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The rain should have come before sunset. The young man sat on the sandy hillside beside the raised body of his mentor, the spirit walker. The night was silent, and distant forks of lightning spoke in muffled cracks behind low clouds. The old man had taught him that where the shafts hit the desert floor, you could find beads of molten gold in roseate quartz. He had not placed much faith in the yellow metal, and now he was gone.
The young man wondered whether all that talk about white man’s treasure had caused his death. From the looks of his hogan, someone had gone to a lot of trouble to be sure no clue about that remained. The old man’s body was face-down on the hogan’s floor, his blood in a still-wet pool. The spirit walker had foreseen his end and given explicit instructions. That is why Wild Eagle knew what to do.
He wrapped the thin, wasted body in an old blanket. The makeshift shroud he had put in the back of his truck with the makings for the scaffold. He drove through the desert and turned east, where no paved road ran up into the Mogollon Range. The old man had once shown him the place from which he would look west over the valley toward the setting sun.
“Everything below once held a still and mighty sea. Now there is no water except for rain. I want my spirit to lie here with the others. Don’t bother to look for them, but they are all around you. When I join them, we will share our views forever.”
Wild Eagle sensed rather than heard a dwarf owl enter its nest hole in an ancient saguaro. He remembered his mentor teaching that there was no owl and no saguaro, only signs. He would never talk about significations, only signs that pointed to them. He lived in a spiritual world but died from knife wounds and a bullet through his head. One day, perhaps, the young man would track down the killer and send him to a reckoning. Now he felt he owed his guide respect.
Watching the storm approach was an exercise in patience. The young man saw the jagged streaks of electricity as legs walking toward him and what was his mentor. Two Feathers they called the old man, and he wore his namesakes in the ball of hair at the back of his scalp. One feather came from a barn owl; the other came from a red-tailed hawk. The walker never talked much about his name, but he was proud. He still wore those feathers when he died. He wore them to his final resting place here on this hill.
The young man took a sip from his plastic water bottle. He looked at the ground where he had spilled the gourds and grain the old man wanted for the afterlife, which he termed “the only life.” Wild Eagle rose and poured a little water over the pile of offerings.
He turned to the old man lying on the scaffold and said, “I don’t believe a word of your spirituality, but I have followed your instructions. I wish you had chosen a true believer instead of me, but you wouldn’t listen, and you didn’t have much time.”
Wild Eagle saw that the marching mass of clouds and lightning had walked halfway across the desert. Soon they would arrive and undo what he had done. Wind and rain would sweep away and drown all vestiges that he and Two Fathers had met. Erasure was the only firm memory he would retain of their bond.
A stray gust of wind blew, rocking the scaffold and raising a corner of the shroud. The young man secured the shroud with an odd piece of string. The wind now continued to build, and he felt the first drops of rain. The sound of thunder was approaching, but his rough math put the center of the storm five miles away. The humidity was rising, and the raindrops fell on his face and hands. He was being washed for his holy service. He held his arms wide and turned slowly in a circle. That is when he thought he saw the Mogollon Man against the lightning’s flash. Huge, it seemed to take in the picture of burial, and then it was gone.
The wind was making the scaffold rock back and forth as Two Feathers said it would do. The young man marveled at how his mentor could see things in the future.
He never bragged about his prescience. “One day, you will learn that the past, the present, and the future are all one thing. Would you wonder about what was happening over your left shoulder now?”
A pair of headlights came toward the hill. Wild Eagle saw only one person in the truck. She had long hair that flew around her face as there was no windscreen. The truck parked alongside his, and the driver stalked up the hillside as if the woman knew all about the burial. Her name was Sudden Quail. She was the old man’s eldest granddaughter and his closest blood relative.
As the wind pressed her clothing against her body, she offered no greeting. “I thought I’d find you here with him. If you don’t mind, I want to say goodbye.”
“Suit yourself, Sudden Quail. If he had any objection, his spirit would have prevented you from coming.”
