Authors: John Turney
Zach looked up at Rye. “Do we know who?”
Rye shook his head. “But we’ve started the investigation. Now, Zach, you go on home ‘cause I’ll need you. I don’t want to see you until tomorrow.”
“I’m good enough to—”
“No,” Rye emphasized, his decision, final. “Go home, Reese. We also had a break-in at the museum, and I’m assigning you to the
case. If you want, call Helen and Terrance. From home. Resting on the couch. Talk to them, and get up to speed. You can check out the museum tomorrow before you come in.”
Zach sighed, exasperation obvious.
Rye added, “And stay out of the bars tonight.”
Zach grunted and put his hands over his chest. “You really know how to hurt a guy.”
Rye pointed at the door. “Go.”
I wish I could visit a bar right about now.
He rested a hand on Gabby’s shoulder. “I know this is hard, but I need you to pull it together and finish your shift. I promise you; we will find Juan’s killer.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
An hour later, Whitewolf walked into Rye’s office and dropped a folder on his desk. Rye looked up from his monitor.
“This is what I found out so far,” Whitewolf said. “Not much, but it’s a start. What about Juan’s family?”
“His mother died several years ago. His father was killed by one of the Fast and Furious rifles. His little brother is in jail for working with a cartel.”
“That’s pretty tough. Something in that folder might provide a clue.”
“Thanks.” Rye’s fingers tapped out a drumbeat on the folder. “I’ll take a look at it. Keep digging.”
Whitewolf nodded once and departed.
Rye looked at his Android waiting on the desk. He had called
Chee, leaving a message at the food mart close to where his uncle lived. Chee had no phone, and the food mart served as a community-gathering place.
C’mon, Uncle. Call me.
Rye loved his uncle, but the Navajo sense of time often grated on his nerves. It seemed like they wasted a lot of it. After a noisy exhale of irritation, Rye turned his attention to the folder. He opened it and began to flip through its pages.
Colonel Demonio Amo. One grainy photo.
Could be the guy I saw.
A former officer in the Mexican army turned rogue, Amo had disobeyed a direct order. The commander threatened court martial, and Amo shot him in the head. Amo then assumed command of the company, engaged a small-time cartel, and wiped them out. Took over their territory and grew to be a well-oiled, albeit murderous, cartel.
El Àguila
. The Eagle.
Rye leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
So what does this have to do with our perp? If Mr. Valdez is an associate of Amo’s, then why is he here in Whiskey? Was he involved in the murder? The break-in? And what did he mean when he implied a woman stole the museum’s artifacts?
Rye sat forward and grabbed one of many Sharpie markers from the pencil holder Manny had made for him—black spray-painted soup can with a paper sheriff’s star glued on it. From a desk drawer, Rye took out a clean steno book. He began doodling free-associative thoughts and what ifs. Circles and squares with tags and lines connecting them.
He started with what he knew. When he finished, he read what he had written.
Museum Break-in. Occurred overnight. Activity confined to a single
room of Skinwalker displays. Broken display case. Three items taken: 1) Leather shield; 2) Feather; 3) Amulet.
Evidence:
Have Reese re-question everyone from the museum. Were the thief/thieves looking for Indian artifacts to sell on the black market? Check with FBI and the Federal Bureau of Land Management. Murder at Batts’ property. Vic was Juan. From decomp, he was killed overnight. More accurate TOD?
Evidence:
Things to do: Send evidence to forensics at Arizona Criminal Investigation. Contact Juan’s brother.
His cell phone rang, and Rye jumped, banging a knee on the underside of the desk.
He grabbed the phone, recognized the food mart phone number, and pushed the answer button. “Dawlsen.”
“How is my nephew who refuses to walk the way of the
Diné
?”
“How is my uncle who refuses to acknowledge his nephew walks in two worlds?”
They chatted about family, events concerning the Navajo people, pow wows, dancers, and the weather. When the conversation faltered, Rye figured they had finished with the Navajo niceties and cleared his throat.
“I have some questions to ask you,” Rye said. “It has to deal with an investigation. What do you know of … Skinwalkers?”
Chee laughed and started coughing. “Cigarettes, the white man’s curse.”
“Actually, Uncle, Indians originally sold tobacco to the white man.”
“Glad we got something over on the round eyes. Getting back to your question, the white man doesn’t believe in …
Yeenaaldooshii
. Navajo myths, they claim.”
“No.” Rye’s voice grew quiet. “What I need to know is … what do the Navajo believe?”
Chee’s voice became a whisper. “We don’t talk about them when night approaches the
Dinetah
. It’s not safe.”
“It’s daytime,” he reminded his uncle.
Several seconds of empty air passed between them. Rye waited for him to say more. From the times he spent with his uncle on the Res, Rye knew Navajos never rushed in to fill silence like a white person would. He tapped his fingers on the desk, waiting.
The silence drew on.
Rye rubbed his forehead and tapped his foot in rapid fire. With a tskking noise, he broke the silence. “Look, I’m investigating a murder, and I need some info on Skinwalkers.”
Chee’s end of the phone remained quiet. Rye opened his mouth to prod his uncle into talking, when Chee whispered, “
Yeenaaldooshii
walk the witchery way. To gain the power to travel in animal form they must kill a family member.”
Rye rubbed his chin. “What do these Yeen … all … Ye-nay … um … Skinwalkers do?”
“They curse people to sickness. They attack or scare people in their hogans or in their cars. If they lock eyes with you, they can steal your skin.” Chee paused, and his words came out like a wintery hiss. “They are evil, nephew. How do Skinwalkers enter in to your non-
Diné
investigation?”
