. As soon as she can, Eileen’s going to find another job, but at the moment she’s stuck. Work’s hard to find.”

Ella made a mental note to find out some more about the neighbor he’d mentioned. “Did you see or hear anything unusual last Tuesday? I know it’s several miles, but maybe a gunshot?”

“No, and I was here all day, working on future lesson plans and tweaking my résumé,”
Truman said. “I never went outside, but I heard Mrs. Yazzie’s old pickup go by once or twice. Norman Yazzie’s grandmother lives down the road about a mile west from here.”

“You’re not currently employed so you’re usually here at home?” Ella recalled reading in one of the reports that no vehicles had been parked by the house yesterday when Benny and Joe had come by.

“Right now I’m actively looking
for a job so, no, I’m not usually home. I spent most of the earlier part of the week in Shiprock and Kirtland, talking to some of my former coworkers. Networking, you might say. I may have to apply for an out-of-state job, so I’ve been picking up some handwritten recommendations.”

Just then, Eileen came into the room holding a big plate of golden, puffy fry bread. “Anyone hungry?” She set the
tray down on a glass-topped coffee table. I don’t have napkins, but will paper towels do?”

Truman looked at Justine and Ella, who nodded.

After Eileen returned, they began eating. Although she wasn’t particularly hungry, Ella had learned over the years that sharing food was a great way to set people at ease. Once they relaxed, it became much easier for them to remember important details.

“Eileen,
you work in Beclabito, right?” Justine asked offhandedly. “What are your hours?”

The woman took a bite of fry bread, then held up her hand, not answering until she’d chewed and swallowed. “I work the seven-to-three shift, Monday through Wednesday, then I have Thursdays and Fridays off. Saturdays and Sundays are our busiest days.”

“What route do you take from here to Rattlesnake and the main
highway?” Justine asked.

“The east road, always. The old way is too rough on my poor VW,” Eileen said.

“During your drives to and from work,” Ella said, “have you ever noticed anything strange or unusual going on around here? We’ve heard some talk.” Ella purposely didn’t elaborate.

Truman spoke first. “Ah, I get it. You’ve heard about all that skinwalker nonsense. It’s just mumbo jumbo, someone
out to scare others,” he said, and shrugged.

“Wait—are you saying that a witch killed that guy?” Eileen asked, staring wide-eyed at Ella.

“We don’t know who the killer was yet,” Ella said, “but since we’re on the subject, have either of you seen any evidence of skinwalkers in this area?”

“When people get spooked, they talk themselves into believing a lot of crazy things,” Truman said, his tone
somber. “Norman Yazzie once accused
me
of being a skinwalker, but I don’t think he really believes it. He was just angry because I refuse to let him take a shortcut through my property to get to his grandmother’s house. He’s already destroyed some plants in Eileen’s vegetable garden with that truck of his, and he’s created deep ruts that’ll become flood channels next time we get a hard rain. I’ve
told him all that, but he doesn’t listen.”

“Norman’s a real jerk,” Eileen added.

“I put up some rabbit-proof fencing around Eileen’s garden to protect it, and the very next morning, I found what looked like a coyote skin on the fence. I’m thinking Norman got angry because I blocked him off, so he decided to make me look like a skinwalker.”

“Are you sure it was him?” Ella asked.

“Well, I didn’t
actually catch him leaving it there, but who else would have done something like that?” Truman said.

“Do you still have the animal skin?” Ella asked.

“No, I put it in a trash bag and took it to the landfill. That way it couldn’t turn up again,” Truman said.

Silence stretched out, but Ella didn’t interrupt. Long pauses were common among the
Diné
. To try to speed up a conversation was seen as
rude at best, and in her case, it was counterproductive.

Eventually, Eileen spoke, her voice low. “This area has changed a lot. It’s not peaceful like it used to be. Evil’s close by and likes to leave bad things for others to find.”

“Like what?” Ella pressed.

“Charcoal sandpaintings,” she said in a near whisper. “Real medicine men make those with colored sand and use them to heal. Sandpaintings,
well, some call them drypaintings, are sacred. To make them with charcoal defiles everything they stand for, which is why witches do that.”