CHAPTER TWO

 

 

Ben Pecos had chosen to drive from Chicago. Hindsight had proved that to be foolish, but who could have known the temperatures would reach record peaks across the Midwest in June and that vapor lock would stalk him from St. Louis to Albuquerque. His belongings could have been shipped. He could have braved the separation. It wasn’t like he had bonded with the thirty-five cartons of books, box of kitchen “things,” another box of bathroom “things,” a broom, a cantankerous Hoover, two sets of bed linen and assorted clothing.

There wasn’t a lot that defined his existence—maybe the storyteller, the clay doll that sat holding the eager child with an upturned face. It was a sample of his mother’s best work done when she was sober, a few months before she died. He had turned four that summer. His grandmother had let him be adopted by Mormons. She thought it would be the best for him. And, who was to say it wasn’t? So, this trip was another homecoming. This time to pay back Indian Health Service for his education. 

It could have been worse. He could have been assigned to a reservation in Montana or Oklahoma. This way he was only a hundred miles from his mother’s Pueblo, maybe another fifty miles from Albuquerque. He’d be the psychologist for the Hawikuh tribe in western New Mexico for two years, longer if he wanted.

To someone who didn’t know New Mexico, it was difficult to explain how the landscape could differ so completely within a few short miles of a neighboring state. But he knew exactly—before the Welcome sign—that he was home. And he did consider New Mexico that. Mountains emptied into deserts, wooded areas gave way to cultivated fields, mesas loomed at the edge of canyons—and somewhere in the Tewa Pueblo, his mother had buried his umbilical cord, assuring he’d always return.

Interstate 40 from Albuquerque toward Grants and Bluewater passed in the shadow of Mt. Taylor. Black boulders of volcanic ash lined the highway for some fifteen miles, a testament to prehistoric devastation. Then the flat land gently rose, pulling the highway up and through low hills and rocky embankments. The farther west he got, mesas seemed to pop up, red sides steep but with a dusting of greenery. And the sky was a backdrop—startling blue filled with mound upon mound of cumulus clouds.

The interstate was fast. Eighteen wheelers, piggy-back transports, and campers crowded almost bumper to bumper, but no one was doing under eighty. At least, there was a break in the weather. By the time he had picked up Highway 53 out of Grants, the temperature dipped to a respectable ninety-four and continued to drop as he entered the sparsely wooded Cibola National Forest. It seemed to qualify as a ‘forest’ only in spots where pines, juniper, piñon, or desert cyprus thickly spread to block the sun. But these clumps were randomly spaced. More than one two-story pine hovered by the side of the road without a companion.

The temperature fell to an almost brisk seventy-three as he crossed the Continental Divide and continued to climb. The rocky edifice of El Morro loomed in the distance, vaulting some two hundred feet straight up from the fields. Some day he’d visit the information booth and view the signatures of Spanish explorers from the 1600s, but not today. 

He was looking for a boarding house about five miles from the village and, rounding a curve, he abruptly braked. There it was. This had to be it, but the boarding house looked out of place—a big rambling Victorian with wrap-around screened porch whose bric-a-brac in salmon and yellow stood out against the sage green of its clapboard sides. The paint job was fresh. They might not be his choice of colors, but the house looked cared for. He pulled up at the end of the drive and sat a moment.

Maybe it was the surroundings that threw him. Someone had carved a niche out of the woods some two hundred feet from the highway, and to the right of the house was a trading post and convenience store. Behind that, almost hidden in the trees, was a small mobile home with attached shed. It was a miniature community about five miles from the reservation proper.

He slipped the pickup into gear and eased his way toward the house. When he had agreed to take this position with Indian Health Service, someone in Albuquerque had suggested his rooming at Hannah Rawlings’ place. He might have preferred living closer in but, for now, it would do. He’d have plenty of time to make a move later.

He parked the truck in front of a brick path which led to the front porch, but it was difficult to tell front from back because of the darkness of the screening—yards of grayness that loomed above him. A scruffy, yellow Lab lumbered to his feet from under a large cottonwood behind the trading post, took a look and sprawled out on his side again. Must have decided it’d take too much energy to make friends, Ben thought. 

The place looked deserted. Yet, he had the oddest feeling that he was being watched as he stepped from the truck and started up the walk. From the porch? He couldn’t tell. Surely Hannah wasn’t going to be the type of little old person who spied on her boarders. Nonetheless, it was difficult to suppress a shiver. His grandmother would say someone had walked on his grave.

“You must be Dr. Pecos.” The screened door whined open, and the closeness of the voice startled him. 

“Yes. Hannah Rawlings?” 

The woman stepped through the door and stood on the top step. At first, Ben thought she was an albino, silver-blond hair, eyebrows and eyelashes almost too light to show up against pale skin; her body, neck to wrists to ankles, was covered by a cotton dress. But the eyes were blue, an icy, deep azure, and he thought of the puppy he’d wanted to keep, but his uncle had looked into those same eyes and called it a “chicken killer.” 

And she didn’t seem to be embarrassed by staring at him openly, a hand shading those penetrating eyes. She loomed above him, blocking the door. He felt awkward, but he had started to take another step up, holding out his hand, when suddenly something grabbed his ankle throwing him off-balance.

