 
# WESTERN JUSTICE

### three western writers - three mystery novellas

## Mark Reps

## Felix F. Giordano

## R. Lawson Gamble

### Contents

by R. Lawson Gamble

THE DARK ROAD

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Also By R Lawson Gamble

About the Author

By Mark Reps

NATIVE ROOTS

Part I

1. Roughly 30 Years Ago

2. 12:33 A.M., July 4

3. 1:15 A.M., July 4

4. 1:30 A.M., July 4

5. 1:43 A.M., July 4

6. 2:03 A.M., July 4

7. 9:00 A.M., July 4

8. 7:45 A.M., July 5

9. 10 A.M., July 5

10. 1 Week Later

11. Later That Night

12. 2 Weeks Later

13. 2 Months Later

Part II

14. The Future Beckons

15. Border Patrol

16. Senator Russell

17. Tucson Police Department

18. Bad Deal Gone Down

19. Zeb, Jake And Song Bird

20. Morals And Trust

21. Tohonu Chul

22. 6 Months Later

Also by Mark Reps

Free Book from Mark Reps

About the Author

Native Roots Reading Guide

By Felix F. Giordano

MISSING IN MONTANA

Preface

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part II

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Also by Felix F. Giordano

About the Author

# THE DARK ROAD

### A Novella from the Zack Tolliver, FBI, Mystery Series

### by R. Lawson Gamble

Text Copyright © 2018 by R. Lawson Gamble

* * *

All Rights Reserved

* * *

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews

# Acknowledgments

_Special thanks to Super Readers Ann & Craig for above and beyond!_

# 1

A sudden blast of hot wind set his tie flapping and flew on to form a spiral of dust beyond him on the deserted tarmac. His ears throbbed with the drone of the Cessna 172 he had just deplaned. He stood, suitcase in hand, the solitary vertical object in a horizontal world of runway and sand and watched the small plane inch away raising dust with its single prop. At last it reached the far end of the narrow airstrip and performed a clumsy pirouette, pausing momentarily as if undecided while its engine roar grew. It surged forward now, accelerated rapidly and somehow as if by accident bumped up into the air. Suddenly graceful, it angled southward and soared away joyously, all its former bonds with the clumsy earth now severed. For Zack Tolliver, FBI, it took with it the last vestige of everything he'd known in his short twenty-four years of life.

He watched the black dot disappear in the dark blue. Long after it was no longer visible and he could not even imagine its sound, he turned his head in a slow sweeping arc. He saw a flat barren landscape, grey and rust-red, edged by far away cliffs, vertical earthworks layered with horizontal ledges like a ladder for giants. At his feet, eruptions of yellow-green weed clawed at cracks in the aging concrete. His searching eyes found nothing resembling a terminal.

"Holy crap," he said, as the entirety of his transforming experience settled upon him like the dust itself. The heat of the July afternoon grew on him, the occasional breeze seemed even hotter. Sweat formed in droplets on his brow. The creases of his polyester-rayon trousers sagged, soggy circles bloomed in the armpits of his white linen shirt, his expensively tailored jacket wilted––all of them newly purchased for the occasion. The heat scorched his head despite his thatch of sandy brown hair.

Within minutes he was forced to remove his jacket. He folded it carefully over his arm, relishing the momentary cooling effect of moving air against damp shirt. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes had ticked by since he landed. He stood his suitcase on end and sat on it. Another quarter hour passed. He tugged the carefully crafted knot on his tie and opened his collar. A coating of fine dust had settled on his damp shirt. A half hour passed and the carefully folded jacket went up above his head as a parasol.

Zachary Efrem Tolliver, newly minted FBI Special Agent just out of the National Academy at Quantico might as well have been on another planet. Unknown to him, his assignment to the Navajo Nation Reservation had come about while he was still a NAT (New Agent Trainee) at the Academy. His instructors had noted his unusual empathy for fellow trainees, how he assisted those who struggled. The FBI Liaison Office of the Criminal Investigative Division, that communication nerve center of ICCU (Indian Country Crimes Unit) could never find enough agents willing to partner with reservation law enforcement units nationwide, and more important, to exhibit actual concern for the plight of reservation Indians. Nowhere was such empathy more desirable than on the massive Navajo Nation Reservation. Unknown to him, Zack's future had been etched long before graduation.

Zack was born and raised in Maryland where the longest open expanse was across the Chesapeake Bay and the hottest moving air he'd ever experienced was the hand drier in the Quantico restroom. Regardless, he accepted the assignment eagerly excited at the idea of exploring a new land and curious to experience a different culture. He had planned to make a strong first impression. That plan was fading fast.

The grind of an engine came to him before he actually saw the truck swimming through the haze of heat at the opposite end of the tarmac. From the sounds it made it needed a valve job. As it drew nearer he saw it needed a paint job as well. Originally red, the truck sported clashing spots of rust and orangish attempts at touchup. It lurched strangely despite the flat surface of the airstrip.

The pickup jerked to a stop next to Zack, the driver's window open despite the heat. The man inside regarded him with squinting brown eyes, his sun-darkened face shadowed by the rim of a wide hat. He said nothing.

"I'm waiting for my ride," Zack said, feeling he needed to explain. "It should be here any moment."

"Get in," the man said.

Zack stared. The man had the classic features of every Indian he had ever seen on TV, particularly the bad ones. "No thanks. My ride is coming."

"This is it."

"I'm to be picked up by Agent Ben Brewster."

"This is it."

"Are you saying Agent Brewster sent you?"

The driver raised an eyebrow a millimeter, refusing to explain the situation yet one more time.

Zack picked up his suitcase.

"Throw it in the back," the man said.

Zack walked to the rear of the truck and lifted the suitcase over the tailgate onto the bed, placing it as far away as possible from the smeared gas can and oil-covered rope. At his first try the passenger door wouldn't open. He pulled harder and it gave with a groan and dropped an inch as it swung wide. He glanced in at the driver, who was facing stoically forward and climbed in, careful to avoid the worst of the torn upholstery. He placed a polished shoe either side of the gallon water bottles at his feet. It took both hands to close the door. The latch did not sound convincing.

They lurched off without a word. Zack's eye wandered the cab interior. Roof liner hung, a crack in the cab's rear window resembled a huge spider web, a coffin-like crate containing chains and large hooks and several boxes of what appeared to be ammunition was squeezed into the area behind the seat. A gun rack held a single rifle. The weapon seemed to be the only item in the truck treated with any kind of care.

"My name is Zack Tolliver," he offered.

"I know."

"Thank you for the ride."

The man glanced at him. "You are here to help Ben Brewster."

It might have been a question or a statement. Zack wasn't sure. He nodded.

"I am glad. Ben is a good man," the driver said.

From the smooth taxi way they rolled onto a dirt track where the truck rocked and rattled. Dust floated into the cab through the open windows. After half a mile they came to a paved two lane road where the driver coaxed the old truck to a higher speed. Zack stared through the dusty windshield. The landscape was barren, treeless, wild. Occasional buildings appeared in the distance, far from the road, scattered here and there as if dropped and forgotten, all small houses, usually with junked cars nearby. No hedges, flowers beds or lawns surrounded them, only a cottonwood tree or two offered shade.

The road unfolded before them like cable off a spool. It rose and knifed through a ridge crest, the cut showing red on each side like a wound. A billboard gave hints of habitation somewhere ahead, but its wording was too weathered to read. They crested a rise. Up ahead a gasoline sign rose above a cluster of buildings.

Zack was relieved to see a sign of civilization. Ever since stepping off the Cessna he felt disoriented. The gas station brought a sense of normalcy. Besides, he could use a restroom.

They came to the crossroads and stopped for a red light. A large filling station with convenience store occupied the corner on their right, a McDonalds was close by on the left. Road signs indicated the town was somewhere north of the McDonalds. The light changed and the driver drove on. To Zack's chagrin, the crossroads and everything there suggesting civilization faded behind them.

"Wasn't that Tuba City?"

"Yep."

"Isn't the FBI office in Tuba City?"

The driver's eyes were on the road. "Yep."

Zack's body grew tense. It came to him he'd never asked for this man's identification before climbing into the truck.

"Where are we going, then?"

"Elk Wells."

"Why are we going there?"

The Navajo turned his unfathomable gaze on Zack. "Ben Brewster said bring you to him there."

Ben Brewster. Supervisory Special Agent in Charge at the Tuba City office. Zack felt a surge of relief at the sound of his name. Apparently he was not being kidnapped after all. He opened his mouth to ask about Elk Wells but thought better of it. He didn't want another monosyllabic answer.

The road continued across a panorama of red desert bordered by towering buttes against a blue and endless sky. Zack felt strangely empty as if the vastness of the land threatened to diminish him into nothing. It was dry. The wind rushed through the cab and sucked the moisture from his body.

As if reading his mind, the driver said, "There is water at your feet."

Grateful, Zack reached down for a bottle, twisted off the cap and gulped down a mouthful. It was beyond tepid, but refreshing. He immediately felt better.

A building came into view, then another. Zack had seen pictures in brochures and articles of the traditional Navajo hogan. He stared, curious. More homes came into view, then a cluster of buildings close together, some with large windows, signage, a real town. The truck slowed and angled into a space in front of a small building next to a white Chevrolet Tahoe with an orange and green official emblem on the door. A sign on the store-front window read Navajo Nation Police.

Zack climbed out of the truck and stretched. He turned to thank the driver but the man was already gone, the office screen door slapping shut behind him. Not much guidance there. Zack stepped up on the boardwalk, took a deep breath and pulled open the door.

All talk stopped the moment he entered, the only sound the creaking groan of an air conditioner. All faces turned toward him except his former driver, busy at the coffee station. A few seconds later a white man who had been conversing with a stout Navajo woman seated at a desk came over to Zack, hand extended.

"Agent Tolliver?"

Zack shook his hand. "Yes, sir."

"Welcome to Navajo Nation. I am Supervisory Agent in Charge Ben Brewster."

He pointed around the room. "This is Lenana Fitzgerald. She pretty much runs the place. That there is Lané Shorter, tribal policeman. That's Sergeant Jimmy Chaparral. He helps Lenana. And of course you know Eagle Feather." He indicated Zack's driver.

Ben turned to face everyone. "Well, now we have Agent Tolliver, let's get to work. Jimmy, why not take Zachary with you." He looked at Zack. "Do you have a weapon?"

"Yes, sir, it's in my––"

"Great. Go with Jimmy. He'll fill you in on the way." Brewster turned to the man named Lané, a short barrel-chested policeman." Lané, you're with Eagle Feather. Take a rifle. Lenana and I will handle communications from here. Questions?"

The men were already moving. Apparently operations had previously been discussed.

The man called Jimmy had Zack's elbow. "You're with me." He snatched a wide brimmed hat from a rack and slapped it on Zack's head. "You'll want that." He led Zack out the back of the office, past a restroom, at which Zack stared longingly, and into bright sun. He walked toward a battered dust-covered Bronco and gestured Zack to climb into the passenger side. Before he could secure his belt, Jimmy threw the vehicle in reverse in a storm of dust, then accelerated forward through an alley to the street where Eagle Feather's truck rattled past headed east.

"My suitcase," Zack said. "My weapon––"

"Don't worry." Jimmy gave him a broad grin. "You're not gonna need it."

# 2

Once beyond the town limits, defined by one or two houses and then nothing, they picked up speed and tried to keep Eagle Feather's truck in view. The roadside brush flashed by in a blur.

"What's going on?" Zack asked.

Jimmy glanced at him. The Navajo policeman was young and slim with pleasant features. His black hair contrasted with pale skin for a Navajo. "We have a hostage situation."

Zack felt an immediate surge of adrenalin. "You said I didn't need my sidearm."

Jimmy grinned. "You don't. You likely won't be involved. This isn't your run-of-the-mill kind of hostage situation. Besides, we have these." He nodded back at the gun rack where three rifles resided. "But we likely won't need them. Jay Begay gets drunk a lot, sometimes does crazy things. We got a call he was waving a rifle about, threatening to shoot someone in the house if people got too close. We don't know who's in there. He's got a wife and a seventeen year old daughter." Jimmy shrugged. "Could be something, could be nothing."

"What's the plan?"

Jimmy paused to slow the truck and turn south onto a rut filled dirt road. Zack saw the dust from Eagle Feather's pickup on beyond.

"I will be chief negotiator," Jimmy said. "I know Jay. I've been called out here before."

"So why the heavy presence?"

"You just don't know. Every time is a little different." He shrugged. "But we'll see when we get there." He peered at Zack. "You will be the federal representative. Stay in the truck, don't come out unless I indicate you should."

Zack nodded toward Eagle Feather's truck up ahead. "What will they do?"

"Eagle Feather and Lané will try to get within rifle range or closer unseen. They are backup in case things go wrong."

Zack glanced at Jimmy. "Like if he shoots you from the house?"

Jimmy grinned, shook his head. "Won't come to that."

Their road followed the swells and dips of the land, down into arroyos and steeply up the far sides. It kept them pointed toward a rock formation of several spires united by a common pedestal. As they neared, Zack saw a building at the base of the sandstone outcrop. It looked like a toy against the massive stone fin.

The road leveled and ploughed on, a red earth slash through the sage and cacti. Zack realized the dust from Eagle Feather's truck was no longer up ahead. "What happened to them?"

"We're close now," Jimmy said. "Eagle Feather won't let dust give away his presence. He'll slow down to avoid it." He looked at his watch, slowed their speed. "We'll take our time now, let them get set."

"And stop raising dust?"

Jimmy glanced at him. "We want to raise dust. We are the decoy."

"Oh." Zack began to grasp what was happening. So far, this was all quite different from what he'd been taught to expect.

The rock formation that was the backdrop for Jay Begay's dwelling grew to its true proportions as they neared, a shear wall of sandstone reaching several hundred feet toward the sky and a mile wide. Begay evidently utilized the wall as one section of fence, the rest a combination of barbed wire, stones, and even a few large tires. A shed, a three sided lean-to opened to the enclosure at a point close to a hogan with a pickup truck next to it. Another hogan stood a hundred yards away.

"Do two families live here?" Zack asked.

Jimmy shook his head. "Jay's family keeps a winter hogan and a summer hogan, but mostly live in the winter hogan, which is more substantial. He'll be in there, likely."

When the Bronco came within a hundred yards of the residence, Jimmy stopped and turned off the ignition. They sat still. Zack glanced at him.

Jimmy answered his look. "It is a courtesy to wait to be recognized when approaching someone's home." He raised his brows. "Especially at a time like this."

It was several long minutes before the door of the hogan opened and a figure stepped out, a woman dressed in a long skirt with a concha belt and a necklace dangling over a black jacket. She stood, arms crossed, and stared at them.

"Is this good or bad?"

"Hard to tell," Jimmy said. "That's Jay's wife, Emma. She runs the place until he gets really pickled." He stared. "She's not waving us on in, so something's up." His hand went to the door handle, he looked at Zack. "After I get out, take down the Winchester and keep it ready." He pushed open the door and stepped out and moved to the open.

Zack reached behind him and lifted the rifle from the top of the rack. He checked the load and held the weapon between his knees in the narrow confines of the cab. He watched Jimmy raise both arms to show he was unarmed.

"Yá'át'ééh. I see you , Emma. Are you well?"

Emma did not move, but her voice was strong and calm. She responded in Navajo.

"She says she is well and asks about me," Jimmy said, keeping his eyes on her. He replied in Navajo.

She spoke again.

"She says Jay wishes to know who the white man in my truck is," Jimmy said, then replied in her language. "I told her you are an FBI agent here to see no federal laws are broken."

The woman spoke again. Jimmy replied. Emma then turned and re-entered the house.

Jimmy stood where he was, but turned to look toward Zack. "This is the tricky moment. I told her holding another person against their will is contrary to federal law. I asked to see Zenia, his daughter."

They waited. The sun through the windshield heated the truck interior like an oven. Zack's shirt wilted even more and stuck to his body while sweat trickled down to his waist. He wiped the sweaty hand holding the rifle on his pants.

The hogan door flung open. A man emerged. He was dressed in leggings and shirtless. His hair was tied back with a headband. He held a rifle with both hands, the barrel pointing skyward. He spoke in a hoarse guttural voice.

Jimmy replied––calm, reassuring.

The man waved the rifle about with one hand while he spoke. His voice was angry, harsh.

While the man ranted Jimmy translated for Zack. "He wants to know by what right any man intrudes into his private affairs. He is very drunk and very angry." The tirade continued. "He is working himself up to something. Be ready to toss me the rifle."

Zack wiped his damp hands again and re-gripped the Winchester.

The man's guttural harsh stream of anger grew even more. Without warning, he snapped the rifle up to his shoulder.

"Now," Jimmy yelled, and stepped behind the open door of the Bronco.

Zack propelled the rifle toward him, barrel first. As he did, he heard the ping of a bullet as it struck something in the front of the truck. Jimmy had the rifle now, resting the barrel on the hinge between door and truck body. It was aimed at Jay, but he did not fire. Zack saw why.

Two men, Eagle Feather and the Navajo policeman Lané were there having materialized on either side of the drunk Navajo with rifles pointed at him. Jay Begay lowered his rifle barrel, then dropped the weapon to the ground.

Jimmy handed the Winchester back to Zack, who replaced it in the rack and climbed out of the truck. He was sweating profusely now. He felt the welcome breeze over his damp body and wondered if he could possibly get any wetter. He followed Jimmy toward the hogan where the erstwhile shooter was now on his knees with arms cuffed behind him.

Zack heard the Navajos conversing as old friends as he neared, as if a bullet had never been fired with intent to harm. Emma and another woman emerged from the house, the second woman an attractive young girl, dressed in jeans and a blouse. The women stared at Zack, apparently less concerned by the apparent life-threatening situation just ended than curious at the appearance of a stranger in their midst. Then, as if choreographed, all the Navajos, prisoner included, stared at Zack and burst into laughter.

Zack was shocked and confused. Emma, the older woman, held her hand to her mouth and giggled. Jimmy and Lané grinned broadly. It was Eagle Feather who finally explained.

"You look like a burrito left out in a rainstorm, White Man."

Zack looked down at his shirt, wet, streaked with dirt, plastered against his white skin now red in places from heat rash, the tie flapped over his shoulder, pants wringing wet and pressed against skin, black polished shoes grimy with red dust. He could feel the too-large reservation hat slipping over his ears, his face was flushed and wet with sweat. He was a mess.

He looked at the amused faces of lawmen, prisoner and family. Then he shrugged and broke into a broad grin. He did not know it at the time, but his acceptance on the Reservation began at that moment.

# 3

Mercifully, Jimmy received a radio request to drive Zack directly to the Quality Inn Navajo Nation in Tuba City where a room was set aside for him. Lané and Eagle Feather would bring the prisoner to Elk Wells where he would occupy a jail cell until a plan for his future was made. The case of Jay Begay was left to the Navajo Nation Police while the FBI moved on to more important matters.

Zack's suitcase was transferred to the Bronco and was in hand when Zack checked in at the motel desk. With studied non-response to Zack's appearance the young woman handed him a key and directed him to a room, a double bed suite. The small space would serve as home and office until he could find other living arrangements. Zack could not be happier.

After a long soaking shower, he put on clean, dry clothes and went to the Hogan Restaurant for a large burger. For the first time since his arrival in Arizona, he felt in command of himself. His training would begin tomorrow, but for now, his time was his own. His meal, whether late lunch or early dinner––his stomach would tell him later––was leisurely and pleasant, the food excellent. As he paid his bill the host suggested he visit the Explore Navajo Museum next door.

Ever diligent, Zack had begun researching the Navajo people as soon as he had learned his assignment, but there had been little time. The host assured him he would learn plenty at the museum. He was right. Zack spent several hours in the building, enough to realize he had barely scratched the surface. On his way out, he stopped at the paperback book rack and purchased several novels related to the Navajo. He'd continue his research that evening in a more relaxed way.

It was twilight when he returned to the motel. The air had cooled, the smell of lavender engulfed the entranceway. It had a calming effect. He envisioned himself slipping between cool sheets with his new book, and then––sleep.

It was not to be.

The lanky figure of Jimmy Chaparral rose from the lobby couch as Zack entered. The Navajo policeman grinned, a little apologetically. "You up for a night patrol?"

Zack was momentarily at a loss for words. The simple answer was no, but he suspected that response was not an option. He quickly learned he was right.

"Not my idea," Jimmy said, palms in the air. "Your boss asked me to take you out on this call. He wants you to experience some of what we do here. He doesn't think the academy trained you for some of this."

Zack found his second wind somehow. "Let me grab boots and a jacket."

Jimmy nodded. "I'll be right here."

This time Zack slipped on his shoulder holster and pistol. He reappeared downstairs in sturdy hiking boots and a light jacket. "I'm ready."

The Bronco was parked behind the building. Jimmy led the way down the corridor past the first floor rooms and out the back exit. Zack slipped into the now familiar passenger seat.

"What's up?" he asked, securing his belt tightly against the anticipated bounces and swerves of the vehicle.

"Animal mutilations." Jimmy said. He glanced at Zack and grinned.

Zack was startled. "No offense, but you say my boss wants me to come with you to see animal mutilations?"

"That's about the size of it." Jimmy shrugged, went on. "It's a common complaint out here. When you live close to nature, miles from anywhere, your resources are minimal. A man has fifty sheep, which are his livelihood. One night something kills one of them." Jimmy flicked a glance at Zack. "Could be a predator, a coyote, bear, whatever. It happens. But"––Jimmy paused while he negotiated the turn east onto Route 160––"lately there have been purposeless animal killings, as if simply for pleasure rather than food. These kills can happen night after night. It doesn't take long for the farmer to go out of business."

"What's causing it?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Don't know. But the farmer will tell you it's skinwalkers, or witches, or ghosts."

Zack laughed.

Jimmy looked full at him, not smiling. "I suspect that is why your boss wanted you to go with me."

Confused, Zack had no answer.

They rode in silence. It was dusk, the sun nearly gone, trees and fences along the way blurred, distant objects were shrouded and formless.

"What's tonight's situation?" Zack asked after a while.

"I don't know. A man named Ashkii Nez called it in. He lives out beyond Shonto on a small ranch not far from the Shonto Trading Post. You'll see, it's pretty desolate out there."

"Is it his sheep?"

Jimmy nodded. "Lenana took the call. She said he'd already lost several sheep over the last few nights, didn't want to lose any more."

Zack glanced out the window at the blackness invading the land. "How far is this place?"

Jimmy grinned. "Not far. Another forty miles, maybe."

Zack had other questions. Why the urgency for mutilated sheep? Wouldn't it be too dark to inspect the scene? Wouldn't it be better to wait for the light of day? The sheep weren't going anywhere, were they? But he was new to the land and the people––and to the man seated next to him. He'd already been gently chastised, so he decided to hold his questions and wait and see.

A half hour later Jimmy slowed and turned left at the intersection with Route 98, then accelerated, leaving the lights of a filling station and marketplace diminishing behind them. They crossed out of the flatness of the valley, rising into rough upland. Darkness enveloped everything, not a twinkle of a light was visible anywhere. For Zack, it was like flying in a plane at night, nothing but blackness out the window, just the tremble and roar of the jet engines to convince him anything was happening at all. He didn't like that, either. Conversation in the cab was replaced by the radio, country music punctuated occasionally by a Navajo disk jockey. Despite the sudden jolts and sways of the Bronco, Zack drifted in and out of sleep. The long, strange day was taking its toll.

A hard turn and the stiff Bronco springs bouncing onto unimproved road awakened him abruptly. He had the sensation they were ascending. He glanced at Jimmy, who saw he was awake.

"We're making a short side trip to the old Shonto Trading Post," he said. "It sits up on top of this plateau. Ashkii lives in a narrow valley down on the other side, just another fifteen minutes."

The air outside had cooled quickly with the setting of the sun. Zack was aware of the smell of mesquite and the occasional pungent aroma of pine.

"There's the old trading post. A neighbor called worried about kids sneaking in there at night."

Zack searched into the blackness and saw a tiny glow of light.

Jimmy turned off the radio. "Funny to see a light. The trading post is supposedly closed." He turned off the Bronco headlights and killed the engine. They listened. Zack's eyes adjusted and he could see the vague outline of a low, trailer-like building. As they watched, the light went out.

Jimmy opened his door and put a foot on the ground, standing part in and part out of the vehicle as he studied the building.

"What do you think?" Zack asked.

It was a moment before Jimmy replied. "Someone knows we're here but doesn't want us to know about him."

Zack heard the rustle of branches from the night breeze, the chirping of an insect somewhere. He became aware of the moonlight gently bathing the scene. The smell of earth and dry vegetation came to his nostrils, but there was something else. "Someone has been smoking," he said. A slave to tobacco in his early years, Zack's nose had developed a hyper awareness of the smell.

Jimmy sent a glance his way. "More than one, I think." He stood listening, waiting.

"Is no one supposed to be here?"

Jimmy gave a shrug. "It's not so much that, it's their furtiveness." He shrugged again, climbed back into the Bronco. "Probably just a bunch of kids, like they said." He started the engine. "We've got a long enough night as it is without adding to it." He backed into a turn and drove away from the trading post. "I'll file it in my report," he said, as an afterthought. "Someone will catch them sooner or later."

A few minutes later Zack sensed they were driving steeply downward. They were apparently on the shadow side of the ridge from the moon for it was as dark out there as he'd ever known and the Bronco headlights with their coating of dust did little to help. Jimmy, however, seemed completely familiar with the road.

The vehicle bucked and bounced, once or twice thumping so hard the entire floor vibrated. They were in a macabre world where roadside vegetation came pale in the headlights and turned black as they passed.

Zack's anxiety was heightened when Jimmy turned the headlights off completely. They drove a short distance blind. Then Jimmy stopped the vehicle, killed the engine and set the brake.

"We are here," he said quietly.

"Here where?" Zack saw nothing but blackness.

Jimmy gave a low chuckle. "We are where we can observe the mutilated sheep. Twenty feet that way is the cliff edge. Directly beneath is the pasture where Ashkii keeps his sheep. His hogan is a half mile east of here." Jimmy busied himself rummaging in the back seat as he spoke. "Whoever is mutilating those sheep has come every night for three nights, according to him. There is a good chance he will come again tonight." He passed a heavy cylindrical object to Zack, a flashlight. "Do not turn it on under any circumstances unless I tell you." He pushed something else at Zack. "Your pistol will do little good from up here. Take this rifle. It's a Winchester Model 700 Police Rifle with a night scope and a ten round magazine. Have you shot one before?"

Zack hefted the rifle. It felt barrel heavy. "No, I've only seen them in use."

"It's a free floating barrel, a bit heavy, but very accurate. Aim it just as you would any sniper rifle. Hopefully we won't need to fire at all." He touched Zack's shoulder. "When we leave the vehicle, make no sound, move slow and easy. We have all night." Jimmy chuckled again. "Just follow me."

The first loud noise was the creak of the Bronco door as Zack opened it. Already he'd managed to fail his instructions, he thought. He closed the door inch by inch, didn't let it latch, and followed the vague form of the Navajo policeman. They crept through creosote and mesquite, holding branches against back swipe, footfalls muffled by sand. When Jimmy stopped and his form lowered, Zack came beside him and crouched.

Jimmy touched him, whispered, "The cliff is just in front of you. The small light below is Ashkii Nez's hogan. The sheep are a third of the way between us and his light. Can you see them?"

Zack stared down into a world of shadows. Was the man serious? Who could see anything?

"Don't worry, if you need to shoot, you'll know where to aim." A pat on the shoulder. "Get comfortable."

Zack searched until he found a rock large enough to support the rifle barrel and settled down behind it, moving several sharp objects out of the way. He waited with no idea what to expect. A night creature gave voice, a bird-like sound. A whisper of breeze stirred branches in a pinyon nearby. The night was cool, not at all unpleasant, the smell of the sage near him strangely comforting. Even his vision improved as time went on. The moon was not yet visible behind them but shed more light and for the first time Zack saw the edge of the precipice in front of him. Some objects below took shape, a line of fence posts, some kind of vegetation. He didn't see any sheep.

Zack fought sleep. An early start to the day, his long flight, the hot wait at the airport, the tense confrontation with the rifle-bearing drunk, the long drive out here, the strangeness of it all, and now the pleasant coolness of the night all conspired to bring his eyelids creeping down. He dozed.

A staccato explosion near his ear startled and confused him. He let the flashlight fall to the ground and gripped the rifle with both hands as his awakening brain struggled to grasp what was happening.

# 4

"Got 'em!" Jimmy's triumphant exclamation rushed Zack's brain back to reality. He remembered now. He was at a cliff edge overlooking a sheep flock somewhere near a trading post on the Navajo Nation Reservation, holding a rifle. Evidently Sergeant Chaparral had just fired his weapon.

"Got what?"

Jimmy stood at the cliff edge, his flashlight beaming down on some indistinct creature thrashing about. As the men watched, the movement stopped.

"A coyote, I think," Jimmy said. "I figured it would be something like that."

Zack located his flashlight and added its beam to Jimmy's, creating a slightly brighter spotlight on two creatures, one dark and the other white, presumably a sheep. Neither moved. "What else would it be?"

"Well, there are other possibilities, but I'm glad we don't have to go into it."

Jimmy turned back from the cliff edge, favoring a knee as he walked. "My knees sure get stiff crouching like that." He turned to glance at Zack. "Have a nice snooze?"

Zack was embarrassed. He had hoped his involuntary time out had gone unnoticed.

"No problem," Jimmy said. "Just teasing. Totally expected, after a day like you've had."

Zack did not reply. He was not as ready to forgive himself.

They climbed into the Bronco, no longer hampered by a need for stealth. Jimmy started it up, put on headlights and steered off the embankment back onto the road. They endured several more bottoming ruts on the steep descent until they dropped into a level wash. Here the road was constructed of the alluvium and sand that filled the wash and was much smoother. The surrounding bluffs faded away into darkness and they were in open country.

Jimmy slowed, turned off the gravel course and stopped the vehicle near a fence held loosely together by barbed wire. "Shanks Mare and flashlights from here," he said.

Zack creaked open his door. "Rifles?"

"Suit yourself. Shouldn't need 'em, though."

Zack thought about it. His Glock 19M 9mm service revolver rode comfortably in his holster. The creature was dead. He shouldn't need the rifle.

Jimmy brought his, though. Zack held it for him and handed it back once the Navajo had negotiated the fence. Jimmy put a boot on a lower wire to allow Zack to slither through, although not without a tug and a rip. Jimmy cast about with his flashlight, decided on a direction and started off.

Zack followed.

The clouds had scuttled away for the moment, the moon edged brighter. Tall clumps of prickly pear appeared as dark upright figures, seeming to take on human characteristics. Several times Zack pulled up abruptly, startled until he was able to identify the objects for what they were.

Jimmy stopped, his beam searched. Zack came up beside him. The freshly mutilated body of a sheep lay on its back at his feet. Zack could now see the difference between butchered and mutilated. The sheep had been disfigured in ugly ways, as if the perpetrator were trying to obliterate its identity. The eyes were cut out, the tongue half missing and the genitals were gone along with partial disembowelment.

Zack stared, holding back an impulse to be sick. "A coyote did this?" he asked.

"Seems strange," Jimmy said. He shown his flashlight in a wider circle, hunting.

"What did you shoot?"

"That's what I'm starting to wonder." The Navajo began to walk in widening circles around the sheep body, searching the ground.

Zack stared at the sheep's body. "Whatever did this inflicted great pain. It looks like an act of deliberate cruelty." He moved away from the sheep and helped with the search. When he heard Jimmy mutter under his breath he moved closer and saw glistening blood on the dusty ground and a fur mound. It was a large coyote. It was dead, shot through the body. Jimmy knelt, brought his light close. After a moment he dug with his fingers in the soft soil beneath the animal and came up with a small object in his palm. He showed it to Zack.

"This is the slug from my rifle. This is the coyote I shot." He looked up at Zack. "This animal didn't kill that sheep, though. See, its tracks come from over there. It smelled the blood and was approaching the sheep when I shot it."

"So the sheep was already dead," Zack said. "Something else killed it. Can you track it?"

"Maybe." Jimmy walked back to the mutilated sheep, shown the flashlight around, then steadied it. "Just sheep prints," he muttered. The light beam searched, steadied, moved about. "There's something else here, but the sheep have obscured it." After fifteen minutes more of searching, Jimmy admitted defeat. "That's it. I can't do any more until daylight." He looked at his watch. "It's too late to drive all the way back to Tuba City and return by dawn. We'll need to stay here tonight."

"Where?" Zack asked.

"We'll stay with Ashkii in his hogan. He lives alone and will not mind."

"What about my job, my boss?"

"Don't worry, I'll take care of all that."

Zack followed Jimmy back to the Bronco, his tired brain full of concerns. He had no fresh clothes, no personal items. He was about to spend the night with two Navajo men in the home of a complete stranger. He knew little about the customs of these people. How many social offenses might he commit without even knowing it? Then there was the matter of his new position. Would Agent Ben Brewster really understand when Zack wasn't ready to begin work tomorrow morning?

Another thought crossed his tired mind. When Jimmy swept him away from the motel for this adventure, Zack had taken the Navajo's word. He'd simply followed the man out the door. What if he hadn't said anything to Brewster at all? Maybe he simply grabbed the opportunity to get Zack's help in a purely Navajo matter.

Zack's final thought in his argument with himself was to stop thinking. He was too tired to make sense. Whatever his situation next morning, that would be the time to deal with it. Not now.

It took only minutes to drive to Ashkii's hogan. The moon was bright when Zack stepped out of the Bronco, the clouds had vanished. Zack glanced back in the direction they'd come. Moonlight bathed the ground and gilded the scrub, long shadows of fence posts marched off in a line toward the darkness of the cliff wall. Looking up at the heights he saw black silhouettes of pinyon pine and rock outcrops where the moon presented a bright backdrop...and there was something else––a figure, tall like a human, black, unmoving. Startled, Zack stared.

He turned to point it out to Jimmy but the Navajo had disappeared around the side of the hogan. When Zack turned back, the figure was gone.

Zack hurried along the gravel path to the east side of the hogan where Jimmy was at the open door speaking in Navajo to another man. They brought Zack inside and introductions were made. Jimmy and Ashkii seemed to enjoy the moment to catch up and as the two spoke in Navajo, Zack looked around. The inside of Ashkii's hogan was not at all what he expected. He didn't really know what to expect, but he was surprised by how vibrant it was. Coming from darkness to the hogan interior bursting with color was like a watching a rose emerge from its bud. The walls were festooned with brightly decorated rugs and hangings of all sizes. Several watercolor landscape prints of pink mesas adorned the empty spaces between the hangings.

The interior space seemed larger than the outside suggested. Perhaps it was the simplicity of the furniture, the way it was arranged to give a look of openness or perhaps the height of the ceiling. The floor was hard packed earth with rugs scattered about, a tarp here, some sheepskins there. A floor to ceiling panel separated a small area, presumably Ashkii's bedroom. Zack caught a glimpse of a bed with a red and blue blanket. In the very center of the hogan was a simple stove with a stovepipe up through the ceiling. In contrast at the west wall there was a modern fireplace with a simple but elegant wooden mantle which held a framed photo of a family moment; a man, wife, little boy. Beneath it burned a cheery fire. It all felt extraordinarily comfortable to Zack. From the moment he had entered the building he'd felt warm and safe.

Ashkii himself was shorter than Zack by a foot, with a broad face and was of a stocky build. The leathery creases around his mouth and eyes gave him a good natured appearance. He beckoned Zack to a comfortable looking hammock chair and pressed a hot cup of tea into his hand.

Ashkii turned back to the stove.

"We will be having mutton stew soon," Jimmy said to Zack with a smile. "That's what smells so good."

"I'm really not so hungry."

"You can manage to eat. Navajo hospitality demands Ashkii feed his guests. Courtesy demands we at least pretend to enjoy it. Fact is, I think you'll be glad you did."

And he was. The stew was wonderful, an intricate mixture of meat, vegetables and spices that drove hunger before it like dogs drive sheep. Zack ate more than he thought possible. While they ate, seated cross-legged on the floor, Jimmy chatted with Ashkii who spoke English well.

"I killed the coyote, but it had not harmed your sheep."

"But one was dead."

"Mangled beyond belief," Jimmy said, with a sidelong look at Zack.

"Could you see what killed it?"

"No. I searched for prints or signs, but it was too dark."

"There, you see," Ashkii said, his shoulders settling as if the issue was resolved.

"I will know better in the morning light," Jimmy said.

Zack finished his stew and set aside the bowl. The warmth of the room and a full tummy conspired together, and his eyelids drooped.

Ashkii noticed. He rolled out two straw matts near the stove, and set blankets and pillows on them. Zack gratefully went there, pulled the blanket over himself and fell asleep. At some point he surfaced just long enough to hear low conversation and smell tobacco smoke before he plunged back into blackness.

# 5

An unfamiliar sound drew Zack to consciousness from confused sleep. Beyond his closed eyelids he was aware of light imbued with that peculiar quality of sunrise. There was a silence to this dawn; no roar of busses or accelerating cars spiked with jabby horns, no distant sirens. Just the soft chanting that had awakened him.

He opened his eyes and allowed them to wander without raising his head, bringing to memory the straw pallet, the coarse but warm blanket. His eyes followed the packed dirt floor to a shadow and to the back of the legs of a man standing at the doorway, old calves with blue veins across still well defined musculature, that of an active walker.

Ashkii was facing the sun, swaying slightly as he sang a soft three or four pitch song. Zack did not know what words the Navajo was singing, but remembered mention of greeting the dawn at the Navajo Museum.

The chanting ceased. Zack watched the calves tense and move as the man turned. Zack lifted his head. Ashkii's smile reminded him of his grandfather.

"I have greeted the day," he said. "There is a good chill to the air. I will prepare food now. Jimmy will be back soon. If you need to pee, the outhouse is behind the hogan. You can wash at the pump." Ashkii shuffled off behind the divider.

Zack sat up and stretched. As his covers fell away, he felt the cold air stream in from the open doorway. He quickly folded the blanket and rolled the matt, securing it with the attached thongs, and left the bedding in a neat stack by the stove. He stepped outside, blinking at the bright sun and walked to the rear of the hogan. There he found the crude shed-like outhouse. At the pump it several strong thrusts to release the flow and the water was cold. By now Zack was completely awake. He launched into a series of exercises from his training. After the last jumping jack he saw Jimmy watching him and smiling.

"Typical white man, always stirring up dust."

Zack grinned. "Sorry."

He followed Jimmy back into the hogan. Where Zack's bedding had been, Ashkii now knelt, encouraging flame to life inside the stove. Jimmy went to sit cross-legged on a faded blanket near the hogan wall. Zack followed his example.

Without looking away from his task, Ashkii began to speak softly in Navajo. Jimmy replied. After a lengthy discussion he turned to Zack.

"We were talking about my look around this morning. I have told Ashkii whatever killed the sheep did not return last night. The dead coyote is where we left it."

"Did you find anything else this morning?" Zack asked.

"No more than we saw last night."

Ashkii turned from the stove where tortillas were browning in a pan and looked at Zack. "Jimmy does not believe the sheep are being killed by an an'n ti' practicing his rites."

Jimmy shrugged, looked at Zack. "He means a witch."

"Why would he think that?"

Ashkii was busy with his food preparations and seemed oblivious to the two men.

Jimmy sighed. "He has much to support this thought, from the Navajo view. The sheep was not killed for food. It is hard to explain why it was mutilated the way it was. I found no signs from the killer, whatever it was; not last night, not this morning."

"But you don't believe it was something supernatural, do you?"

Jimmy chuckled. "Ben was pleased to hear about it. This is the kind of thing he hoped you would see."

Zack looked at him with eyebrows raised. "You spoke to Agent Brewster?"

Jimmy nodded. "I called him on the SAT phone this morning to explain. He said I may keep you to finish up."

Ashkii muttered, "You will take the belagaana to find a witch."

"It is more likely I will take Agent Tolliver to watch me file this case as unsolved."

Just then Zack recalled the strange figure. "I almost forgot. There was someone up on the cliff top last night looking down at us."

Both men turned and looked at him.

"When? Where?" Jimmy asked.

"It was just after we arrived here. I looked up when we climbed out of the car and saw this man-like figure against the moon. I turned to show you, but you had already gone. By the time I looked back, it wasn't there."

"What did it look like?"

"I couldn't tell. It was just a dark silhouette. I can't even say for sure it was human, except it was standing upright like one."

Jimmy gave Zack a long look. "Well, that at least gives us something to investigate. We'll stop and take a look on our way back." He turned at Ashkii. "I'll ask Eagle Feather to come out here to have a look at your sheep."

Ashkii nodded.

After a tasty, filling breakfast Zack and Jimmy took their leave of Ashkii. For Zack, the overnight had been an eye opening experience and would be a special memory.

The interior of the Bronco was already hot when they climbed in. On the way back up the grade, Zack asked, "Why would you send Eagle Feather all the way out here to do what you have already done?"

Jimmy shot a glance at Zack. "Eagle Feather is the best tracker in the world."

Zack was surprised. "Well that covers a lot of territory."

"I have never seen his equal. Nor has anyone I know who has hunted with him. It is why he makes such a good living as a guide. His reputation is world wide."

Zack was intrigued. "If he does so well, why does he drive that battered up old truck?"

Jimmy chuckled. "Yes, and why does he live in a little tin trailer on an isolated mesa? For that matter, why does he lend his skills to the Navajo Police but never accept payment? We have all wondered about that." He grinned. "But his money is soon gone, I am told."

"What is his vice? Gambling? Drinking?"

"Charity, actually. Almost as soon as he is paid, some Navajo child receives a big clothing allowance, or a Navajo student receives a year of college for free." He chuckled. "And Eagle Feather is still seen crawling under the hood of that old pickup trying to fix something with bailing wire."

"No wife, family?"

"Nope."

Jimmy steered the Bronco off the road and set the brake. "Here we are. This is where I shot the coyote last night. Let's take a look around."

Despite the training he'd received at the Academy, Zack knew he was watching a far superior tracker. He saw where Jimmy's eyes went, what he touched and didn't touch as the Navajo worked close to the cliff edge. His "look around", as he called it, took twenty minutes. As they walked back to the truck Jimmy said, "I found no sign of anyone there but you and me."

Zack's confidence ebbed. "I guess I could have been mistaken. I was very tired, the moonlight and shadows did strange things, I––"

"I think you saw exactly what you thought you saw. I found no sign someone was there, but I could sense it."

The men rode in silence. Zack pondered what Jimmy had just said. He learned in training an FBI agent should never act upon a feeling, and certainly not commit resources based upon something less than solid evidence. He wondered what Jimmy would do.

They stopped at the Shonto Trading Post. It looked very different in the daylight. Jagged sandstone cliffs towered behind it decorated with green bits of clinging pinyon. The building itself was whitewashed adobe. A white clapboard building with sloped-roof stood at right angles with Historic Shonto Trading Post, Navajo Rugs-Baskets-Pottery written on the side along with a picture of a traditional Navajo rug. Under a short porch with wooden posts a sturdy looking door at the entranceway was padlocked.

"I'm going to take a look around here," Jimmy said.

Jimmy started toward the rear of the trading post. Zack ambled over to the front of the deserted store. He read some out of date notices. Advertisements for products long gone were painted over with whitewash. By the time he had worked his way along the front of the building, Jimmy was back.

They drove away. Jimmy said nothing for a while. He seemed to be thinking about something.

"Someone broke into the trading post last night," he said at last.

"What now?"

"I called the owners. All their inventory is relocated, their only concern is its possible use as a drug habitat."

"What will they do?"

"I expect they'll put better locks on the doors. It's a historic building, they don't want it trashed."

Zack nodded.

Jimmy grinned. "I was right about kids. They were around there smoking something last night. But they weren't the ones broke in. There was someone else around." He glanced at Zack. "Maybe the same guy you saw at the top of the cliff last night."

# 6

The aroma of coffee rising to his nostrils felt nearly as wonderful as drinking it. Zack was at a table in a small cafe in Elk Wells, with a hovering mothering waitress nearby ready to meet all his needs. The coffee was great but it wouldn't have mattered, so long as it had caffeine.

"Are you Kate, the owner?" Zack asked. The name of the restaurant was Kate's Cafe.

She smiled shyly and nodded while continuing to wipe tables that already glistened. Zack was her lone customer at the moment. He figured it was because he was late for breakfast but early for lunch. He and Jimmy had arrived late last night after an afternoon interviewing residents of homes in the vicinity of the trading post. After that, Zack flopped in one of two unoccupied jail cells for the night. The bed was comfortable, the cell spotlessly clean––he'd experienced less desirable motel rooms. He'd have slept well in any event, as tired as he was.

He woke late this morning. Apparently the policemen had been in and out pursuing their normal duties and he'd not even twitched. Jimmy was gone when he awoke, but the woman named Lenana had pointed to the shower and later written out a chit for free breakfast at Kate's. Zack was starting to get used to putting on the same old underwear; it looked like he was going to save money on laundry bills in this job.

A bell jingled and Kate walked over to the chef's window and picked up a steaming plate. She brought it over and set it down in front of Zack. On it were the inevitable tortillas, shredded lettuce, heaps of scrambled egg, sausage, and a biscuit. Zack was almost overcome by the delicious smells.

"Can I get you anything else?" Her voice was low and gentle.

Zack shook his head, his eyes glued to the piled up plate before him.

"There's ketchup there, and butter, and syrup. We can get you hot sauce, if you like, or mayo?"

"Why don't you just let the poor man eat his food?" Jimmy's voice came from the door where he'd just entered. Zack waved him over.

Kate gave Zack a final smile and bustled away.

Jimmy came and pulled out a chair. "Go ahead, eat, don't mind me." He signaled Kate for coffee.

Zack rolled some egg and lettuce in a tortilla and took a large bite. He chewed, swallowed, looked at Jimmy. "You were out early."

"Yeah. Five this morning to be exact. Got a call about a man dead just off the road out near Shonto."

Zack's eyebrows rose. "Is this normal? I mean a body before breakfast?"

Jimmy shook his head. "No. Usually two or three." He grinned as Zack stared. "This one is special, though. They found the dead man right near the place I shot the coyote that night."

"But we searched along there the next morning."

"Apparently we searched the wrong side of the road. They found the body on the other side." He glanced at Zack. "C'mon, eat. We got work to do and you may not get another chance."

Zack scooped up some sausage and chewed obediently.

Kate arrived with Jimmy's coffee. He picked up the cup and took a long sip. "Ah, that's good."

"Am I still assigned to help you?" Zack asked.

Jimmy shook his head. "Nope. You're assigned back to Ben. This was a murder, a man was shot. Makes it a federal case. Ben's up there now with Eagle Feather."

Zack made a soundless "Oh" with his mouth and took another bite while his mind worked over the situation.

"I'm going to take you up there after you finish and leave you off," Jimmy said.

Zack gulped down some coffee. "You're not staying?"

"I'm a suspect. I can't go near the case. If things go bad enough, I could be put on suspension."

Zack's fork hung in the air again. "But you didn't shoot at anyone on top of the cliff. You shot the coyote below it."

"They've only got my word for that," Jimmy said. "And yours, 'cause by the way you are a witness. Ben will want to interview you soon as you get out there."

By now the passenger seat in the Bronco was very familiar to Zack. It was another dry hot yet beautiful day in Arizona. He was gradually becoming accustomed to the size of the world around him which sometimes meant he could often see his destination from fifty miles away. Back East you traveled tree to tree.

The return route to the intersection with Route 98 was the same as the prior evening but looked entirely different in the morning light. The distant buttes cast long shadows and their rims shimmered as if on fire.

"Who was killed? Did you know him?" Zack asked.

Jimmy shook his head. "No. If they know who it is, they didn't tell me."

Zack digested that. "What will you be doing this morning?"

"Well, sir, now that the Feds have Jay Begay in custody in Tuba City, I will check in on Emma and Zenia. After that, I'll report back to the office where Lenana will have a list of things to do as long as my arm."

"Don't you have any help?"

"Sure. You saw the officers there. We are a small force in a small town but we patrol a large area." Jimmy swept a hand to encompass all the terrain around them. "Often it's not so much the number of incidents as it is the number of miles that take up our time."

Zack shook his head, trying to fathom it. In Virginia, six officers might respond to the same call.

The road turned to gravel beyond the trading post. With the windows open, all Zack's efforts to return to cleanliness in the jail shower came to naught. By the time they arrived at their destination there was grit in his teeth and the now familiar smell of dry dust in his nose.

Three vehicles were parked along the road. Zack recognized Eagle Feather's rust-red truck. A mobile crime scene vehicle was there, the large side panel of the truck open and someone in white coveralls busy. Across the narrow road a black Ford all-wheel-drive SUV was partially off the road on the cliff side. Yellow crime tape stretched between a couple of pinyon trees a short distance from the crime scene truck. Two men stood together talking, both in shirtsleeves.

"Here's your stop," Jimmy said.

As soon as Zack stepped out and shut the door Jimmy swung the Bronco into a K turn and roared back the way they had come.

Zack saw Ben standing by the yellow tape. He walked over to him.

Ben turned at his approach. "Good morning, Agent Tolliver. I see Sergeant Chaparral has kept you entertained."

"Yes sir."

"This is Agent Scott Witherspoon from the Flagstaff office. He happened to be up this way, fortunately for us."

Witherspoon was a lanky man, tall with sandy hair, pale features, and big hands, one of which he offered Zack. "Welcome to Arizona."

Zack shook the hand. "Thank you."

"We keeping you busy enough?" he asked.

"Sure enough."

Ben motioned. "You might have noticed we got a body over here, Agent Tolliver. Come take a look." He stepped over the tape.

Zack followed and walked a few steps to where a small pinyon partially obscured the body of a man, on his back, arms stretched to either side. His features and dark skin suggested he was Native American. The man was of stocky build, wore a flannel shirt and blue jeans with a thick leather belt. His boots were scuffed, the heals worn down.

"Does anyone know him?" Zack asked.

Ben shook his head. "None of us have seen him before, best we can remember. Sergeant Chaparral called me this morning soon as he learned about the murder, said he'd been right here with you yesterday. He's an experienced officer, knew he'd have to back off the case and he left it to Officer Shorter to contain and do preliminary work at the crime scene. He told me you'd seen a man standing at the cliff edge the night before, right over there. Can you tell us about it?"

Zack found himself staring at the body. This was the first dead man he'd seen before, let alone a murdered man at the scene of the crime. He expected to feel more than he did.

"We had been examining the mutilated sheep, trying to find some trace of the culprit, but no luck," he said. "The coyote Sergeant Chaparral killed hadn't yet reached the dead sheep, according to its tracks, so it couldn't have killed it. But we found no other tracks, no sign, nothing to show who or what mutilated it."

Agent Witherspoon said, "This man was shot in the abdomen. Takes a long time to die from that kind of a wound. After the initial impact and blood loss, he might've stemmed the flow and tried to get help somewhere. He might have made it this far."

It took Zack a while to grasp what the agent was saying. "You mean you think Jimmy shot this man, that the man then walked all the way up here to die? It's got to be a mile at least, and up a steep hill."

"It's not unheard of to get pretty far with a wound like that." The agent sounded a bit miffed at being doubted.

Ben's eyes flitted between the two men. "Agent Tolliver, you were about to tell me about the man you saw up on the cliff."

"I'm not positive it was a man, sir. After a thorough search for tracks around the dead sheep, we gave it up and went to spend the night with the sheep's owner, Ashkii Nez, figuring we'd look again in the daylight. So we drove to his hogan––"

"How far was that?" Ben asked.

"A quarter mile, maybe, no more. We were there in minutes. As soon as I stepped out of the Bronco I looked up toward the cliff. The moon was behind it, the figure was a shadow form just standing there apparently looking down at us."

"Did Sergeant Chaparral see it?" Witherspoon asked.

"No. As soon as I saw it, I turned to tell him but he'd already gone to the hogan. When I looked back, the figure was gone."

Ben studied Zack. "What's your best guess? Man, or beast?"

"I...I don't know. It looked like a man, it seemed to be watching us. I mean, it was a long way away, in the dark." Zack sighed. "The figure was upright. If it was a bear, it was on two legs."

"What happened to Jimmy's rifle slug?" Ben asked.

"He gave it to Ashkii."

Ben glanced at Witherspoon. "We need to get down there and interview that shepherd." He turned to Zack. "Before all that, you were up here at the cliff edge, looking down at the sheep. What was the plan then?"

"We were setting up to watch the sheep. Apparently the mutilations had occurred over several nights. Jimmy had a rifle, gave me one, and we were going to wait and see if anything bothered the sheep."

"How long did you wait?"

Zack felt embarrassed. "I'm not sure. I...uh, I might have dozed off. Jimmy's rifle shot startled me."

"Did you see what he was shooting at?"

Zack shook his head. "No."

"What happened then?"

"We shone our flashlights on something thrashing around near the sheep. It was hard to tell what it was, it was really too far to see clearly."

"Did Sergeant Chaparral say what he thought it was?" Witherspoon asked.

"Yeah, he said he thought it was a coyote."

Ben put a hand on Zack's shoulder. "The forensics team will be here a while longer. Agent Witherspoon and I are going down to interview the shepherd. Just keep an eye on things but keep out of everybody's way."

Zack watched the two agents work their way back to the road to the Ford SUV, climb in and start off in a spurt of dust. He saw there were two forensic specialists, one engaged in studying the ground around the body, the other occupied with something at the crime scene truck.

Zack thought about his responses to Ben's questions. Was there anything he missed? Was there anything else he should have done? Was it a mistake to confess to dozing off? Was he about to have a very short career?

Shrugging off those thoughts, he brought himself back to the present. He did not believe this dead man could have climbed all the way up here with a hole through his middle, then stand calmly at the cliff edge and peer down. He must have been killed up here. If so, he might have been lying there already dead even as he and Jimmy waited with their rifles at the cliff edge. If he'd been murdered after they drove away, would they have heard the shot? Maybe not, if they were in the Bronco.

Zack walked back to the road and crossed to the place where they had stood vigil the night before and peered over the edge. The sheep were almost directly below him, white mounds like so many rocks. Beyond was a line of fence, beyond that several sheds and buildings including Ashkii's hogan. It all seemed so close in the daylight. He guessed the sheep were no more than a hundred feet beneath him, maybe even less. But the cliff was sheer, a difficult climb even for a healthy man. The only other way to get here from down there was to walk over to the road. It was a very long walk for a man with a bullet hole in him. If he had been shot down there with the sheep, why not try to get to Ashkii's home instead? What would motivate the man to come up here?

Zack shook his head. It had to be coincidence. Jimmy shot a coyote and someone else shot this man. Was the murderer the figure he saw outlined by the moon? Zack gave an involuntary shudder as he realized the killer could have been lurking nearby the entire time he and Jimmy waited for the sheep attack.

"You do not believe Jimmy Chaparral shot this dead man." The words came from directly behind him, causing Zack to start. He knew even before he turned around it was Eagle Feather.

# 7

The Navajo regarded him with enigmatic eyes. He stood at ease, comfortable, the old Remington rifle tucked in his folded arms. The rim of his black hat rested just at his brows. He presented a tin-type figure of old time Navajo. Zack never heard him approach. How had the man gotten so close?

"You think someone else shot this man," Eagle Feather said. The eyes held him, pushed for a reply.

"I was thinking that, yes."

"You think the killer waited and after Jimmy made his shot and you drove away, he stood here and watched you examine the sheep and drive to Ashkii's hogan. It is true."

Zack was surprised. "How do you know that?"

Eagle Feather waved toward the cliff. "He showed me."

Zack automatically looked for prints at his feet, then realized the futility. "But Jimmy investigated here this morning."

"Jimmy is a good tracker." Eagle Feather's tone was ambiguous.

Zack let it go. "You think the murdered man was over there, already dead, while Jimmy and I waited here last night."

"Isn't that what you think?" Eagle Feather's eyes studied Zack's

Zack turned and looked into the valley. He saw the miniature dust cloud behind the car as it drove away from Ashkii's hogan. "Ben and Agent Witherspoon are returning," he said. "If they have Jimmy's rifle bullet they can test the blood traces and they will see he shot a coyote."

"They have the bullet?" Eagle Feather looked surprised.

"Yes, Jimmy gave it to Ashkii. He found it under the coyote."

Eagle Feather stared into the valley, then turned and walked away. Zack followed.

At the road, Eagle Feather paused. "You will tell the FBI men what we have said?"

"You are leaving?"

There was a glimmer in Eagle Feather's eye. "Very good. You keep getting better."

Several minutes after the dust settled behind Eagle Feather's truck the black SUV appeared from the other direction and pulled over near where Zack stood.

Ben leapt out. "Was that Eagle Feather?"

"Yes. He was just here," Zack said.

Ben stared at the dissipating dust. "He was supposed to report." He looked at Zack. "Did he tell you anything? Did he learn anything?"

Zack glanced from Ben to Agent Witherspoon. Both sets of eyes were on him. "Yes, I...we think someone else murdered the deceased. He...we think the man was already dead when Sergeant Chaparral and I arrived last night."

Witherspoon interrupted. "What's this I, we, he, me stuff!"

"Uh, just that I was thinking along the same lines––"

"So this idea just popped in your head, Agent?"

Ben made a brushing aside motion. "Let's get on with Eagle Feather's report, shall we?" He looked at Zack.

Zack nodded. "Eagle Feather believes the murderer was still here when we arrived and watched us from across the road someplace. After Sergeant Chaparral took his shot and we drove down to examine the results, the murderer came here and stood and watched us. That would be the man I saw standing above the cliff."

Ben studied Zack under furrowed brows. "He thinks the sheep mutilation and this murdered man have nothing to do with each other?"

Zack nodded. "Not directly, at least."

Witherspoon wore a look of impatience and disbelief. "One thing you'll learn in this job, agent, if you last long enough, is there usually is no such thing as coincidence." His voice was cold, dry, as if his soul lacked moisture. "Here's the way I see it. You and Sergeant Chaparral came here last night and he told you a cock 'n bull story about the sheep––to get himself a witness, see? He'd already arranged to meet the poor dead bugger over there. He knew you were tired from your trip, the culture shock, all that crap. He probably slipped something in your coffee, whatever. So you accommodate him, fall asleep, and he simply turns and shoots the guy waiting for him over there and turns back and shoots down into the valley as you wake up from the noise. When you see him, his rifle is aimed down and he's telling you he shot something down there. He knows a sheep has already been fucked up down there––maybe he did it himself––so he takes you there and shows you a dead coyote and––oh, yeah, he finds a slug in the ground––how lucky is that? And now, here comes the real genius: instead of taking you back to Tuba City where you might give things away to Ben here, he keeps you with him overnight and all the next day. Where? In a jail cell! That's rich. You sure can't talk to anybody from there, can you? Then when the body is finally discovered"––Witherspoon turned to Ben––"Who discovered it, by the way? Did Chaparral give you a name?" His eyes came back to Zack. "That's when he drags you back out here to tell his story for him." A smug grin slathered Witherspoon's face.

Ben stared at Witherspoon. "Jesus!"

Zack was shocked. Where had all that come from? He never saw it coming. "But he shot a coyote. You have the bullet. You can match blood, DNA..."

Witherspoon grinned. He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket. "You mean this? Why bother? If it was planted, it'll just have coyote blood on it." He handed the bag to Ben.

Ben did not look pleased. "Listen, I've known Jimmy Chaparral a long time. He just wouldn't do something like this."

Witherspoon looked sympathetic. "Ben, you know as well as I do anybody can do anything given enough motivation. People do what they gotta do."

Ben yelled to the man at the crime scene truck. "Sig, can you come over here a minute?"

Sig looked up, nodded and came over.

When he arrived, Ben said, "From your examination do you believe the victim was killed at the scene?"

Sig looked at the three agents. "It looks that way. He was shot from a distance in the center of the back, the bullet narrowly missing the spine and traveled directly through the abdomen and out the front. The exit wound is not large, suggesting minimal yawing of the bullet, thus likely from a high power rifle." He looked at Ben. "Hard to say, but I think he was alive when he arrived here and he died here; there may be enough blood to suggest that much."

"Enough blood to say he was shot here?"

"Again, hard to say. If the bullet came through relatively clean, there wouldn't necessarily be a lot of external bleeding."

Witherspoon leaned toward him. "Can you determine where the bullet came from given the body position, assuming he was shot and fell immediately?"

Sig thought about it. "My colleague might disagree. However, the man is lying on his back, arms spread, one knee raised. To my mind, he ran away from the road, was shot, stood where he was for a few moments, one knee buckled before the other, and he pivoted onto his back as he fell. If that scenario is true, the bullet would have come from the direction of the road."

A look of triumph flashed across Witherspoon's face.

Ben nodded to Sig. "Thank you. I have one more favor. Would you walk there and stand where you think the victim stood when he was shot, please?"

As Sig walked toward the yellow tape, Ben turned to Zack. "Agent Tolliver, please take us to the exact place Officer Chaparral was when you heard the shot."

Zack led the way back to the cliff edge. He recognized the boulder he had used to support his rifle. His eye traveled to the place Jimmy had been. "Right there," he said. He went and stood there.

Ben came and stood with him. He stared back across the road at Sig where he had positioned himself. There was undergrowth all around but Sig stood clear. He waved, Ben waved back.

"It's a clear path to the victim," Ben said. He looked at Zack. "How dark was it?"

"It was quite dark. I had difficulty seeing anything down below, even with the big flashlight."

"But you had night scopes," Witherspoon said.

"Yes, we did."

Ben began a slow walk to the road, the others followed.

Sig walked back to meet them near the black SUV.

Ben turned to Witherspoon. "The scenario you suggest is possible, although to my mind unlikely. There are a lot of loose ends. More likely, to my mind, is the murder had already been committed when Sergeant Chaparral and Agent Tolliver arrived here. The figure Tolliver saw might well have been the killer."

He turned to Sig, ticking off items on his finger. "We need to know definitively whether the man was killed here, or at least how far he could have walked with his wound. We need the hour of his death, as close as possible. We need a thorough search for the bullet that killed the victim. We need everything you can tell us from the wound." He handed the evidence bag to Sig. "I will collect the two rifles from Sergeant Chaparral for you to test. Oh yeah, and have someone go down and look at those sheep remains and tell me what caused those mutilations."

"I might be able to help with that," Sig said. He extracted a large evidence bag from his white coat pocket. In it was a utility knife, the kind used to slice open boxes, with extractable blade. The blade was open, the whole knife covered in blood. "I found this in the brush near the victim," he said. "I'll test the blood for a source."

Witherspoon looked like the cat who ate the canary.

"I think that about covers it for now," Ben said.

Agent Witherspoon grinned. "I'd say it more than covers it."

Zack was adamant. "I only heard one shot. How could Sergeant Chaparral have shot a man in one direction and a coyote in the other with just one shot?"

Witherspoon shook his head sadly. "I'd have to say you are not the most credible witness, Agent Tolliver, since you admit to having fallen asleep."

Zack opened his mouth to argue.

Ben held up a hand. "I have to agree with Agent Witherspoon on that point." He opened the car door. "Nothing more we can do here. Agent Tolliver, climb in. Let's get you settled back at the office."

The ride back to Tuba City in the big air conditioned SUV was very different from the trips in Jimmy's Bronco. The suspension turned the roads into a lulling cradle and the powerful AC charged the space with renewed vigor. The two agents in the front seat spoke of other matters related to other cases they were working in tandem. Alone in the back seat, Zack went over his conversation with Eagle Feather in his mind. He wondered if Ben accepted Agent Witherspoon's theory for even a minute. He decided not to worry about it. The forensic evidence would undoubtedly expose its flaws.

When they reached Tuba City, at Zack's request, Ben dropped him off at the Quality Inn. Thirty minutes later, after a shower and change of clothes, Zack walked south along Main Street. Although his path took him right past the McDonalds and the noon sun was hot and he was very hungry, he didn't feel he could delay an appearance at the office for even a minute. Promising himself a burger at the first opportunity, he walked on.

The FBI Liaison Office was discreetly located near the Nanees 'Dizi, the local government office for the Navajo. The FBI office was a third party rental, very discreet. Zack pushed the shadowy glass entry door open and walked into a small waiting room facing a reception desk. A young woman with neatly coiffed black hair wearing a turquois necklace and large silver bracelets on each wrist sat there. She raised her eyes at his appearance.

"May I help you?"

Zack noticed travel brochures on the desk's shiny metal surface, a pivoting rack of postcards nearby. Beyond the girl was a plain wood door secured with an electronic lock pad and glowing buttons. To his left was a wall adorned with travel posters. He could almost believe he was in the office of a travel agent.

He smiled at the girl. "I am Agent Zack Tolliver. I believe I am expected."

"May I see some identification, Agent Tolliver?" Her smile indicated she knew full well who he was.

Zack extracted his plasticized ID and handed it to her.

After a quick glance she handed it back and pressed a button. The locked door sprung open a few inches. "Go on in," she said. "Agent in Charge Brewster is expecting you, his office is the first door on your left." As he started that way she said, "Ignore the detector buzz; I'll get it programmed for you later."

Zack nodded and pushed through the door. A buzzer sounded as foretold, then was silenced. The first door on his left had a sign that read simply _Agent In Charge._ He knocked lightly.

There was a muffled "Come in!".

Zack stepped into Ben's office. He looked about in surprise. Every wall was lined with shelves, every shelf was loaded with books. Everything in the room, including the large desk before him, was made of rich walnut paneling. He felt as if he was in the inner sanctum of a library.

Ben watched his reaction from behind his desk and waved him toward a cushioned chair. "Have a seat. Let me just finish this report."

It took five minutes during which Zack let his eyes wander to the shelves. Immediately behind Ben were books of FBI protocol and procedures, forensic science, and weaponry. The other walls held books on Navajo culture, government, language, and history. Swinging his head the other way he found volumes on Native American prehistory, archaeology, ancient ruins of the American Southwest, native rock art, and so on. A cough brought his head back around.

"I try to keep informed," Ben said.

"I need to spend months in here," Zack said, knowing it to be true.

"I doubt you'll have time for that. However, I do have one or two volumes I can recommend and will loan you to help you get up to speed with the folks you'll be assisting."

Zack nodded his appreciation.

Ben became all business. "But to the work at hand. Shortly I will ask Bella, my talented assistant, to show you to your office and set you up. But before that, we need to find an angle on this murder case and get it resolved. Time is of the essence. Generally, we don't need to worry about the Fourth Estate out here even in a murder case because in the eyes of Joe Public the natives are continually knocking each other off and thus murders on the Reservation are not news. But if a police officer is suspected of murder, even a Navajo police officer, the press will show interest."

Ben's eyes bored into Zack's. "Therefore, we must either exonerate Sergeant Chaparral or arrest him, pronto. When I say exonerate, I don't mean simply declaring he didn't do it––I mean finding the guy who did."

He wheeled his chair away from the desk and sat back. "Eagle Feather has not checked in. He's a bit...unpredictable, but you can't overstate his skills. He spoke to you. What exactly did he say?"

Zack shifted in his chair, crossed his legs. "Just what I told you out there. He thinks the murder victim was already dead when Jimmy and I arrived. Presumably the killer hid himself and saw Jimmy take his shot. Eagle Feather tracked a man to the spot where we had just been. The man had apparently gone there to watch us from the cliff top. I imagine he was curious to know what we were shooting at."

"And after that?"

Zack shrugged. "Eagle Feather didn't go beyond that."

"In fact, where did he go?"

"He didn't say."

"Okay. " Ben stared at his desk, deep in thought.

Zack waited.

Ben sighed. "Zack, I need a true answer. Could Jimmy have changed position enough to turn, search out his target, shoot, and turn back and shoot into the valley and you not realize it? Is that even possible?"

Zack thought, tried to remember. The sad truth was, he really must have dozed off. "I can't be certain, sir. I'd have to say it is just possible. I was very sleepy and have no memory of the time just before Jimmy's shot woke me."

"One shot."

"Yes, sir, I'm quite sure of that."

"Your gut?"

"I don't believe it."

Ben's desk phone rang. He picked it up, listened. "Thanks." He looked at Zack. "That was Lenana, Jimmy's assistant. She said Jimmy just got a missing person call up near Shonto."

# 8

Zack was on his way back to Elk Wells, this time driving the big black Ford. After Lenana's call, Ben had ordered him to go and investigate the missing person incident. The dead man had not yet been identified. If he'd had a wallet, or medicine bundle, it was now gone. Perhaps the missing person was the murder victim. Beyond that, Ben wanted Zack to keep an eye on Jimmy to see if he acted suspicious in any way.

A DNA check was in progress, also ballistic tests. Unfortunately the slug that killed the mystery man had not been found. A needle in a haystack, as Sig had said, it could be anywhere. Ben assured Zack he'd contact him once any test results were made known.

When Zack pulled up in front of the police station in Elk Wells, Jimmy was already standing next to the Bronco. Zack lowered his window. "Want to ride in comfort?"

"Shush!" Jimmy said, nodding toward the Bronco. "You'll hurt the old girl's feelings." He pointed to a space. "Park that thing. Where we're going, we need good ground clearance."

Back in the Bronco, windows open, Zack felt the dust and sweat building up once again. The early afternoon sun was hot. "Where're we going?"

"Back up on the plateau. We're going to the town of Shonto."

"There's a town?"

Jimmy grinned. "Sure. Six hundred people, maybe. Got a school and everything."

"I don't remember seeing it."

"We turned off just before the town to get to Ashkii's place."

"Is the missing person from Shonto?"

Jimmy nodded. "He lives beyond Shonto up towards Last End Wash. The road there is why we need the Bronco." He slowed to make the turn at the intersection of Route 98. "The missing man is named Curtis Peaches. His girlfriend called it in, said he'd been gone for two days now. He went out to check on their goats, after that planned to take a walk. He didn't come back that night. When he hadn't returned the next morning she began to worry, but it wasn't the first time he'd stayed away for a while. But today she became concerned enough to call."

