11

After forcing down one of Mamacita’s world-famous Big Dogs, Erin and Tulley strolled the length of Cedar Canyon township—a total of four blocks—to join a group of six old men lounging in metal folding chairs outside the gas station next to the trading post. She’d secured her torn sleeve with a safety pin. Tulley made the introductions. She hoped there wouldn’t be a quiz on their names later.

One gentleman leaned back against his chair, placing his hands square with the canvas armrests. “You say this Olivia was a missionary at the original mission school there on the mesa?”

“Yes, sir.”

The old gents were Western casual with their denim jackets and faded jeans, long-sleeved flannel shirts, cowboy boots and hats. This gentleman—Joe?—wore a large turquoise ring on his gnarled, arthritic right hand resting on a can of Red Man. A Bic pen rode in one shirt pocket. An eyeglass case in the other.

Another old soldier, wearing a string tie bound at the neck by an oval turquoise clasp, positioned both blue-veined hands on top of his knees and rubbed absently. “Tulley tells us you’re a missionary kid yourself. It was the son of a missionary—grew up not far from here—who suggested the United States government ought to look into using Navajo speakers to send and receive messages in the diné bizaad to confuse the Japanese.”

“Phillip Johnston.” Tulley nodded.

The old man jabbed a crooked finger at Tulley. “That’s the one.”

Joe shook his head. “But the mission schools, Franklin . . .” He scowled. “Tore families apart. Almost drove our language into extinction in the first place.”

He speared Erin with a glance. “You know first thing they did when the boys arrived was to cut their hair.”

Joe held out a hunk of his long braid, snow white. “Three plaits symbolize the interweaving of the mind, body, and spirit of a person. When they hacked it off . . .” He scanned the desert vista momentarily. “It broke the three-ply balance of beauty and harmony within us. Lot of folks in my generation feel nothing but hatred for all the Anglos and their god.”

Tulley shot a warning look at her.

Franklin socked Joe in the muscle of his arm. “Ancient history. Army shaved our heads, too. Mission schools did give us an education. Gave us the chance to better ourselves in the world.”

Joe spat a wad of the chewing tobacco at the dirt between his boots. “Bilágaana world.” A mumbling agreement rumbled among the old ones. “Anybody could speak English.”

He sniffed. “It was the complexity of the Diné language that proved important. Meanings change with the inflection of tone.”

Didn’t she know it. Erin could spend a lifetime studying Navajo and never master it.

Franklin rolled his eyes and gave her a long, slow wink. “Some old coots just set in their ways, Miss Dawson. Pay them no mind. They are . . .” He rubbed his chin. “Iras . . .”

Joe angled. “Irascible?”

Franklin’s eyes crinkled. “That’s it.”

A wry smile twisted Joe’s liver-spotted face. “You, old man, ain’t the only one who learned big words at the mission school.”

“It’s such an privilege to meet you all and I want to thank you for your service to this country during the Second World War.” She smiled. “If you gentlemen hadn’t risked your lives, pushing back the Japanese island by island, I probably wouldn’t be here today.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come again, young lady?”

“When my adopted grandmother Florence Thornton was eleven,” she raised her chin at Joe. “And yes, she was the daughter of a medical missionary in Indonesia, she and her family were rounded up by the Japanese in those early days after they attacked Pearl Harbor. She and her mother were force marched with the Americans, Dutch, and British to an internment camp for prisoners of war.”

She swallowed. “They separated the men from the women and children. Gram never saw her father again.”

Joe gave her a long measured look as he unfolded himself from his chair. “Have a seat, miss.” His hand indicated his chair. “The Diné know all about marches.”

Tulley put a hand to the small of her back, leaning over for her ears only. “You had them at the words rounded up. Go, do your thing, girl.”

Concern shadowed Franklin’s eyes. “What happened to your Gram?” Nothing a Navajo—or Southerner—liked better than a good story.