Ben jerked forward, arms flailing in the air before he landed hard—the palms of both hands stung from striking the top step’s edge. His right shin bone smarted with the promise of a bruise. It had happened lightning fast. The rough hand that had thrown him still grasped his ankle—a hand that had shot out from between the slats at the back of the steps and belonged to someone hiding under the porch. 

All Ben could see were creased, suntanned fingers, dark brown with nails bitten to expose a soft pink cuticle streaked with dirt. The stubby fingers and square palm connected to a thick, sturdy wrist. Still pinioned, Ben squatted to see its owner and found himself eye to eye with a troll. At least that was the first word that came to mind. Scabs dotted the hairline of his shaved head, and freckles melded in patches to give him spotty color on his cheeks and across his nose. It took very little imagination to think of a creature who lived under bridges and probably porches, a creature to scare children but who had done a pretty good job of doing just that to him.

He stared, and the crouched owner of a slack jaw and bland expression didn’t flinch. Just returned his stare, then said, “My toad gone. He there. No there now.” The voice, stilted and sing-songy, had the whisper of a lisp.

Ben looked at the step. What was he talking about? What toad? It must be “gone” because he didn’t see anything. Ben had expected to see a child under the porch, but the pair of watery blue eyes that stared back at him from the darkness belonged to a much bigger individual. This boy is almost grown, he thought. He’s big enough for serious harm, if he decided to do more than trip people on the steps.

Suddenly, the boy stuck his other hand through the slats, and opened his fist to show a perfectly carved toad fetish in amber.

“That’s a handsome fellow. You better be careful or he might try to escape again,” Ben said.

This time there were giggles, and Ben felt the pressure on his ankle release.

“Harold, this is Dr. Pecos. Can you come out and say hello?” She waited a moment then added, “My son is shy.”

Son? This hunched figure under the porch belongs to the landlady? The only thing they seemed to have in common were those arresting blue eyes. How odd that there were no excuses, no apologies for Ben’s fall—just a simple he’s “shy.” Ben waited, but thought any further exchanges with Harold probably wouldn’t occur any time soon.

“Harold is a special child. He won’t bother you. He’s just curious.” Hannah turned abruptly and motioned for Ben to follow. 

The hallway was cool. That was one thing the porch did—besides provide Harold with a hiding place—keep the house comfortable in the summer. Ben didn’t even hear the sound of a swamp cooler. 

“Your rooms are on the first floor at the back behind the kitchen.”

Ben wasn’t certain a reply was necessary; he just followed her. But strangely, Hannah had suddenly become talkative and went on without his offering any encouragement.

“I don’t know what you were expecting. I suppose you’re used to reservations and all. This one’s no different. My husband’s family came out here in 1912 and kept a trading post going through wars and a depression. Well, here’s your place. Those double doors open onto the porch. Kinda gives you extra living space. Private bath ...” She’d stopped to twist an antique brass doorknob that reluctantly turned. “There’s politics in the village and at the clinic. It’s never easy for a newcomer. But, then, that shouldn’t be a surprise.” She stepped aside so he could see the bathroom but not before she had given him another of those thoughtful, sizing-up kind of stares. “You don’t look like someone who’s going to have a problem getting along.” And she smiled, then looked away. The smile almost made her pretty, Ben noticed. Softened the point to her chin, kept her face from seeming so gaunt.

“Oh, I almost forgot. You’ve been getting mail here for the past week. I’ll be right back.”

The quiet allowed him to look around. The first room was a sitting room. A couple bookcases and it would become a study. The room beyond was dominated by a four poster bed with thigh-thick posts in dark walnut. The matching dresser was equally imposing.

“What do you think?” 

He hadn’t heard Hannah return. “It’ll do fine.” He was absently rubbing his shin.

“Mornings you want to join us for breakfast, just give a holler the night before.”

Ben had no idea who “us” might be—Harold and a pocket full of toads, maybe?

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” She handed him a packet of mail neatly trussed with a rubber band and pulled the door shut behind her.

He started to toss the mail on a table, but the letter on top stopped him. He extracted it, looked at the return address but made no move to open it. A breeze pushed through the porch screen, bringing the scent of honeysuckle, and he walked out to view his “extra living space,” the letter still in his hand.

The truth was, he didn’t want to know what was inside. Or maybe he was afraid what he found himself hoping the letter would say wouldn’t be what he’d find. It had been four years since he’d heard from Julie. That was a lot of time—growing up and apart. This was silly, stupid even. Abruptly, he tore away the flap. The note was brief. She was spending some time in Santa Fe on assignment, a series for Good Morning America on Native American symbols. She’d tried to reach him at school to get names of Pueblo people she could interview and found out he’d graduated and was moving back, that he’d be in New Mexico by the time she got there. Did he believe in coincidence? Could he call her? She was staying at the La Fonda on the plaza. Maybe they could get together.

Ben checked the postmark. She’d be arriving tomorrow, a week after she’d written the note. He pulled up a wicker arm chair and sat facing the panoramic view of the woods but couldn’t keep Julie’s face from floating across his vision—red hair, freckles, dark brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when she concentrated.