The young woman went to the scaffold and laid her hands on the body. She bent backward into the wind and opened her mouth to the sky. Wild Eagle thought she might be trying to catch raindrops.
“The sheriff will be looking for you. All that blood in the old man’s hogan suggested foul play. When you have finished here, I suggest that you flee Arizona. Don’t return for a very long time. I’m not saying that you killed him. You loved him too much for that, and he loved you too. Still, their law is not our law. Go, and avoid what is to come.”
She turned and walked up to the young man. She hugged him and whispered, “Thank you for being his friend.” She was tempted to kiss him, but he stood ramrod straight. Her arms fell to her sides. She shook her head and took one last look around. Then she walked back down the hillside to her truck and drove into the storm.
He saw her motions as she walked and liked what he saw. If the old man had one person who might have been his heir, she was that one, but he could not countenance having a female heir. Finally, he had no legacy.
Now the rain was falling in big, fat drops. Wild Eagle could feel his clothing become damp and heavy. Water dripped from his fingertips. The shroud and garments of Two Feathers were causing the scaffold to creak and strain under its load. The young man did the best he could to stabilize the structure, but he knew the power of nature. He looked down the hillside, trying to visualize where the body would land. He tried to imagine the feast he would offer to the coyotes and foxes. The old man had warned him about what would happen. He had not foreseen his own murder, or he would have told him what to do.
Before the storm hit in force, Wild Eagle walked down the hillside to his truck. He looked back through the rain at the outline of the scaffold. He started his vehicle and pulled back toward the highway. Two Feathers’s granddaughter had spoken the truth. He could make out the flashing lights of the law enforcement officers. He decided to turn off his headlights and drive by the lightning flashes. Through his rearview mirror, he saw how the sheriff’s vehicles pulled off the highway to park where he had just left. He wondered for a moment how they knew where to go. Then he shrugged. What did it matter? By tomorrow the storm will have passed, and he would be back on his base in Albuquerque.
***
“HEY, SCOUT, THE MAJOR wants to see you ASAP in his office.”
The staff sergeant nodded and laid down his template. He wasted no time getting to his superior’s office. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“At ease, Sergeant. You went on leave for the last forty-eight hours. Tell me what you did while you were away from this base.”
“Sir, I drove to my heritage reservation to render the last rites to my mentor. I accomplished my mission and returned here. End of story.”
The major was looking at paperwork of some kind. Scout could not see what he was reading.
“Was the man for whom you did this service named Two Feathers, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir?”
“According to what I’m reading, the man was murdered in his hogan, and before the authorities were notified, the body was removed and taken for burial in the nearby mountains. You, evidently, are listed as a person of interest in the murder.”
“I did not kill my mentor and best friend.”
“You are not being accused of his murder. The sheriff just wants you to answer some questions about your mentor’s death. On account of your classified duties here, I am reluctant to release you for another forty-eight hours. I’m going to answer this summons with an answer attesting to your critical national security mission and your willingness to answer any questions in writing, which the base notary will certify. Does that meet with your satisfaction?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get back to your duties. I want to know you have eliminated a few more Tangos by yesterday.”
“Yes, sir!” The sergeant went back to his room and continued his mission. He was not often pleasantly surprised about how his classified military service gave him cover in the civilian world outside, but this time, he was grateful. He resolved that he would answer the questions when they came, and he brooded on how he was going to avenge his mentor in the meantime.
The back-and-forth dialog between Wild Eagle and the sheriff continued for six weeks. His command’s Judge Advocate General’s representative helped him sculpt his answers to the sheriff’s questions. Meanwhile, the entire dossier was submitted to his adjudication board, so his involvement in the murder investigation could be examined during his next security review.
Wild Eagle garnered more intelligence from the legal exchange than the civilian authorities intended. As a trained intelligence specialist, he was used to sifting through piles of data to determine targets and to write plans to take them out. He was good at his job. He had more kills of terrorists, or Tangos, than any other air force operative working from the USA. He used the same analytical techniques to find the target who killed his mentor.
