Shooting Chant (8 page)

“So if the thieves weren’t after the files, then why did they haul them away, then just throw them out? Something’s hinky about this whole thing. Did they break in to steal some minor prescription drugs and loot the cash drawer, then, on a whim, take the paperwork just to be malicious? I don’t buy that.”

“Myrna said that they also accessed the hard drive in the computer, you
saw that yourself, but the clinic’s programmer found no evidence of any computer virus or tampering with files.”

“Could they have copied files off the hard drive?” Ella asked, watching the waitress bringing their food.

“There’s no way to tell. The only hard fact we have to work with so far is that all the stolen files had just had recent lab work results inserted, and hadn’t been placed back
with the other patient records.”

“So what we have to do now is figure out who would be interested in those lab tests.”

“I’ve got another tidbit to add to the weirdness quotient of this case. I pulled out the slugs I found on the wall and ran a ballistics check. The perp was using an atypical weapon for these parts. They were .380s—you know, 9-millimeter shorts.”

“Those are used in PPKs and
other small, easily concealed pistols,” Ella said, thinking out loud as she reached down for a warm sopaipilla.

“Those guns are a step up from the cheap .32s a lot of gang-bangers use, and have a lot more punch,” Justine said. “Most people around here would be far more likely to own a hunting rifle or shotgun, or a .38 or .22 if it’s a pistol. Of course, most burglars don’t carry firearms anyway.”

“A lot of the .380s are expensive foreign weapons, too,” Ella said. “They’re well-designed semiautos and make good backup or off-duty pistols for the cops who can afford them,” she added, sampling her food. “What this means is that we’re facing well-financed criminals, or very successful ones.” Ella ate in silence for a while. “Okay—so we’ve got an unlikely weapon of choice,” she said at last,
“and a break-in with no clear motive that involved a three-man team. Taking into account the amount of money and drugs lost, simple burglary seems more and more like a smoke screen. From what we know so far, the entire thing sounds more like an espionage operation than the work of a gang.”

After they’d finished eating, Ella placed a few bills on the table and headed to the door, Justine at her
side. “Anything else I need to know?” Ella asked.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Abigail Yellowhair’s file was one of the ones found in the Dumpster, and so was yours.” Justine’s eyes stayed on her, her gaze alive with curiosity.

“I’m not sick,” Ella said. “It was just a routine test so stop speculating.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Justine said with a tiny grin.

Ella met Justine’s gaze. Was she getting
paranoid, or had her cousin guessed? Pushing the thought aside, Ella started to say goodbye when her cell phone and Justine’s rang almost simultaneously.

Justine moved some distance away to avoid interference as she answered the call and Ella flipped open her own receiver. “We’ve got a situation, Shorty,” Big Ed’s voice came through loud and clear. “Seems that the Fierce Ones are picketing the
tribal offices up on the mesa. The media and press from Farmington are there, and tribal officials are getting nervous.”

“That group has always kept their identities a secret. What made them change their minds and come out into the open like that?”

“They’re out, but not in the open. I was told they’re all wearing homemade masks to hide their faces.”

“Any altercations or vandalism yet?”

“No,
but people there think it’s only a matter of time. They all remember the last time we had a major protest. One of the tribal leaders was accused of taking payoff money and when the council tried to fire him, his supporters staged a protest and one man was killed.”

“I’ll head up there right now.”

“I’m sending as many officers as I can spare, but it’ll be limited. I’ve called in a request to the
county and the state police for backup, but for now, we’re on our own. The few officers we can muster will just have to handle the situation.”

It was always that way. As she closed up her phone, she saw Justine coming toward her. “I got a call from the station,” she said. “Some kind of demonstration is going on at the tribal offices on the mesa.”

“I know. That was Big Ed on my phone.”

“Sergeant
Manuelito is in charge up there,” Justine said.

“He’s a hard-liner. I’ll bet he’s hoping to kick a few butts,” Ella said.

“He wants us in full gear, just in case.”

“Hard hats and vests?” Ella shook her head. “That’s just going to provoke them.”