Did he still care? Yes. Had he had a serious relationship since she left four years ago? No. But then school saw to that. So what were his feelings? Wasn’t he sitting here trying to ignore the excitement that had leaped up unexpectedly when he saw her handwriting? An excitement he didn’t trust, maybe was afraid to? Would he call? And if he did, what did he expect would happen?

“Join us for dinner?” Hannah’s paleness grayed through the screen as she peered up at him, her face dwarfed by a floppy, wide-brimmed, cloth hat. He hadn’t noticed before, but she appeared to be standing in a garden just beyond the porch.

“Yes. Thanks.”

“Six-thirty, then.”

He watched her go back to picking leaves of lettuce and placing them in a colander. All of a sudden, company sounded great. He folded the note and put it in his pocket.

He shouldn’t have worried about missing dinner because someone, probably Harold, struck a gong with enough vigor to wake the dead. Ben had finished moving in, unloaded the boxes of books from the truck, left the hotplate boxed after reading the list of “don’ts” posted on the bathroom door, hung his clothes in the closet, and placed the storyteller on the faux mantle. Home. His life had a “just add water and stir” quality. And he was still a long way from anything permanent.

With a prick of conscience, he thought that that was why Julie wasn’t with him or he with her. They were two strong-willed individuals who had put careers first. But he was going to be thirty-one in August. Did that make a difference? Was it time to think differently? 

He followed the sound of talking and found the dining room. No one among the twenty-odd people was seated yet. Harold towered behind what was evidently “his place” folding and unfolding his arms, his gangly body almost too much for him to control. Probably had just gone through a growth-spurt and was relearning control, Ben thought. 

Harold was the bumbling, beefy sort. An oversized T-shirt, the football insignia now unreadable from many washings, covered but didn’t disguise a massive set of shoulders—even rounded as they were and sloped forward. His head and neck pushed away and out and gave him a stooped look—a turtle poking out from its shell, frozen in bland inquisitiveness, red-rimmed eyes blinking repeatedly. 

The shaved head added to the turtle image, but Ben supposed exposed skin was easier to take care of. Tufts of straw-colored stubble popped up between scabby sores only to be glued flat by a yellow, probably medicating, salve. There was every possibility that a recent infection caused the broken skin. He should wear a stocking cap, Ben thought, at least at the table. As if he knew Ben was thinking about him, Harold made some attempt to wave, but then Ben guessed he had been wrong when Harold’s other arm shot out from his body before falling back to dangle by his side. 

Two plank picnic tables had been pushed together end-to-end, their knotty pine roughness sanded and varnished to a mirror slickness. No tablecloth or place mats diminished the shine. A large vase of orange and pink zinnias sat on a doily in the middle of each table. Cutlery was wrapped in a napkin and bundled on a tray at the end of the second table next to a stack of plates. Only Harold had dinnerware in place. His was enamel on tin, a speckled white on blue, deep dish plate and squat cup that made one think of going camping. 

Hannah, looking flushed from the heat of the kitchen, motioned everyone to sit. At a distance, she looked like a teenager, Ben thought, decidedly pretty, with the hint of rosy cheeks and damp hair curling around her face.

“I’ll hand off things from this corner. Help yourselves across the table.” Hannah left a pitcher of ice water and returned to the kitchen.

Ben copied the line in front of him, picking up a place service before he sat down. Ben was beginning to see why Harold was seated at what would be the end of the food line. Long before the heaping dishes and platters reached him, he was banging his cup on the table and no matter what was left, he dumped it all on his plate and mashed and stirred until potatoes and roast and gravy and lime Jell-O salad melded into one mass. Ben felt a little guilty that he was glad to be sitting at the first table.

Most of the people in the room seemed to be part of Hannah’s bed-and-breakfast trade, travelers passing through after a day or two on the reservation, taking advantage of what was supposed to be the best home-cooked meal within miles. He’d seen a bus parked alongside the trading post. But some of the people probably boarded there, too. It was hard to tell. They all had that madras-bright, too-new jeans look of well heeled transients. Some of the group exposed knobby bent knees and the bluing of varicose veins with Bermuda shorts. But it was the men’s argyles, socks with cuffs pulled straight up and worn with sandals, which gave the group “tourist” flavor. 

“So, you’re a psychologist?” The questioner was a seventyish woman who sat next to him.

“Yes.” Ben handed off the plate of rolls covered with a red checkered cloth. 

“It seems so strange to me, I mean, that you would even need to be out here. I can’t think that Indians would have the same problems that the rest of us have. And wouldn’t they prefer to have their own people cast spells, exorcise their demons—or whatever they do?” Reaching for the salt, the elderly woman leaned across Ben. “A handsome, young man like you should work where there’s some wife material—not hide away out here in nowhere land among strangers.” 

“Ben is Indian.” This from Hannah as she began filling glasses with iced tea. “His people live east of here.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ... it’s just that you don’t look very ... your skin isn’t as dark as mine.” The elderly woman seemed truly flustered as she put a tanned arm next to his.

“My father was Anglo.” Ben left out the ‘probably’ that would only compound the confusion. Instead, he gave her an all-is-forgiven smile and geared up to discuss problems shared by both populations. Public relations. Isn’t that what his advisor would call it, a little PR to inform the masses?