She inclined her head in thanks to Joe and settled herself into his chair. She crossed her feet at the ankles and tucked them underneath. The tangy scent of the Ponderosa pines permeated the air.

“My adopted dad’s father Harry Dawson, son of a tea planter in the region, was also rounded up and sent with his mother and sisters to the camp. His dad, a retired British soldier, was decapitated in front of their eyes on the veranda of their home.”

Franklin sucked in a breath. “And?” A sense of urgency laced his tone.

“Gram’s mother died on the march. Harry’s mother adopted Flossie into their band once they reached the camp. Gram used to tell stories about how she and Harry as the oldest would scrounge and trade anything they could barter with sympathetic Japanese soldiers.”

Erin shrugged. “Of course, if they’d ever been caught by the commandant . . . ? But it kept a little more food in all their bellies than the meager starvation ration they were fed once a day.”

“So they survived?” A reedy thinness had entered Joe’s voice.

“Yes. In fact, when it became obvious that American and Australian troops were on the way to liberate the camp, Flossie wove red, white, and blue remnants from the hems of the other prisoners’ dresses and made a tiny American flag for her, Harry, and his baby sisters. They were mounted on bamboo shoots to wave when the troops opened the gates to freedom for the first time.”

Franklin fidgeted in his chair. “I was with a platoon that liberated one of those camps you speak of.” He swung his gray, grizzled head from side to side. “The conditions of those camps? Never seen such filth in my life. And the condition of the women . . .”

He swiped a tear from his high cheekbone. “The children skin and bones.”

She patted his hand. “When the Americans poured through the gates—the guards had fled days before—Flossie jumped up and down waving her flag and shouted, ‘I’m an American! I’m an American!’ ”

Joe, Franklin, and the other men let out a collective sigh of relief and chuckled.

“After the war—she and Harry were teenagers by now—though she went back to her Carolina relatives and Harry’s mom took him home to England, they kept in touch.”

She gave Joe a shining glance. “Once he’d finished medical school and she finished nursing school, they got married, returned to Indonesia to set up a medical mission—not far, mind you, from where the camp once stood,” she thumped her chest, “and the rest is history.”

The old gentleman gave her a round of applause.

Franklin’s lips twitched. “Well, that’s about the best thank-you I ever got for my four years of service in the Marines.” Several others bobbed their heads in agreement.

She rose, gazing at their weather-beaten faces, each bearing the stamp of honor and integrity. Big difference, she decided, between a weather-beaten face and a life-beaten one. “So you will always be my heroes.”

A hitherto silent gentleman shook his head. “We’re not the heroes. We speak for those who can no longer speak since Iwo Jima.”

“Don’t forget Pelieu,” Joe added. “On their behalf, we remember so they will not be forgotten.”

He extended his wrinkled, weathered hand. She wrapped her hand around his larger one.

Franklin patted her on the shoulder. “You did a fine job leading the music yesterday.” The other gentlemen lumbered to their feet. Several clutched carved piñon walking sticks.

One of them leaned over to Franklin. Blue suspenders held up the old man’s too loose, tan corduroy pants. “What time you say you folks at the church get started every Sunday?”

Franklin grinned. “ ’Bout ten every Sunday morning. Wednesday night suppers ain’t nothing to joke about, either.”

He jerked a gnarled thumb in her direction. “That French silk concoction this girl made last week?” He smacked his lips in remembered pleasure.

As she turned to go, Joe caught her arm. “Seems like I do remember my daddy telling me how the children from Cedar Canyon had a heads up on the rest of the Diné kids shipped off to Flagstaff to the mission school there.”

Tulley inched forward. “When was this, Uncle?”

Joe wrinkled his brow doing some quick figuring in his head. “Before the first war—you know the one that was supposed to keep all others from happening.”

The men hooted behind him.

“Heads up?” Erin’s brows constricted. “How so?”

“Somebody had already taught every one of them to speak, read, and write basic English, set a proper bilágaana table with knives, forks, and spoons and . . .” Joe stared straight into her eyes. “Recite from memory whole portions of the book in your Scripture you call the Gospel of John.”