"Did he have a weapon with him?" Zack asked.

"She says no."

Jimmy turned right at the intersection with the road to Shonto. Zack recognized the turnoff for Route 221 and the murder scene as they roared by. Almost immediately after that the town of Shonto appeared. He saw blocks of housing developments not so different from places in Maryland he had known except for the lack of green lawns and trees. The Preparatory School dominated the town.

Jimmy drove right through Shonto. All at once the town was behind them and the pavement turned to dirt. They rolled along on a dusty road headed north through an arid landscape of short pine trees, sage and cacti, scattered as if from a pepper shaker. Bony humps of bare sandstone rose up once in a while like turtle's backs. It was hot.

They came to a 'Y' intersection. Zack saw no sign or route identification but Jimmy took the left fork without hesitating. This road was well maintained, level and smooth. The ride was actually comfortable until Jimmy steered the Bronco off the road, across the ditch and into a pair of ruts. It was apparent now why Jimmy had chosen the Bronco. The track ran through thickening brush then pitched steeply upward onto bare sandstone. No sign of the road was visible until they reached the top where the sandstone ended and ruts reappeared. With a cascading roar of its engine the little Bronco crested the summit and churned on. A few minutes later a grove of trees came into view. Zack saw a traditional hogan with a barn nearby and a small shed. A fence made with rough hewn posts and wire surrounded the shed area. As they drew near they heard the bleating of goats.

Jimmy stopped the Bronco fifty feet from the hogan and turned the engine off. They waited until the door of the home opened and a woman appeared and held the door wide, inviting them. As they walked toward the building, Zack noticed the care someone had taken of the plantings alongside the home. Several varieties of cacti were flowering, wisps of a grassy plant waved with the breeze and twinkled with tiny pink flowers, tall sunflowers aimed their yellow faces east. The path to the door was graveled and lined. The hogan was constructed of traditional log and mud plaster and was well kept up.

"Yá'át'ééh!" Introductions were made and the woman stood by the doorway, holding the screen for them. She was dressed in the traditional Navajo way. Her skirt was decorated in turquoise and red flowers and her white blouse had ruffles at the sleeve and the neck. A large stone necklace hung over the blouse. Black hair, brown skin, a face of unusual elegance was Zack's impression as he swept by her and went on in. The interior of the home was as carefully appointed as the exterior had suggested it would be.

Jimmy introduced himself in Navajo. He pointed to Zack and continued speaking in their native tongue. Zack understood the phrase "FBI Agent Tolliver" but that was all. After a few more sentences Jimmy turned to him and spoke in English."This is Morning Flower. She is of the Towering House people." He quickly added," Don't worry about clan relationships for now, but you will need to know them. Her missing boyfriend is called Curtis Peaches, his surname is Benally."

The woman nodded, waved them to a seat on the couch. A large colorful rug covered the floor in front of it. Other carpets overlapped around the entirety of the floor.

"Iced tea?" she asked. She spoke with the hesitancy of one not fluent in English.

"Please," Zack said and smiled.

Jimmy nodded.

The kitchen was through a door off the living room. Zack could see a corner of it and glimpses of his hostess as she moved from fridge to counter. The noise of a generator surged with the opening and closing of the fridge.

The men waited silently until she appeared with two glasses, ice cubes clinking, a sprig of mint on top.

Jimmy asked a polite question in Navajo, she waved him off. She wasn't having tea, she wanted them to go ahead and drink. After the first sip, Jimmy made the usual enquiries in English about the weather; had the nights been cold? He complemented her home. The goats seemed healthy. Was the corn crop coming in well?

With each question Morning Flower answered him in stilted but understandable English. Zack was impatient to get to the matter at hand but he understood and appreciated the custom that demanded pleasantries first.

Finally, Jimmy asked about Curtis.

Morning Flower repeated what they already knew.

"How was he dressed when he left?" Jimmy asked.

She thought a moment. "Jeans, shirt, and hat. He always wore his brown boots." She paused for a moment, thinking. "He did not take his wool jacket. If he knew he might be late, he would take it."

Zack remembered the murder victim did not have a jacket.

"Did he take his rifle?" Jimmy asked.

Morning Flower gave him a puzzled look. "No. When he goes for a walk he never takes a rifle."

"Do you have a picture of him?"

She stood, walked to a table at the far wall and brought back a framed photo. Jimmy looked at it, passed it on to Zack. It showed a cowboy leaning against a fence, his arm around a woman, easily seen to be Morning Flower. The cowboy had his hat low over his brow, his face half in shadow.

Zack could not tell if the man in the photo was the shooting victim.

Jimmy handed the photo back to her. "Do you have any other pictures?"

She shook her head. "Curtis does not like cameras. He is too impatient to pose."

"Where is his vehicle?" Jimmy asked.

"He does not drive."

Jimmy considered that. "We will issue an alert for him," he said. "The police will be on watch. Agent Tolliver and I will try to follow his tracks from here."

They walked to the door, she held it and watched them. Zack was impressed with this woman, her poise, her class. Not once had she become insistent or broken down emotionally, yet Zack could see the distress under the surface. He felt a strong desire to find her man for her.

Zack glanced around at the wide expanse of the plateau. "Where on earth do you plan to start?"

Jimmy reached into the Bronco and extracted a rifle. "Over there," he said. "She said he went to check on the goats first. That's where we can begin tracking." The goats greeted them gleefully. Jimmy reached into a bin at the shed and brought out a large scoop of feed. "Don't know how much they've been fed since Curtis left," he said, spreading the feed in the yard with a long sweep of his arm. "Can't hurt to top it off."

They walked around the goat pen. On the opposite side from the hogan they found a path leading east through the scattered trees. It looked as if Curtis had taken this path many times.

They followed the path up a slight rise. Some boot prints looked fresh even to Zack's unpracticed eye.

"He's walking steadily here, with purpose," Jimmy said. They followed the path for the next ten minutes, Jimmy in the lead, occasionally leaning close to the ground to see better, moving on. Now he stopped, knelt.

"Look at this," he said. He put two fingers in the indentation of a boot print. "He stopped here, then turned and stood a while looking back. This print is deeper than the rest."

"Resting?"

Jimmy shook his head. "He doesn't need to rest. It's as if he's watching to be sure he wasn't followed." He studied the prints, shaking his head slowly. "This man isn't out for a meandering walk, he has a purpose."

They kept on. Trees thickened around them, pinyon and juniper. The footprints continued. When the ground began to change, shedding its soil and leaving a smooth patina of sandstone it became harder to locate prints.

"We must be nearing the embankment of the wash," Jimmy said.

"What wash?"

"The Shonto Wash is up ahead. There is high ground at the edge of the wash. Beyond that it's barren, very few trees."

As Jimmy suspected, they came to a steep embankment with a grand vista out over a wide flat area of stone and dirt. The bank was not precipitous but it was fifty feet above the level of the dry runoff. Curtis' boot prints were obvious where he had clambered down the soft soil.

Zack stared across the wide bed to the far mesas blue with distance. "Where is Shonto from here?"

Jimmy pointed in a southeast direction.

"And where is Ashkii's place?"

He moved his arm slightly north.

"How far is that?"

"Maybe three, maybe four miles, longer by road." Jimmy squinted at Zack. "You're thinking Curtis could have gone all the way there?"

"Aren't you?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Let's climb down and see what we can learn."

They descended quickly. Zack's shoes filled with sand. He envied Jimmy his tall boots. At the bottom the soft sandy soil of the wash held clear footprints. A tangle of older prints told them this was not the first time Curtis had come this way.

Jimmy knelt and ran his fingers over the depressions. "The imprints here are deeper than those going forward. Curtis stood here a while, as if scanning the terrain ahead. He must have seen something or been looking for something." Jimmy looked forward. "Now he's moving faster, confident." The Navajo moved faster as well, almost as if he were right behind the imaginary man they were tracking. Then he stopped.

The ground beneath them was a chaotic mass of impressions, flattened in a wide area, indented and gouged as if someone had rolled about. Zack saw the paw prints of a large animal.

"What happened here?" he asked.

Jimmy was still working the puzzle. After viewing from several angles, kneeling, touching he said, "It came from over there." He pointed in the direction Curtis' tracks had been heading. "It charged him, knocked him to the ground. See here where its toes imprinted deep as it made its leap." His pointing finger followed the story written on the ground. "They fought, wrestled, thrashed around. The man broke free here"––Jimmy pointed beyond the disturbed earth––"and ran, the beast after him. See how its paw prints are on top of the boot prints". They followed a short distance and came to the side of a road. Here they found another confusion of boots and paws and then––nothing.

# 9

Zack leaned forward in his chair, the conversation meaningless to him, conducted entirely in Navajo. Morning Flower's face was ashen. She stared at Jimmy Chaparral's countenance as if to memorize every feature, sinking back into the couch cushions as if to escape his words.

Zack knew the difficulty Jimmy must be having as he tried to explain what they had found––or rather hadn't found; Curtis' footprints ending out there, never to continue. The huge animal prints. The sandy ground so disturbed, the flight. The trail ending at the road. And then he was gone.

It seemed to Zack as if the scenario Jimmy described was the one thing Morning Flower feared most, almost as if she had anticipated it.

Jimmy had little to say to Zack as they drove away from Morning Flower's house. His face was grim. To Zack's questions his only response was, "You saw the evidence."

Now as the Bronco bounced in and out of ruts, Zack tried again. "What did Morning Flower say? Did she have any idea what it all means?"

Jimmy darted a glance at Zack. "No more than you or me, according to her. You just graduated from a great academy where they teach this sort of thing. What did your education tell you happened out there?"

"I have no idea. I don't even know what kind of animal that was."

"It was a huge canine, like a wolf or dog."

"A dog!"

"My report will say the man went for a walk, was attacked by a huge canine, ran for his life pursued by the creature, and both disappeared at the roadway, possibly entering a vehicle." He glanced at Zack. "That is not what my people will say. My people will say Curtis Peaches was taken by a witch. That is what Morning Flower believes."

Zack stared at Jimmy. "A witch? That's craziness."

Jimmy was quiet for the next few minutes. He glanced at Zack. "This case is mine. This will not fall under Federal jurisdiction, not without a body. We have no evidence to draw a connection between Curtis' disappearance and the murder."

"What will you do, then?"

"Just what the Feds would do. We'll get scent dogs out there and try to find out what happened to Curtis. We'll search the entire area. We'll talk to people to learn who may have wanted to harm him."

"What will you say to people who believe it was a witch?"

Jimmy gave a wry grin. "I will give everyone what they want and expect."

At Elk Wells, Jimmy left Zack at the black Ford and went to his office to collect men for the search. Zack drove back to Tuba City to report to his boss. When the bell clanged at his entrance to the reception area, the girl behind the counter looked up with a big smile.

"Hello again, Agent".

"Hello, Miss..."

"Bistie. Bella Bistie."

"Please call me Zack."

"Is this a come-on?" she asked, her smile now teasing.

Zack was on more familiar ground now. Flirtation was the same, east or west. "Sure, if you want it to be."

She cocked her head to one side. "You know what they say about dating work colleagues?"

"No, what?"

"Yes."

"Ahem!" A cough interrupted their conversation.

Ben stood at the doorway to the offices. "Maybe you have time to hang around out here, Agent Tolliver, but I have work to do."

"Yes, sir." Zack turned to follow him through the door.

"I have you in my program now, Zack," Bella called after him.

He waved as he left the room. Had he just made a date? Is that what just happened? Or did she simply mean the metal detector programming? Or both?

Zack was still puzzling over this as he followed Ben through the door. Ben's office was not so neat as his first visit. Several books had been pulled down off shelves, a map was spread on the carpeted floor. His desk was piled with paper.

He waved Zack to the chair. "I've had a brief from Sergeant Chaparral's. office. Now I'd like to hear about the missing man case from you."

Zack began with meeting Morning Flower. After he relayed what she had said, he described tracking Curtis to the cliffs. Then he described the scene of the apparent attack and possible abduction.

Ben had sat silent, hands clasped on his desk, eyes intent on Zack. He did not interrupt. When Zack stopped, he said, "Hmmm" and pushed a button on the desk phone.

"Yes, Sir?" Bella's voice lilted from the speaker.

"Bella, please find Eagle Feather. I need to speak to him."

"I'll try, sir. But you know how that goes."

"Do your best. I need him ASAP."

Ben hung up the phone, looked at Zack. "I'll have Eagle Feather go have a look."

Zack cocked an eyebrow. "You think he might find something Jimmy missed?"

Ben shrugged. "Always the possibility. Sergeant Chaparral is a good tracker. Eagle Feather is the best tracker in these parts."

"Is he an FBI Agent?"

"Oh, no. He's just a hunting guide. Because of his skills, we have a loose arrangement whereby he helps us out in between clients."

"Like picking me up at the airport?"

"That too."

Ben smiled suddenly. "That reminds me, you'll need these." He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a ring of keys, a pager, and a keycard. He held up the keys. "These are your office keys, and vehicle keys. We have a Jeep you can use. And, of course, the Ford." He picked up the keycards. "This let's you through the security door, along with the camera that recognizes your facial image. It also lets you into our little lab in the back." He stood. "Let's go take a look at your new office."

Zack followed Ben out into the corridor. There were two more doors along the hall and one at the end with a large glass window. Ben opened the first door on the left, next to his own office. He stood aside for Zack to enter.

The office was about the same size as Ben's but seemed larger without the bookshelves. There was a solid metal desk with telephone, computer, in-and-out trays. Next to the desk was a small table with a printer. The floor was carpeted in beige.

"You'll figure out what you need as time goes on," Ben said. "Meanwhile, let's get right to work. There is a report there from our forensic work at the murder site." He waved toward the desk surface. "Take a look at it, give it a think. Regarding the missing man case, keep up to date with Sergeant Chaparral. If it is determined to be a murder, it will be your first case." He grinned. "Unless, of course, it is connected to my murder." He turned away. "I'll leave you to it." He shut the door behind him.

Zack went behind his new desk and sat down in the comfortable swivel chair. He looked around the room with a feeling of pride. His first real job. His first office. He looked down at the desk top. His first task.

Zack read the report. The victim was as yet unidentified, male, age about forty-five. The cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the abdomen, the bullet entering the back left side of the spine and exiting below the rib cage. Approximate time of death was eight to twelve hours before discovery.

He glanced down at the next item, the recovered rifle slug from Jimmy Chaparral's gun under the coyote. He saw that the rifling identification was consistent with the rifle Jimmy used, no surprise. They did find flesh and blood traces on the slug. It was sent out for testing and determined to be animal, not human. More specifically, canine. More specific than that would take more time.

Item three was a report on the sheep mutilation from an FBI forensics specialist on temporary duty at Tuba City. He believed the sheep died from severing of the carotid artery and both jugular veins with a deep incision from a sharp narrow implement, identified as the razor knife found with the victim's body. The eyes were removed with the same instrument. The stomach cavity was opened with the same instrument. The contents of the stomach cavity were left on the ground. The blood on the razor knife belonged to the sheep. There were no identifiable finger prints on the knife.

Zack called Jimmy Chaparral on his cell phone.

"Sergeant Chaparral," came the formal response.

"Hi, Jimmy. Where are you now?"

"I'm in Shonto doing a little house to house. What's up?"

"A couple of things. First, according to our forensics man, while the murder victim could have lived a while after he was shot, they believe he was killed at the scene. The stomach was perforated but yawing of the projectile was minimal, meaning less damage than might have been. To my mind there could still be a connection between the murder victim and our missing man. If you can get a good photo of Curtis we can put that one to rest right away, one way or the other. Blood testing from your rifle bullet is back. They concur you shot a canine. They have not found the bullet that killed the murder victim, so I'm afraid in Agent Witherspoon's mind you are not quite in the clear yet."

He heard Jimmy's laugh. "Yeah, I was expecting that one." There was a pause. "Anything else?"

"Our man says the sheep was killed by a man with knowledge of sheep anatomy."

"So no help. That's pretty much everyone on the Rez." He went right on. "Okay, I'll get a photo of Curtis Peaches and message it to you." He rang off.

Zack sat for a minute, thoughts wandering. As his eye passed over the blank walls, he felt a new rush of excitement. His own office. He thought about what he might hang on the blank walls. He knew he'd want a large map of the Reservation."

His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was Ben.

"Zack, I just heard from Eagle Feather. He's headed up toward Last End Wash to talk to Morning Flower and try to help track her missing man. Meanwhile, he had some news. He backtracked our shooting victim. He says the trail led him back to the road. He believes the killer and his victim arrived together in a vehicle, from the tire tread type and size likely a 4x4 truck. There was no sign of a struggle anywhere. The only footprints belonged to the victim. Eagle Feather thinks the killer never got out of the car."

"How could the killer not leave the car?"

"Well, according to Eagle Feather, the deceased ran from that spot. The killer waited for his shot, took it, and drove away."

Zack pictured it. "Like shooting trophies on safari. He was killing for sport."

"Maybe."

Zack's mind whirled with implications. "The killer must have known the area."

"Maybe."

"So obviously, if the victim came in a vehicle, Jimmy couldn't have shot him while up on the cliff with me. If Eagle Feather is right about this, it means we can let Sergeant Chaparral off the hook."

Zack listened to silence as Ben paused.

"It does not eliminate the possibility that Jimmy brought the murder victim there in his vehicle at an earlier time. And remember, the victim would have been easier to coax into the car of a policeman."

"He'd have to have done all that between the time he brought Jay Begay in to jail and when he picked me up in Tuba City that evening. Seems impossible."

Ben's voice was calm, reasoning. "What better alibi?" He paused. "Look, Zack, our investigation is wide open. I'm simply putting forward the argument I know Scott Witherspoon will propose. Of course we have to consider every possibility until we have more evidence. I've known Jimmy a long time, naturally I don't really think he's guilty. But my feelings don't count." He paused again. "Of course, Scott Witherspoon seems convinced he's involved somehow. He's bothered by the coincidence of Sergeant Chaparral being up there at about the right time discharging a rifle of a similar type that killed the man. The fact that he had you there as a witness just adds fuel to the fire for him. Jimmy won't be in the clear until we find the real killer."

# 10

After Ben rang off, Zack leaned back in his chair and let his mind chew on the new evidence. He knew Eagle Feather's interpretation of the events would not completely exonerate Jimmy, but neither would Agent Witherspoon's theory implicate him. The truth would come out sooner or later.

The idea the murderer had brought his victim to the scene of his death by car brought new possibilities to mind. Where had they come from? Was it possible to connect Curtis Peaches, the man who coincidently went missing at just the right time, to the cliff top murder?

Zack turned on the computer on his desk, found the internet browser and searched for a map of the area around Shonto. He moved his cursor to the approximate location of Morning Flower's hogan and from there to the place where Curtis disappeared. He found the road where the tracks of man and large canine had ended. From that point it would be possible to drive to Shonto and from there to the old trading post and beyond to the crime scene. Could the killer have used a huge wolf-dog to attack and drive his victim to his truck? If so, how had he subdued Curtis? How had he separated animal and victim without ever stepping out of the truck? The entire scenario refused to jell in his mind.

The desk phone rang. It was Ben.

"Dinner time, Zack. Let me show you where I like to eat."

The black ford was out front. Zack climbed in and to his surprise Ben drove to the restaurant where Zack had eaten breakfast, next to the Quality Inn. It was named the Hogan Family Restaurant.

"Is this the only place in town?" Zack asked.

Ben grinned. "Not quite. There's actually a quite good Chinese restaurant, a pizza place, and several fast food stores. But this is where you get a real family style meal." He turned off the ignition and winked at Zack. "And good Mexican."

At Ben's recommendation Zack experienced Fry bread for the first time, which to him tasted like donut treats from childhood. Ben explained it was a recipe of necessity for the Navajo when their only provisions came from the U.S. Government during the early days on the reservation. "There was just so much you could do with flour, salt, baking soda, and a bit of oil. But add sugar or syrup and it's quite tasty."

Zack had to agree.

When the discussion came around to the murder case, Zack offered his thought that it might be connected to the missing man case.

Ben shook his head. "I doubt it. You've just arrived here. You see two disturbing situations that occur about the same time in more or less the same area and you say, hey, they must be connected. What you don't see is how often these things happen. People on the Reservation go missing all the time. A father may just decide to move on, and off he goes without a word. A kid decides to try life in California for a while, and off he goes." He picked up his water glass.

Zack couldn't help himself. "Do people vanish in thin air a lot?"

Ben raised an eyebrow. A thickset, solidly built man, his manner was unflappable. "No more than in most American cities." He took another sip of his water. "Again, Zack, you're new here. These people are Navajo. They are skilled, completely at home in this environment. Many of them could decide to lay down a set of tracks to nowhere and disappear. It takes an Indian to find an Indian, as they say. Let Eagle Feather do his work, and we'll see."

After the meal, after Ben had graciously picked up the tab, Zack stood in the parking lot and watched the black Ford drive away, calmed by the earthy smells and subdued sounds of the early evening in this strange place. In Virginia, the roar of traffic was ever present, the smell of diesel mixed with fast food smells hung in the air. He turned and walked to the entrance of the Quality Inn. Inside the lobby, a young woman rose from a stuffed armchair in the waiting area.

Bella Bistie wore a mischievous smile, her dark eyes glistening with humor. Her black hair was unwrapped now and hung over her shoulders. In place of the quite proper high-buttoned white collared shirt and black tassel bowtie of earlier in the day she wore an embroidered puffed-sleeve collarless blouse, one shoulder bared, with a long turquoise bead necklace. Her white gathered skirt came just below the knees and around her slim waist she wore a brown braided sash and Concho belt. To Zack, she was an image of beauty.

"I'm here for our date," she said.

Zack could only stare.

"Have you changed your mind?"

"Uh, no! Yes! I mean, I wasn't sure..."

She laughed. Her teeth were sparkling white against bright red lipstick. "Don't worry, I'm teasing you. But I do want to show you around the town. I see it as my duty as administrative secretary."

"Well, then, I'm all yours. Do I need a jacket?"

"No. We're not going far." She slipped her arm in his elbow and tugged him back out the motel door. They walked toward Hogan's Restaurant.

Zack looked at her, eyebrows raised. "I just came from here."

She smiled. "I know. Ben told me he'd be bringing you here. But we're going to Hogan Espresso, not the restaurant." She dragged him along. "It's the best place to see the young people of Tuba City, especially tonight."

Zack had trouble keeping pace with her. "Why especially tonight?"

She grinned. "It's Open Mic Night."

Uh-oh, Zack thought.

They stopped in the coffee shop to look at the dessert display case.

"Ooh, they have carrot cake!" Bella looked at Zack. "Buy us some. This is the best!"

Out on the deck, at a patio table, Zack had to agree. He took another bite and washed it down with decaf. Darkness had crept in while they were in line for their food, now lamps had come on around the deck. A tech guy was busy with set-up on a platform next to the building wall.

"This is exciting," Zack said. "It feels like opening night around here."

"Everybody enjoys these nights," Bella said. "There are a lot of people here with talent. You'll see."

They chatted like old friends. Every so often Bella would leap up and scamper to another table to greet people she knew. Other young Navajos stopped by the table to see her. The place hummed with activity.

When bright spotlights flashed on and illuminated the platform, everyone returned to their seats and conversations died down. A man in a white cowboy hat and tinted glasses stepped to the microphone.

" Yá'át'ééh ałní'íní ," he said, his voice booming out over the system. "Good evening, y'all. Welcome to all you who are travelin' through and welcome back all you Homies and Homegirls." He sang to the tune from the beer commercial, "tonight is kinda special". "Yeah, that's right, we got some great talent lined up tonight an' you're not gonna want to miss a single moment, so fasten your safety belts, cause here we go!" He looked at a paper in his hand. "First up is Lisa Tso singing and strumming the six string doin' her own song "I Missed Midnight". Let's give it up for Lisa! Hey-Oh!"

The young girl was surprisingly good, her voice soft and soothing, the nylon strings and wistful minor chords evoking a haunting moment. The applause was loud.

Act followed act, from rap to poetry, mime to comedy routines. It seemed the entire community had talent and wanted to share it. The evening flew by. Many curious glances came Zack's way. He guessed word had spread about the new FBI recruit. Likely most had heard the story of his very un-FBI-like appearance at Jay Begay's arrest. Bella seemed to enjoy the covert glances.

The moment came when the announcer looked their way and called Bella's name. Zack watched her stride to the platform and remove the microphone from its stand. The gathering appeared to know what was coming and everyone applauded wildly. She cued the tech guy who started up a recording. After a soft intro she began to sing in sultry alto a song Zack hadn't heard before. It was very lyric and plaintive, performed in a Marlene Dietrich style, in German. After the first verse she traveled with the mic into the audience, singing table to table. Everyone was entranced. She worked her way to Zack and sang directly to him. He didn't understand a single word.

Bella ended the song, the accompaniment faded, she handed the microphone to the techie who appeared beside her, and sat down to thunderous applause. As the announcer presented the next act, Bella gave Zack a triumphant grin.

He raised his eyebrows. "You are full of surprises."

Her smile broadened.

When the show ended, Bella had one more thing to show Zack. She led him to her yellow Toyota pickup and they drove north out of the town. At a place where the road ascended some bluffs she pulled over and they stepped out. It was completely dark, but Bella seemed to know the ground well. She took Zack's hand and led him up a path to the top of the knoll. There she stopped, said nothing.

Zack looked around. He saw tiny lights winking here and there, house lights in the distance, he guessed. But the real show was above him. The stars shown so brightly it seemed they were lighting the land around him like a zillion tiny flashlights. He'd never seen so many stars.

Bella watched his face. "You don't have this back East, do you."

"No we don't," Zack breathed.

"Do you see that star just above and a little in front that glows so bright?"

Zack knew which one she meant. "The North Star, right?"

"We call it the Northern Fire. It is surrounded by four other stars. Náhookos Biko', 'Central Fire in the Sky', represents the fire in the center of the hogan, and Náhookos Bika'ii & Náhookos Bi'áadii circle around it. Together, all three constellations represent the family. Do you see it?"

"I see four stars around it, yes."

She laughed. "It helps to be familiar with the figures, see them in your mind."

"I see the Big Dipper," Zack offered.

"We call it Náhookos Bika'ii," she said. "Do you see? He is lying on his side, slightly raised on his left elbow. He represents the father and protector of the home."

Zack was aware of her closeness as she leaned in toward him, pointing and speaking in hushed tones. "I think I can see it."

"In the name of gender equality, look at the constellation you call Cassiopeia, over there." She pointed. "We call it Náhookos Bi'áadii. It is a woman lying on her side. She represents the woman of the home."

"Yes, I see that." Zack's neck was beginning to feel the strain.

"There, now," Bella said with a giggle. "You already know three Navajo Sky People. You are practically Navajo yourself."

Zack felt an overpowering urge to hold this girl. Something about the perfume she wore, the primitive smell of the arid land at night, maybe too many decafs––he felt like a schoolboy with a crush.

As if sensing his feelings, Bella stepped away. "We'd better get home. Ben will be unhappy if we both come in tired and cranky tomorrow." She laughed again, took his hand, and led him down the path.

Zack followed sheep-like. When they reached the truck, he opened her door for her, closed it and turned to go around to the passenger side. Something made him glance back up the hill they had just climbed down. He stopped short and stared.

A figure stood in the path above him, fifty feet away, visible somehow despite the darkness. It was a man, an Indian, with long black braids and piercing dark eyes. He wore an open collar flannel shirt and blue jeans tucked into scuffed boots, a white cowboy hat on his head. The man's eyes were intent upon something beyond Zack, his face was contorted with an expression somewhere between anger and despair. As Zack stared, the man slowly faded away, as if absorbed cell by cell into the darkness.

Bella had started the truck, now she rolled down the window. "Are you coming, or what?"

# 11

Zack said nothing about the apparition to Bella, or anyone else, for that matter. He figured he was off to a shaky enough start as the butt of humor at the Begay arrest and didn't need to add to that perception. He was perpetually tired, immersed in a different culture in a new landscape. He was probably lucky not to see pink elephants behind every bush.

Bella had dropped him off at the hotel last night and marched straight to his room, climbed into bed and fell into a deep sleep. He was sitting at a small table at Hogan's next morning sipping coffee and anticipating his first normal start to the day at the office when someone slid into the chair opposite him.

" Yá'át'ééh, White Man."

Zack looked at the sphinxlike face of Eagle Feather.

"Hello..."

"Go ahead, enjoy your breakfast. I will talk while you eat."

A pile of yellow scrambled eggs arrived at that moment. Zack obeyed.

"Ben has said you will work with Jimmy on the Curtis Peaches case and so I should talk to you. I have spoken with Morning Flower. I have followed your tracks into the Shonto Wash."

Zack's fork was part way to his mouth. "You saw what happened there?"

Eagle Feather nodded.

Zack stared at him, chewing. "The dog attack. The abduction."

Eagle Feather's eyes showed a glint of humor. "Did Jimmy say the man was attacked?"

Zack nodded. "Yes."

Eagle Feather studied him, as if weighing his response. "White Man, when you read sign you can see with these"––he pointed to his eyes––"or you can see with this"––he pointed to his heart. "It is important to know how to do it with both."

Zack angled his head. "I don't follow."

"You saw what your brain programmed you to see. You followed the tracks of a man walking alone. Below the cliff, you found the man tracks approached by large canine tracks. Where they joined you saw disturbed earth, signs of a struggle. The man ran, the animal pursued. Then both man and animal tracks disappeared."

Zack shook his head slowly. "Yes, both disappeared at the road. That's what we said."

Eagle Feather arched an eyebrow. "When you followed the man's footprints, you knew he was missing. You knew that was not a good thing. You thought this with your brain, you felt it with your heart. When you saw the animal tracks approach, you continued to think with your heart, and so you chose to believe the evil rather than the good." Eagle Feather put a long brown finger on the table between them. "You saw what is possible, but not all that is possible. You did not think anything good was possible."

Zack's fork paused in midair. "Nothing good could have happened. It's impossible."

"It is not only possible, it is probable." Eagle Feather stood, looked down at Zack for a moment, turned and walked away.

Zack stared after him, his appetite gone. His mind was in chaos by what this man seemed to be telling him. It was absurd. Jimmy Chaparral was there, had led the way, seen the tracks, described the attack. He too was a Navajo, a good tracker by all reports. He had seen what Zack saw, a man attacked by a beast.

But he remembered what Jimmy said later, about how the Dine' would choose to believe this mysterious animal was a witch. He remembered watching as Jimmy spoke to Morning Flower in their language, saw how devastated she had become at his words. What had he told her, actually? All they knew then was what she had already known, that Curtis Peaches was missing. But during that interview her face had shown despair, almost horror. Had Jimmy told her something else, something she found harder to face? Was Jimmy keeping his real suspicions from Zack?

When Zack started his career with the FBI none of his imaginings had included dealing with ghostly miscreants you couldn't even identify, let alone put into handcuffs. Zack stared into his half finished cup of coffee. He thought about Sergeant Chaparral's response when Zack asked him how he would deal with the expectations of his Navajo people, remembered how he said he would give everyone what they wanted and expected. Zack had no knowledge or experience with Navajo mysticism, therefore that was not an option for him. But he was trained in step by step procedures and the rules of evidence and that was how he must proceed, whether people saw ghosts or not.

That settled, Zack felt more comfortable. He paid for his breakfast and walked down the street to his new office in a better frame of mind, humming a tune.

The tune died on his lips when he sat down at his desk and opened a large envelope left there by Jimmy Chaparral. It was a picture of the missing man, Curtis Peaches, standing next to a sheep pen, smiling at the camera. He wore a flannel shirt of blue and red plaid, blue jeans tucked into scuffed boots, braids of long black hair and a cowboy hat. In this photo his face was clearly visible. It was the man Zack had seen the night before, the apparition. He dropped the photo on the desk as if it was hot and continued to stare at it.

After overcoming his shock, he realized the photo just might resolve another question; the man who was murdered on the mesa beyond the Shonto Trading Post had facial features similar to Curtis Peaches. The missing man might no longer be missing.

Zack called Jimmy to tell him, but the Navajo stopped him mid sentence.

"Hold on," Jimmy said. "Let's not do this over the phone. Can you meet me in Kate's Cafe in Elk Wells?"

"Half an hour," Zack said.

"And Zack? Please don't talk to anyone else."

"But I've got to tell Ben, show him the photo. It's new evidence."

"Zack, it won't hurt to wait on that a bit. Look, there are sensitive issues involved here. Once the Feds get their teeth into it, they're like bulldogs. I won't be able to protect the sensitivities of my people. Now that we believe the cases are connected, we can choose the best time for all concerned to hand it over. Let's talk first, pretend I haven't quite sent the photo. Remember, I'm the one in charge of this particular case."

Zack reluctantly agreed. He checked in with Ben, who barely looked up from his desk, told Bella where he'd be, and went around back of the building with the Jeep keys dangling from his finger. The sun was strong, the day warming, and Zack folded back the roof of the Jeep. It started with a happy six cylinder 4.0 liter roar. Zack spun it around the lot once, liked what he felt, and headed out. Twenty minutes later he approached Elk Wells, Hank Williams singing in his ears. This time he felt he belonged in his surroundings.

He found Jimmy seated at a table at Kate's. To Zack's surprise, someone else was there with him, the ephemeral Eagle Feather. The two Navajo watched him approach, Jimmy smiling, Eagle Feather stone faced.

Jimmy kicked out a chair for Zack. "We didn't want you to say too much over an open line. We can talk here without being overheard."

Zack frowned. "My FBI line is not secure?"

"A telephone line is a telephone line. No federal budget is going to invest in expensive scrambling devices for your little liaison office."

Zack was still puzzled. "Who is going to care about this case beyond people on the Reservation?"

"That is a good question," Eagle Feather said.

Jimmy looked at Eagle Feather, turned back to Zack. "I've been searching for background on Curtis Peaches. Morning Flower has known him less than a year, he moved in with her just a couple of months ago. She could tell me nothing of the man's past before she met him. I had Lenana do a search in every data bank she could access. No one named Curtis Peaches, Curtis Benally, Peaches Benally, or any combination exists on any record she could find." He tapped the table with his finger. "Lenana is very good at what she does." He went on. "I checked with Morning Flower's neighbors and asked everyone I could speak with in Shonto about Curtis, showed them the picture, but no one knew anything about him. It's like his background was erased."

"People without backgrounds are hiding from something or someone," Eagle Feather said. "He acts like one who is being hunted."

"Where did he live prior to moving in with Morning Flower?" Zack asked.

"She says he lived in an old trailer out toward Last End Wash, tended a herd of sheep up that way," Jimmy said. "He gave up the job when he moved in with Morning Flower. I was up to that trailer once, long time now. It was deserted back then. Curtis might have just helped himself, no one would have noticed or cared. Morning Flower found the photo I sent you among his things. She'd never seen it before. It looks like it was taken at Last End Wash, before she met him. We don't know who the photographer was." He glanced at Eagle Feather. "There is one other thing she said that I haven't told you. She told me he had a lot of money with him when he came to live with her. He helped her fix up the place, never told her where he got it."

Zack raised his eyebrows at that. "Not likely from tending sheep."

Jimmy gave a wry grin. "Not likely."

Zack looked at Eagle Feather. "But what happened to him? Where did the large canine come from? How did he end up dead above the cliffs? And why?"

Eagle Feather nodded. "We do have much to learn. The man worked as a shepherd. Shepherds use dogs. If you know someone is hunting you, you want to have a big dog. Was someone hunting him? Is that why he came here?" He paused, looked at Zack. "It is difficult to lose your background so thoroughly. Most people need help."

Jimmy nodded. "Maybe at some point you can ask Ben about that."

Zack looked up in surprise. "You think the FBI knows about Peaches?"

"Sometimes the federal organizations share information among themselves. It certainly wouldn't be the first time the U.S. Marshals, CIA or FBI used the Reservation to hide someone."

# 12

Mischievous brown eyes lingered on Zack when he came through the office door. Bella's transition from crooning nightclub heart stopper to tight-collared and efficient receptionist was almost as mysterious to Zack as the specter of Curtis Peaches. She made a hitchhiking motion with her thumb toward the inner sanctum indicating he was wanted by the boss.

"Am I in trouble?"

"That's between you and your conscience, but Ben wants to see you because the lab tests are in."

Zack whistled. "That was fast." He felt sudden excitement. The test results might confirm the answers to a number of questions.

"Thanks, Bella."

She smiled and buzzed him through the inner door.

Ben's office was open a few inches, as if in expectation. Zack heard conversation inside. He knocked lightly, bringing the conversation to an abrupt stop.

"Come on in, Zack," Ben said.

Zack felt a knot in his stomach at the sight of Agent Scott Witherspoon in a chair next to Ben's desk. Without knowing exactly why, he had begun to dislike this agent from Flagstaff. Ben waved him to an empty chair.

"Scott was kind enough to bring the rifle tests and blood results up from Flagstaff," Ben said. "We have enough in here"––he waved a folder––"to answer most of our questions." He handed the folder to Zack. "Glance through it while we tell you what we know." Ben sat back, his hands a pyramid under his chin.

Zack flipped it open and began reading the columns of data as he listened.

Agent Witherspoon spoke first. "As you know the tissue found on the bullet Sergeant Chaparral allegedly found beneath the coyote was indeed from that animal and was a match for his rifle. We have not yet found the bullet that killed the man on the mesa. Of the two rifles we collected from Chaparral, one had been fired and the other had not. The first was used by Sergeant Chaparral, the second was yours. We can not confirm how many times Sergeant Chaparral's rifle was fired, but there is just one bullet missing from the magazine. It is confirmed the victim was shot with a rifle of generally similar characteristics. But, of course, that covers a lot of ground."

Ben picked up the narrative. "The blood on the razor knife we found near the victim does indeed match the blood of the mutilated sheep. Unfortunately, there were no identifiable fingerprints on the knife. But the evidence certainly suggests the victim is our sheep mutilator."

There was silence among the three as each eyed the others.

Zack wanted to tell them about the photo but his promise to Jimmy and Eagle Feather held him back. He had a gut feeling he was doing the right thing, but it went against all he had been taught. "So Sergeant Chaparral is in the clear," is all he said, finally.

Agent Witherspoon shifted in his chair to face Zack. "Not so fast. All we have proven is he shot a coyote near the sheep. We can't prove he didn't shoot anyone else, including the murder victim. In addition our forensics expert commented, as you see there, that the shot must have come from a position very similar to the one you and Chaparral occupied.

"But I heard just the one shot. And there was just one bullet missing from his magazine."

Witherspoon smiled at Zack like a teacher patiently teaching a child. "Magazines are exchangeable. And you were asleep, as I remember."

Ben put up a palm. "I don't think we're getting anywhere with this. Let's hold off until we know a bit more." He turned his attention to Zack. "How's that missing man case going?"

Zack had hoped Ben wouldn't ask, especially with Witherspoon in the room. "It's inconclusive at the moment. The man's tracks ended and we haven't been able to pick them up again. Jimmy questioned people at all the nearest residences and anyone who had been in the area, but no luck yet."

"What about Eagle Feather's take on it? Didn't he go up and have a look?"

Zack searched for the right words. "Well, if he had a different take to Sergeant Chaparral's, he didn't tell me what it was."

Ben nodded. "What's your next step?"

Zack leaned forward. "As you know, the case is still in the hands of the Tribal Police. Sergeant Chaparral has arranged for dogs to attempt to track him today."

"That's a lot of territory to cover," Witherspoon said.

"What does the girlfriend––Morning Flower, is it?––think happened to him," Ben asked.

Zack shook his head. "I don't believe she has any idea. She seemed pretty devastated."

Ben nodded and waved a dismissing hand. "Thanks, Zack. Keep me informed, please."

Zack stood, nodded to both men, and escaped out the door and into his office. At his desk, his face flamed red when he thought about the position he'd put himself in. He had information possibly of great consequence to the investigation he had not shared. In fact, he'd been deceptive. The agents did not question who Peaches was or what he was doing there. Was it because the missing person case was of no real importance to them? Or were they being evasive? In any case, some gut instinct told Zack not to share everything while Witherspoon was in the room.

He picked up his desk phone and called Jimmy's cell. After three rings he received a message saying Sergeant Chaparral's phone either off or out of range. He left a message, then tried to turn his mind to the forms and other mundane matters requiring his attention. He found it difficult.

He was glad when Jimmy called just five minutes later. The Navajo policeman wanted to know if Curtis Peaches had any relationship with the feds.

"I haven't asked yet. Agent Witherspoon is with Ben. I'll try later when I can get Ben to myself."

"I think that is wise."

"Is there a problem between the two of you?"

There was a pause. "Let's just say Agent Witherspoon and I disagreed about how to handle a prisoner on one occasion. Can we leave it at that?"

Zack grinned to himself. "Of course."

"You called because...?"

"Right. I wondered if you've arranged for the dogs yet?"

"Yes I did. Libby––she's the handler––is on her way up there now. Eagle Feather will meet her there, show her the area. He'll get back to me, but he's pretty sure it's a waste of time, thinks the dog will come to the road and simply whimper." Jimmy sighed. "But one step at a time. I told him just go ahead and let's see what Big Blue can do."

"Big Blue?"

Jimmy laughed. "That's Libby's newest dog. Amazing animal. He can follow a snake through a tar pit. I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

Neither spoke for a moment. "Is there something else?" Jimmy asked.

Zack didn't know how to begin. "This will sound strange, but I saw him last night."

"You saw who?"

"The missing man, the shepherd, Curtis." Zack hesitated. "Not for real, I mean I know he wasn't real, but he looked real. Just as real as you or me. Then he disappeared."

There was a moment of quiet. "Zack, you continue to surprise me. I want to know more about that, but not over the phone. I'll call in a couple of hours."

The moment Zack hung up, he regretted his impulse to tell Jimmy about the apparition. After all, the vision had to be an effect of the mind brought on by the newness and strangeness of his situation. Confessing he'd seen the apparition was the kind of thing could ruin a man's career, like airline pilots confessing to seeing UFOs. Well, he'd followed his impulse and he'd damn well better have been right. For one thing, he needed to learn a lot more about the dead man he'd seen, this Curtis Peaches. He called Jimmy right back.

"Are we some sort of BFF now?" Jimmy asked.

"I'm sorry to keep at you. I need a favor. I want to go see the place where Curtis lived before he moved in with Morning Flower. Can you show me?"

Jimmy paused. "Wish I could, but I'm in the middle of something, and it's a long way. I'll tell you what, though, come on out here to the station and I'll arrange to have a man guide you up there. That good enough?"

"Couldn't ask for more."

Jimmy chuckled. "Well, I'm sure you could, but you wouldn't get it."

Once again Zack found himself on the Navajo Highway headed east toward Elk Wells with Ben's blessing. It was almost as if Ben enjoyed seeing Zack leave the office. Once again he felt a gnawing in his stomach. His breakfast had not served him as well as it should, particularly after Eagle Feather made his appearance. He planned to see if Katie would make him a sandwich to take along on the drive to Last End Wash.

When he emerged from Katie's Cafe he had his lunch in hand, more of a bag dinner, really––a beef sandwich, banana, cookies, chips, and several sizeable chunks of fry bread. He found a large Ford pickup with a trailer parked outside. Jimmy was inspecting the trailer hitch connections. Zack heard restless clumping noises from the trailer's interior.

"Horses?"

The stocky Navajo policeman with a ruddy face poked his head around from behind the trailer, studied Zack for moment and said, "Yep."

Jimmy stood and stretched with both hands on his back. "Zack, you remember Lané Shorter? I think he was here for the Jay Begay situation."

"I remember. Howdy."

Lané nodded, turned back to whatever he had been doing.

"Lané will be your guide up to the Wash."

"Horses?" Zack asked again.

Jimmy smiled. "There's no good road for the last several miles. You do ride, don't you? Didn't they teach you to use anything except cars and motorcycles at that fancy academy?"

Zack grimaced, looking down at his low cut sneakers.

Jimmy laughed. "Those shoes will do just fine." He motioned toward the truck cab. "Climb in. You need to get going or you won't see much before darkness sets in." He gave the back fender a slap as if it was a horse's flank.

Lané slipped behind the wheel and started up the 450-horsepower 3.5 liter EcoBoost engine. It emitted a confident rumbling. Zack didn't know horses, but he did know trucks, and he wondered where they could possibly be going that this F-150 Raptor couldn't take them.

They roared out of town and onto Route 160, the road smooth as silk. Route 98, recently paved, was a smooth black ribbon through the baked red soil and scrub brush landscape. They took the road to Shonto, by now quite familiar to Zack. Just beyond the turnoff to the trading post Lané slowed and eased the rig through a sharp left turn, heading west with large housing developments on either side.

As soon as the developments were behind them, all pretense at pavement ended. The road, composed mostly of sand and dirt, continued in a westerly direction. They bumped along through ruts, other times soft sand. The jolting ride kept the horses moving about to keep their balance. Sage brush, rabbit bush and shrub live oak were scattered randomly across the landscape with the occasional turtleback sandstone ridges rising here and there. At one such ridge the road offered several divisions and a confusing kaleidoscope of ruts. Lané didn't hesitate, shifted the Ford into a lower gear and powered up the side of the sandstone face. On the far side, just as the trailer teetered ominously, the road leveled off and turned back to dirt ruts, now headed north.

Occasional high points offered vistas which brought home to Zack the emptiness of the land around them. He saw scrub, sand and sky everywhere he looked for as far as he could see. As they jolted along the terrain grew rougher, the rock mounds steeper, and gullies slashed the landscape. After a hard right turn with the trailer barely able to follow they took a dusty track and came to a large rock escarpment. At its foot several trees gave shade and the ground was level. Zack noticed tracks from all-terrain vehicle tires everywhere. He suspected his horseback adventure was about to begin.

He was right.

# 13

Lané levered open the rear of the trailer and gently slapped his way between the large rumps, disappeared then reappeared backing both horses down the ramp with an assurance that left no doubt he'd done this a few hundred times before. He handed the reins of a small but sturdy looking Pinto mare to Zack. Her brown eyes assessed him with long lashes that gave her a coquettish look.

"Her name is Babe," Lané said. He tied his own mount, a black quarter horse named Mystic dancing with nervous energy, to the truck tailgate. He tugged a large satchel of supplies out of the truck bed, then locked the truck. He glanced at Zack while tying the supply bag behind his saddle.

"Go ahead, mount her, walk her, get used to each other. She is gentle like a grandmother."

Zack remembered how his own grandmother had her less than gentle moments. He let the mare nuzzle him, stroked her forelock, and moved slowly to the saddle, keeping a reassuring palm on her. Then he grasped the pommel, put his foot in stirrup, and swung up.

"You have ridden before." Zack detected relief in Lané's voice. He was probably happy not to babysit a novice rider.

Zack circled Babe left and right and found her responsive and eager to please. He patted her neck. "I don't ride a lot," he said. "But I do enjoy horses."

Lané was mounted by now. "That is good." He nudged the black and led off.

Zack had an epiphany. After three and a half days of uncertainty, never in control, never quite knowing where he was going or what he might be about to do, not even knowing where he might rest his head for the night, he was experiencing an unexpected peace within himself. He didn't understand it. His entire life had been dictated by a schedule. Someone had always explained what would happen and when. He always knew what was expected of him, he always knew where he'd be at the end of the day.

None of this was true ever since he'd arrived on the Reservation yet right now, on horseback in a completely unfamiliar landscape led by a stranger who embodied a culture about which he knew nothing, he somehow felt it was right. He didn't know how this could be but he did know one thing; he liked these people and he hoped they would grow to like and accept him.

The trail they followed was a reduction of the same road they had been on. The truck might have handled it for a mile or so without the trailer. But after that it narrowed and began to climb steeply. Lané reined in and allowed Zack to come alongside. He passed him a canteen.

Zack sipped, started to hand it back, but Lané put up a palm. "That one is yours. Keep it." He shifted slightly in his saddle, peering across the landscape. "To you, this land around us looks empty, I think, but there are people living out here." He pointed in several directions. "There, and over there, two families over that way." He was watching Zack's face. "My people are content to keep to themselves."

Zack stared across the barren tree studded landscape but saw nothing. It would be a long drive to the bank or grocery store from out here.

They rode up a shield of naked rock to the highest point yet and traversed a cliff edge then descended to another trail and followed it northwest at an easy ambling trot. A fence appeared, the first sign of humanity since they left the truck.

"We are here," Lané said. He dismounted, retrieving his rifle from its scabbard in the same motion. He led his horse with reins in one hand, rifle in the other. Zack followed him around a copse of tall oak trees. Before them was a small corral constructed from tree branches, twigs still attached. The corral was empty. The dung within was dry, there were no fresh disturbance in the dust. It had apparently not been used in many months. A trailer was directly behind the corral. Its shiny surface glimmered in the sun. It gave the appearance of disuse, overgrown with vegetation, dirt on the windows. Yet the door had a large, new-looking padlock.

Lané continued toward the trailer leading the black, while Zack looped Babe's reins over the corral fence. He walked around behind the trailer. There was a large rear window with blinds closed on the inside. The remainder of the exterior was just as overgrown, just as dirty and projected disuse.

His walk brought him back to the door. Lané stood near the short metal steps leading up to it. He pointed to the ground where he stood. "People have been in and out of here a lot."

A profusion of boot prints led to and from the steps. There were prints from truck tires as well. Zack climbed the steps and took a close look at the lock. He saw tiny fresh scratches in the metal around the keyhole.

"Someone has used this lock recently," he said.

They studied the trailer, the cobwebs in the window apertures, the general look of disuse and decay.

"Maybe someone's storing stuff in there," Lané said.

"Seems the most likely thing," Zack said.

"Curtis is dead, the door is padlocked, but it feels to me like someone has just been here.

"There might be evidence in there to help us." Zack flipped the lock.

"There might. But I have no authority to break in. Do you?"

Zack shook his head. "I have even less authority than you at the moment. So what now?"

Lané glanced at the sun. "If we turn back now, we can sleep at home. "

That sounded good to Zack. But something gnawed at him. "Where are the sheep?"

"They are likely at a higher pasture."

Zack stood thinking. "We know someone has been here recently. Maybe there is another shepherd, someone who can give us more information." He jerked a thumb toward the trailer. "Maybe he can tell us what's in here."

"If we go look for the sheep, it will mean we camp out tonight."

Zack viewed the rising stone escarpment to the west and the sun just a hand span above it and sighed. "If we don't check now, we'll just have to come back another time, no doubt."

Lané grinned. "Let's go then. It is a long ride to the next motel." He chuckled to himself as he mounted the black.

They searched the ground west of the trailer and found prints and sheep droppings, shoe prints and shod horse prints. None looked fresh.

Lané pointed. "Last End Wash is that way. Sand Spring is the nearest water in the area. A shepherd would need to keep his sheep somewhere up there."

They rode into the sun which had sunk enough to force them to lower their hat brims. The terrain was more rock than sand here and grew steeper with each half mile. They rode relaxed, enjoying the moment, their horses climbing the sandstone with ease.

Eventually they came to a section that was long and steep. Lané dismounted. He gestured for Zack to do the same. "We have come to the ridge that forms the eastern wall of Last End Wash. We'll need to walk the horses from here. It gets steeper."

The climb was difficult. Sometime they followed wide cracks in the rock surface, sometimes they found a switch-back on an animal trail, sometimes there was sufficient soil to grip where trees clung to the slope. It was sweaty, hot work. Zack's clothing was soon soaked through. When at last they could go no higher and the ground began to slope away, they stopped. Zack immediately felt the chill of advancing evening in his wet clothing. He forgot his discomfort gazing at the view before him. Here was the entirety of Last End Wash––wide, desolate, serpentine sandstone along, sometimes rising like an inverted stream bed of bare rock, dry stream beds winding and worming their way along the wash.

Lané grinned. "Quite a view. It's all about erosion, the fast moving water cutting through the loose sandstone like a knife through butter. You can't tell from here, but some of those canyons are over a hundred feet deep. We'll keep to a trail that runs along this side until we get nearer the spring, or until we find the sheep. Whichever comes first."

From where they stood, the descent into the wash seemed impossibly steep. "How will we get down there?" Zack asked.

Lané motioned off to their left. "There's a gulch over that way and a trail of sorts." He noticed Zack's uncertainty. "But not tonight. Tonight we'll camp up here."

Zack shivered. "Wouldn't it be warmer down there?"

The Navajo shook his head. "No, colder. Below us, up against the west facing cliff face, out of the sun most of the day, it stays pretty cold. There can be snow down there all summer some years. It wouldn't surprise me to find some tomorrow." He began to walk leading Mystic down a slight slope toward a level area surrounded by trees. "We'll get a fire going and get warmed up," he said.

They set up a picket line for the horses, rubbed them down, fed them some grain from Lané's supply bag and left them to browse. Next in order was gathering old dry pinyon branches which were in great supply. Soon the pyramid lean-to of wood crackled and moaned like a live thing. Out from Lané's magical bag came blankets. Using soft interwoven pine twigs they fashioned beds near the fire and lay the saddle blankets over them. Their saddles became pillows. When it was time to sleep, they would wrap themselves in the extra blankets Lané had brought.

The magic bag held a supply of nutrition bars and dried venison strips. Those, along with water, were their dinner and would be their breakfast too. They lounged by the bright warm fire as everything around them disappeared into blackness. The Navajo policeman was not much of a conversationalist but Zack had enough questions burning inside him to keep the man talking regardless.

He learned Lané had been named Shorter not as a surname but because he was just that. He was the shorter of the two Begaye brothers and was called so by his community. He'd have preferred to be called Smarter, he said grinning, because he figured he was, but unfortunately it was Shorter that stuck.

"Where did Lané come from?"

"It is my called name. I was called Lané as a baby by my father for a favorite character in a book he was reading at the time. I always liked it." Lané studied Zack for a moment. "What do you know about clans?"

Zack shook his head, overwhelmed. "I tried to learn about them at the Navajo Museum, but it is all very strange. You are first known through your mother's clan, is that right?"

Lané nodded. "When I introduce myself to another Navajo I say Yá'át'ééh shí éí Lané Shorter Begaye yíníshyé'. Next I introduce myself as born to The People Who Move About, my mother's clan, and born for the Red Bottom People, my father's clan. Sometimes I mention my grandparents' clans." He laughed. "After that, it is impossible to be a stranger." He looked at Zack. "Do you know that much about even your best friend?"

Zack shook his head. "I see what you mean."

Lané folded his hands behind his head on his saddle pillow. "Clans have an interesting history. There were only four created by Changing Woman in the beginning, now there are somewhere north of a hundred fifty, I've been told. Many came about from marriages into other Native American tribes, with Mexicans, and even with whites." He rolled his eyes toward Zack. "Maybe someone in your history married a Navajo and started a clan. We could be related." He chuckled.

Zack smiled at the thought. "Maybe if we could think of the entire world population as one big clan, there'd be less strife."

"Oh, I don't know." Lané said. "There's plenty of strife among the clans." After a sleepy pause he said, "Always gonna be strife."

The night was still. Cold settled over them, held off only by the bubble of heat from the fire, now reduced to red winking coals. With his nose pinched by cold but his body warm in the blanket and the fire's heat, Zack was cozy. The nest of interwoven pine branches was comfortable and exuded a pleasant fragrance. The day had been arduous and he was asleep before he could even think about it.

# 14

When Zack awoke it was still dark, although a slight rosiness to the eastern sky signaled its intentions. A man stood near the now cold ashes of the fire. Zack rose to his elbows. He knew this man.

It was the same the Navajo, visible despite the dark, with long black braids and piercing dark eyes, the same flannel shirt and blue jeans tucked into scuffed boots, the white cowboy hat on his head. Again, the man stared not at Zack or anything near them but at something far beyond. He expressed the same anger and despair he had shown before. The specter was nearer this time, detail was more visible, and now Zack could see the crimson stain in the middle of the flannel shirt. The figure remained intent upon whatever it was he saw, until once again he slowly faded away. When he was almost entirely gone, the entity became a small bright orb and like a shooting star flashed away into the wash below.

Zack was stunned.

"What did you see?" Lané's voice startled Zack.

"Did you see him too?"

Lané's eyes peeped out of his hoodie, his head still resting on the saddle. "I saw you lookin' like you saw something."

"He was just standing right there."

"Who?"

"The missing man, the dead man, Curtis Peaches." Zack described the apparition, the look on his face, his dress, and how he faded to an orb and flew down the canyon.

"Maybe he wants to show you something."

"Me? Why me?"

Lané moved up to a sitting position, his blanket wrapped around him like a teepee. "Damned if I know."

Zack too was sitting, shivering in the intruding cold. "Where does he want me to go?"

With a wave of his arm, Lané indicated the wash far below them. "Somewhere down there, if that's where his eyes were going, if that's where he went when he left."

Lané rose up now, his blanket discarded, and began to stack up twigs and unburnt wood to start a fire. After he had the kindling flaring, he turned away. "I'm gonna go pee, then I'll heat some water for breakfast."

"Don't feel much like breakfast," Zack mumbled through his blanket.

Lané turned his head back toward him and laughed. "No worries there, we don't got much anyhow." He headed off into the trees, still chuckling.

Zack opened his blanket to welcome the fire's warmth as the flame built from the kindling and scaled the wood itself. His senses had been overpowered the first time he'd seen the apparition. Never before in his life had he experienced such a thing, not outside of dreams or movies, anyway. He'd put it aside the first time as best he could, telling himself it was a manifestation of the anxiety and worries of culture shock, not to speak of the excitement of being out with a pretty and very exotic young woman at the time.

There was no way to ignore it now. The Navajo man had looked as real as Lané looked right now returning from the trees. Every detail of the apparition's features, clothing, manner had been just as real. Yet he wasn't, he couldn't be.

"He wasn't real," Zack said, saying it aloud for his own benefit.

"Maybe he was a _hozoji_. They are in harmony with the supernatural powers, the Holy People. A _hozoji_ stands in two worlds."

"But why me? Why did he come to me?"

Lané looked at him for a moment, mumbled to himself as he dug into his satchel. "You are the only white man I know who has seen the _hozoji_. I did not know such a thing could happen. It must mean there is something for you to do, something only you can do."

From the depths of his magic bag came a tin pot. Once the lid was removed, he extracted two tin cups, one of which he handed to Zack, and several paper packets he set aside. He filled the pot with water from the large canteen and set it on the coals, then went to care for the horses.

Zack sat on his bed, his blanket around him and stared at the water in the tin pot. There was so much new in his life now, so many unexpected, unbelievable things to consider. Once the water boiled he found the instant coffee, put some in each cup and took a steaming cup to Lané.

The approach to the ravine where it slashed its way to the wash below was steep, the rock filled ravine itself even rougher. They stayed mounted this time, the horses picked their way along a track worn among the rocks by many creatures traveling this way over the years, including herds of sheep, no doubt. At times the incline was such Zack thought he might fall forward over his horse's neck. Lané leaned back on the big black and seemed to flow as part of his horse.

Where the ravine opened into the wideness of a dry flow in the wash basin, Zack saw that Lané had been right about the cold here. There was indeed snow, tucked up against the base of the cliff, two or three inches deep, crystalized into ice around the edges––in July!

Now the ride was easy, the dry stream bed flat and sandy, nothing to avoid but the occasional creosote bush or smoke tree cluster waiting for the next cloudburst to replenish their water supply. They rode south, the sun creeping across Zack's left shoulder to project a shadow cartoon of a man on horseback. The streambed narrowed, the sides steepened and grew until the men rode in a roofless tunnel deeper into the vastness of the wash.

Lané cast thoughtful glances over his shoulder at the sky. "Weather looks good," he said. "But if a rainstorm happens up toward Navajo Mountain we could be in trouble here."

"You mean a flash flood?"

Lané nodded. "This cut narrows and gets deeper before we climb out. We just have to keep an ear out."

"Ear?"

"Yeah, we'll hear it before we see it and by then its too late anyway, probably."

Zack looked at the canyon walls. Nowhere to go. "So why come this way?"

Lané shrugged. "It's just a short bit, but it saves hours of riding time."

"Do the sheep come down here?"

"No. They just mosey and eat their way along the surface of the wash. They're in no hurry."

"Shouldn't we be up there looking for them?"

Lané reined in, let Zack come alongside. "Two things. First, they need the water at Sand Spring, which is down that way." He pointed ahead. "Second, where we come out if they been through there we'll cut their trail. If not, we go back north the slow way and look for 'em." He glanced back over his shoulder again. "No clouds up north. I think we're good."

As the canyon walls mounted, Zack imagined a sudden rush of water in these narrow confines. As remote as the possibility was, it painted a nerve-wracking picture. The canyon heights grew to seem unassailable. Then Lané gave Mystic a nudge to the left, heading toward a place in the wall that grew to a defile as they neared and opened into a narrow passage just wide enough for the horsemen to ride single file. It wound like a snake in a gradual ascent until they were once again up in the wideness of the huge wash basin.

Zack looked back over his shoulder for a view of the deep canyon they had just left but could see no sign of it. The wide brush studded wash just seemed to sweep uninterrupted to the next set of cliffs. Ahead of them, the full width of the wash narrowed funnel-like, contained by towering dam-like cliffs.

"There's a spring up there," Lané said, "Just beneath that high cliff wall. Probably where the water gathers when the floods come. There's no place for it to run off, so it pools and sinks into the sands. You can find water there most times of the year, if you dig a bit."

As he spoke, the Navajo leaned low in his saddle, inspecting the ground. Before long he sat upright with a grin. "There they are," he said, pointing. "Sheep. The tracks look recent, too. Now all we got to do is follow them."

They did, while the sun brightened and burned and the cliffs loomed larger. The sheep trail meandered on down the wash, working south. Zack saw other hoof prints, sometimes boot prints, sometimes the prints of a large dog working along the herd.

They came to a place where the ground sloped steeply away before them. They looked down at a stream bed which actually held water creating a muddy path along its course. The sheep tracks scurried down the slope toward it. Near a bend in the narrow course, just upstream, was a wooden corral. Beyond it were clear sets of tire prints circling near the corral and then off into the distance of the upper wash.

"I guess we know what happened to the sheep," Lané said. "Someone loaded them up and trucked them off."

"Let's ride down there and see if we can learn anything else," Zack said.

Their mounts handle the slope easily. Lané was able to read the signs. Two men and a dog had gathered the sheep herd and trucked them away. There was nothing more to see.

"Let's ride to the spring," Lané said. "We can water the horses and cool down for our return trip." He led off and Zack followed.

The landscape was in a word monumental with high rising walls all around them. They approached Sand Spring along the bed of the creek, where occasional muddy puddles still glistened in the sun. The horses' hooves kicked up mud as they rode.

The spring was located where the narrow wash was forced into a large bend by towering sandstone walls. Here they found several deeper pools for the horses to water. The men dismounted, stretched their legs and had some lunch. Zack found a dry stone to sit on and gazed up at the cliff face as he ate, admiring the variety of colors produced by the play of light and shadow. The sky above it was pure blue.

One particular shadow caught his eye. It was a vertical crack up the face of the sandstone on the side where the wash began its bend. Loose red stone piled at its base looked as if it had fallen recently. Curious, Zack stood and ambled over toward it, munching his nutrition bar.

He inspected the crack. It was about six inches wide at the bottom. Some recent force, perhaps a flood or a trembler had widened it enough to loosen chunks of stone high up. He picked up one of them. It was of red clay, regular at its corners as if it had been fashioned by hand, not nature.

Straining his neck he could see where the crack widened substantially. He saw similar stone chunks edging out of the darkness of the larger crack. His curiosity overwhelmed him and Zack wedged his feet into the small crack and began to climb. He found firm nooks to support his hands and feet. When his eyes reached the level where the crack widened he gazed in amazement. Before him was a clay brick wall, beyond it rose an entire city, or so it appeared in the half light.

"What do you see?" Lané called from below.

"I think it is the ruin of a cliff dwelling," Zack said. His response was a half whisper affected by an overwhelming feeling he might disturb spirits in this ancient place.

"You should go no further. There are harmful spirits in these places."

Zack studied the sides of the wider crack, saw where some carved nooks were placed along the void until they reached the large stone shelf the structures were built upon. Whoever his predecessors were, they had gone on.

"I'm going in," he told Lané. Without waiting for a reply, Zack grasped the edge of the crack and placed a shoe onto a foothold. He found more handholds to support his climb and eventually he stepped onto the shelf.

There was more light inside the cave than he expected, apparently coming from a crack leading to the surface. A huge shift of the earth at some recent time had exposed this ancient cliff dwelling. The original access, he saw now, would have been by a narrow opening high on the cliff face, from there probably hand and toe holds to the top. Fearing some formidable foe, these people had constructed their homes in a large hidden cavern.

He stepped carefully among a small community of a dozen or so houses and smaller buildings, probably storage units. Everything was remarkably well kept, the walls virtually untouched, wooden roof beams in place, roofs and ceilings solid. The dust of the ages covered everything.

He saw fresh foot prints in the dust, boots and sandals. Other people had made this discovery. He followed the prints into a room, ducking through the small doorway. Inside it was dark, but his eyes adjusted enough to see outlines in the dust where objects had once been but were now gone. Round imprints suggested pottery, or baskets, other dust outlines must have been various tools or personal objects. Earthen shelves that once held treasures were emptied.

Zack followed footprints from room to dusty room. Every one was the same. There had been artifacts in all of them until very recently––now they were gone.

# 15

Zack scrambled back to the cave opening. Lané stood below, looking up.

"You should see this!" Zack said.

"I will not go up there. I do not wish to leave footprints for some spirit from another world to follow me."

"You are missing quite a sight." He climbed down, finding the descent much more difficult. Once down, he washed his hands at the spring. Lané stood near holding both horses.

Zack glanced up at him. "That's an amazingly well preserved ruin. I think there were intact artifacts in there until very recently."

"Maybe the truck picked up more than sheep," Lané said.

Zack nodded. "That's what I was thinking." He stood and glanced around at the ground. "I don't see any truck tire imprints here, just sheep and horses. Whoever robbed this place did not want to leave evidence of their crime."

"You think they transported it all by hand?"

"That's what I think. They lowered the pieces by rope and hand carried them up to the corral." Zack said.

Lané whistled. "That would take many hours and much hard work."

"Do you remember the truck tire prints back at the trailer?" Zack asked.

"Yes."

"Let's take another look those tire prints at the sheep corral."

The two men rode back along the stream bed the way they had come. At the corral, Lané swung down and went to where the truck had parked. It didn't take him long. "I know there are many trucks with tires like this, but these are the same."

Zack leaned forward over his pommel, watching. "Measure the width. We can check to see if the tire size is the same when we return to the trailer."

At that moment the packed sand directly in front of Lané's hand erupted into a fountain of dust. The sound of the shot came milliseconds later, reverberating off the massive cliff faces like a doomsday warning. Lané reacted instantly. He leapt up behind his horse and removed the rifle from it's scabbard in a single fluid motion.

Zack had already tumbled off his horse, the reins still in his hand. "Where did that come from?" he asked.

"Not sure," Lané said. "But I think up there on the ridge where we came down." He supported his rifle across his saddle while he searched the skyline.

They waited. The shot was not repeated.

"We will need to find another way home," Lané said.

Zack took out his phone but was not surprised there was no service. "Do you know another way?"

"There are many ways. But right now we need to get into a better position. We'll walk away from here leading the horses, keeping the horse between you and that ridgeline behind us."

Slowly, carefully Zack took the mare's reins in his right hand and held his rifle in his left. The men followed the truck tracks north. They were in wide open ground, completely exposed.

"Why don't we go in toward the base of the ridge? We're pretty vulnerable out here," Zack said.

Lané constantly surveyed the land around them. "He will be expecting that and be waiting for us. I think he's not a good a shot, or I'd be dead. We'll make him try to shoot us at long range out here. Up ahead at that slight bend there are large pine trees. When we get there, we'll move in among them."

Zack frowned. "Won't he be there waiting for us?"

"No. Where he must travel is more difficult and will take him longer. We should be among the trees before he gets there. We can turn the tables on him."

It was after midday and it was very hot. Sweat ran down Zack's spine. Despite Lané's confidence he imagined the thwunck of a bullet into his horse or some part of himself at any moment.

It took twenty minutes to reach the pines. Each minute felt like an hour to Zack, particularly as they neared the trees. If the shooter was lurking there, they would be at his mercy.

Apparently he wasn't. In the trees Lané led the way to a trail of sorts near the escarpment base. For the first time Zack felt somewhat safe.

At a water break, Lané explained his plan. "We can cross this ridge farther up the wash than he would expect. From there we can take a different road to reach my rig."

"But what about the trailer?" Zack asked.

"The trailer?"

"The trailer with the lock on it. We need to go there."

"Why?"

"I will bet that's where the artifacts are stashed," Zack said.

Lané stared at Zack. "Yes, and I am pretty sure that is where the shooter will go. He expects us to go there."

"Then we agree. We can capture the killer and recover the artifacts all at the same time."

Lané shook his head, looked away for a while, then back at Zack. "You are one crazy white man. But okay, we will try."

Zack grinned. "We'll think of a plan."

Lané studied the wall of rising stone beside them. "If we do that we must cross this ridge sooner." In a moment he nodded to himself as if satisfied and turned his horse around. "We need to go back a short distance, but I think there is a way. He will not expect us there, but we might stumble onto him. We must make no noise and be always on the alert."

They rode back along the escarpment out of the trees but remained tight to the cliff base. Another ten minutes and the sheer rock gave way to an opening, a narrow crack with tumbled rocks partially blocking it.

Lané dismounted and led his horse in among the boulders, picking his way. Zack followed right behind.

It was difficult, steep, sometimes it meant scrambling over precipitous rock with exposure to falls that could mean severe injury if not death to man or horse. The two men did not speak; the only sounds were the scattering of small stones, the clatter of hoofs across rock and heavy breathing from men and beasts.