Dinner was pleasant enough. He’d been popular. There were curious questions, not malicious, just an honest quest for knowledge. Hannah announced a break of forty-five minutes before dessert and coffee. Some left the table to smoke, dragging chairs into a semicircle on the screened-in porch. But all promised to return for freshly baked cherry cobbler.

Ben watched as Harold carried his plate to the kitchen, then didn’t return. The boy was a puzzle. Or should he say man? Ben thought he’d be over six foot if he stood straight. That was a pretty big “boy”—only an inch or two shorter than Ben. Clinical curiosity on his part, Ben thought, but he might question Hannah sometime, get a little background when the time seemed right. Ben picked up his own plate and pushed through the double doors that opened off the dining area. 

The kitchen was one of those farm-big rooms with a commercial stove and oven in one corner next to an industrial-sized refrigerator. There was an oak island in the center with four high-backed stools and an old fashioned round table in an alcove or breakfast nook surrounded by windows that faced the forest from the back of the room. The Indian man eating at the table was someone Ben hadn’t seen before. In his forties somewhere, maybe fifties—it was hard to tell. He was handsome with high cheekbones and angular nose. One of those who would take on the look of a venerable elder early in life. 

Hannah was busy spooning cobbler into rainbow-hued dishes on the counter next to the sink. 

“Salvador. I want you to meet someone. This is Ben Pecos. He’s going to be working at the clinic. He works with crazy people. Has he come to the right place, or what?” Hannah gave a short laugh, almost sounded exasperated, Ben thought. Should he say something, soften her description of his work? He looked toward the table. The man didn’t actually look up, just bobbed his head and reached for a bowl of mashed potatoes. Because of her slightly raised voice, Ben thought the man might be deaf.

“Shy.” Hannah gestured toward the man. “Won’t talk unless he absolutely has to. And he hates it when I won’t call him Sal. But he knows I abhor nicknames.” Hannah took a swipe at a strand of hair that had escaped the rubber band at the nape of her neck and continued to talk like Sal wasn’t there but loud enough so that he couldn’t miss a word. “He embarrassed me this morning, ran out of the trading post like something bit him. And what was I to do? Try to explain some crotchety old Indian to a busload of tourists?”

Ben couldn’t tell if this was playful goading by two old friends or something more serious. Was Hannah upset? He wasn’t going to get the chance to find out because the man rose, put two slabs of roast beef between the halves of a hard roll and left by the back door. Ben watched as he disappeared into the dusk.

“You’ll get used to him. Or him to you.” Hannah was setting bowls of cobbler onto two large metal serving trays. “He helps out around here. Harold considers him his best friend.”

Well, that was in the man’s favor. Harold probably didn’t have a lot of friends or male role models. Ben helped Hannah clear the dishes from the dining room table and load the dessert trays. He filled the coffee maker with fresh grounds and added water before he carried cups, saucers and spoons to a sideboard. He didn’t mind helping. And Hannah could use it. She seemed genuinely touched that he’d offer.

Eventually, somewhere from the hall the gong summoned everyone back for the last course. It wasn’t any less loud the second time, Ben noted as the sound hummed in his ears.

Everyone seemed relaxed and continued chatting and milling around the large room with stone fireplace at one end for another ten minutes until Hannah motioned for them to return to the table. Each place now had clean salad forks and spoons.

“Where’s Bernard?” A small elderly woman with blue-white hair seemed reluctant to take her place at the table.

“In the john, probably,” a man offered as he pulled out a chair across the table from her.

The woman sat down next to Ben but seemed reluctant to start without Bernard. “He was out petting that dog. He misses our little Rocky. At home, we have a Yorkshire Terrier, just the cutest bit of a thing. The two of them do everything together. Could you check in the bathroom? He’s probably washing his hands.” She peevishly pleaded with the man. “He’s been gone over fifteen minutes.”

Was this what it was like when you got older? Not letting each other out of your sight? Each worried that something might happen? Ben wondered.

“Aw, Delores, give it a rest. Maybe he’s hiding from you.”

Only the man found this hilariously funny.

“It’s not funny. He’s been diagnosed with ... with ...” She broke down in sobs. 

Ben guessed that she was going to say Alzheimer’s.

“I’ll go.” Ben surprised himself. He knew he was reacting to the stress of the elderly woman, but the man across the table struck him as needlessly unkind. He pushed back from the table. The elderly woman whispered “thank you” then placed a saucer over his cobbler to keep it warm. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long to find the errant Bernard.

The bathrooms were in the hall about halfway between the front door and his rooms. He could see before he got to it that the door of the men’s was standing open. And there was Harold with toilet paper stuck to his hand and his fly open.

“Hello, Harold. Maybe we should wash those hands before you go back for dessert.” Ben turned Harold toward the sink and turned on the tap. “Let’s use some soap on these guys.” Ben lathered up the heart-shaped guest bar and handed it to Harold before he rinsed his own hands. “Better not catch a chill.” Ben pointed to Harold’s fly and noticed the drying spots on the crotch of his chinos. It would be a challenge to have a child like this.

“Keep lizard warm.” Harold zipped up, then patted his crotch before drying his hands so that two new stains stood out sharply—one stretching almost to his knee.

Ben smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Better hurry. Someone just might eat your cherry cobbler.” 