A tour bus, a snarling cougar painted on the side, jostled its way off Main Street to the gas pumps. A small flag with a large red dot was taped to the door. An exhaust of air blew the strand of Erin’s bangs across her forehead. Billows of steam rose from underneath the hood. Not a good sign in her limited mechanical experience.

She clutched Tulley’s arm. “I left an entire box of artifacts out on the desk when we left the Center. I was just so . . .”

Tulley patted her hand. “Distracted? Grossed out? Repulsed?”

She smiled. “You always know what to say to make me feel better. Would you mind—?” She gestured down the block.

Tulley hitched his belt. The large silver concha buckle shimmered in the afternoon light. “Be glad to escort you back into enemy territory.”

He paused as the bus doors opened. The Hispanic driver emerged, babbling into his cell phone about a breakdown. “Might be a good idea to stay as much away from Debra as you can, though.”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure what I’ve done exactly to invite such . . . enmity. Do I sound too extreme and paranoid?”

“Not when we’re talking about Debra.” He bit his lip. “You’re on her you-know-what-list due to one thing and one thing only. One person only, I should say.”

“Adam.”

“Got it on the first try.”

“But we’re just—”

“Don’t try to kid a kidder. But if saying it helps you sleep better at night . . .” Tulley shrugged. “I’m Adam’s best friend, but be careful with him. He’s not . . . he doesn’t . . .” He shook his head.

She frowned and kicked a pebble with the toe of her sneaker. “He’s not a believer.”

Tulley grimaced. “He’s not for you or any other believer. God’s words not mine.” He held both hands palm up. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Fifty tourists, cameras dangling from their necks, scrambled off the tour bus and past them, headed for the trading post.

“I’m only saying this, Erin, because I—” Tulley swiveled as twenty-five or so old men tourists, accompanied by what looked like their wives and grandchildren, darted and wove around them like salmon headed upstream. The noise level increased in a language that caused him to narrow his eyes.

The code talkers stiffened.

“Are they—?” Tulley gasped. “They’re Japanese.”

She cocked one ear in their direction. “You’re right.”

His eyes grew large. “You’re sure it’s Japanese? Not Chinese? Or—please God—Korean?”

She listened again. “No. It’s Japanese. MK Training involved a boarding school in Kyoto.”

The rustlings and murmuring among the code talkers grew more agitated.

“And they’re old.”

She looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Well, yeah. So—?”

Tulley grabbed his cell phone, punching in a speed dial number. “Adam?” he barked into the phone. “Pick up, you hear me?”

She grimaced, considering what probably occupied the slimy Adam Silverhorn.

“Adam? Good. We’re about to have World War Three erupt out here at the trading post. A bus just broke down loaded with old Japanese soldiers—” He listened a moment. Erin heard squawking from the other end.

She glanced at Joe, Franklin, and the other old Navajos. Their faces set in a grim, straight line, they stood shoulder to shoulder. Blocking the entrance to the trading post.

“Uh, Tulley.”

She tugged on his sleeve. “We’ve got a situation here.”

“Get over here now, Silverhorn. I need backup stat.” Flipping the phone shut, he swallowed. “Now what are we going to do to prevent the battle for Cedar Canyon?”

She scooted between the old warriors and faced the startled tourists. She bowed deeply from the waist. “Konnichiwa.”

Adam raced down the block toward them.

Tulley inserted his body protectively between hers and the code talkers. “You speak Japanese?”

Panting and out of breath, Adam squeezed in on the other side of Erin and faced the code talkers. “Of course she does. MK Training 101.” He mocked. “Probably speaks six or seven other languages, too.”

“No. Just four.” She glared at him. “I’m always the disappointment, remember? It’s Jill who speaks seven.”

Adam frowned before he cut his eyes at the old warriors. “Now, Joe. Franklin.” He held up his hands. “No need to get all riled. The war’s been over a long time. We’re allies.”

The murmuring escalated.