The sergeant made a shortlist of suspects for the killing. At the top of his list was the sheriff. Next in line was the Navajo responsible for swelling his tribe’s “endowment” through ventures such as mining and casino operations. His third suspect was his mentor’s granddaughter, who was, he thought, responsible for divulging the place of her grandfather’s sky burial. The more he dwelled on the evidence, the more he saw lines of clear connection between his three prime suspects.
The most perplexing thing about the sheriff’s questions was the insinuation that something had happened in the Mogollon Range that he did not know about. He began to rummage through open-source data, and the details emerged.
First, the sheriff had arrived at the Mogollon burial site with his deputy, who was driving a separate vehicle. The name of that deputy was Peter Findlay, whose date of death was the same as his mentor’s burial. From the man’s death certificate, the cause of death was mauling, by “a human or a beast unknown.”
Second, the Navajo entrepreneur had advertised his “deal” with a Hopi Indian named Two Feathers for a lucrative gold mining concession in the Mogollon Range. Final papers had not been signed, but the old man’s intention to sign was attested by his favorite granddaughter, who had written and signed a deposition to that effect.
Third, the granddaughter Sudden Quail had produced a holograph will of the decedent making her his sole heir. Upon his death, she alone was to inherit all his earthly possessions, including all land and mineral rights appertaining.
The seasoned analyst was careful not to jump to the obvious conclusions. He did not want to spoil the games of the players in Arizona by becoming visible. As with his military intelligence work, he liked to remain distant and to strike unacknowledged.
The news that Sudden Quail was betrothed to the sheriff struck Wild Eagle like a lightning bolt. He thought, No wonder his granddaughter wanted me to get out of the territory—and to stay out for a long interval. Delving into the matter, he realized that the sheriff was pressing for an immediate wedding as if the bride had a conception to cover. Wild Eagle laughed at that idea since the evident reason for an expeditious marriage was for the sheriff to avail himself of the tradition that his wife could not testify against her husband.
Alarmed that Sudden Quail’s life might be in danger, he wrote her a postcard warning her of the imminent danger, but she returned his postcard with a flippant note and a request for his whereabouts.
After he received her response, Wild Eagle’s dreams became crowded with possibilities that his waking thoughts had not entertained. At the top of his considerations was the possibility that the three main suspects were in a cabal to seize and control the old man’s gold mining interest. Though he suspected Sudden Quail of betraying him, he decided he should resolve the question of her complicity before he made any further deductions. He asked for—and received—a twenty-four-hour pass.
Wild Eagle drove to Sudden Quail’s RV on the reservation. He overheard her and her lover making the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking. The sheriff emerged from her vehicle, looking self-satisfied and buckling his belt. He drove off to continue his business while Wild Eagle entered the RV and confronted Sudden Quail.
“Oh, it’s you. I suppose you were listening to what was happening in here a few minutes ago. All right, then. I did tell the sheriff where you were the night you buried my grandfather. So what? I have lived all my life in this dump. Can you blame me for wanting a way out?”
Wild Eagle said, “Are you, the sheriff, and the Navajo in league to possess the gold mining interests of Two Feathers?” He saw the startled look in her eyes.
“What if we are?”
“Then you and they had a motive to kill the old man, only you did not count on my promise.”
“Your promise to bury the old man?” She laughed wickedly. “So what do you want, a cut of the profits?”
“No, but I want to be sure of what really happened.”
“Did you know that the sheriff’s deputy knew of our plan? Well, his fate should remind everyone what the stakes are.”
“So, you admit to killing him as well?”
“The sheriff killed him, not I.”
“Let’s see, you will marry the sheriff. Because you are the sole executor of the old man’s estate, you will bring the mine concession to the match. What I can’t see is the tie-in for the Navajo entrepreneur.”