Ben stepped back into the hall. A quick look up, then down confirmed that no one else was there, so he headed for the front door. Should he check the bus? Maybe the man had gone back to get something. The hydraulic door was open, and Ben stepped up into the passenger well beside the driver’s area. He stood a moment checking the seats. Nothing. No one was in the bus, but to make certain, Ben quickly walked the length of the aisle before hopping back down onto the driveway. What next?

Dusk made it difficult to see clearly. With any luck, the old duffer was back by now. He had just turned toward the house when he thought he saw movement by the trailer. He paused. Maybe he was mistaken. He didn’t see anything now. But it wouldn’t hurt to check. Ben waited another moment, then started in that direction breaking into a trot to cover the fifty or so yards quickly.

The trailer was dark and, other than a light breeze and the chirping of what was probably frogs, there was no sound. Then he heard it, a faint cry for help. Ben sprinted around the front of the trailer and almost tripped over the old man sitting on the ground hunched over a body.

“Bernard?” Ben squatted beside him. There was no indication that he recognized his name. “Let me take a look at your friend.” 

Ben eased the body onto its back. At first, Ben thought it was the man in the kitchen, Sal something-or-other. Had Hannah given a last name? The yard light in back of the trading post did little to clearly illuminate the area, but the man was dressed like Sal, white shirt and stiff jeans. They would both be about the same height, dark-skinned—only this man was probably a Middle-Easterner. Yet, it was odd. The corpse was stiff as a board, dead long enough for rigor mortis to have set in.

He squatted to peer at the man’s face. The bruising was apparent even in bad light. Then Ben jerked upright and gasped. He swallowed a couple times before squatting again beside the body and continued to stare at the top of the man’s head. There was no skin across the frontal lobe. A chunk as big as a man’s fist had been ripped away—no, cut away—this was not the work of an animal. The skin had been pulled forward, separated from the bone, then sliced along the hairline. The man had been scalped.

Blood oozed from the wound in a solitary trickle above his ear. The scalping hadn’t killed him. The cut was fresh, probably done within the hour. If Ben’s guess was right, some twenty-four hours after death. A brownish stain down the front of the man’s shirt suggested a stab wound.

“I don’t think he’s moving.” Bernard leaned over Ben’s shoulder. “What should we do?”

Ben rose and guided Bernard away from the body. “We need to get back inside and call the police.”

 

+ + +

 

The tribal police were prompt. They were the closest— coming out the five miles from the village. Law enforcement out here was more about helping those who needed help and worrying about jurisdictions later, Ben thought. That could be sorted out when it was determined if there had been a murder and where it might have occurred. Right now, there was just a body with a chunk of scalp missing. And if it could be proved that there had been no foul play, wasn’t it still against some law to deface the dead? Ben wasn’t sure. 

Hannah had gathered everyone in what she called “the parlor.” An old-fashioned word but one that suited the big room, which held a grand piano in one corner against a backdrop of oval walnut frames circling photos of stiff, bearded men standing beside women in long black dresses. Two couples stood in front of a one-room building with Trading Post written across a five-foot-high marquis—evidence that the Rawlings had been there for some time.

“I know how upsetting this must be,” a young tribal policeman was saying. “It is very unusual for a crime to happen this close to our reservation, especially a death with such unusual circumstances.”

They had been waiting over an hour in the stuffy parlor. Hannah had offered seconds on cobbler but there were no takers. And now the cop was saying that a crime had been committed. Ben didn’t find this very reassuring. The officer was speaking to a roomful of pretty spooked tourists—some of whom probably had preconceived ideas about Indians in the first place and didn’t need a scalping to verify them.

But he made a nice appearance. His thick black hair was trimmed razor-smooth almost to the occipital with only the front long enough to stand upright. The tan uniform was neat, starched and pressed with perfect trouser pleats. But there was the beginning of a slight roll above the belt, that telltale bulge that hints of a too sedentary life of fast foods. The real badge of most law enforcement officers, Ben thought, unless they were careful.

“My partner will take statements from each of you. This is strictly routine. Give your name, address—yes, where you can be reached after the tour—and a brief accounting of where you were during the break between dinner and dessert. I want to know if anyone saw anything—even if you think if can’t be helpful, let us be the judge. I promise this won’t take long. I thank each of you for your cooperation.”

Even amid the obvious distress, the young man was thoughtful and exacting. He was young enough, looked like mid-twenties, to have gone for training off the res. Ben thought he’d probably had a dose of Psych 101. 

But he didn’t seem to be as gentle with the morose Sal, who remained in the kitchen and made the young interrogator go to him.

“You the new Doc?” Ben walked beside the officer down the hall.

“News gets around fast.”

“Hey, it’s the res. I’m Tommy Spottedhorse. Sorry this had to be the first impression of your new home.”

“Spottedhorse?” Odd name for this part of the country, Ben thought.

“Mom was a rodeo groupie. About the time I came along, she split with her bronc rider but tossed his name my way.”

The grin was genuine. Ben knew he was going to like this man.

“Were you telling the truth in there a minute ago about how this sort of thing doesn’t happen very often out here?”

“Yeah. First homicide this close to the res since I was in the mission school.” He paused. “Just in case you were going to say something smart, that’s been a year or two. I’m twenty- four.” He grinned. 