When at last they emerged from the narrow confines of the slot, they stepped into the warmth of the sun which was welcome after the cold of the deep and narrow ravine. They were in a stand of tall pines. To the left the escarpment rose even higher, but before them the ground sloped downward toward the flats. They mounted and rode down at a walk, continually on the alert. Lané's rifle lay across the saddle before him, Zack kept his pistol ready.

Although they crossed roads that would have made travel easier, Lané avoided them. He kept to untraveled places in the lee of mounds of rock or brush. Always their eyes scanned the open spaces, they held still at trees and brush cover until sure it was clear. After an hour of riding Lané motioned to Zack to wait and urged the black up a steep rock face. In minutes he reappeared. His cell phone was in his hand, and he smiled. He'd found a signal and called for help. Zack felt much better.

They continued at a slow walk trying not to raise dust. An occasional breeze swept over Zack's wet face and felt good. Their next stop was behind a small stand of pines.

Lané leaned in and spoke softly to Zack. "Beyond these trees is a rock outcropping. Beyond that is the trailer. The shooter will likely be in those rocks waiting for us to come down the road we took on our way out. That road is beyond the trailer to the northwest." He indicated with a cutting motion. "We must wait for the signal to tell us help has arrived. After that, I need you to ride along this side of this rock outcrop. You will come to an open area. The trailer will be just beyond. There are several large pines, large enough for cover. Ride to them. If the shooter sees you in the open area he will wait for me to appear before firing. He will want to know where I am. Once you reach the trees stay in their cover and wait. Do not continue toward the trailer. Just stay there." He studied Zack's face. "Did you get all that?"

Zack nodded.

They waited, the horses occasionally snuffled and shifted. They were in shade and the breeze was comfortable. An hour went by. Neither spoke.

When Lané's phone made a short bird-like chirp, he looked at Zack and nodded. Zack followed his instructions, stayed close to the base of the rock which rose somewhere high up beyond his sight. He rounded a corner and saw the trailer. No one was there that he could see. No truck, no horses. Looking to the right he saw the small group of trees Lané had mentioned, but between them and him was a very large open space.

Zack took a deep breath and urged the mare forward. Although Lané's logic was sound, he had no faith the killer wouldn't shoot. He had never felt so completely vulnerable. He made himself ride at an easy walk as if he had no suspicions of an ambush, but when he reached the cover of the pine grove he gave a great sigh of relief.

Now came the wait.

Zack dismounted and tied Babe's reins loosely to a tree branch. If a gunfight erupted, he did not wish to endanger her. He didn't know what would happen next, but he supposed Lané's signal meant other native police were in the area and perhaps would be able to draw the shooter from the rocks. All he could do was wait.

He didn't have to wait long. A figure appeared in front of him in the open ground. Zack drew his pistol then held it half raised in front of him. The man's features became more distinct. It was not the killer, it was the apparition, Curtis Peaches––flannel shirt with bloodstained front, blue jeans tucked into boots, white hat, same expression as before. But now the spirit's focus seemed less distant, focused on something behind Zack.

Zack turned slowly, keeping his gun shielded by his body and the rear of the horse. A man stood fifty feet away where he'd stepped out from behind a tree. He had a rifle and it was leveled at Zack. He wore an army camouflaged shirt and pants. He was shorter than average with broad features, a Native American.

"Where is the other one?" the man asked in a low husky voice.

Zack shook his head. "I don't know. He didn't tell me where he would go."

The man stared at Zack. His rifle never wavered.

"What did he tell you to do?"

"Wait. Just wait."

"Keep the white man safe, is that it? The brandy-new FBI agent? Oh, yes, I know about you. Well, Mr. FBI, you are going to have a short career." His body tensed. Zack knew the talk was over.

A loud bird chirp sounded close by. It distracted the man for a millisecond, his rifle wavered and Zack raised his pistol and fired. As the gun bucked in his hand he heard the sound of a rifle, saw a lick of flame. I'm too late, he thought. The man crumpled to the ground, his rifle drooped from his hands, and he lay still. Zack became aware of another figure near the tree, another rifle pointed at the man. Holding that rifle was Eagle Feather.

A minute later Jimmy Chaparral appeared followed by two Navajo Policemen. As Jimmy kicked the rifle away, one of the policemen put fingers at the man's neck, feeling for a pulse. Eagle Feather kept his rifle trained on him the entire time. Only when the policeman slowly shook his head did Eagle Feather relax and let the barrel droop.

Zack watched it all as if from a different place. He was surprised not to feel shock. He knew he wasn't hit, the man's shot had missed. He put his pistol away and walked to the gathering policemen.

Eagle Feather nodded to Zack. "Nice shooting, White Man."

Zack shook his head. "I was too slow."

Lané arrived from the rocks. He looked at Zack, saw he was unhurt. "It did not quite work out as planned, did it?"

Jimmy looked at Lané. "The man guessed your move and managed to isolate Zack. I reckon he planned to come for you after that. He didn't figure on the rest of us."

Lané gave a wry grin. "No one ever thinks you can get a cell signal out here.

Jimmy gave the body a nudge, leaned down and stared into his face. "Anybody recognize this guy?"

All the Navajos shook their heads.

Lané searched the man's pockets, came up with another rifle magazine, a wallet, a set of keys which he tossed to Jimmy.

Jimmy reached for the wallet. There was no ID––just a few loose bills. "He's too clean. Probably a pro. We're gonna need help on this one." He got on his cell phone. "Lenana, we need a meat wagon up here, a forensics unit, and a team for a cop related shooting. You may need help from Tuba City on this one. Oh, and call Ben Brewster and tell him his rookie recruit was involved in a shooting."

No one said anything after Jimmy put his phone away, but in the silence that followed Zack felt a wave of new respect.

"I think it's time we looked inside the trailer," Sergeant Chaparral said.

# 16

Jimmy, Lané, and Zack walked slowly toward the trailer. They stared at the huge lock for a moment. Jimmy studied the dead man's key ring, found the Yale key and opened the door.

It was dark inside. Lané flipped up the window shades and a view of the interior was revealed. They stared in astonishment. Half of the trailer was stuffed from floor to ceiling with taped up boxes. An eight foot folding table was up against the wall. Both the table and the floor under it were covered with artifacts––bowls, pitchers, seashell jewelry, baskets, ceramic ladles, pots, mortars and pestles, various wooden tools, woven reed animals, painted gourds, woven sandals––the list went on. There was packaging tape in a dispenser, plastic wrap on a large roll, a huge stack of newspapers.

Lané glanced at Zack. "You think all this came from that one site you found?"

Zack shook his head. "They must have found some other untouched ruins to have this much stuff."

"Look at all those boxes." Lané looked at the stack nearest him. "These boxes are ready to be shipped. There's no address label but they must have someone willing to deal in stolen goods."

Jimmy was studying a ledger. "These men were collecting a lot of money from this business. This ledger shows items ordered and amounts for individual pieces. We're talking three and four figures for some of it." He flipped pages. "Real cagey, no names or addresses listed anywhere." He glanced at the boxes. "See, no return address, just blank boxes. Take 'em to any UPS office and handle everything else by computer."

Jimmy, Lané, and Zack made a thorough search of the trailer but found nothing helpful. The place was being used strictly to receive the artifacts and pack them for shipping. A truck would then drive here and back up to the door. They would load it and then take the boxes to whichever UPS outlet they decided upon, or maybe even use several.

The men stepped out into the sunshine, it felt cool compared to the stifling trailer. Jimmy turned to a nearby officer. "Get a crime scene lock on this door and plaster the place with yellow tape, please."

Lané was kneeling near a truck track, measuring it with his hand. "Same size tire," he said, looking up at Zack.

Zack turned to Jimmy. "You'll want to get someone out to Last End Wash to take a photo of the tire tracks out there. If you can match them to these, there's a chain of evidence for you."

Jimmy nodded.

Zack looked around. "Where's Eagle Feather? The man just saved my life."

Jimmy smiled. "He's gone to borrow Big Blue so they can backtrack this guy and prove he was the one who took the shot at Lané. They can also prove whether he was in or around the pilfered ruin." He scanned the distant clumps of trees. "Now we got to find a vehicle."

"What vehicle?"

Jimmy smiled. "I don't think our man walked out here from Shonto." He gave instructions to a policeman to search the area. "Better take these." Jimmy tossed him the car keys. Then he pulled out his phone. "I'm gonna call the Antiquities people to come get their stuff," he told Zack and Lané and walked away, waving a backward hand.

Lané grinned at Zack. "Let's mount up, get to the trailer, get these horses home and find ourselves a big dinner."

Zack liked that idea.

Later in the truck, Zack told Lané about the latest manifestation Curtis Peaches had made and how it warned him he was in danger.

Lané didn't respond for a while, staring ahead as he drove. The trailer occasionally creaked and groaned but the highway was smooth. Zack heard little from the horses, they were probably sleeping. The roadside sage appeared double in size with their long shadows cast by a sinking sun.

"I have said, and I say it again. He has chosen you for some purpose. It will unfold with time."

The big dinner the men dreamt about never came to be. Zack was called to appear before Ben Brewster who reviewed the formalities involved in an agent shooting.

"This one is a bit more complicated because it happened on the Reservation. The FBI will want it kept as quiet as possible so as not to stir up feelings. But from what I understand, it was Eagle Feather who fired the fatal shot. Anyway, not my job to question you. A team will come up from Flagstaff for that." Brewster gave Zack a reassuring look. "Don't worry too much. You were in a clearly defensive situation. However, I will need your weapon for ballistic testing." He accepted Zack's pistol and pushed another Glock 19M across the desk. "Use this one in the meantime. You should carry on with Sergeant Chaparral, close down this antiquities theft ring."

Zack felt exonerated. Although he knew the FBI Shooting Team experience might be far more intensive, he was relieved by Ben's reassurance.

Bella looked up as he emerged from the inner sanctum. "Still in one piece, I see."

Zack spread his arms to show he had all his parts. "I am."

She gave a small pout. "Then you have no reason not to ask me out, or would you rather be out camping with the boys?"

"Dinner?"

"I'm off at five. I'll meet you at the Quality Inn at six."

Zack stepped out into the dusty street feeling happy and relieved. He also felt very tired. The day had been arduous, the experience intensely emotional, and his anxiety over the shooting still hung about him. He hoped he wouldn't fall asleep over dinner with Bella. He probably should have said no, but he was really glad of the company.

When he walked past the reception area on his way to the elevator he saw a slender figure extricate himself from a chair like a bad dream. Jimmy Chaparral met him in front of the reception desk.

"Let's take a walk," he said.

Zack turned without a word and walked with him out into the dusk.

"We've learned a lot since you left. It's important we share now, before we go."

"We go?" Zack's heart sank.

"You'll see." They leaned against a rail near the motel entrance. "We've learned the shooter's identity."

Zack became alert.

"His name is Kenneth Nez."

Zack didn't recognize the name. He gave Jimmy a questioning look.

"You shot Ashkii Nez's son."

Zack was staggered. "Ashkii's son?" His memory took him back to the framed photograph on the mantel in Ashkii's hogan, the woman and little boy. He'd shot the man's son.

Jimmy gave him a moment to digest the information. "We located Kenneth Nez's car, a Subaru. We're going over it. There was some dope and a pistol in the glove compartment. The interior was a mess, like he'd been sleeping in it a number of times. Also a lot of dog hair. And we found this." Jimmy handed Zack a spent rifle cartridge. "It's a Remington .223, same gauge forensics says was likely used to kill Peaches. It was just lying under the driver seat."

Zack was stunned. Had they actually found the man who killed Curtis Peaches?

Jimmy was watching his face. "There is still a lot to be done. Ken's car will need a complete forensic going over. We're looking for prints or DNA from Curtis Peaches in it. We need to have forensics tell us what breed of dog left that hair and those prints. Eagle Feather is still out there trying to connect Kenneth to the ancient ruin and the man who shot at Lané." Jimmy grinned. "Still a lot of questions, but today we sure got a lot of answers."

"Not happy ones for Ashkii," Zack said.

"Nope." He stood, straightened his jacket. "We know what we gotta do. You ready?"

"Let's go."

Zack left a message at the front desk for Bella. They climbed into Jimmy's Bronco and headed east out of town. It was dark now, the headlights were twin tunnels of brightness that reduced the huge landscape around them to a tiny world of lighted brush flashing by and flickering moths that came and went.

They rode silently, Zack going over in his mind how to tell a man his son was dead and that he, Zack, was the one who had shot him, this to a man who had offered him hospitality and kindness his first night in this land without hesitation. It didn't matter what the boy had done, a parent is a parent.

Jimmy interrupted his thoughts. "We never found the computer."

"Computer?"

"Yeah, we figured whoever was keeping the books for that operation had to be doing it on a computer, maybe a laptop, iPad, something portable."

"Makes sense."

"It wasn't in the trailer, it wasn't in Kenneth's car."

"Did Kenneth have a home, an apartment?"

"Turns out he's a fugitive from the Army. He couldn't show his face around town too much, so I doubt he had digs in town."

"He would need internet, so he couldn't keep it in a cave somewhere," Zack said.

"Right."

"Suppose we say Curtis Peaches was Kenneth's partner––we know he couldn't have done all that by himself. Couldn't he be keeping the computer?" Zack asked.

"I think Morning Flower would have given it to us, if only to help find Curtis, if he had one. It wasn't among Curtis' things. And don't forget, Curtis had been living the shepherd life out at Last End Wash so a computer would have been little use to him there."

Zack was silent.

Jimmy said, "We find the computer, we find all the evidence."

They were driving the dirt road down into the canyon where Ashkii lived.

"I don't see any lights down there. Last time we came he had a light at the sheep pen and light from the window," Jimmy said.

"Maybe he's not home?"

Jimmy grunted. He drove up to within a hundred yards of the hogan and stopped, turned off the engine, left the headlights glowing on the side of the hogan. Through the open window they could hear sheep––lots of sheep.

"He's got more sheep than the last time we came," Jimmy said.

They waited five minutes.

As if by signal both men opened their doors and stepped out, silently closing them. Jimmy left the headlights on. The scent of sage and smell of sheep mingled together. Near at hand a cricket sounded. No lights came on, no one appeared in the headlights, nothing happened. They walked around toward the east facing front door, groping their way, letting their eyes adjust to the dark. The mewling and baaing told them the sheep were corralled near the pen. It had to be a large flock.

"Could be those sheep are the group from Last End Wash," Jimmy whispered

When they arrived at the thick front door, Jimmy knocked loudly and announced himself.

There was no response.

He repeated himself, louder this time and followed it with three loud knocks. He looked at Zack. "I think we better go in. He could be hurt or ill."

Zack's nodded and Jimmy tried the door handle. The latch shifted, the door swung open. Immediately something sprung out of the darkness and smashed into Jimmy. The weight and impact knocked both men back out the door and slammed Jimmy on his back. A large animal stood on his chest, it's head at his face. Zack saw it turn toward him. Before he could react it was on him, a long warm tongue sloshing across his face. It was a very large dog and it was delighted to see them.

Zack rubbed it behind the ears and managed to push it aside sufficiently to stand.

Jimmy was laughing. "Scared the shit out of me," he said. He was standing now, brushing the dust from his pants.

"I think it's an Old English Sheep Dog," Zack said. He looked at its huge paws. "I think that explains those mysterious paw prints we've been finding."

"I think it explains what happened to Curtis Peaches the night he was abducted. He was attacked, alright, by a hundred fifty pounds of loving dog."

"That's how the killer got him into the car so easily. He was meeting two old friends," Zack said.

Jimmy held up a finger, seemed to sense something. He swung his head, searching. "The question is, what is this dog doing here?"

As if in answer to his question they heard the simultaneous report of a rifle and a thunk of a bullet hitting the house. Both men went to the ground and crawled to cover.

"Ashkii? Ashkii Nez? Is that you? It's Jimmy Chaparral. I've come to see you."

Another bullet ploughed through sand near Jimmy's head. "Shit!" Jimmy yelled and rolled away.

Zack tried to slither away in the opposite direction. A bullet slammed into the stucco just above his head. He decided to make himself one with the earth.

"White man, you killed my son." It was Ashkii's voice.

"Ashkii, don't do this," Jimmy yelled. "It wasn't him. We need to talk." He shouted some other words in Navajo.

Another shot, another bullet, this time skinning the ground near Jimmy.

"He's not buying it," Jimmy mumbled. He called to Zack. "We can't stay here. I'm going to make a run for the corner of the building. He doesn't want to kill me, he wants to kill you. After I draw his attention, then you go for it."

Zack saw the shadowy figure rise and run. He heard the shot, scrambled up and ran, diving around the corner. Another shot sounded and bits of wood debris hit his face but he was behind the corner of the house and safe. He crept on around the building until he saw another figure. "Jimmy?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?" Zack moved to him. They sat together side by side, backs against the building.

"Plan A went south, what's plan B?" Zack asked.

"I've been trying to figure out where he is. Maybe over by the shed. I don't want to shoot the old guy."

"Well he sure wants to shoot me," Zack said.

"Yeah. I think plan B involves keeping you out of it." He took out his phone, made a call. "Lenana, the old boy is giving us resistance. Send out the nearest guys with flashing lights, would you?" He listened to her question. "Yeah, we're all fine so far." Jimmy put the phone away. "It will be at least ten minutes until the nearest car can get here." He paused, sighed. "So here's the plan. You stay right here, just watch for movement in case he comes looking for you. I'm going to go find him."

Without another word, Jimmy was gone.

Zack did as he was told and stayed put. His gaze swept slowly across the visible landscape watching for even the slightest movement. He wondered where the dog was, then figured it must be with the sheep doing its job or with its owner, if indeed Ashkii was its owner. Zack had worked up a sweat, the night was growing cold. He felt chilled just sitting here, but he could not afford any movement. If Ashkii was near here and Zack made any move, it would be over. He thought about how ridiculous this was, two skilled Navajo Indians slithering through the underbrush and the novice FBI target sitting here waiting to be shot. A month ago, such a situation would not have occurred to him, not in his wildest dreams. He wanted to look at his watch but didn't dare. How long could ten minutes be, anyway.

Then he heard a shout. He couldn't make out the words, but he knew it wasn't Jimmy. It was Ashkii. Zack crept low around the building toward the sound of the voice. Rounding a corner, he saw a light. The shed light had been turned on. It shown down on the fence where the sheep huddled just beyond. On the near side of the fence stood Ashkii. In front of him facing the other way knelt Jimmy. Ashkii held his rifle barrel against his head.

"FBI man, come here to me or I will shoot Jimmy and then I will come find you anyway."

# 17

Jimmy's voice came to him but muffled, words unintelligible. Zack realized he was gagged, his hands probably tied behind him. Would the old Navajo shoot another Navajo, an acquaintance to whom he had offered hospitality just the other night, a respected policeman? Zack's short studies of the culture didn't begin to help with this situation. He had no idea what Ashkii would do.

Zack rose slowly, put his pistol on the ground, put his hands in the air.

"Walk toward me," Ashkii said.

Zack began to walk, a step, another step, another.

"Keep coming. I want to see the face of the man who killed my son as he dies."

Zack stayed put. Not much incentive in that.

"I will count to five, and then I will shoot this man unless you step closer. One. Two. Three..."

Oh shit, Zack thought. Does it matter if he shoots me here or there? "Okay, okay, here I come." Zack took a step, then launched himself toward Ashkii. He would never make it, he knew that. It was just too far. But it was better than dying without trying.

Ashkii's rifle moved up from behind Jimmy's neck and Zack saw it pointed directly at him. He wondered how it would feel as the bullet entered his brain, or maybe he wouldn't feel it at all. The rifle barrel looked huge, the opening where the bullet would emerge like an enormous tunnel.

Then the impossible happened. What Zack thought at first was a large sheep rose up next to the fence and snatched Ashkii's rifle away.

Zack's rush had taken him as far as Jimmy. He stumbled and fell to his knees, gaping up at the scene before him. The sheep he had seen fell from the man's back where it had unwillingly ridden and scurried off complaining loudly and now Eagle Feather stood with Ashkii's rifle turned back on its owner. Ashkii could only stare.

"Why don't you go get your gun and take this man into custody, White Man?" Eagle Feather said. "I see you forgot it next to the house."

Zack somehow rose to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him, and walked back, picked up his gun and returned. He held the pistol on Ashkii while Eagle Feather climbed over the fence. Then he ordered Ashkii to a prone position and zip-tied his hands behind his back. Eagle Feather was untying Jimmy and chuckling.

"I'm sure you had a plan," he said to his friend.

"Of course I did, but you came along and spoiled it," Jimmy said.

I thought you had gone with the tracker dog to Last End Wash," Zack said to Eagle Feather.

"I didn't go out there with Big Blue. I asked Libby Whittaker, the trainer, to track Kenneth. She's the better handler. When I got back to Elk Springs, I looked for Jimmy. Lenana told me he planned to go see Ashkii Nez and tell him the news of his son. So, I came here."

"I'm sure glad you did," Zack said.

They walked Ashkii into his hogan and made him comfortable. He told them where to find the coffee and all that they needed to make it. By now the patrol car had shown up with two Navajo policemen and all six people sat around the room and had coffee and fry bread. Now that it was all over, Ashkii was the most amiable of hosts.

"The white man did not kill your son," Eagle Feather told Ashkii. "Kenneth had tried to shoot Lané to stop them from reporting the discovery of the Anasazi ruin, which would lead to their crime. He missed. He decided to wait and ambush them when they returned to the trailer. He caught the FBI man from behind, held his rifle on him. The white man had his gun out but not raised. He tried to raise the gun to defend himself but was too slow." Eagle Feather looked at Zack. "That seems to happen to you a lot." He shrugged. "So I shot Kenneth. I shot him before he could shoot the FBI Agent. That is what happened."

The room was quiet after that, just the sipping of coffee.

Ashkii spoke. "This is a sad day, but I am glad I have not killed the white man." He looked down, his eyes closed momentarily, then looked up again, chin raised, pride showing in his face. "I will tell you the story of how all this came to be."

Ashkii began to speak in Navajo. Jimmy translated for Zack.

"I think it best to start the story at the beginning," Ashkii said. "There was a man who owned a flock of sheep. The sheep fed and clothed his family and the man took occasional part time jobs. His father had kept sheep so this man continued in the tradition. But where he lived, forage was almost gone and he could not afford to buy feed so he looked for better pasturage. He found it in the Sand Spring area of Last End Wash. No one else was there or wanted it. He moved his sheep up there. It was good. The herd grew. The man purchased a dog to help him so that he could be with his family for short visits. Still he had to be away from them for long periods of time. His wife grew tired of this arrangement and left him. His son grew up without fatherly advice and guidance and became wild and unruly. At his father's suggestion, and to get away from poverty, his son joined the army and entered an elite fighting group. He did well there but his continued opposition to authority gave him many problems. One day he went too far and to avoid prison, he and a comrade deserted."

Ashkii paused to sip some water a policeman had given him.

"The deserters ran and tried to find a place to hide. The man's son brought his friend to where his father kept his flock at Last End Wash, a place where no one ever goes. His father was surprised to see him. He was not happy about the reasons, but loved his son and was glad to have him back. He agreed to let the two deserters stay and care for the sheep and the father would take a few sheep home with him and tend them there. In that way no one would need to go to Last End Wash, even if they needed to see the father.

"They did this and for a while the plan worked well. No one ever went to Dead End Wash or thought to look for them there. Then one day the son's comrade found an unknown Anasazi ruin while climbing the rock walls of the canyon. They explored it. It was untouched, full of artifacts. They knew the worth of this discovery. They began to collect pieces in the utility trailer. One day the father discovered the collection and confronted them. He was very unhappy with them but when they told him the worth of the artifacts, this man, who had known poverty all his life, changed his mind.

"The road of life stretches out before every human being. The road has many divides. At these divides every human being must choose the light road or the dark road. Sometimes it is hard to see the dark road. It is like Coyote and plays tricks on human beings. When the man saw how much money they could make from the artifacts, he chose the dark road.

"The man asked where they could sell these artifacts without getting caught.

The son and his friend found the answer on the internet, the dark net, they called it. There was a dealer in Flagstaff experienced in such transactions who would purchase the pieces. They bought a truck and drove the artifacts to him and he paid them in cash. There would be no records of these transactions. They did not deposit the money in a bank but hid it and spent it carefully. Once all the artifacts were sold, the boys would leave the country and live well.

"Everything went according to plan. The money flowed in. But the boys grew restless. There was little to do between shipments. The friend wandered the countryside and during one of his farthest wanderings he met a young woman. She lived alone and kept goats. He fell in love with her and she with him. He moved in with her.

"The son and his father were worried the friend would reveal the source of his money, but he swore to them he would never tell. When it was time for a shipment, the friend would come to the trailer to help. When the money came, the friend took evening walks out to the road to meet the son. One night his friend told the son he wanted to marry the girl and make her a partner. The son and his father disagreed with this. They felt such an arrangement would threaten the business.

"A compromise had to be found. One night when the friend went for his usual walk the son brought him to Ashkii's home. They talked over the difficulty but could find no solution. The friend swore he would make sure his girl friend would never tell anyone else about the business nor would he ask for a larger share. But he could no longer keep it a secret from his future wife.

"The father reluctantly agreed. They all shook hands. But in the son's heart there was anger. Perhaps it was about losing his friend. Perhaps it was about believing this woman would betray them to the authorities or gossip about the artifacts. Whatever it was, the son decided the friend must die.

"Driving home the friend stepped out of the truck to pee. The son shot him. He drove back and told his father what he had done. They made a plan. The father killed a sheep and mutilated it as a witch might do. Together they drove back to the body and the father, who is skilled in such things, tossed the bloody knife close to the dead man to leave no tracks. Then the son drove his father home and went away. That is the last the father saw his son."

There was quiet in the room for a long time.

"Then you called me to report the sheep mutilation to set up the deception," Jimmy said.

"That is so."

After that, it was clear Ashkii had no more to say. Lané and the two policemen took him into custody. They would take him to Tuba City to be held until a decision regarding jurisdiction could be made. If he was seen as an accomplice to murder, he would become a federal concern.

Zack, Jimmy Chaparral, and Eagle Feather stepped out of Ashkii's house into a dark world, the only illumination the shed light shining its solitary cone. Jimmy latched the door securely behind them. They stood for a moment enjoying the night. There was a breeze that brought with it the pine scent from the upper plateau. Stars twinkled directly overhead but were already diminished by the light of the moon, just rising behind the cliff.

"Some trick you pulled with the sheep," Jimmy said to Eagle Feather, admiration in his tone.

"It is an old technique for hunting. I have used it many times to fool deer, but never before to fool a man."

"Where is your truck?"

"It is at the base of the steep road. I coasted without light and left it to approach by foot. The house was dark, I knew there must be trouble."

Eagle Feather turned to look at Zack, who was staring at the cliff top, the moon now fully behind it. He was gazing at the dark figure standing there in silhouette, motionless, looking down on them.

"You see him, don't you," Eagle Feather said.

"Yes, I see him. He is content now."

Eagle Feather gaze was on Zack. He said, "You'll do, White Man. You'll do."

The three turned as one to walk back to their trucks.

# Epilogue

It was three months before circumstances brought Zack back to Elk Wells. These days he traveled in a different direction having rented a ranch up north near Page. He spent most of his time on the road between the ranch and Tuba City. Today he was on his way to Red Lake on mundane business and decided to stop at Katie's Cafe for a bite and some of her TLC.

Eagle Feather and Jimmy Chaparral were there at a table. They beckoned Zack to join them.

Eagle Feather gave him a long look. "You've changed, White Man. Your skin is brown. You walk with confidence. You almost appear to belong."

"You are not covered in sweat and your shoes are not full of sand," Jimmy said.

"It's nice to see you, too," Zack said with a grin and pulled up a chair. He sat down and waved to Katie. She gave a big smile and brought over coffee.

Jimmy wasn't done with Zack yet. "I'm surprised Bella let you go long enough to drive here."

Zack could feel himself blush. "We're just friends."

"That's not what I'm hearing through the Navajo gossip channels," Jimmy said.

Figuring it was time to change the subject, Zack said, "Did you hear the news about Witherspoon?"

"You mean the FBI man from Flagstaff with the large stick up his butt?" Jimmy asked.

Eagle Feather grinned at Jimmy. "The one who wanted to hang you for the murder of Curtis Peaches."

"That's the one," Zack said.

"What about him?" Jimmy asked.

"Well, I learned this morning he's been fired from the FBI and may be facing felony charges."

Both Navajos stared at Zack.

"What for?" Jimmy asked.

Zack sipped his coffee, enjoying the moment. "There was a reason he tried so hard to pin the murder on Jimmy. After Ashkii's arrest and his story came out, the FBI became involved because of the transportation of stolen goods across state lines, or in this case across international borders. They traced the stolen artifacts to a dealer in Flagstaff who in turn shipped them to a big buyer in Houston, Texas. The Texas man had a lot of expensive clients who paid top dollar for rare artifacts and relics. The FBI was able to close down the Texas business, then took a long look at how the Flagstaff guy had managed to stay under the radar."

Katie arrived to take Zack's order. He pretended to vacillate between two choices just to stretch the moment. Both Navajo stared at him with stone faces.

When Katie finally left to prepare his food, Zack grinned at his friends and continued. "Well, they found the Flagstaff dealer had been paying off some local policemen to leave him alone. Agent Witherspoon was with the FBI task force that went to arrest the cops. The cops pointed the finger at Witherspoon. It seems he had been lining his shelves with some rare artifacts in exchange for sheltering the operation from federal scrutiny."

Zack sat back and grinned at his friends. "What do you think about that?"

"It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," Jimmy said.

"I never liked the man," Eagle Feather said.

Jimmy pushed some food around on his plate with his fork. "It's too bad about Ashkii."

Zack raised his eyebrows. "I thought that worked out well for him. The FBI left him to the Navajo Justice system, and they slapped him with a big fine, right?"

Jimmy glanced at Zack. "Not exactly. He was sentenced for two major crimes, stealing from the Navajo Nation for personal profit and aiding in covering up a murder. His sentences were consecutive. He was given a large fine which he could not pay. He was incarcerated, which in this case meant working for the tribe eight hours a day for ten years. But the sentence that really hurt was the shaming, where he was made to wear a sign at all times designating him as an offender."

"That is the punishment that hurt him too much," Eagle Feather said.

"Too much?" Zack asked.

"He committed suicide," Jimmy said. "They found him hanging from the roof beam in his hogan."

"Damn. In his heart, he was a good man," Zack said.

The Navajos nodded. No one spoke.

Katie hustled over, her features exuding her usual cheer and good humor. "Any thing else, gentlemen? We've got fresh apple pie. I can heat some up for you."

The three chairs scraped back as the men stood.

"Oh, no, I've eaten too much already," Jimmy said.

"I must meet my clients at the airport," Eagle Feather said.

"I've got to be on my way," Zack said.

The three stepped out onto the boardwalk and stood together for a moment. The sun shown bright, the sky was azure blue with white puff clouds, a dog barked somewhere, the scent of fresh baked bread swirled about, cheery music sounded from a shop down the street. It was the start of another day in Navajo Land.

# Also By R Lawson Gamble

**ZACK TOLLIVER, FBI, MYSTERY SERIES**

THE OTHER

MESTACLOCAN

ZACA

CAT

UNDER DESERT SAND

CANAAN'S SECRET

* * *

PAYU'S JOURNEY

(A novel for Young Adults)

# About the Author

R Lawson Gamble enjoys the Southwest, great stories, Indian lore and culture, and scary paranormal possibilities, all of which find their way into the Zack Tolliver, FBI series of novels. The author lives in Los Alamos, California among the beautiful Central Coast Golden Hills.

* * *

To join his mailing list for new release information click here.

* * *

To learn more, check out his website rlawsongamble.com, his profile on AllAuthor or any of the profiles below.

  Twitter

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# NATIVE ROOTS

### A Novella from the Zeb Hanks Mystery Series

### By Mark Reps

Text Copyright © 2018 by Mark Reps

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

# Part I
## 1

# Roughly 30 Years Ago

### 12:01 A.M., July 4

"Wake up!"

With a great deal of effort, a sleepy thirteen-year-old Zeb Hanks slowly opened his right eye. His left eye felt like it was glued shut. The sandman had obviously paid him a visit. Using the tip of his finger, Zeb dug the crusty sleep from his eyes.

The command to 'wake up' had come from Noah. Despite his somnambulant state, Zeb recognized his brother's voice. Three years older than Zeb, Noah was as used to barking orders at his younger brother as Zeb was hearing them. Zeb assumed the voice was coming from Noah's room, down the hall. Zeb, even in his half-awake state, feared their father would be awakened by the noise. Waking his father would mean a beating for both of them. Once again, the order to wake up groggily entered Zeb's ears. This time Noah's words were accompanied by a punch to his younger brother's arm.

"Wake the hell up!"

"Ow. Crap. Dang it all. Is the house on fire or something?" asked Zeb

"Duh, we're camping in the backyard, you doofus."

Zeb lifted his arm out of his sleeping bag and ran a solitary finger against the canvas side of the tent. Reality came rushing back to him. He and Noah were in the tent in the backyard because they had a plan. Well, truth be told, Noah had the plan. Zeb was the unwitting but available accomplice.

"Don't do that," barked Noah. "Remember dad told us that touching the canvas would cause the tent to leak if it rained."

It had not rained in months. When it did rain, it was a 'dry rain' that evaporated before it touched the ground. Zeb and Noah believed this peculiar phenomenon only occurred in the part of the desert where they lived. Zeb, even half alert, remembered Noah had touched the side of the tent last time it rained. Although it didn't cause the tent to leak, their dad had given Noah a willow branch whipping for what he called 'just being plain stupid'.

Just off the patio, in the backyard of the Hanks' house, was a small patch of grass. It was just large enough to pitch a two-man pup tent. Having grass yards was all the rage in Safford that summer. It was a real status symbol and a brand-new thing to Noah and Zeb. Most of their yard was dirt, strewn periodically with rocks. Larger rocks were piled in the corners, noting the property boundaries. A row of flowers edged the eastern and northern sides of the one-story, three-bedroom rambler.

"It's the fourth of July," said Noah. "Remember our deal?"

Zeb closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. How he wished that he had not exchanged a pinky finger grasp with Noah. The joining of little fingers for this occasion was no different than the time they had cut themselves to become blood brothers, just like the Indian kids did. A deal like they had made must move forward. The consequences of welshing on such a thing would do nothing but create bad juju and disrupt the order of the world the young boys lived in. More than likely it would also lead to a fistfight.

"Get dressed."

"I am dressed," replied Zeb.

"Slept in your clothes, too, huh? Good thinking."

"Are there any lights on in the house?"

"No. I already checked three times."

"Shit."

Zeb swore because lights would have meant the mission was canceled.

"Tough guy, eh," said Noah.

"Whaddaya mean?" asked Zeb.

"I never heard you swear before, little bro."

"Screw you. I swear all the time. I like to swear. Sometimes I swear like a drunken sailor."

Zeb was lying. He didn't swear, well hardly ever. This one just sort of slipped out. His Mormon upbringing had taught him it was a sin to swear. But Zeb also knew there was more to life and religion than the Mormon teachings he had been taught in Sunday school. His mother had recently exposed him to a completely different view of God and religion. She had been taking him to tent revival meetings. These Pentecostal gatherings dwelt heavily on the importance of never taking the name of the Lord in vain. Yet, sometimes when people spoke in tongues, it sounded an awful lot like swear words to Zeb. In his mind there was plenty of room for the justification of swearing. He would be fourteen on his next birthday. That would practically make him a man. Men could swear. Such was the method of his boyish logic.

Zeb's mother, Marta Hanks, took Zeb to these Pentecostal meetings without telling her husband, Jonas. She also never mentioned a word of it to Noah. She implied that Zeb should tell no one, not even his brother. This was strictly a mother-son secret pact involving only Zeb and his mother. Recently they had seen a snake handler at one of the revival meetings that had been held on the Rez. The Pentecostal handler claimed he would never die from a rattlesnake bite because he never broke any of the commandments, did not imbibe in the drinking of demon rum or speak sinfully. That sort of thinking took hold in Zeb's young brain.

"You lie like a rug, little brother, you lie, you lie, you lie."

Noah was of course referring to swearing. Zeb was ticked off. He really wanted to tell Noah to go f*** himself, but young Zeb had already accidentally sworn. Saying what he was thinking was out of the question. The mere idea of spending an eternity in hell shook Zeb to his core.

"Come on. Be quiet. We don't want to wake up Mom and Dad," said Noah.

Even though he wasn't all in on his older brother's plan, there was little if anything Zeb could do to stop it at this point. He glanced up at the midnight sky. It was bursting with a billion beautiful stars. Thankfully, the moon was a waxing crescent moon and half hidden behind Mount Graham. The darkness would help them stay unseen.

"Think we can pull this off without getting caught?" asked Zeb.

"Hell yes, you little chicken shit. Of course we can."

Zeb hated it when his brother called him a chicken shit.

"Am not," blurted Zeb.

"Are too."

"Am not."

Noah egged him on.

"Am not what? Am not what? Say it, Zeb. Say chicken shit. You don't dare because you don't really swear."

Noah put his thumbs in his armpits and began to prance around and squawk like a chicken. Zeb pushed him hard. Noah slugged him in the arm and laughed. Zeb's arm ached, but he refused to give his brother any satisfaction by rubbing away the pain.

Zeb went out of his way to avoid risk and danger. In contrast, Noah thrived on the most perilous of situations. Zeb would never admit it aloud, but his brother's adventures scared the crap out of him. Boys being boys and brothers being brothers, it was a fear he could never let Noah see. If he did appear panicked or frightened, his brother would beat on him.

"We're GONNA get caught. I just know it."

Noah grabbed Zeb by the collar and stared cold and hard into his brother's eyes.

"Shut up or you'll be eating a knuckle sandwich with all the trimmings."

Zeb was certain Noah believed he was a sissy. Zeb had made it to thirteen, almost fourteen, before the first swear word passed through his lips. He had never stolen anything or puffed on a cigarette. Never once did young Zebulon Hanks shirk his duties around the house. He never sneaked out of church or missed Sunday school classes. Noah, on the other hand, always had a pack of cigarettes stashed away, skipped out on Sunday school whenever he could, was a regular cat burglar and swore like a sailor on shore leave. Zeb was pretty sure his brother had even kissed a girl. Maybe he had even gotten to second base, whatever that meant.

"Are you sure we should be doing this?"

Zeb wondered why on earth he had agreed to Noah's risky and perilous plan.

"It's a rite of passage," explained Noah. "You know what that is, right?"

"Yeah," replied Zeb.

Noah was mimicking his father's words who frequently bragged about his own childhood rituals. Maybe this was one of those moments. Maybe Zeb was afraid of disappointing his older brother. The thought suddenly occurred to him that maybe he was becoming the kind of kid who went along with things he didn't believe in. Both the Mormon Bishop Behunin and the Most High Reverend Hensle Wendt, the snake handling clergyman, had warned about such things being almost inevitable if a person did not allow for the presence of the Holy Spirit to reside within. That thing, whatever it was, that made up his conscience was now giving Zeb Hanks a good going over. Zeb listened to that voice until his mind quieted. When it became still, a silent, seething rage grew toward his older brother. Zeb was stuck in the muck and mire of brotherhood. There was literally nothing he could do to alter his fate. He remembered the Pentecostal minister saying that there would be times of trial when one was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Zeb knew the darker angels commanded this battle that was going on in his head. Noah's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"I hid the bikes."

"Okay."

Zeb, feeling helpless and ashamed, shivered with bad conscience.

Noah had carefully concealed the bikes in the bushes behind the old shed at the corner of the back yard. Silently Zeb and Noah walked their matching red and black Soaring Eagle Hiawatha bikes down the soft dirt alley. When Noah was certain their parents could neither see nor hear them, he gave the order.

"Let's ride 'em, cowboy. Saddle up."

"If Dad finds out what we're up to, he's gonna beat us," said Zeb.

"I know. So what? It wouldn't be the first and it won't be the last."

"You don't care, do you?"

"Nope. Why should I? I'm gonna get it one way or the other anyway."

To Noah it was just another in a long line of whuppings. The pain he could take. The way Noah had it figured was that maybe it was his dad's only way to show that he cared.

"How can you not worry about getting the tar beat out of you by Dad?" asked Zeb.

"He's gonna find a reason to kick my ass no matter what I do. I don't have Mom protecting me like you do, you little pussy," replied Noah.

Zeb snarled under his breath at his brother making sure he couldn't hear him.

"I'm not a pussy. You're a prick."

Secure in the fact that they were in no immediate danger of getting caught by their father, the boys pedaled aggressively down the street and away from their house. With Noah in the lead, they rode down the alley directly to the abandoned railway station building.

The long-deserted Union Pacific station was a huge, dilapidated, one-story building with faded orange paint and broken windows that were all covered with crisscrossed 2x8 pine boards. The doors were old and easily enough jimmied open with little more than the screwdriver Noah had slipped into his sock. A minute later the boys were inside the dusty old building. A solitary street light created ghostly images across the walls and floor of the decrepit structure.

Noah flipped on his military-style flashlight. Noah had stashed his fireworks in the middle room under some cardboard and other rubble,.

"Nearly a hundred dollars' worth of fireworks," bragged Noah. "Big ones. Great big ones. Practically rockets."

Zeb had no clue how Noah had raised the money to buy the contraband. Noah only made three and half dollars a week on his paper route. He spent most of that on pop, candy and dirty magazines from Schmeers Drug Store. Zeb suspected Noah had bought the fireworks from Red Parrish. Around the fourth of July and New Year's Eve, Red sold them, illegally, out of the back of his bar, Red's Roadhouse. Red was a mean man. Just the sight of him scared Zeb half to death. Somehow his brother was not the least bit afraid of the creepy bar owner.

"Come on, get moving," urged Noah. "The cops could show up any minute."

Zeb's heart pounded like a drum against the inside of his rib cage. His voice, in the process of passing through puberty, squeaked out a high-pitched reply followed by a second one which was baritone in nature.

"I'm coming. I'm coming."

"You pussy. You sound like a girl."

"Bite me," murmured Zeb ever so quietly.

"What?"

"Nothin'," replied Zeb. "At least nothin' that would interest you."

Noah tossed a handful of fireworks into Zeb's arms. He quickly gathered up the rest. The brothers ran at full speed to their bikes. They loaded the fireworks into the side baskets. Zeb's heightened senses intuited danger lurking around every corner. Each shadowy movement in the vacant building increased the intensity of his fear. Zeb glanced over at his older brother. Noah acted as cool as a cucumber. Even though Zeb didn't know what the expression 'as cool as a cucumber' meant, it seemed to fit Noah who carried on as though he didn't have a care in the world.

Through Zeb's eyes, Noah seemed prepared for any possibility that might arise. Zeb knew Noah had spent a great deal of time plotting out this night in his head. He had gone so far as sketching it out on paper. He had brought up his plan a hundred times over. As much as Noah had talked about it and shared many parts of the scheme with Zeb, he also kept many things a secret. Not knowing exactly what was about to happen made Zeb feel even more anxious.

With baskets full of illegal fireworks, they entered Phase two. Noah called it the Kit Carson part of the plan. Kit had worked as an Indian agent in the area a hundred years earlier and was a legend in the boys' mind. Tonight, they were scouts, much like Kit Carson was for the Hudson Bay Company back in the days when the west was truly wild. Checking for danger was their mission. The bad guys, which meant Sheriff Jake Dablo, one of his deputies or some honest citizen of Safford, could pop up just about anywhere.

"Let's cruise by the sheriff's office," said Noah.

Zeb knew that the reason they had ridden within eyeshot of the sheriff's office was to make sure no one was on duty. The office was deserted. Noah spoke again.

"Now we ride by Sheriff Dablo's house. I wanna make sure he is sound asleep, or at least that there are no lights on."

"Gotcha," replied Zeb. "Makes sense."

They zipped through the darkened streets of Safford, staying in the shadows whenever possible. Eventually they rode right past Sheriff Dablo's house.

"The coast is clear."

Noah laughed and spoke with such bravado that the angst and fear momentarily fled from Zeb's heart, mind and body.

"Time to begin celebrating the fourth of July like our forefathers intended. Blowing off some fireworks on this hallowed day is practically our sacred, patriotic duty."

A frightened but exhilarated Zeb could hardly argue with such sound logic.

## 2

# 12:33 A.M., July 4

Noah growled at Zeb as they sped through the ever-darkening streets of Safford.

"Move it, pokey man."

"I don't want to hit a pot hole."

"Baby."

"Up yours."

"The first thing we should do is blow up the bathrooms at the park."

"Why?" asked Zeb.

"Cuz I said so. It's part of the master plan."

"How are we going to do that with these fireworks?"

"Jesus, but you're a numb nuts. I got some M-80s," replied Noah. They're waterproofed. They're made for blowing up toilets. Everybody knows that."

"Where'd you get them? You can't buy them in town. They're double illegal in Arizona."

Zeb figured one of Noah's friends who had a driver's license had made a little trip to Mexico where supposedly the bigger stuff could be had cheaply.

"I suppose I can tell you. But you keep your mouth shut about it or somebody might cut your tongue out."

Noah stuck out his tongue and pretended to slice it with a knife. Zeb knew his older brother was just acting like a tough guy with such a stupid threat. People only did that kind of thing in the movies they showed at the drive-in theater.

"Where'd you get M-80s? It's a three hundred dollar fine if you get caught with them," said Zeb. "I've heard you go to jail if they catch you blowing them up."

"We ain't gonna get caught then, are we?"

Noah pulled into an alley. Zeb was right behind him.

"I got 'em from Red's kid, Red Junior. You know who he is?"

"Yeah. He's got a screw loose if you ask me."

"Who's askin' ya?"

"Just sayin'."

"If you tell anyone and Red Junior finds out, he'll beat the crap out of me. If he beats the crap out of me, I'm going to beat the tar out of you. Got it?"

Zeb wasn't up for a beating. His brother had pounded on him regularly enough as it was. He had no intention of getting a hard beating that would be the end result of telling anyone about Red Jr.

"My lips are sealed."

Zeb ran his thumb and first finger across his lips and turned an imaginary key, the universal indicator that his lips were truly sealed.

"They'd better be."

Noah headed out of the alley and back onto the street.

"How are we going to blow up the toilets?" asked Zeb.

"All we gotta do is toss the M-80s down the shitter and blammo—destroyed."

"Why are we gonna do that?" asked Zeb.

"Ray Deyo," replied Noah.

"Ray Deyo?"

"Yup. Ray Deyo."

"What do you have against him? He's just a poor, crippled-up city worker," said Zeb. "He's got a lousy enough job keeping the toilets clean. Why make his life even worse?"

Noah reached over and smacked Zeb hard on the back of his head.

"You stupid or what?"

"Or what, I guess," said Zeb, rubbing his sore skull.

"Don't back talk me," ordered Noah.

"I still don't get it."

"Remember when I got grounded for two weeks last summer?"

"Yeah. You and those dorky friends of yours wrote graffiti all over town. That was stupid. You shoulda' known you couldn't get away with it. Especially since you did it while it was still daylight out."

"Shut your trap," said Noah. "It was Ray Deyo who ratted me out to Sheriff Dablo. This is about revenge for the beating I got from the old man because gimpy Ray's got a big mouth."

"You guys were stupid to put your initials on the graffiti," said Zeb.

"Ray Deyo shouldn't have ratted us out. It's practically a law that you don't fink on other guys. It's what they call a code. Yeah, the code of silence."

Zeb had watched in terror as their father beat his brother with a belt because Ray Deyo had told him about the graffiti. Under Ray's watchful eye it took Noah only ten minutes of painting to cover the graffiti he had sprayed on the walls. Zeb had watched him repair the damage. Every memory he had of what happened made Zeb squeamish.

The graffiti Noah and his friends had written on the walls at the park was practically an American tradition. The had defaced the biffy walls and four or five other walls on businesses with colorful Krylon paint. They aerosol sprayed the same sayings kids did every year; _Kilroy was here. Safford Rules!! Jim Morrison lives! Smoke Pot!_ Besides the usual sayings, Noah and his pals had left their initials behind. In this moment, in the middle of the night on July 4th, when he and his brother were about to blow up the park toilets, the graffiti didn't seem like much of an offense at all.

"I think you didn't deserve the beating Dad gave you," said Zeb.

"Aw, it was nothin'," replied Noah. "He's beat me worse than that."

"When?" asked Zeb.

"One time when you were at church camp. I stole some money from his pocketbook when he was drunk. Twenty bucks. He beat me so bad Mom almost had to take me to the hospital. Dad wouldn't let her. I still got a lump on the back of my head. Here, feel it."

Zeb ran his fingers over a large lump on the back of his brother's head.

"Dad did that? With his hand? With a belt?"

"Naw. He hit me with 34-ounce Louisville Slugger. It was just a glancing blow. But if I hadn't ducked, I'd probably be dead."

"Geez," said Zeb. "How come you never told me?"

"The old man said if I told anyone, including you, he'd disappear me."

"Disappear you? What's that mean?"

Noah made the image of a knife slicing across his throat.

Zeb gasped.

Then Noah placed his pointer finger against his temple, mimicking being shot.

"No," cried Zeb. "That didn't really happen. Did it?"

"Just tellin' it like it went down."

"Why does Dad hate you so much?" asked Zeb.

"I dunno. I heard him and Mom arguing one time. He said that I didn't look like either of them."

"You look like Grandpa."

"I know. Maybe that's the problem."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Noah stared his younger, naive brother in the eye.

"You figure it out. Let's get rolling. Time's a wasting," said Noah.

Zeb and Noah headed down a back alley, onto some side streets before ending up within eyeshot of the city park. They stashed their bikes behind some bushes in an unlit area near the Klippel Candy and Flower Shop.

"Time to get even with that crippled old bastard," said Noah.

Zeb felt badly about what they were going to do as they sneaked toward the toilets. Old man Deyo had been injured in the war. He walked with a limp because the Nazis shot him three times in the leg. He was even captured and put into a prison camp where the only food they had was dead mice and insects. Ray had seen more than his fair share of bad times. It was rumored he still had shrapnel from the Nazi bullets in his leg. Still, there was no turning back now. Besides, how much damage could an M-80 do to a toilet anyway?

"You take the women's biffy. I'll take the men's head," said Noah. "You got fire, right?"

Zeb reached into his pocket and pulled out an old Zippo lighter. He'd won it in a marble game. It lit on the first flip. It always did.

"Cool," said Noah.

"What's it look like when a toilet blows up?"

"I dunno. Never done it before," replied Noah.

"How do you know it will work?"

"Shut up."

"Okay."

The brothers stood with their backs flat against the cool cement block wall of the toilet building, scanning their eyes in all directions.

"The coast is clear," said Zeb.

"Check your watch," ordered Noah. "In exactly two minutes light the M-80 and drop it in the toilet. Once it kerplops in the toilet water get the hell out of there. I don't want to be responsible if a flying toilet seat kills you. If that happened, Mom and Dad would both kill me."

Death from a flying toilet seat was one possibility Zeb hadn't even remotely considered. Oddly, as he entered the ladies' bathroom, it became the only thing on his mind. He imagined newspaper headlines that said, 'Local boy killed by flying toilet seat at city park'. He shook the ridiculous thought from his head and quickly found the toilet. Flipping on his Zippo lighter, Zeb saw a strange white metal container hanging on the wall just above the toilet roll. He checked his watch. Fifty seconds had passed. He had seventy seconds before he would light the M-80. Zeb held his lit Zippo up next to the box. From the corner of his right eye he read some small black lettering on the white metal container. It said 'Do not flush tampons. Place in container.'

What the hell? Do not flush tampons? This was as big of a mystery as what would happen when an M-80 was flushed down a toilet. Zeb had been in many men's rooms. He had never seen the likes of that. He re-checked his watch. Forty-five seconds to detonation. Hmm. All the things he learned at Bible school told him not to lift the lid of the white metal container. The little voice of curiosity, the not so bad devil inside his head, demanded he take a peek. The angel that danced on his other shoulder told him not to have a look. Impish curiosity won the battle.

Zeb lifted the lid and put his lighter by the opening.

"Ick."

It was gross. Something bloody and smelly like fish was in there. He didn't know what the heck it was. Zeb slammed the lid shut. He was angry at himself for looking. He knew he had listened to the wrong voice.

Zeb heard a car in the near distance. A sense of panic set in. Should he light the M-80 now? Did Noah hear the car? Should he call out to his brother? His heart churned like the engine on a car in the Indy 500. Zeb lit the M-80. He dropped it in the toilet. Just as he imagined, it made a 'kerplunk' sound. He froze. Two seconds later he heard a booming sound from the men's room. Noah had blown his M-80 early. Zeb's blew five seconds later. Water and small bits of busted plastic toilet seat flew everywhere.

Noah and Zeb practically ran over each other as they raced out of the toilets to their bikes. Both were laughing like hyenas. At that moment Zeb realized he was uncertain as to exactly how hyenas laughed. On the other hand, he was absolutely certain that he and Noah were doing a perfect imitation.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said Noah. "I think that was Sheriff Dablo driving by."

"Shit."

"Potty mouth," said Noah with all the sarcasm he could muster.

## 3

# 1:15 A.M., July 4

Noah and Zeb raced to the Klippel Candy and Flower Shop where they had stashed their bikes in some bushes. Their hiding spot gave them a perfect view of Main Street. It was all part of Noah's plan.

"We've got to watch to see if Sheriff Dablo is patrolling. We have to see how often he passes through the downtown area."

"But we know his lights are out and that his car is at his place," said Zeb.

"If you were the sheriff, wouldn't you have a peek around town as it neared midnight?"

"Yeah, I suppose I would," replied Zeb. "Makes sense. Everyone knows troublemakers show up around midnight."

It dawned on Zeb that when he and Noah watched detective movies, Noah was watching the bad guys, while he was watching the good guys. Noah knew all the fine details of criminal activity. It now appeared his older brother had studied the criminal mind as well. From watching the good guys, Zeb knew that Sheriff Dablo, if he were out and about, would make the rounds one or two times then head back home. Tomorrow was the 4th of July, a big day in Safford. Sheriff Dablo and his deputies would have to keep order, direct traffic, make sure the parade route flowed evenly and even ride in the parade while periodically blowing off their sirens. Those were the things that came immediately to Zeb's mind. He was certain there were at least a dozen responsibilities on such an important day. Zeb knew they were safe. He knew the best plan would be to scope out the sheriff's house again by sneaking down a couple of back streets. But Zeb wasn't going to tell Noah that, because he wasn't in on Phase two of his brother's plan.

"Time for Phase Two," said Noah.

"What's Phase Two?" asked Zeb.

"It involves old man Klippel, owner of the Klippel Candy and Flower Shop."

"He's a pretty good guy. A couple of times when I didn't have enough money for candy, Mr. Klippel gave me the candy on credit."

"He hates my guts," said Noah.

Zeb knew exactly what Noah was talking about.

"He caught me stealing candy a few times."

"More like ten times," said Zeb. "And the first six or seven times he didn't even do anything to you."

"Shut your yap."

"Well..."

"But I owe him cause of Mom."

"Mom?"

"Yeah. I was picking up a dozen roses and a large box of chocolates for her birthday, but I forgot to pay for them."

Zeb witnessed the entire event. He was riding his bicycle when he saw Mr. Klippel chasing Noah out the door of his store and down Main Street. Noah had ditched the flowers just outside the front door as soon as he figured out Mr. Klippel was after him. He opened the candy box, grabbed a few pieces, then dumped the rest all over the sidewalk. Less than fifty feet after ditching the candy, Klippel caught up with Noah and grabbed him by the collar. He hauled him right over to Sheriff Dablo's office. The sheriff called Zeb and Noah's parents. Not only was it embarrassing, but everyone in town seemed to hear about it within a day. Marta felt so horrible she didn't even want to go to Sunday church service for the next month. Jonas, who didn't regularly attend services, didn't really care what people thought and marched Noah and Zeb right down to the front pew. At Sunday dinner when Marta was fretting about what people would say, Jonas simply said, "Let them talk." And talk many people did. After Sunday lunch, Jonas took Noah out behind the garage and gave him the belt, once for each rose and twice for the box of candy.

But now things had changed. Klippel was in Noah's crosshairs. To get even with the candy man, Noah's plan was to have both he and Zeb toss M-80s and cherry bombs into the dumpster behind his business. This would create a mess of so-called 'epic proportions' according to Noah.

When Noah decided the coast was clear, the boys hopped on their bikes and headed for the dumpster.

"Got your Zippo handy?"

"Yeah."

"Then get your cherry bombs and M-80s ready."

All at once the fear that had been coursing through Zeb's veins disappeared. He remembered a saying that he thought fit the situation, _In for a penny, in for a pound_. Once again, he only half understood what it meant, but knowing there was no turning back, he answered like a wartime pilot, "Roger that."

Noah loved the authority, the power and the bravado.

"Over and out."

Rounding a corner onto Third Street, Zeb and Noah simultaneously slammed on their brakes when they spotted a commotion near Klippel's dumpster. Since it was happening after midnight, it was highly suspicious activity. The boys quickly dismounted their bikes. They hid themselves behind the corner building and stared down the alley. Their hawkish eyes set their sights on what was happening. It was dark, too dark to see clearly. Zeb was certain he saw three men. Two of the men were hitting the third man. They were hitting him real hard. Zeb could tell by the ugly sounds he was hearing. It looked like they were hitting him with a big stick or a baseball bat. Zeb immediately thought of the thirty-four-ounce Louisville Slugger his dad had used on his brother's head when Noah had stolen twenty dollars from his wallet. Strangely, the man being beaten made no sound whatsoever. The only noise that could be heard was the grunting of the men doing the beating and the dull thud of wood against clothing.

"What can you see?" whispered Zeb.

"Somebody is taking a beating. That's for sure."

"The man getting beaten up has long hair, down to his shoulders."

"I'd guess he's an Apache."

"One of the guys smacking him around has a ponytail. I bet he's an Apache too."

"The third dude has a cowboy hat on," said Noah.

Zeb squinted as he stared at the cowboy hat. Something about it seemed familiar.

A block away a car made a turn. Its headlights shot some beams on the men.

"The Indian taking the beating has tattoos on his arms," said Zeb.

"That's not tattoos. That's blood," replied Noah.

The time of night, lack of moonlight and poor lighting made it impossible to tell if it was blood or tattoos.

"I can't tell for sure," said Zeb. "It's too dark."

Then, as the larger of the two men who were doing the beating came down hard with his weapon, Zeb and Noah could see in the distant, dim ray of a streetlight that the weapon was indeed shaped like a baseball bat. The final blow landed with a sickening crunch. Zeb was absolutely certain bones had been broken.

"She-it, did you hear that?" asked Noah.

The poor fellow who was taking the beating crumpled in a heap.

Zeb felt like vomiting. Noah watched with wonder as the ponytailed Indian spat and growled at the man he was beating.

"Get up you son of a bitch. Get up. What you did deserves more of a beating than you're taking."

Zeb could tell from the inflection that he was an Indian. If indeed he was an Indian, it was a near certainty he was Apache. His earlier assumptions had been correct.

The downed, flattened man, at least in Zeb's eyes, was in no condition to move. He wondered why the man who was beating him was demanding that he stand up just to take more of a beating.

"Goddamn coward," shouted the Indian. "You can break a boy's heart, but you can't take a straight on beating, can you? This is a lesson that you won't soon forget, unless you're an absolute idiot."

By now Zeb and Noah's eyes had adjusted to the dark. With the help of a distant streetlight, they could see reasonably well. The man who had just been cracked, either on the head or over the back, just laid there not moving a muscle. He didn't utter as much as a groan. The silence was eerily deafening. Even from a distance and in the darkness, Zeb was certain the man was bleeding badly. In Zeb's mind the thoroughly beaten Indian might even be dead.

"I think he's a goner," whispered Zeb.

"Naw. I've been beaten enough times to know he ain't dead. He's hurtin', that's for certain. But he's still got life left in him."

Noah was speaking from experience. The two men who had done the thrashing stood there, hovering like death itself over the doomed man. The world, in that alley behind the stores, was as quiet as church on a Thursday morning. The beaters stood over the whipped man, glaring at him with hatred.

"He's gotta be dead," said Zeb, holding a hand to the side of his mouth.

"Maybe they're just taking a break," whispered Noah, remembering how his dad got winded beating him. "It takes a lot of strength to give a whupping like that."

"I hope they're done," said Zeb softly.

"Hard to say. Thumpers like it when they get a second wind."

"Let's get the heck outta here..."

Zeb's words were interrupted by a loud sneeze that came from Noah. Zeb saw that his older brother had tried to muffle his nose with his hand. He didn't see any snot on his brother's hand. He figured it was a dry sneeze. Still, it was loud. The men turned in Zeb and Noah's direction.

"Don't move," whispered Noah.

Zeb froze into a statue. Noah, crouching behind Zeb, reached out and grabbed his younger brother by the collar. He spoke in an even lower whisper.

"Not a single muscle. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"They can't see us because there's no light behind us. If we move, they'll be able to tell where we are."

Zeb was too frightened to move. The men took two steps in the boys' direction. Then they simply stopped. The man in the cowboy hat grabbed the ponytailed man by the shoulder. Zeb and Noah could hear the men exchanging words but couldn't make out what they were saying. The men remained frozen. The boys made no more movement than a pair of graveyard headstones. From the little light that was present, Zeb could see clearly that the men were staring in his and Noah's direction. An incredibly long minute passed. It seemed to be an eternity as another minute slowly passed. Zeb was certain the men could hear his heart beating. Eventually they turned away from Zeb and Noah's direction.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said the man in the cowboy hat.

The other man grunted something incomprehensible.

The big men each bent near the body, one by the feet, the other by the head. The Indian was near the feet. The man in the cowboy hat was near the head. The Indian was doing something with the man's boots. Zeb couldn't tell what he was doing, but in the end it looked like he tossed the man's boots at the dumpster. After a couple of minutes, the beaters grabbed the man, and grunted loudly as they tossed the body into the back of the pickup truck.

"They're treating him like he's a piece of meat," said Zeb.

"Yeah," replied Noah. "A carcass."

The man in the cowboy hat had already slid in behind the wheel of the truck. The Indian slammed the tailgate shut then reached over it into the back of the truck. Zeb thought he heard another groan. The Indian pulled something from his shirt pocket and leaned over where Zeb assumed the man's head was laying. Then the Indian pulled something from his back pocket and lifted up the beaten man's unbooted foot. Zeb heard a crunching, cutting sound. The Indian dropped the foot back inside the back of the truck and began looking on the ground, like he had dropped something.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said the man in the cowboy hat.

Whatever the ponytailed Indian was looking for was quickly forgotten, and he hopped into the cab of the truck. The driver made a U-turn in the alley and the truck slipped off into the dark of night.

"Hmm," said Noah. "Wonder what the hell that was all about?"

Zeb shivered with fear. He had seen enough to know he did not need to know what it was all about.

## 4

# 1:30 A.M., July 4

Zeb remained frozen, awaiting Noah's command. As he stood there Zeb's mind spun at the speed of a thousand thoughts a second. Death, if indeed they had just witnessed a murder, had come far too close for Zeb's liking. A queasy angst engulfed him. Noah broke the stillness of what had become a silent night.

"That was some badass shit. I think they killed him. Wow! Kind of cool to think we might have just witnessed a murder in the making."

Zeb's heart was racing as fast as his mind. So many questions rushed through his brain. Had they just witnessed a murder? What should they do? Had he put himself in a position for which there was no turning back? Why on earth would Noah think it was cool? He and Noah weren't even supposed to be out at this hour. Horror and dread were only the tip of the iceberg of his utterly confused emotions.

"What are we going to do?" asked Zeb.

"Let me think," replied Noah.

"Well think fast. I don't want to stick around here."

"If we tell the cops what we saw, and they find those guys, we are dead meat," said Noah. "If they killed a man, beat him to death with a baseball bat, they sure wouldn't give a shit about killing a couple of kids. We'd be easy pickins."

"But if they killed a guy and we just saw it, it's our obligation as citizens of Graham County to tell Sheriff Dablo, isn't it?"

"Yeah, right," said Noah.

Zeb, scared to death, did not immediately catch the sarcasm in his brother's voice. He felt an instant moment of relief until Noah spoke again.

"Not even you're that stupid. Jesus H. Christ, sometimes I think you are a full-blown, half-wit window licker."

All at once the old expression Zeb had heard many times, _damned if you do and damned if you don't_ , made perfect sense. Zeb knew he and his brother were screwed. That's all there was to it. Out there, in the not so distant future, death's grip may be awaiting them.

"Let's go home and sleep on it," suggested Noah. "It'll look different in the morning."

Zeb couldn't get what he had just seen out of his mind. The whole scene was an instant replay repeated over and over again in his head. How could Noah remain so calm? The beating and its horrible sounds wouldn't stop whirling around inside of Zeb's head. Zeb was deeply lost in that exact thought when Noah grabbed his bicycle handlebar and stopped him cold.

"Wait! Let's at least go have an up-close look at the scene of the crime."

"What? Are you crazy? What if they come back?"

With every fiber of his being Zeb felt certain the bad guys would come back and visit the scene of the crime. Call it instinct. Call it watching bad guy movies. Call it what you will. Zeb knew these evil-doers had just committed a major crime. Zeb's skin tingled with trepidation. His entire body was awash with the bad kind of goosebumps, the kind that come with absolute fright. Returning to the scene of the crime was a risk he did not want to be goaded into.

"Come on. Are you a chicken shit or what?"

Zeb sighed loudly and held his ground.

"Not gonna do it. No way. No how."

"I don't believe it. A Hanks, my brother, is a coward who'd probably desert in war time."

Zeb was outraged. How dare Noah make such a statement. There were no circumstances where Zeb would allow himself to be branded as such.

"I guess I'll do it by myself. Wait until your friends hear about this. They'll call you a gutless wonder, or worse, a girly-boy."

Zeb was trapped by his brother's bullying. Even if Zeb's friends didn't believe Noah, Noah's friends would make a big production in front of everyone about Zeb being a coward. Zeb gritted his teeth. His brother had successfully intimidated him into going against his own will and better judgement. With great trepidation Zeb followed his older brother to the scene of the crime. With his eyes darting in every direction, Zeb was certain that each subtle movement in the darkness was danger lurking. He knew the bad guys always returned to the scene of the crime. It was only a question of when, not if.

"What should we do if they come back?" whispered Zeb.

Noah answered with much bravado in his voice.

"You can talk in a normal voice. All is good. We're safe."

"Still, Noah, we have to have a plan if they return."

"For Christ's sake, you know what to do. I swear dealing with you is like dealing with someone from special class. What the hell do you think you should do if we run into the bad guys? Huh?!"

"Ride away really fast," blurted Zeb.

"More like ride like your life depends on it. Because it will."

Zeb's heart fluttered at the thought. His bigger, older brother could most certainly ride faster than he could, if it came down to that. But, what choice did he have? He was not safe at all, but he considered the fact that he might be safer with his brother than alone, especially if the bad guys saw him. He followed his brother, but not without great reluctance. Zeb hung his head as he replied.

"Okay, but if we get killed, it's your fault."

"If they come back, we'll have to split up and just get the hell out of here. You go one way and I'll go the other. If you get caught, don't be a rat fink. You're better off dead than being a squealer."

Zeb eyeballed the area. He worked up a plan of escape in his head, should it be necessary. This alley was his turf. He knew it like the back of his hand. Noah spent his time in places more hidden than an alley behind Main Street. He hung out in darker, more secret areas where he and his friends could smoke cigs and drink beer, or liquor stolen from their dads' booze bins. Zeb had a weird thought about the time Noah had tried to talk him into smoking a cancer stick. One ciggy butt was all he needed to know it wasn't for him. Never again. Some lessons are learned quickly, others not so fast. Zeb had yet to try drinking a beer even though his brother had bugged him many times to do so. The smell reminded him of his dad when he was drunk. He wanted nothing to do with that. Zeb cleared his head and brought himself back to the task at hand.

Curiosity, he knew, had killed the cat. Zeb figured that meant don't be too curious or you might get in trouble, maybe even end up dead. He was certain he understood that one.

"I don't want to end up killed on the fourth of July," said Zeb. "That would just be plain wrong."

"Then get your escape plan down," warned Noah.

"Already got one."

Zeb had a good getaway plan mapped out in his head. It involved a narrow passageway between the Gamble's store and Drurcks Plumbing and Heating. He had sneaked through there a couple of times when one of Noah's buddies wanted to pound him after he beat him in a game of mumble-de-peg. Zeb was handy with a knife, maybe the best mumble-de-peg player for his age in all of Graham County. He had beaten Noah's friend and won his knife from him. Noah stole the knife from Zeb and gave it back to his friend. In any case, because of mumble-de-peg, he knew how to sneak through that little alley that most everyone just ignored. After that first time when Noah's friend was going to pound him, Zeb returned to the alley and moved some junk out of the way in order to make a clearer path.

Noah and Zeb biked cautiously toward what Zeb was becoming more certain by the second was an actual murder scene. As they neared the area, Zeb noticed a strange feeling. It was almost as if it were alive with the brutal activity that had recently taken place. Zeb would have sworn on a stack of bibles that he could feel the pain of the man who had taken the dreadful beating.

Noah slammed on his brakes and pointed to the ground.

"Good lord. Look at that."

Blood pooled in one distinct area and large, reddish drops were easily seen in another dozen smaller spots. Everything about the place sickened Zeb. He wanted to erase it from his mind. He couldn't. The intensity of the murder zone was the only image his mind's eye could focus on. Years later he would understand this as one of the ways PTSD manifests its brutal face.

Noah surveyed the area with his hands on his hips. He spoke as calmly as Mister Rogers from the TV show.

"Yes, they must have cracked open his skull. Then again once I cut my scalp just a little bit, and that bled something terrible. It was a sight to see."