“Good job, Silverhorn.” A tinge of sarcasm threaded Tulley’s voice. “Rile ’em up some more. Why don’t you mention Toyota’s latest sales figures compared to good ole American engineering next?”

Adam’s hand swept around, indicating the women and children in a vain attempt to restore order. “They’re just here touring our great U.S. of A. with their families.”

“Just been discussing what they did to some of our women and children, right Miss Dawson?” yelled one of Joe’s compatriots.

She winced. Somehow she didn’t believe they’d listen to another story right now about how Gram spoke of forgiveness toward her captors.

“I’m sorry.” She faced the crowd, forgetting to speak in Japanese. “They were code talkers during—”

“Code talkers?” One elderly tourist pointed a finger at the Navajo tribal elders.

There was a rustle among the Navajo and a stir of appreciation among the other tourists. Erin, with great trepidation, nodded.

“How fortunate.” The elderly Japanese man rubbed his hands together with glee.

Not the word she would have chosen. But at least someone spoke English.

Several of the younger generation reached for the cameras strapped to their necks.

“Better tell your Japanese buddies how Navajos’ feel about having their picture taken,” hissed Adam.

Erin obliged. She then turned toward Joe. “Most hospitable people in the world.”

She gestured at the crowd of tourists, their faces wreathed in uncomprehending smiles. “The Japanese.”

Erin cocked her head. “Well, maybe the second most. After Southerners, of course.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Your point?”

The old soldiers step by step backed them up against the crowd.

“I’d always heard about Navajo hospitality. Is that a myth, Joe?” She quirked her eyebrows at him. “These men, women, and children are stranded in the desert heat of the Dinétah.”

Okay, a stretch. It was April. But she was on a roll.

“Will you disgrace all of us here today by showing less hospitality than your former enemies?”

Franklin yanked Joe’s sleeve. “Sorry, Miss Dawson.” He shuffled his feet in the dirt. “Got caught up in old wounds. I know better.”

He tugged at Joe. “You know better, too. What’s Agnes—his wife,”—in an aside to Erin—“going to say about you letting down Navajo pride?”

Joe squinted at Franklin. “You trying to reverse psychobabble me, old man?”

Franklin grinned. “Hey. I watch Oprah, too.”

Joe straightened, soldier tall and extended his hand toward the Japanese man. “What’d you say the hello word was again?”

She smiled. Tulley and Adam let out the breath they’d been holding.

Franklin pounded Joe on the back before extending his own hand. “Make love. Not war, man.”

She gave into the grin struggling to break free. Tulley had to go behind a gas pump for a moment, laughing himself silly.

With the initial crisis over, Adam slipped without a word back to the station. Tulley and Erin spent the next hour arranging temporary accommodation at a tribal-owned inn and rounded up enough off-duty docents to give the visitors an impromptu tour of the cultural center. She called Sheridan, who hustled over with his entire pit crew of mechanics—three—to assess the broken-down bus.

Sheridan chewed on the end of a piece of tumbleweed. “Take three days at least.”

Tulley rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “No sense in the People not making a profit off this unforeseen opportunity.”

Erin laughed. “You’re going to make a great tribal chief one day, Tulley Singer, with thinking like that.”

She didn’t lay eyes on Adam again for the next busy, three days in what became known hereafter in the annals of Cedar Canyon lore as “The Japanese Invasion.”

Tulley organized dinner for the visitors at Mamacita’s. On Tuesday, Erin, with Tulley’s invaluable input, arranged for a fleet of tribal-owned vans from the senior center at Tuba City to take the tourists out to Cedar Canyon’s tiny painted desert. Clarence brought his horse that afternoon for mounted, personalized pictures of each man, woman, and child against the backdrop of the rainbow sands.

“No sense in Monument Valley or that bigger, painted sandbox to the west making all the money.” Tulley gave an emphatic nod.