“But homicide? Are you saying the man was killed where we found him?”

“No, couldn’t find any evidence of that. It looks like he was killed somewhere else and the body was stuffed under Sal’s trailer. About the only thing I could tell for sure tonight is that the body has been lying face down for at least twenty-four hours. Liver mortis. It accounts for all the discoloration in the face. Cells break down, die off and blood settles to the side of the body against a hard surface.”

Ben was impressed.

“I guess the question is how did one person drag the body out from under the trailer and leave it where the tourist found it. It wouldn’t have been easy.”

“You think two people were involved?”

Tommy shrugged his shoulders. “After you.” He pushed the kitchen door open and followed Ben into the room.

Sal sat at the oak table and didn’t look up.

Tommy took a chair facing Sal and motioned for Ben to join them.

“I’d like to question the two of you together—establish time of discovery. Sal, I need to know your whereabouts when the tourist was calling for help. Ben, how ’bout you starting.”

Ben retold his part of searching for the tourist’s husband, of thinking he saw something or someone move by the trailer, of hearing a cry for help and going to investigate, and finding the tourist bending over the body.

“And, Sal, where were you during this time?”

At first Ben thought Sal wasn’t going to answer. But even if it took awhile, Tommy wouldn’t break the silence. It was the Indian way. Sal was an elder, maybe a relative on his mother’s side. It would be difficult policing the place where you grew up.

“In the trailer.”

“Tell me what you heard.”

This time, instead of answering, Sal took his hearing aid out of his pocket, showed it to Tommy then slipped it back into his shirt.

“Hearing aid not in.” Tommy interpreted and made a note on his pad. 

“Let’s start with the discovery of the body. Can you help me out, Sal, with why the body was behind your trailer?”

Still staring at the table top, Sal shook his head.

“For that matter, Can you give me a reason why the tourist was out there? Had you ever seen this man before? Or his wife?” Ben thought Sal flinched. “Let’s see,” Tommy consulted his pad, “someone reported that you had been rude to the wife earlier in the day. That so?”

“She wanted a rabbit.”

“I see.”

Ben didn’t, but he knew enough to question Tommy later and not show his ignorance now.

“Let’s go back to Ahmed. What kind of relationship did you have with him? He ever buy your work?”

“Sometimes. Not for awhile.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Now, Ben knew it wasn’t his imagination. Sal blanched and looked away. He was pretty sure Tommy noticed Sal’s reaction, too.

“Maybe two weeks.”

“And maybe not?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It might help you to work on that memory of yours. I think it’s safe to say after a preliminary investigation, the tourist simply discovered the body by accident. There is no indication that he was involved other than that. We have no idea why he was wandering around behind your trailer, but it’s been reported that his thinking may not always be clear. Ahmed, however, is a different story. Here we have a clear case of murder—murder and disfigurement by removal of hair and skin covering the man’s frontal lobe.”

It would be easier to just say scalping, Ben thought. But Tommy already had a penchant for the legalese required in most court reports.

“I don’t know how you figure in all this, Sal—or even if you do. I just don’t want you disappearing. We clear on that?”

Sal continued to look at the floor but reluctantly nodded.

“While we’re here, we probably need to take a look around. I don’t have a warrant, but I’d like to check the trailer and the shed out behind.”

But if he found evidence would the search be legal? Ben’s train of thought was interrupted by an emphatic, “No.” This time Sal was visibly upset.

“What do you mean, no? What are you so afraid I’ll find? What do you keep in that old shed anyway?”

“Tools. Some carvings. Not much of value to anyone but me.”

“It won’t hurt to take a peek. I don’t want any more bodies showing up.”

“No need. I looked. Everything was okay.”

“It won’t take us a minute. We’ll just take a quick inventory. Maybe we’ll find an old knife. Something about the size that got poked into Ahmed in the first place.”

Sal was anxious, more than edgy, Ben thought. He watched him play with a thread sticking up from his cuff. Finally, wetting thumb and forefinger, he curled it back to lie flat.

“Something I noticed that might be important ...”

Tommy focused his attention on Ben. With annoyance? Ben thought there was just a shade of something for letting Sal off the hook, diverting the discussion. 

“What’s that?”

“You know at first I thought the dead man was Mr. Zuni. I mean they look somewhat alike. The trader was wearing a white shirt and jeans same as Mr. Zuni is now. They’re approximately the same height, hair long, coloring just a shade different. It could be that—”

“Anyone out gunning for you, Sal? That you know of, that is?” Tommy swung abruptly back to Sal.

Sal shrugged, not a yes, not a no, and returned to pick at his sleeve. 

Tommy laughed. “Maybe, you put the horns on someone.”

This Ben recognized as the old way of saying cuckolded, but it was difficult to imagine this dark slight man sneaking around with anyone’s wife.

“One thing seems sure, you had a crowd of peeping toms out there tonight. Footprints all over the place under the trailer windows—front and back. Two sets of prints are pretty clear. One matches the victim, and if that coating of dirt on your Ropers is any indication, I’d bet one set is yours. What are the chances that if you rethink this a little bit, you’ll remember that you were out there tonight after all?” 

Sal sat stone faced, even the fraying cuff was forgotten. “I’ve told you all I know.”