Zeb nodded, using all his might to suppress his puke reflex. Where would that much blood come from? It seemed extraordinary that so much blood could be in one spot. It reminded Zeb of the time he saw his dad gut a deer that was hanging from a tree in their backyard.

In the next moment, reality zoomed in as a pair of truck headlamps cloaked the boys in light.

"Shit," they both shouted as they hopped on their bikes.

"Don't follow me," yelled Noah. "Go the other way."

But his older brother was heading directly to the narrow passageway between the Gamble's store and Drurcks Plumbing and Heating. Noah was stealing Zeb's getaway route.

The boys didn't make it twenty feet before a spotlight froze them like deer in the headlights. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to run and definitely nowhere to hide. They were caught, dead to rights. Zeb looked at Noah. Noah stared at the ground. He carried the look of the defeated on his face. They had some serious explaining to do.

## 5

# 1:43 A.M., July 4

Sheriff Dablo took his time getting out of the cruiser. The boys stood next to their bikes, not moving an inch. For what seemed like an eternity, Zeb felt the heat of the spotlight blazing on them. When Sheriff Dablo removed the powerful light from their faces, he ran it up and down their bodies. Noah spoke quietly to Zeb out of the corner of his mouth.

"He's checking us for weapons."

"Us? We don't carry weapons."

"I've got a knife strapped under my seat," said Noah.

"What?"

Then Zeb remembered he had a pocketknife in his jeans. But that wasn't a weapon, was it?

Their conversation was interrupted when Sheriff Dablo turned off the spotlight, got out of the car and ambled over to the boys. Zeb noticed how big the sheriff suddenly seemed. His size scared Zeb. Sheriff Dablo eyed the Hanks brothers up and down without saying as much as a single word. Eventually, he tipped his cowboy hat back. When he tipped his hat up, Zeb had a dark realization. One of the men doing the beating was wearing a cowboy hat just like the one sitting atop Sheriff Dablo's head. He didn't want to believe it could have been the sheriff who had beaten a man, maybe to death. He shivered involuntarily. The sheriff moved in next to Zeb. When Sheriff Dablo placed a hand on Zeb's shoulder, he jumped.

"You okay, son?"

"Ye-ye-yes, sir. I'm fine," replied Zeb.

"No fun getting caught, is it?"

"No, sir. No fun at all."

Sheriff Dablo gave Zeb another once over. He looked at young Zeb with a sense of compassion. Sheriff Dablo was well aware that Zeb's father was a lifetime, petty criminal as well as a drunk. He also knew Noah was a juvenile delinquent headed down a shady path. Sheriff Dablo assumed Marta Hanks felt powerless to change anything. There was a pretty good chance she had lost her faith. To the sheriff, Zeb was the only hope for the Hanks family. Jake made up his mind right then and there to try and see what he could do to make sure that Zeb followed the straight and narrow path. He knew Song Bird, Medicine Man on the San Carlos reservation, would help him. Sheriff Dablo stopped his musings about the solutions that might come to be and brought himself back to the situation at hand.

"Should have thought about that before you did whatever you did."

Zeb was ready to confess to the toilet destruction. He was smart enough not to mention what he had seen in the alley. For the moment he kept his mouth shut.

"Noah, your behavior doesn't surprise me. You remind me a lot of your old man."

"I ain't nothin' like my old man," snarled Noah.

Sheriff Dablo scoffed loudly enough for the boys to hear.

"Noah, you're old enough to know better. Zeb, you might still be shittin' yellow, but you should be smart enough to know right from wrong."

"Yes, sir," replied Zeb. "I should know right from wrong."

"Shut up," snapped Noah.

"Speak when you're spoken to, Noah," said Sheriff Dablo.

Noah stared down at his shoes.

"Zeb, what the hell are you doing running with your brother at this time of night?"

Sheriff Dablo knew the Hanks family far too well. The sheriff had been called to Zeb's house multiple times. Each time it was for the same thing; a drunken Jonas Hanks was pounding on his wife, Marta Hanks. The same neighbor always called in the complaint. As was typical of spousal abuse, Marta never pressed charges. Sheriff Dablo had picked up Noah for everything from stealing a bike to stealing candy and, of course, there was the graffiti incident. Sheriff Dablo knew everyone in town. He knew the Hanks' household a little too well.

Oddly, Zeb was unexpectedly more exhilarated than nervous. He had witnessed a crime. Now, maybe, just maybe, he could tell someone about it. He would sleep better. That was for certain. It might even put his mind at ease. Zeb wondered what Sheriff Dablo was waiting for. Why wasn't he questioning them? Then he noticed Sheriff Dablo was looking past Noah and peering up and down the alley and into the side streets.

Again, the thought that maybe it was Sheriff Dablo who was in on the beating entered Zeb's mind. Maybe Sheriff Dablo had beaten a man to death, or almost to death, or maybe he hadn't. Maybe the sheriff ended up in the alley because he had gotten a call from a concerned citizen. Lots of men had cowboy hats just like the one that sat on the sheriff's head. Zeb was beginning to breathe easy. Maybe it was all a coincidence. Maybe he and Noah weren't in any real trouble at all. His relief was short-lived.

"Ray Deyo called my house. He got me out of bed. I was sleeping just fine. I didn't feel much like getting out from beneath the sheets when I was sound asleep, and I was sleeping like a lamb," said Sheriff Dablo.

"Nobody likes it when someone wakes them up from sleep," said Zeb.

"Shut your yap," sneered Noah.

"Ray's got insomnia. You boys know what that is?"

Zeb and Noah shook their heads. They had no idea what insomnia was.

"Insomnia means you can't sleep. Not only does Ray have trouble sleeping, he's got a painful bad back. That shrapnel he took from the Nazis robs him of his slumber. That's two good reasons he can't sleep. And, any man who's been a Nazi prisoner of war and tortured probably is haunted by demons you and I can't even imagine."

"That's terrible to think about," said Zeb.

"Yeah," added Noah, who, from watching a lot of WWII movies, hated the Nazis.

"It is too bad," said Sheriff Dablo. "Everyone, especially kids, need to get the right amount of rest."

"I learned that in health class," said Zeb.

Noah sneaked a quick punch to Zeb's kidneys. Zeb didn't understand why.

"Injured war veterans need their rest too. Especially those who gave so much for their country," said Sheriff Dablo.

"Makes sense," said Zeb, preparing his body for another kidney punch.

Noah glared at Zeb as Sheriff Dablo separated the boys to prevent Noah from another physical outburst towards his brother.

"Ray was feeling poorly, restless like he often gets. He couldn't sleep so he got up and decided to drive around. He thought it might make him tired enough to sleep. He was driving by the park and stopped to take a leak. It didn't take him long to see that someone had messed with the toilets. You boys wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Before Zeb could even think to answer, the lies flowed out of Noah's mouth like water running over Niagara Falls.

"We were camping out in the backyard and decided to go for a midnight ride," said Noah. "We haven't been anywhere near the park. Have we, Zeb?"

Noah gave Zeb the death stare. No words needed to be spoken. The look told Zeb that Noah would pound him within an inch of his life if he didn't agree with the lie.

"Uh. Huh."

Nothing that passed between the boys had been missed by Sheriff Dablo.

"What do a couple of midnight riders do on the fourth of July?" asked Sheriff Dablo. "Riding and hiding?"

Zeb smiled. Sheriff Dablo was cool enough to make a vague reference to an Allman Brothers song. Zeb had heard it recently on KOMA, a late-night radio station out of Oklahoma City. Maybe, he thought, Sheriff Dablo is really a good guy. Zeb was about to say something when Noah started in again with the lies.

"We were cruising around the alleys looking for tossed out pop bottles. The Thriftee Grocery Store gives us five cents each for them."

Noah paused to giggle before continuing the tall tale he had started.

"We even got these."

Noah pulled some legal ladyfinger firecrackers out of his back pocket.

"We were going to start celebrating a little early by blowing a few off. All in good fun of course. You know, get the dogs all excited and barking."

"Some might call that disturbing the peace," interjected Sheriff Dablo.

"It's all in good fun. Weren't you ever a kid, Sheriff? Besides we were going over to the old abandoned cotton storage plant. Nobody lives over that way. You know that. We thought that blowing up some cotton clumps would look like confetti. Didn't we, Zeb?"

"Yeah," said Zeb. "That's what you told me."

It was then Sheriff Dablo noticed the boys staring at the blood on the ground. The beam from his flashlight shined directly on it. The blood looked like a combination of red mud and shadows. Sheriff Dablo bent down and pressed his fingers into the mess. He rubbed his thumb and first finger together, checking the texture. Then he placed his fingers to his nose. Zeb had never smelled blood on purpose. He wondered if it smelled good or bad. He assumed it smelled like rust because it was red.

"You boys know anything about this blood?"

"Uh, not really."

Zeb found the guts to speak up before any more lies could spew from his brother's mouth.

"Not really? What's that supposed to mean?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

"We saw three men, Sheriff Dablo. Two Indians with long hair. One had a ponytail. The third guy was white. He had on a cowboy hat." Zeb stopped in mid-sentence and pointed to the sheriff's head. "Just like yours."

Sheriff Dablo place his large hand over the top of his cowboy hat and brought it back into its regular position.

"What was going on?"

"One of the Indians, the one in the ponytail, and the guy in the cowboy hat were beating up the other guy. I think they were hitting him with a Louisville Slugger."

"Beating him with a baseball bat?" asked Sheriff Dablo. "That's not good."

"Maybe it was a stick. We were at least a hundred feet away. It was hard to tell. It's awful dark back here in the alley," said Zeb.

"Where were you standing?"

"Over there."

Zeb pointed to the spot. Noah was dead silent.

"Did the men who were doing the beating see you?"

"Maybe," said Zeb. "I don't think so. They might have heard us when Noah sneezed."

Noah gave Zeb a dirty look. Even though they were ten feet apart, Zeb tightened the muscles over his kidneys.

"What'd they do then?"

"The stopped for a minute, then they picked up the beat-up guy and tossed him into the back of their truck," said Zeb.

"Would you recognize the truck?" asked the sheriff.

"It was brown, I think," replied Zeb. "It looks like a hundred other trucks around town."

"Noah? You see the same thing?"

"I didn't really get a good look at the truck."

Zeb knew Noah was lying. He didn't know why, but he would soon.

"Either of you recognize if it was a Ford, Chevy or Dodge? Perhaps the year of the truck? Style? Model?"

Both Zeb and Noah shook their heads.

Sheriff Dablo took out a little pocket-sized notebook and started to write, speaking as he wrote.

"Three men, two Indians, one with a ponytail, and one white man wearing a cowboy hat. One Indian and one white man were beating up the second Indian male with a bat or stick. The body of the beaten man placed in back of an older, possibly brown, possibly dented truck. Make and model unknown. That sound about right to you boys?"

Noah and Zeb nodded. Everything sounded both scary and cool to Zeb.

Sheriff Dablo got on his two-way radio and called for Deputy Charlie Fritz. Zeb and Noah could hear his response.

"Roger that, Sheriff Dablo. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Anything else you want to tell me, Zeb?"

"No. Nothing else that I can think of. Wait a second."

Once again Noah gave Zeb the death glare. This time the good angel on Zeb's shoulder did the talking.

"I thought I heard the man groan, once, maybe twice. Once on the ground and once when he was in the back of the truck. Yeah, I heard him groan twice."

"And you, Noah. Did Zeb forget anything?"

Noah rubbed his chin like he was thinking really hard. Zeb saw that he was acting like he did when he was about to tell a lie.

"I think they might have killed him," said Noah.

Zeb wondered why Noah was lying. Earlier Noah had said he was certain the man wasn't dead.

"What makes you say that?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

"Cause he didn't fight back. If he was alive, he would have fought back, unless he was a coward. He didn't even move at all when they lifted him up and tossed him into their truck."

"Maybe he was just mostly kind of unconscious," said Zeb, wishing for anything other than the worst possible outcome.

"Go home," said Sheriff Dablo. "Park your bikes in front of your house so I know you made it home. I'll drive by and check later. Got that?"

"Yes, sir," said Zeb.

"And don't leave your yard until morning. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," replied Zeb.

"If I catch you outside of your yard, I'll arrest the both of you and wake your parents up. Got that?"

"Yeah, I got it," added Noah dejectedly.

"I'll be by in the morning to have a little chat with your parents. They need to know what happened."

"Shit," said Noah.

"What was that?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

"My old man is gonna give us a real bad beatin' if you tell him we sneaked out and got caught around all this trouble."

Sheriff Dablo's eyes searched the boys for the truth. Zeb nodded, agreeing with his brother about the beating they might get. The sheriff believed them about the beating.

"If I knew who blew up the toilets and got them to help repair the building, out of the kindness of their hearts, maybe I could see that they were spared a thrashing they might actually having coming to them," said the sheriff.

"I blew up the ladies' bathroom."

The confession flew out of Zeb's mouth like lead pellets scattering from a shotgun blast. Noah stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. He stared at the ground, doing his best impression of an ignorant mute.

"Noah, any idea who blew up the men's toilet? Just so you know, I got a phone call that said two boys on almost identical Soaring Eagle Hiawatha bicycles were seen near the park toilets."

Tears fell from Noah's eyes. Zeb didn't understand his brother's reaction. He always acted like such a tough guy. Noah pushed the tip of his tennis shoe back and forth in the dirt for a long minute before quietly speaking up. When the words finally came out of his mouth, they were barely much more than a whisper.

"Okay. I blew it up. Now everybody's gonna know I ratted on myself. I'll never live it down."

"You two are going to volunteer, maybe even get a couple of your friends, let's say day after tomorrow at eight a.m. I'd bet if you do that, no one will ever know what happened except the three of us. Deal?"

Sheriff Dablo stuck out his hand. Zeb smiled, reached out, looked Sheriff Dablo in the eye and shook his hand as firmly as he could. The sheriff had great big hands. Reluctantly, Noah, without making eye contact, still staring into the dirt, weakly shook Sheriff Dablo's hand.

"Beat it," said Sheriff Dablo. "Beat if before Deputy Fritz sees you. His brother died in a German POW camp during the war. He's got a real soft spot in his heart for Ray Deyo. If he got wind that it was you two who blew up the biffies, well, he may not look too fondly upon it. Charlie doesn't act like it, but he's got a hell of a bad temper when somebody like Ray is getting picked on. Catch my drift?"

Zeb looked at Noah and could see fear in his eyes. He answered for the both of them.

"Yes, sir."

Noah and Zeb hopped on their bikes and sped wordlessly through the darkened streets of Safford until they reached the safety of home. The whooshing of tires on the still warm nighttime pavement and rutted dirt paths was the only sound save the hooting of a nearby owl perched in a dead pine tree.

## 6

# 2:03 A.M., July 4

"Hey, Sheriff. What's up?"

Sheriff Dablo shined his light on the pool of blood near his feet.

Deputy Charlie Fritz crouched near it, dabbed a finger at its edge and brought the finger to his nose.

"Any idea whose blood this is?" asked the deputy.

"Nope."

"How did you know it was here?"

"Anonymous tip," replied Sheriff Dablo.

"I called the office night clerk on the way over here. She said somebody, probably some kids, had been lighting off fireworks at the park."

"Yup."

"Think the two are related?" asked Charlie.

"How's that?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

Charlie was relatively new to the job. He was a good guy, a local guy, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Charlie shined his light near the blood pool. He drew a circle with the beam on a specific spot.

"Just one second."

Deputy Fritz walked back to his vehicle and grabbed the official Graham County police camera. He took a half-dozen pictures. When he was done, he bent down and shined his flashlight on what looked like a short string.

"Yup."

"Yup, what?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

"That a fuse from an M-80. I'd recognize it anywhere. Maybe a kid blew their finger off," said Charlie. He followed a small trail of blood that ended short of the garbage bin.

"Have a look at this, Sheriff Dablo."

Jake walked behind the garbage bin. He spotted an abandoned bicycle.

"It's a Hiawatha. Pretty nice one. Somebody must have ditched it here. It's a good bike and it's certainly not garbage. Not even a rich kid throws away a bike this nice."

"When you're done here, put it in your vehicle and take it to the station. Somebody will probably come looking for it tomorrow," said Sheriff Dablo.

"Can do," replied Charlie.

"And call the hospital and see if anyone has come in tonight with bloody wounds."

Charlie nodded, walked a few feet away and made the call on his walkie-talkie. A moment later he approached Sheriff Dablo.

"I talked with Doc Yackley. I swear he must work twenty-four hours a day."

"What'd he have to say?" asked Jake.

"He said, and I quote, "Hell no."

"Why don't you run over to the hospital and check it out anyway," said Jake. "I'll snoop around here some more."

"I'll be back when I'm done," said Charlie.

"No need for that. You've got a long day coming up, what with the parade, the fireworks and all. Call me if you find out anything that seems suspicious enough to be related to this blood."

Sheriff Dablo shined his flashlight on the blood.

"If not, call me anyway and let me know what you found out."

"Gotcha, Sheriff Dablo. Roger that."

Charlie walked around the area before heading to the hospital. He was certain he would find a kid with a missing finger or two getting stitched up by Doc Yackley.

Jake cordoned off the bloodstained area with some yellow police tape. The blood was mostly in a single area with another dozen or so medium and large sized drops creating a trail toward the middle of the alley. He gloved up and gathered some of the blood for evidence. He snooped around the area a little more and found a pair of boots near the dumpster. He examined them. They were worn, but definitely not trash. He eyed them closely, got out a rag, wiped them clean and proceeded to toss them in the dumpster. He jammed them underneath some other garbage. He took a final, quick trip around the large garbage bin. He found nothing related to the blood.

He was about to call it a night when two other things caught his eye. The first was a pencil. The leaded end had blood on it. The second object was in the middle of the blood pool. He shined a light on it. It was a human toe. A little toe. Upon finding the pencil he uttered a single word.

"Shit."

When he found the pencil, he cursed aloud.

"Goddamn it."

It didn't take him long to figure out what had happened.

As he placed the small toe in an evidence bag, he considered the amount of blood in the alley. It was a significant amount of blood to come from the loss of a little toe. Sheriff Dablo dropped the toe in a baggie. He broke the pencil in half and placed it in with the toe. He washed his hands with some cleaner he kept in the truck.

Glancing at his watch Sheriff Dablo realized it was still over three hours until sunrise. He needed to be the person to clear the scene of evidence. He couldn't do that until the sun rose. With that in mind he walked a half a block to an intersection that would be blocked off for the fourth of July parade. He grabbed two barriers and placed them so no one could accidentally disrupt the crime scene. He grabbed two more barriers and enlarged the cordoned off area, just in case. Next to the barriers were a dozen garbage cans meant to be used that day during the parade. Some had trash in them already. He reached into the baggie and grabbed the pencil halves. He placed one half in one garbage can and the other half in a separate garbage bin. Sheriff Dablo then placed the baggie with the toe in it on the ground. He brought his boot heel down hard on it several times. When he was done, the toe was unrecognizable as part of a human foot. He found a garbage can with trash in it and dumped the toe in it. He shredded the baggie and placed pieces of it in several other trash cans.

Charlie called him on the two-way radio.

"Sheriff Dablo, Deputy Charlie, over."

"What've you got, Charlie?"

Charlie said nothing, waiting for the proper protocol. Jake quickly figured out his deputy was doing everything by the book.

"Over. And, Charlie?"

"Yes, sir?"

"There's no need for protocol tonight. It's just you and me. Everyone else in town is still in bed."

"Probably not everyone, Sheriff Dablo. It's been a while since you worked the night shift. We got more than a few night creatures that like to roam Safford late at night or early in the morning."

"Right," said Sheriff Dablo. "What'd you find out?"

"I'm at the hospital. I talked with the admission nurse, Nurse Jerome. I also chatted for a minute with Doc Yackley. The only real business they've had tonight was a car accident with injuries, nothing serious, plus the usual kids with earaches and a couple of old people who thought they were having heart attacks. No one with wounds big enough to produce the amount of the blood we saw."

"You near Doc Yackley?" asked Jake.

"Yeah, he's right here."

"Let me talk with him."

Charlie handed the walkie-talkie handset to Doc.

"Jake."

"Doc."

"What's up?"

"Anyone come in tonight that lost a lot of blood?"

"Your memory getting' short?"

Before Jake could answer Doc carried on.

"Like I told Charlie earlier. Hell no."

"Will you call me if someone does? Come in with a significant amount of blood loss, that is."

"I can do that," replied Doc. "Are you looking for anything or anyone in particular?"

"Someone who might have lost a fair amount of blood. Possibly an adult Apache male."

"Anything else you want to know?"

"If someone does come in that has lost a lot of blood, I'd like to know who brought them in."

"Are you expecting that I'll see this person who lost blood soon?" asked Doc.

"Not really," replied Jake. "I suspect you won't see this person at all."

"Interesting hunch on your part."

Jake cleared his throat. He recognized what a careless statement he had just made.

"What I mean is that based on the amount of blood I found in the alley behind Klippel's, if someone was going to make a trip to the emergency room, they'd have done it right away."

"That means one of three things," said Doc.

"You're a detective as well as a doctor?" asked Jake.

"I watched every episode of _Columbo_ three times," replied Doc.

"That makes you qualified enough to have a hunch," said Jake. "What are the three things?"

"One, he or she or it is already dead."

"Always a possibility," replied Jake. "But the amount of blood I found doesn't look like it was enough to cause death."

"Okay. Second possibility is that they took care of it themselves. I've seen people with an arm half cut off that tried to duct tape it back on."

"Yup. Could be. People do crazy things. And number three?"

"Somebody helped them out."

"I'll go with option three," said Jake.

"In that case you're looking for two people," said Doc.

"Thanks for your help, Doc."

"Glad to oblige."

## 7

# 9:00 A.M., July 4

Sheriff Dablo parked his truck in front of the Hanks' house. Through the kitchen window he could see Zeb and Noah's parents eating breakfast. He got out of his vehicle and walked to the door. He walked by a pair of Hiawatha Soaring Eagle bicycles lying on the ground. He peered past them and saw the pup tent Noah and Zeb had told him they were camping in. Jake knocked on the front door. Mrs. Hanks answered.

"Good morning, Sheriff Dablo."

Marta wiped her hands on her apron. Jake tipped his hat.

"Morning, Marta."

"What brings you over at this time of day?" she asked.

Before Jake could respond Jonas Hanks shouted from the breakfast nook.

"What'd the boys do now? Was it Noah? Or did both of 'em do something?"

"Nothing like that, Jonas," said Jake. "Someone reported seeing a couple of Hiawatha bicycles at the park. Deputy Fritz remembered your boys had Hiawatha Soaring Eagle bikes. I was just stopping by to see if they had been stolen."

"Take a look out back," shouted Jonas.

"Thanks, I will. Good day, Mrs. Hanks," said Jake, once again tipping his hat.

Slowly Marta shut the door, keeping her eye on the sheriff through the window as he walked toward the side of the house.

Sheriff Dablo shook the support pole of the canvas pup tent. He got no response. He pulled back the flap and saw the boys were still sound asleep.

"You two are going to miss the parade if you don't get going," said Jake.

Noah and Zeb opened their eyes.

"I thought you said we were good," said Noah.

"We are, but I need to go over what you saw last night again."

"Why? We told you everything we saw," said Noah.

"All the same, I need to go over things with you. Protocol."

"What things?" demanded Noah.

Sheriff Dablo heard the back door open. From the corner of his eye he spotted the boys' father coming toward the tent.

"I'll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning, so you can get to work on fixing up the park toilets. We'll talk then."

Sheriff Dablo pulled his head out of the tent.

"Problem, Sheriff Dablo?" asked Jonas Hanks.

"No, not that I know of."

"Cause if those little shits of mine are holding something from you, I'll whip it out of 'em with a willow stick."

"No, it's all good. No need for that. I do have one question for them," said Sheriff Dablo. "I need to know if they know of anyone else who has a bike like theirs."

"Noah, Zeb, get your asses out of those sleeping bags," barked Jonas Hanks. "Sheriff Dablo here has a question for you."

The boys scooted out of the tent, not wanting to risk a beating.

"Who else has a bike like the ones you boys ride?"

"I dunno," replied Noah.

"Eskadi Black Robes has one. He's in my class at school. His mom teaches at the high school. He goes to town school rather than the Rez school," said Zeb.

"Okay," said Sheriff Dablo.

Jonas Hanks, cup of coffee in hand, wandered toward his garage.

"Why do you want to know about the bike?" asked Zeb.

Noah, standing behind his younger brother, jabbed him in the ribs.

"There was one, just like yours. It was abandoned, leaning against the back of Klippel's dumpster. We found it last night," said Sheriff Dablo.

"Think hard. Does anyone else you know have a bike like that?"

"Maya Song Bird has a girl's version of the bike. But you know the crossbar is missing on a girl's bike. I suppose that makes it easier for them, so they don't have to lift their leg so high, like if they have a dress on or something."

"Thanks, Zeb. Noah, anything you can think of?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

"Nope. I got nothin' for ya'. Nothin' at all. I don't know anything."

Sheriff Dablo had a pretty good sense that Noah was lying.

"See you at eight sharp tomorrow morning," said Sheriff Dablo.

"What do we tell our dad?" whispered Zeb.

"Don't worry. I'll handle that."

Jake shut the flap on the tent, pivoted and bumped into the boys' father, who was making his return from the garage.

"Trouble?" asked Jonas.

"Quite the contrary. Both boys have volunteered to help clean up the city park tomorrow morning."

"Seriously? Zeb, I could see him doing that. But Noah? You sure he volunteered?"

"Yup. They volunteered. Both of them. Probably the free ice cream and hot dogs after the cleanup was the deciding factor," said Sheriff Dablo.

"Growing boys do pack it away. Glad you can get them to do something. They aren't much help around the house."

"Were you at that age?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

"Probably not. I'll admit that to you but not to those boys. I was kind of a good for nothing."

"I doubt I did much good for anyone at their age myself. I guess it goes with the age, the hormones and all that kind of crap."

"I suppose that's it."

"I'm picking them up at eight. I'll be a little early. Make sure they're ready."

The men shook hands. Jake headed for his truck. Jonas meandered to the middle of the backyard and stood, coffee cup in hand, staring toward Mount Graham. Zeb and Noah walked toward the house for breakfast.

"I'm getting' up early and skippin' out on cleaning up those toilets," said Noah. "Can you imagine what blown up poop does to the walls and everything?"

"We gotta go," said Zeb. "We said we would."

"You go then. Screw it. I got better things to do."

"But what about the sheriff wanting to talk to us some more?" asked Zeb.

"It was your Injun buddy, Eskadi Buffalo Robes..."

"Black Robes," interjected Zeb.

"Whatever. His bike was there. He probably was too. Let Sheriff Dablo figure it out. He's the cop. We're just kids."

"It's the fourth of July. We should be good citizens," said Zeb. "We should join the parade."

Noah shook his head.

"We're American kids. We should blow shit up. That's what we should do."

This time it was Zeb's turn to shake his head.

## 8

# 7:45 A.M., July 5

Sheriff Dablo rolled up in front of the Hanks' house just as Noah was hopping on his bike. When Noah saw Sheriff Dablo, he cursed under his breath.

"I was just gonna ride down to the sheriff's office to meet you," said Noah.

"No need. I'm here now. Get your brother and let's get going. You can toss your bike into the back of my truck if you want."

"Nah," replied Noah, dumping his bike over.

Reluctantly, hands dug deeply into his pockets, Noah ambled through the back door of the family house, walked up to Zeb and smacked his brother on the back of the head.

"Your pal, the sheriff, is here for us."

Zeb rinsed out his cereal bowl, slipped on his tennis shoes and headed toward the sheriff's truck. Lollygagging behind was his brother.

"Let's go, boys. You've got work to do."

Sheriff Dablo headed toward the park. Ray Deyo and a couple of Boy Scouts were already at work cleaning up the mess and beginning to paint the inside and outside of the ladies' toilet building. Jake parked his vehicle. The boys opened their respective doors.

"Change of plans," announced Sheriff Dablo.

Noah let out a sigh of relief. He knew it was going to be over 110 degrees.

"Noah, you stay here and get to work with Mr. Deyo. He wants some help cleaning the blown-up toilets before the inside painting of the men's room begins."

Noah groaned loudly.

"Zeb stay in the car," said Sheriff Dablo.

"Where are you taking my brother?"

Noah was irate at the thought Zeb wasn't going to have to do any of the dirty work. Sheriff Dablo did not respond to Noah's question. He simply motioned Ray Deyo to the truck.

"This is Noah Hanks. He blew up the toilets. He wants to make it right."

Noah immediately protested.

"I didn't do it alone. Zeb did it too."

Zeb was only slightly shocked that his brother ratted him out.

"Is that right, Zeb?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

Zeb hung his head low.

"Yes, sir."

"Have Noah clean up his brother's part of the mess, too," said Sheriff Dablo. "Don't let him go home until the job is done."

Ray saluted the sheriff and grinned. Jake and Zeb headed down the road.

"Where we goin'?" asked Zeb.

Sheriff Dablo pointed his thumb toward the bed of his truck. Zeb turned and saw a Hiawatha bike just like his own, only the bike had red, white and blue tassels hanging from the holes of the handlebar grips and some old baseball cards held with clothespins in the spokes. It was the bike from the scene of the crime.

"Recognize the bike?"

"Yeah. It's Eskadi's bike, isn't it? It's the one you found in the alley by the blood, right?"

"That's good deductive reasoning. You are right. It is the bike from the alley that was leaning against Klippel's dumpster."

"We headed to the Rez?"

"I think Eskadi would like his bike back, don't you?"

"Sure, but..."

"But what?"

"It's evidence, isn't it?"

"I guess we'll know the answer to that after we talk with him," said Sheriff Dablo.

"I hope he's not in trouble," said Zeb. "He's my friend and he's a good guy. I know that it wasn't him that I saw behind Klippel's."

Zeb turned on the radio to KTKT, southern Arizona's favorite country and western station. It played a lot of oldies, along with the newer stuff. _Good Hearted Woman_ by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson was playing. Sheriff Dablo hummed a bit then sang along. Zeb joined in.

"Like that song, young man?"

"I like Waylon and Willie," replied Zeb. "That's for sure."

"Me too. I think they've got long careers ahead of them."

Next up was _Cherokee Maiden_ by Merle Haggard. Once again, they sang along. Zeb found himself wishing he had a dad like Sheriff Dablo. They pulled onto the Rez.

"You know where Eskadi lives?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

"Yes, sir. Just go up there and turn right. It's the yellow and red house on the left with the front porch that has a swing on it."

Eskadi was tossing a tennis ball against a cement wall as they drove into the dirt driveway. Sheriff Dablo and Zeb got out. Zeb ran over to his friend.

"Eskadi, you missing your bike?"

"Yeah. How'd you know that?" asked Eskadi.

"Come on. It's in the back of Sheriff Dablo's truck."

The boys ran to the truck where Sheriff Dablo had already removed the bicycle.

"This belong to you?"

"It does. Thanks for bringing it back. Where'd you find it?"

"It was in the back of Klippel's Flower store, by the dumpster," said Zeb.

"What was it doing there?" asked Eskadi.

"I was hoping you could tell me," said Sheriff Dablo.

"It was in the back of my dad's truck when Jimmy Song Bird borrowed it to pick up some stuff in town. He brought it back after I was in bed. When I got up in the morning, the bike wasn't in there. My dad said Song Bird didn't know what happened to it and offered to get me a new one. But my dad said we'd look around for it first. My dad figured some White boy stole it out of the truck when Jimmy Song Bird drove it to town."

"Is your dad around?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

Eskadi's father walked out of the house.

"Where'd you find the bike? I been lookin' all over hell for that thing."

"In town. Behind Klippel's."

Eskadi's dad nodded but said nothing.

"Good thing you found it. Eskadi's been having a bad couple of days."

"What happened?" asked Zeb.

"You know my dog, Einstein?"

"Yeah, he's a good dog," said Zeb.

"He _was_ a good dog."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"Somebody shot him," said Eskadi.

"Who?" asked Zeb. "Why?"

"I don't know. All I know is Naiche Dreez threatened to shoot him a couple of times because he barked at night. Dreez is a scary guy. He might have done it. I don't know for sure, but I bet he did. He's both mean and ornery."

"That's the kind of guy who would shoot a dog," said Zeb.

"What do you think, Mr. Black Robes?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

Eskadi's dad shrugged his shoulders. Zeb noticed Eskadi's dad's knuckles were cut, like he had recently been in a fight.

"Where does this Dreez fella live?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

Eskadi's dad pointed across the way to a green house with a swing set in the front yard.

"Does Police Chief Baishan know about the threat?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

"Nope. Don't think it's something he'd want to get involved in."

"Why don't you boys play some ball. I'm going to go have a chat with Chief Baishan."

When Jake arrived at the tribal offices, Police Chief Kutli Baishan was sitting with his boots propped up on his desk. He stood and gave Jake's hand a firm grip.

"Jake, what brings you up my way?" asked Chief Kutli Baishan.

"Kutli, good to see you."

Kutli was relatively new to his job. Jake had only a few interactions with him and wasn't certain how he would react when asked a favor.

"Professional visit?" asked Kutli.

"Yes. One of your people and one of my people were seen beating up an Indian in the alley behind Klippel's the night before last. We found a bicycle that belongs to Eskadi Black Robes leaning against the dumpster near where the fight was. The whole thing left a lot of blood."

"You don't think Eskadi is involved do you? He's hardly a troublemaker."

"No. We've got a description of the men, but Naiche Dreez threatened to kill his dog, and the dog was found shot dead. Eskadi's dad's hands look like he's just been in a fight. It's probably unrelated, but I thought you should know. Just so you know, Naiche got into a fight at Windy's Bar in town last night. He was looking for trouble."

"Who with?"

"Some local drunk. One of those pointless, stupid fights that only drunks get into."

"Did he win or lose?" asked Kutli.

"Both of them took a lot of punches," said Jake. "From what I heard it was a toss-up. In the end both of them just plain ran out of gas."

"Dake Black Robes is a peaceable fellow. I doubt he would beat up on Naiche even though Naiche is a real drunken, good-for-nothing, pain in the ass who has threatened his family."

"You know about that? I mean Naiche threatening to kill Eskadi's dog?"

"Who doesn't? Naiche is always shooting his mouth off."

"Let's go talk to Naiche," suggested Jake. "It's early. He's probably sober or hung over."

Chief Baishan glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes of nine.

"Yeah, pretty good chance he's still sober. I don't know if he drinks for breakfast. He might. Let's take my vehicle," said Chief Baishan. "If he was involved in something in town and sees your truck, he's likely to run or take a pot shot at you."

The men drove slowly through the Rez streets to Naiche's house. They knocked on the door. Eventually, he responded. When he finally did come to the door, it was obvious he was hung over and had recently been on the losing end of a fight. He also had a piece of a dirty cotton ball sticking out of his left ear.

"Naiche," said Chief Baishan. "This is Sheriff Dablo."

"I know who he is," grunted Naiche, staring Jake in the eyes.

Jake extended a hand. Naiche didn't move a muscle. Jake pulled his hand back and away from the rotund but rough looking Indian who wore his shiny, black hair to his shoulders.

"What happened to you?" asked Chief Baishan.

"What do you mean?" asked Naiche.

"You look like somebody who just got their ass kicked. That's what."

"I took a tumble the other night. I was drunk."

"Where did that happen?"

"Early Chatto's place. He'll tell ya."

"Jake tells me you got drunk at Windy's the other night," said Chief Baishan.

"Don't remember nothin' like that," replied Naiche.

"You're standing kind of crooked. Hurt your back?" asked Chief Baishan.

"Sore foot," replied Naiche.

"You shoot any dogs lately?" asked Chief Baishan, getting right to the point.

"Hell no. I love dogs. I'd never shoot a dog. Except one that was rabid."

"Okay," said Chief Baishan. "Better get those cuts on your face looked at. Your nose looks broken too."

Naiche wiggled his nose between his thumb and first finger before shutting the door. Jake and Kutli walked slowly to Kutli's truck.

"You say Eskadi's dad's knuckles look like he's been in a fight?"

"Yes. I did. But he's a bare-knuckled boxer on the side."

"What?" asked Jake.

"It's a Rez thing. A guy can make a thousand bucks, cash, on a good night. It's illegal, but to be honest the department has a long history of looking the other way when it comes to that matter."

"Makes sense his meat hooks look the way they do."

"His mitts are always beat up."

Jake nodded. He had not heard about the bare-knuckled boxing, but it seemed like a Rez thing. He let it go.

"Here's what happened," said Chief Baishan. "Naiche shot Eskadi's dog. Eskadi's dad, Dake, was pissed off. I know him pretty well. He's a turn the other cheek kind of Christian man. He likely went to Medicine Man Jimmy Song Bird and prayed with him for guidance. The word about the dog killing got around and some Apache and a white guy beat the hell out of Naiche. Somehow or other Eskadi's bike got left behind at Klippel's. I'd bet whoever beat the hell out of Naiche borrowed Dake's truck and Eskadi's bike was in the back. I guess there wasn't room for both Naiche and the bike in the back of Dake's truck. That makes sense because it's a short bed truck and always full of junk. Seems like they took out the bike, leaned it against the dumpster and threw Naiche in the back of the truck. They drove Naiche back to the Rez and dropped him off. They didn't want the beating to be connected with town. Naiche took his beating. The dog is dead. Eskadi has his bike back and there's a hundred stray dogs around. He's a smart kid, he'll pick a smart dog and train it up good. End of story."

"Sounds reasonable enough," said Jake. "Can you explain the cotton ball in his ear?"

"Whoever beat him up probably jammed a pencil in his ear to rupture his ear drum," said Chief Baishan.

"Why?"

"It's an Apache way of sending a message."

Jake gave him a confused look.

"I've lived here all my life. That's how shit goes down."

"You gonna do anything about it?" asked Jake.

"What's to do? The dog is dead. Eskadi's bike is back. An ounce of flesh has been extracted from Naiche. What more is there to do?"

Jake nodded. In his mind a little frontier justice had its place. It seemed as fair as the court system the Rez used. Song Bird, no doubt, would be glad to hear that Chief Baishan was not going to spend any time looking into the beating Naiche Dreez had taken. The secret of who gave the beating would remain confidential. Jake breathed a little easier.

## 9

# 10 A.M., July 5

### Friends and Fishing

The two lawmen drove back to the tribal police chief's office. Jake thanked Kutli for his help. Jake was more than a little grateful that the tribal police chief understood true justice. No doubt it would make things easier and prevent potential trouble for the cowboy and his Indian friend that had done the deed.

"I've got another favor to ask," said Jake.

"You're going to owe me a couple by the time this is over."

"I am," replied Jake.

"What can I do for you?"

"Is there any chance you're driving into Safford tonight?"

"I am."

"When?"

"Around supper time. Probably at six or seven."

"Could you drive Zeb Hanks back to town and drop him off at my office?"

"Not a problem."

"Thanks. He'll be at Eskadi's. I'm going to drop them both off at Song Bird's with some fishing gear."

"Summer time, boys and fishing. Can't beat that."

"You got that right."

"I'll bet you long for those days as much as I do."

"I do," replied Kutli.

"Thanks. I owe you at least one, maybe two favors."

Kutli smiled. He enjoyed having the upper hand.

Jake drove to Eskadi's house. Zeb and Eskadi were horsing around, roughhousing and joking like adolescent boys so easily do.

"Hey."

Eskadi and Zeb were startled by Jake. From the tone of the sheriff's voice they assumed they were in trouble.

"Do you two want to go bass fishing in the reeds along the east edge of the San Carlos Lake?" asked Jake.

Zeb frowned painfully.

"I don't have my fishing gear."

"I'll have to borrow some," said Eskadi. "I can probably find some for you too."

"I brought enough for the both of you. Just make sure you're back here by six. Chief Baishan is going to give Zeb a ride back to town."

"Great," said Eskadi. "I'll tell my mom. Maybe she'll make us some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to take along."

"I gotcha covered. There's a cooler full of sandwiches and soda pop," said Sheriff Dablo.

Ten minutes later they arrived at Medicine Man Jimmy Song Bird's house. He was sitting out front with two young girls. One of them got up immediately upon seeing the sheriff's truck. She ran toward it. A long-drawn look of disappointment spread across her lips.

"Da-ad. What are you doing here? I thought you said I could hang out all day with Maya."

Jenny Dablo's long hair fell to her waist. At eleven years of age she was already an innocent, blossoming beauty. Her friend, Maya Song Bird, was just as pretty. Maybe even more so.

"I've got some business with Song Bird."

Maya ran joyfully to the truck. The girls peeked inside and giggled when they saw Eskadi and Zeb.

"I've got to drop these boys off. They want to do some fishing. Bass fishing."

"That's my favorite," said Jenny.

"Mine too," added an excited Maya.

"Hey, isn't that my gear in the back of your truck," said Jenny.

Jake looked over his shoulder toward the truck bed.

"By gosh and by golly, I guess it is. Maybe the boys will take you fishing with them?"

The inquiry was less of a question than it was a hint. The girls nodded joyfully at each other. As beautiful as these young girls were, they were both wild tomboys.

"You boys okay taking Maya and Jenny fishing with you? As a favor to me?"

Eskadi, the bolder of the two boys, turned to Zeb as he spoke.

"I've fished with Maya before. She knows her stuff. We'll catch enough fish for three or four dinners. Plus, it's Jenny's gear."

"Okay," said Zeb. "It's fine with me."

"Maya, get your gear. Boys, please behave like gentlemen. Let the girls sit in the cab. You two can hop in the back of the truck. I'll give you a ride over there. You'll have to walk back."

Maya grabbed some gear from Song Bird and all four kids hopped in the back of the sheriff's truck. Ten minutes later they all had their poles in the water.

Sheriff Dablo headed back to Song Bird's.

It didn't take long for the four teenagers to turn fishing talk into what had happened in the alley a few nights earlier, and, of course, the blowing up of the toilets at the park.

"Zeb Hanks, you did what?" said Maya. "I always thought you were such a goody-two-shoes."

"My brother made me do it," replied Zeb.

"Every young person must watch out for peer pressure," said Jenny.

They all laughed. A recent symposium at school had taught them about peer pressure and why to avoid it.

"Are you ever going to have a boyfriend, Maya?" asked Eskadi.

"She likes Zeb," interjected Jenny.

Zeb's face turned the color of a freshly picked beet. Everyone laughed.

"What are you gonna be when you get older?" asked Jenny.

"I'm going to college. Then, I'm going to be a professor," said Eskadi. "Later on, I'm going to be a politician and become president. When I'm president, I'm going to enforce all the old Indian treaties."

"You are a dreamer," said Maya. "My dad says that won't happen for a thousand years."

"How does he know that?" asked Zeb.

"Do you know my father?" asked Maya.

"Some. Only a little. I know he is a respected medicine man in your tribe," replied Zeb.

Maya chuckled. So did Eskadi.

"Song Bird is known by all the tribes. He knows the tribes. He knows the heavens. It is said he has been blessed by many gods. Even the Creator of all things has blessed Song Bird," added Eskadi.

With Eskadi's words a quiet reverence passed among the adolescents. Zeb was confused about how they all knew that.

"What's the story about what's going to happen in a thousand years?" asked Zeb.

"My father, from his relationship with other medicine men, especially the Ute and Ojibway medicine men, knows future history."

"What?" asked Zeb incredulously.

"Stuff that's going to happen in the future."

"How can that be?" asked Zeb.

"I don't expect a White boy from town to believe or even understand for that matter,.but I'll tell you anyway. There is a place in southwestern Colorado and another in northern New Mexico where a sleeping giant lives. The giants are resting in mountains. In fact, the mountaintop forms a sleeping Indian warrior. The warrior in New Mexico is facing Ute Mountain on the Ute Reservation. The Utes say the mountain is a grand warrior resting from battling against great evil."

"Great evil? Do you mean the devil?" asked Zeb.

"Not the devil that you think of," said Eskadi. "Not the one with a pitchfork and a pointed tail."

Everyone laughed except Zeb. He didn't know what they meant.

"That great evil was the invasion of the White men, the brown men, the black men and others who were not First People."

"The First People?" asked Zeb. "Do you mean Adam and Eve?"

Eskadi and Maya chuckled knowingly. Jenny followed their lead.

"When the sleeping giant rises up in a thousand years, all of the Indian nations will band together and retake the land that is rightfully theirs," explained Maya.

"To make sure that happens, every year a three-day Sun Dance is held on a sagebrush flat over the giant Sleeping Ute's heart. It keeps his heart alive. It keeps the memory of a living truth for the First People full of hope," added Eskadi.

"There are sleeping giant Indians almost everywhere," said Maya.

"Yes, yes," chimed in Eskadi, willing and excited to share his knowledge. "They are in Montana, Wyoming, Hawaii and even Canada. The sleeping giant in Canada is called Nanabijou. It is seven miles long."

Zeb was stunned, mostly because what his friends were saying rang true to his heart. A great quiet followed the excited talk. The youngsters all seemed to lapse into a state of deep thought. The restlessness and excitement of young people together became an ancient calmness. Eskadi broke the silence.

"We'll see what happens," he said. "For now, we must live in the present. I heard Song Bird say that nothing lasts, but everything is eternal."

Zeb's head was spinning. He felt ignorant and confused, yet somehow it all made a kind of sense that only the innocent can understand. Eskadi picked up a handful of dust. He stood and slowly allowed the dust to drop from his hand. The four teenagers watched as the dust faded and dissipated. The mood, as quickly as it had changed, returned to normal.

"What are you going to become Jenny?"

"I'm going to move to Phoenix and become the weather lady on TV," said Jenny.

"I'm going to Hollywood and become a movie star," added Maya.

"What about you, Zeb?" asked Eskadi.

"I like Sheriff Dablo. I think he's about the nicest guy I've ever met. Maybe I'll become Sheriff of Graham County one day."

A small mouth bass took a hard bite out of Zeb's bait and began working his line. Everyone watched closely as the fish put up a darn good fight. Much to everyone's delight and among many oohs, aahs and laughter, he reeled it in. Unspoken precious moments quickly created deep friendships.

"This is just perfect," said Maya.

"It would have been more perfect if I had caught the fish," said Eskadi.

They all laughed.

"At times like this it feels like we've known each other forever," said Maya.

Zeb, Maya, Jenny and Eskadi looked at one another. None of them had any words for what they were so intensely feeling. Yet, no one felt the least bit awkward.

Eskadi had one final word before they headed back.

"I wish today would never end."

The easy silence that followed told them all it was a universal feeling they shared.

Little could Zeb know what today really marked the beginning of. Nor could he possibly imagine how the rest of his life would be affected by the relationships that were quickly developing.

## 10

# 1 Week Later

### In the Beginning

Sheriff Dablo pulled his truck in front of the Hanks' home. When he rang the doorbell, Marta glanced through the small vertical window before opening the front door. Jake politely removed his hat and held it in his hand at his side. The sheriff got right to his point.

"Marta, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Yes?"

"Would you mind if Zeb spends a day fishing and a night camping with me and the San Carlos medicine man out on the Rez?

"Certainly not. It's good for a boy to have positive role models. What's up?"

"Do you know Jimmy Song Bird, the medicine man out at the San Carlos?"

"Only by reputation. I've heard rumors that besides being wise and a great healer that he has done traditional Apache healing medicine for some of the Beatles and some of the Rolling Stones. Is that true?"

"It is. How did you know about that? Song Bird sort of keeps that information close to the vest."

"Helen and I were having tea and blueberry muffins one day..."

"She loves her blueberry muffins," interjected Jake. "And she knows everything that goes on in Graham County."

"She most certainly does. Well, just as she bit into her blueberry muffin a song by Paul McCartney came on the radio. The song was _Band On The Run_. We were in a funny mood and we ended up calling it _Bands Got the Runs_. Silly girl talk. We got to talking about how Paul owns some land and a house about an hour from here. Somewhere over by Tucson is what we heard."

"I know exactly where it is if you ever want to drive by. I'd be glad to give you the tour," said Jake.

"Someday, maybe."

"Keep it in mind."

"Anyway, Helen said she'd heard that Song Bird had done some healing work for Paul and his wife. She also knew that the Rolling Stones used to rent that big mansion out in Eden, just north of Safford. She'd also heard Song Bird had worked with them."

"It's all true," said Jake. "I don't know the details, but I know it happened. So, it's okay to take Zeb on an overnight?"

"I don't know what Jonas would think of it, but I'm sure he won't mind since Zeb is going with you, Jake. I don't know what he thinks of Song Bird, or if he even knows who he is. He doesn't care for Indians in general," replied Marta. "When were you thinking of taking him camping?"

"Tonight, if that works," replied Jake. "Sorry I didn't give you more warning, but it came up sort of at the last minute. Song Bird and I do this at least once a month. Last time out, I was telling him I thought Zeb was a good kid that could learn some things from him. Zeb's met Song Bird a few times, but they don't really know each other."

"I'm sure he'll want to go. I've heard him talking a lot about fishing with Jenny and Maya. Are they going along?"

"No, this is a boys only trip."

"What time do you want to pick him up?"

Jake glanced at his watch.

"Six? Is that okay?"

"Should I feed him?"

"No, Song Bird has a special stew he makes for these things," chuckled Jake.

"What's in it?"

"You don't want to know."

Marta broke into spontaneous laughter. It was the first time she had laughed in months.

* * *

Jake picked up Zeb promptly at six. He wanted to expose the young man not only to how another culture lived, a subject he was fairly new too as well, but he and Jimmy Song Bird wanted to let him in on a hobby that could educate him.

"How come the medicine man wants to see me? I met him that day I went fishing with Maya, Jenny and Eskadi," asked Zeb. "I said hello to him a couple of other times. I don't really know him that good."

"Maybe he wants to make sure you're nice to his daughter," replied Jake.

Zeb blushed. He had a crush on Maya Song Bird, but he had never told anyone.

"Aw, c'mon," said Zeb. "Why am I really here? Am I in trouble?"

"He wants to teach you about the stars in the sky. He and I have been studying them for a few years now. I told him I thought you would like to learn about them too."

"Cool," replied Zeb.

Jake drove to a remote part of the reservation. By the time they arrived both he and Zeb were hungry. They spotted Song Bird leaning over a cook pot. The medicine man looked old to Zeb, but, then again, all men over thirty years of age looked old to him. Such is the eye of youth.

The aroma wafted through the open windows of Jake's truck.

"Man, that smells good," said Zeb. "Do you know what it is?"

"Road kill stew."

Zeb couldn't tell if Jake was joking or not.

"Really?"

"Yup."

A sour look overcame Zeb's face.

"I promise you that you will love it," said Jake.

"Really?"

"Yup."

Song Bird, with his back to them, motioned them toward the fire and cookpot.

"Hungry?" asked Song Bird.

"I guess," replied Zeb, staring into the stewpot.

"When I was your age, I was hungry all the time."

A strange feeling came over Zeb. He couldn't tell if it was from the exotic aromas coming from the stewpot or something else. In any case he swooned.

"Are you feeling okay, young man?" asked Song Bird.

"I'm fine. It's just I've never had..."

"Road kill stew?"

"Yeah," replied Zeb. "Road kill stew. It sounds kind of weird."

"You're lucky. It's all deer, rabbits and squirrel. No skunks. No mice."

Zeb gulped loudly enough for the men to hear. Song Bird laughed so hard he cried. Jake held his sides as he laughed heartily. Zeb realized he was being initiated into a very private club. The meal was just the beginning. The stew had an amazing taste. It was one Zeb would never forget as long as he lived.

The men had eaten quietly, barely speaking. Zeb was used to meal time consisting of his father's rants and raves and a general sense of unease. After they were done eating and the dishes were cleaned, Song Bird pulled a flask seemingly from out of thin air and poured a yellow-green greasy looking liquid into three small glasses. Song Bird handed one to Jake, one to Zeb and kept one for himself.

"To a boy who is about to become a man," said Song Bird. "To learning some of the secrets of the heavens above and what they mean."

"Hear, hear," replied Jake.

Zeb smiled curiously. He was intrigued, but he didn't know why or about what. These men obviously had something in mind for him. He had absolutely no idea what exactly that was. An hour later, after many curious toasts that Zeb would later learn to be lessons in the rights of passage that led from youth to manhood, Song Bird became quiet. Jake followed his lead. Zeb watched as the men seemed to be praying. After a short time, when the day began to darken into night, Song Bird rose to his feet.

"Follow me," he said.

Jake and Zeb followed the medicine man down a path into a small box canyon. Between the stone walls it was darker than any nighttime Zeb had ever imagined.

"Here is where you learn," said Song Bird. "This is a sacred place."

Jake built a small fire. The blue, orange and yellow flames provided an extraordinary amount of light in the extreme darkness. The blackness of night became almost like the light of day as the flames from the small fire danced shadowy figures on the canyon walls. Song Bird remained silent. Zeb stood frozen. When the fire was glowing brightly, Zeb spotted a platform with a handmade totem sitting atop it.

"Young man, what do you need to learn first?" asked Song Bird.

Zeb was confounded. He had no idea what the old medicine man was speaking about. He had no idea how to answer the simple question.

"I, I don't even know what to say," replied Zeb.

"That's good. Then let's start at the beginning."

"Beginning of what?" asked Zeb.

"The beginning of everything," replied Song Bird. "The foundation of all that will ever be."

Jake, receiving some cue from Song Bird, covered the fire with a blanket. Strangely, the blanket did not burn.

"In the beginning," explained Song Bird. "There was only darkness. Suddenly a small bearded man appeared. He is called the One Who Lives Above."

"God?" asked Zeb.

"The Creator," replied Song Bird. "But you may call Him God if that is what is comfortable for you."

"Okay," replied Zeb, scratching his head as if that might make him understand more clearly.

"The One Who Lives Above appeared. He rubbed his eyes as if he had just awakened. The Creator then rubbed his hands together. All at once a little girl appeared. She was called the Girl-Without-Parents. The creator rubbed his face with his hands and instantly there stood the Sun-God. Again, Creator rubbed his sweaty brow and from his hands dropped another god. This one was called Small-Boy. Now there were four gods. Then he created Tarantula, Big Dipper, Wind, Lightning-Maker and Lightning-Rumbler. All four gods shook hands so that their sweat mixed together."

Zeb's head was spinning. His face was covered in beads of perspiration. Song Bird reached over and rubbed an ancient, warm hand against Zeb's forehead. He showed his dampened hand to Zeb and Jake.

"The sweat of the gods is with us."

Zeb could barely follow Song Bird's story, much less grab its meaning. He had lived his youth learning from the Latter-Day Saints that Jesus Christ, acting under the direction of God the Father, created this and other worlds to make possible the immortality and eternal life of human beings who already existed as spirit children of the Father. He had also learned from his friends who attended other churches that their belief was that God had created the world in seven days. He had little reason to doubt either the Book of Mormon or the biblical versions. But here, in this mystical setting, his views of the beginning of all things were shifting. As Song Bird continued, Zeb felt himself being pulled into another type of world.

"Then Creator rubbed his palms together. A small, round, brown ball fell from his hands. All those present took turns kicking it. Each time they kicked the ball it grew larger and larger. Creator told Wind to go inside the ball and blow it up. Then Tarantula spun a black cord. He attached it to the ball and went to the east, pulling as hard as he could. He repeated this exercise with a blue cord to the south, a yellow cord to the west and a white cord to the north."

Jake leaned in and whispered to Zeb.

"The four directions are very important to know about if you want to understand Indian culture."

Zeb nodded. He wanted to understand. But everything was so new and different that he felt as lost as a sailor in a fog bank. Song Bird must have sensed Zeb's confusion. He turned to him and spoke.

"Creation was not a simple process. How could it have been?"

Once again, Zeb nodded as Song Bird held his arms overhead indicating that Zeb should behold the universe. For the first time in his life Zeb actually gave Creation more than just a passing thought.

"When he was done, the brown ball had become the earth. The Creator once again rubbed his hands together. This time Hummingbird appeared. Creator told Hummingbird, 'Fly all over the earth. Tell us what you see.' When Hummingbird returned, he reported that there was water on the west side. He told Creator, 'The earth rolls and bounces.' The Creator listened closely to Hummingbird. The Creator thought and thought. Then he made four giant posts. One was black, one blue, one yellow and one was white. The Creator then commanded the Wind to place the giant posts at the four cardinal points of the earth. When the wind had done this, the earth became still," explained Song Bird.

Everything around Zeb seemed to have become still, just like in Song Bird's story. He could hear the wind rustle in the trees, the water running through the canyon, animals sneaking through the night and what Song Bird would later call the breath of the universe. Almost as an afterthought Song Bird spoke once again.

"The creation of the people, animals, birds, trees and everything of that nature takes place after that."

Song Bird glanced at Zeb and sensed his confusion.

"But I think that is enough for the moment. Zeb, I want you to think about this. When you have questions, bring them to me," said Song Bird.

"Okay, but right now I don't even know what to ask," said Zeb. "I don't even know where to begin."

"You will," replied Song Bird. "It may be in the distant future, but the questions and many of the answers will come in the form of an Echo."

Song Bird then made an eerily beautiful trilling sound that echoed down the canyon, seemingly to infinity. Zeb intuitively knew this was not the Echo that Song Bird was speaking about.

Zeb shook his head. His was more bewildered than ever. Song Bird and Jake began to harmonize in a peaceful chant. The rhythm was simple. With a nod of his head, Song Bird encouraged Zeb to join them. Joining the men in the song was as simple as breathing. Time became irrelevant. Later, when something changed, Zeb didn't know what, Jake tapped him between the shoulder blades. Zeb assumed he had somehow fallen asleep.

"Sorry, I didn't even know I nodded off," said Zeb.

"You didn't sleep," said Song Bird. "You dreamt yourself into another place and time. Your lessons have begun."

## 11

# Later That Night

### Awake from the Dream

Jake shined the beam of a laser flashlight to the center of the canyon. Roughly fifty feet in front of them was the largest telescope Zeb had ever seen.

"Wow. Cool."

"It's more than cool," said Jake. "It can give you a peek into a world that the naked eye can never see."

"Where'd you get it? I've got a little one. I've never seen anything like that, even in books," said Zeb.

"One of the scientists on Mount Graham gave it to me as a gift. It's a long story. I helped him out of a jam, I guess. He was grateful. Song Bird and I have been using it for three years now."

"Where should we begin with young Zebulon Hanks?" asked Song Bird.

"Let's start with something every boy knows, the Big Dipper."

"There it is," shouted Zeb with powerful enthusiasm.

"Have a look through the telescope," said Jake. "Tell us what you see."

Zeb pointed the telescope toward the Big Dipper. He studied carefully.

"It's a dipper, a big one."

Jake and Song Bird chuckled and felt their own enthusiasm rising.

"It has four stars in its bowl and three more on its handle. Seven stars in the Big Dipper. I've looked at it a hundred times and never thought about counting the number of stars in it," said Song Bird.

"Now look at the bowl and draw an imaginary line between the two stars that form the top of the bowl and follow it outward until you see a bright star," said Jake.

"I see it, I see it."

"That is the North Star. Men in ships for thousands of years have used it for navigational purposes. We live in the desert, but we Indians have used it for thousands upon thousands of years to give us direction," said Song Bird.

"The North Star is also called Polaris," said Jake. "It lies in a direct line with the axis of the earth. Because of that, it appears to never move."

Zeb stared at the constellation.

"Song Bird," Zeb asked. "How was the Big Dipper made? Did the Creator make it?"

"You ask a good question. There is a story behind the creation of the Big Dipper. It is a tale of wolves, coyotes and bears."

"Please tell me the story," pleaded Zeb.

"Of course. That is why you are here, to learn. The story goes like this. Once there were five wolves who would share meat with Coyote. One night the wolves were staring at the sky. Coyote asked the wolves what they were looking at. The wolves said there were two animals up in the sky, and they wanted to get to them but couldn't. Coyote grinned slyly and offered them what he called an easy way to reach them."

"What was it?" asked Zeb.

"Coyote then took his bow and shot an arrow into the sky where it stuck. He shot another arrow which stuck into the first arrow. Then he shot another and another until the chain of arrows reached the ground. The five wolves and Coyote climbed the arrows into the sky. The oldest wolf took his dog along. When they reached the sky, the wolves could see that the animals were grizzly bears. The wolves went near the bears. They sat there looking at the bears. The bears looked back at the wolves. Coyote thought the wolves and the bears looked good sitting there. So, he left them and removed his arrow ladder. The three stars of the handle of the Big Dipper and the two stars of the bowl near the handle are the wolves. The two stars on the front of the bowl are the bears. The tiny star by the wolf in the middle of the handle is the dog," explained Song Bird.

Zeb listened intensely to the tale Song Bird offered. It was complicated and had many parts. He gave it a long thought before saying anything.

"I understand," said Zeb.

The medicine man could readily see that Zeb would be a worthy student.

"I think we should give you an Apache name," said Song Bird.

The mere idea of having another name, an Apache name, confused and excited Zeb.

"Me? An Apache name?"

"Zeb, I guess I should ask you first. Would you like an Apache name?"

"I've never really thought about it too much. But I have wondered what my name would be if I was an Indian. Yes, I'd like an Apache name."

Jake and Song Bird built a new fire.

"Zeb, go stand behind the fire," said Song Bird.

Song Bird and Jake silently stared at Zeb. They could see him clearly in the near darkness as the flames flickered and ashes flew upward.

"Zeb seems to disappear in the darkness then return," said Jake.

"His skin is white, but not like the White man. His skin is white like that of a ghost," said Song Bird.

"And his hair is black as midnight," added Jake.

"We shall call him it'een góshé hu iz naki ti tł'é'gona'áí dii dałaá," said Song Bird.

"What does it mean?" asked Zeb.

"The Little Sheriff Who is Both Night and Day," said Song Bird.

A surge of pride welled up inside of Zeb. For the first time in his life, he felt like more than just a boy. He had a vague sense that he was becoming a man.

The beginning of Zeb's education by Jake and Song Bird had been birthed again. The lessons would go on until none of them walked the earth any longer. But first his life would change dramatically.

Song Bird and Jake talked deep into the night. Zeb laid atop his sleeping bag watching the stars until he drifted off to sleep. Then something, perhaps it was the lowering of the tones of the men doing the conversing, woke him. He laid as still as was humanly possible and arced his ears toward the men's conversation. Could he be hearing them correctly? He didn't want to believe his ears.

"You're sure Chief Kutli won't be a problem?" asked Jake.

"I'm certain. Naiche Dreez is nothing but trouble. If Kutli had been with us, he would have helped," replied Song Bird. "He'll never even open an investigation into Naiche's beating, even if Naiche files a complaint. The laws are a little looser on the Rez when it comes to that sort of thing."

Zeb heard every word. What _sort of thing_ were they talking about?

Zeb turned his head to see the silhouettes of Medicine Man Jimmy Song Bird and Sheriff Jake Dablo. He blinked and did a double take. The image of the sheriff's cowboy hat matched exactly what he had seen that night behind Klippel's store. When Song Bird turned to say something to Jake, his ponytail matched precisely what Zeb had seen that night as well. Could it be that Song Bird and Jake had beaten Naiche with a baseball bat? No, it couldn't be. They weren't those kind of men. Now, wider awake than ever, Zeb tuned into their conversation.

"What was with cutting off his little toe and jamming a pencil in his ear?" asked Jake.

"The pencil punctured his eardrum. It will heal up for the most part. But he will have enough hearing loss so that he will be concerned about people sneaking up on him. That will make him less likely to sneak around and do bad things. It's a little pain and a big lesson."

"Got it," replied Jake. "Sort of like breaking a couple of fingers on someone's punching hand so they can't hit as hard."

"Right. Just enough to slow someone down so they think about what they are doing," added Song Bird.

"And cutting off his little toe?" asked Jake.

"Old time tradition. He can still walk, but he can't run away as fast. If he tries any of his bullshit, he'll get caught because he'll be a step or two slower. Plus, it's a good reminder that each time he walks the earth that he has done wrong."

"I wish there was a better way," said Jake. "I don't feel bad about what we did, but I don't feel all that good about it."

"White man's guilt," said Song Bird. "It's your burden to carry. An Indian feels guilty about other things."

"Like what?"

"You'd know if you were an Indian," said Song Bird.

"Did you know the pencil you used and toe you cut off fell out of your pocket? Luckily, I found them and disposed of the evidence."

"That's what makes you a good sheriff," said Song Bird.

The men both lit cigarettes and sat quietly. The sounds of the desert night filled Zeb's ears. He leaned forward to hear anything the men might say. Finally, Song Bird spoke.

"Sometimes we have to do the wrong things, but for the right reasons."

Jake grunted in agreement. The men pulled their blankets closer to the fire and within a minute both were snoring. Zeb watched the stars move across the sky.

Could a man do the wrong thing for the right reason? Was that even possible? Zeb fell into a deep sleep, deeper than any sleep he had ever experienced. He dreamed of a man, a man that looked to be from a time in a book Zeb had read about fables. The man was handsome and well dressed. He looked to be very wealthy. He was surrounded by beautiful women, platters full of food and cups full of drinks. The man was sweating like it was a hot summer day in the desert. But, by the way the beautiful women and other men in the dream looked, it was just an ordinary day. Then, in his dream, Zeb saw the man looking up. Over his head was a sword, a razor-sharp sword. It was held precariously by a single thread. Zeb looked back at the man and saw his own face on the body of a grown-up man. Still in the dream, Zeb looked at everything around him before getting up and walking away. He looked back and saw the sword turn into a dove and fly away. An old, wise looking man spoke to him.

"Sometimes it is hard to know what to do and sometimes it isn't. You will know what to do when the time comes."

He woke with a start. He must have shouted something in his sleep as in the next moment Song Bird and Jake were standing over him.

"You okay?" asked Jake.

Zeb shook his head. He was not okay. But he could say nothing.

Song Bird knelt next to Zeb and placed his hands on his shoulders.

"Were you dreaming?

Zeb nodded that he had been.

"What about?"

Zeb could not control his tongue. Words uncontrollably came bursting from his mouth.

"Can I do a bad thing if it is for a good reason?"

"The world is a strange and beautiful place," replied Song Bird. "Your question is a good one, but a complicated one."

"Did you overhear us talking?" asked Jake.

Zeb could not lie to the men who were ushering him into manhood.

"Yes."

"Then I think you know the answer," replied Jake.

"Go back to sleep, it'een góshé hu iz naki ti tł'é'gona'áí dii dałaá. Your dreams will always guide you. Have faith in understanding what is unknowable. Believe in your heart."

Zeb laid his head down and drifted off into a sea of dreams. His life, it seemed, had been laid out for him. In his dreams he knew what was now confusing would one day become clear.

## 12

# 2 Weeks Later

Sheriff Dablo knocked gently on the Hanks' household front door. Mrs. Hanks was sitting in front of her vanity in the bedroom, staring at the bruises on her face. She glanced at the clock, 7:30 a.m. Her husband had beaten both her and Noah harshly the night before. She touched her nose, certain it was broken. She had no doubt it would require a trip to Doctor Yackley's office. She sighed at the thought of asking him to once again say nothing to the authorities. She heard the knock again. Mrs. Hanks gazed out the window. Her eyes landed on the Graham County vehicle that had a large gold star, Graham County Sheriff and 911 written on the side. Despair and hope mixed themselves in her mind. She knew it was Sheriff Dablo's truck parked in front of the house. Marta Hanks glanced into the mirror and spoke to herself in quiet desperation.

"I can't let him see me. He'll know what happened. What am I going to do?"

She got up and peered into Zeb's room. He was just beginning to stir. She spoke to her youngest son in a soft, soothing voice.

"Zeb, honey. Could you get the door? It's Sheriff Dablo. Are you going out to the San Carlos with him today?"

Zeb's eyes opened double wide when he saw the lumps and bruises on his mother's face. He didn't need to be told what happened.

"Where's Dad?" he asked.

"He took off for Red's Roadhouse late last night. He never came home."

A thought breezed through Zeb's mind. He wished his father was dead.

"Where's Noah?"

"In bed."

"Did Dad beat him too?"

Zeb's mother looked away in shame. A tear trickled down her cheek. This time the knock on the door was louder. She wiped away the tear.

"Please, Zeb, answer the door. Don't make me do it. Please?"

Zeb pulled on some pants and a T-shirt. Barefoot, he ran down the stairs and opened the door. Sheriff Dablo's face carried a solemn and sober look. The expression was one he had never seen during his interactions with the sheriff. It sent a chill down Zeb's spine.

"Is your mom here?" he asked.

"Uh, I think she's still in bed," replied Zeb.

"Would you wake her, please? I need to talk to her."

"She doesn't like to be woke up when she's sleeping," said Zeb.

"It's important. Do as I say, Zeb. Don't ask any more questions."

This time Zeb closely examined Sheriff Dablo's face. He could see that something was wrong, deadly wrong.

"Okay, come in. I'll get her."

Zeb ran upstairs. His mother had closed the door to her bedroom. He tapped gently.

"Come in, Zeb," she whispered.

Zeb saw that she was trying to cover up the bruises on her face with makeup. It helped, but Sheriff Dablo was certain to notice the beating she had taken.

"Sheriff Dablo says its important. I told him you were sleeping. He insisted I wake you up."

"Tell him I'll be right down. I just need a couple more minutes."

She turned back to the mirror and thickened the makeup as Zeb bound down the stairs. Sheriff Dablo was standing in the entryway. He held his cowboy hat in his hands like he was standing outside a church. The look on his face had turned even more somber. Zeb stopped dead in his tracks. Something was terribly wrong. He could feel it in his bones.

"Can I get you something, Sheriff Dablo? A glass of water? Some iced tea?"

"No. Is your mother coming down?"

"She's getting dressed. She'll be right here. Is something the matter?"

"Yes," replied Sheriff Dablo.

"What?"

"I need to talk to your mother."

Zeb noticed it was the second time Sheriff Dablo had said he needed to talk to his mom. If it wasn't something bad, he would have said he wanted to talk to her.

"Is it about my dad?"