Taqueros catered lunch. Joe’s wife, Agnes—who also happened to own Kokopelli’s, where half the town had pottery, blankets, and jewelry on consignment—was pleased to offer extended shop hours to Cedar Canyon’s visitors from the Land of the Rising Sun.

On Wednesday, in an effort to promote harmony and goodwill among the nations, the high school—courtesy of Tulley’s teacher mother—opened their classrooms to the younger Japanese visitors and sponsored a symposium with a panel consisting of Joe, Franklin, and three other code talkers plus five Japanese veterans to discuss their shared experiences in fighting for their respective countries.

That afternoon, the mayor called for an informal powwow to share Diné culture with Cedar Canyon’s illustrious guests. The church ladies set up a booth and served Indian tacos and Nia’s specialty, Indian fry bread doughnuts, to raise money for the youth group’s summer mission trip. The aromas of spicy chili—courtesy of the high school booster club—perfumed the air. Doli and her girlfriends manned a Navajo bun booth, winding the dark locks of the Asian women—so like their own—and charging ten dollars a pop.

Teenagers and old ones broke out ceremonial costumes and performed traditional dances in the courtyard of the Center. The little kids—who learned to ride as soon as they could walk in Navajo culture—decorated their ponies and led a parade down Main Street complete with the local homecoming queen and the lone fire truck from the volunteer fire brigade. Joe, Franklin, and his crew donned—where the waistline allowed—their old Marine uniforms and ended the parade with the high school band playing “The Star Spangled Banner” and a rough, but recognizable version of “Kimigayo,” the Japanese national anthem.

Early Thursday morning, Erin joined Joe and his friends as they said their good-byes to their new friends from across the Pacific as they boarded their newly repaired bus. She watched as the code talkers gave their former enemies warm hugs, exchanging addresses and e-mails. She observed the first flowering of a long-distance romance between one of Franklin’s grandsons with a sweet-faced granddaughter of a former samurai.

“We were wrong to believe our emperor, a mere man,” she overheard the elderly spokesperson of the Japanese contingent say to Franklin, “could have ever been a god. But we will think on what you have told us about this man/God who died for all people for all time.”

She smiled. Uncle Johnny and the faithful had been busy, too.

“You get any hits on the fingerprints you lifted at Erin’s house?”

Adam shifted in his truck to face Tulley. Parked in the driveway of his mother’s house, he’d taken to updating Tulley on the progress of his investigation every week while he checked to make sure the empty house was secure until his mother returned to town.

Tulley sighed. “Not yet. Most of the RedBloods got juvie records, but so far, no matches.”

Adam reached under the seat and pulled out a manila envelope. “Got some strands of hair from Debra’s brush and I lifted her prints off one of her shot glasses. When we bust her, I want her charged with everything we can throw at her. From Navarro’s murder to the vandalism at Erin’s.”

“We only got the one print off that tube of lipstick the perp used to write the message on the mirror.”

Adam grimaced. “See if it matches Debra’s. She must have had the gang wear gloves although if she was there, too, why she didn’t wear gloves herself . . . ?”

Tulley shook his head. “May not have been Debra.”

“Of course, it was Debra. Fits her M.O. to a tee. Venomous. Hateful.”

“I’m just saying I’ve run the prints through the database with no luck on the gang angle.”

He rubbed his hand across his face. “Send it to Carson Williams. He has access to databases local law enforcement can’t touch. He may have Melendez and his people on file. Or can at least petition Mexico to share their files with him.”

A niggling thought tugged at the fringes of Adam’s mind. “Check out that low-life Sam Perkins in Holbrook. I’ve had my suspicions about that loser’s connections to Debra and her cartel buddies for awhile.”

Tulley stuck the envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket. “Worth looking into.” He nudged the small, silver foil-wrapped box on the seat between them. “Gift for Debra? Where do you get the funds to entertain your lady friend on a cop’s salary?”

“Bureau coffers. Debra likes baubles.” He snorted. “Expensive, gaudy trinkets. Carson and I meet as needed off Rez. Usually at The Wagon Wheel. That’s where Erin and I—” He lowered his gaze.