“For some reason, I’m not real sure about that.” Tommy reached in his pocket. “This yours?” Tommy held a heavy padlock in his hand. “Twisted off the door to that shed, most likely. I’m surprised you didn’t see it earlier.”

Sal looked up quickly and reached for the lock. There was real alarm in his eyes, Ben thought.

“I better check my tools.”

No “are we finished?” or “can I go now?” Sal simply pushed back from the table and stood, then rushed out the door.

“I thought you said you’d already checked. Maybe you need some help?” Tommy yelled after him, but he was grinning. In all likelihood, Tommy had already been in the shed but wanted to bait him, Ben decided. “Don’t go too far away, in case I need to find you.” But it was doubtful Sal had heard as the screen door banged behind him.

Tommy sat at the table opposite Ben, made another notation in his notebook, then leaned back.

“I’m not sure how Sal figures in all this. It’s tough to think he’d kill someone. I’ve known him since I was a child. It’s more likely someone was trying to set him up—dump the body by his trailer, implicate him. But why? Still, I have to keep an open mind. Sometimes that’s the hardest part about being a cop—in your home territory.” Tommy ran a hand through his bristle-straight hair. “You know? ’Bout the worst thing Sal does is bang the landlady once in awhile.”

“The landlady?” That was a shock. Ben was trying to imagine Hannah and Sal in the throes of passion. It was difficult.

“So they say. But you know how people talk. Sal moved out here to the trading post shortly after her old man died.” Tommy was flipping through the pages of his note pad. He stopped, read for a moment, then looked up. “Tell me what you know about .22?”

“Twenty-two?”

Tommy explained Harold’s nickname then pressed on, “I guess I’m wondering if this kind of bizarre killing, the scalping and all, could have been done by a kid like .22.” Tommy paused to make a circular motion with his index finger pointed at his head. “He could have dragged the body from under the trailer. He’s big enough to wrestle a grizzly.”

“True. But what reason would he have?” Ben thought of being tripped on the steps. That was a childish prank, not murder. He didn’t see Harold as malicious. He was more of a gentle giant.

“I dunno, crazy or something, maybe he wouldn’t need one. Isn’t that your specialty?”

“Are you asking me for a diagnosis?”

“Naw, not really. Just thinking out loud.” Tommy stood. “If I have any more questions, I’ll catch you at the clinic. I’m sure you’ll hear from me.”

It was almost midnight before Tommy and the other officer pulled out. Understandably, the busload of tourists had left first. They would spend a couple nights in Gallup. The body of the trader was taken by hospital van to the Office of the Medical Investigator in Albuquerque. What a puzzle. A scalping. The brutality of it was numbing.

+ + +

 

Sal sat at the fold-down table in his trailer. He’d made instant coffee with tap water but couldn’t drink it. He watched as a glop of brackish-looking scum adhered itself to his spoon. He walked to the sink and poured the liquid down the drain, then swished water around the porcelain to make certain there were no leftovers to stain. 

He should go to bed, but he wouldn’t sleep, not after what had happened. Why hadn’t he called Tommy last night? Or told him tonight that he’d seen Ahmed’s body on the hood of his truck down by the river? Sal knew why—Hannah. She wouldn’t want him to. It would raise too many questions. They had to be careful because of the amber. He might make the stuff, but she sold it. And that made both of them implicated in wrongdoing. And he couldn’t do that to Hannah, take a chance on getting her in trouble.

And how could he explain that the body had somehow managed to follow him home? Wouldn’t he have to have a pretty good explanation? And who would believe him when he said he knew for a fact it was Atoshle? That he had seen the great kachina go past his window carrying the body ... No, he wouldn’t be believed. Silence was better, safer. 

 

+ + +

 

“You know, in the old days, they even had a scalp house.”

Hannah sat across from Ben at the kitchen table. The clock in the hall had just struck twelve. She’d offered him a cup of tea that tasted like mint. They were both too wide awake to go to bed. 

“A what?” Ben thought he hadn’t heard her correctly.

“It’s true. There was a guardian, a scalp chief, and an elaborate ceremony when an enemy scalp was brought back to the village.”

“Was that often?”

“Maybe not too often, but I remember my husband’s father talking about it. Seems there was a certain amount of sexual license practiced during the celebration. I was always intrigued.” One corner of Hannah’s mouth turned up in a wry smile.

It was difficult to think of this angular woman as being interested in sex; she seemed so “contained,” Ben thought, but what had Tommy said about Sal?

“The scalp was placed on a pole and dances were held round-the-clock,” Hannah continued. “Later the scalp would be washed. But this part of the ritual had to be done at a place where the water wouldn’t flow back into a stream that people might drink from. Contamination with the dead brings death, as you probably know.” 

She was looking at him expectantly. Was this a good time to confess about not being very Indian? Not knowing the ceremonies of his own tribe, let alone others. Ben could hear the admonishments of his grandmother.

“After watching you with the deceased earlier, I don’t think you believe that way.” Hannah poured milk into her tea and offered him the plastic pitcher. 

“I was adopted at four by Mormons. I only spent summers on the reservation.”

“Figures.”

Ben didn’t ask her what she meant. He still wasn’t at ease with this woman.