Justine shrugged. “He’s in charge at the scene.”

Ella glanced in the back of her Jeep, verifying she had everything, then climbed behind the steering
wheel. “Let’s get going.”

As they raced to the tribal offices, sirens on, Ella felt the tension inside her mounting. The first chance she got, she’d have to order a larger vest to cover more of her torso. For now she’d be okay, but in a few months, it would be a different story—in every imaginable way.

FIVE

Ella studied the scene before her, suppressing the chill that ran up her spine. The fifteen or more men in the picket line wore black hoods with slits that allowed them to see and breathe, but they remained silent. On their black arm bands was the symbol of the Fierce Ones, the four sacred mountains painted in white. Only the spokesperson for the Fierce Ones made no effort to hide his identity.
Jesse Woody was a Navajo supervisor at the oldest coal mine.

In gear, Ella stood with six other officers in the thin human barrier Sergeant Manuelito had formed between those picketing and the entrance to the tribal offices.

The building itself was a one-story brown brick structure with a lot of glass trimmed with aluminum. In a city it could have passed for a sixties bank, or even a post office,
especially with the flag pole outside on the manicured lawn.

Turning back to the current threat, she watched the eyes and stances of the demonstrators, trying to guess their next move.

“What we are protesting,” Jesse Woody told the press, “is that our leaders are giving the
Diné Tah
to non Navajos, a railroad car, a truck load, or a pipeline full at a time. Our land was once considered worthless,
good only for sheep or Navajos. But then outsiders came, and started to dig deep holes. They discovered Mother Earth was rich with minerals and fuels like coal and natural gas. Now, in many places our land’s been gutted like an animal carcass and is barren—more like the floors inside these buildings than a place to grow crops and nourish our animals. And the Anglos and others still come with
their fees, percentages, and promises, take most of the wealth from our land, and leave us with dead earth and pennies on the dollar.

“And, instead of feeling the
ch’ééná,
the sadness for something that will never come back, our elected officials turn around and give the Anglos new opportunities to destroy what they touch. This is
our
land, yet we lose a little more of it each day, and with it,
we lose our young people who become more like them and less like us.”

Ella caught the wary look in Justine’s eyes. They’d both heard this type of rhetoric before. People with good intentions pointed fingers and assigned blame without offering any real solutions to the problems. She braced herself for trouble in the form of group action, but the picketers remained orderly, at least for the moment.
They appeared to be more interested in making their position known to the television crew and reporters gathered there than in anything else.

The Fierce One’s spokesman continued. “What we want is to allow the Navajo People to meet, discuss it, then vote each time an outsider wants to set up a business within our borders. We also want better terms on the leases we give to outsiders, and make
them subject to change or cancellation at any time by a majority vote. We want what’s best for the
Dineh,
yet our so-called leaders refuse to come out here and listen to us, or even invite us inside. But no one will leave this building until we are heard.”

It was that last sentence that made Ella’s body tense up. She saw the officers on both sides of her brace themselves as well, and shift to
a defensive stance.

Then, unexpectedly, the door to the tribal building opened and two men stepped out. She recognized Ernest Ben, the head of economic development. The man next to him was Wilbert Benally, a member of the tribal council.

Ernest Ben came down the sidewalk and stopped before the cameras. “What we need to keep our young people here on our land are jobs. Alliances with Anglo businesses
help bring those to us, as well as generate important revenue for our tribe. Without those alliances, our young people will take their education and their dreams for the future and leave the reservation. We all need to work together, now more than ever. If we don’t find a way to do that, we’ll become our own worst enemy.”

“Words like those put our destiny in the hands of outsiders. History has
shown us what happens when we place our trust in others. We need to reclaim our land,” Woody argued. “Then our gods will provide for the
Dineh
as they did before. The Plant People will flourish and so will our livestock.” Jesse turned and faced the cameras. “Our leaders speak to us, but don’t listen to the voices of The People.”