“When’s your mother coming back?”

He sighed, grateful for Tulley’s change of topic. “In the next week or so. Lydia and the baby are doing fine. Mom’s chomping at the bit to get back to her stones. Full of ideas for new designs as usual.”

Tulley laughed. “And for her baby boy, too, I bet.”

He rolled his eyes. “Uncle Johnny’s been shooting off his mouth about my new bilágaana friend.”

“I take it he doesn’t mean Debra Bartelli.”

“Hardly. Debra is Uncle Johnny’s worst nightmare for me.”

Tulley cleared his throat. “Your mom’s not the only one chomping at the bit. Erin really wants to go back to her house.”

“No way. It’s not safe. Not with Debra and her hoodlums on the loose.”

Tulley held up his hand. “Maybe you should clue Erin in on the facts of your undercover work. At least, some of it. Like the reasons for your involvement with Debra Bartelli.”

He shook his head. “NTK. Need-To-Know. Erin doesn’t need to know. Her face is like a mirror. If she knew . . . One little slip in front of Debra could end her life, mine, and a host of others.”

“But, man, having her think the worst of you . . .”

He gulped. “Can’t be helped. Safer for her and better for me to stay away from her.”

Tulley patted his trim waistline. “Well, I got to say it’s the best guard dog duty I’ve ever pulled. She keeps me well supplied with pastry. And sweet tea.”

Adam shot a look at his best friend.

Had there been something in his tone when he spoke of Erin? Something more than doing a favor for Adam? Something he should be worried about?

Adam’s gut clenched.

Like he had any right to worry or even have an opinion about Erin’s love life.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat at the thought of Erin and Tulley together . . .

Couldn’t be helped. Tulley was a good man. Exactly the kind of man a girl like Erin Dawson deserved. Steady. Reliable. Dependable. Pure.

Unlike him.

“When do you think this is going to end, my friend?”

Adam dragged his thoughts away from what could never be to what was his reality. “My informant promises soon. The location of the meth lab. And he got wind that a major powwow was happening in the next few weeks. Melendez actually setting foot on the Rez to confer with Debra.”

“Round ’em all up at once, huh?”

He nodded. “That’s the plan. Just got to hold on a little longer.”

“Don’t know how you keep it up day after day with that woman. Without God as your—”

“Save it.” Adam gripped the wheel. “I’ve got everything under control. Don’t need your white God’s help. This is a Rez problem and this Rez Indian will deal with it.”

Tulley frowned. “What do you mean by that? I see how tightly strung you are. How stressed. Like a bowstring so taut, one little pluck, and I’m afraid you’re going to break. If you don’t believe the Bible, then believe an English poet. No man is an island, dude. We all need help. You’ve got some wrong-headed Messiah complex—”

“I can handle Debra. I can handle exposing the drug cartel and stopping the distribution of poison on the People’s land. I will bring back the harmony and balance.”

“You?” Tulley’s nostrils flared. “What makes you think you’re so special? Who do you think you are? Superman? There’s already been one Messiah come. And you’re.” Tulley jabbed his finger in the air. “Not. Him.”

Adam bristled. “You. Erin. Johnny. Stop preaching at me.”

“We love you, man. Can’t you tell? We’re concerned you’re going to do something that seems right at the time to your mind and to your agenda. But something you’ll have to live with the consequences of for the rest of your life. Something there’s no going back from. What makes you so sure you can handle Debra?”

Adam narrowed his eyes to slits, fixing Tulley with a steely glare. “Whatever it takes. Whatever I have to do, I will.”

Tulley opened the cab door and slid out. He closed it, gently against the frame. “Contrary to the prevalent bilágaana”—he spat the word—“worldview, the end never justifies the means.”

A resigned sadness shadowed his angular face. “Maybe you’re right about Erin. You’ve got nothing good to offer anyone right now. I won’t stop praying for you, brother. But maybe it is better for Erin if you stay away from her. Forever.”