“He can make everything legal.”
“Everything except murder.”
“The old man was dying. You knew that when he wrote to you asking that you’d come quickly.”
“He didn’t write me. You did that. That makes you the one who perfected the sheriff’s plan. Did he kill Two Feathers, or did someone else?”
“You have no right to ask me that question.”
Wild Eagle, with a gleam in his eyes, brought out his cell phone, which had been recording their entire conversation. “Why don’t I have that right?”
“The Navajo killed him. The sheriff was terrified someone would find out.”
“If everything was settled and prefigured, why was the hogan such a mess when I arrived?”
“You have always been so slow. No wonder my grandfather could never think of you as his heir. Our idea was to frame you for the old man’s murder. You were the natural fool who would take the blame.”
“Now I am the natural fool who has recorded your confession while transmitting it in real-time to an authority I know. Don’t think you can kill me and destroy what’s on this cell phone. It’s not that easy.”
“You bastard. You’re not going to ruin the rest of my life.”
Wild Eagle shook his head. “Your life was ruined before you ever started living. Do you want to add anything to the statements I already have recorded?”
She brought out a gun from under her blouse and aimed it at his heart.
“You aren’t going to pull that trigger.”
“Why not?”
“It will prove that everything you’ve just told me is the truth. The lawyer who is on the other end of this connection will verify that if you like.”
She fired a shot that might have killed him except that he was wearing a bulletproof vest with a plate over his heart. Her bullet never penetrated his flesh. She threw the useless weapon at him and ran into the night.
Wild Eagle drove to the burial place in the Mogollon Range. The scaffold was no longer where he had erected it. His mentor’s body was gone too. There were no signs that any drama had been played out at this quiet site. In the quiet night, Wild Eagle sensed the return of a dwarf owl in the saguaro. He also thought he saw the Mogollon Man in his peripheral vision. Having nothing further to investigate on this trip, he drove all the way back to New Mexico.
Wild Eagle went to sleep with conflicting dreams. He thought he saw the Mogollon Man tearing a witch woman into pieces. Then, after he awoke screaming, he dreamed of the Navajo gutting the sheriff in his lover’s RV. His third dream that night was different in character from the other two. He was talking with his mentor on the slope of the hill where he had buried him.
“My son, the world is a tangled web of sin and conniving. You never wanted to believe that, and your blissful innocence has sheltered you from pain.”
“Mentor, I know who killed you. I intend to get revenge. Will that quiet your soul?”
“Whatever you do, know that you will be assuming the guilt you assuage.”
“Will you explain that?”
The old man shook his head and disappeared.
The next day’s headlines of the Arizona Republican were a revelation. The sheriff and his betrothed were found shot through their hearts in her RV. The murderer of both was the Navajo entrepreneur who had done so many wonders for the Indian tribes in Arizona. His body was independently found in the Mogollon Range. It had been ripped apart savagely as if by a wild beast. Speculation about a mining fortune left by the Indian woman’s recently-murdered grandfather went to the graves of the murdered trio.
Again, Scout was summoned by his commanding officer.
“Well, Sergeant, I have another request about you from Arizona. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with the recent murders that were done there?”
“No, sir. I am aware of the coincidences, but I went to do a specific job—which was not to kill anyone. I returned to this base immediately afterward.”
The major nodded and picked up his phone. “JAG, this is Major Simpson. Help the sergeant make a deposition immediately. I need to have him focused on more Tango action in the sand.”
Then the major turned to the sergeant. “The JAG officer is waiting for you now. Make your deposition and sign it. If you have any more business to do in Arizona, I suggest that you save it until the new year.”
Scout smiled. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant. You are dismissed.”
***
SERGEANT “SCOUT” WILD Eagle retired from the United States Air Force three years after the triple murders on the reservation. He was a decorated intelligence technician whose exploits in the classified world of counter-terrorism earned him a top-notch reputation inside the military and intelligence worlds that had no way of translating into civilian life.