Suddenly three of the Fierce Ones broke ranks and ran across the
parking lot where someone had just left the building via a side door. She heard angry shouts as the protestors tried to block the car the person had just climbed into.

“Take an officer and see what you can do to break that up,” Manuelito growled at her.

Ella and Justine jogged toward the disturbance, and soon saw what was going on. State Senator Yellowhair was the person who’d managed to make
it as far as his car, but the three protestors were blocking his vehicle. Seeing Ella and Justine, Yellowhair waved frantically.

She had no desire to help him. The fact was she was no fan of the senator’s, nor he of her, but it was her job, in this case, to intervene. She slowed to a walk, and continued on toward his car.

“Get these jerks out of my way,” the senator yelled out to her. “Do your
job.”

Ella slowed down even more. Yellowhair was in no apparent danger, and if he was late going somewhere, she certainly wasn’t going to worry about his poor sense of timing.

Hearing her name being called by someone at a window, Ella turned her head and saw Lulu Todea, a reporter for the tribal paper. Somehow, Lulu had managed to get inside the building.

“He really
does
need to leave now.
His wife is on special medication,” she yelled out. “She needs him to pick up a prescription because she can’t find her old asthma inhaler.”

With a nod, Ella moved forward with her nightstick and ordered the dissenters to step back from the senator’s car. Justine backed her up, and the demonstrators gave ground and ran back to join the others.

The senator pulled out into the street with not
so much as a backward glance.

“I don’t know how he ever got elected with that arrogant attitude of his,” Justine muttered.

As Ella and Justine jogged back around to join the others, one of the dissenters threw a soda can at Yellowhair’s car when it passed by. The effort was halfhearted, and the truth was she felt like throwing something herself. But it was obviously a signal.

Suddenly, the
Fierce Ones made a unified rush toward the tribal building catching the cops off guard. Ella blocked a charging man, using her baton like a staff, but Justine fell when two of the Fierce ones collided with her at the same time.

As Ella moved to protect the downed officer, the men who’d knocked Justine down turned and started swinging at her. Things got out of hand quickly. Glancing around for
backup, she realized that the other hooded figures had turned on the remaining officers, swinging fists, pushing, and kicking.

In the midst of the chaos that ensued, one hooded figure came to stand beside her and helped Ella deflect the assault. The man never went on the offensive, he simply blocked and neutralized any moves made against her. Even when two of the hooded figures turned on him,
he refused to do anything more than stand his ground and parry their attacks. Then, as the half dozen officers managed to form a small defensive ring preparing for what looked like a renewed assault, sirens filled the air. Four patrol cars with county sheriff and state police markings came screeching up.

All of their hooded attackers scattered, making a run for it, except for the man who’d helped
Ella defend herself and protect Justine. Ella knew that without his help, she would have gone down under all the blows.

Still dazed, Justine got up to her feet and, seeing the hooded man standing near Ella, quickly handcuffed his hands behind his back. The man didn’t resist.

“No, don’t do that,” Ella said.

“We have to take him in,” Justine said dully.

Ella gave Justine a sharp look. She’d
wanted to handle this differently.

“Give me your key,” Ella said.

As Justine fumbled in her pockets, Ella focused on the man who had helped her. “We do have to take you in, but I’ll sign a statement on your behalf,” Ella told the Fierce One. “There’ll be no charges against you.” Ella removed his hood gently, wanting to see the face of the man who had risked his own life to help them. As she
pulled the hood clear, and she saw who it was, she gasped. “Clifford!”

“Are you all right, sister?” he asked quietly. “And you, Cousin?” he looked at Justine with concern.

Ella stood there in shocked silence, unable to think of what to say to him.

Justine quickly uncuffed Clifford. “Go on. Get out of here. You can work this out later with Ella.”

Sergeant Manuelito came running up then, trying
to catch his breath between words. “Hold on, Goodluck. What the hell do you think you’re doing? We don’t look the other way for relatives in this department.”

Ella, enraged with his attitude, found her voice. “It’s thanks to him that I’m still standing and Justine is in one piece.”