Chapter 14

 

 

Ben spent the rest of the afternoon in the office firing off letters and pictures to his contacts in DC—especially to Indian Health Services leaders. He also copied Dr. Sandy Black in Albuquerque ending with the question--had he had any of the same problems? Circumvented deliveries? Inferior product? Ben refused to believe getting stuck with useless PPE and other supplies or simply missed delivery dates was only happening to Navajos. This whole thing had the smell of something organized and not just hit-or-miss happenchance—organized and aimed at indigenous people. At no other time in his life could he remember the failures of the US Government to be laid out so clearly—the failure to uphold treaties, legal trusts, tribal obligations—the list was endless. But the failure to help, to save lives by providing medical personnel and supplies, and the money to make certain that the help was ongoing simply shocked him.

Limited healthcare, above average rates of compromising underlying medical conditions, an infrastructure stretched beyond being even able to cope and meet needs, and it was a perfect stew of disasters. Hospitality and gaming enterprises were closed, adding another layer of hardship. Jobs on the reservation were fast becoming non-existent. But this wasn’t the 1700s or 1800s. Hadn’t America progressed past its initial bloodthirsty treatment of Natives? Weren’t there monies to help? Unemployment checks? Safety precautions for schools, including PPE for students, maybe individual, plexiglass screens? Was a handful of FEMA trailers and a few hospital tents all that would be offered? There had been promises. And he knew the monies were late in being dispersed—promised, but then stalled within the government bodies who were supposedly appalled that many on the reservation had no running water or bathroom facilities. But still reluctant to help. There seemed to be a ‘stick your head in the sand and maybe things will go away’ approach.

He remembered the time he first heard about white settlers gifting the indigenous tribes with blankets taken from the sick beds of those with Small Pox. These contaminated gifts spread the virus like wildfire throughout the Indian communities, simply wiping out entire villages. Man’s inhumanity to man. Had things changed? There was an overpowering, crushing futility to this catastrophe.

The knock on the office door startled him. “Come in.”

“Just thought I’d tell you that you were right.” Ben motioned to a chair and Chief Billie sat down. “Somebody beat the shit out of our delivery guy.”

“Charley Chase? Have you talked to him?”

“Not yet. Just relying on Dr. Henry’s expertise. His best guess is pistol-whipped, probably before the semi was rolled. Apparently, there’s no body bruising. Nothing one would expect if he had been tossed around in the cab. And it appears that his arm was jerked backwards while being restrained—it’s a ‘pull’ injury, not an impact one. He’s still unresponsive, but I hope we can get an interview. I’ve left a deputy outside his cubicle. Not that I can spare anyone right now but I think his testimony will be invaluable. He’s worth guarding.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner that night was pizza—Navajo pizza, which meant pepperoni was replaced with chunks of mutton and the cheese came from goats. Two Sisters With a Pot gave him a taste before he picked up two medium pies to go. And the pizza was good. Had he become so anglicized that a little melted goat cheese had given him pause? It was probably the smell. Mozzarella had a good clean cow scent. This cheese brought the floor of the barn to mind. Maybe if he squeezed his nose shut while eating. That would get him laughed at by a couple pre-teen boys—and it might be impossible to live down.

But he seemed to be the only one who was squeamish about a little melted goat topping. One and a half pizzas had disappeared before anyone shared his day. Ben was careful to leave out the gory details of his but listened as the boys excitedly shared that Oscar and a couple friends were building them a round pen to exercise and train the horses. It was going up behind the stable and would be a great space to keep Apache and Rain during the day. So much bigger than just a corral. And Oscar had found a fifty-gallon, galvanized watering tank plus a hay rack. One end was designated as a covered shelter, roomy and wide enough for both horses to get out of the weather.

Dishes were done and the garbage bagged, then deposited in a closed container close to the road. Too many nocturnal animals, who probably wouldn’t mind a bite or two of goat cheese, meandered through the camp at night. Ben wasn’t sure but he thought the scent of goat cheese might be a Siren’s call to the numerous, errant raccoons in the area—especially the one that lived under the porch of the office.

Nine o’clock and he was dead tired. He could hear the sounds of a video game coming from the front bedroom—excited squeals when one side or the other scored points or whatever they were playing for. There was a part of him that was glad he’d missed out on an electronic childhood. It had made him a reader and more reliant on his own problem-solving logic.

He closed the door to his bedroom and called Julie. A little over a week’s separation already seemed like six months.

“You sound tired.”

“Too much nightlife.” There was a pause and Ben wasn’t sure that Julie found his remark funny; so, he jumped in with tales of owls and Pronghorn Antelope and raccoons.

“I thought you lived on a reservation, not a game preserve.” But she was laughing.

He would have liked to have told her about his new job as delivery person but it would only worry her—especially if he shared what had happened to Mr. Chase. Best to leave out some information.

He guided the conversation back to south Florida and asked how the house-hunting was coming. She was going to text photos of two possibilities. She had taken the afternoon off to meet with a realtor, and he’d found something at the edge of Hollywood, Florida with some acreage. She was guardedly excited about the find. She thought it would be perfect for when Zac visited.

After many repeated ‘I love yous’ Ben hung up, pulled off his T-shirt and jeans and crawled into bed.

“Dad, wake up.” A strident whisper sounded at the bedroom door. The clock at his bedside said one forty-five. Wow. He wasn’t even certain he remembered lying down.

“Zac?” Ben sat up and reached for his shirt.

“Shhhh. We gotta show you something. Be real quiet.”

Ben slipped on jeans and eased through the cracked-open bedroom door before following Zac into the living room and out onto the porch. He could see Nathan already at the front of the trailer.

“Ghost Dust.” Zac excitedly pointed at the ground. At the edge of the porch and down the steps was a fine coating of silt. It looked as though the fine particles had been sifted and placed there recently—after they had gone to bed. But it was the carefully etched silhouettes, prints of two pointed-toed hooves that made him catch his breath. The sign of a Skinwalker. And there were more animal footprints in fine sand under the boys’ bedroom window—both leading up to the window and away.

“What does it mean, Dad?”

Ben noticed that Nathan was unusually quiet. “Are you okay?”

Nathan nodded but didn’t offer anything more. Ben watched as the boy turned and walked back around the trailer to the front porch. Nathan was frightened. He knew this was the sign of a Skinwalker. But Ben was at a loss—what did it mean? That they were being watched? Yes, but that wasn’t exactly evil in itself—or was it? Maybe a warning, but why? And for whom? Then Ben felt it again, that prickly cool breeze that left his exposed skin tingling. A breeze that wasn’t moving anything else in the yard—not a leaf on a tree, not a blade of scruffy grass.