“Too bad the murder had to be discovered here,” Ben said.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe, I should have T-shirts made. First excitement we’ve had in a while.”

Was she being sarcastic? Ben didn’t know. It was hard to figure her. Could she really be thinking of capitalizing on this tragedy? He pushed back from the table. Tomorrow was his first day at work. He needed some rest.

“I’ll skip breakfast.”

Hannah nodded but didn’t look up. She was staring fixedly in front of her, lost in thought as she took small sips of tea. The scent of mint floated around her. Some of the bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling must also be mint, Ben thought. The odor was so pungent.

Ben continued out into the hall that led to his room. He had almost passed the staircase before he saw Harold huddled, arms around the bannister.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t do.” The young man was visibly shaken. His eyes seemed to plead with Ben and fastened unblinking on Ben’s face, as he moved to sit beside Harold on the stairs. Harold’s leg twitched spasmodically gently thumping against the wood.

“What don’t you do?” 

Harold made a quick slicing cut with stiff, straight fingers across the top of his head. 

“I know that.”

“I go there.”

What was he talking about? The police had been over this with Harold earlier in the evening, but it seemed like he had more to say.

“Did you see something?”

“You no tell?”

Ben found himself making a sign that vaguely resembled something he thought a scout would do.

“You come. We go find.” Harold stood looking at him expectantly. 

Ben listened for Hannah in the kitchen. Shouldn’t she be the one to handle this—whatever it was her son wanted? But she had turned on the tap at the kitchen sink. It ran for awhile. Then there was nothing. No sound. He could see light coming from under the door and guessed she must be doing dishes.

Harold was tugging on his hand, pulling him toward the front door. It was too late to change players now. Harold dropped his hand to run on ahead once they had cleared the front steps. He had the short choppy gait of someone neurologically impaired, but he still covered ground amazingly fast. 

The full moon of a couple nights back had shrunk to a lopsided globe, the right side falling away sharply. As Ben stumbled over the brick walk, he regretted not having a flashlight. Wherever they were going, Harold had been there before and had the advantage.

Before he reached the trailer, Harold slowed to a walk and approached from the front. Then he ducked his head under the metal awning over the wide window and looked in.

“Sleep.” He tossed the word over his shoulder and continued to walk hurriedly toward the woods.

Ben assumed he meant Sal. Maybe that’s why he had the honor of being the escort.

Harold had plunged into the brush about one hundred feet to the west of the trailer and deli-mart, and Ben jogged to catch up. Harold was moving quickly, following some kind of path. Not one that was used often, Ben thought as he ducked a branch that had invaded the path’s space. This was more like a trail someone had cut out years ago and didn’t keep up.

The moon’s light was filtered and severely limited by the tall pines—but only in spots. Just when he couldn’t see a thing, the trees thinned to only a cluster of ten-foot piñons. Then sometimes nothing for several yards, just hard-packed sandy soil. Ben tried to estimate how far they’d come. He thought about a half mile, and Harold hadn’t slowed even though Ben could hear his breath coming in raspy gulps. Then Harold stopped. At first, Ben thought he was just trying to catch his breath as he slumped to the ground, and Ben squatted beside him.

But Harold started crawling forward toward a fallen log and pile of brush. He dug away rotting vegetation and pulled out a white sheet and then a mask—one of the wooden masks of the shalako. Ben looked at it closely. He wouldn’t swear to it, but he thought it was a fake, clever, but not real. Yet, the eye slits were precisely carved, a black fringed material was tacked to the lower edge, the portion that would hide the neck. The wood was new, and even in this half light the paint looked shiny—too bright and fresh. This mask had not been used in the winter ceremonies. The question was, what had it been used for?

“No more.”

Harold had been rummaging around in the indentation under the log.

“Were there others?”

Harold looked puzzled. Had he not understood? Ben pointed to the mask and then to the hole. 

“More?” 

“Not now.”

“More yesterday?”

Ben had no idea what word would stand for elapsed time. And for all he knew, Harold might visit the cache daily. But yesterday seemed to work because Harold held up four fingers, his thumb doubled back against his palm.

“Four more?”

Harold nodded and seemed pensive, then he pointed to the mask.

“He did.”

It took Ben a moment to figure out what Harold was saying. 

“What did he do?”

Again, a stiff fingered slice at the hairline. There was no doubt, Harold was telling him that the fake shalako had scalped the trader.

“How do you know?”

“Me know.”

Ben sat back on his heels. He’d run out of questions or, more accurately, Harold had run out of answers. But he believed Harold. The boy was guileless and obviously disturbed by what had happened that evening.

“We need to get some sleep. Let’s go back to the house now.”

“Take?”

“We need to leave these here.” Ben wrapped the mask in the sheet and placed it back in its hiding place. Tommy Spottedhorse needed to find it where they had found it. Not that the hiding place wasn’t disturbed now. Harold’s furious digging had probably erased any clues. But Ben felt uncomfortable removing evidence.

“You tell?”

Ben nodded. “I have to tell. Tomorrow, I’ll call Tommy Spottedhorse.”

Harold hesitated. He seemed uncertain about giving up his find.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Ben said. 

Reluctantly, with Ben’s hand at his elbow, Harold started back toward the house.