Mrs. Hanks walked slowly down the stairs. She was unsteady on her feet. The beating to her head had made her dizzy. When she reached the main floor, she offered Sheriff Dablo a seat in the living room.

"Tea?" she asked.

"Please have a seat, Mrs. Hanks."

"I'll stand, thank you," said Mrs. Hanks, steadying herself on the entryway desk.

"Please sit," insisted Jake.

Reading the sheriff's facial expression, she understood his words were more of a command than a request.

Zeb stood in the doorway, watching, listening, wondering what shoe was about to drop.

"What's this about, Sheriff?" asked Mrs. Hanks.

"I've got some bad news about your husband."

"Did he get arrested for drunk driving again?"

"No, it's nothing that simple."

Mrs. Hanks placed her hand in such fashion that it might cover some of her bruises. Her mind traveled to a dozen bad scenarios.

Sheriff Dablo took a deep breath. He detested delivering this kind of information. It was the worst part of an otherwise good job. This type of news had no good side to it.

"Your husband ran his car into a tree last night. Out by Red's Roadhouse."

"Is he hurt?"

"He's in the hospital. Doctor Yackley said his condition was serious."

"Is he going to live?"

"Doc Yackley says your husband has a chance to pull through."

Mrs. Hanks released a sigh of relief. Zeb's head was spinning.

"That's not the real problem, though."

"What'd he do this time?"

Mrs. Hanks voice was that of a realistic woman. A wife who knew her husband.

Sheriff Dablo had been through the drill with her before. There was no sense in beating around the bush.

"He pulled a heist at the Grab and Go. He brandished a weapon. After the robbery he sped off in his car. That's when he ran into the tree. I'm afraid Judge Dunleavy isn't going to be lenient this time."

Mrs. Hanks gasped. Her husband was a drunken no good cheat who beat his wife and children, but to pull a gun on a defenseless clerk at the Grab and Go? How, why would he do such a thing? She knew that most of the clerks were high school kids or single mothers trying to get their lives together.

"Did he kill anyone?"

Marta Hanks stood up as she asked the question. Her voice was calm, almost too calm. It scared Zeb to hear her speak so easily about what his father might have done. It was almost as though she was expecting to hear that he had committed murder. That thought could not, would not cross the threshold of Zeb's thinking.

Zeb stared at the floor. Nothing seemed real.

"He fired two shots. One hit the clerk in the shoulder. Fortunately, it was a superficial wound. She'll live."

Marta Hanks knees buckled. Jake assisted her as she collapsed into a chair.

Noah had crept downstairs and was standing behind Zeb as the sheriff gave their mom the news. Zeb witnessed the horrifying affect the news had on her. Noah spoke from the doorway.

"I wish he was dead. I hope he goes away for good this time."

Through tears, Marta firmly addressed her oldest son.

"Noah Hanks, we do not speak poorly of your father in this house, no matter what he has done."

Sheriff Dablo turned and saw the bruised and battered face of Noah Hanks.

Noah grabbed his motorcycle keys, stormed out of the house and took off down the road.

"Want me to go after him?" asked Sheriff Dablo.

"No. He's upset. He has a difficult relationship with his father. He'll drive around a while, then come back. He's done this many times before."

"I don't want him hurting himself," replied the sheriff. "Or endangering anyone else."

"My husband is at the hospital, you said?"

"Yes."

"What do I need to do?"

"Get Jonas an attorney. There's no avoiding the fact that he's going to go away this time. Probably for quite a while."

The gravity of the situation suddenly hit Marta with hurricane force. She slumped forward in her chair. All of her strength left her body. Jake and Zeb grabbed her to keep her from falling to the floor. Her sobs and moans came from deep inside. Eventually they became wailing howls of pain. Her marriage had long been a sham. It was only at this moment she accepted that fact. How was she going to raise two teenage boys by herself? Zeb and Jake helped her to a chair. Zeb sat next to his mother. He attempted to console her by rubbing his hand across her back. He felt lost. With just some stupid actions by his father, the world he knew it had turned to dust.

"Southern Arizona Legal Aid will provide an attorney for your husband, if you can't afford one" said Sheriff Dablo.

He handed her a card with the phone number for SALA. She thanked him. When she offered to let him out, he said he would find his own way. Jake had known the Hanks family his whole life. For years he had been certain things might end up this way for Jonas. As a friend of the family, as the Graham County Sheriff and as a man, he saw an outcome that was only going to get worse. But maybe, just maybe with Jonas in prison, the family could make a new start. His heart broke for Marta and the boys.

"I'll stop by in a couple of days to check on you, Zeb and Noah."

"Thanks, Jake. I appreciate your help."

"Make that call to legal aid, sooner rather than later."

Sheriff Dablo tipped the brim of his hat to Mrs. Hanks. As the sheriff walked toward the home's front door, his eyes fell upon Zeb's cowboy hat hanging on a rack. He stopped and ran his fingers across the brim. Sheriff Dablo had given him the hat on the day he last arrested his father. Zeb had already broken it in quite well. Jake hoped it would give Zeb courage to face a terribly uncertain future.

As Sheriff Dablo shut the door, the phone rang. It was Marta's sister, Helen Nazelrod. Since Jake's last election, Helen practically ran the sheriff's office. She knew everything that went on in the county. More importantly, she understood how the sheriff thought, what he wanted and when he needed it.

"Marta, I just got the news. I'll be right over."

"Thank you, Helen. Jake was just here."

"I know. I just talked with him on the two-way radio."

"Don't rush. I'm okay."

"No, you're not. I'm on my way. You shouldn't be alone at a time like this."

Marta broke down, sobbing.

"I, I just don't know what to do. I feel like I'm frozen in pain. I hate Jonas for doing this to, to everyone," said Marta.

"Marta don't let the devil ride on your anger. It will ruin you and the boys. I'll be right over. We can pray. We can drink tea. I can help you figure out what to do next. It's a hard time, but hard times always pass."

Five minutes later Helen let herself into the Hanks' house. Marta collapsed in her sister's arms. Zeb watched it all. He saw the hurt. He felt the betrayal. He was lost in the confusion of everything swirling around him. Yet, because of his age and inexperience, he understood little of the depths of emotions that were filling the room.

Two months later Jonas Hanks was sentenced to serve 7-10 years at the Marana Community Correctional Treatment Facility (MCCTF). Jonas had convinced the judge, a reformed alcoholic himself, that he could change his ways if he got the help he needed with the proper program for alcohol addiction. For that reason, he sentenced Jonas to MCCTF. At that facility he could get the treatment he needed. The minimum-security prison held 500 inmates. All of them demonstrated a need for the treatment of alcohol and substance abuse.

At the sentencing, Judge Dunleavy lectured Jonas on the need to stay the course. If he did, he might see his family in just under four years.

"You will miss some of the most precious time in your sons' lives. It is a shame you chose to live your life in a such a fashion that led to this point. But, if you reform yourself, you will be setting a good example for your boys. Good luck. Don't screw it up. I'm trusting that I made the right decision about your life and its future. Follow the twelve-step program. Don't even think about deviating from it."

Judge Dunleavy slammed his gavel. The noise echoed in Zeb's ears. Jonas was allowed one last hug for each of his family members that were present. Noah had refused to go to the sentencing. Zeb hugged his trembling dad. The embrace seemed hollow, as though he were hugging someone he didn't even know. Zeb suddenly realized his father was mostly a stranger. As Marta, with tears watering her eyes, put her arms around the man she married and had two children with, she realized he didn't smell like himself, nor did he feel like her husband. Intuitively, she knew their relationship was over and done. Zeb stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and watched stoically as the guards led his handcuffed father away. He decided he would visit whenever his mother did, if only to make the burden easier on her. As Jonas Hanks passed through the door, back to the jail, Zeb and his mother had the same thought. Life was not going to be the same. In fact, nothing was going to be left unchanged.

## 13

# 2 Months Later

Noah answered the ringing phone.

"Just a sec. I'll get her."

Marta called out.

"Who is it?"

"It's some guy from the MCCTF in Marana."

The mere mention of the name of the prison where Jonas was serving his time sent shivers up and down Marta's spine. The person on the other end of the line told Noah who he was. He quickly relayed the information.

"It's Warden Moyer. Says he needs to talk to you."

A strange, unsettled feeling enveloped Marta as she picked up the phone. The warden had never called before. What could he possibly want?

"I'll pick it up in the kitchen. You can hang up."

Noah listened, hanging up when his mother spoke.

"This is Marta Hanks."

"This is Warden Moyer, from the Marana Community Correctional Treatment Facility."

"Yes, Warden Moyer. How may I help you?"

"I'm sorry to be delivering this news to you..."

Marta's heart fluttered. Her knees weakened.

"Yes?"

"Your husband was injured in a prison fight last night."

"Is he...all right?" asked Marta.

"He's on his way by ambulance to the Banner Medical Center. I think you should get over there," said Warden Moyer.

"Is he all right?"

Marta knew in her heart her husband was not all right.

"He's going to need emergency surgery."

"Is he going to be all right?"

"I'm not a doctor and the nurse who attended to him didn't know how severe the injury actually was. In short, I don't have enough information to answer your question."

Marta buried her face in here hands. When she came up for air, she was livid with rage.

"What happened? At least you can tell me that."

Nearby, Zeb was all ears. The sound of his mother's voice told him she was upset. Her being in such a state created a bad feeling in his gut.

"I can tell you this much. He was involved in a fight that involved homemade weapons. In prison their called shivs. He was stabbed."

"Where? In the leg? In the chest?"

"In the belly."

"He's not dead. He's still alive, right?"

"Yes, as far as I know. He was alive when he was put into the ambulance. I'm waiting to hear from the hospital. I'll let you know what is going on as soon as I know."

"I'm leaving right now for Tucson."

"Do you know where the Banner Medical Center is?" asked Warden Moyer.

"Yes, of course."

"Surgery for prisoners is done on the east wing of the fourth floor. I'll be there when you get there."

Marta hung up without saying goodbye. Instantly she began to sweat and tremble. She recognized she was having a panic attack. It was not her first. It wouldn't be her last.

"Zeb, get your brother and get in the car. Do it now!"

Noah said nothing on the road to Tucson. Zeb did his best to calm his mother. But Marta Hanks was flush with the ill sentiments that accompany anxiety and panic. Warden Moyer was waiting for them outside the surgical arena. He walked directly to Marta and asked her to sit.

"What's the matter?" asked Marta.

"Please. Sit."

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"I'm sorry."

Marta exploded into tears. Her emotions ran the gamut from pain to relief before circling back to pain and settling there. The warden sat down next to her. He spoke calmly and from his heart.

"Jonas lost too much blood. He didn't survive the surgery. I'm terribly sorry."

The surgeon emerged from the surgical arena, still gloved up and in her scrubs. She walked up to Marta and explained that she had done her best to save Jonas. However, the wound had punctured multiple organs and severed the abdominal artery.

"He bled to death?" asked Marta.

Zeb and Noah began to cry.

"I am so sorry," said the doctor. "My team and I did all we could to save his life. The loss of blood was too great for him to sustain life."

"Thank you for trying," said Marta. "I appreciate that you did what you could."

The warden had disappeared, gone to find the chaplain. The pair returned just as the surgeon departed.

"I'm Reverend Eldon Luther. My sincerest apologies for your loss. Would you like to talk?"

Everything was happening so fast. Marta's head was spinning. She did not know what to think. She did not know what it was that she was feeling. She was lost in a lost world.

"Are these young men your sons?" asked Reverend Luther.

Marta nodded.

"Why don't you all come with me to the lounge. We can talk."

Noah responded by shouting at Reverend Luther through his tears.

"There's not a goddamned thing you can do to help us. He's dead. D-E-A-D. Dead."

"Noah, stop that right now."

Marta Hanks was teetering on the edge of an abyss. Noah's anger was not helping the situation.

"Shut up, Noah," whispered Zeb.

Noah slugged Zeb so hard it spun him in a circle. Zeb barely felt the pain of the punch. Reverend Luther grabbed Noah and held him, hugged him.

"I know, son. It's terrible what you are feeling."

"You have no idea what I'm feeling. I'm glad he's dead."

"Noah. Please stop," pleaded Mrs. Hanks.

"It's okay," said Reverend Luther. "He's upset."

Noah wrestled himself out of the reverend's grip.

"Please, this way," said Reverend Luther.

What was left of the Hanks' immediate family entered a private room. Marta broke an uncomfortable silence.

"What do I do now?" she asked.

"I'll help with the arrangements. Perhaps you'd like to talk first?"

"No," replied Marta. "I've been half-expecting something like this would happen."

Zeb and Noah were stunned by their mother's remark. She had said nothing of that sort to them.

"Then perhaps we should call your Pastor?"

"We're Mormon. Could you call Bishop Behunin in Safford and tell him what's happened? That would be a great help."

Zeb and Noah could not believe how calm their mother was acting. From memory Marta gave Bishop Behunin's number. The Reverend Luther and Bishop Behunin spoke for a matter of minutes in which all the necessary information was exchanged. Fifteen minutes later, all that needed to be done was to have the body sent to the Kayita and Townes funeral home in Safford. The rest of the arrangements would be made.

Three days later Noah and Zeb drove to the graveyard. Noah had a strange desire to watch Marcus Bren, the local gravedigger, dig the grave. He grabbed Zeb and told him to come along. Straddling their bikes, the boys stood outside the graveyard's perimeter fence.

"He does them all by hand," said Noah.

Zeb watched. His emotions bounced all over the place until Noah said what he really had to say.

"He's never gonna beat Momma or me ever again."

Jonas Hanks was buried in the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints area of the Safford public cemetery. Few, if any, tears were shed.

As the Hanks family departed the burial, Noah turned to Zeb and whispered.

"This is what justice looks like."

"I know," replied Zeb. "I know."

# Part II
## 14

# The Future Beckons

"Zeb, I understand you're leaving us," said Angus McGinty.

"Yes, sir. I wanted to come to your office and personally thank you for the opportunity to learn about the mining business and to save some money for a truck."

A summer of manual labor at the Danforth-Roerg copper mine and an unwanted sexual approach by Lily McGinty, Angus' wife, helped Zeb make up his mind about moving on.

"What are your plans, young man?"

"I'm heading off tomorrow for United States Border Patrol training. They call it Border Boot Camp."

"I'm aware," said Angus.

"Why did you choose that? If you stay here, I can move you up the ladder. You'll make significantly more money than you will by being simply a border patrol agent."

"Becoming a border patrol agent feels like a calling in some strange way," said Zeb.

"A calling? You want to help desperate people trying to illegally enter the United States of America? Or, do you want to enforce the law as it is written?"

"I did some work with the border patrol when I was in Explorer Scouts. I liked it, all parts of it. The opportunity came up and, well, I took it. Don't get me wrong. Working for Danforth-Roerg was a great stepping stone into the future. But what lies ahead for me in terms of a career seems like it should be law enforcement."

"Have you talked this over with Sheriff Dablo?"

"Actually, he was the one who suggested I apply for the job. He thought it would give me a foot up on a career. Being a CBP agent is a stepping stone into other areas of law."

"Good," replied Angus. "You sound like you've got your head screwed on right."

"Once again, I want to thank you for the opportunity for working in the mines, sir."

"We'll miss you around here, but a man has to do what a man has to do," replied Angus. "My wife seems to have taken a particular attraction to you. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"Yes, sir," replied Zeb.

Angus McGinty stuck out his hand. Zeb gave him a manly handshake. He breathed a sigh of relief. Angus must not have known about the sexually aggressive manner in which his wife approached Zeb.

"Your job is always open if you want to come back," said Angus.

"Thank you, sir, but I think my future lies somewhere other than Safford."

Angus McGinty stepped back and gave Zeb a quick study.

"You may well feel that way today. Youth has its own unique perspective. But I suspect one day Safford will be your town."

Zeb shook Angus' hand, turned heel, flipped on his cowboy hat and felt the relief of a man who had just been set free.

## 15

# Border Patrol

The training to become a United States Customs and Border Protection (CBP) agent was less difficult for Zeb than filling out the nine-page application form. At the first day of classes, he took a seat in the back row like he always had in high school. The instructor promptly moved all the men and women who took the back seats to the front of the room and those in the front were moved to the back.

"If people in my class hide in the back row, I need to keep an eye on them. If they scramble for the front seats, I am suspicious they are seeking favoritism."

Zeb sat at attention. He knew it was the best way to go unnoticed.

"The CBP is one of the largest law enforcement organizations in the world. We make thousands of apprehensions and seize tons of illegal drugs every day. We need men and women..."

Zeb glanced around the room. Of the thirty people in his class, three were women.

"...with the integrity it takes to serve on the frontline. How many military veterans do I have in this class? Raise your hands."

Over half the class raised their hands.

"Good. That tells me you already understand a sense of duty. The pay is good, time off is excellent and career opportunities are incredible. On top of that, health and life insurance are offered to you, and the retirement program is far better than the private sector. Don't tell the taxpayers about that one."

The class collectively chuckled.

"After preliminary training you can specialize in a K-9 Unit, Inspection, become a part of the Special Response Team, work on Horse Patrol, Bike Patrol, Off-road Vehicle Unit Patrol or become a member of the Anti-Terrorism Contraband Enforcement Team."

Zeb saw himself on the Contraband Enforcement Team, mostly because he had seen the devastation drugs had brought to Graham County and the surrounding counties. But the horseback unit seemed like a good possibility as well.

"You will complete a nineteen-week resident course with instruction in integrated law, physical training, firearms instruction, driving and, of course, Spanish language. Nine out of ten people you apprehend will speak only Spanish. You will be trained at the Border Patrol Agent Academy. You must obtain a minimum overall average of seventy percent in all your courses."

* * *

The instructor spoke without interruption for six hours. Everything he talked about seemed doable. Zeb was eager to start his training and get to work.

The nineteen weeks went by quickly. On graduation day, with his mother at his side, Zeb received his United States Border Patrol Agent certification. His first assignment was the eastern Arizona border. He knew the area well and was excited to become a member of a Contraband Enforcement Team.

His first few weeks as a U.S. Border Patrol Agent were routine. Then one night everything changed when the intensity ratcheted up several notches. Zeb was working with Agent Melendez. Melendez had five years of experience tucked under his belt and loved his work. Zeb noted three main details about his partner. He seemed fearless, but not foolishly so. Second, he appeared exceptionally wealthy for a man in his twenties. He had a brand-new truck, fancy boots, an expansive new house and spent money like water flowing from a spring time river. The third thing was that Melendez counted Senator Clinton Jefferson Russell among his friends. Zeb found that an odd coupling.

"We've got actionable intelligence that says a coyote is moving twenty-two people through our zone tonight. You ready for some action, Agent Hanks?" asked Agent Melendez.

Everything Zeb had learned in class about coyotes popped into his head. In the food chain of bad guys, they ranked near the top. They took money to bring illegals across the border and often held a family member, usually a child, as a hostage. They use the child to extort more money from the people who were paying them to help them illegally cross the border. Coyotes also sold children into prostitution. That bothered Zeb deeply. The coyotes frequently carried weapons. That was to be expected. But more often than not, when confronted by CBP agents, they would jump and run leaving the illegals to fend for themselves. If the coyotes were armed and fired on CBP agents, it usually meant they were muling drugs along with the people.

"Here. Put this on. I smell trouble."

Agent Melendez reached into the back seat and handed Zeb his body armor.

"Never forget that your body armor is bullet resistant. It sure as hell ain't bulletproof."

"We learned that in training," replied Zeb.

"Never been shot at, have you?"

"No, sir. I have not."

"I've been hit twice. Both times they were angular blows from handguns. Each time I ended up with broken ribs. The body armor won't help a lick if you get shot from within fifty yards or so with a high-powered rifle. If you see someone pointing a rifle at you, take cover. Don't be a dead hero."

Zeb slipped into his vest. Five minutes later, using night vision goggles, they spotted a string of over twenty people moving through the desert brush.

"See their backpacks?" asked Melendez.

"Yes," said Zeb, studying the group through military grade thermal imaging binoculars.

"Oversized," said Melendez.

"Drugs, right?" said Zeb, regurgitating his training.

"Yes, rookie. You got it. Now, have a second look and see if you spot any weapons, long guns in particular."

Zeb saw none.

"Should we call in backup?" asked Zeb.

Melendez tapped on his dashboard screen. Three red dots were positioned in such a way to surround the illegals.

"The cavalry has already arrived and is in position. Everything is routine."

In his excitement and nervousness, Zeb had forgotten to check the screen. He kicked himself for his rookie mistake.

"What do we do now?" asked Zeb.

"Archer is head of the detail tonight. He'll give us a go signal when we've got them trapped."

The adrenaline raced through Zeb's veins. He checked his weapon. Melendez noticed.

"Don't get trigger happy. Look again. Take your time. Look closely."

The illegals had moved closer into view, giving Zeb better eyes on the situation.

"Kids," said Zeb. "They've put kids in the front, back and middle of the pack."

"Right. Kill a kid and you'll be on the six o'clock news. Plus, your career will be over quicker than it began."

"Got it."

"One more thing," said Melendez. "And remember this as if your life depended on it. Because it does."

"Yeah?"

"Never, and I mean never, cross swords with Archer."

Zeb broke into a sweat for a couple of good reasons. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt a child, much less kill one. His training had downplayed the possibility of that happening. As to Archer, the man in charge of the operation, he knew very little. But he did know that Archer had served in some secret branch of military Special Forces and was feared by everyone who had contact with him. Zeb had seen Archer around during his training. He seemed like the proverbial little guy who liked to act tough.

"You nervous yet, Cowboy?" asked Melendez, grinning.

Zeb had earned the nickname, Cowboy, because he had come to training every day wearing his cowboy hat

"Some."

"Good. I hate to think you were so stupid that you weren't at least a little bit nervous," replied Melendez.

The dots surrounding the illegals turned from red to green. This was the classic go signal for the border patrol agents.

"Ready to rock and roll?"

"Yup," replied Zeb. "As ready as I know how to be."

"Just like sex, the first time is always the hardest. Follow my lead and you'll be good."

"Thanks."

"Thank me later with a cerveza," replied Melendez.

Fifteen minutes later twenty illegals were sitting in the desert sand with hands bound behind their backs. Two others had fled. Archer and his partner were in hot pursuit of the runners. Shortly thereafter, what sounded like a brief gun battle ensued. Ten minutes later Archer and his partner pulled up with the two men. One man was dead. The other was bleeding.

"Medic," shouted Archer half-heartedly.

The team medic ran to Archer. Zeb was standing nearby and overheard their conversation. Even though the medic was in direct line of the injured man, he awaited orders from Archer before acting. Archer pointed to the men he and his partner had brought in.

"That one's dead. That one can use your help. Take your time easing his pain. I'd like you to get some intel from him before he's out of discomfort."

The medic went to work. Within minutes the injured man was handing over information as fast as it could be translated.

"Somebody call in a van to haul these assholes out of here?" asked Archer.

"Yes, sir," replied Melendez.

"Melendez, who's your partner, the new guy?"

"Agent Zebulon P. Hanks."

"Hanks, help Melendez keep everyone in order. You've got thirty minutes to get these people out of here. Everyone else, get back to your nightly details. We've got nothing else that's hot right now. Stay alert. These guys weren't carrying enough drugs or money for this to be from the Sandoval Cartel. I know how El Chapo operates. This is just some small crew trying to make the most of the recent Mexican cartel infighting."

Archer, his partner and the other two vehicles disappeared over a hill and into the desert night.

"How does Archer know these guys aren't Sandoval cartel?" asked Zeb.

Melendez chuckled.

"He knows. That's all that matters."

An hour later, after the twenty captured illegals had been handed off, Melendez and Zeb continued their duty.

"Is it like this on busy nights?" asked Zeb.

"Do you mean do we often arrest decent sized groups of people?"

"Yeah. How often is there this kind of action?" asked Zeb.

"There is always something going down. There is also always too much waiting around. Rarely are any shots fired...unless Archer is around. He likes to heat up the action. It's his nature."

"Is that good or bad?" asked Zeb.

Melendez shrugged his shoulders.

"Depends on your point of view."

Zeb pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and made some notes.

"Afraid you'll forget something?" asked Melendez.

"Just making a few notes on how things work," replied Zeb.

Melendez just shook his head and muttered, "Rookie."

"I'm trying to learn," said Zeb. "I want to understand the process as completely as I possibly can."

"Then you'll want to write this down. Tomorrow night we've got a ride along."

"Who?" asked Zeb.

The Cheshire cat could not have grinned as satisfyingly.

"You'll see."

## 16

# Senator Russell

### The Next Night

"Ready for our ride along?" asked Agent Melendez.

"You going to let me know who it is?" asked Zeb. "I'm guessing it's a political do-gooder looking to make sure we do our jobs the right way."

"No. This time it's different. But you are right about the political part."

"Who is it?" asked Zeb.

"Senator Clinton Jefferson Russell," replied Melendez.

"What's going on?" asked Zeb.

"Don't know, but I hear it's a good thing."

A black SUV pulled up outside the CBP station. A man who appeared to be in his mid-forties stepped out. He was dressed in ill-fitting military fatigues that looked perfectly wrong on him. Along with his driver, there were a pair of bodyguards. Zeb immediately recognized the senator. Agents Melendez and Hanks departed their vehicle to greet him.

"Sir, good to have you on board," said Melendez.

"Good to see you again, Julio. How's the wife and family?" asked Senator Russell.

"All is well on the home front. The wife says hello."

"My wife enjoyed entertaining your family at our estate last summer. Perhaps we should all get together again soon?"

"Yes, sir. That would be great."

Senator Russell turned to Zeb.

"Are you going to introduce me to your new partner?" asked Senator Russell, nodding at Zeb.

"This is Agent Zebulon Hanks."

Zeb extended a hand to the senator. The senator's hands were soft and pudgy. He knew Senator Russell had grown up in the Safford area and kept a ranch there. Zeb had no prior contact with him.

"Zeb Hanks, Safford baseball pitcher who almost led the Tigers into the state tournament last year, right?"

"Yes, sir," replied Zeb.

"I follow the Tigers, believe it or not. I read about that bunt you laid down in the district championship game. Well done. I like a man who works outside the box. I really like a man who's a team player."

"Thank you, sir."

"Tonight, you men can call me Clint, like Clint Eastwood."

The agents smiled. Senator Russell was barely over five and a half feet tall, balding, chubby and had thick, clumsy fingers. He was hardly a Clint Eastwood prototype.

"Let's get to work. I want to see what you boys do for a living and how the taxpayers' money is being spent."

The night was easy. A few pickups of illegals. A lone wolf carrying five kilos of heroin. An abandoned vehicle with traces of cocaine in the trunk. Nothing out of the ordinary. By two a.m. Senator Russell was tired and wanted to call it a night. He called his car to meet them. Before he departed he spoke to Agents Melendez and Hanks.

"Agent Melendez."

"Yes, sir, I mean, yes, Clint."

Senator Russell handed Melendez a card.

"You interested in working for the FBI?"

"Yes. That is my career goal."

"Call the man whose name is on that card. My initials are on the back. Tell him I told you to contact him. Set up an appointment. Don't wait. Do it tomorrow. Give him the card when you meet him. You should be in like Flynn. Good luck."

"Thank you, Senator Russell."

"My pleasure, Agent Melendez. You've come highly recommended."

"Agent Hanks."

"Yes, Clint."

Zeb felt odd addressing such an important man so casually. It didn't fit in with the manners his mother, Sheriff Dablo and Medicine Man Jimmy Song Bird had taught him.

"I read your dossier."

"Sir?"

"It seems a fast track in the Tucson Police Department is more suited to your skills. Would you agree?"

"I have been thinking about moving into police work."

"I chatted with Sheriff Dablo. He thought you might be interested in serving a local community," said Senator Russell.

"I am."

Senator Russell handed Zeb a card.

"Call this person. She handles HR for the police department in Tucson. If you want the job, it's yours."

Senator Russell stepped out of the CBP vehicle and into his SUV. Agents Julio Melendez and Zeb Hanks looked at each other, wondering what had just happened.

"Didn't he mean in like Flint?" asked Zeb.

"Senator Russell is old school. He meant in like Flynn, as in the great actor, Errol Flynn. That's where the saying originated."

Zeb was stunned by his partner's apparent knowledge of such an obscure point.

"You going to move to Tucson, rookie?" asked Melendez.

"I think so," replied Zeb. "For sure I'm going to check it out."

"You going to take that FBI job?" asked Zeb.

"Hell, yes. When I hear opportunity knocking, I open up the door."

## 17

# Tucson Police Department

### 6 Weeks Later

"Zeb Hanks, welcome to the Tucson Police Department."

Zeb took a seat in front of Sargeant Maximilian Muñoz's desk.

"How well do you know Tucson?"

"I know my way around. I don't know the city like the back of my hand or anything like that."

"I see you're from Safford."

"Yes, sir."

"Easy on the sir stuff. In front of senior officers, yes, but when we're one on one, it's not necessary. Call me Max."

"Thanks, Max. I never know what to expect from big city folks."

Max chuckled.

"Me neither."

Zeb's puzzled look made Max laugh even louder.

"Big city? You ever heard of Double Adobe."

"Er, no. Maybe. No, it doesn't ring a bell. Should I have heard of it?"

"It's in Arizona. As the crow flies, it's seventy-five miles from Safford. Two hundred long miles if you take the paved roads."

Zeb scrunched his eyebrows.

"It's my hometown," explained Max. "Blink and you'll miss it. It's so small we use the same sign for when you're entering and when you're leaving town. So, let's not have any of that big city boy stuff with me."

Zeb felt immediately at ease. He was among his own.

"Looks like I'm going to be your boss, at least for a while."

"Good," replied Zeb.

"I also want to be up front with you. I'm on a fast track to detective. A guy from Gleeson, another whistle stop town that's even smaller than Double Adobe, helped me out. If you like the work and find yourself interested, I'll do the same for you. You know how it goes, if you get a break, you should give someone a break. Right?"

Zeb nodded. He knew Gleeson and he agreed with Max's point of view.

"I can't argue with that philosophy."

"I've been looking for someone I could trust. It might take a while for me to get a good word in for you and get you in the fast track program. I've got to see how you operate first."

"Fair enough. Can I ask, why me?" inquired Zeb.

"Your record with the CBP, although it's not a lengthy one, and your recommendations are top of the line. But that's not your ticket, at least not in my book."

"Then what is?"

"Baseball."

"Baseball?"

"I followed the Safford Tigers and actually went to the district championship game you played against the Bisbee Bees a few years back. Any slugger who is willing to lay down a bunt when it really counts is a team man. I need team men, not cowboys."

Zeb chuckled.

"Yes?" asked Max.

"I take it that it isn't in my report that my nickname at the CBP was Cowboy?"

Zeb tipped up his ever-present cowboy hat. This time it was Max's turn to laugh.

"Okay, Cowboy. And, by the way, your nickname is in your file."

"I'll do my best to be a team player," said Zeb.

"Good. Your first assignment is a part of Tucson known as Little Village aka Pequeña Villa."

"My Español, even with the CBP training, is not so hot, so let's call it Little Village."

"Let's make it even easier by calling it what most people call it–The Village."

"I can do that. Give me the skinny on The Village."

"It's an area that used to be run by the Chinese mafia back in the day when the railroad was first built here. The Chinese ran it for almost a century. The Chinese moved to a middle-class part of town and the Mexican gangs took it over. Now it's an Indian/Mexican/Chinese drug ghetto. It's the roughest part of Tucson. I remembered your baseball team was made up of Mexican and Indian kids. With that in mind, you seemed like a reasonable fit for The Village. I also read in your dossier a recommendation from a medicine man on the San Carlos reservation, Jimmy Song Bird, I believe. Graham County Sheriff Jake Dablo's high praise didn't hurt you any either."

"Yes, they both mentored me before and after my father was killed in prison."

"I read about your father in your file as well. Rough deal."

"He died like he lived. Some things are inevitable."

Maximilian and Zeb sat quietly in the type of stony silence that forms the foundation of a friendship. Sargeant Muñoz eventually broke the silence.

"I am assigning you to work with Officer Lipana Torones. He knows the beat. He's been working it for a year, almost two really. Plus, he grew up in the area. He's a former gang banger. He's tougher than nails and stands about six-foot ten. He's got a scar across his mug that makes him look dangerous. He's really kind of a pussycat, and definitely one of the nicest people I've ever met."

"Sounds like a good man to work with," said Zeb.

"He's got plenty of informants, including a confidential informant who's knows the inner workings of the Sandoval cartel."

"Good. That should be helpful."

"Helpful but damn dangerous."

Zeb nodded. He had not worked that much with CIs, but he had heard they were generally the kind of people who had nothing to lose. That, and they knew how to play the system to their advantage.

"Lipana stays inside the law but operates near its edges. Learn from him. The more you learn from him the faster I can move you up the hierarchy."

"Got it."

"One final thing."

"Yes?"

"Lipana works a little too close with the FBI for my liking. I don't know how you feel about interagency cooperation, but if the FBI has a chance to grab the glory and let you do the work, they will. Never forget that. I don't know how or what Lipana's deal is with the FBI, but it's the real deal. He knows someone in the Bureau who feeds him information."

"Any idea who it is? I mean, in case I hear a name mentioned."

"I have heard inklings that he has a working relationship with an agent by the name of Rodriguez. I don't know what Lipana is giving back in return. I have a gut feeling that Rodriguez is not to be trusted. That being said, I suspect it will take a while for you to get to know how he operates. Lipana's prior partners never could figure out how he managed to play all sides of the scene and always come out so squeaky clean."

Zeb tapped his forehead.

"Got it. Notched into my memory."

* * *

A few hours later Zeb and Lipana 'Too Tall' Torones were patrolling the area known as The Village, or, as Lipana called it, Pequeña Villa. Safford had a poor area known as Little Mexico, but it was nothing like this. Little Mexico, in Zeb's hometown, was the home of hard-working laborers who happened to be low income. Crime in Little Mexico was no different than crime in the entirety of Graham County. The situation in the Village looked much more dire.

"I've been working with one of my informants," said Lipana. "He's ballsy."

"What do you mean?"

"No one talks openly and freely about the new cartel. But, for some reason, he's giving me first hand info on how this new cartel is operating."

"Yeah? Any idea why he's being so open with you."

"They're using kids. He doesn't like that," said Lipana.

"How are they using them?" asked Zeb.

"As everything from lookouts and dealers to runners and even drug mules."

"Smart," replied Zeb. "Kids can be playing and act as lookouts. How would you ever know what they were up to? I suppose they use kids as dealers because you can't prosecute a thirteen or fourteen-year-old on a drug felony without him being back on the street by eighteen at the latest."

"Like I said, the new cartel gangsters are smart. They run their operations like businesses. They know how to use the law to their advantage. The Capos..."

"Capos?"

"The gang lord. The man who runs the whole shebang."

"Gotcha."

"Think of them like a corporate CEO. One huge difference is that they don't mind using children, guns and killing people. The grapevine says that they are teaching kids as young as nine years old how to use automatic weapons. The world is changing fast."

"Question," said Zeb.

"Shoot," replied Lipana.

"How are they using kids as drug mules? I worked with the CBP for the better part of two years and that was never part of their modus operandi."

"Stuffed animals," replied Lipana.

"How's that work?" asked Zeb.

"You must've busted a group that had kids in it?"

"Yeah. Frequently."

"When you busted a family group, were the parents carrying backpacks full of cocaine or heroin?"

"Yup. Far too common of an occurrence. It put the kids in serious danger. None of us liked that. The idea of hurting an innocent child, well, you know, it's a nightmare scenario," said Zeb.

"How often did you take a teddy bear from a scared, crying kid?"

"We were ordered not to."

"Who gave the order?"

"Captain Archer gave it to my partner, Melendez. I followed suit."

"Archer is dirty, really dirty. Melendez is suspected of making a lot of cash working the dark side too."

"I knew Archer was corrupt. How could I have missed Melendez?" asked Zeb.

"My informant knows everyone at the border. He knows who's dirty. He knows who's clean. He knows you're clean."

"You had me checked out?"

Too Tall Lipana raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"How does your guy have so much inside dope?"

"Years of working a ton of connections. Plus, he's an insider who's never been suspected of anything that would piss off the cartel."

"How can he know that I'm not dirty?"

"You'd have been talked about. Every cartel guy knows what government agents are working with them."

"How dirty is Archer?"

"In my world view, he's filthy. Archer is protected from both sides of the border. He's working with El Coyote south of the border..."

"El Coyote? I thought El Coyote was a Mexican cartel myth."

"He's as real as you or me. He's been at it a long time, and his cartel is just now becoming one of the really heavy hitters. You could say he recently got promoted from single A ball to the big leagues."

Zeb smiled at the baseball reference. Lipana continued his explanation.

"El Coyote uses lots of ex-military people from both the U.S. and Mexico. Half his guys have seen action in Afghanistan or Iraq. They're tough. They don't crack under pressure, and they understand teamwork."

"Who's protecting El Coyote north of the border?"

"Word on the street is that somebody, an elected official in Washington, is his godfather."

"Who?"

"No one seems to know. It could be only a rumor. It could be true. My informant doesn't know...yet. He's spending a lot of his goodwill digging into it."

"Your CI really is ballsy."

"He did a couple of tours in the sandbox."

"Army?"

"Black-ops. He's both smart and tough. He also did some time in Afghanistan as an independent contractor."

"After all that, how did he end up back in the gang business?"

"He told me when he got home his head was all fucked up. He needed money for a bunch of things, including what might be considered a well-earned heroin habit. I'm sure you know Afghanistan is where most of the world's heroin originates. That's how he got involved. He was assigned to a Cobra team that provided overwatch protection for the Afghan National Police who help protect the poppy fields. He was a little too close to the product, and it didn't cost him anything. Who knows how a heroin habit begins, but an active war zone is a pretty common starting spot."

"When you combine war and drugs, you've got really dirty business," said Zeb.

"You got that right. When he got back to the real world, one of his former black-ops team members recruited him for the cartel. Working for El Coyote was the quickest way to get what he needed, the heroin, and what he wanted, to be part of a team again."

"Shit happens."

"Yes, it does."

"I've heard El Coyote's people don't take prisoners. Is that a rumor or is it the truth?" asked Zeb.

"If you're part of the cartel or a Mexican national and you fuck up, you are dead meat. If you're an American, you have a small chance of being negotiated out of a bad scene, under certain circumstances. El Coyote had my CI's best buddy, the guy who recruited him into the cartel, executed six months ago. My CI is off the skag now. His head is clear, and he wants to take El Coyote down for killing his buddy. He doesn't give a shit about much of anything other than seeing El Coyote six feet underground. He's got a bad case of needing to get payback for his buddy. We call it the payback blues."

"Are you going to have me meet your CI?"

"Not now. I don't know you well enough...yet. He doesn't know you at all. It's tricky. Learn the system as fast as you can. It won't take you long to learn why I can't introduce the two of you just yet."

"Fair enough," replied Zeb. "And I will learn the system as fast as I can."

"Let's get some work done," said Lipana.

"There's no time like the present," replied Zeb.

"Got that right, Cowboy."

## 18

# Bad Deal Gone Down

### 30 Months Later

"Time flies when you're having fun. Doesn't it, fast tracker?" asked Lipana.

Zeb let Lipana's remark about being a fast tracker slide. In the two plus years since he had been on the fast track not much forward progress toward becoming a detective had been made. In fact, his buddy Max Muñoz had only a few months earlier gotten into the program.

"It's been a hell of a ride. I've learned a ton," replied Zeb. "I owe you."

Zeb was behind the wheel of the unmarked car as it made the turn into the outer perimeter of the Village.

"I must be a good teacher because you've lasted longer than any of my other partners, even your buddy Max Muñoz."

"You worked with Muñoz? I've been working with you and been friends with him for over two years and neither of you have ever mentioned that you worked together. What's that all about?"

"Didn't want it getting in the way," said Lipana.

"Have you kept in touch with Muñoz the whole time we've been working together?" asked Zeb.

Lipana held his thumb and first finger about two inches apart.

"That's how big his file is on you, at least from what I've fed him."

"You did a good job hiding it."

"He wanted to make sure if he helped fast track you to detective that you'd earned it," said Lipana.

"Have I?" asked Zeb.

"In my opinion you have," replied Lipana. "But my opinion and a few greenbacks will get you an iced coffee at Starbucks."

"How come you haven't worked yourself up the ladder?" asked Zeb.

"These are my people."

Lipana held his hands palm up and gestured to the surrounding area.

"Pequeña Villa is my place. I can do a lot of good here. Detective work, having only a few cases at a time, is just not my cup of tea."

They drove into the dark heart of the Village. Something big, something strange was in the air. After a year in the confines of Tucson's crime district, Zeb had a hardened but insightful feel for the place.

"Want to meet my CI?" asked Lipana. "I think it's time."

"I do want to meet him. And it is about time," replied Zeb.

"We're going to bust a medium sized dealer who goes by the name of Germano. He's picking up thirty pounds of heroin at a warehouse on Fifty-sixth and Wabasha. You can take credit for things on our end. It'll push you up the fast track faster," laughed Lipana.

"Is it one of El Coyote's men we're taking down?" asked Zeb.

"Fuck yes," replied Lipana. "Down and dirty. El Coyote's man is more than just another guy. It's El Coyote's brother. He won't be traveling light. If we nab him, it'll put us one step closer to El Coyote himself."

"I assume that even though it's an eleventh-hour operation, that we've got plenty of back-up?" asked Zeb.

"Yes, of course. Muñoz is running point on the operation."

Even though Muñoz had been working on it for months, the actual take down was a last-minute situation. Things were moving fast. Lipana had only found out about the deal an hour before their shift started. Even to Muñoz the timing of it all had come as a surprise. Muñoz and his team, working with information the CI had given them, wanted the dealer for many things, including multiple murders. The CI knew El Coyote would become irrational and probably do something stupid if his brother got nailed. Everyone on the team was hoping that would cause El Coyote to make himself vulnerable.

"Muñoz kept us out of the loop. In fact, he kept just about everyone on the outside because he truly believes the unknown insider from D.C. has their fingerprints all over this one. If Max had created any trail, paper or otherwise, this is the kind of thing that could go sideways in a flash."

"It makes for a dangerous situation for everyone involved," said Zeb.

"You got that right. If the big-time player in D.C. got wind of things, I guess he could make Muñoz vanish in a heartbeat. Got it?" said Lipana. "The only animal more dangerous than a cartel lord is a powerful politico."

"How much backup are we getting?"

"Eight officers. Four officers and four detectives. Plus, my CI will be there."

"How will I ID your CI?" asked Zeb.

Lipana smiled.

"He'll be wearing a Safford Tigers baseball shirt and hat."

Zeb smiled at the irony.

"Remember," added Lipana. "Never shoot a guy from the home team."

Zeb had been in on more than a dozen good-sized heroin, methamphetamine and cocaine busts. With Lipana he had made seizures big enough to make the six o'clock news on numerous occasions. Together they had made over a hundred smaller busts. Both knew how the other man worked, how they thought and how they would react in any given situation. This arrest and confiscation of thirty pounds of heroin was meant to put enough of a hurt on El Coyote's cartel to dim his rising star status. At Lipana's suggestion, Zeb parked the unmarked patrol car in an alley behind a run-down, vacant house.

"We'll walk from here," said Lipana. "Better lock the car. It's a bad part of the neighborhood."

They both snickered at Lipana's witticism.

"What's the inside of the building look like?"

"It's one big room with a number of structural support beams. For all intents and purposes, there is no good place to hide in there except in a dark corner or behind one of the beams. We're entering from the south. The truck that's carrying the heroin will come in through a garage door on the west side of the building. The other teams will be entering from every possible direction on Muñoz's signal. He's got eyes on the inside."

"Your guy?"

"Nope. His guy."

As they neared the building, both Zeb and Lipana drew their weapons. The night was replete with much more than just the routine noise that accompanies a city. In the distance a dog barked mutedly but incessantly. An ambulance siren wailed nearby. A train hauling manufactured goods up from Mexico clacked across the tracks of the old Southern Railway bed. Violins, trumpets and guitars played familiar strains of Mariachi music. Hanging heavily in the air was the smell of burning incense. The irony of it being Día de Muertos, the celebration of those who had passed onto the next world, was not lost on either Zeb or Lipana. They had already gone by a half-dozen altars made by children to invite the angelitos, the spirits of dead children, to come back for a visit. Today was All-Saints day, the time when the spirits of dead adults came to visit. Tomorrow would bring All Souls Day, a Holy Day when families visited the cemeteries where their loved ones lay for all eternity. The traditional flowers of the dead, marigolds, would be placed on the graves. Oddly, the festival of the dead brought more life to the Village than just about any other celebration.

Lipana glanced at his watch. He tapped the face-plate. It was 10:44. Lipana's CI had told him the exchange, heroin for cash, was scheduled for 10:45. It was rumored that El Coyote had once been an accountant and was almost obsessively compulsive about transactions being done on time and in a professional manner.

At 10:45 the creaking strains of an industrial garage door opening filled the air. Zeb and Lipana caught each other's eye. A penetratingly intense glance was exchanged in a fraction of a second.

"When the garage door is all the way closed, we should get a go signal from Muñoz," said Lipana.

Inside the old manufacturing building the noisy sound from the compressed air of a diesel truck engine shutting down could be heard. A truck door slamming resounded throughout the building. A second door banged shut. The muted voices of men speaking in Spanish echoed in the large room behind the door where Lipana and Zeb waited anxiously. Zeb's heart began to race. A firework with a three-pronged display exploded overhead. That was the go signal from Max Muñoz. Lipana pointed to the door with his head. Zeb flung it open. Four other teams of Tucson police and police detectives simultaneously dashed into the building. Max Muñoz's voice came bulleting through a bullhorn, first in Spanish then in English.

"Todos de congelan. Everyone freeze."

The building, poorly lit to begin with, changed from shadowy darkness to pitch black. The gang had obviously prepared for this exact contingency as one of the gang members flipped the power switch to off. Bullets from automatic weapons rapidly pinged the ceiling, structural beams and walls. The contained noise was painful to everyone's ears. Zeb and Lipana stayed low, hugging the floor as they moved into a more advantageous position. The men used the support beams as best they could for cover. Bullets snapped by, striking nearby metal poles and spitting up dirt and chips of wood as they landed. Blue and orange sparks heated the tips of the firing gun barrels. Bullets pinging off steel and iron created tiny bursts of rapidly scattering light. Amidst the chaos both the police and the criminals remained amazingly calm.

"Todos de congelan. Todos de congelan. Baje las armas. Baje las armas."

The order to 'lay down your weapons' went unheeded. The sound of a diesel engine firing up filled the room. The garage door began to open slowly. Surreally, the bad guys seemed to be in no hurry whatsoever. Seeing the door opening, the Tucson policemen began firing at the truck. The driver floored the accelerator. The truck bounced off the edge of the garage door as it made a getaway into the dark of night.

"Fucking cocksuckers," said Lipana.

"What?" asked Zeb.

"They bullet-proofed the windows, doors and tires of the truck. These guys are pros."

But even as the truck vanished into the outside world, the fight inside the building was far from over. The cartel had left four men behind. They had one purpose in mind, to kill as many policemen as possible. They seemed to have no fear of death. This made them incredibly dangerous.

After a moment of quiet, the cartel assassins slipped out from their various hiding places. Bullets sprayed every corner of the building from high-powered automatic weapons. Instinctively, Zeb, who had stood behind a beam to gain a point of advantage, dove to the ground. Lipana, who should have done the same, stood his ground and fired in the direction that was most lit up from the incoming weapons. One of the automatic weapons ceased.

"Got that son of a bitch," said Lipana.

Zeb gave his partner the thumbs up, but in the next instant Zeb felt the crushing weight of Lipana's body collapsing into his back. With the pressure of Lipana's body against him, Zeb struggled for his breath. Zeb could see that Lipana had taken a round to the neck. With each dying breath, with each pump of his heart, an artery squirted blood on Zeb's face. The acrid, metallic taste and smell of a dying man's blood imprinted an unforgettable impression deep into his subconscience.

Zeb wriggled out from beneath Lipana and jumped into action. He pressed his hand down firmly on the gaping neck wound. It did little good. He hit his two-way radio and yelled for a medic, a medic he knew would arrive too late to save his partner. Helplessness and rage shook Zeb to his very core.

When the scene cleared, two of the cartel gunmen were dead. The other two had somehow escaped, leaving their weapons in the alley. By now they blended easily into the neighborhood. One policeman had a leg injury. Lipana was gone for good.

A week later, after the hub-bub of the funeral had quelled, Zeb felt lost. His mind repeatedly asked itself a single question. Was this job worth it? Losing a partner felt far worse than how he imagined his own death would feel. In a twist of fate, the call came through that he would be bumped further up the queue toward becoming a Tucson detective. Max Muñoz advised him to take a week off.

"Take some time to think about things. Use the time to get away from it all. Straighten your head out. Go back to Safford. Get rooted. Try and remember why it is you do what you do."

Zeb hung his head. He was at the lowest point of his life. This was worse than watching the look on his mother's face when she got the news his dad was dead. Zeb's response was polite, but distant.

"Thanks, Max. That sounds like good advice."

It was more than simply good advice. It was sage counsel. Zeb's feelings were mixed, confused and literally bouncing all over the map. He called Sheriff Jake Dablo and explained what had happened. Jake listened intently. He paused for nearly a minute before responding to the young man whom he considered a son.

"Come and see me. You and I will pow-wow with Song Bird. We'll talk. Sometimes life ain't easy. Sometimes life sucks. You probably feel that it's harder to be left alive than to die."

Tears flowed from Zeb's eyes as he listened to the man he trusted most in the world. Jake understood precisely what Zeb was going through.

"Okay. I'll be there tomorrow."

"Good."

"Er, Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"I know you'd do the same for me."

Zeb sat down on a nearby curb and pulled his hat over his eyes. For the first time in his life he understood that he needed help to bring him peace of mind.

## 19

# Zeb, Jake And Song Bird

### Ladybug Saddle

Zeb agreed to meet Jake at Earl's Tap Room near the base of Mount Graham. He asked Jake not to tell Aunt Helen he was coming home. She would spread the word too quickly and, of course, to his mother. At ten minutes before noon Jake looked at his watch. Zeb would be waiting for him at Earl's. He glanced out his window toward the parking lot that stood between his office and Mount Graham. He took a deep breath. He knew that Zeb's future could hinge on his advice. Jake grabbed his hat and walked past Helen's desk.

"I'm headed out to the Rez. I've got a meeting with Song Bird."

"Anything I need to know about?" asked Helen.

Helen's probing question was her version of being a part of the long arm of the law as well as one of the town's leading gossips.

"Mostly just a friendly visit."

Jake was little more than an open book to Helen's eyes.

"Don't lie to me, Jake Dablo. The Lord above says to tell an untruth is a transgression against His law."

"It's wrong to lie, no doubt about it," said Jake. "But I do have some important things to discuss with Song Bird."

"Is one of them my nephew?"

"What makes you ask that?"

Jake knew Helen had all the details of the shooting in Tucson. She knew that since the shooting Zeb had not called his mother. She also knew it was common practice to give an officer some time off after being involved in a circumstance in which his partner was killed.

Helen got up from her seat and walked to a west facing window. She pointed toward Mount Graham.

"It's taking everything I've got to not call Zeb. I need to talk to him. More than that I need to give him a hug. I know he needs one. But I suppose he's got a reason he's keeping distant," said Helen.

"I've walked in his shoes. He's got some things to take care of before he sees his mother. He's got to get his head on straight before he talks to her. He doesn't want to create any undue burden for her. Please respect that and let him see her on his own time."

"Is that an order?" asked Helen.

"No, it's not," replied Jake. "It's the decent thing to do. And if anyone in this office knows about doing the right thing, Helen, it is you."

Helen smiled blankly at Jake. His words danced somewhere between truth and lies. Jake could see through Helen almost as well as she could read him. He crossed his fingers, hoping that Helen would not call Marta.

Outside, Jake stepped into his vehicle and headed toward Earl's Tap. Seven minutes later he walked through the front door of the dive bar. Except for Earl, the bartender, and Zeb, the place was empty. Zeb was sitting on a stool hunched over the ancient oaken bar. A bottle of beer and a shot glass with a fifth of cheap whiskey were Zeb's true companions. He didn't even turn as Jake took a seat next to him.

"You look like shit."

"Good thing you can't see what's in my heart," mumbled Zeb.

"What am I missing?" asked Jake.

"Hatred. Straightforward disgust toward most of mankind."

Jake understood. He also knew Zeb needed to be healed in a way that Song Bird might be able to provide.

"How long are you going to feel sorry for yourself?"

Jake's words felt like a head on attack. Zeb reeled at the tone of his mentor's words.

"This ain't no pity party. This is real," said Zeb.

"You're right. It's real. It's a _real_ fucking pity party."

Zeb cursed Jake under his breath. Earl slid an empty glass and a bottle of beer in front of Jake. Jake poured himself three fingers of the rot gut whiskey. Jake tipped his head back and slid the whiskey down his gullet before grabbing the beer to chase it down. Twice more he did exactly the same thing. Zeb kept up with him. For a minute or two they let the liquor settle in. It was not yet time for words.

Jake waited another minute before reaching into his pocket. He placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and thanked Earl. Earl tipped his head without expression or saying a word. Jake lightly but firmly placed his hand on Zeb's shoulder.

"Let's go. We've got a meeting with Song Bird."

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not."

"We're meeting him up on Mount Graham by Ladybug Saddle."

Outside Earl's Tap Room, Jake's truck was parked in the shade of a Shamel ash tree. Zeb got in the truck and stared out the window. Tears welled in his eyes but not from the booze. The whiskey and beer had absolutely no effect on him. Zeb had no intentions of attempting to sort out the jumble of emotions that were racking his brain. At this particular moment everything in his head was far too complicated to ponder.

The lawmen drove up the mountain in silence. Zeb had a single image in his mind. He could see nothing but the blood of his dead partner, Lipana. Zeb could see his partner's life leaving his body with each beat of his dying heart. Zeb shivered involuntarily.

On the road up Mount Graham, Jake pulled into Ladybug Saddle. Song Bird had arrived before them and built a small fire. Simply seeing Song Bird, Zeb was able to temporarily shift his focus.

"Hon dah."

As Song Bird spoke the traditional Apache greeting, he clasped Zeb by the forearm. Zeb returned the grip and the greeting. The men stared deeply into each other's eyes. The grief, along with the overwhelming desire to let his pain fly to the four winds, at once struck Zeb with immobility. Song Bird, observing with an ever-keen eye, spun Zeb around and slapped the younger man with a sharp but glancing blow between the shoulder blades. With the impact of the medicines man's hand, Zeb's consciousness shifted. The force of the blow was followed by gentle words.

"Please, come. Sit," said Song Bird, pointing to the fire.

With the overhead sun bearing down on them streaming the slopes of Mount Graham, Zeb, Song Bird and Jake stared past the flames downward into the remote wilderness of the Klondyke-Aravaipa Valley.

"What do you see?" asked Song Bird.

"Blood," replied Zeb. "Death."

The medicine man lit some sage, then quickly put it out with his fingers. With the ashes he smudged Zeb's eyes and forehead. Song Bird began to chant. The singing carried Zeb back to his childhood and the days of fishing on the San Carlos with his friends,

"There is more to the world than death and suffering," said Song Bird. "There is joy and happiness."

Silent, burning tears that seared his flesh raced down Zeb's cheeks. He could hear each tear as it landed on his cotton shirt. Once again Song Bird began to chant. Jake thumped on the drum Song Bird handed him. Zeb's tears began to burn less intensely.

Song Bird, still chanting, walked to a nearby spring and gathered several pouches of water. When he returned, Song Bird gave Zeb a command.

"Remove your clothes. All of them."

Zeb followed the medicine man's orders. His pain and being with his mentors prevented him from suffering embarrassment. Song Bird lit a second bundle of sage and danced many circles in each direction around Zeb.

"Come mighty wind," sang the medicine man. "Take away what lies on the surface. Send it to the place where it can do no harm."

An unseen hand guided Jake's drumming. It became like the wind, smooth, strong and direction oriented.

"Lay on Mother Earth."

Frozen, Zeb didn't move until Song Bird's hands gently guided him to the ground. With rocks he had earlier gathered, Song Bird surrounded the suffering son of Safford with a circle.

"May the god of the rocks protect you from violence. May he protect you from what violence does to a man," sang Song Bird. "May he lead you away from the brutality that invades your heart."

Jake's drumming changed to a simpler but stronger beat.

Song Bird rubbed herbs and plants across the skin on the front of Zeb's body. Then, he turned Zeb over and scrubbed his back with the same herbs. Lastly, he crushed the herbs onto Zeb's head and into his hair.

"Sit up," Song Bird instructed Zeb.

Using a stick with rounded head, Song Bird splashed water on Zeb. After a while he grabbed a pouch and poured water up and down Zeb's spine and over his head. It was cold, colder as the wind increased and the trees began to sway. Zeb shivered uncontrollably. Song Bird danced to divine communication with the spirits that healed those suffering from the sickness of hatred in the mind. Jake continued drumming with a force that he himself did not understand.

Song Bird took the second pouch and once again washed Zeb's body. Four times he repeated the washing process, once for each direction. Silently Song Bird prayed for the evil spirits that were compelling the evil feelings in Zeb's mind to be gone. He prayed they be replaced with peace and understanding, with love and joy, with hope.

With a nod from Song Bird, Jake stopped drumming. Song Bird neatly folded Zeb's clothes and placed them on Zeb's seated lap.

"Get dressed. It's too damn cold to be running around naked."

Zeb did as he was directed. When fully clothed, he stood. His legs were weak, but quickly his strength returned. He had the feeling of looking at the world through fresh eyes. The hatred in his heart had significantly abated. It was time to return to his duty as a detective in Tucson. But first, he needed to let his mother know he was doing okay. It was the right thing for a son to do.

## 20

# Morals And Trust

The process of becoming a Tucson police detective normally required an officer to have five years of experience. Because Tucson's population was growing rapidly it had a shortage of detectives. Zeb, with the help of Max Muñoz, was able to fast track into the position.

The background check, multiple exams, interviews and drug screening were a piece of cake. Zeb, along with the examiners, were somewhat worried about the psychological exam. Having had the recent experience of the death of his partner was an obvious and legitimate concern. Thanks to Song Bird and Jake, Zeb came through the mental review with flying colors.

A pilot program run under a federal grant obtained with the help of Senator Russell allowed for new detectives to pair up. This was a unique situation for the Tucson Police Department. As if by design, Zeb and Max Muñoz drew the same assignment. They would work together in the gang investigations detail. While this did not give them the direct duty of looking into the death of Lipana, it gave them enough latitude to follow up on leads that might be related. One day Zeb confided to Max.

"Lipana's CI got hold of me."

"Did he give you anything of value?"

"He's been underground because he was present at the shooting of Lipana. He had grown very close to Lipana. He wants Lipana's killer caught as much as we do."

"What does he want in return?" asked Max.

"He wants us to look the other way on a big pot deal that's going down tomorrow. If we do that, he'll give us a list of the people who were at the warehouse the night Lipana was killed," explained Zeb.

"How about he gives us the information first?" asked Max.

"I tried in every way to get him to agree to that, but no dice."

"Do you trust him?"

"I don't know for certain. Lipana did. I trusted Lipana. This guy never steered Lipana wrong. Yeah, I guess I trust him enough to move forward with this."

Max sighed heavily.

"Our asses are on the line if the chief of detectives finds out we are involving ourselves in Lipana's murder investigation."

"I learned a long time ago from a very smart sheriff that sometimes a man has to know how to operate just outside the lines of the law if he wants to get things done. I'm willing to take the risk. I know Lipana wasn't your partner, so if you choose not to be involved, I understand," said Zeb.

Max shook his head.

"What would you do, Zeb, if the shoe was on the other foot?"

"All things being equal, I'd help you out," replied Zeb.

"Enough said. Did the CI say what he needs the money from the pot deal for?" asked Max.

"He wants to pay a coyote to bring his grandparents across the border. They're old. They have health issues that can't be treated properly in Mexico. He wants the money to pay for the medical care as well. He's not trying to get a free government handout for them. He's going to pay for everything."

"You worked CBP. How do you feel about all that?"

"I hate coyotes. Most of them are real assholes."

"But you want your CI to pay some asshole coyote to bring his grandparents across the border?"

"It's not all that cut and dried. If the CI helps us get Lipana's killer, then I am willing to look the other way. Sometimes these kinds of things just have to be done...in the name of true justice."

Max rubbed his chin. This issue cut both ways. He knew full well there were no easy answers. On one hand, he saw the greater good possibly being served. On the other hand, what good was the law if it was not obeyed by those sworn to enforce it? Max pondered what he would want Zeb to do for him should he be killed in the line of duty. When he looked at it that way, there was no doubt he would want his killer found, if only for the sake of his own family's peace of mind.

"There's no way to get the CI to talk first? You're certain of that?"

"As certain as I'm standing here," replied Zeb.

"Fuck it. If stepping outside the law gets us Lipana's killer, then it's all good with me."

Zeb called the CI's burner phone.

"You're clear for tonight," said Zeb. "But we meet tomorrow, and we talk turkey."

"I'll give you the names after my grandparents are safely across the border," said the CI.

"Then it's a no go and you're at risk," said Zeb. "The deal you and I have is for me to look the other way on the pot deal. That, and nothing more. Comprende?"

"Okay. I had to try."

"I get it. Tomorrow. One o'clock in the parking lot at Tohonu Chul."

"Sí, sí. I'll be there."

## 21

# Tohonu Chul

Zeb and Max arrived an hour earlier than the scheduled meeting. Since the CI was expecting Zeb to be alone, Max went to the bistro near the La Fuente Museum gift shop to get himself a cold drink. Max parked himself on a bench beneath the shade of a small grove of palo verde trees.

Both detectives watched as tourists and locals seeking nature, art and culture pulled into the parking lot. Some took the path to the hiking trails while others headed directly to the gift shop and bistro. Zeb listened to country songs on the local radio station, KIIM 99.5. Patsy Cline's divine voice filtered through the speakers. Zeb's arm rested in the open window.

He recognized the CI's blue Silverado Chevy truck as it slowly entered the parking lot. The CI circled the lot once before pulling next to Zeb. Driving slowing but never stopping, the CI rolled down his window. As he passed close to Zeb's truck, he tossed a crumpled piece of paper through the window and slowly pulled away. Zeb uncrumpled the paper. Written down were six names. One was circled. Next to the name were the words 'trigger man'. At the bottom of the paper was a note that explained the other five men were there when the shooting happened.

Detective Max Muñoz joined his partner.

"That was brief."

"He's been in the game a long time. He knows what it takes to survive and how to do it. My guess is that he made you," said Zeb.

"What'd he give you?"

Zeb handed Max the piece of paper. Max read it carefully.

"Does the trigger man, Emilio Amador, live in Tucson?" asked Max.

"Some of the time. I got that from the CI a while ago."

"Where?"

"Out on West Valencia near Indian Agency Road."

"Let's do a drive by and check it out."

It took twenty minutes to get to Emilio Amador's neighborhood.

"Nothing unusual about his house," said Max. "It looks just like every other one in the neighborhood."

"Obviously Amador is doing his best to blend into the background and not get noticed," replied Zeb.

"It's one sign of his intelligence," replied Max.

"I suspect El Coyote has elevated Amador's stature because he killed a cop."

"In their world it proves fearlessness and machismo," said Max.

"He's also either smart enough or well-coached enough to drop off the radar."

"Like we talked about before, these guys act like players in a major corporation rather than drug thugs. The world is changing fast. We've got to keep up with them."

The pass by was the first of many. Emilio Amador was indeed crafty and clever. It would be half a year before an opportunity to nab him arose.

## 22

# 6 Months Later

"My CI's grandparents are finally completely safe and have gotten the health care they need. They are tucked away in Las Vegas, New Mexico."

"Good," replied Max. "It's time your CI came through for us in a big way."

"He just did. Take a look at this."

Zeb handed Max a photograph of the man his CI claimed was Lipana's shooter.

"Your CI give you this?"

"He did."

"When?"

"Last night."

Max scrutinized the picture.

"You're sure this is the right guy?"

"I trust it is," replied Zeb.

"You're certain this isn't some guy your CI has a vendetta against and is using us to get him?"

"I've considered that," replied Zeb. "My gut tells me we're okay. Besides, I got some more up to date information this morning."

"Do tell."

"Emilio Amador has moved a few rungs up the ladder. He's one of El Coyote's top men in human trafficking. He's picking up a group of Honduran teenage girls across the border and bringing them to Tucson."

"Why would Amador do the leg work himself?" asked Max.

"He's a hands-on type of guy and a he's a freak. I think he wants to check out the merchandise he's selling," replied Zeb. "My CI says Amador is more than a bit of a pervert."

"What's his M.O.?"

"He takes the girls to a safe house here in Tucson. He tests the merchandise over a short period of time, then sells them into prostitution in Vegas and New York. He moves them pretty quickly. Amador's gang is handling the operation."

"So, it's in our jurisdiction," added Max.

"Yup. It's right in our wheelhouse."

"The chief can't give us any grief."

"And if homicide has their shit together, with a little help from us, they should be able to directly link Amador to Lipana's murder."

Zeb and Max high-fived each other.

"When is he picking up the Honduran girls?"

"Tonight."

"Is he going to be heavily armed?" asked Max.

"According to our CI, he's not. But you never know. The CI said he'd let me know if they were going to be carrying more weapons than usual."

"How many girls?"

"A dozen."

"How many armed gang bangers?"

"Four."

"We'd better deal with the Chief directly."

"He'll want us to have enough backup."

"And he'll want to make sure the press is properly notified. I hear he's got his eyes on running for mayor."

"Let's go talk to him," said Zeb.

An hour later, joined by the head of homicide, Clark Weber, Zeb and Max were sitting in the office of the Chief of Detectives, Darvin Rambulet. Zeb detailed him in on the human trafficking that Emilio Amador of El Coyote's cartel was up to.

"This is going down tonight?" asked Chief Rambulet.

"Yes, sir," replied Zeb.

"Do you know what time?"

"Twenty-one hundred hours."

"Where?" asked Rambulet.

"Near the intersection of Twenty-second Street and Greasewood at a pink house on the southwest corner," said Zeb.

"Specific address?"

"2201 Greasewood."

"Duplex, triplex, apartment?"

"It's a freestanding house."

"I take it they're using it as a safe house?" asked Weber.

"Yes."

"We've got to get cameras up."

"How can we do that without giving ourselves away?" asked Zeb

"I'll have the city create an artificial power outage for the entire block. We can send in city utility trucks to look like they're fixing the electrical grid. Instead, they will be putting up cameras," explained Rambulet. "I want real time on this. If we can nail Lipana's killer, we can send a message to the cartel, end a long drawn out case and bring closure for Lipana's family."

Neither Zeb nor Max said it, but Chief Rambulet could have also added, 'and this will give my campaign for Mayor of Tucson a real boost.'

An hour later the city utility truck manned by undercover officers was setting up cameras on power poles up and down Greasewood Street. It was the only part of the operation that went smoothly. Weber, head of homicide, and Rambulet, chief of detectives, were both men with higher political aspirations. Both men, even before the operation began, were writing their press releases and practicing speeches for the television cameras.

"What did you say?" asked Max.

"Homicide is sending in a dozen officers and so is Rambulet," said Zeb.

"We're going to get spotted. That many officers in the vicinity might blow the whole operation."

"If it's any consolation, the detectives are acting as a perimeter. That ought to make the scene a little less crowded."

"You're certain your CI said only four of Amador's guys will be there?"

"Yup. But knowing Amador, those will be four of his best men."

One hour before the Honduran girls were due to arrive with Amador at 2201 Greasewood, Rambulet got a call from one of his field operatives.

"I might have been made," said the field op.

"What do you mean?" asked Rambulet.

"El Coyote's men, and I assume Amador's guys as well, drive new Chevy Trucks, right? With a Mexican flag somewhere on the truck?"

"Yes. Always. They all have a Mexican flag in the lower right part of the rear window."

"A green Chevy truck has circled by me three times in the last fifteen minutes. The driver and his compadre look like bad hombres."

"Could you see either the driver or the passenger's forearms?"

"Yes. The driver had his arm through the window. He has a tattoo."

"Was it a howling coyote?"

"I couldn't make that out for sure."

"Move your position. Do it in such a manner that they know what you are up to. See if they follow you. Let me know as soon as you know," said Rambulet.

Ten minutes later the field operative let the chief of detectives know he was one hundred percent certain he had been made.

"Pull out in front of them when they make their next circle around. See how far they follow you."

"Roger that."

The agent pulled out as instructed and was followed. He noticed one thing and contacted Chief Rambulet.

"I think they're bringing in reinforcements. I just saw two trucks, a red Chevy truck and a blue Chevy truck, pass by. Both had two men in them. Both had Mexican flags in the lower right rear window."

Rambulet drummed his fingers on his desk. It could be nothing at all. It could be coincidence. He called Weber, head of homicide.

"There's a pretty good possibility one of my men has been made."

"How certain are you?"

"Fairly certain. Nothing tells me they know we're coming at them."

"Fuck it," said Weber. "This is as close as we're going to get to Amador. He's been getting away with this shit for too god-damned long. Send a message to your men. Tell them to be on ultra-high alert status. I'll do the same with mine."

Rambulet contacted his men. So did Weber. What neither man knew was that they were being set up. Somehow, the cartel had access to all of Tucson's police communications. Things were about to go south for Zeb and Max.

At twenty-one hundred hours, right on time, Amador arrived with the twelve Honduran teenage girls. At twenty-one-ten the dozen officers were in their assigned positions. At twenty-one-fifteen the operation went into effect.

Outside the house on Greasewood, Max and Zeb separated. Max covered the southeast corner of the house. Zeb stuck his head near a large, open window on the south side of the house. A single shot rang out. It hit Max in the leg. He crawled behind a row of dense weigela bushes for cover. Out of nowhere, a giant-sized Mexican thug grabbed Zeb around the neck and held a gun to his head.