Scout put up his shingle as a licensed private investigator in the state of Arizona, and he located his office in an RV like the one that Sudden Quail once occupied. It took several months for him to become known to the Native Americans of his home state, and his claim to fame was the way he cracked the cold case of the death of the deputy sheriff on the night he buried Two Feathers. He had been brooding about that lawman’s death since the time it happened. The confession of Sudden Quail provided the crucial evidence he needed, but his growing friendship with the best forensics expert among the Hopi was the key.
The forensics man’s name was Coyote Jack, and he had the tenacity and the memory to make criminals tremble in fear. Cold cases were his métier. Over a beer off the reservation, the two men discussed the background of Deputy Sheriff Lawrence Half-Tone.
“So, Scout, can you tell me why you’re so obsessed with the death of Lawrence Half-Tone? Is there a personal connection?
“In fact, yes, but it’s not what you might think.”
“We have all afternoon, and I’m buying the drinks, so let’s discuss the cold case.”
“From all I’ve read, the deputy showed up to investigate the death of Two Feathers, the spirit walker. There has been no motive. All we know is that he showed up on the Mogollon Range and somehow met his assailant, who mutilated and killed him.”
“We all know that. How do you propose to make a critical difference in the case?”
“I have a feeling that a shadowy figure called the Mogollon Man killed the deputy. He did not need a motive to kill. Everything about the death indicates a savagery that probably rules out a human killer.”
Now the forensics man sat up in his chair. “Are you saying that you want to pin the crime on a paranormal player?”
“The Mogollon Man is well documented. He has been associated with dozens of deaths, among them, the death of the Navajo entrepreneur who was involved in the Two Feathers case.”
“You name a second cold case. Do you want a simultaneous solution?”
“Indeed, I do. What I want you to do, if you’ll be so kind, is to examine the forensic evidence for both murders and make whatever associations are probable.”
This challenge of bringing together two cold cases under one umbrella appealed to the techno-sleuth. So he got to work on the data that had been gathered by the police. Meanwhile, Wild Eagle decided to consult Two Feathers, the figure he trusted most, and whose sky burial site was well known to him.
While the forensic evidence came together in analyses of bite marks and tensor models, Wild Eagle’s communications with his mentor brought together the spirit witnesses, who agreed that the Mogollon Man was the perpetrator in each case. His mentor told him, “Wild Eagle, no mortal man could have torn bodies apart like the Mogollon Man has done. Yet, he is not a wanton savage. Rather, think of him as a kind of avenging angel. He is an executioner with a refined sense of right and wrong. To understand what I am telling you, you will have to bring your forensics friend for a session—and bring datura too.”
Wild Eagle did as his mentor advised. He brought datura root and a knife, which he used to cut the root into button-sized portions. He and the forensics expert became high on the drug. Two Feathers laughed since he was perpetually high, given his spiritual state.
In their common hallucination, they witnessed the summary execution of the deputy and the Navajo entrepreneur. The Mogollon Man was the agent of execution in both cases. The way he tore apart the bodies was according to the same modus operandi. No other creature could have ripped apart the flesh as he had done.
As they recovered from their consensual hallucinations, the two investigators admitted they had solved both crimes. Now they had to make their analysis of the facts of each case cogent in terms of evidence. Wild Eagle, because of his military experience, was adept in writing to justify terminations where actionable intelligence was concerned. His accounts of what he saw in their hallucinations became the basis for their presentation of the evidence. A federal judge agreed with their deductions, and the rest was history.
An unintended consequence of the collaboration was the realization in Wild Eagle that he had the potential to become what his mentor had been. He knew he could not become a master alone, but his access to Two Feathers while in a trance solved that problem neatly. Wild Eagle kept up his detective business, but increasingly he gravitated to his practice of sky walking. In his progress, he learned that death was only an illusion, and his mentor’s demise, particularly, was a true passing under the guise of a false sky burial.