“Can’t go into detail right now. But Iona suggested it.”
Chee laughed, breaking the tension. “Iona is a good woman. She’s a friend of the
Diné
. I read her books. I think she writes about you.”
“Get outta here. They’re just stories.” Rye felt the blush rise on his cheeks. “Don’t get off topic. Anything else you can add?”
“Yeah. Don’t make yourself so scarce, nephew. Visit me. And bring me a new pair of jeans when you come.” He paused. His voice dropped again. Fearful as if he thought someone might be listening. “There’s trouble in Navajoland.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Chee’s next words came out as a strangled plea. “Eight
Diné
have died in the last few weeks. People have been attacked.” A long pause. “By a Skinwalker, nephew. A Mexican Skinwalker. Now listen to your Uncle Chee … if you pee outside, cover your water with dirt, or the Skinwalker can hurt you. Real bad.” His voice became an urgent whisper. “Nephew, please be very careful. This is one bad witch.”
Rye swung the Tahoe into his driveway and slammed on the brakes. The vehicle slid for several gravel-spitting feet, coming to rest in a cloud of dust. He glared at the glowing numbers on the dashboard clock.
8:45.
“Juan, why did you have to go and get yourself killed?” Rye yanked the keys from the ignition, allowing heat to saturate the interior. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the headrest, a long sigh escaping his lips. “Dee says that all things happen for a purpose, so what purpose did Juan’s death serve? Huh?” The tears Rye could not allow until now overwhelmed him, and he swiped them away. “God, if this is your purpose, then just leave me alone.”
After feeding his chickens and gathering a few eggs, Rye stumbled up the front steps, dragging one aching foot after the other. He unsnapped the holster from his belt, set the weapon on the dining room table, and headed to the kitchen. He traded out the eggs for a beer in the fridge and threw a pizza in the oven.
Taking the beer with him back into the living room, he reached
over the couch and cranked down the window AC unit. He plopped onto the couch, remote in hand, relishing the brace of chilled air. Taking a long draw of the beer—promising himself just one more with dinner—Rye turned on the TV.
“And in today’s local news,” said the dark-haired news babe, “this morning, a badly mutilated body was discovered outside Whiskey.”
Rye sat up, listening intently. The story led with some footage from the top of the first hill showing Johnny’s cabin before cutting to a shot of Batts.
“Weren’t nuthin’ you folks need to see out there,” Johnny drawled. His close-up was worse than most mug shots Rye had taken over the years. “Let the poor fella rest in peace.” Batts finished with the sign of the cross.
Then Rye’s own image peered back at him. “At this time,” he had said because the newswoman had shoved the microphone into his face, “the Whiskey Police Department is not releasing any information.”
The screen showed a picture of the front of the Whiskey PD.
Then the newscaster mentioned the myth about Skinwalkers.
Crap. Where’d they hear that? Just what I need.
He took another swig of beer. He relished the liquid softening his parched throat. With a final guzzle, he emptied the can.
The timer dinged, and he fetched the pizza using a towel. Rye put his hand on the door of the fridge and thought twice about a second beer. His Dee-consciousness told him to have water.
Naw, I’m okay. I can handle another.
Between thirsty gulps of beer, Rye wolfed down his meal, licking the grease off his fingers.
After dinner, he surfed through the news channels before turning
the TV off. To his relief, he had found nothing about Juan, giving him more time to conduct a detailed investigation. With night now fully descended, darkness dominated the room. He fumbled at the lamp, turning it on.
Licking his lips, he returned to the kitchen for another beer. Sitting on the kitchen counter, Iona’s book peeked out from under the towel. Rye picked up the book and thumbed the pages.
Did she really write about me? She wouldn’t.
He didn’t care all that much for reading … but Iona wrote it, and she helped with some investigations. It wouldn’t hurt to look at the first chapter.
Returning to the couch with his beer, he kicked off his western boots and scooted them under the coffee table. After taking another drink, he settled back and started to read.
“The killer waited alongside the desert road, facing the east. His knife dripped blood onto the dry dusty soil. Though his appearance rendered him into the image of an American cowboy—hat, jeans, pointy-toed boots—he just killed his first American GI in his personal jihad. More would die soon, he swore to Allah.”
Rye startled awake. Confusion washed over him until he saw the beer cans on the table and the paperback opened facedown on his belly. He must have fallen asleep while reading Iona’s book.
So what woke him?
His mobile home shook, creaking, and he noticed the winds for the first time. Gusts buffeted the windows, whistling through the cracks. Did a storm front come in? They tended to ride through like a bronco shot in the butt. He started to push off the couch when something struck the outside of his house.
“What the …”
He hurried over to the table, retrieved his handgun, and tiptoed to the kitchen window. Pulling the slats apart, Rye peered outside, into a world turned coffee-hued with blowing dust.
Two luminous eyes stared at him.
For a moment, they held him prisoner, drained his strength, and froze his mind, as if he had dropped into the nether-existence of limbo. Lost. Drifting. Petrified. The eyes blinked, and their power over him vanished.
He stumbled backwards a few steps and dragged a hand over his lips. It had to be an animal. It just had to be. But there was no creature in the desert tall enough to be the owner of those eyes. Except for one … man.
People’s eyes don’t glow unless they’re a …
No sane white man believed in Navajo myths: however, his Diné mother believed and had warned him. Maybe he should go search for the thing, but before he could decide his next move, the power went out, plunging the interior into darkness. Rye stood still until his night vision allowed him to see shapes. The AC had stopped, no longer masking the screams of the raging desert hurricane.