"Don't make a fucking move, cowboy. If you do, it'll be your last one."

His English was clear, but the breath of the man speaking into Zeb's ear smelled of rancid pork, chilis, vinegar and ammonia. Zeb knew he was dealing with a meth head. The brute's next words had Zeb suspecting he was Amador's personal bodyguard. From the corner of his right eye, Zeb could see the Honduran girls and only two other men with weapons. Standing directly next to the man who had the odiferous breath was Amador. Zeb recognized him instantly.

Amador stepped through the window. He jammed his gun in Zeb's ribs.

"Don't move an inch if you value your life."

The bodyguard followed Amador out the window. Seconds later the meth head bodyguard had his gun shoved into Zeb's kidneys.

"How many of you are there?" asked Amador.

When Zeb didn't respond, Amador pulled a knife and held it under Zeb's left nostril. One push of the knife and it would be planted deep inside Zeb's brain. The old adage about discretion being the greater part of valor hung over Zeb like the Sword of Damocles.

"Six."

"Are they after me?" asked Amador.

"No. Not you."

"Who, then?"

"The girls. The prostitution squad got a tip."

There was no prostitution squad per se. Dealing with underage prostitutes involved a dozen cross-agency interactions. Zeb had no mind to discuss the details of all that with a gun pointed at his ribs.

Amador was too used to people fearing him. He believed Zeb. It made sense. Amador shouted in Spanish to someone in the house.

"Abra la puerta de entrada. Deja salir a las chicas."

From Zeb's elementary understanding of Spanish, he knew Amador was instructing one of his men to let the girls out the front door.

"Smart move," said Zeb. "If the prostitution squad has the girls, you might just get out of here in one piece."

"Shut the fuck up, vaquero. You're my ticket out of here. Tucson police don't shoot their own. They only shoot Mexicanos de pieles marrones and hombres negros."

In the shadows beneath the weigela bush Zeb could see Max laying on his belly. The tip of his firearm was aimed directly in his direction. He was only fifty feet away. All the bragging Max had done and the ridiculous stories he told about his shooting abilities came to mind—how he could clip the head off a ten-penny nail at a hundred yards or wing a house fly in mid-flight at fifty feet came. Zeb prayed Max had been telling the truth.

Amador sneaked in behind his thug, the man who had a gun uncomfortably poking Zeb in the side.

"We've got your man," shouted Amador. "Unless you want to take home a corpse, you'd better let us get the hell out of here."

Before anyone had a chance to answer, four shots rang out from Max's gun. The first shot removed the weapon and a couple of fingers from the hand of the bad-breathed thug. The second round blasted the thug in the lungs. He fell to his knees, gasping for air. Zeb dove for the dirt. Amador, in shock, stood dumbstruck. As he raised his weapon, Max shot him through the heart...twice.

Officers emerged from everywhere. A medic tended to Max. Another officer who had been trained as a medic checked out Zeb. The lieutenant on the scene barked orders. In no time the crime scene was taped off, the Honduran girls were being processed and Max was on his way to the hospital, Zeb at his side.

"How are you feeling, hot shot?"

"The leg hurts. I hope I don't end up with a limp. Man, I'd hate to hobble through life. A bum leg would make me a desk jockey. No way that works for me."

"By the way, thanks for saving my life."

"All in a day's work."

"I guess you weren't kidding about your shooting skills."

"Being proficient with a firearm is not something a boy from Double Adobe kids about."

Max and Zeb laughed and high fived each other. As they sat there in a moment of quiet, the mood changed.

"Tonight got me thinking," said Zeb.

"About what?" asked Max.

"Home."

"Yeah, days like this can make you long for the peace of Safford or Double Adobe."

Zeb got really quiet. Max could practically see his partner's mind churning.

"Are you thinking about quitting the force?" asked Max.

"Sheriff Dablo called last night and offered me a job."

"You miss home?"

"Some. More than that, I don't think I'm cut out for the big city."

Max reached up and flipped back Zeb's cowboy hat.

"I hear you, my friend. Some of us belong in small towns and others of us belong in the big city. I think you know where you belong."

"I do."

They rode in silence to the emergency room. Zeb stayed with Max until they got him ready for surgery.

"You gonna turn in your resignation?" asked Max.

"I'm going to sleep on it. Then I'll have a little chat with the chief. When I've done that I'm going to talk with Sheriff Dablo and my old friend Song Bird."

"The medicine man."

"Right."

"You have to do what's right for you. We all only got one ride on this merry-go-round called life," said Max. "You've got to make the most of it."

"Good luck in surgery."

"Piece of cake," replied Max. "I had my tonsils out when I was six, and I got to eat ice cream for a week."

The men laughed, but both carried sadness in their eyes. Zeb and Max knew their partnership was over. Zeb was headed home to Safford.

* * *

**THE END**

# Also by Mark Reps

**ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES**

NATIVE BLOOD

HOLES IN THE SKY

ADIOS ANGEL

NATIVE JUSTICE

NATIVE BONES

NATIVE WARRIOR

NATIVE EARTH

NATIVE DESTINY

**AUDIOBOOK**

NATIVE BLOOD

**OTHER BOOKS**

BUTTERFLY (WITH PUI CHOMNAK)

HEARTLAND HEROES

# Free Book from Mark Reps

I hope you enjoyed this novella, an introduction to the Zeb Hanks Mystery Series. Connecting with my readers is one of the best things about being an author. Occasionally I send out newsletters, free content, book reviews, and new book releases to my fans.

* * *

If you sign up for my mailing list, I will send you HOLES IN THE SKY \- Book 2 from the Zeb Hanks Mystery Series for free. Zeb has a dead priest and a suspicious deputy on his hands and he must find the killer before he strikes again.

* * *

Get HOLES IN THE SKY for FREE here.

# About the Author

Mark Reps has been a writer and storyteller his whole life. Born in small-town southeastern Minnesota, he trained as a mathematician and chiropractor but never lost his love of telling or writing a good story. As an avid desert wilderness hiker, Mark spends a great deal of time roaming the desert and other terrains of southeastern Arizona. A chance meeting with an old time colorful sheriff led him to develop the Zeb Hanks character and the world that surrounds him.

To learn more, check out his website www.markreps.com, his AllAuthor profile, or any of the profiles below. To join his mailing list for new release information and more click here.

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# Native Roots Reading Guide

This novella, NATIVE ROOTS, is a 2-part mystery. Part I takes place when Zeb Hanks is 13 years old, approximately 30 years ago. It is written to give the reader insight into Zeb's philosophy, developmental point of view and how he becomes interested in a career as a law man. Part I also shows the reader some of Zeb's early influences, both good and bad, and how he learns that a person can do the wrong thing for the right reason. A glimpse into Zeb's early understanding of Song Bird's mystical ways is shown. Some of the characters introduced in Part I are maintained throughout the entire series. The main idea is to allow you, the current readers, potential readers and future readers of the ZEB HANKS: Small Town Sheriff Big Time Trouble series, insight into how Zeb is influenced by the world, how his personal and family interactions affect him and, ultimately, the fundamental roots of who he was as a youth on the verge of becoming a man. Hence the title, NATIVE ROOTS.

In Part II we see Zeb as he is developing into a lawman. Zeb has graduated from Safford High School and taken a job at the Danforth-Roerg Copper Company. With the summer ending and his friends going off to college, Zeb chooses to become a United States Border Patrol (CBP) agent. The reader gets a brief view of his time as a border patrol agent and more time as a Tucson policeman/detective. Zeb is introduced to the jaded world of politics and law enforcement. Troublesome circumstances, what he learns about how the system operates and what happens to him ultimately lead him back home to Safford, AZ.

This novella is for new readers and for readers who want to know more about Zeb's background. In essence, it is two short mysteries that show Zeb at two stages of his life prior to becoming Sheriff of Graham County. I feel it is important for the readers to understand Zeb's personal development, how he develops friendships, what makes him tick, what makes him who he is. I add many other background details that allow the readers to understand Zeb's personal insights. Most of all I want the reader to know that, like all of us, Zeb is flawed. His imperfections, mistakes and development help him become the man he is in the ongoing series: ZEB HANKS: Small Town Sheriff Big Time Trouble.

Thanks to all of you for reading, reviewing, telling others, etc., about the ZEB HANKS mystery series. If you enjoyed it, please tell others about it, share on your FB, websites, and other social media platforms. I would like to have you help me make the ZEB HANKS series a bestseller and perhaps even a TV show. To do that I need you all to help me spread the word. Thanks again. And, as Zeb says, "It's a good idea to obey the law."

# MISSING IN MONTANA

### A Novella from The Jim Buchanan Series

### By Felix F. Giordano

Red Road Publishers

Ashford, Connecticut

Registration Number, U.S. Copyright Office:

Copyright Pending - Case #: 1-6950191351

# Preface

There is one God looking down on us all.

We are all children of one God.

God is listening to me.

The sun, the darkness, the winds, are all listening to what we now say.

\-- Goyathlay (Geronimo)

Apache Medicine Man and War Chief

1829-1909

# Part I

### 1992

# 1

Peta Ross was trapped between a past that failed her dreams and a future that would deceive her faith. On an overcast Saturday morning along the Kootenai River not far from the Idaho state border, Holy Rollers sequestered in the Yaak Wilderness saw income and recruitment opportunities during the annual Old-Fashioned Independence Day Celebration.

Despite a steady mist that enveloped the town of Troy Montana, local citizens and visitors from nearby communities arrived for the festivities. However, in 1992, spreading the Word of God veiled in deceit and deception caused a darkness to descend and dominate the entire region.

A congregation known as the Children of the Big Sky were under direct orders from their spiritual leader to scour the fairgrounds for a young female, thin, attractive, vulnerable, and in danger.

The annual Color Run and Old-Fashioned Breakfast preceded the 11 a.m. parade. It was nearly noon and the various groups who had participated in the parade were breaking down their gear near the local U.S. Post Office and close to Troy's national claim to fame, the "Largest Living Christmas Tree".

Food vendors, artisans, first responders, the U.S. Forest Service, health and wellness institutes, food pantries, and other volunteer organizations assembled at Roosevelt Park across from the Burlington Northern freight yard. The event planners hoped for a record attendance despite the poor weather.

A white, Fleetwood Prowler 5th wheel camper hauled by a black Ford pickup truck with a missing tailgate, had settled onto a spot along the makeshift main boulevard as a heavily rusted black Chevy Blazer pulled up alongside. A burly man with a Fu Manchu mustache climbed out of the SUV. His jeans gave off a woodsy scent and the grime behind his neck settled into the creases and folds just below his hairline. He opened the camper door and stepped inside. A woman got out of the pickup truck and joined him.

"Ruthie got everything you need?" the man asked.

"Yep," she responded.

Ruthie, a woman in her early twenties gathered bags of wire, beads, stones, and a box of silver sheet metal. Her long black hair was gathered into a ponytail and she wore a long, blue-print dress dominated by yellow flowers and billowing half-sleeves. Form-fitting in front, it accentuated her shapely upper body. She glanced at him, the bruises around her eyes partially shaded by her oversized straw hat. "Simon, I'm all set."

"Then let's get selling. I'll put the tables, chairs, tent, coolers, and portable generator on the cart. Can you handle your own gear?"

Ruthie nodded, Simon locked the camper and they headed toward the river and the other booths. After Simon setup their equipment, Ruthie aligned the jewelry for display on the table and laid out her tools, a torch for glass bracelets and necklaces, a solder gun for pewter and silver rings and earrings, a silversmithing hammer, rouge, and a drill with an attached buffing wheel. Then she began crafting new pieces. A few hours passed, and a few hundred dollars earned. Often during that time, Simon trekked from the booth to the camper and back.

Upon a return to the booth, Ruthie asked him, "See anything worthwhile?"

"One or two Ruthie, but nothing that Yeshua Goyathlay would consider worthy. I'm gonna grab me a Coke, want one?"

"I'm all set." Ruthie sipped on a bottle of spring water from her own cooler under the table.

Simon stepped behind the tent and Ruthie heard the other cooler's lid open and then close. She put on her protective visor and using her solder iron, she continued manufacturing jewelry. When the hairs on her forearms rose, she looked up and pulled off her visor. A young girl in a gray tank top and red shorts approached her booth.

"Can I buy something for ten dollars?"

Ruthie stared at the girl who wiped away a tear from her right cheek. She seemed no more than twelve or thirteen, straight auburn hair gathered into a ponytail, green eyes, standing a few inches taller than five feet, and thin. Behind her stood a man with slicked back, red hair, green eyes as well, dressed in casual chinos, a black polo shirt and sporting a Breitling Swiss watch on his left wrist. The chiseled features of his face could not mask the man's furrowed brow.

"See anything that strikes your fancy, honey?" Ruthie asked. She watched the young girl survey the handiwork on display.

The girl settled on a silver bracelet that seemed to dance about in the reflection of the sun's rays. She lifted it off the table, presented it on her palm, and showed it to the man behind her.

"I like this one." She turned over the attached price tag and a gasp slipped from her mouth. "It's $20, can I buy it dad?"

Ruthie stated, "That's sterling silver. It was mined on our own land in The Yaak. It's one of a kind."

The man asked, "Peta, remember that $50 watch your mother bought you last year...where is it now?"

Peta sighed and put down the bracelet. "I don't know."

"Exactly, I'm not spending $20 on a trinket so that you can lose it. Someday, if you get a job you can buy something like that yourself."

Peta turned to Ruthie as a tear slid from her left eye. "Do you have anything for $10?" She pursed her lips. "That's all I have to spend from my own money."

Ruthie stared at the father and then smiled at the girl. "I'm sorry honey." Then she turned to the girl's father. "Maybe you can gift it to her on her birthday?"

"It's none of your damn business when her birthday is."

A woman with long black braided hair and wearing beige slacks and a sleeveless red print top with images of the sun and moon interrupted their conversation. "Robert don't be rude to these nice people. They're doing the Lord's work." Standing behind Peta, she massaged the man's neck.

He turned to the woman behind him. "Peta wants a $20 bracelet."

The woman scoffed. "Robert, you bought me expensive jewelry when we were teenagers and I was living on the Rez. We can well afford something ten times that amount. Get something nice for your daughter especially after what she's been through."

"Nadie, Peta is too careless to own things like that. Besides, we spend enough on her treatments already." When Peta bolted from the booth, Robert called to her, "Peta come back."

"Robert, you're such an asshole," Nadie said and then ran after Peta.

Ruthie stared into the man's green eyes and said, "Pardon my observation, but if you're not careful you'll end up losing your daughter." She then put her head down and went back to work.

Robert placed his palms down on the table and glared at Ruthie. "What do you mean by that?"

Ruthie stopped her work and gazed upward at Robert. "Don't lose that bond with your child, they grow up too quickly."

"You don't know a damn thing about my daughter."

Ruthie raised her voice. "Excuse me sir?"

"I know who you people are. You're a bunch of hippies masquerading in the name of the Lord."

"Sir, I don't know what you're talking about. All I do is make jewelry."

Robert picked up the bracelet Peta showed him, twisted it out of shape and dropped it on the table. "See...trinkets, you people don't even know how to make jewelry."

"That'll be $20, sir."

The man laughed. "Do you even know who I am?"

Ruthie continued her craftsmanship. "I don't know who you are, and I don't care."

"I'm Robert Ross, Mayor of Libby."

Ruthie stopped, put down her tools and looked up at him. She removed her straw hat revealing two blackened eyes. "Mr. Ross, see these eyes? I'm Ruthie Child and even though this happened to me yesterday, here I am doing what I love, making jewelry. Don't waste my time telling me who you are when I've already told you that I don't care."

Robert bent over until his head was within less than a foot from her ear and whispered, "Go fuck yourself." He then headed toward the same direction that Peta and Nadie had gone when they left the booth.

Ruthie murmured to herself, "Robert Ross, you're such an asshole."

Simon came out from behind the tent and stared at Ruthie for a few seconds. "What did I miss, and did I hear you curse?"

Ruthie said, "I think we found our little dove. She's got a broken wing."

Simon looked around. "Yeah, where?"

Ruthie smiled and continued her artistry. "She'll be back, broken wing and all."

# 2

Events continued throughout the afternoon at the Old-Fashioned Independence Day Celebration. The overcast sky had cleared and was now a pastel shade of blue pockmarked by fluffy white clouds. Below those clouds, the northern bank of the Kootenai River, marked by white pines, embraced the cliffs above.

Once the bluegrass and country rock bands began to play, the Ross family took a walk down to the riverbank just beyond the booths and in plain sight of the trestle bridge that spanned the river. They had purchased box lunches and found a high spot overlooking the Kootenai. Nadie put down a blanket and sat with her husband and their children. Peta faced the river while her older brother Bobby and younger sister Koko sat next to their parents.

When the song, _The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down_ played, Koko spoke up. "I can play that song on my piano."

"When we get home, can you play that just for me?" Robert asked.

Koko smiled. "Of course dad, anything for you."

With the music as a backdrop, Nadie tried to engage Peta. "Do you have any plans for this summer?"

Once Peta shrugged her shoulders, Nadie nudged her son.

Bobby took the cue. "Hey Em, want to go to the movies with me and Joyce tomorrow? Last chance to hang with us before we're off to college."

Peta shrugged again.

Robert turned to his son. "That reminds me. The management program you're taking, make sure they know you'll be president of Libby Hardwoods after you graduate. I'm giving up my share of the business for that planned run for Governor in '96." He turned to Nadie. "I donate enough money to my alma mater, the least they can do is fast-track Bobby."

Nadie replied, "Robert, today is for the family. Let's enjoy it and not get all wrapped up around expectations."

Robert raised his voice. "Speaking of expectations, Peta, I want to speak with you."

Peta turned to him. "I don't want to talk."

"Damn-it. You'll talk when I want you to talk."

"Robert," Nadie said. "Don't you think you've done enough damage for today? Leave her alone."

"Are you getting on my case too?"

Peta put down her sandwich and walked toward the river.

Robert was about to get up when Nadie put her hand on his arm. She whispered, "Robert, let her be. She knows she's sick but not how bad. Have faith in the Lord."

Peta did an about-turn and walked toward the booths. Robert got up, but Nadie held him back. "Let her go. She needs time alone." She turned to Bobby. "Can you follow her but keep your distance?"

"Will do," Bobby said.

# 3

The variety of vendors were but a distraction to Peta as she headed toward Ruthie's booth with Bobby a good number of yards behind. When Peta was within ten feet of the booth, three Native men stepped up and confronted Ruthie. Peta stopped in stride and so did Bobby. Peta listened in on their conversation.

"Do you call yourselves Children of the Big Sky and do you live in The Yaak?" the tallest Native man asked.

The sharp lines of his jaw and his prominent cheekbones enhanced the urgency of his challenge. He was thirtysomething, dressed in blue jeans, a tan, untucked deerskin war shirt with rawhide fringes in the shape of a "V" on the front and along the sleeves' undersides. His long black hair was parted and draped across his collarbones in two ponytails held in place by round bone clasps.

The other two Native men, both shorter than the first, were similarly attired in blue jeans but one wore an elk hide shirt adorned with red, painted-on images of their land and the animals their ancestors hunted, framed by the moon and stars etched just below his collar.

The third man, much older with salt and pepper hair and using a walker, wore a blue paisley button shirt with a series of seven silver necklaces, each longer than the other draped across his chest with the longest resting just below his ribcage.

Ruthie was about to respond when Peta saw Simon step out from behind the table.

"Who's asking about us and wants to know who we are and where we live?" Simon asked.

"The Kutenai Tribe."

"From where?"

"Bonners Ferry, Idaho."

Simon asked, "You officially represent your tribe?"

The spokesperson gestured with his upward palm to the older man behind him. "This is my great-great-grandfather, "Tommy Broken Fingers. He speaks of the oral traditions handed down by my people. They tell of a time when our tribe lived and hunted in The Yaak."

"What's your name?"

"Parker Iron Shirt. Your people are trespassing on the land of our ancestors."

"It's our land. We have the deeds."

Parker Iron Shirt continued, "Land deeds mean nothing to us. It's what you do on that land that is an insult to my ancestors and a sacrilege to our people who died there."

"What do we do? We live in tranquility, we hunt and fish for only what we need. The animals live in peace just as we do. We mine silver and we don't pollute. We give back to the land."

"You desecrate holy land."

"No, we MAKE the land holy." Simon put his arm on Parker Iron Shirt's shoulder and began to lead him away from the booth as the other two native men followed. "I'm sure we can work this out. Why don't you come visit us and speak with Yeshua Goyathlay?"

Peta saw them stop at the corner of the booth, a few feet from where she stood.

Parker Iron Shirt forcibly removed Simon's arm, then spat on the ground. "This man who calls himself Goyathlay is not Native. Why does he insult us by using the name of one of us?"

A crowd began to congregate. Some people were attracted by the commotion, others by the conversation, and some just simply stopped in place to gawk.

Simon first looked left and then right. "Let's not make a scene or we'll all get thrown out of here. Let's try to work something out, okay?"

Parker Iron Shirt stared at Simon. "You don't get it."

Simon smiled. "I know we can come to an understanding." He offered his hand. "Come visit us as guests, eat with us, sit and talk around a campfire, stay a couple of nights. See all the good work we do, how we treat the land, the animals. The things you heard about us, that's not us. We're good people, just interested in the Lord...uh, the Creator you call him, right?"

"Gitchi Manitou," Parker Iron Shirt responded.

Just then a tall, African American police officer wearing a yellow vest over his blue uniform shirt stepped up to the booth and asked, "What's going on here?"

Ruthie responded, "Nothing officer. These men were just having a simple conversation."

The officer, sporting sergeant's stripes, turned to Simon and the three Native men. He asked, "Is there a problem?"

Parker Iron Shirt smiled. "Officer, everything is fine."

Simon added, "Discussing future business collaborations, that's all officer."

"What type of collaborations?" the officer asked.

Simon glanced at Parker Iron Shirt. "We buy blankets and rugs from them...isn't that right?"

Parker Iron Shirt stared at the officer and said, "We have a powwow later this month. We offer items for sale like that. If this man wishes to buy, then we would sell to him."

"Good, I don't want to hear of any trouble today." The officer turned away and spoke to everyone within earshot, "Keep the lines moving folks. Nothing happening here. Y'all have a good time."

Parker Iron Shirt turned to Simon and whispered, "You'll hear from us again ... on our own terms."

Simon replied, "I'm telling you we can work this thing out. Come and visit us. What we have, we'll share with you. We've got so much that will please your senses."

Parker Iron Shirt stared at Simon for a long moment, then said, "We aren't interested." He turned to leave with the other two members of his tribe, but Tommy Broken Fingers had difficulty maneuvering his walker.

When the crowd began to disburse, Bobby Ross got pushed backwards and Peta Ross squeezed forward through a rift in the wall of people. She tripped on Tommy Broken Fingers' walker and fell to the ground.

Tommy Broken Fingers stooped down and grabbed Peta's arm, but it was the police officer who reached for her and with his ebony shaded arms, helped her up.

"My-oh-my's, looky those big green eyes," the officer said. "Are you all right, child?"

Peta didn't speak but instead nodded to him. Back on her feet, she first stared into the officer's dark brown eyes and then at his nametag poking out from under his vest. It read, D. BISHOP. They shared a smile.

Then in an instant, before she was able to say thank-you, he disappeared into the crowd. Peta brushed herself off and then reached the booth where Ruthie worked.

Laid out on the table were Ruthie's tools and materials. As she worked on new pieces of jewelry while wearing the visor and gloves, she felt a tug on her arm. She looked up, but the sun's rays masked all but a silhouette of the person standing at her booth. When she pulled off her visor, her eyes met the young girl who had visited her that morning.

"Heyyyy, you're back. Name's Peta, right?"

"Yes, you remembered."

"Come here out of the way of the crowd." Ruthie called to Simon, "Can you work the table for me, my friend Peta's back."

"Sure," Simon said. He manned the table while Ruthie and Peta went behind the tent and sat on folding chairs.

"What's Peta short for?"

"It's not short for anything. That's my name. My mother is Blackfeet."

"Oh, you're part Native."

"Yes, Peta means Golden Eagle. Do you still have that bracelet?" Peta asked.

Ruthie took Peta's hands in hers. "I'm sorry honey, I sold that bracelet an hour ago."

Tears welled up in Peta's eyes and she spoke with a discernable crackle in her voice, "Do you have another just like it?"

"No but I can make another one in the camper."

Peta pulled her hands back, reached into her pocket and presented a ten-dollar bill to Ruthie. "Is this enough?"

"No," Ruthie said and pushed the money away. "It'll be my gift to you."

Peta wiped the tears from her freckled cheeks. "Really?"

Ruthie closed Peta's fingers around the money. "You don't repay gifts, honey."

"When can you make it?" Peta asked.

"If you come with me right now I'll teach you how to make bracelets."

"Oh, I don't know. My parents ... ."

"It'll only take a few minutes. Then you can return to them."

"All right."

"Let's go, we can talk on the way." Ruthie popped her head back into the tent. "Simon, will you take over the booth for a bit longer? I want to show Peta how to make jewelry."

"I can, ring my cellphone if you need me for anything."

"Simon, I can handle it," Ruthie said.

Ruthie went back outside the tent and held out her hand to Peta. When the girl placed her hand in hers, Ruthie smiled and led her away. A few feet from the tent, Peta stopped in place and held her hands against the sides of her face and covered her ears.

"What's the matter?" Ruthie asked.

"Sometimes I get headaches and ringing in my ears."

"Do you want me to get a doctor?" Ruthie asked.

Peta responded, "What? I can't hear what you're saying."

While she waited outside their tent for Peta's symptoms to subside, in the background, Ruthie heard someone ask Simon a question. "Did you see my sister? She's 12 and was wearing a gray tank top and red shorts. She's got auburn hair and a ponytail. Someone said she came this way."

Then she recognized Simon's voice. "Didn't see anyone like that, young fella. But if I do, I'll let you know."

Ruthie saw Simon pop his arm out the back of the tent and wave them away.

"Come on, let's go," Ruthie said holding onto Peta's hand.

They stepped over generator feed lines and other gear in the back of the countless tents as they headed toward the camper.

"Can I make a bracelet for my sister too?" Peta asked.

Ruthie looked around. "Of course you can. You can also make a bracelet for your mother and a ring for your father."

Peta shook her head. "No, nothing for my father."

Ruthie stopped and stared at Peta. "Is your father mean to you?"

Peta nodded. "Before I got sick he was so nice."

"What kind of sickness do you have?"

"It's called Huntington's disease. I don't know that much about it, but my parents take me to so many doctors and some of the tests hurt."

Ruthie smiled and brushed a tear from Peta's cheek. "Our illnesses are just physical manifestations of our sins and wickedness. Where I live, we heal people. I've seen miracles. I know we can help. Would you like to visit us on our ranch?"

"Do you think it would help me?"

"I know it could."

"Maybe I could ask my mother."

Ruthie took Peta's hand in hers and they continued toward the camper. "Tell me, what do you like to do?"

Peta took a deep breath, looked up at Ruthie and smiled. "I like to write poetry."

Ruthie stopped behind one of the food vendor trucks. "Can you recite one of your poems for me?"

Peta took another deep breath. "I can." She composed herself and then recited:

In the strangled synapses of my tangled mind

dreams, illusions, past hopes buried beyond end.

His love came to me and found a place to bind,

in the strangled synapses of my tangled mind.

He left without a word and tasked me to find,

the love I lost, and deep feelings to mend,

in the strangled synapses of my tangled mind.

Dreams, illusions, past hopes buried beyond end.

Ruthie began a slow clap, nodded and then said, "That's remarkable. It's so adult. Who's it about? You seem too young to have fallen in love much less have lost love."

Peta began to cry again. "It's about...about my father. I still love him but he's so different now. He's like a stranger. He's not Blackfeet like me, I get that from my mom.

"Let's not talk about your dad right now. We're here to make jewelry." Ruthie pulled two pairs of white cotton gloves from her pocket and handed one pair to Peta. "Here, put these on. It's important to wear these inside the camper so that you don't get any silver dust on your hands."

"Why?"

"Because if you did the dust could enter your pores."

Peta nodded and put on the gloves. "I don't want that."

While Ruthie donned her gloves, she whispered into Peta's ear, "Let's show you how to make jewelry."

"Okay."

# 4

A crew of yard workers beyond the park perimeter were busy operating switches on the Burlington Northern railroad tracks and didn't observe the camper in Roosevelt Park. Ruthie's eyes glanced away from them and toward the Troy police officer guiding event visitors on the road that dissected the tracks. None seemed to be paying attention to her or Peta.

Ruthie unlocked the door to the camper and then looked to the left and then to the right. When she was certain no one was watching, she helped Peta inside. Peta took a seat at the table across from the door. Ruthie noticed Peta preoccupied with the sparkling gems and shiny silver sheets on the table. Ruthie closed the door and locked it behind her. She peeled off her hat and that's when she noticed Peta look up and stare at her.

"How did you get those black eyes? Did someone hurt you?" Peta asked.

Ruthie smiled. "My horse, I had him in a tie stall and..."

"You have horses?"

"Why yes, sweetie. We have horses."

"How many?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe 50?"

"You're so lucky. I always wanted a horse."

"Did you?"

Peta smiled. "I almost got one too. My dad promised that on my 16th birthday he would buy me one. Then when I got sick two years ago he said I couldn't have one."

"How old are you now?"

"Twelve but I'll be thirteen on Halloween."

"Well if you visit us, I'll make sure that you get your birthday promise a few years early. You can keep your horse at our ranch and visit him anytime you want."

"Really? I'll have to tell my mother I'm going."

When Peta stood up and stepped toward the door, Ruthie took her by the arm. "Wait a minute, before you go don't you want to learn how to make that bracelet?"

Peta sat back down. "How long will it take?"

"Only a few minutes." Ruthie turned to the left and opened the door to the refrigerator. "Are you thirsty? I have a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade."

When Peta nodded, Ruthie reached into the freezer compartment and removed two trays of ice cubes. She dropped ice cubes from one tray into her glass and ice cubes from the other tray into Peta's glass. Then Ruthie filled both glasses with lemonade and added a spoon in each glass.

Peta took a sip. "It's good, nice and cold."

"Slow down, let the ice cubes melt. That way it'll be even colder."

Peta nodded and put the drink aside. "Tell me about the horses?"

"The horses, right. My horse's name is Eddie. He's a bay quarter-horse. His mane is black, and I love him."

"Do you just ride him for fun or do you show him?"

Ruthie laughed. "Oh, strictly for fun."

Peta stirred the ice around in her glass, aiding in the melting process. "Did he do that?" Peta pointed to Ruthie's two black eyes.

She laughed. "Not really. Another horse in the barn spooked him, his butt swayed to the right, knocked me off my feet and I caught the stall door right between my eyes. Broke my nose too."

"That must have hurt." Peta took another sip from her glass.

"It did but we have a great doctor at the ranch. They took really good care of me."

"Could they look at me? The doctors my parents brought me to say that I will have to fight this for the rest of my life. I think sometimes my parents don't tell me everything." Peta took another sip of lemonade.

"I'm sure our doctor would be happy to look at you. But let's make that bracelet. Then you can go ask your parents if you can come visit. Maybe your whole family would like to see where we live?"

Peta nodded. "That would be nice." Then she took another sip of lemonade.

"Hey, your glass is almost empty. Let me get you more lemonade and a few more ice cubes." Ruthie got up, took Peta's glass and stepped toward the refrigerator.

Peta turned toward Ruthie. "More lemonade sounds good. I've got enough ice though."

"Oh sweetie, you can never have enough ice."

Ruthie filled Peta's glass and dropped in two more ice cubes from the second tray. She put the lemonade and ice cube trays away and returned to the table.

"Here you go, a fresh glass of ice-cold lemonade. Nothing better to have on the 4th of July, right?"

Peta nodded and took another sip from the glass. She then looked at Ruthie who was now seated across from her. "Thank you for being so kind to me."

"You're very welcome." Ruthie stared at Peta for a long moment and then said. "I get the impression that kindness is not a common occurrence for you."

Peta put the glass down and looked away. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Do you have friends?"

"A few, in school."

"Close friends?"

"Not really."

Ruthie placed her hand on Peta's hand. "You know, people have to first know how to be a friend before they can have a friend. Maybe the people you know don't know how to be friends?"

"I don't know."

"How about a boyfriend?"

"Some of my girlfriends at school have dated but they're already thirteen. My father won't let me date."

"Is your dad protective toward you?"

"Maybe." Peta took another sip and then put the glass down. "He says if I'm safe at home with him, then I'll be happy."

"Are you happy?"

"NO."

"Why aren't you happy?"

"My dad, uh ... ."

"Your dad, what?" asked Ruthie.

"I try to make him happy, but he always wants more."

"What does he want?"

"He wants me to touch him."

"Where do you touch him?"

"I can't tell you. He said if I tell someone, I'll get sicker."

Ruthie first stared at the ceiling and then held Peta by her shoulders. "No, you won't get sicker if you tell."

"I won't?"

"No sweetie." Ruthie closed her eyes for a second and then asked, "What else does he do?"

Peta shook her head. "I can't tell you. He said it's our little secret."

"Honey, please try. You will feel better if you tell someone. Bad secrets are no secrets at all."

"Well, he...he touches me under my pretties."

Ruthie leaned over and hugged Peta as a flood of tears escaped from her eyes. "You poor girl, what have you been through?" She pulled back, stared at Peta's face and first wiped away Peta's tears with her apron and then her own.

Peta continued to cry and then said, "I don't like to be home alone with him. He makes me do things I don't want to do."

"Sweetie, you never have to do things that you don't want to do. Don't you feel better now that you told Auntie Ruthie?"

Peta nodded and hugged Ruthie. "You're so nice to me. I wish you could be my friend forever."

Ruthie reciprocated the endearment. "My dear Peta," she said.

Peta rested her head on her hand. "I want to do things and see things that I've read about in books. I want to write about places I've seen." Peta wiped a tear from her cheek.

Ruthie smiled and said, "Well, for now, quench your thirst again and then we'll make jewelry."

After Peta finished her lemonade, Ruthie showed Peta how to first draw a design for a bracelet and then how to work the silver. The bracelet they began creating was the one that endeared itself to Peta when she first met Ruthie. A few minutes into the artistic creation, Peta's hand movements began to slow, and her head started to bob as if she were resisting the urge to nod off.

Finally, Peta's eyelids shut, her head slumped, and her shoulder gently bumped against the wall of the camper. Ruthie put down her tools and lifted Peta off the seat. With Peta in a semiconscious state, Ruthie moved her toward the sleeping area in the back of the camper. Once on the bed, Ruthie pulled away the covers, set Peta's head on the pillow, and placed a light blanket over her.

Ruthie stared at Peta. "Nice work Ruthie," she said to herself. "She reminds me of myself when I was young and naive."

While Peta was unconscious, Ruthie quickly finished the silver bracelet that found a place to bind in the strangled synapses of Peta's tangled mind.

# 5

Raising the two bracelets to eye level, Simon showed a customer the intricate detail along the edges of the jewelry. After he helped fit them onto her wrists, he heard chairs being folded behind the tent. When he turned to look, Ruthie popped her head inside. She grabbed Simon's cooler and loaded it onto the cart, then collected more of their gear.

Simon turned to the customer. "Take them both, half-price." He began to gather the jewelry on display and put them into boxes under the table.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Well thank you so much. It must be my lucky day."

"Mine too."

The customer handed Simon a twenty and he bagged the two bracelets. When she left, Ruthie said to Simon, "Pack up. We've got to go, right now."

Simon gathered their equipment and then asked, "Did the roofies take effect?"

"Yes, she'll be out for hours."

"That's great."

"We've got to hurry before her parents notify the police that she's missing."

They broke down their booth and loaded the cart. Simon and Ruthie made their way back to the camper. When they had put everything away, Simon asked, "Can I see her?"

Ruthie pulled the blanket off the bed revealing Peta sound asleep and wearing the bracelet they made. "As long as we don't startle her she should be okay until we get to the ranch."

Simon whispered, "Yeshua Goyathlay will be pleased."

Ruthie nodded. "Just like he requested. Young, attractive, thin, and vulnerable."

"Will he marry her?"

"I'm sure of it. But not until she is of consent age."

"That's plenty of time to instruct and train her. What about her illness?"

Ruthie replied, "We can take her to Curing Creek. It's helped others."

"It has."

Simon got out and climbed into the Blazer while Ruthie drove the pickup truck hauling the 5th wheel. They headed away from Roosevelt Park, turned right on U.S. 2 and sped west toward Route 508. After driving for nearly an hour they pulled onto the road that led to their ranch. A few miles into the wilderness, they reached a shack covered with moss-caked roofing shingles, overlapping clapboards of peeled white paint, and a few broken windows. Telegraphing the building's slide into disrepair, its condition masqueraded its previous long-standing use as a forest ranger's equipment storage shed.

A longhaired man, wearing blue overalls that partially hid a tank-style undershirt and sporting a Moses-like beard, poked his head through the doorway. A Winchester Model 73 was slung over his right shoulder while he held a shotgun at his side, the barrel-end pointing toward the ground.

"Hey Joshua, we're returning from the fair."

Joshua nodded to Simon and then strode up to the camper. "Find anything worth keeping?"

Ruthie smiled. "I think Yeshua Goyathlay will be pleased. We found him a mate."

"Young and fine-looking, I hope."

"And more," Ruthie said.

Joshua smiled and waved them past the guard shack.

When they entered the compound, they were greeted by a host of members who had stopped what they were doing and gathered around the camper. Some had left the vegetable fields, others the horse stables, while a few workers brushed dust off their jeans from the working saw mill.

A 10-foot high by 12-foot wide ornate front door to a white building opened. A man stepped outside and as he drew closer to the camper, the sea of members stepped back. The man was cleanshaven, with long brown hair held in place by a yellow headband. He wore a red shirt that tied in the front with a checkered vest and blue jeans. His right hand guarded the flap of a leather bag slung over his right shoulder.

"Yeshua Goyathlay, we found her," Simon boasted.

"How old?" Yeshua Goyathlay asked.

Ruthie said, "She'll be sixteen, three years from this Halloween."

"Bring me to her."

Ruthie opened the door to the camper and Yeshua Goyathlay walked inside followed by Simon and Ruthie. Yeshua Goyathlay stepped forward and pulled the blanket off a motionless Peta, the white gloves still on her hands. After a long moment, he turned to Ruthie and Simon.

"She shall be known as Eden Child. She'll be our new beginning."

"What if they come looking for her?" Ruthie asked.

Yeshua Goyathlay turned to Ruthie and said, "Bring her to the Cave of Awareness. If she awakens give her a shot." He reached into the leather bag, pulled out a hypodermic needle, a 1ml vaccine bottle and handed them to Ruthie. "Keep her cooperative. Call me if she needs more shots. She mustn't know where she is for at least a month. As she begins to forget her old life then she'll go through the usual teachings."

"She has an illness," Simon said.

Yeshua Goyathlay stared at him. "What illness?"

Ruthie spoke up, "Huntington's disease."

Yeshua Goyathlay nodded. "I've heard of it. The mineral waters of Curing Creek will treat it."

"What about her children, will they inherit her illness?" Simon asked.

Yeshua Goyathlay smiled, "We have more than three years to cure her affliction before she marries me and bears children. We'll prevent it from being passed on."

# 6

Over the eastern peaks of the Purcell Mountain Range, the sun's orange-tinted rays filtered through the pine forest carpeting the western flank of Marmot Mountain. It was Sunday, July 5th and inside the chapel of the Children of the Big Sky deep in the Yaak Wilderness, Yeshua Goyathlay held religious services for his followers. Sitting cross-legged on a black and orange Pendleton blanket, he delivered his sermon from a well-worn, cloth-bound book. Behind him, a guitarist played an acoustic version of Simon & Garfunkel's _Sound of Silence_ in an Adagio tempo.

"In the Book of Jesus, I wrote, 'And it came to pass that the Shepherd would walk among His flock. Speaking to all who would listen, gathering the good, casting away the evil. Those who would listen and were believers would find a place in the House of the Lord. For the Lord sought not worldly riches, nor earthly kingdoms, nor vast armies to rule. His riches will be the souls of men, His Kingdom will be the Heavens above and His armies will be the believers of His Word.'"

When he heard sirens approach, he closed the book, placed it next to him, and stood up. The music stopped and then his followers gazed through the chapel's open doorway.

"Yeshua Goyathlay, what should we do?" asked a young woman in the front row.

"Nothing. Let them in, do as they say." He sat back down and turned to the guitarist. "Keep playing."

More than twelve law enforcement vehicles with flashing strobe lights pulled up to the chapel and screeched to a halt. Evenly distributed between the sheriff departments of Cedar County and Lincoln County, their wailing sirens slowly subsided as at least two dozen law enforcement officers scrambled around the compound brandishing rifles, drawn sidearms, or shotguns.

One officer, a tall man in a brown uniform removed his Campaign four-dent style Stetson revealing a few wisps of white hair that bordered his balding head. He walked up to the open chapel door, stood in the entryway, and stared left then right. "Sheriff Dan McCoy of Cedar County. I'm looking for Mister Solomon Child." He stared at the guitarist. "Stop playing that music."

Yeshua Goyathlay stood up. "The man known as Solomon Child has died and risen. I'm Yeshua Goyathlay." He gestured for the guitarist to stop and then stepped toward the doorway. "Your deputies have been here before, but I have not yet had the pleasure to make your acquaintance." He offered his hand to the sheriff.

Sheriff McCoy refused the gesture and instead handed Yeshua Goyathlay a document. "I have a search and seizure warrant issued by the Montana Twenty-third Judicial District, Cedar County. We believe that on this property, there is evidence of a possible homicide in violation of the Montana Code Annotated, Section 45-5-102."

Yeshua Goyathlay began reading the court order. He glanced up at Sheriff McCoy a few times and when he was finished reading, he handed the paper back to the sheriff.

"I hate to disappoint you Sheriff McCoy, but I don't understand why that piece of paper talks about human remains. No one has ever died here. Do you think a murder took place before we purchased this property?"

"I'm not going to answer that. The warrant speaks for itself." Sheriff McCoy signaled to the other officers to begin the search and spoke to the assembled congregation, "Everyone stay put here while the search is underway."

Amid the clamor among the worshipers in the chapel, Yeshua Goyathlay calmed his people. "My Father is testing us today. These officers are being influenced by demons from the abyss. Soon these people will leave us in peace for they know not what they do. Stay where you are for righteous sake for we will be spared and then share in the abundance of My Father."

Sheriff McCoy said, "Mister Child, I have another request. I need to speak with the woman and man who manned your booth at yesterday's 4th of July Festival in Troy."

Yeshua Goyathlay nodded. "Of course. That would be Ruth Child and Simon Child. Our congregation has grown so much that our Sunday services are split into five hierarchies. The most faithful worship last. Ruth and Simon are among the Lord's finest disciples. Those two are working right now, but I'll send for them." He turned to a worshiper in the chapel.

Sheriff McCoy interrupted him. "No, tell me where they are, and our officers will bring them here."

"Well, Ruth Child is working in the handicraft tent. She is such a remarkable artisan. And Simon Child is at the sawmill by the river. You should see what a master carpenter he is. Joseph, my earthly father from 2,000 years ago was also a master carpenter and I his apprentice."

"That's fine Mister Child. Now let's dispense of all the hokeypokey. You and I know what's really going on here."

"But sheriff, we speak the truth here. It is the only way."

Sheriff McCoy gestured to his deputies and sent three to the tent and four to the sawmill. While they were searching, Yeshua Goyathlay bowed his head and mumbled.

"What are you doing?" Sheriff McCoy asked.

Yeshua Goyathlay opened his eyes. "I'm praying to My Father to free us from this persecution. You are being deceived by a dark unnatural force. It could be Satan himself."

When the deputies brought Ruthie and Simon to Sheriff McCoy, he asked them, "Would you mind coming with us to the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office in Libby? We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Ruthie opened her mouth but before she uttered a word, Yeshua Goyathlay asked, "Are they being arrested?"

Sheriff McCoy said, "No, we just have a few questions for them. Then they'll be free to go."

Yeshua Goyathlay introduced Sheriff McCoy to the man standing next to him. "Sheriff, this is Moshe Child. He is our attorney. May he accompany them?"

"Yes, he can come with us."

"My dear blessed children go with this kind sheriff. Answer his questions the best you can. I will be waiting for your return just as you have waited for My second coming."

Sheriff McCoy stared at Yeshua Goyathlay. "Solomon Child, I have a request for you to also come with us. You'll ride with me. We have a number of questions just for you."

One of the members in the chapel stepped forward but Yeshua Goyathlay put his palms up in a gesture reassuring that all would be fine. He extended his arms, palms up and presented them to Sheriff McCoy.

"That won't be necessary, you're not under arrest. We only need to talk ... if you're willing."

"I am."

The deputies loaded Ruthie in one car and Simon in another. After nearly an hour, the other deputies had finished their search. They confiscated and bagged a few tools, blankets from the camper, and clothing that Ruthie and Simon had worn on the 4th. Two forensic investigators from the Cedar County Office of the State Crime Lab in Taylor Montana thoroughly examined the interior and exterior surfaces of the camper and the two vehicles sighted at the Old-Fashioned Independence Day Celebration. They also dusted them for fingerprints and searched for any signs of bodily fluids and other liquids.

"Will that be all, sheriff?" Yeshua Goyathlay asked.

Sheriff McCoy glanced at him and said, "I appreciate your cooperation. We'll be in touch regarding today's search. Now, would you please come with me to my car? Your attorney will ride with us."

The law enforcement officers climbed back into their vehicles and drove off the compound.

# 7

Sunday was usually a quiet day in Libby. Most people socialize after church, then have a mid-day dinner before their kids either head to the park to play sandlot baseball or pickup basketball. But this Sunday was different than most. A few minutes past noon, a procession of law enforcement vehicles made their way eastbound on U.S. 2.

Sheriff Dan McCoy drove behind Sheriff Shane Wallach's automobile into the back lot of the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office. At least a dozen patrol cars followed.

Sheriff McCoy, Sheriff Wallach and several deputies exited their vehicles and separately escorted Ruthie and Simon through the doors of the building. Sheriff McCoy personally brought Yeshua Goyathlay into the lobby. They were each questioned by an officer on duty but neither Ruthie, Simon, or Yeshua Goyathlay provided identification.

Yeshua Goyathlay smiled, "Officer, identifications are an unnecessary encumbrance since My Father knows who we all are."

They were each placed in separate interrogation rooms. Once they were settled and awaited questioning, Dan and Shane discussed strategies in a conference room situated between the rooms Ruthie and Simon occupied. One-way glass on opposing walls in the conference room allowed complete and unfettered views of the interrogation process in the adjacent rooms. Yeshua Goyathlay was in a different room on the second floor. His interrogation would take place later. Dan, a former colonel in the Army Reserves and who served on active duty during the Vietnam Conflict was well-versed in psychological warfare and intended to let Yeshua Goyathlay stew.

"We're going to speak with Solomon Child last, together. We'll do the man and woman separately."

"Let me grill the guy," Wallach suggested. "I remember him from high school. I was a senior on the football team when he was a freshman JV tryout."

"Sounds good. Do you know the woman?" Dan asked.

"Doesn't look familiar. I don't think she's from around here."

"Okay then, let's get to work. I'll see if Ross can identify the woman." Dan scooped a spiralbound notepad off the conference room table along with a #2 pencil and went upstairs to Sheriff Wallach's office where Robert Ross waited.

The moment Dan entered the office, Ross confronted him. "Sheriff McCoy, did you arrest them?"

"We have no proof they did anything."

Ross exploded. "What do you mean no proof? That goddamn woman was likely the last person to see my daughter." He pointed his index finger at Sheriff McCoy. "It's up to you to interrogate the crap out of her or I'll hold you personally responsible for whatever happens to Peta. For Christ's sakes, don't you people ever do anything right?"

Dan gestured toward the door. "Come with me. I need you to identify whether she's the woman you spoke with."

"Gladly, I'll tear her limb from limb."

"Mayor Ross, words like that are counterproductive. You'll be in an adjacent room with one-way glass."

Ross harrumphed and then stormed out of Sheriff Wallach's office. They went downstairs and stepped into the conference room. The pair were greeted by two deputies from the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office and Deputy Attorney General Gunnar Erickson.

Ross offered his hand to Erickson. "Gunnar my old friend, did you come down all this way from Helena? I'll be glad when you knock some sense in these so-called law enforcement officers."

"You can thank Sheriff McCoy for contacting my office just minutes after you reported Peta missing."

Ross glanced at Dan. "I, uh...sorry I blew up at you back there. You understand, it's my daughter's life I'm worried about."

"I am too." Dan gestured for Ross to step toward the two-way mirror. "Is that her in there?"

Robert Ross stared into the interrogation room. Ruthie's arms were folded on the table with her head resting upon them. When she raised her head and looked around the room, Ross said, "That's her. I can tell from those goddamned black eyes."

Dan asked, "Can you tell us a little bit about your daughter before Gunnar and I go in there?"

"What do you want to know?"

Erickson asked, "Her temperament, is she rebellious, does she talk back when confronted by friends or family members, does she challenge authority, have you caught her in lies or keeping secrets from you?"

Ross hesitated and then said, "None of those. If I were to describe Peta to you it would be a quiet almost invisible child. She's never been in trouble before not at home or in school."

Dan took over the questioning. "What's your relationship with her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you and she get along?"

"Of course we do."

Dan pursed his lips and then asked, "Are you sure?"

"What the fu...what are you getting at?"

Dan said, "This morning I spoke with Peta's school counselor. She said that Peta reported in the past that you've bullied her."

"That's a goddamn lie."

"Are you sure?"

Ross growled, "This is a waste of time. Do I have to remind you that this cult kidnapped my daughter?"

Dan nodded. "We have no proof that your daughter was kidnapped. We're trying to get to the bottom of her disappearance."

"Then act like it."

Dan said, "Mister Ross..."

"Mayor," Ross corrected.

"Mayor Ross, what else can you tell us about your daughter."

"She used to be an overachiever but since her illness she's had difficulty concentrating on tasks and she seems to be suffering from depression."

"What illness?" Erickson asked.

"Last year she was diagnosed with Juvenile Huntington's Disease."

Dan asked, "Can you describe the disease to us?"

Ross took a deep breath and was about to speak when Erickson said, "Robert, let me handle this. You've been through enough already."

Dan sat down, folded his arms, and stared at Erickson. "Tell me what you know."

"Juvenile Huntington's Disease is progressive and involves a breakdown of brain cells. Uncontrolled movements, loss of intellect, and emotional outbursts are a few of the symptoms. Children who are diagnosed have a survival span of..." Erickson glanced at Ross who faced the one-way glass pressing his head against it. "No more than 10 or 15 years."

Robert Ross tore himself away from the glass and wiped tears from his eyes. "Are you going to arrest this goddamn witch?"

Dan responded, "No sir. Not yet anyway. We'll see what information we can gather and then plan our next steps."

"Your next step should be finding my daughter."

"We'll do our best."

Ross stared at Erickson. "Tell him, best isn't good enough if Peta's still missing."

Erickson said, "We understand Mayor Ross. We'll do everything we can. We'll stay in touch."

Robert Ross was about to leave when he turned to Dan and asked, "Was there anything else that the school counselor told you?"

"Like what?" Dan asked.

"Like...uh, anything that would provide a clue why Peta would run away or why she would let someone abduct her."

"No, nothing else."

With that Robert Ross left the room and headed toward the lobby accompanied by two Lincoln County sheriff's deputies.

Dan rubbed the back of his neck. He turned to Erickson. "Is he always like that?"

"Better get used to it. He may be our next governor."

"How so?"

"He just formed an exploratory committee. Looks like he'll be running in '96 and I hear he's got eventual sights set on Washington."

Dan shook his head. "Politics? It's bad enough running for sheriff."

Erickson patted Dan on his back. "Let's get to work."

# 8

Shadows, created by the ever changing rays from the afternoon sun filtered through the window blinds and slowly crawled up one wall in the interrogation room. Ruthie and Attorney Child had been alone for nearly an hour. Although they had been silent, their every move was recorded on videotape and subject to scrutiny, down to their individual breaths.

Dan McCoy and Gunnar Erickson entered the room, and both sat at the table across from Ruthie and Attorney Child.

"Hello ma'am, would you like a coffee?" Dan noticed her eyebrows lift.

"Who's this other man?" Ruthie asked.

"Oh, this is Deputy Attorney General Gunnar Erickson."

"I thought you said I'm not under arrest?"

"You're not, he's just observing. I'll be asking all the questions."

Ruthie glanced at Erickson for a few seconds and then at Attorney Child who shook his head. She then turned to Dan. "Please? I haven't had coffee in years. It's not allowed at the ranch." She glanced at Attorney Child.

"I won't say a word," Attorney Child said.

Dan asked, "How would you like it?"

"Cream and sugar."

"You got it."

Dan walked over to the door and knocked three times. When the deputy standing guard answered, Dan said, "When you have a chance, get me a coffee...cream and sugar."

The deputy replied, "Sheriff, don't you take it black?"

"I'm feeling a change coming over me. I think I need a little bit o' sweetness today." Dan closed the door.

Ruthie leaned back in her chair. "Do you have to read me my rights or something like that?"

Dan sat down and removed his Stetson. He flipped past a few blank pages from his notepad and began composing a title on the 3rd or 4th page from the front. "No ma'am. You're not in custody and you're free to go anytime. You're only here to answer a few questions. That is, if you'll cooperate."

"If I'm not under arrest for something I didn't do then, yeah, I'll answer your questions...shoot."

Dan stared at her. "I've been wanting to ask you this since I first saw you. What's with the shiners...how'd you get them?"

"Accident."

"What accident?"

"I got caught between a horse and a stall door. Broke my nose and ended up with these."

"Did you see a doctor?"

"At the ranch we take care of our own."

"Right, okay let's start. Your name is..."

"Ruthie Child."

"Is that your given name?"

"No."

"What's your real name?"

"Ruth Child."

Dan put down his pencil and tapped the eraser end on the desk a few times. "Ma'am, this is not considered cooperation. I can choose to have you arrested if you decide not to cooperate."

"On what charges?" asked Attorney Child.

"You both would find that out if and when she's placed into custody."

"But I'm free to go up to that point?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Sounds like a Catch-22," Attorney Child said.

Dan adjusted his posture in the chair. "Well, it's up to you."

The knock on the door interrupted the questioning. Dan got up and took the coffee from the officer. He handed it to Ruthie. "Here's your coffee."

Ruthie took a sip. "Ah, that's nice." She settled back and said, "All right. My real name is Allison Ballard."

"Allison, where were you born?"

"In Sioux City Iowa."

"Is that where you met Solomon Child?"

"Yeshua Goyathlay."

"Uh, yes...YG."

"Yeah, I met him there. Joined his church and he turned my life around." Ruthie took another sip of coffee.

"Yesterday, were you selling jewelry at a booth for the Children of the Big Sky at Roosevelt Park in Troy?"

"You don't have to answer that," Attorney Child said.

She placed the coffee cup on the desk and wiped her hand across her lips. "Yeah, I was."

"And did you see a young girl, about 12 years of age wearing a gray tank top and red shorts? She had auburn hair and green eyes."

"Yeah I saw her."

"And did she attempt to purchase a piece of jewelry at your booth?"

"Yes, but her father wouldn't let her buy it."

"And what happened next?"

"She left in tears."

"And then what?"

"Her father went after her."

"What conversation did you and her father have before he left."

"Oh, he said that he was the mayor of Libby and that I didn't know how to make jewelry. He even bent the bracelet his daughter wanted to buy from me."

"And how did that make you feel when he did that?"

"Wait a minute. You sound like a prosecutor. She's not on trial here," Attorney Child said.

Ruthie said, "That's okay, I'll answer." She stared at Dan. "It makes no difference to me what someone says or does about my work."

"So, I get the impression that you weren't in the least bit upset."

"No, not at all. I'm just telling you how it is."

"But it must have at least been annoying that he bent your handiwork? I mean the time you must have spent working on that piece and then to have it ruined right in front of your eyes."

"No, I melted down the silver and reworked it. When I'm done with one piece I go on to another."

"Weren't you just a little bit upset?"

Ruthie took another sip of coffee. "I get joy in making fine jewelry. Once they're made I move on."

"Did it bother you the way he treated his daughter?"

"Yes, but those who have welcomed the Lord into their own hearts would feel the same way."

"Enough to do something about it?"

Attorney Child asked, "What's going on here?"

"It's just a simple question," Dan said.

Ruthie asked, "Is there something you're not telling me? Was there an accident? Did that little girl get hurt by someone?"

"Just answer the question."

Ruthie took another sip of coffee. "No, I didn't do nothing. I thought you said I'm not under arrest?"

"You're not."

"It sure sounds like your trying your best to get me to say something you already want to hear."

Erickson interjected, "Dan, I know I'm only an observer but perhaps we should move on?"

Dan nodded. "Okay, did you see the girl again, later that day?"

Ruthie said, "No sir."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"She's missing. Her parents are heartbroken."

"Oh my gosh. I would, I mean...you don't think I had anything to do with her being missing, do you?"

"We're only trying to locate her before anything bad may happen. Can you remember..." a knock on the door interrupted the questioning. "Excuse me." Sheriff McCoy got up, went into the hallway, and closed the door behind him leaving Ruthie and Erickson alone in the room. Dan met Undersheriff Tom Hyde in the hallway and asked him, "What's up?"

"Everything in the camper was clean as were the clothes they wore and their equipment at the booth. No traces of blood, a struggle, weapons, or any gunpowder residue. We're still checking the fingerprints we lifted off the camper and the vehicles. Fortunately, Ross fingerprinted his children when he ran for mayor. We should hear back in a couple three hours or so."

Dan scratched his chin. "Good work. Thanks Tom."

Dan reentered the interrogation room. Ruthie and Attorney Child remained seated across from Erickson. "Did I miss anything while I was out there?" he asked.

"Not a thing," Erickson said.

Dan continued, "We heard that you packed up your booth and left early. Can you tell us why?"

"Of course. I ran out of silver. We hung around a bit longer, but people stopped coming by when they saw we didn't have anything new to sell."

"Tell me when was the last time that you saw the young girl."

"When she left the booth."

"And did you see anyone else near your booth or someone hanging around your booth that seemed out of place or didn't belong there?"

"No, uh...wait, yes there was someone."

"Who?"

"Three Indians."

"Native Americans?"

"Yeah, they seemed upset that people were on their land."

"What land?"

"Oh, I don't know...maybe the land the fair was on. They mentioned the word Kootenai. I mean that's the name of the river that runs alongside where they held the fair, right?"

"Yes, that's true. Did you overhear them talking about anything else?"

"They threatened us at the fair."

"In what way?"

"They said they would take from the land whatever they felt belonged to them."

"And you took that as a direct threat to your congregation?"

"Yes, wouldn't you?"

"Can you describe them?"

"One was tall, wearing a shirt with fringes and another one wasn't much older and had on some type of animal hide shirt. The third man was way older and wore these silver necklaces. Because I work with silver, I noticed them right away. He seemed to be in his eighties or nineties and he used a walker. I thought I caught them staring at that young girl you said is missing. I think I recall the older man touching her too. My impression was that they seemed preoccupied with her when they crossed paths."

Dan turned the page in his notebook and kept writing. "Do you know their names?"

"No but I heard them mention that they're from Bonners Ferry Idaho."

"Kutenai?"

"What?"

"There's a reservation in Bonners Ferry Idaho. Belongs to the Kutenai Tribe."

"I guess that's them."

"You think they had anything to do with that missing girl?"

"I'm not sure." There was a long moment of silence and then Ruthie asked, "Is that it, do you have any more questions?"

Dan looked at Erickson. "No, I think we're done here. Gunnar, any questions you can think of that haven't been asked?"

Deputy Attorney General Gunnar Erickson said, "Not at this moment but we reserve the right to recall you, Miss...Child?"

Attorney Child asked, "She wouldn't be under arrest at that time as well, right?"

Dan spoke up, "Can't say for sure but Miss Child, if you haven't done anything wrong you have nothing to worry about."

"Then I can go?"

"Yes, you're free to go. You can wait outside in the lobby until Sheriff Wallach is done questioning your friends."

She thanked Dan and left the room. Deputy Attorney General Gunnar Erickson and the officer on guard escorted Ruthie to the lobby.

# 9

It was different inside the other interrogation room. Simon sat across from Sheriff Wallach. Although the room was stifling, the pedestal fan in the corner was turned off. With perspiration dripping from his forehead and his collar drenched in sweat, Simon squirmed in his seat and stared at Sheriff Wallach. The silence hung heavy in the room until Sheriff Wallach got the response he was waiting for.

"Do you mind turning that fan on?" Simon asked.

"Not at all," Sheriff Wallach said. He got up, walked over to the fan, turned it on, and then swiveled it around so that the blades cooled the green painted wall.

"That's a lot of help, ain't it?" Simon sarcastically asked.

"You're welcome." Sheriff Wallach sat back down and opened a folder on the table. He pulled out a pen and began to take notes. He then glanced at Simon, put down the folder, got up from his seat and stood behind him. That's when Attorney Child entered the room.

"Simon, how are you?" Attorney Child asked.

"I'm okay."

Sheriff Wallach began the questioning. "You understand that you're here of your own free will and that if you so choose you can end this interview anytime you wish."

"Yeah, okay cool. So, what do you want from me?" Simon asked swiveling his head to keep the sheriff in view.

"That depends," replied Sheriff Wallach.

"Depends on what?"

"What you tell me."

"What's in it for me?"

Attorney Child stood up. "Simon."

Simon gestured for Attorney Child to sit back down.

"What do you mean by that?" Sheriff Wallach asked.

Simon explained, "Well everything has a price. I give you information, you give me something that I want."

"What do you want?"

"On the way down here, I saw an officer eating in the cafeteria, so how about a nice piece of lemon meringue pie?"

Attorney Child smiled.

Sheriff Wallach said, "I might be able to arrange that. What information do you have for me?"

"Come closer." Sheriff Wallach leaned forward and then so did Simon who whispered, "The Lord is living on our property up in The Yaak."

Sheriff Wallach straightened his posture. "This is not a joke. We're investigating the possible disappearance of a young girl."

"Really? Poor kid. Sorry, I'll cooperate. I was just having some fun with you. It's the residual effects from the pot in my system."

Sheriff Wallach began the interrogation. "What's your name?"

"Simon Child."

"Everyone at the compound has the same last name. What's with that?"

Simon grinned. "We're all related."

"What's your real name?"

"You mean like my real, real name?"

"Yeah, that would be a start."

"Hey, I used to have this line from back home. I'm Joey Stucky from Lexington Kentucky." Simon first stared at the deadpanned face of Sheriff Wallach and then explained, "Hey, we both know I was born and raised in Libby but what the hell, it was a good enough pickup line at any bar on a Friday night."

"I'll ask you again, what's your real name?"

"Come on Sheriff Wallach, mighty captain of the Libby High School football team. You know my real name is William Lindgren. Why do we have to play this game?"

"Did you kidnap Peta Ross?"

Attorney Child asked, "I thought you said Simon wasn't under arrest?"

"He's not officially a suspect, just a person of interest."

"You've already convicted him by the questions you're asking," Attorney Child said.

Sheriff Wallach stared at Attorney Child. "Don't worry, he's not a suspect." He turned to Simon, "Just answer the question, did you kidnap Peta Ross?"

"I don't know any Peta Ross."

"Were you selling jewelry at the Independence Day Celebration in Troy Montana yesterday?"

"I guess."

"Yes or no?"

"I guess, yes."

"Did a teenage girl with green eyes and auburn hair stop by your booth?"

"I don't know. A lot of kids stopped by our booth."

"This girl was with her father and wanted to buy a bracelet, but her father told her she couldn't. Did you see them?"

"Sounds like a mean father."

"Answer the question."

"Yeah, I guess I saw them. So what?"

"That girl is Peta Ross and she's missing. Do you know where she is?"

"How would I know where she is?"

"We think you may have been one of the last persons to see her."

"Hey man, I wasn't feeling good yesterday. I use medical marijuana and was pretty much stoned when I got there."

"What do you use marijuana for?"

Attorney Child said, "You don't have to answer."

Simon said, "No, it's cool. I was in 'Nam and I use it to dull the pain from Agent Orange exposure. I traveled to Iowa and got me a medical card from down there so it's legal."

"This isn't Iowa."

"Yeah, I know but just the same I was stoned before I even got to the booth, so I don't hardly remember yesterday."

"What do you remember?"

"Uh..." Simon smiled. "Not much." Simon waved his hand in front of his face. "It was all a blur."

Sheriff Wallach covered his face with his hands and sighed. He got up, went over to the door, and opened it. He called in an officer stationed just outside the room.

"Officer Crowley, take this man and escort him to the lobby. Keep him separate from the other POIs. I'm done in here."

Then the sheriff turned to Attorney Child. "Your leader is upstairs in the old interrogation room. I'll meet you up there."

# 10

Standing outside the interrogation rooms and holding Ruthie's coffee, Sheriff Dan McCoy stared at Simon as he was led away toward the lobby by the officer assigned. He also watched Attorney Child climb the steps to the second floor. Deputy Attorney General Erickson approached Dan. When Sheriff Wallach stepped into the hallway, the three men stood together. Their eyes met, and each had a puzzled expression on their face.

"Well men, what do you think?" Erickson asked.

"I think she's clean. How about your boy in there?" Dan asked Wallach as he stared down the long hallway at Simon being led away.

Wallach said, "He's either a good liar or he hasn't a clue what's going on. All he remembers about yesterday was that he says he was stoned by the time they arrived. What did you find out from her?"

"The only thing I got that's close to a lead was some Native Americans who showed up in the afternoon just before that girl disappeared," replied Dan.

"Yeah I heard about them too," Wallach said.

"From the guy in there?" Erickson asked.

"No, again he said he was too stoned to know what was going on. He said most of the day was just a blur."

"Then who?" Dan asked.

"Sergeant Daryl Bishop of the Troy Police. He was on duty at the fair."

Erickson asked, "What'd he see?"

"He thought there was an argument at that booth between these people and three Native Americans. Bishop stepped in and they disbursed," Wallach explained.

Dan took a step back. "Think something was going on?"

"I'm not sure but if this guy was stoned, that could have been the flashpoint. Who knows what they said to each other."

Erickson said, "So let's look at this information. All we got was an argument at that booth?"

"Not really. Bishop said that when he was disbursing the crowd he saw a young girl who fits the description of Peta Ross. She was walking toward the Native Americans. Said he saw the girl trip and fall. One of the Natives had her by the arm and Bishop intervened and helped her up."

"Did he question who she was with?" Dan asked.

"Said it seemed like a normal interaction. There was such a crowd of people, he figured her parents were right next to her. It was only after he heard about the girl's disappearance that he started to put two and two together. Said if he knew she would end up missing then he would have asked her where her parents were. I heard that he's all broken up about it. Blames himself for her disappearance."

Erickson said, "Sergeant Bishop presents a different angle to this girl's disappearance?"

"Maybe," Dan replied.

Erickson rubbed his chin. "Then the cult may not be our suspects at all. The Indians could have been involved."

"We won't know until we check everything out," Wallach reminded them.

Dan said, "Then I guess we'll need to look into the Bonners Ferry connection in addition to this cult up in The Yaak."

Wallach shook his head. "If we don't or if we do and it doesn't pan out, then we'll still be looking for this girl years from now."

Dan said, "It won't be me. I'm not running in next year's election. My mind's still sharp but my body's breaking down. Besides I'm coming up on 40 years in the Cedar County Sheriff's Department. I think that's enough."

"So, you're retiring?" Erickson asked.

"Yeah, I'm moving to Whitefish."

Wallach asked, "A bachelor's pad?"

"Not really, I met this nice woman. She works as a paralegal in my lawyer's office. Esmeralda Hightower's her name."

"Where's she from?" Wallach asked.

"She's a member of the Flathead Tribe and lives in a condo in Whitefish. She asked me to move in with her. I also got a job offer to bartend a couple of nights a week."

"Bartending?" Wallach asked.

"Yeah, and I get to watch the Hootchy-Kootchy dancers for free."

Erickson asked, "She okay with that?"

Dan nodded. "She knows I'm too old to get myself into any trouble."

Wallach asked, "Well then, if you're not running, who is?"

"Jim Buchanan...you know, the football star?"

"Taylor High, the University of Montana, and the Chicago Bears?" Wallach asked.

"That's him."

"He's a Highway Patrol officer up at the 8th District Office in Havre, right?" Erickson interjected.

Dan said, "Yeah, I spoke with his wife Kate. Hey Shane, remember, I was basically a foster parent for her when she was in high school."

"I know."

"She told me Jim is thinking of running for Cedar County Sheriff in '93."

"Think he's got a chance?" Erickson asked.

"Oh, I know so, but he'll have a bit of a challenge."

"How so?"

"Taylor Police Chief Peters wants my job so bad."

Wallach said, "I'd hate to see Peters get it. He's as stubborn as they come."

Dan sighed. "Let's hope that doesn't happen."

"Well then, if we don't find this Peta Ross soon enough, it looks like it'll be Buchanan's case to solve," Erickson said.

Dan raised Ruthie's coffee cup up to his lips and slugged down the rest of the contents. He contorted his face and said, "Too damn sweet." Then he looked at Shane. "It'll either be Buchanan's case or the Feds."

# 11

Nothing could prepare Sheriffs Shane Wallach and Dan McCoy for what they would tackle next. Deputy Attorney General Erickson followed them to the upstairs, old interrogation room. They approached Yeshua Goyathlay and Attorney Child who each sat in the office chairs facing the table that dominated the room.

Four Lincoln County deputies who had been in the room keeping the cult leader company, stepped outside upon the arrival of the two sheriffs and the deputy attorney general. A coffee cup with a tea bag hanging off its side, sat on the table in front of Yeshua Goyathlay. A skim of water surrounded its base, revealing where the contents had spilled as the tea steeped.

Sheriff Wallach walked to the far end of the table and opened the blinds across the bank of windows. The sun filtered in casting a natural spotlight on this critical person of interest. Wallach sat on a chair in front of the windows while Dan walked toward the table and pulled up a chair next to Wallach. They both faced the cult leader and his attorney. Erickson sat at the far end of the room and observed.

"Mister Child..."

"Yeshua Goyathlay."

Sheriff Wallach had a habit of never mincing words. "Solomon, cut the shit. You either go by Solomon Child or we'll officially label you an uncooperative witness."

"Is that any way to begin this questioning," Attorney Child asked.

Yeshua Goyathlay asked, "What have I witnessed?"

Sheriff Wallach said, "That's what we're here to find out."

Yeshua Goyathlay said, "No, what have I just witnessed? It's obvious that you cannot see the truth before your eyes. We are a holy people. My followers believe in Me."

"You operate a cult, Mister Child." Sheriff Wallach lit a cigarette and blew smoke at Yeshua Goyathlay.

After a coughing spasm, Yeshua Goyathlay said, "I am to prepare them for Pax Dei."

"What?" Dan asked.

"The Peace of God."

"And what's that?"

"Sheriff McCoy, are you a man of faith?"

"I am, I go to church every Sunday."

Yeshua Goyathlay sighed and then said, "Every day should be a celebration of My Father's work. Do you not step out into this world seven days a week and behold the sky, trees, mountains, rivers, and the creatures living upon it? What if on Monday you walked out of your home and everything was a blank canvas? That is how you are worshiping the Lord the other six days every week. One day a week is not enough praise for My Father."

Dan folded his arms. "And just who is your father?"

Yeshua Goyathlay smiled. "My Father spoke to the first Adam and gave him the first Eve. He instructed Noah to build an Ark. He told Moses to abide by the Ten Commandments that He gave to him. My Father told the world that I would come and sacrifice Myself so that sins would be forgiven and then I would rise from the dead and sit with Him in Heaven. That I would come a second time. Now is that time. Salvation is upon us. Join us now if you seek redemption."

Wallach put out his cigarette in the amber smoked glass ashtray on his desk and blew out the final exhalation from his lungs. "Believe in whatever the hell you want Mister Child. What we want today are answers for what happened to Peta Ross."

"And who is that?"

"She is the young girl who visited your booth at the Independence Day Celebration in Troy."

"I was not there. I spent the entire day in meditation on the property delivered to us through divine revelation in The Yaak."

"You have witnesses?" Dan asked.

Attorney Child said, "I was with Him the entire day. This Man gives of Himself to change the world. We pray and sacrifice so that our prayers will be heard and answered by our Father Almighty."

Yeshua Goyathlay turned to Sheriff Wallach and spoke softly, "It was a group meditation. All my children were there except for Ruth Child and Simon Child. We are nearly three hundred souls working for peace in this fractured world."

Dan interjected trying a different approach that was to the point. "Mister Child, do young girls arouse you in a sexual manner?"

Attorney Child said, "Sheriff, you are insulting my Leader."

Yeshua Goyathlay stared at both sheriffs and shook his head. "Gentlemen, do you think our Heavenly Father would subscribe to such a demonic request or that somehow His children would abandon His teachings and follow such a perverted inclination?"

"I guess that's a no?" Dan asked.

Attorney Child said, "Please understand that Yeshua Goyathlay nurtures the children who live at our ranch."

"And how did those children come to be at your ranch?" Dan asked.

Yeshua Goyathlay stood up from his chair. "They were born there. We do not kidnap your children and do to them those monstrous things that Satan has injected into your darkened thoughts."

Wallach dropped his elbows onto the table and then covered his face with his hands. He then stared at Dan. "Are we done here too?"

Dan gazed at Erickson who nodded. Dan said, "Yeah we're done. We'll bring them back to their compound."

Erickson called in the four deputies who had previously been waiting in the room with Yeshua Goyathlay. Then Wallach said, "Escort Mister Child and his attorney to the lobby and prepare them and their two companions for repatriation to their compound."

The deputies followed orders and Dan, Wallach, and Erickson were alone in the room. A knock on the door prompted Wallach to answer and invite Undersheriff Tom Hyde inside.

"Sheriff McCoy, in addition to no traces of blood, a struggle, weapons, or gunpowder residue in the camper, there were also no traces of Peta Ross' fingerprints anywhere inside or outside the camper."

"Thanks Tom," Dan said. "Did any fingerprints get a hit?"

"We have a copy of Solomon Child's prints on hand. He was fingerprinted in Iowa when he ran a medical marijuana research center there. We sent a request to the Iowa State Patrol when he moved into our area. We looked inside and outside the camper but couldn't find his in either place."

"That's strange, you'd think his prints would show up somewhere in or on a camper that resided on his own property. Can you doublecheck with AFIS tomorrow to see if there was any mistake with the original prints you received?"

"Will do."

"Good, I'll talk to you later."

When Undersheriff Hyde left the room, Dan stared at Wallach. "It looks like this is a dead end."

Wallach agreed. "It appears this cult has no connection with Peta Ross' disappearance."

The sun's rays that had previously bleached the room through the bank of windows slowly disappeared behind a mass of threatening clouds.

Erickson got up, walked over to the two sheriffs, and said, "There's still that report from Sergeant Bishop about the Indians."

"You mean the ones from Bonners Ferry Idaho?" Wallach asked.

"That would be the Kutenai tribe," Dan said.

"Exactly. Are either of you looking into that aspect?" Erickson asked.

"Shane, we oughta contact our counterpart in Boundary County Idaho. See if he can ask questions," Dan suggested.

"Good idea," Wallach said. "What's his name?"

"Sheriff Harrison."

"Right, I'll call him in a few minutes."

"What about going there to interview the men who were at the fair?" Erickson asked.

"It's not our jurisdiction. Let Sheriff Harrison get the ball rolling. If anything sounds like a fit, then we can go."

"I think that we should consider going there ourselves at least for the sake of a distraught father. Show him that we're doing something." Erickson said.

"We are doing something about it. I'll call Harrison," Wallach said.

"Do you know what's going on near Bonners Ferry?" Erickson asked.

Dan said, "I heard the Feds are investigating a family by the name of..."

"Weaver," Wallach said.

Dan replied, "Weaver, that's right."

Erickson said, "The U.S. Marshals Service is involved, and the Aryan Nations also have a presence nearby. If you leave Peta Ross' disappearance to Sheriff Harrison, he won't fully investigate it. He can't, he's already got his hands full."

"We'll let him make that call," Wallach said.

"Listen, I know a lot more about what's going on up there through my connections in the DOJ," Deputy Attorney General Erickson said. "If Peta Ross was abducted by those Indians in Bonners Ferry, with the Neo-Nazis nearby and the Weaver's troubles with ATF and the U.S. Marshalls Service in their own backyard, then she's at a much greater risk of danger than we ever imagined."

"Listen Gunnar, Dan has spent nearly 40 years in Law enforcement and I'm coming up on 30. You've had what, 10 years so far?"

"Twelve," Erickson corrected.

"You're 12 years of experience is going up against a nearly combined 70 years?" Wallach laughed. "Come on now."

Erickson got up, looked at Dan and said, "I gave Mayor Ross a ride here. I'll take him home."

Dan said, "Sounds good. I'll stay with Shane in case Harrison has a request for assistance from Cedar County."

Erickson nodded and left the room.

Dan watched Erickson walk down the hallway and meet up with Robert Ross. He thought how the two of them seemed to be having a spirited discussion. He looked back into the empty room and watched the sun's rays filter through the windows as the threatening clouds moved on.

# 12

On Wednesday afternoons, Montana Highway Patrolman Jim Buchanan patrolled the Havre to Fort Benton route. It afforded him an opportunity to view the 150 plus car grain trains on the Burlington Northern railroad tracks that paralleled U.S. 87 from Havre to Big Sandy. But today would be different.

By the time 6 p.m. arrived marking the end of his shift, Jim pulled his Ford Crown Victoria into Fort Benton. He drove down Washington Street to his simple ranch-style home across from the Ag Museum. In his driveway was a Dodge Charger marked with the insignia of the Cedar County Sheriff's Office. When Jim climbed out of his patrol vehicle, he spotted his wife, Kate and Sheriff Dan McCoy on the front porch sharing a pitcher of lemonade.

"Jim, won't you join us?" Dan asked. "We've got a glass waiting for you."

Jim maneuvered his six-foot five-inch frame onto the porch. It wasn't just that he was tall but as a 30-year old, retired NFL defensive end, he weighed more than 260 pounds. Also, being a mixed-blood Native, Jim would have preferred to let his hair grow below his shoulders, but the highway patrol required strict adherence to dress regs and thus the crewcut.

He hugged Kate and then turned to Dan and shook his hand. "Haven't seen you in quite a few months...since last fall I believe?"

"That's right."

"What brings you here?" Jim asked.

"We may have trouble in The Yaak."

"What does that have to do with me?"

Kate got up. "I'll let you two boys socialize."

Jim turned to her. "No Kate, please stay for this. We both know Dan's not here to catch up on old times. Whatever he's got to say, will affect both of us."

She sat back down, poured Jim a glass of lemonade, and then handed it to him. Although the same age as Jim, Kate's life passion was dramatically different. Last year, when Jim's 4-year commitment to The U.S. Air Force ended, she was hired as an assistant professor in the music department at the University of Montana.

Dan said, "Jim, I know that you were considering running for Cedar County Sheriff a year from this November. Are you still interested?"

Jim glanced at Kate. "We'd both like to move back to Taylor. That's where our roots are, right Kate?"

She nodded. "I was commuting more than four-hundred miles roundtrip between Fort Benton and Missoula, so I rented an apartment near the college and stay there Mondays through Fridays during the school year. I only see Jim on weekends."

Jim smiled. "Now you know why I like summer vacation so much."

Kate continued, "If we moved back to Taylor, then my commute would be cut in half and I'd give up the apartment."

"Well, if you're elected sheriff next year, there's this cult that bought land in The Yaak last year. The Kutenai Tribe from Bonners Ferry is upset that the cult may be disrespecting the land."

"They probably are. I still don't know what this has to do with me."

"Well, since you may be Cedar County Sheriff someday you should know that we think there's been a kidnapping."

"If you're talking about Robert Ross' daughter, I was briefed on Monday. The captain wants us to be on the lookout for her in case someone tries to bring her up north and spirits her across the border. What can you tell me that I don't know?"

"We think either the tribe from Idaho or the cult in The Yaak is responsible, but the evidence is inconclusive. The FBI knows about it, but I'll be dammed if they make it a priority."

"What about Robert Ross' influence?"

"You mean about him possibly running for governor someday?"

"Exactly."

Dan said, "Just between you and me, if Ross knew of a way to keep his daughter missing during the campaign, I think he'd do it for voter sympathy. You do know that she's mixed-blood Native."

"I heard. Blackfeet, right?"

"Right."

"Perhaps she's just a runaway?"

"She's 12 but she'll turn 13 in October. She's never run away before. We're not buying that angle."

"Are you telling me that this has the potential to be a cold case?"

"Let's hope not. If it's just a kidnapping by either the cult or the tribe then we've got a chance to get her back. If it's a..."

"You mean a serial killer?" Kate asked.

Dan added, "Well, then that's a whole new ball of wax."

"You think this might drag on past your term in office?" Jim asked.

Dan stared at Jim. "You know how we hate to leave things unresolved. It would be my greatest disappointment if I didn't find this little girl before I left. You still want to be sheriff?"

"Now more than ever."

# 13

When evening had cast its shielded pall onto the vast Yaak wilderness, a telltale plot immersed within a web of immense consequences slowly unfolded. Friday became a quiet end to a week fraught with tragedy, deceit, conspiracy, and deception all tied to one sorrowful event that should never have occurred. It was around a campfire just before midnight that Yeshua Goyathlay spoke to his hundreds of followers while three guitarists played a slow acoustical version of _My Sweet Lord_.

Standing on a boulder, he said, "My children, today we find ourselves fighting a battle. A battle between our minds and our souls. Let our spiritual consciousness lead our lives. Don't let the mind win over the sake of our souls. Follow the natural law, trust your fellow man, and live as if we are already in heaven, conscious of God, fearless of death, and love for one another."

Then he stepped off the boulder and walked among his followers. He said, "Moses left the Israelites and went onto the mountain to receive the Word of God and so I must leave you now and go into the mountain to prepare my Eden Child for her new life. A new life that will give rise to a new beginning. A new beginning for all men."

There was clapping and praises of, "Holy Yeshua Goyathlay."

Then he continued, "Do not shrink from Yeshua Goyathlay's teachings but instead listen to Him with ears wide open. He will establish a new colony of brethren, all holy in the eyes of the Lord. This colony can do no wrong if they listen to Yeshua Goyathlay and do as He says. They will be persecuted, lied to, put to judgement by false accusations, and tested in the ways of men. But if they stay true to the Word of God and listen to Yeshua Goyathlay, they shall be revered."

The throng spoke in unison, "Yeshua Goyathlay give us a sign."

He spoke to them, "I am the second coming of the Lord and the second coming of Goyathlay. The magnificent radiance of this dual second coming will be the precursor to the end of man's world as we know it. But whosoever suffers solely for Yeshua Goyathlay's sake they will have a seat beside His throne in Heaven. Listen to Him, follow Him, and do as He says, for His is the Way, the Truth, and the Light."

Then the throng erupted into adulation. After more than a half-hour elapsed, Joshua Child, Yeshua Goyathlay's head of security, approached him.

"Joshua, thanks for that call the other day."

Joshua whispered to him, "Sam was at work in Libby bringing shopping carts into Rosauers. He called me and said that he saw the cops heading out of town. Said it looked like a parade. I left the shack and took the guns with me. Hid them by the creek."

"Good. Let the guns stay there. These sheriffs may be back. It's best to lay low for a while. Joshua, go back to the guard station when your time away has ended."

Yeshua Goyathlay turned to Ruthie and Simon. "Come with me now, we will go to the cave."

He got up and left the throng. The three of them walked with torches ablaze past the numerous shacks that served as housing for the congregation and through a trail cut into the pine forest below Marmot Mountain. After a few miles in, the trail gradually ascended the lower half of the mountain. The 300-foot graded path ended at a sizable cave entrance.

Above that entrance, carved into the side of the mountain was the Hebrew inscription for Moses, מֹשֶׁה. Entering the cavern, they descended the nearly one-hundred stone steps sculpted into the rock. Careful to grasp onto the wrought iron railing, they traversed more than a mile inside the cave until they entered a vast area named the _Hall of the Chayot Ha Kodesh_. Varnished wooden floors and walls dominated the room and torches secured in notches along the walls in five-foot intervals illuminated the space. Standalone torches atop iron pedestals lined the main walkway.

Near the far end of the room, on a massive four-poster mahogany bed covered with a lace canopy of mosquito netting was Eden Child, dressed in white linen and fast asleep. Her bed was surrounded by five seated women and two men, one with a stethoscope hanging from around his neck and the other holding a medical book.

Yeshua Goyathlay stepped up to the bed and asked, "Can she hear me?"

"She's still sedated. You can speak to her later," the man with the stethoscope said.

The other man said, "We ran her blood work and have isolated the virus in the lab. It may take some time, but we believe that we can stop the progression of the disease."

"Can you cure it or reverse its symptoms?" Yeshua Goyathlay asked.

"We're not sure. We haven't gotten that far yet."

"What about the mineral water from Curing Creek?"

"It may help but that would take time. It could take years to see any progress from the water. Your best bet is to follow the path of gene therapy. Correct the defect at the molecular level and let the virus reverse the damage itself."

Yeshua Goyathlay gazed at Eden Child lying on the bed. He glanced up at the men. "Then do it. You have three years from this Halloween. When she is of legal age at sixteen on October 31, 1995, I will take her as my wife and we will begin the new world."

# 14

Evenings were a time to relax for Tommy Broken Fingers and his wife. Both in their nineties, they enjoyed sharing simple meals and watching TV sitcoms. On Tuesday July 14th, 1992 in Bonners Ferry Idaho, a cloud to ground lightning strike split the heavy air on the Kutenai Indian Reservation. Appearing through a blanket of fog, a black Lincoln Town Car drove into a remote area of the Rez and up to the Broken Fingers' small house on the flat plain beneath the purple panorama of West Fork Mountain.

Robert Ross opened the driver's door and stepped out. Dressed in a light trench coat that covered a suit and tie, he walked up to the steps of the home and knocked on the front door.

With the blare of a TV in the background, an elderly woman, with a myriad of wrinkles and sunspots across her face and wearing a pink housecoat answered the front door.

"Are you Tommy Broken Fingers' wife?"

"Yes."

"I'm Robert Ross of Libby Montana."

The woman smiled. "Hello, I am Mary Broken Fingers."

Ross surveyed the property, staring at everything and not spotting what he had hoped to see.

"May I come inside and speak with your husband?" Ross asked.

"Yes," she said and invited him inside. She then asked, "Prize Patrol?"

"Uh, no ma'am," Ross said.

The woman stepped away from the door and went into another room. While Ross scanned the area, the chatter emanating from the TV abruptly ended and the distinct cadence of a walker rapping on the floor approached the front room.

Tommy and Mary Broken Fingers each sat on the living room couch across from Robert Ross who sat in a club chair. He was the first to speak.

"I'm from Libby Montana. I want to ask you a few questions."

"Wife said you here to give prize money?"

"There's no prize," Ross said. "I need help."

"What help is needed?" Tommy asked.

He wore a red plaid flannel shirt and Ross noticed him shivering from the dampness of the foggy summer's day.

"Were you and two other men at the Old-Fashioned Independence Day Celebration in Troy on the 4th of July?"

"Yes."

"And what were you there for?"

Tommy first turned to look at his wife and then back at Ross. "People who worship in The Yaak know not of the spirits that live there. Maybe we teach, they receive strength and wisdom from our ancestors."

"Did you see a young girl there that day? Auburn hair, green eyes, wearing a gray tank top and red shorts?" Ross produced a picture.

Tommy stared at the photo and looked at his wife. "Yes, I see her. She trip on my walker." He handed the picture back to Ross.

"Well, what happened to her, where did she go?"

Tommy's wife began whispering something in Kutenai to him. Tommy put his hand up and the woman stopped.

Tommy then said, "I remember girl, call her Pretty One with Hair on Fire."

"Her name is Peta Ross, she's my daughter. She disappeared that day. Do you know where she might be or if she left with someone, who she went with?"

"Not see her leave."

"Are you covering up for someone?" Ross asked.

Tommy's face grew stern and he responded, "I no lie."

"You must have seen what happened to her. She went missing right after you saw her. Did the other men with you take her away?" Ross asked.

"Kutenai no steal children."

"The other men with you, can I speak with them?"

The Native couple huddled and whispered to each other. Then Tommy said, "No."

"Why not, I need to speak with them," Ross clarified.

Tommy said, "They have left."

"Where did they go?"

Tommy explained, "I am old man now. Cold makes my bones ache, so I stay here. They go Canada, where they live."

Ross stood up. "Give me their addresses and I'll drive up there and speak with them."

"No."

"Why not?"

"They live where there no address."

Ross stood up again and stuck his hand in his pocket. "Tell me where they live. I don't care if it's just a goddamn cabin in the woods. I need to know if they saw anyone kidnap my little girl."

"See no one take Pretty One with Hair on Fire."

"Don't call her that, her name is Peta Ross. For Christ's sake, just tell me where your friends live so I can speak with them. My daughter is always making up stories about me to get people to do things for her. God knows what she's said to them. She's very ill and needs to see a doctor. Peta's life may be in danger."

The Native couple again huddled, whispered and then Tommy said, "We have no information about Pretty One with Hair on Fire, so you go now. Call police, they help."

"Son-of-a-bitch, I asked you a simple fucking question to help me find Peta and I want a goddamn simple answer from you or else." Ross grabbed Tommy by the collar. "You see a Blackfeet girl and you think because you're Indian too you can just lay claim to her? What are the fucking addresses of your goddamn friends?"

Tommy stood up leaning heavily on the walker. "No information. Not talk like that in my house. Leave now."

Ross released his grip, let Tommy fall backwards onto the couch, and then said, "You're just a goddamn liar."

Ross pulled a Beretta 92FS pistol from inside his coat pocket. He aimed it first at Tommy and fired two shots that hit him in the chest and caused him to fall onto the walker and crash to the floor. When his wife tried to get off the couch, Ross fired three rounds into her. She collapsed forward and fell onto the coffee table. Ross fired another shot into Tommy when he moaned and struggled to sit up.

Ross pulled on a pair of latex gloves and then checked the Native couple and couldn't find any pulses. He pulled Tommy's wallet from his pants, removed the money and credit cards and then did the same with his wife's pocketbook. Then he rushed to the corner of the living room where they kept the phonebook. He grabbed a spiralbound telephone directory off a desk and tucked it under his arm. Then he grabbed a pile of bills and letters. Before Ross was ready to leave, he ransacked the house. Then he kicked in the screen door from outside, climbed into his car, and drove off.

"Think you Indians can hide my daughter from me?" Ross dumped the telephone directory, bills and letters on the passenger seat. "I'll find those goddamn fuckers. No daughter of mine is going to end up missing in Montana."

# Part II

### 1997

# 15

Dawn broke in the early morning hours of Monday, June 30 1997, as a sullen, depressed, and markedly dejected, man stuffed supplies into the saddlebags of his Harley outside the Cast & Shoot Motel off Route 200 just southeast of Thompson Falls in Montana's Clark Fork River Valley.

His wallet slipped out of his hands and dropped to the pavement. When it landed it flopped open displaying his FBI badge and ID card. As he bent down to pick it up he thought how with his recent mission complete he should be eager to move on with the next assignment on the docket. But a secret gnawed at his insides, something thousands of miles away and unsettled for more than 10 years.

His black leather pants exhibited a paired line of grommets. The bottoms of his pants disappeared into a pair of black distressed leather moto boots. He wore a black skintight riding shirt accentuating his lean but muscular build. The biker threw on a black studded leather jacket and with his thumb and index finger, lifted his full blond beard out of the way. A black do-rag kept his shoulder-length hair in place.

He stuck a Smith & Wesson J-Frame .357 snub-nose revolver and a twelve-inch wood-tinted and black handled Army Bowie knife with a leather sheath into one saddlebag, then cinched it shut.

He glanced at his wristwatch and noted the time, 5:37. Then he heard the familiar sound of a 4.6 L V8 engine. He glanced at the road and spotted a speeding, unmarked black Crown Vic roaring toward him. The car sliced into the parking lot and skidded sideways ending up alongside his Hog.

The biker stepped away from his Harley and stared into the car's window. He noticed the driver sitting motionless behind the wheel, the car's engine still humming. Striding up to the driver's side door, he tapped the glass with the red-eyed skull ring on his left hand. As the power window slowly dropped, the driver faced him exposing a Monte Cristo cigar clenched between his yellow-stained teeth.

The biker asked, "What's it this time, Costa?"

FBI Special Agent Manny Costa, a middle-aged man dressed in a plain black suit, white shirt and skinny black tie, pointed his left index finger at the biker and pulled the cigar from his lips with his other hand. "Axe, we've got a meeting this morning with Sheriff Buchanan."

Axe glanced away and sighed. Staring at the ground, he shook his head. "Weren't you going to take care of that today? We had our "onsite" meeting last week up in The Yaak, or does hogtieing a serial killer not count?"

Manny grabbed a travel-size bottle of English Leather, opened the cap, doused several droplets onto his palm, and then ran his hand across his shaven head and then onto his cheeks, careful to avoid the deep scar that ran from his left eye, down his cheek to his jawbone where it ended in a clump of ugly skin grafts.

"That was preliminary. Today's the formal assessment."

"I'm not even sure that I want to stay in the Department."

"Hey, what are you talking about?"

"Manny, I'm telling you this undercover work is driving me crazy. Sometimes I just feel like packing it all in and riding off into the sunset."

"You can't do that because you know I'll come looking for you."

"Man, what the hell do you want from me?"

"I wanna talk about your next assignment."

Axe kicked the front tire of Manny's car. "I worked three damn cases in a row. I'm burnt out. Give it to Meldrum. I'm headed to Alaska. They started losing daylight last week."

Manny smiled, took a puff on the stogie and coughed. "Axe, you're my number one Knuckle Dragger. There aren't many guys like you, Army Ranger and all, that can do what you do and not get emotionally involved."

"I ain't active military anymore and maybe it's getting to me. Maybe for once in my life I want to lie next to someone I really care about and who really needs me."

Manny laughed. "Where'd that bullshit come from? Hey, once military, always military. I want you to rest up, but we need to close this case today. I'm flying out this week."

"Case ain't closed. Videl Tanas has a gang member on the loose and those guns are still unaccounted for."

"We'll interrogate the crap out of Tanas and find out where that shit's at. For now, follow me into Taylor. We've got a breakfast meeting with Buchanan at a place called..." Manny glanced down at a business card, then looked up. "Lucy's Luncheonette. Then you can go wherever the hell you want."

Axe deadpanned. "It's not even six. Are you buying?"

"Buchanan is. Follow me."

Axe climbed onto his Harley and tailed Manny's car out of the parking lot and onto Route 200. Skirting the Clark Fork River, they headed west toward the city of Taylor.

# 16

Everything was on the menu at Lucy's Luncheonette and that meant it was always busy in the morning and the only place in Taylor for good homecooked meals. They even said Lucy's cooking was the best. Better than what they got at home, even better than their own mothers' staples growing up. And Lucy Brown took great pride in the accolades. Her diner was plastered with framed awards and newspaper articles about how great her meals were.

Wearing her blue and yellow apron with her auburn hair pinned back in a mass of bobby pins, her six-foot one-inch frame demanded attention at the counter.

When she was in her twenties and before she opened her restaurant in Taylor, Lucy was a bartender and part-time bouncer. On a hot summer's evening in 1973 at the Dirty Shame Saloon in Yaak Montana, her patience wore thin. A choke setter employed by Cedar County Loggers and his girlfriend arrived at the bar both fully loaded. When the man ignored the male bouncer's demand to stop beating on his girlfriend and knocked the bouncer out cold, Lucy came from behind the bar, swiftly coldcocked the man, stuck him in a wheelbarrow, and dumped him outside. A half-hour later, Sheriff Dan McCoy arrived at the scene of the brawl and thanked Lucy for sparing him the dirty work.

Now in her 50s and still sporting the sinewy biceps of a female body builder, she glanced up as two men strolled into the diner, one with a cigar in his mouth.

A waitress pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her apron pocket. "Lucy, I'll be out back for a butt break."

"You deserve one Maria, thanks for showing up early today. Be back in ten." Lucy then turned her attention to the two new customers as she wiped down a spot on the countertop next to the cash register. "What can I do you fellows for?"

One man, dressed in a black suit and tie stepped up to the counter and sat on a stool. He doused the cigar in an ashtray, pulled a tin can from his shirt pocket, dropped the cigar inside, closed the lid, and put it away. The other man, sporting a black leather outfit, a doo rag, and a full blond beard, settled in beside him.

Lucy noticed the man in the suit had a shaven head and a scar that ran down his left cheek. She grabbed a pot of coffee and snickered. "If I'm gonna serve someone breakfast I gotta know their names. So, what are your names boys?"

"Name's Manny, and this is Axe."

Lucy nodded and said, "I know you boys aren't from around here. In fact, if you represented the alphabet I'd swear one'd be called A and the other Z. And which one of youse took a bath in English Leather?" She placed the steaming pot on a doily and rested her blown-up forearms on the counter. "I bet you two are up to something good...or no good. Anyways, the way I figure it, your explanation it'd be interesting enough to prod an elk off its hind quarters on a hot summer's day." Lucy noticed Axe stare at Manny, but no one said a word.

Then Manny spoke, "Yeah, my car broke down on the highway in Thompson Falls and this fella here stopped to help and fixed the problem." He grinned. "The least I could do is buy him breakfast."

Lucy smiled. "Awfully civil of the both of you for what you done and gonna do. People helping people and people showing gratitude. Now that's what life's all about, ain't it fellas? Or do I haveta give the sheriff a call and have him come down here to figure out the truth so you all can ditch that bullshit story you just laid on my own ears, in my own place. I can tell you're a cop and your friend's your informer."

Manny leaned forward and whispered, "Not quite but we are here on official business. We're actually meeting Sheriff Buchanan at six so if you don't make a big deal about us being here, I'd be much obliged."

Lucy grinned. "Oh, you mean Jimmy Boy. Why didn't you say that?"

When the back door slammed shut, Lucy's head swiveled. She stared at Maria who held her hands to her face. Blood spurted between her fingers. "Maria, what happened?"

"Damn dumpster divers out back again. This time they weren't satisfied going through the trash, two women were trying to break into your car out back. I yelled at them to stop when a guy sportin' a Fu Manchu comes out of nowhere and pops me in the nose."

Lucy tossed a towel to Maria and reached under the counter. She grabbed a classic Browning Double Automatic 12-gauge shotgun. "I'll fix those fake Christian Children of the Big Sky." She turned to her two customers. "Excuse me fellas. I've got recurring business to attend to."

"You settle things like that out here?" Manny asked with a grin on his face.

"Not today. I'm just gonna put the fear of God in them."

Manny's cellphone rang. _"Hello, Agent Manny Costa speaking ... Sheriff Buchanan, how are you... can't meet at 6, why... okay, I understand. How about later this morning...oh, right, the funeral service for Officer Carl Hoffmann. That son-of-a-bitch Tanas murdered him in cold blood... yes, I'll be there too... then when can we meet... 1 p.m. today? I've got Killian with me...okay, thanks for calling."_

The back door slammed shut again and Lucy strolled up to Manny and Axe.

"Glad that's all taken care of," she said.

Manny asked, "What happened?"

"A pack of three from the Children of the Big Sky, two gals and a guy...they were going through yesterday's leftovers. They saw me and hightailed it outta there. Jumped into a black Chevy Blazer and off they went. They'll be back though. Maybe tomorrow or the next day or next week. I wish they'd realize what lies they been fed."

"Who are these Children of the Big Sky. Is that what you called them?"

"It's what they call themselves. Most of them are just teenagers, runaways I guess. They're a cult, a bunch of long-haired hippies masquerading as holy rollers. They've got a commune up in The Yaak. You know where that is?"

"Yeah, we know where The Yaak is."

Lucy continued, "Their leader feeds them a line of crap and they do what he says. There's some weird shit going on up there in The Yaak. I heard the leader thinks he's Jesus Christ. He convinces his followers to sell their possessions and give him the money."

"Sounds a lot like Charlie Manson's followers," Axe said.

Lucy's voice grew louder. "No, sounds more like that religious cult from Waco that got wiped out if you ask me."

"Right, the Branch Davidians," Manny added.

Lucy continued, "Damn FBI can't leave well enough alone. They get involved in local shit and people die."

Lucy noticed Manny glance at Axe. Then he turned back to her.

He asked, "I thought you were pissed they were dumpster diving."

"Oh, I'm pissed all right but not at the kids. It's their leader that pisses me off. He's the one who sends them on their garbage runs. I just wish the kids would realize he's using them."

"Who's this leader?" Manny asked.

"Not sure of his real name but I heard they call him _Yeshua Goyathlay_. It's been all over the newspapers."

Manny asked, "Go...ya...what?"

"It's pronounced, Goyaałé in the Apache language. It means _One Who Yawns_." Lucy leaned closer and whispered so that both Manny and Axe could hear. "I'm sure you're familiar with the Spanish translation...Geronimo."

# 17

Not one to avoid food while on the job, Manny persuaded Axe to spring for coffees and muffins to go. Once the local library opened at 8 a.m., Manny convinced the librarian that he and Axe were on official government business. She gave them a pass on the coffee/and. Manny grabbed copies of the weekly newspaper, the _Cedar County Ledger_ and the town's daily newspaper, the _Taylor Bulletin_. They secured a table in the back where they wouldn't be disturbed. They scoured the tabloids for news of the Children of the Big Sky or their leader, Goyathlay.

"What are you looking for?" Axe inquired.

"Anything that would show whether or not this cult is committing any crimes."

"There is no actionable incident. No crime has been committed as far as we know, and we're done with the Tanas assignment."

Manny smiled at Axe. "Keep your shirt on. I'm just curious."

"Manny, you're looking for trouble and when someone does that, they're liable to find it and not from the source they suspected."

Manny glanced at Axe. "Relax. I just want to ensure that nothing is going on."

"If something's going on, let Buchanan handle it."

Manny put down the newspaper he was holding. "Axe listen...the last thing I want to happen is for us to leave the area and then the Bureau finds out a lot of crap is going on out here right under our noses. If we can defuse a situation before it becomes another Waco then we all win."

"Are you calling the Bureau on this?"

"I wish I could. If kids were being abused, drugs being manufactured or sold, weapons being stockpiled, or people being killed, then I'd contact my superiors immediately. But I can't get involved in something just because it sounds dirty. Plus, I have to be in Washington the day after tomorrow to report on the Tanas arrest. I just want to get a sense of this cult." Many sipped on his coffee. "Listen, I'd be happy if we spent a few hours looking at these papers and found out that the worst that's going on is that this cult runs a Friday night Bingo."

Axe took a deep breath and then leaned forward. "Want me to poke around here for a few days? I can stay a week or more."

Manny's furrowed brow spoke volumes. "I thought you said that you were headed up to Alaska for some R&R?"

Axe winced. "There's a woman up there I know. I was hoping to visit her."

"Listen Axe, I don't want to keep you away from any planned vacation you have."

Axe nodded. "I know, it's just..."

"Just what?"

"It's just that if kids are at risk and I didn't do what I could then I'd regret it. Plus, I can run up to Alaska when I'm done here."

Manny scoffed. "Forget about that woman up there. She's probably got a boyfriend by now."

Axe replied, "She lives in a cabin on 43 acres near the Middle Fork Koyukuk River in Wiseman. Lives there with her three kids, got divorced two years ago...she's a licensed clinical social worker."

"We may need you in September."

"I've got money saved. Besides, I could take a leave and return in the spring."

"So that's what you're up to? You wanna barter time off. Are you gonna winter in Alaska? How far north is she?"

"A thousand miles past Juneau off the Dalton Highway."

"What the hell's the Dalton Highway?"

"The deadliest highway in North America. The Boreal Forest, Brooks Range, Atigun Pass, the Continental Divide, places like that."

"You ride your motorcycle up there?"

"Hell no. I'll store it in a locker in Juneau. Then I'll rent a car."

Manny laughed. "You must have to rent a monster truck."

"Actually no, a mid-sized car is best."

"Really, why?"

"Stable center of gravity, better gas mileage, that's all you need. That and a CB radio."

"I'll see what I can do."

Axe turned to the first page of May's copy of the _Cedar County Ledger_ and nudged Manny's arm. "Look at this headline, Daughter Missing Nearly Five Years."

Reading in a hushed voice, Axe said, "Libby Hardwoods former CEO and new Montana Governor Robert Ross reported his 12-year-old daughter, Peta Ross missing on July 4, 1992 in Troy. As of today, the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office has no leads in the case. Friends of his daughter reportedly believe that she's still in the area. A religious sect in the Yaak Wilderness was suspected of kidnapping and sheltering the young girl. Countless raids on the remote compound since the girl's disappearance have proved fruitless." Axe leaned back in his chair. "Did the Bureau know about this?"

Manny glanced at Axe and raised his brow. "Let me see that." He took the paper from Axe and read, "This spring, Lincoln County Sheriff Shane Wallach conducted his annual visit to the commune in The Yaak but failed to locate the minor. He reportedly saw no evidence of crimes having been committed. When asked if minors were present at the commune, Sheriff Wallach said that everyone produced identification, and those younger than sixteen were represented by their parents."

Axe said, "It sounds like the locals are keeping a close eye on things. Did you want me to get involved?"

Manny leaned back in his chair. "Maybe. Now get this. The leader of the commune, Yeshua Goyathlay, the former Solomon Child..." Manny stared at Axe. "and better known as Geronimo said, ' _we would never accept minors into our church without their parents' consent. The only reason we call ourselves Children of the Big Sky is because we are all God's children and He provides us with hope and sustenance_.'"

Axe scoffed, "Dumpster diving and turning possessions over to this Geronimo guy doesn't sound self-sufficient to me."

Manny folded the paper and slapped it against Axe's abdomen. "That's what you're going to find out. Call me by the end of the week. If you turn up anything I'll convince the Bureau to investigate and assign assets."

"What about Alaska?"

"Axe, if you do this for me, you can spend all the time you want up there." Manny stood up from the table. "I gotta attend that service for the officer Tanas killed. Meet me at the sheriff's office at 1."

"Are you sure that you want me to investigate this?"

Manny nodded. "Yes, there's too much at stake. The girl's father is the Governor of Montana, there's a cult operating in the area and we don't know what they're up to, and we've got a little girl that's missing in Montana."

# 18

Clearly operating on a tight schedule, Manny drove up to the Cedar County Sheriff's Office at ten minutes to one. Axe was sitting on his Harley in the parking lot. Inside, past the lobby's green walls their eyes focused on the security glass dominating the room. Dispatcher Martha Wilson, seated on the other side of the window, waved them over.

Martha was a middle-aged woman, widowed ten years ago when her husband, Captain Derek Wilson was murdered during a traffic stop on U.S. 228 and the mother of Sergeant Michael Wilson of the Taylor Police Department. "Hello Agent Costa," she said, "Sheriff Buchanan will be with you soon."

Manny leaned on the sill and said through the speak hole, "Thank you."

The door to the inside office opened, and Undersheriff Rocky Salentino, a stocky second-generation Italian American, stepped into the lobby followed by Junior Deputy Alma Rose Two Elk.

"Agent Costa, how are you?" asked Rocky. He extended his hand. "I'm Undersheriff Salentino." A former amateur boxer, Rocky's athletic physique was on display pushing the department uniform codes and regs to their limit.

Manny returned the handshake and felt the vice-like grip from Rocky's grasp. "We worked together on the Bitterroot Killer murders, right?"

"Yes sir."

"And this is Sheriff Buchanan's daughter, correct?"

Alma Rose stepped out from behind Rocky's shadow. Black, braided hair flowed from under her oversized department issued chocolate brown hat. Its traditional center crease was a distinct departure from the Campaign four-dent style hat of the same color that the full-time sheriff deputies and her father wore. Khaki shirt and olive-green trousers completed her uniform.

Her bronze-tinted cheeks framed a smile that preceded her response. "Yes, I'm a summer intern. I start college this fall."

A sly laugh erupted from Manny. "Don't be so modest young lady. I remember what you did in The Yaak, saving people's lives...putting your own at risk. Not everyone gets the privilege to be selected as a law enforcement intern."

Rocky said, "We were just leaving for a patrol ride-along. Nice to see you again, Agent Costa."

Manny nodded. "Same here." He turned to Alma Rose. "Miss Buchanan..."

"Two Elk, Alma Rose Two Elk."

"Well, Miss Two Elk. I know that you have this gift of yours."

"It's more of a curse."

"Well whatever it is that you have, you were chosen for a reason. I hope that we have the pleasure of meeting again and perhaps working together."

"I'm sure that we will," Alma said and took a few steps. She then stopped, turned and stared at Manny. "I have to tell you about that man you caught who has the same letters as Satan."

Manny said, "You mean Videl Tanas?"

"Yes."

"What about him?"

Alma replied in a deliberate voice, "One whom you have forgotten about will deal with him."

Manny laughed. "Tanas is safe in jail, where he ought to be."

"Agent Costa, many are the fools who do not recognize who their friends are."

"Miss Two Elk, I don't understand."

"A star from the north will make amends and deliver that man Tanas to you."

"Tanas will never see the light of day."

"When help comes, just accept it."

"And when will that help come?"

"Not for a while."

Alma turned and left with Rocky. A visibly shaken Manny then stated his business and Martha asked them to take a seat. A few minutes later, Sheriff Jim Buchanan stepped into the lobby, greeted Manny and Axe and ushered them inside. They maneuvered their way to a conference room in the rear of the building and shut the door. They assembled around a large oval table.

Sheriff Buchanan was a tall man with the heft, speed, and agility to have been an Outland Trophy recipient in college and an All-Pro NFL defensive end. Now in his mid-thirties, his dream of returning to the trenches was all but over. His long brown hair ended in a pony tail draped across the front of his left shoulder hinting at his Native American roots.

Manny sat down. "Sheriff Buchanan, we're here to formally clear the FBI case against Videl Tanas. He was arrested, charged with the commission of the offense in question, and turned over to the court for prosecution."

"Call me Jim."

Axe sat down, and Manny continued. "Jim, the case is now cleared. Our resources will return to the field and my job here is done." Manny turned to Agent Killian. "Axe is taking some time off. If you need information from his past undercover work on the Tanas case, I suggest that you interview him today. It seems that he will be up north for a few days or weeks. Whatever it takes for him to assess a possible situation that has recently come to our attention."

"In Cedar County?" Jim asked.

"Yes, up north in what you call, The Yaak."

Jim sat down. "If something is worthy of investigation by the FBI in my county, I want to know about it."

"We have no actionable information. Our concerns lie with a month-old newspaper article we read today and what we overheard at the local diner this morning."

Jim stared into space. "What's this all about? Are you responding to a request for assistance to investigate?"

Axe spoke up, "Jim, you know that the FBI doesn't need a request for assistance if active intelligence indicates that minor children were or may be at risk."

Manny nodded to Jim. "We have concerns."

"Where, in The Yaak?" Jim asked. Jim sat silent for a second or two and then said, "Oh, you're talking about the Children of the Big Sky and probably the missing Ross girl. Sheriff Wallach of Lincoln County as well as myself have been up there many times to visit and the only minors on the premises have been verified as the children of members. The commune bought that property years ago from the owners of several former mining claims. We can't investigate without probable cause. They're well represented by a member who's an attorney."

Manny pointed out, "From what you just told us, The Yaak is in Cedar County."

"That's right."

"Why did the sheriff from Lincoln County respond?"

"Sheriff Wallach went there at the insistence of Robert Ross."

"The father of the missing girl?" Manny asked.

"Yes. At that time, Robert Ross was the CEO of Libby Hardwoods and the mayor of Libby which is the county seat of Lincoln County. Ross was elected governor last fall. Ross is also good friends with Wallach. My predecessor, Sheriff Dan McCoy allowed Sheriff Wallach to visit the group as a courtesy to a frantic father. A number of deputies from Cedar County accompanied them to the compound so our county was indeed represented."

"Can you verify for me what Ross's concern was with the Children of the Big Sky?"

"His daughter, Peta Ross went missing in '92 when she was just 12 years old. She disappeared at the annual Old-Fashioned Independence Day Celebration in Troy."

Axe asked, "What happened?"

"No one can say for sure. At first, they thought the group calling themselves Children of the Big Sky took her, but they thoroughly investigated it, and nothing came of it. They searched their compound and a camper they suspected was involved in the abduction, but everything turned out clean. No traces of blood, weapons, gunshot residue...not even the girl's fingerprints inside the camper."

"Disappeared?"

"Seems like it's possible. Then they turned their attention to members of the Kutenai Tribe from Bonners Ferry Idaho."

"Why?" Manny asked.

"It appears they were in the vicinity where Peta Ross was last seen. A member of the Troy Police Department was on duty at the fair and remembers one of the Native Americans was near the girl and may have interacted with her."

"Did anyone check that lead?"

"Yes, Sheriff McCoy, a few of his deputies, and an FBI agent went with them to Idaho and then to Canada to interview the men who were at the fair."

Manny asked, "What did they find out?"

"There was no evidence that the girl was abducted by the tribe nor that she ever stepped foot in Idaho. With no evidence that she ever left the state of Montana or that it was even an abduction in the first place, the agent in charge removed himself from the case and left it in our hands."

"Would it be worth it for us to go there and talk to these people in Idaho or Canada?"

Jim shook his head. "It's best to stay away from there. With the Ruby Ridge Incident in the rearview mirror plus the fact there was a home invasion on the Rez just ten days after Peta Ross disappeared, people up there are on edge."

"Tell me about the home invasion."

"One of the men who saw Peta just before she disappeared, him and his wife were murdered."

"Well, that's telling. Do you think the murders and this girl's disappearance are connected?" Manny asked.

"We first thought it was the cult in The Yaak but when we questioned them about it they were even more surprised than us and they had alibies on the day of the murders."

"Alibies?"

"It seems a series of storms rumbled through the Idaho panhandle and western Montana and the cult up in The Yaak huddled in place to protect their crops, animals, and buildings until the storms passed."

Manny asked, "So now my question is, did those tribal members have something to do with the disappearance of that girl and were the murders an act to keep someone's mouth shut?"

"I doubt it. It looks like robbery was the motive. The couple's credit cards and money were stolen. It's not unusual for things like that to happen on the Rez. Drug and alcohol dependence feeds a certain criminal element," Jim said.

"Any evidence recovered at the scene?"

"Unfortunately, no. We didn't get any hits on fingerprints and there was a flash flood from the storm that washed away any tire impressions and footprints."

"What's the current status of the Peta Ross case?" Manny asked.

"Simply a runaway. We've received tips about sightings of her from Seattle to Dallas and back. None checked out. She's probably out of the area by now. She's certainly not in The Yaak. That aspect's been reviewed more than it deserves. It's a shame that she went missing but I don't have to remind you the number of missing and exploited children that are reported each year. We review the facts from time to time, check out new leads that come forward and interview people who report seeing the girl."

Manny asked, "So now she'd be about 17?"

"Yes, if she's still alive she'll be 18 on Halloween this year."

"Were the parents thoroughly checked out?"

"As far as we know, the Rosses are happily married. They have two other children, an older boy and a younger girl. Peta was a middle child. Once he was elected governor they moved to Helena. They no longer live in the area."

"What about the leader of this cult, I heard he calls himself Geronimo."

"That I can talk about. His real name is Solomon Child. Born and raised on the southeast coast. His family moved a lot, Savanna, Jacksonville, Gulf Shores, Biloxi, Baton Rouge, Corpus Christi. His father, Jerimiah Child was a Baptist minister trying to stay one step ahead of the law."

"Explain?" Manny asked.

"He scammed his parishioners. Started his church, built up a congregation and when the bank account reached into the thousands, he'd abscond with the money."

Axe leaned forward. "He did this in each of those cities?"

"The authorities think he hit a few others as well because there are gaps in his movement. For instance, when he left Jacksonville, it took him two years before he resurfaced in Gulf Shores."

"And he got away with all this?"

Jim took a deep breath and nodded. "Every time. He also inflicted corporal punishment on his parishioners and no one reported it. Called it the Lord's Desire. He ran amok with it. Back in the 50s, law enforcement didn't have the technology and the cooperation from other agencies like it has today."

Manny asked, "I've heard enough about the goddamn deranged father. You got a description of his son...Solomon Child?"

"Yeah, he's, 6-3, 190 pounds, 45 years old, long brown hair. He also has a scar on his right shoulder from a bullet wound..."

Manny interrupted Jim. "Bullet wound?"

"Got it in 'Nam. I believe in '70."

"He's a vet?"

"You could say that. Halfway into his stint in 'Nam his platoon got ambushed. He was the only survivor. There was concern that his story was fabricated but without any proof the Army had to close the case. They offered him an honorable discharge and he took it."

"What's he done since he got out?"

"He dabbled in religion just like his father but instead of a traditional denomination, he formed his own churches."

"That way, he could better control things," Axe noted.

"Exactly," Jim said.

"Do you know where he ran his churches?" Manny asked.

"From what we gather, after 'Nam he moved around the States a bit before settling in Tulsa in '73. That's where he started his own church, the Salvation of Christ."

Manny asked, "Where was his father at that time?"

"Dead by then. It seems things caught up with him a year earlier in Corpus Christi. His wife, Rachel walked in on him with a parishioner in their bed. She used a 12-gauge shotgun."

"Was she charged with murder or manslaughter?"

"Neither, she reloaded twice. Once for her husband's lover and the second time on herself."

"Double murder-suicide?"

"You got it."

"What else has the son done since his first church?"

"That lasted until the late 70s. Then he was run out of town. A warrant was issued for suspected sexual abuse, but no one was willing to testify. Seems he started a sect within the church that he called the Daughters of Solomon. Impregnated a couple of young women who..."

"Any underage?" Axe questioned.

Jim responded, "Not that we're aware of."

"Go on," Manny said.

"They later gave up the children for adoption."

"What next?"

"He settled in Omaha and got a regular job at the local community newspaper. Once they gave him permission to run a weekly Christian advice column, he gathered a following and they suggested that he start a church."

"How'd that turn out?"

Jim nodded and raised his eyebrows. "Astonishing. He kept it legit for the entire time he was there."

"Really?" Manny questioned. "Then what happened?"

"Ran into hard times with the downturn in the economy in '87. By the fall of '88 his congregation disbanded, and we didn't hear from Solomon Child until a year later."

"What did he do then?"

"He moved to Sioux City in '89 and started the Divinity of the Lord."

"Anything afoul of the law?" Manny asked.

"Nothing major."

Axe, who had been quiet for most of the discussion, asked, "Any reports of sexual abuse at that place in Iowa?"

"No but he was served a series of summons for growing marijuana plants," Jim said.

Manny squirmed in his seat. "Really?"

"His lawyer cited Iowa's administrative rules allowing for the medical use of marijuana through a therapeutic research center. They even registered with the state as a small business, calling themselves the Divinity Therapeutic Research Center."

Manny laughed. "And how did that go over?"

"It flowed through the courts and went nowhere. The lawyer representing Solomon Child used every tactic in the book to either challenge what qualifies as a research center under the law or delay the court proceedings."

"When did he arrive in your county?" Manny asked.

"It was back in the spring of '92. I was patrolling U.S. 87 from Havre to south of Fort Benton for the Highway Patrol's 8th District Office. Dan McCoy was sheriff."

"What caused this Child guy to leave Sioux City?"

"I think it was a combination of the cost of defending his right to grow marijuana and the resulting negative press. Anyway, he packed up most of his followers and they settled on just over 60 thousand acres in The Yaak."

"Sorry Jim, math wasn't my major in college. What does that convert to in square miles?"

"About 96 square miles."

"I know a 10 by 10 piece would be 100 square miles, just what are the exact dimensions of their compound?"

"Eight miles by twelve miles, give or take a few thousand feet in either direction."

Manny shook his head. "That's a huge piece of property."

"Most of it is rugged terrain in the Purcell Mountains."

"Squatters?"

"No, he paid cash."

"How much?"

"Just under five million."

"How did he acquire all that cash?"

"Marijuana sales, gifts from his members, and who knows where else."

"What kind of a racket does he have going on up there?"

"Within his membership, he's got a crack contingent of tradespeople and they built a sawmill, a chapel, a community center, and about a dozen or so cabins. He keeps the women and men separated on the compound. The women work the gardens and tend to the beehives, the men hunt for game, and the tradespeople build and maintain the place. Some also show up at craft fairs peddling jewelry, blankets, honey, woodcrafts, you name it. They've got horses up there as well."

"We heard he calls himself, Yeshua Goyathlay," Axe interjected.

Jim covered his face with his hands and then slowly folded them until they settled under his chin and his elbows rested on the table. With his eyes closed he said, "The Kutenai people who used to live on that land for centuries call the names that he uses outright blasphemy."

"Are you surprised?" Axe questioned.

Jim responded, "We knew what he calls himself and the bastardized religion that he preaches but there's not much we can do as long as he abides by the law."

Manny asked, "Has he committed any crimes either on the land or off of it?"

"None that we know of."

Manny continued his probing. "What's he do on his property?"

"Not much. We think that he's got several wives. Sheriff Wallach's found a different woman hanging onto him each time he's visited. Sometimes there's two or more."

Axe asked, "Any underage?"

"We don't think so."

"You got a description of the missing girl, this...uh, Peta Ross?"

"Yeah, about 5'-3", 93 pounds, shoulder-length hair. But that was five years ago."

"Hair color, eyes?"

"Auburn hair and green eyes."

"Any distinguishing marks...scars, tattoos?"

"None," Jim said.

"You got a photo of this girl?" Manny asked.

Jim replied, "Yeah, let me go into my files."

When Jim walked away, Manny said to Axe, "Keep your eyes open. I got kids of my own back home. If anyone ever messed with them I'd kill them in a heartbeat."

The file cabinet's drawer closed with a thump and Jim returned to his desk and dropped a photo in front of Manny. "Here you are."

Manny gazed at the picture making a mental note of the partially faded image, young girl, white top, blue shorts, straddling a red Schwinn Bantam bicycle.

"Seems to be a cute kid. No sign of her anywhere?"

Jim eased back into his chair. "No, that's why we think she's still at the commune but either they know when we're coming, or they've got her hidden very well."

"Let me see the picture," Axe asked and then stared at the photo.

"How did they know you were coming?" Manny asked.

Jim replied, "They have members who work jobs in Troy and Libby. They find out things they need to know. They have eyes and ears in the community."

"Are you staying on top of this Children of the Big Sky commune?" Manny asked.

"As much as we can. We try to maintain pressure on them."

Axe sighed, "What else can you tell us about Peta Ross?"

"We didn't find out about this until after she went missing but she's got Huntington's disease."

"I heard of that," Manny said, "my uncle had it when he was 85. Ain't it an old person's disease?"

"When someone under the age of 20 is diagnosed, they call it Juvenile Huntington's disease. And the life expectancy is 10 years or less once symptoms begin."

"And when did they start?"

"When she was 10."

"Christ, she's only got about 3 years to live," Axe said.

Jim nodded. "At most."

"We need to find her sooner than later."

"There's no cure."

Axe inquired, "What are the symptoms?"

"Untreated, there are motor, cognitive and psychiatric disorders," Jim said. "I've got a couple of booklets in her files that describes the symptoms and treatment. You're welcome to one of them."

"I'll take one with me," Axe said.

"Was anyone treating her?" Manny asked.

"The parents had her seeing a specialist in Seattle but since Peta's been gone, wherever she is...we don't know if she's still being treated or if she is, how it's affecting her."

Manny patted Axe's hand. "Well, if she's in The Yaak, this guy over here will find her. That okay with you?"

Jim said, "Fine as long as he fills me in on anything that comes up."

Axe said, "Okay to communicate cellphone to cellphone?"

"That's fine. That way it'll keep us off the radio and dispatch." Jim glanced at Manny. "I assume that you'll want it that way?"

"Of course." Manny turned to Axe. "I'll be in D.C. so cooperating with Jim is your best bet."

Axe nodded. "I'll let you know what I find out. You won't hear from me unless it's actionable intelligence or if people's lives are at risk."

"That's all I can ask for." Jim shifted his weight in the chair. "Listen Manny, The Yaak is part of the ancestral land of the Kutenai."

"What does that have to do with a religious cult?"

"Plenty, it means there can be other nations that have concerns with what the Children of the Big Sky are doing other than the U.S. Government."

Manny raised his voice. "Hogwash, when I was assigned to the Tanas case, I sat down with a number of officials from the Department of the Interior plus a contingent from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. None of them said there were any Native tribes up in The Yaak. Which, I may remind you, represented Tanas' pathway to Canada and his cousin's meth lab."

Jim elaborated. "Back in the 70s the Kutenai Tribe declared war on the U.S. Government."

Manny laughed. "You're kidding?"

Jim deadpanned, "Perhaps you should have researched this."

Manny asked, "Sometimes I just focus on the prize. Okay, what else can you tell me that I should be aware of?"

"Up until the 19th century the tribe claimed most of the land along the Kootenai River and up north into Canada right though The Yaak. It's part of their ancestral homeland."

"And that means?"

"That means that even though they no longer have a legal right to that land, tribal members have lived and died on that land for centuries. The ground is soaked with their blood. Their ancestors' spirits still dwell in the mountains, rivers, and forests of The Yaak. Members of the tribe still go there for vision quests."

"So, I should be wary of the tribe?"

"Not just them. It's a whole other country up there. People in The Yaak either don't believe they are part of the United States, don't care if they are, or just don't want to hear the phrase USA. If you poke around up there you're looking for trouble."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"Manny, this isn't New York City. If you visited a typical mountain cabin in The Yaak, you're liable to meet the business end of a shotgun rather than a handshake."

"I don't believe in that crap."

Jim stared at Manny and Axe. "What happens in The Yaak stays in The Yaak."

# 19

Heralding the waning rays of the evening sun starting their disappearing slide behind the western slopes of the Coeur d'Alene Mountains, FBI Special Agent Manny Costa and Undercover Agent Axe Killian shared beers outside Axe's motel room. They sat on a pair of white plastic patio chairs that lost their luster as well as their sturdiness long ago.

Manny held his beer bottle up to the sky. "Is this what you call a micro-brew?"

"Yeah. Latest thing."

Manny stared at the label. "Mule Deer Porter?"

Axe laughed. "A couple more of those and it won't matter what the label says."

"Axe, do you think there's something to this Children of the Big Sky thing?" Manny asked.

"I don't really know but I think it's worth investigating, especially if minors are involved."

"What's with you and this minors thing?" Manny asked.

Axe put down his beer and turned to Manny. "When I was fifteen, about fourteen years ago."

Manny laughed. "Yeah you wish."

Axe slapped Manny's arm. "I don't turn 30 until next year."

"Hell, you don't look like you're on the better side of 30."

"Yeah and you don't look a day past 50."

"Watch it there. I've still got a few years to go before I reach 50." Manny took a sip of his beer. "So, go on."

Axe picked up his beer, crossed his ankles and cradled the bottle in his hands. "When I was 15, there was this girl. She was also fifteen. I really liked her, but she was out of my class. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Did you date her?"

"She dated a lot of guys. One of them got her pregnant."

"Did that guy do the right thing and marry her?"

"No. Her parents sent her away to have the baby."

Manny took another sip of his beer. "What's her name?"

"Donna."

"What happened to Donna...she ever get married?"

"She found someone. Thought he would turn her life around. They even had a couple of kids of their own. After a few years of marriage, she caught him cheating. Then they divorced."

"How'd you find out about all this?"

"Classmates, my sister, guys she used to date."

"That's rough."

Axe drooped his head. "We hung around with the same crowd, before I joined the Army. I never got the chance to tell her how I really felt about her."

"You two still stay in touch?"

"No, but we have mutual friends. From time to time I find out how she's doing."

Manny took a swig of his beer and then pointed at Axe with the beer bottle. "If I were you I'd give her a call and see if she's still available."

"Oh, I know she's available. I just don't know what to say." Axe stretched his arm and tapped Manny's shoulder with his beer bottle. "How do you say, I fucked up because I never told you how I felt about you."

"Where's this girl now, back home in Oklahoma?"

"Not anymore. We both grew up in Tulsa, but she left Oklahoma about ten years ago."

"It's tough enough in this job trying to have a regular relationship with someone." Many continued, "You know, when you retire and you're living under a different identity just hope that someone doesn't find out where you're living, ring your doorbell and pop you one then and there. You don't want to subject someone you love to that kind of risk."

"I know what you mean," Axe said. "What about you?"

"Me? Hell, my wife's a better shot than I am. She can take care of herself." Manny thought for a second and then said, "You know, let's just hope that Tanas isn't working on how to exact revenge from behind bars."

A lightning bolt streaked across the sky.

"I'll take my chances," Axe said.

They sat silent for a few minutes and then Manny said, "Wait...that girl Donna, is she the one in Alaska that you were talking about earlier today?"

"The same."

Manny dropped his beer bottle and the combined sounds of breaking glass and sizzling suds prompted a howl from a feral dog. His eyes met Axe's. "I'm sorry man. You got to visit her."

A thunderclap bit into the stillness of the evening.

# 20

In the steamy motel parking lot, seemingly devoid of precipitation that had accumulated from the overnight storm, Axe Killian was packing a few belongings into his saddlebags. Special Agent Manny Costa had already left for Taylor International Airport and a flight to Washington when Axe heard a vehicle approach.

Axe paused to watch the SUV and placed his leather gloves on the seat of his Hog. Sheriff Jim Buchanan parked his county-issued, black Ford Expedition behind the motorcycle as Axe walked up to the driver's side door.

"What's up?" Axe asked.

"What's your plan up in The Yaak?"

"I'll walk around and keep a low profile. I'll listen to people and find out what they know."

"I'd prefer that you didn't go there but I can't stop you if you're on your own time."

"Don't worry, I'll stay out of trouble."

"Give me a call if you find out anything." Jim reached out his hand. "Good luck."

With that last remark, Axe shook hands with Jim, revved his Harley, and rode off for The Yaak.

Riding west along Route 200 and then north on Highway 56 was a scenic wonder as the road followed a valley between two mountain ranges. When Axe reached the intersection with U.S. 2 he turned left and headed toward the town of Troy.

Axe pulled into the old mining town and rode around looking for a watering hole. He found a roadside bar along the Burlington Northern railroad tracks named The Kootenai Inn. Axe parked his bike and climbed off.

"Nice Hog you got there," said a man leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper.

Axe stared at the man. A pair of brown boots, black jeans and a white tank top appeared to be scant accessories to his flowing white apron. His smile revealed a missing canine among his other yellow teeth. His stringy hair, pulled back into a ponytail and held in place by a red bandana, was sun-bleached. A week's growth of whiskers framed a bushy moustache that concealed the man's nostrils. Puffing on the cigarette, he stared at Axe and scratched a hairy armpit. "It's a shade corporate for me but it's still a nice two-wheeled hearse."

Axe followed the man's eyes as he admired the sexy lines of Axe's shiny, midnight blue Harley. "Thanks bud."

"You ride with anyone?"

"I was."

"Who?"

"The Badlanders after I served in the military."

The man folded the newspaper that he had been reading and said, "No shit?"

Axe added, "A few years ago we called a bar in the town of Kenton, just south of Black Mesa our home."

"Where's that?"

"The Oklahoma panhandle."

"Big town?"

"Hell, our gang outnumbered the town's population. We ran the place. Kept order and made sure everyone in town was well protected and cared for."

Axe pulled off his jacket revealing a pair of large, tattooed biceps. On one arm was the tattoo of an American Bald Eagle, with talons spread and on the other was the "death dealer" tattoo, a skeleton holding the ace of spades. The man's eyes almost popped out of their sockets and he shuddered when he saw them.

"I see you're not shittin' me that you're a former military man."

Axe looked down at the tattoos and said, "Yeah, how'd you know?"

"I was in 'Nam back in '67. Hell, I didn't want any tatties. I hate needles but most of my buddies got that skeleton one you're wearing."

Axe walked up to the man. "You work here?"

The man dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, stepped on it, and blew smoke from his lips. He cleared his throat and spat a wad of phlegm on the ground. "Yep, I'm the cook." He pointed with his thumb at the bar.

"What are you serving today?"

"Mostly burgers," replied the cook.

"What else is on the menu?"

"A lot of stuff but it's the burgers that are mostly burgers. If you know what I mean," grinned the cook.

Axe laughed at the joke, removed his sunglasses, and walked inside. The darkness of the barroom hid the neglect and blemishes from the customers and the outright noncompliance from the local board of health. The hidden violations were observable in the light of day but were scant defects to the shielded observer. Axe took a seat at the bar and ordered a Budweiser Draft and a bacon cheeseburger with fries. The bartender drew the draft beer into a large mug and placed it in front of Axe.

While he waited for his meal, Axe felt two eyes from the darkest corner of the room roving up and down his body. He turned and spotted a young girl, he assumed was in her mid-teens, sitting next to three men.

"Are you here for the rally?" She got up and with a slight limp, strode toward the end of the bar.

Axe turned to his right and stared at her. She stumbled slightly, and he thought she was either drunk or high or maybe a little of both. Her auburn hair sprung into braids above and across both temples, merging into one thick braid behind her head that flowed halfway down her back. She settled on a stool at the end of the bar with her right leg extended.

"What rally?" he asked.

"You sound funny. Buy me a drink, okay?" she asked.

"How old are you?"

She smiled. "Twenty-one!"

Axe took a good look at her. She reminded him of a typical weekend party girl back home in Oklahoma. The kind of girl you'd drag to the Friday night demolition derby, the Saturday night dirt track, and then impress the hell out of her on Sunday at the carnival shooting gallery with all the BBs a ten-dollar bill could buy. The type of girl you'd expect to get lucky with just because she was hanging onto your arm to temper the effects of a three-day binge.

He thought she was pretty, but it was a hard pretty. Her face was dominated by the sharp lines of her jaw and a sea of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The girl was barefoot, wearing tight, low-cut blue jeans and a sheer, white mesh camisole with spaghetti straps that bared her midriff. The scanty covering revealed the tattooed spread wings of an eagle on her upper chest. Her braless breasts were small but shapely. The rest of her body was thin but athletic.

Axe swiveled in his seat and faced her. "I know you're not twenty-one. And what's with the free samples? You ought to cover yourself up." He swung back and faced the bar.

"Hey, don't turn away from me." The girl got up, sat next to Axe and placed her hand on his shoulder. "I'll wear what I damn please. Let me have a sip of your beer."

One of the men in the corner yelled, "Hey Ede, don't get friendly with that dude."

Ede stared at the men and gave them a sneer.

The cook carried Axe's order from the kitchen and placed it in front of Axe. "That'll be $9 counting the beer."

"That was quick."

"Microwave," replied the cook with a grin.

Axe slipped him a ten, told him to keep the change, and squirted ketchup onto his plate.

"Why do you talk so funny?" asked Ede. She reached over, grabbed a French fry from Axe's plate, swirled it around in the ketchup and placed it between her lips.

Axe looked at her as she dangled the fry in her mouth and smiled at him. "I'm from Oklahoma," he confessed looking into her deep green eyes.

"Okie, huh?" she asked while chewing the fry.

"Yeah."

"That's cool. I ain't never met no one from Oklahoma."

"Your name's Ede, huh?" Axe inquired.

"Yep."

"Ede what?"

"Ede None of Your Beeswax."

"What's Ede short for, Edith?"

She slipped another French fry between her lips, chewed it and then laughed. "Nope, sexy biker guy. Eden...like The Garden."

"Yeah?" Axe stared at her and then said, "Except for the auburn hair and green eyes, you look a little Native to me."

"My mother's Blackfeet. You got a problem with mixed-bloods?"

"No."

"Then can I hitch a ride with you to the rally?"

"Hey Ede, I thought you're with us," said one of the men from the corner of the bar.

Ede turned to the man and gave him the finger. "Slade, stuff it."

The man stood up at the table and said, "Ede, you oughtn't treat me like that."

Axe spoke right away. "Sure Ede, I can give you a ride to the rally."

Ede turned away from the man at the table and smiled at Axe. "You married, handsome?"

"No."

"Got a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Cool." She pouted her lips, pilfered another French fry and let it slide into her mouth. After chewing and swallowing the offering, Axe caught her glancing back at the three men in the bar who were eyeing her wildly. The penetrating odors they exuded telegraphed oil rig workers and the drool around their lips and the sex-starved look in their eyes spoke months from home without a woman.

The man at the table continued his pursuit. "Come on, Ede. That old man of yours won't know what happens here."

With a trio of pent-up, testosterone-addled males, Axe knew that she could be a rape target if things got out of hand.

Ede barked at them. "Sorry guys, maybe I'll see you on next week's food run." Ede turned to Axe and whispered, "I'm bored, wanna go to the rally now?"

"I'll give you a lift to the rally in a few minutes." Axe took his time to spread ketchup on his burger. He wanted to see if these three men would calm down. He expected that when they realized that Ede wouldn't be staying in town, all hell would break loose.

Axe shared the rest of his fries with Ede. She managed to sneak a few sips from his beer while he munched on his burger. He protested but that only prompted giggles from Ede. When Axe caught her for the third time, they both laughed. When they finished eating, Axe walked outside to his Hog. Ede hobbled behind him, a backpack slung over her shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked looking down at her leg.

She placed the backpack on the ground. "Yeah, I'm okay. It's just an old injury. I fell off a bicycle a few years ago."

"Yeah, well try not to fall off my bike."

"Oh, don't you worry your sexy sweet ass about that," she said. "I'll hang on extra tight to you."

"You know the way to the rally?" he asked.

"Yeah and after that, you're coming home with me. I live a few miles up the road in The Yaak." Ede handed Axe the backpack.

"I'm heading north to Alaska," Axe said.

Ede laughed. "Great, that's on the way."

Just then, Axe's concerns came to fruition. The oil rig workers stepped outside, and one said, "Hey Ede, we're not finished with you." He grabbed onto her arm. Ede pulled away, but the man grew more persistent. He pointed to his coworkers. "Mike and Sal want you. You wouldn't want to disappoint them, right?"

"Slade, leave me the fuck alone or I'll tell Him," Ede said.

Axe put the backpack down, opened his saddlebag, and drew the Bowie knife from inside. He flipped the weapon in the air like a knife juggler prepping his audience. "She's coming with me. Now go back inside."

Slade spat on the ground. "Hey man, you can grab any goddamn piece of ass. What's this bitch to you anyway?"

"She's just a kid," Axe said and then pointed to Slade. "And you better show her some respect."

"I'm no fucking kid," Ede screamed.

Slade grinned, grabbed Ede by the arm again and took a few steps toward the bar hooking her neck in the crook of his arm. In a split second, Axe horse-collared Slade, ripping the back of his shirt in the process and freed Ede.

Slade turned to swing but in one swift motion, Axe swung his leg around and caught Slade's knees from behind knocking him off his feet. Slade hit the ground and while he was motionless, Mike and Sal moved to attack.

Axe used the blunt handle of his Bowie knife to deliver crushing blows to the heads of Slade's companions knocking them toward the bar's door. Then Axe deposited his left boot on Slade's chest, and held the Bowie knife a few inches from his throat. Though both were groggy, Mike and Sal drew closer but Axe stared at them and pressed the knife against Slade's skin drawing a trickle of blood.

Slade quickly regained consciousness and shouted, "Get off me, goddamnit." Slade first struggled under Axe's boot, then relented. "Fine, Ede. If you want to split with this biker asshole, then get the fuck out of here."

Axe stepped off Slade's chest, backed away, slipped the Bowie knife in a sheath attached to his saddle, climbed onto his Harley and extended his hand to Ede. She threw on the backpack, stepped up to the bike, slung her leg over the seat, and eased herself down behind Axe. She lifted her legs, wrapped her arms around Axe's waist, and rested her cheek against his back.

Slade got up off the sidewalk, screamed a few curse words and then stared at Mike and Sal. "Just when I was getting close that damn hippie stole our fuckin' piece of ass."

Sal grabbed Slade by the arm and said, "Don't worry, we'll find another one."

Slade pushed Sal's arm away and yelled at Axe, "We'll cross paths again, asshole...and we'll be ready next time."

When Axe swung his left leg off the bike, the three men ran inside. "That's right stay clear of her," Axe said.

Ede whispered in Axe's ear, "Man, you're a one-man wrecking crew. At the ranch, we can use someone like you. The cops keep harassing us."

"What ranch?"

"The ranch...where I live."

"What's in the backpack?" Axe asked.

"Leftover food from the bar and money from those three bastards." Ede laughed and then continued, "They give me money to buy drinks and the bartender waters down the shit out of the drinks. He gives me a cut and gets shit for me."

"Like what shit?"

"Like some nice hooch shit from Mexico. I got a couple extra bottles in the backpack if you want to try. The moonshine will give you one helluva kick."

"What else does the bartender do for you?"

"He pays me to stay here a few hours each day when the rig workers are in town. It gets them to buy drinks."

"Are you putting out for anyone?"

Ede laughed. "Hell no, I'm married."

"What happens to the money you get?"

"I bring it with me to the ranch."

"What else does the bartender do for you?"

"He packs together food for us at the ranch."

"Where's this ranch?"

"Why all the questions? Hey man, I opened to you 'cause I like you."

Axe felt her body press against his, her fingers latch onto his belt buckle, and her thumbs slide down inside. Sex with her was out of the question especially if she happened to be the missing Peta Ross. Axe also knew that he couldn't blow this opportunity to gain her confidence, so he had to play along. "Your last name, what did you say it was?" he asked.

"I didn't." She reached up and fixed her flaming braids. "What difference does it make?" She hugged Axe tighter.

Axe felt Ede's fingers grope his waist and the warmth of her inner thighs press against his hips as she buried her head into the back of his jacket. He started the engine and let it rev. The engine's vibrations pulsated through their buttocks. As they rode away, Axe noticed the cook watching from the bar's front window.

# 21

Libby Montana, east of Troy on U.S. 2 was a virtual picture postcard. On a cloudless day, nestled in a valley surrounded by peaks sporting last winter's receding snowcap the town teemed with beauty. However, hidden among the magnificence of this wonderous landscape was the cruel truth that this community had suffered. It took on more than its share of ongoing remediation struggles in recent years due to toxic asbestos dust from the vermiculite mines that dotted the rugged mountains above the town.

Speeding toward the rally, Ede tightened her grip around Axe's waist. A left turn on U.S. 2 dropped them onto Route 37 and from there they turned left onto Pipe Creek Road. Ede directed Axe to pull onto Sheldon Flats Road which doubled as an entrance to the rally.

Axe steered his Harley into a secured area populated by three men standing next to a Montana Highway Patrol car. The cruiser's blue strobe lights flashed in the glare of the mid-day sun. Each trooper was outfitted in Khaki pants, black tee shirts, and flak vests with the word POLICE labeled across the front. They sported glasses with reflective lenses, a two-way radio on their left shoulder, and a badge on their upper left chest. Shiny handcuffs and 17-gram pepper guard mace hung from their belts while the strap-on holsters bore 9mm Beretta semi-automatics.

Beyond the security perimeter, Axe spotted other bikes, trailers, campers, and tents. Stopping in front of the security detail, Axe recognized one of the troopers, Sergeant Rory Adams. He was a stone-faced, 10-year veteran with blue eyes and blond crew-cut hair. He had worked the Tanas case with Axe just a few weeks ago. The trooper walked up to the bike and stared at Axe for a long moment. He was about to say something when Axe waved his index finger down by his boot.

"Anything wrong, officer?"

"Any weapons?" Sergeant Adams asked.

"No sir." Axe winked.

The trooper turned to Axe's rider. "Legal age to attend the rally is 18. Are you miss?"

Axe turned to look back as Ede responded, "I'm 18."

"Ma'am, I'll need ID."

Ede sighed and said, "What's this bull..."

Axe interrupted her in the middle of her response. "Officer, her family is at the rally. We stopped for lunch in town."

Ede stood up, straddled the bike, and struggled to dig deep into her tight-fitting jeans. She pulled out a small wallet, removed her driver's license, and handed it to the trooper. He reviewed the name, address, hair and eye color, and birthdate. With the license wedged between his index and middle fingers, he handed it back to Ede.

The trooper said, "You're okay to go in once I inspect and certify that backpack."

Axe spoke up, "Officer, I can vouch for her. There's only dirty laundry in there."

The trooper's eyes gravitated to Ede. "Is that true miss?"

"Of course it is. I had to change 'cause I had an accident when I got my period."

The officer first hesitated and then said, "All right ma'am. We have more than 50 officers on duty. If you notice or hear any trouble, don't get involved. We've enforced a zero-tolerance policy." He waved them in.

Axe rode past the troopers and up to a man standing next to a fence. He wore his long hair in a pony tail and sported an apron with pockets.

"Ten bucks," said the man.

Axe reached into his wallet, pulled out a twenty and handed it to the man. "Here you go," he said. Axe watched the man take the twenty and dig into his apron. He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to Axe.

"Ten bucks for each of us, right?" Axe stared at the money with a puzzled look on his face.

"Ten for you but chicks are free." The man grinned and rubberstamped their hands to validate their admittance.

Axe and Ede rode into the rally situated on the wide, flat expanse of land nestled north of the Kootenai river bank.

The former mining area, now converted into a maze of tents, lean-tos, fifth-wheels, and RVs, sported hundreds of rally attendees. Two topless, pear-shaped women strolled by. A nude woman with a near-hourglass figure, lay across a pickup truck's tailgate. She surrendered her body to a tattoo artist amid a dozen or so gawking bikers.

Ede waved at a group of men at a beer tent who returned her greeting. A sign that read, Rocky Mountain Oysters plastered over a makeshift wooden hut, attracted a line of customers. Past the hut and alongside a trailer, Axe spotted two half-dressed women sharing one another in a fit of passion. Axe rode to a parking area with numerous other bikes. As soon as Axe shut his engine, Ede climbed off.

"Hey Ede, who's the new man?" asked a twenty-something-year-old woman with long black hair streaked with shades of blond gathered into a ponytail. Clad in a studded, black leather halter, she walked up to the couple. Her unzipped blue jeans revealed the top of a pair of black panties. She sipped on a beer from a plastic cup and without letting her eyes slip away from Axe's face, she wiped beer foam from her upper lip with her forearm.

She reminded him of the women who passed from biker to biker in an outlaw gang. But if she was a member of the Children of the Big Sky he knew because it was not a biker gang, that he had to discard any thoughts of commonality between biker gangs and cults.

He remembered the training where he was taught to recognize they both shared the power of identity and group dynamics. But he also knew that cults used thought and emotional control over their members and disdained the government. And because he himself was in a biker gang, he knew that, unlike cults they fostered a strong sense of identification among their members and displayed patriotism toward their country.

Ede smiled at the woman and answered, "His name's Axe...and Ruthie...keep away." Limping toward Ruthie, she handed her the backpack from the bar. "Here take this ... and careful, there's shine in there."

"Thanks, I'll stick it in the Blazer. Going back to the bar?"

"Not any more. Today, I found me a real man that's worth his weight in gold."

"What about those oil guys you got lined up?"

"I got money for the drinks I got them to buy. It's enough for this week plus Axe here probably saved my life back there."

Ruthie laughed, winked at Axe, and said, "Axe? Now that's a real name for a guy I wouldn't want to mess with. Ede, mind if I borrow your biker friend?"

Ede raised her voice. "I told you...stay away."

"Hey, you're the one who's married to my ex, I'm not."

"Shut-up Ruthie. You've had one too many."

"Then you better keep him away from me before I corner this man-toy for myself."

As Ede pushed her away, Ruthie laughed and said to Axe, "If you have eyes for her, better follow us to the ranch. Maybe you can convince her husband to divorce her."

"Ruthie, zip it," Ede said.

Ruthie stared at Axe. "You a cop?"

"No."

"You mind if we requisition a few things from this rally?"

"That's none of my business."

"Oooh, I like this guy."

Ede said, "Ruthie, shut the fuck up. You'll get us all in trouble if anyone else hears you."

Ruthie's voice grew louder. "Ede, you're not supposed to talk that language."

"We're not on the ranch so shut the fuck up. I can say whatever the hell I want off the ranch. Stay on target, do the list." Ede grabbed Axe by his belt buckle and with a sway in her hips, pulled him toward Ruthie's tent. Ede then placed the backpack at Ruthie's feet. "Get the keys to the Blazer from Simon and pack this shit away. He thinks 'cause he drives he doesn't have to get shit. Did you get more stuff?"

Ruthie guzzled the rest of her beer. "I've been eyeing two tents and that thingy over there." Ruthie pointed toward a blue Ford Econoline Van. "I think they're together. But I'm waiting for them to go down by the river tonight like they did last night. Then once we've flipped away our buzz and get sober we can make our move. Let's go to the beer tent now and get us some drafts while we can. I heard they're serving hot dogs, burgers, and chili."

Ede and Axe followed Ruthie and the three grabbed drafts and hot dogs from the beer tent and then returned to Ruthie's tent. They sat on folding chairs arranged in a semi-circle and talked for hours. Afternoon turned into evening and the darkness of the night sky closed in around the rally. A few revelers, burnt-out and exhausted from the day's adventures chose to crash. Others, lazy and laid-back all day were ready for a nighttime pagan celebration down by the river.

Axe had kept his distance from the crowds. If he didn't drink too much, lower his defenses and blabber something that he shouldn't, he surmised that he would be all right.

Ede wandered around the rally, seeking out anything that seemed to interest her. She listened to a live rock band, watched a few people receive tattoos, and even caught a wet tee-shirt contest from beginning to end. But she kept coming back to Ruthie's tent. It was midnight when Axe returned to his bike, opened the saddlebag, and pulled his sleeping bag off the cruiser rack. He rolled it out on the ground next to his Hog.

Ede spotted him and asked, "Ain't you sleeping in the tent with me and Ruthie? She offered to share her tent tonight, so we can all sleep together."

"Nope, I'm fine out here."

"If you sleep in the tent with us, I won't put up a fight if you want a threesome. Just don't tell anyone at the ranch 'cause I'll get in trouble with my husband."

"No that's okay, I'll sleep out here."

"You don't haveta worry about Simon, He found some chicks down by the river. He won't come up here and bother us."

"No, I'd rather just get a good night's sleep under the stars."

"Then, where's my sleeping bag?"

Axe turned to her. "I don't have one for you."

Ede giggled, "Then we'll have to share this one."

"I don't think so."

Ede stepped back. "Hey Axe, I got an offer from this guy named Jimmy. He wants me to sleep with him in his camper."

Axe looked away. "Do you want him?"

"Hell no. It's not like I didn't have opportunities. I've been faithful to my husband. He's the only one I ever chose to make it with but..."

"But what?"

"Well, you ain't asked but I wouldn't refuse you if you did."

Axe turned and watched Ede gaze at the cloudless night sky and the paintbrush bands of twinkling stars. "Ede, we just met," he said.

She took a deep breath. "That don't mean shit to me. You turn me on. I dig your looks and how you took no shit from Slade and his crew. I don't want that Jimmy guy anyway. I can sure use his shit though. I saw some nice blankets we can use up at the ranch." Ede dropped onto her knees and took Axe by the hand. "Listen Axe, I'm gonna talk the God's honest truth. There's something about you. I wanted you so bad from the first time I saw you in that bar."

Axe shook his head. "Ede, I'm not that guy. You're just a teenager."

"Then you gotta either be gay or married."

"There's someone I know in Alaska."

"Girl?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you said you ain't got no girlfriend."

"I don't. But I have hopes that she'll change her mind."

"Axe, I can save you a trip. Stay here with me."

Axe smiled and laughed. "Ede, I'm flattered but nope, my mind's made up."

"Alaska, huh? She's so far away, she won't know a thing. Give me one night with you and I'll change your mind."

"No thanks. I'll just sleep right here by myself."

Ede stood up, took a deep breath, and then lifted her camisole. When her arms were over her head, the tattooed eagle fully spread its wings across her breasts. Ede then removed her jeans and wearing only a blue thong, climbed into the sleeping bag.

Axe grabbed an oversized olive Army blanket from the Harley. Fully clothed, he wrapped himself in it and settled down just a foot or so away with his head leaning against the Harley's front tire. He felt a hand reach out to him and snatch his wrist.

"Axe, do you think I'm pretty?"

He opened his eyes. Ede leaned on one arm gaping at him. Axe rubbed his eyes and stared at her for the longest moment.

"Well, am I or ain't I?" she asked.

Axe noticed tears well up in her eyes. "Ede... ."

"You don't think I'm pretty." Ede pulled her hand away from Axe's wrist and hung her head.

"Listen Ede... did you ever see the film _3 Women_?"

"No."

"Well, there's an actress in that movie by the name of Shelly Duvall. She's gorgeous and you look just like her."

Ede began to cry and then whispered, "Take me away with you."

"Where's home, Ede?" Axe noticed Ede clam up.

She wiped away her tears. "Home was never home, and I can't go back there. I'd go anywhere with you."

"Ede, just go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

"You think I'm ugly, right?"

"Ede, you're attractive and you'll grow up into a beautiful woman."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Ede grimaced. "Then why don't you want me?" She sniffled and wiped away more tears.

"Ede, it's complicated."

"If you take me with you, someday I can be that woman for you. I can wait if you think I'm too young right now. I just ain't ever met someone like you. You really got your shit together and then some."

"Ede?"

"Yes."

"Did your friends drop you off at that bar?"

"Yeah, earlier today, why?"

"Ede?"

"Yes?"

"You rode in the Blazer with them... today?"

Ede sighed. "Yeah."

"Ede?"

"Yeah, what is it now?"

"Does Simon wear a Fu Manchu?"

Ede propped herself up on her elbows. "You know him?"

At first Axe was silent, and then he said, "No, but before I got to the bar I thought I saw a guy with a Fu Manchu driving a Blazer."

"Yep that was him. Why all the questions?"

"Just curious."

Ede stammered, "Oh, the hell with it. Just go to sleep... and dream of me."

Axe rolled onto his back and stared at the Milky Way. He thought, _this is truly a Pig's Wings Case_.

# 22

Delusion rooted itself in Axe's mind. Despite his honor to the FBI and his extensive experience with hardened criminal psychopaths like Videl Tanas, Ede's relentless pursuit of possible sexual exploration left him emotionally drained. On top of that, dealing with the background sounds of raucous howls from a pagan biker horde frolicking in and around an uninhibited playground, Axe just couldn't fall sleep.

He glanced at Ede curled up in his sleeping bag with her back to him. His thoughts drifted to the recent assignment to infiltrate the Screaming Skulls Motorcycle Club and bring its leader, Videl Tanas to justice. Now Special Agent Manny Costa was pressuring him to find out all he could about the Children of the Big Sky and its leader Yeshua Goyathlay.

The minor child, Peta Ross could very well have been kidnapped by the cult and Axe suspected that Ede is one and the same and now indoctrinated into the cult's ways. He theorized that perhaps Ede became a casualty of the so-called Stockholm syndrome. Her ultimate survival instinct could have been to develop a psychological bond with her abductors and pledge allegiance to them. Eventually, she would align seamlessly with them until her will was broken essentially becoming one of them. He was convinced that she was indeed a minor and regardless of whether or not she was the Ross girl, he needed to protect her and keep her from harm.

As his thoughts continued to be occupied with Ede's welfare, glimpses of Donna living in Alaska north of the Arctic Circle began to infiltrate his mind. He imagined her living in a cabin on an open plain with mountains hovering in the background. An assortment of thoughts raced through his head. What life had she made for herself and her children, was she safe, and did she even have a perception of the hold she still held on him. The overload was too much and with a mournful sigh, Axe pulled the blanket over his head and slipped into a deep sleep.

Axe got up, climbed onto his motorcycle, and immediately felt the vibrations from his idling Harley. When he looked down he noticed a strange glow. Instead of the blue Harley he owned, it was a florescent red with yellow flames spread across the gas tank. And that was just a hint of its peculiarity. Instead of the Dunlop tires he usually rode on, a pair of 53-inch Galaxy Super Trenchers were affixed to his hog transforming it into a hybrid monster vehicle. The hog lurched forward, and Axe felt the wind whip his face as the torque from the engine thrust the vehicle to redline in just a few seconds.

There was no pavement beneath his Harley but instead, an endless sand bar dissecting two wide seas. Grit kicked up from the tires and as they hit his face, they turned into white butterflies. Then Videl Tanas popped up out of the water to his left and hurdled toward him. As he got closer to Axe's Harley, a man dove from the right and tackled Tanas. Axe's eyes and the man's eyes met and that's when Axe spotted the nasty scar that ran down the man's left cheek culminating in an ugly mass of skin grafts. The man waved at Axe with his left hand while he held a Montecristo cigar in his right. It was Manny Costa and he sat on Tanas' chest.

Axe revved his howling engine kicking up more sand that struck his cheeks creating a fog of white butterflies. A white robed statue appeared before him. When Axe neared the sculpture, the figure opened the robe revealing a large "G" on its chest. Suddenly, the statue reached out, but Axe pulled his Bowie knife from under his arm and slashed at it. The knife penetrated the robe causing the entire sculpture to collapse.

A low rumble caught Axe's attention as a mountain loomed in the distance. Snowcapped peaks veiled in a growing and darkening cloud pierced by lightning bolts that shook the ground, reverberated throughout Axe's body. A subterranean roar slowly reached a crescendo and the mountain exploded spewing lava, ash, and boulders in all directions. Rocks whizzed by Axe's Harley as a looming wall of foamy water rushed toward him.

He threw his hog into high gear and raced toward the tsunami. When the front wheel of his bike reached the crest of a wave, the water broke into a Banzai Pipeline like one Axe remembered when he used to surf off the north shore of O'ahu.

Riding through the curl, he recognized Donna with arms spread welcoming him. Their song, _Lost in Love_ by the 1980s soft rock band Air Supply played in the background. When he reached her, his Harley disintegrated, and he fell into her arms. She nuzzled his face overpowering him with hugs and kisses.

Axe opened his eyes and found Ede caressing his face.

"What are you doing?"

"Axe, I just had this sexy dream about you. You're the type of guy I've been looking for ... strong, sexy, sensitive, got balls and takes no shit." Axe lay there as Ede held him in her arms. "Well, what are you going to say?"

"I'm thinking."

"Keep me safe," Ede said and then smiled. She got under the blanket with him. Axe turned away from her, but Ede snuggled up to him and they fell asleep with Ede's left arm clasped over his chest.

# 23

Sleeping next to Axe, Ede awoke first and shook him. Axe rustled to her prodding and then rolled over. He stared at Ede as the morning sun filtered through the ponderosa pines and settled on her auburn braids. Her hair took on an ethereal aura as if it produced its own luminescence. Once Axe got up, Ede dressed, and then he put away his sleeping bag.

"Let's ride. I want to show you something," Ede said.

"How about breakfast first?" Axe watched Ede give him that sly look again.

"First things first, I want to show you something special," she said. "I'll throw some snacks in one of your saddlebags."

Axe smiled. "Show me the way."

Axe started his Harley and Ede climbed aboard. They left the rally grounds and rode along U.S. 2. Ede nudged Axe and pointed to a road sign that read, Yaak River Road. A few feet later Axe saw the sign for Route 508 and he took the right turn. After nearly an hour, Ede nudged him again pointing to a dirt road on the right. Ede directed Axe to a secluded area near the Yaak River in view of Garver Mountain. Ede jumped off the bike, limped down to a tributary creek, and peeled off her clothes.

Once she immersed her naked body in the water, she then jumped up, screamed, and shouted, "Shit, it's cold."

Despite the cool water temperature, she stayed in the creek for nearly five minutes. Axe walked down to the creek's bank and kept a lookout for Grizzlies.

Ede laid on her back and let the water rush over her chest. When she got out and started to put her clothes back on, Axe glanced away. He wasn't used to someone as young as Ede being so open about nudity and as brazen about her sexuality.

"What were you doing in there?" he asked.

Ede threw on her camisole. "I've been coming here at least once a week for the past five years. It's helped me with my illness. My family calls this Curing Creek. It's the minerals in the water."

"Family... your parents?"

"I ain't got no fuckin' parents. Ruthie and Simon and my Husband are my family."

"Tell me more about your husband."

Ede laughed and grabbed her panties. "I got married when I turned 16."

Axe noticed tears well up in her eyes. "Ede, who did you marry?"

She pursed her lips. "I think you can figure that out for yourself. I already had two kids."

"Ede, then where are your children?"

"Let's not talk about them right now. Soon I'll be too goddamn old anyway and my husband will want someone else."

"Ede, you're just a teenager. These are adult experiences and decisions that you're talking about."

She laughed and started to pull on her jeans. "Hell, my father gave me my first lessons in sex when I was just ten years old, so no way would I call myself inexperienced."

As Ede stood in front of Axe pulling up her jeans, he noticed a small scar on Ede's lower abdomen a few inches below her navel. It appeared to be a branding with the capital letter "G" pierced by a downward pointing arrow.

"Ede, what's the G for?"

She looked down, touched the raised scar, and laughed. "It stands for my husband Goyathlay. Ruthie has one too. She used to be His wife until He released her from her bonds when I came along. Wanna hang here for a while? I gotta let the water do its thing."

Axe closed his eyes and thought for a moment. He reached into one of his saddlebags and produced two woolen army surplus blankets. He handed one to Ede. "Here, you can lie on this."

With the air temperature hovering near 90, Axe pulled off his shirt. A series of tattoos revealed themselves across his ribs.

"What are they for?" Ede asked pointing to his side. She threw on her camisole and then slung her blanket over both shoulders.

"That's my name, rank, and social security number. I was an Army Ranger during Operation Desert Storm. We did that in case we lost limbs or worse and couldn't be identified."

Ede walked toward him as Axe laid his blanket on the ground in a small clearing bathed by the sun. Ede wrapped her arms around him and kissed the back of his neck. Axe didn't respond to her display of affection.

She stepped away. "I just need someone to talk to."

When Axe laid down on his blanket, Ede placed her blanket next to his and stretched out. The noonday sun began to warm the ground.

"You wanna stay with us at the ranch? I can get you in if you want."

"I'm headed to Alaska."

"That girl you mentioned?" She laughed and wiggled her fingers at him. "I can put a spell on you. You can't leave Ede for Alaska."

"I'll be leaving in a day or two."

"Take me with you?"

"My friend wouldn't be too happy."

Ede laughed. "I think you're shitting me that she's just a friend. You can tell her I'm your best friend's sister and my parents kicked me out of the house. I promise I won't put any moves on you unless she's cool with it. I really gotta get out of here. Things are getting bad, I can feel it."

"Ede, I can get you the help you need."

Ede was silent for a long moment and then stood up. "Don't even try to put me in a convent or a foster home."

"I didn't say that either."

She punched Axe hard on the shoulder. "Then what the fuck are you saying?"

Axe curled up and turned away from her as Ede kept pelting him. The blows got softer the longer she hit him until she sat on his blanket and wrapped her arms around him. She nestled her head behind his neck and kissed him there.

"Ede, what's your real name?"

"Like I said before, Eden, like The Garden."

"No, your real name. Before you got mixed up with these people."

Ede rolled onto her back and sighed. "Can't we talk about something else?" She grabbed her right shoulder with her left hand and let her eyes settle into the crook of her left elbow.

After a few minutes she said, "I don't think you're that much older than me."

"About eleven years."

A few laughs burst from her mouth. "That much? You're almost thirty fucking years old?"

Axe pushed her off his blanket which prompted Ede to throw her blanket at him, giggle and run. "Try and catch me."

Axe ran after Ede and her chuckling drew him toward her direction. He found her lying under a ponderosa pine, her unzipped jeans advertising an open invitation. She reached out her arms and pleaded, "I want you now, Axe Killian. Make me happy."

Axe turned, walked away and said, "Pull your pants back up and when you're ready, meet me at my bike."

Ede cursed, "Fuck!"

# 24

Having conflicting desires and expectations resulted in Axe needing information about the Children of the big Sky and Ede, needing Axe. This standoff resulted in them keeping their distance from one another. By now, it was mid-afternoon, they had eaten their snacks, and Ede pleaded with Axe to return to the rally. He threw on his shirt and offered his hand to Ede who climbed aboard his Harley.

"I'm sorry about last night and also today."

Axe replied, "About what?"

"How I acted. I'm sorry for coming on to you so fast."

"Why the epiphany?"

"Why the what?"

"The change."

"Oh, I really like being around you and like, if we actually did make it then I'd know what it's like and maybe I wouldn't be as hot as I am for you now. Anyway, I know we're gonna make it someday, so I can wait."

Axe smiled. "Don't worry Ede. Sometimes men and women are attracted to each other for reasons other than sex. It shouldn't be used to assert power over someone. It should be reserved for an expression of love."

"Ain't sex always about love. It ain't about anything else, right?"

"Ede, sometimes sex is only about lust and that's okay if the conditions are right."

"You mean like two married people and when both want it?"

"Yes, and you're okay. We're all learning."

"No, it isn't. I should know better."

"Ede, we all have work to do in this life."

"I wrote a poem about us. Want to hear it?"

"Sure."

Ede grimaced and then said, "Okay, here goes."

_In the cold silence of the still night_

_a time to reflect, a time to understand._

_Long after we part, I insist I was right_

_in the cold silence of the still night._

_The point melts away long after the fight,_

_now time for a brave heart to take a stand_

_in the cold silence of the still night,_

_a time to reflect, a time to understand._

"That's great Ede. You write poetry?"

"I like to. It makes me forget what a crappy life I've had."

Axe said, "Listen Ede, the best is yet to come." With that, he kickstarted his Harley and they left.

Once they returned to the rally, scenes of alcoholic overindulgence, discrete drug abuse, and degrading spectacles of wanton sex were visible everywhere. Ede and Axe bypassed the clutter and rode up to Ruthie's tent.

As soon as Ede got off the bike, she peered into the tent. "It doesn't look like Ruthie's here, but I think I know where she went."

Ede took Axe by the hand and led him down a trail toward the Kootenai River. As the wooded path wound its way downhill for more than a mile, Axe heard the nearby sounds of crying. They spotted Ruthie lying faceup on the ground along the riverbank.

"Ruthie, what happened?" Ede asked as she limped toward her. Axe ran past Ede and reached Ruthie first.

Ruthie struggled to look up and sported deep purple bruises on both cheekbones that dwarfed her black eyes. Her mouth was bloodied, and tears flooded her cheeks which made her cringe every time they ran over her bruises. Her shirt was torn to shreds, the pantlegs of her jeans were slit down the front from the belt loops to the cuff. Her panties were little more than tattered fragments.

Ede put her arms around her. "Who did this to you?"

Ruthie cried. "I wanted to go skinny dipping, so I went down to the river in this hidden area. I thought no one was around but just as I was starting to take my clothes off Slade comes out of the bushes with his two friends. He says they searched all over the rally for a black Blazer."

Ede shook her head and asked, "Then what happened?"

"Said he was looking for you. I lied to him, told him I didn't know where you were. Then Simon comes down the trail to see what's going on and one of the guys told him to fuck off."

"Goddamnit," Ede said.

Ruthie continued, "Simon told them to leave us alone but that only made matters worse. He got into a fight with them and they beat him up bad. His face got all swollen and he was out cold for at least an hour."

Axe looked around. "Where's Simon?"

"He's farther up the river where they left him. I didn't have the strength to go there." Ruthie pointed with her finger.

"Didn't anyone hear what was going on?" Ede asked.

"No, one of the guys kept a lookout and they stuck a rubber ball in my mouth and kept it in place with a bandana tied around my neck."

"Then what happened?"

"Each of them raped me and beat me up." Ruthie cried. "I thought it would never end."

Axe squinted down by the riverbank and spotted a burly man lying faceup on a large rock a few yards upstream. His long brown hair was wet with blood and clung to his cheeks. The Fu Manchu mustache sat prominently on his face. His red plaid long-sleeve shirt was wrapped around his waist and tied in back. Axe ran toward him.

"Simon, are you okay?"

Simon gazed upward with an arduous turn of his neck. Deep bruises along his ribcage, what looked like a knife wound in his shoulder, and an assortment of welts across his face and neck made even Axe wince. His left eye was glazed shut and as black as a cloudy, moonless night sky.

Axe tried as best he could to understand the words Simon spoke from his swollen lips. "I fries foo rofecf...Rufie buf...fey came af me from differenf sides."

Axe turned to Ede. "Let's get Simon and Ruthie inside the Blazer. Then see if you have anything to treat their wounds. Grab whatever you need to protect yourselves and then get back in the Blazer and lock the doors. Wait for me to get back."

"Hey, where are you going?" Ede asked.

"Those guys from Troy just bought themselves a lesson in regret."

# 25

Each step toward the Blazer was an effort in measured pain as Ede and Axe helped Ruthie and Simon along. With Ruthie, Simon, and Ede safe in the Blazer, Axe got on his Harley and rode off. He searched the grounds for Slade and his two friends. He remembered they were present at the bar in Troy when Ede spoke about the rally.

He surmised their intent was to either bring her back with them or exact revenge on her or her companions. He also knew that if they were looking for him as well, that he was more than anxious to oblige. He was determined not to allow them free range and plan another ambush.

The fact they raped and battered Ruthie and beat Simon to a pulp, set off a fire in Axe's gut. Sometimes good people do wrong things for good intentions and bad people do evil things to perpetuate their criminal nature. Often, there are just different degrees of conduct in the world each with their own levels of goodness and wickedness. The difference being what becomes fair reward or punishment for their behavior.

From a distance, Axe spotted two of the men sharing beers by a pickup truck in the open field where the rally visitors parked their vehicles. Amid other bikers riding in and out of the parking lot, Axe rode toward them, pulling up a few yards short and then shut down his bike behind a row of trucks. A few minutes later the two men were joined by the man that Axe recognized as Slade. He carried a beer in his hand and laughed while offering one of the men a friendly slap on the shoulder. A Band-Aid spanning Slade's throat identified the penetration spot of Axe's knifepoint. He remembered Slade all too well.

The men joked a bit and then Axe overheard Slade say, "Let's go find that redheaded bitch that took off up in The Yaak with that biker asshole. We'll fuck him up and then I'll do her again like I did when she first got to the ranch. I wanna find out if she learned anything new from that old fool of hers. Maybe I can show her how a real man pleases a woman." The three men laughed.

Axe grabbed his cellphone and dialed Sheriff Buchanan's number. _"Sheriff, yes it's me ... I'm at the biker rally in Libby. Three oil rig workers raped one of the suspects in the Peta Ross case and beat up her partner... yes, I've got the men under surveillance... no, you won't make it in time. They appear ready to leave. When they do, I'll follow... don't worry, I'll stay in touch, gotta go."_

Slade and his friends finished their beers, tossed the cans onto the field, and drove off. Axe followed them a good distance behind not wanting to alert them of his tail. They headed west toward Troy but just as they entered town, Axe realized they were on to him.

For nearly three miles heading west on U.S. 2, the two vehicles played a game of cat and mouse. Axe inched closer as their speeds hovered past 100-mph. Axe saw a man stick his arm through the truck's rolled-down passenger window and then a gunshot rang out. Axe heard the bullet whiz by followed by a few more gunshots.

When they reached a straightaway, Axe used it to accelerate and narrow the distance between him and the pickup truck. Axe nearly lost control of his bike when he saw the truck, driving at breakneck speeds, hit the guardrails on the right and then bounce toward the left side of the road and then ricochet back toward the centerline. A toolbox ruptured in the truck bed, the tailgate dropped, and the tools spilled across the road. The shrill ringing of metal along the pavement dynamically resonated over the hum of both engines involved in the chase as Axe managed to avoid the debris and continue his pursuit.

Just as they were within a quarter mile of the intersection with Route 508, the truck hit a mound on the right side of the road, went airborne, glanced a Ponderosa Pine, went down a slight embankment, flipped a few times, blew out all four tires, settled upright, and then detonated head-on into a large tree. The truck's inertia triggered its back end to rise when it blasted into the tree trunk and then gravity took over and slammed the rear quarter back down. Wood chips and bits of glass trailed the path of the truck as dust and smoke filtered down from above and settled into a hovering, heavy dense cloud above the accident scene.

Axe swung his bike around, stopped, knocked down the kickstand and pulled his revolver from his saddlebag. He held it in both hands, pointed it at the truck, and prowled down the embankment and up to the twisted metal. Coughing and cries for help made him stop in his tracks. When Axe got within a few feet of the truck, the scene before him prompted him to stick the revolver back in his jacket pocket.

He found the three men in assorted positions of disarray in the blood-drenched deathtrap. One man, crying and pleading for help, sported a head wound where he hit the windshield. A denuded humerus bone was all that remained of his severed right arm. He lay contorted between the dash and the passenger seat.

A second man, his head drenched in blood and moaning, appeared to have a fractured skull and most likely a crushed right leg that lay hidden beneath the truck frame.

The third man, his face grotesquely unrecognizable and swathed in blood, sat motionless in the driver's seat. The top frame of the windshield sliced off a generous piece of his head just below the hairline from front to back, with his face embedded in the glass. The steering wheel was partially implanted in his chest with one-half of it having exploded through his torso, displacing nearly the entire right side of his rib cage.

Axe thought, _it must be Slade_.

He then heard a vehicle approach from the west. A U.S. Forest Service pickup truck heading east on U.S. 2 slowed down, then sped up to the scene of the accident. When the vehicle parked, a ranger got out and called in the accident. He then approached Axe and asked, "Did you see what happened?"

Axe nodded and then said, "They were driving erratically at a high rate of speed. Seems like they may have been driving under the influence. There's no question the driver's dead and unless these other two get some medical assistance, they may not make it either."

The ranger grabbed a couple of blankets from his truck and covered the two passengers up to their necks. A few other drivers stopped their vehicles and helped at the scene. One of the good Samaritans claimed to be a physician's assistant and began to administer first aid.

The ranger turned to Axe. "Can you hang around a bit? The EMTs should be here shortly and someone from the Cedar County's Sheriff's Office will get here eventually. I know they'd appreciate answers to any questions they may have."

"I can't stay."

"Please reconsider. You're not legally obligated to stay but this appears to be a fatal accident and perhaps even potential multiple fatalities."

"I'm sorry." Axe turned and walked to his Harley. When he climbed aboard, he noticed the ranger jotting down his license plate. He started his bike and headed back toward Libby.

# 26

Later inside the rally grounds, Axe searched for the Blazer but it was gone. Axe then looked for Ruthie's tent, but it was missing as well. Then he remembered where Ede had taken him. Axe climbed back onto his bike and headed west toward The Yaak, doubling back on U.S. 2. As soon as he reached the intersection with Route 56, two emergency ambulances with lights flashing and sirens blasting, roared east toward Libby.

Needing to stop for gas, Axe pulled his Hog into the Town Pump service station in Troy. Axe discreetly grabbed the cellphone from his saddlebag and stuck it in his pocket. After filling up with gas, Axe went into the restroom. Once inside, he locked the door and dialed Manny's cellphone.

In a hushed voice, he said, _"Manny, I've information. I think I found the Ross girl... no, she's unharmed as best as can be expected. I think we can get a warrant authorized to shut down the commune and arrest the leader... no, I haven't met him yet but don't worry, I've got enough on them already... like what? Like a racketeering charge. ATF would benefit in an organized sweep of the compound ... what'd you say? You want Buchanan involved, why?" Axe's voice grew hushed but more pronounced. "I want you to remember that it's been five years since that girl's been missing and the sheriff's office has done squat."_

Then Axe's demeaner calmed down. _"But... but." He sighed. "All right, we'll play it your way. I'll call him as soon as I hang up with you."_

Axe ended the call and dialed Jim's cellphone. _"Sheriff Buchanan, this is Agent Killian... Yeah, you heard about the accident... of course, I just spoke with Special Agent Costa. A forest ranger may call in my plate number... he did, okay. I've got evidence that the dead guy was a rapist and his two buddies, if they make it, are accomplices. They were leaving the scene of a sexual assault and a premeditated attempted murder... I followed them, and they fired shots at me. They tried to get away, lost control of their vehicle and ran off the road... no, I don't think any of them will make it... yeah, well I've seen worse in the military."_

Axe covered the phone's speaker and spoke softly, _"I'm concerned with the suspected cult they call the Children of the Big Sky... I uncovered information regarding their activities... well, to start with burglary, illegal liquor, drugs, firearms, could be even more... yes, I knew you'd be concerned... I have the latest assets in my saddlebags. They're wireless transmitters and are easy to conceal... the technology is not yet available to general law enforcement, just the Bureau... limits? Try unlimited range with 48 hours standby plus 7 hours of recordable time... how? I call using my cell phone, no dial tone or ringing. Not even any beeps or clicks. No sounds at all on the transmission end. Where? I've got a few ideas where to stash them... sure I can meet tomorrow, where... I know where East Glacier Lodge is, a friend of mine was a seasonal there... noon in the what... lobby, yes, the lobby... all right, thank you. Hey, one last thing. Don't wear your uniform."_

Axe hung up and stuck his phone deep inside his jacket pocket. When he opened the door to exit the restroom he came face-to-face with Ede.

"I recognized your voice in there. What are you doing here?" Ede asked.

Axe leaned his arm against the door frame. "I was going to ask you the same question." He gestured to her. "Let's go down this aisle for a little privacy."

When they reached the far end of the aisle, Ede asked, "So what were you doing in the restroom besides the obvious?"

"Nothing. Where's Ruthie and Simon?"

"They're in the Blazer out back. We just got here a few minutes ago." She showed Axe a few products in her arms and then craned her neck to look past Axe down toward the restroom and cash register. "I'm pocketing these baby wipes, bandages, and Neosporin to take care of their wounds." Ede then shoved them into her backpack. "I thought I heard you mention something that sounded like Libby in the restroom but when you came out no one was in there with you. You always talk to yourself?"

Axe stared at her. "Yeah, Libby. I saw a help wanted sign in the hardware store window back in Libby and thought, maybe I should get a job and keep an eye on you."

She laughed. "Now you want me? I can get you a job at the ranch and you can keep an eye on me 24/7. Don't work in Libby for the Man. Get up early, bag a lunch, worry about bills. At the ranch, we do whatever we want whenever the hell we want."

"What happens when we bring Ruthie and Simon back to the ranch in the condition they're in."

"We're stopping somewhere first."

"Curing Creek?"

Ede smiled. "Yep."

"I thought so."

"Hey, you ever catch Slade and his two assholes?"

"No, they got away."

"Shit, they'll be back looking for us. Tell you what though, we got to be careful. The sooner we get to the ranch the sooner we'll be safe. They'll be in deep shit when I tell my Husband what happened. Those bastards wanted to get into Ruthie's pants the first time they met her."

"Forget about them," Axe said. "They'll get what's coming to them."

"Look what they did to Ruthie. It's all my fault."

"No, it's not."

Ede shook her head. "You don't know what happens at the ranch. Those guys were skimming money off the company they work for and using it to buy drugs at the ranch."

"Are you sure?"

"Hell, when I first arrived at the ranch, I think Slade slipped me a roofie. I never had the chance to choose who I wanted for my first time."

"What do you mean?"

"Back in '92 a month after I joined the congregation, they had a summer cookout. You know, hot dogs, hamburgers, lemonade. It was fun. Hell, all of us praising Jesus, worshiping The Lord and all. Everything seemed okay but after they refilled the lemonade pitcher I got drowsy and felt like shit. I got warm all over and then I started bumping into things and that's when Slade brought me to a room in a house he was helping build. I don't remember anything after that."

"You think the lemonade was spiked?"

"I'm not sure. All I know was the next morning I woke up in that house naked from the waist down. I don't even know who or how many there were."

"Did he rape you?"

"I'm pretty sure. I was sore there for more than a week."

"Did you tell anyone?"

"I only told Ruthie 'cause I got a case of the crabs. Ruthie helped me get rid of them. If Goyathlay knew that shit, he would've known I got laid and wouldn't have married me when I turned 16."

"Ede, how old were you when Slade first raped you?"

She giggled. "Shit, I was just 12 fucking years old. Christ, my father did some bad stuff to me and made me do some stuff I regret but what Slade did to me... hell, that's shit even my dad never did. Man, I grew up pretty goddamn fast, didn't I?"

"Where are your kids now?"

"Why in the fuck are you asking about my kids again?"

"I'm concerned about what goes on at the ranch."

"A lot more shit goes on. Like with my kids, I mean, it's not even like I feel they're mine. I haven't even seen them since they were born."

"Why not, where are they?"

"They're raised in a separate village at the ranch. Adam will be one next week and Eve was just born six weeks ago. We have women whose job it is to raise kids." She laughed. "Some of us are good at having babies and others are good at raising them. I guess you know which one I am."

Axe took Ede by the hand. "My friend in Alaska is a social worker. I wish you could speak with her."

Ede raised her voice. "Yeah... well what the fuck is she supposed to do? The shit already hit the fan a long time ago and ain't nobody gonna be able to clean up my goddamn mess."

"What's going on back here?" the manager of the Town Pump asked as he approached Ede and Axe.

Axe spoke first. "Nothing, just a misunderstanding."

"Hey, you're one of them Children of the Big Sky," the manager said to Ede. "I seen you here before. Didn't pay for a couple three grinders and a six-pack of beer last month, I think it was."

"Aw, your mistaken," Ede said.

"No, it was you. Pay up."

"Fuck off, prick," Ede screamed.

The man pointed at them and then whipped his arm toward the road. "You got one minute to get the hell out of here before I call 911."

"It's time to go." Axe grabbed Ede by the arm and hustled her to the Blazer.

When Axe reached the vehicle, he spotted Ruthie and Simon sprawled across the backseat, both out like a light and covered under a pile of blankets. By the time Ede climbed into the Blazer and started the engine, Axe was already on his Harley.

They rode east on U.S. 2 and when they approached the accident scene, Axe noticed the Blazer slow down at the scene and then continue past it.

The forest ranger's truck was gone but two Cedar County Sheriff's Office vehicles straddled the shoulder of the highway, one a patrol car and the other a SUV. In addition, a Montana Highway Patrol Ford Crown Vic Interceptor was also at the scene. As Axe cruised by, he stared at the driver's side and spotted a blanket covering the top half of a body in the front seat.

Axe knew the truck was unrecognizable and Ede would have no knowledge of who's vehicle it really was. He surmised that one of the officers had probably found the handgun the men used to shoot at him. They certainly would also realize that the gun had recently been fired. Perhaps they even found a few spent casings. Axe knew that would lengthen the examination of the accident scene to ensure that no crime was committed. Of course, Axe had no idea what information from his undercover efforts, if any that he had relayed to Sheriff Buchanan would become part of the official report.

Ede drove the pickup north on Route 508 as Axe followed on his Harley. They turned down the forest road where Ede and Axe had been earlier that day. Once they reached the clearing, they helped Ruthie and Simon out of the Blazer. The pair were semiconscious but able to walk with help. Ede took Ruthie down to Curing Creek while Axe did the same with Simon. With Axe's help, Ede stripped Ruthie and Simon and then immersed them in less than a foot of the healing waters. Ede used a clean towel from the Blazer and gently dabbed the cool water onto their faces.

"I got clean clothes in the Blazer. Keep an eye on them." Ede started to head back when Axe grabbed her by the arm and pulled her face to his. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Ede, you're a kind person with a tender, pure spirit."

She smiled at Axe. "They're my family, like the parents I should have had. There's nothing I wouldn't do for them."

Axe smiled and nodded at her and released his grip on her arm. Ede returned the smile and went about her business.

Once Ruthie and Simon were done soaking, they seemed more awake. Ede treated them with the medical supplies and then helped them dress. Axe built a campfire and Ede roasted hot dogs requisitioned from a neighboring campsite at the biker rally. She partitioned the hot dogs into bits and pieces so that Ruthie and Simon could easily eat them without having to compromise their injured jaws.

As darkness dropped its entrenching shroud onto the expansive landscape deep in The Yaak, all four crawled into the Blazer. Ruthie and Simon each found a comfortable spot on the backseat and were the first to fall asleep. Axe and Ede occupied the custom front bench seat lying across its full length.

"Are you thinking of living with us on the ranch?" Ede whispered. "Or are you going up north?"

Axe countered in a hushed voice, "That depends on what you're going to do."

"I'm so torn. Those two in the back are the only family I've ever known."

"Don't you want to go back to your real family?"

"NO."

"Why not? If the courts decide your father's guilty of what you say he did then you won't have to deal with him anymore."

"I don't trust the courts. My father can make them do anything he wants. My mother didn't protect me. I think she knew what he was doing to me. My life is so different now that I can never go back to the life I used to have. Do you understand?"

"I don't agree with you but I do understand that you've suffered a great deal of trauma."

"I'm a survivor. My father didn't know it, but he taught me how to occupy my mind with other things when people do what they want to me."

Axe put his hands around her neck and pulled her head close to his. He whispered in her ear, "I'm sorry that you've had to go through this."

Ede kissed Axe on his cheek. "You're so kind. Why do I end up meeting people who use me... why can't I meet more people like you?"

Axe stared into Ede's eyes and said, "You're strong and brave. I will do everything I can to protect you."

Tears fell from Ede's eyes as she lay the right side of her face on Axe's chest. She fell asleep with her left arm around Axe's waist, her left leg sprawled across his legs, and Axe stayed awake a bit longer trying to make sense of this damaged young woman.

As his thoughts meandered, he again remembered when he was a teenager and his heart belonged to Donna. Their song, _Lost in Love_ rambled across his mind as it ebbed and flowed among the web of synapses throughout his brain. Gazing through the Blazer's windshield at the stars above, he silently asked, _am I experiencing some type of fatherly or sibling love for Ede or is it simply an empathetic concern for her wellbeing_?

# 27

On his back, lying next to Ede at daybreak, Axe found her smell sweet, her skin soft and they mesmerized him. It was like falling off a cliff but never hitting the ground. Free floating in a cloud of euphoric contentment, he stared at her trying to indelibly etch every line of her face in his memory. She awoke and smiled at him. Staring at her eyes, he was caught in a deep sea of green that seemed to caress and envelop his soul filling every corner. It reminded him of his love for Donna, long-lost feelings buried in his past. He took a deep breath and awoke from his reverie. He thought, _I've got work to do_.

Axe spoke to the backseat occupants. "How are you two doing?"

Ruthie spoke first. "I feel like shit."

Simon said, "Ruthie don't talk like that."

Ede laughed. "Well Simon, you're still among the living."

Simon smirked and then cringed. "I think I've got a broken rib or two. Where's my boots."

"They're here in the front. I pulled them off yesterday," Ede said. "They were soaked and needed to dry."

Axe slid out from under Ede and sat up on the passenger side. "We've got to get going. There's too much going on for us to just hang out here."

"Ede, Axe is right. We have to get back to the ranch," Ruthie said.

They doubled back to Route 508 and then headed north cruising along for miles until they reached another forest road. Turning left onto the road and over a bridge that spanned the Yaak River, Ede drove along the dusty trail with Axe following in his Harley. When they reached an aluminum gate, Ede stopped and got out.

She limped over to Axe and said, "Drive the Blazer through after I open the gate."

When Ede stepped toward the gate, Axe reached into his saddlebag and pulled out three transmission chips. He slid onto the driver's seat of the Blazer, looked in back and noticed Ruthie and Simon fast asleep. Axe took one chip and pulled off the adhesive backing and stuck it under the dash. Then he did the same with a second chip and forced it into the inside flap of Ede's backpack. Finally, he picked up Simon's left boot from the passenger side floor mat and stuck the last chip where the sole meets the heel.

Axe waited for Ede to swing the gate wide-open. He drove through, stopped on the other side, and got out. Axe got back on his bike and rode past the gate. Ede closed and locked the gate and then jumped back into the Blazer.

A quarter mile into the wilderness area, they reached a small shack with moss-caked roofing shingles, overlapping clapboards of peeled white paint, along with a few broken windows. Telegraphing the building's slide into disrepair, its condition masqueraded its previous long-standing use as a forest ranger's equipment storage shed.

Axe spotted a longhaired man, wearing blue overalls that partially hid a tank-style undershirt and sporting a Moses-like beard, poke his head through the doorway. A Winchester Model 73 was slung over his right shoulder while he held a shotgun at his side, the barrel-end pointing toward the ground.

"Got anything good Ede?" the man asked.

"Hey Joshua, got us some goodies. Food, clothes, batteries, and some drugs..."

Joshua interrupted her with a laugh and a grin. "Can't wait to see your stash up at the store. The cupboards were gettin' a wee bit bare. What else ya got?""

"Found a bunch of wallets with cash and credit cards."

"You know what to do with the credit cards and IDs. Seth came across some new equipment. He's pushing out IDs faster than ever."

It was easy for Axe to take all this in. His FBI mental preparedness training focused him to not only acutely observe his surroundings but to make note of every sound, smell, and visual stimulation, including individual personal recognition abilities and to cerebrally file them away for future recall at a moment's notice.

Ede got out of the Blazer and handed Joshua a small bag of cookies lifted from the Town Pump convenience store.

Joshua took the bag and that's when he got a good look at the backseat in the Blazer. He grabbed Ede by the arm. "Who did that to Ruthie and Simon?"

Ede bowed her head and said in a hushed voice, "Slade and his crew."

"Son-of-a-bitch. Where the hell is he?"

"I don't know."

Joshua stared in Axe's direction and then at Ede. "Who's this heathen?" Joshua lifted the shotgun and pointed it at Axe.

Ede spoke out, "I'm going to sponsor him and ask to be released from my bonds."

Joshua laughed. "In a day or two, this heathen won't mean a damn thing to you."

# 28

Viewing the drive through the compound behind the Blazer, Axe rode past Joshua's guard shack. A dozen or so miles into the back country, on a clearing in the Yaak Valley, Axe acutely heard the drone of generators, the banging of hammers, and the hum of power saws. But this was no ordinary construction site, it was in the middle of the Yaak Wilderness. His nostrils caught a heavy scent of marijuana wafting through the pine forest surrounding the compound.

Ede pulled up to a building taller than the others. Three men stood to the right of the door, rifles at their side and another three men sat on benches on the left of the 10-foot high by 12-foot wide ornate entrance. Over the door, Axe noticed a metal sign with white lettering over a blue background. It read, Chapel of the Children of the Big Sky.

The door opened, and a man stepped outside. He was tall with brown hair draped across his shoulders and wore blue jeans and a blue tank top.

"My three shepherds have returned. Dear children, what did you bring us?"

Ede stepped out from the Blazer. "Yeshua Goyathlay, we've been busy."

"I can see that." Yeshua Goyathlay then stared at the backseat inside the Blazer. He turned to Ede and asked, "Who did this to my beloved children?" When no one answered, Yeshua Goyathlay again asked, "Who did this and where are they now?"

Axe spoke up, "One's dead and the others are probably in the hospital." Axe noticed Ede stare at him.

Yeshua Goyathlay asked, "And who are you?"

"The name's Axe Killian."

Axe got off his Harley and took a step toward Yeshua Goyathlay. At once, he was surrounded by three gun-toting guards of the Children of the Big Sky.

"Leave him be, let him tell us what he has to say."

When the men stepped aside, Axe said, "Slade and his two companions beat up Simon and Ruthie and then all three raped Ruthie. When I found out what happened, I chased them, and they crashed their truck. Slade died instantly, and the others were hurt so bad, they may not make it."

Goyathlay lifted his arms to the sky. "Praise to you My Father. You have delivered My children back to Me and have anointed this savior of ours the power to duly punished the wicked."

One of Yeshua Goyathlay's minions opened the Blazer's side passenger door and helped Simon and Ruthie out and onto a bench on the chapel porch where they sat and relaxed.

Yeshua Goyathlay turned to Ede. "Is it true what this savior said? Did Slade, Mike, and Sal hurt Ruth and Simon?"

Ede nodded. "Yes."

"For what reason?" Yeshua Goyathlay asked.

Ede said, "They were trying to get me to cheat on you."

"And they took it out on Ruthie and Simon?"

Ruthie explained, "They showed up at the biker rally and wanted to know where Eden was. They said that when they found her, they would rape her."

Yeshua Goyathlay sat on the porch and folded his arms. "What happened next?"

Ruthie continued, "When I told them I didn't know where Eden was they got rough with me. Simon came over to stop them, but Slade and Sal beat him up while Mike wrestled me to the ground and started tearing at my clothes."

Yeshua Goyathlay closed his eyes and shook his head. "Ruth, how many violated you?"

"All three, many times."

"Unprotected?"

"Yes."

Yeshua Goyathlay stood up and covered his face with his hands. Then he turned to a woman next to him. "Take Ruth to the infirmary and see to it that Doctor Abraham examines her and cleans her. Ask him to treat her wounds and give her antibiotics in case the men had diseases. Then see to it that she eats if she is hungry and rests if she is weary."

The woman nodded and took Ruth by the hand.

Then he turned to Simon. "My dear Simon, you look terrible. What ails you?"

Simon coughed and winced. "I think my ribs are broken."

Yeshua Goyathlay snapped his fingers and two men came forward. Another man brought a stretcher from the chapel and they lifted Simon aboard.

"Have Nurse Jehosheba treat his wounds at the infirmary. Then see to it that Simon is fed and rested."

When Simon's stretcher stopped by Yeshua Goyathlay, Simon said, "Bless You, my Lord."

"Simon, get well. You have duty to the Lord waiting for you on Friday in Troy at their pagan celebration." He turned to the man bearing the stretcher. "Patch him well and give him something so that he can walk without pain."

Yeshua Goyathlay then stepped toward Ede and placed His right hand on the crown of Ede's head. He recited, "Father, bless this wife of Mine. For she has completed Your request and returned to Me, her Husband clean of the body and the spirit and true in virtue."

Yeshua Goyathlay then turned to Axe. "You are My new shepherd. Axe Killian, according to Chapter 2, Verse 16 of the Book of Jesus, it says, _He who returns blemished by other men shall be welcomed at the right side of The Lord._ Ruth Child and Simon Child have found passage to salvation through yours and Eden Child's benevolent actions."

"Praise Yeshua Goyathlay," echoed a crescendo of voices.

"Furthermore, the men Slade, Sal, and Mike, for their wickedness they have sinned according to Chapter 2, Verse 17, 18, and 19 of the Book of Jesus. It says, _But he who has blemished other men by his own selfish ways will not set foot in the House of The Lord. For the Lord looks upon all men as His creation. Whomever shall defile what God has created, shall himself be cast into eternal damnation_."

After an hour or so, most of the other members dispersed leaving only Ede, Axe, and Yeshua Goyathlay still present in front of the chapel.

Axe reached out and took Ede by the arm. "Ede, we need to talk." Ede had a 500-mile stare in her eyes as she pulled her hand away from Axe.

"You lied to me," she said. "When were you going to tell me that Slade was dead?"

"He told Ruthie that he was going to rape you," Axe said.

Yeshua Goyathlay said, "My faithful Joshua called me from the guard shack. He said that Eden will ask to be released from her bonds and that this man is willing to sponsor you."

Axe asked, "What does that mean?"

Yeshua Goyathlay smiled. "It means that Eden no longer wants to be My wife but instead wishes to commit to a mortal man." He stepped toward Axe and placed his finger on Axe's chest. "And that lucky man is you."

Ede said, "I've changed my mind."

Yeshua Goyathlay turned to Ede and asked, "But why? You have given Me two beautiful children. It is now your time to do as you wish."

Ede's head pivoted, and she explained, "I caught him in a lie."

"What lie?" Yeshua Goyathlay turned his attention to Axe.

Axe confessed, "I knew Slade was dead and didn't tell Ede."

"I see." Yeshua Goyathlay stared at Ede. "You know that he was only trying to protect you from the truth."

"The truth?" Ede asked. "I want the truth. Without truth, how can I trust anyone?"

Yeshua Goyathlay opened his arms and Ede fell into them crying. He patted her head. "My dear Eden Child, My dear wife. Sometimes one doesn't tell the truth to protect the one they love."

Ede looked up at him. "My real parents lied to me about my illness."

"But My dear. They suffered inside from the truth. They only tried to protect you from what the doctors told them. They did not have the cures that we have at our disposal. You are much better than when you came here. Another year or two and you will be cured."

Ede sobbed and looked at Axe. "I need time to think."

Yeshua Goyathlay said, "Go contemplate My dear. Have something to eat and then rest. I need to speak with this man, Axe."

Ede nodded and left for the dining hall. When she was gone Yeshua Goyathlay turn his attention to Axe.

"Will you join My security team?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm travelling to Alaska."

Yeshua Goyathlay laughed. "That's a long way from here. Are you sure that you still want to go?"

"I have unfinished business there."

He laughed again. "Many of us have unfinished business on this Earth. Do you know how short life really is? Our time here is like the lifespan of the last snowflake of the winter season."

"Do you drug Ede?"

"You were here, did you see her take anything?"

"No but she seems under your control against her will."

"The only drug we have here is marijuana."

"She's just a kid. I sense that she's making decisions only an adult should have to make."

"And I sense the only thing going on here is that you're My Father's messenger. He sent you to cleanse My flock of the treacherous Slade and his demons. I can see it in your eyes. Your aura reveals it to Me."

Axe laughed. "Aura?"

Yeshua Goyathlay continued, "I'd like to change your name to Samson Child. Renowned for his strength, Samson's long hair ... just like your long hair was a vow to God, so your long hair will be a vow to Yeshua Goyathlay."

"Actually, I'll be heading out tonight."

Yeshua Goyathlay laughed again and looked up at the afternoon sky. "You're free to go now but why would you wish to leave My flock, especially when Eden Child wishes to be free of her bonds and wed you? I can assure you that after you wed her she will please you beyond your wildest dreams."

"I'm not marrying anyone especially someone as young as Ede."

Yeshua Goyathlay smiled. "Perhaps you need to stay with us as a guest for a few days, see how we live, experience all the pleasures that we share, then make a decision. I know that Eden Child would like you to stay. Take her, I can tell that she craves you. Does she mean anything to you?"

"I uh...I care for her."

"As a lover would care for his beloved?"

"No...like a big brother would love his sister."

"My foolish man. We are all brothers and sisters. When mankind understands that then we will all live in peace."

"I still can't stay."

"True believers are compelled to stay."

"Say again?"

"For it came to pass, that the world will soon know of this prophecy. I am Yeshua Goyathlay, the second coming of the Lord Jesus Christ and the second coming of Geronimo, the Apache warrior. I am the Second Coming of the Second Coming."

# 29

Ede preoccupied his mind but he robotically packed his saddlebags as the song, _Lost in Love_ kept weaving its way through his mind. As he prepared to leave, other thoughts centered around contacting Sheriff Buchanan as soon as possible. His intent was to request the assignment of deployable assets immediately to the compound belonging to the Children of the Big Sky.

Axe was concerned about Ruthie and Ede since he hadn't seen them since his arrival and he realized there was little he could do while they remained on the ranch. If he could keep Ede safe and if she cooperated, he could present substantiated evidence to authorities that crimes were committed. Axe needed to do this on his own terms, in the dead of night and undercover. At twenty-four minutes past six p.m., Axe rode out of the compound and up to the shack where Joshua stood guard with a double barrel shotgun.

"Where are you going?" Joshua asked in a terse manner.

"I told your leader that I decided to leave."

"If you go now, you won't be welcomed back."

"I figured that."

Joshua climbed into a Honda FourTrax ATV and followed Axe to the compound's gate. He swung open the gate and said, "Go."

Axe rode his Harley past the open gate and retraced his route back to U.S. 2. He pulled into the Town Pump parking lot in Troy, went inside and grabbed a 16-ounce bottle of lemonade from the cooler. A different attendant greeted him.

"Hey man, you don't look like one but you sure smell like one of those crazy cult members up in The Yaak ... are ya?"

"Nope, but I dropped off a hitchhiker there," Axe said as he dug into his pocket to pay the man.

The attendant laughed. "Better check your saddlebags."

"What do you know about them?"

"Hell, what do you want to know...you got an hour?"

"I got a few minutes. Talk to me."

The attendant rang the register. "Sons-of-bitches shoplift from us all the time. They send a different person on each run, but they all smell the same ... like a mixture of pine, incense, and pot."

"You hear from anyone who got out of there?"

"Not personally." The attendant laid his arms on the counter. "But I'll tell ya, the whole town knows that as many people go in there, less than that ever come out."

"Where'd that news come from?"

The attendant leaned forward and whispered, "Can't tell you but it's from a reliable source."

Axe paid for the lemonade and went outside. With no one around, he stood by the entrance and slugged it down. A police car pulled up to the gas station next to Axe's Harley. A black officer with a pencil-thin mustache got out and walked toward the store entrance. Axe put his head down but not before he noticed the officer's name imprinted on his uniform, D. BISHOP.

As the officer approached, Axe turned to him and asked, "Sergeant Bishop...Daryl Bishop?"

Bishop stopped at the entrance. "Do I know you?"

"No, but I'm working with Sheriff Buchanan."

Bishop's eyes intently surveyed Axe. Then he asked, "Are you a Narc?"

Axe glinted a slight smile. "No, but I was undercover FBI on the Videl Tanas case."

Bishop nodded. "Nice job."

Axe waved Bishop over to the side. "I could use your help on the Peta Ross case."

Bishop stood still for a long moment. He sniffled and then wiped a tear away from his cheek. "What do you know about that little girl with the green eyes and auburn hair?"

"I think I've located her."

Bishop's mouth slowly gaped open and he glanced at the sky for a few seconds. Then he stared at Axe and asked, "Mind if we sit in my car? We'll need the privacy."

Axe replied, "Not at all."

They each climbed in and then Bishop asked, "Where have you seen her?"

Axe eyes scanned the vehicle. Any cameras or recording devices in here?"

"Nothing's activated. You're free to speak off the record."

"I think I saw her up in The Yaak."

"At the cult's compound?"

"Yes, they call it the ranch."

"They've been searching that location for the past five years. Warrant after warrant is authorized whenever a sighting or a lead turns up, but the searches are always fruitless."

"I think they've found a way to keep her hidden."

"How's that possible? Sheriff Buchanan's sent his deputies to their compound countless times. If she was there, they would have found her."

"Maybe they use a false cellar or a concealed cabin."

"I don't think so. They've thoroughly searched the property."

"She's seventeen now, right?"

"Yes."

"She may not look like the same innocent and reserved young girl that she was at twelve. She comes and goes off the property at will."

Sergeant Bishop said, "Look, it's not my jurisdiction. What do you want from me?"

"Information. Have you ever been there?"

"Twice, once with Sheriff McCoy on the initial sweep and once with Sheriff Wallach. They needed a few extra officers, so they recruited some of us from Troy."

"What can you tell me about the leader?"

"Keeps to himself. Hasn't broken the law as far as we know although his members steal anything they can get their hands on from stores, restaurants, and even residences in the area. Petty larceny if you know what I mean. They're more of a nuisance than a threat."

"What can you tell me about Peta's home life?"

Bishop raised his eyebrows. "You know that her father's governor now, right?"

"I do know that."

"Well, when we started the missing persons investigation he was the grieving father. Wanted her found ASAP and the kidnappers crucified. Then, suddenly, a week or so after Peta went missing, he stopped putting pressure on us. We continued to search for her, but he wasn't looking over our shoulders anymore."

"Do you know why?"

"No, but we figured something must have transpired at home. Maybe him and his wife talked it over and decided not to interfere with the investigation and let the authorities handle it. They still have a posted reward for any information leading to her discovery."

"What about that home invasion in Idaho?"

"Which home invasion?"

"In Idaho, there was a double murder about a week after Peta Ross disappeared. The odd thing was that one of the victims was the Native man identified as the one who last saw Peta Ross."

"I heard about it and we were briefed by our chief but we're just a three-man operation in town. The Idaho authorities handled it. What do you know about it?"

"Sheriff Buchanan filled us in. Now that you've told me about Robert Ross dropping the pressure on the case around the same time as that home invasion and double murder in Idaho, it makes me wonder."

"Wonder that perhaps the murders spooked Ross and he was afraid his daughter's kidnappers would target him next?"

Axe groomed his beard with his left hand. "Or that Ross had something to do with the murders?"

Bishop's eyebrows lifted. "He was organizing his campaign for governor back then. Do you think Ross would be that dumb to risk contracting a murder for hire while also running for office?"

"Maybe he knows more about his daughter's kidnappers than law enforcement does."

Bishop shook his head. "I don't know. You Feds always seem to come up with conspiracy theories for just about everything."

"It's our job to think outside the box. What else can you tell me about Ross?"

"As we dug deeper and spoke to extended family members and neighbors, we uncovered allegations of abuse."

"By her father?"

"Yes."

"Physical or psychological?"

"Both."

"Any evidence of a sexual nature?"

"We're not exactly sure."

"What does that mean?"

"During Peta's annual physical on her twelfth birthday in 1991, her pediatrician spotted signs of what he thought was sexual abuse and he informed Child & Family Services at the Montana Department of Public Health and Human Services."

"Then what?"

Bishop hesitated and stared at Axe for a long moment and then said, "Nothing."

"What do you mean by nothing?"

"The department decided not to investigate."

"How do you know this?"

"I was contacted by Child & Family Services to accompany the assigned social worker to investigate. By the time I arrived at their office to accompany the investigator, they told me someone at the department decided not to pursue the investigation."

"What was the reason for the cancellation?"

"I don't know. We were informed that it fell under patient confidentiality."

"Munchausen by proxy syndrome?"

"You're asking if the doctor made up the allegations of sexual abuse? We have no reason to believe so. This doctor is very well regarded."

"Then what happened?"

Sergeant Bishop first glanced outside his cruiser and then stared at Axe. "Now this is off the record from me."

"I understand."

"My personal opinion is, and I could lose my job if I pressed the issue, is that the sexual abuse is real, but that her father convinced someone in a position of authority or influence at the department not to pursue the investigation."

"To keep himself from getting arrested and labeled a sex offender?"

"Him or someone else in the family and not just to avoid an arrest and sex offender status. Because he was in the process of planning a run for governor, any press on abuse allegations of a sexual nature by him or anyone else in his family would have derailed his aspirations. Hell, I didn't vote for him and I'm glad I didn't, but we just don't know what really happened."

"She has a brother, is he a suspect?"

"Officially, no."

"Did anyone follow-up on this?"

"No." Sergeant Bishop glanced around outside his cruiser. "I'm only telling you now because my heart breaks for that little girl. I feel partly responsible for what happened to her because I had the power to do something that day that could have prevented her disappearance and I didn't act."

Axe said, "I have reason to believe that the suspected abuse by her father is real. Did you know that she gave birth to two children while at the compound?"

Bishop shook his head. "Dear God. Was she raped by that maniacal leader?"

"Only she can tell us that, but it appears he impregnated her once she reached legal age of consent."

Bishop said, "Whether the allegations of sexual abuse are correct or not, is it better living with a parent who's a bully and has no respect for you or the master manipulator of a cult who uses you and only cares about himself? If they're both guilty of sexual abuse, then can you even tell them apart?"

Axe stared at Bishop. "That's a good question. One of her children is a little over a year old and the second one was born a few months ago."

"Where are these children?" Bishop asked.

"Peta said that children born on the ranch are raised separately from their mothers. They're on the property but it seems like she either doesn't know where they are or is not allowed access to them."

After a long moment Bishop said, "Peta will be eighteen in the fall. She'll soon be old enough to make her own decisions. The fact of the matter is, laws were broken, and people must face justice. It's questionable if Peta is even guilty of anything. The real question is what are you going to do about it?"

"I only have one path."

"And what's that?"

"To report my findings to Sheriff Buchanan and see where he stands. If Buchanan decides not to request our assistance, I'll fill in my superior on what I know and see if they want the Bureau to intercede."

Bishop sat silent for a long moment and then stared at Axe straight in the eye. "That might not be what's best for that young girl. She'll have difficulty sorting out right from wrong, who she can really trust, and what path she should follow."

"She'll have trouble deciding which of the two families she's ever known is really hers," Axe said.

"Let me tell you something. I was born in Georgia. Back in the 60s when I was fifteen, I went along for a weekend hike with four of my friends into the Chattahoochee National Forest. We stumble upon a commune of what we thought were hippies. Hell, I was scared shitless but one of my older friends said let's find out what they're doing down there. Maybe we can share the drugs they might be using or see if any of the girls are interested in us. That was the time of free love, you know what I'm talking about?"

"Yeah, my dad took off for Frisco in 1967. He met my mom there and I was born a year later so I know what you mean."

"Well, we moseyed on down to their little village and introduce ourselves. Most of the women sported bruises on their bodies, we heard moaning coming out from one of their shacks, and some guy was bloodied and chained by his neck to a tree. We was ready to turn and hightail it but the leader comes on out from that shack with a half-dozen armed guards toting rope and they shake us down. We thought they was gonna hang us it being down South and all. Instead, he orders us to strip naked and then his men tie our hands behind our backs. They smear tar all over ourselves and then they lace us up with prickly dewberry stems all covered in spiny thorns. Then they sent us on our way, laughing at us as loud as can be. Every time we moved, the thorns bit into our skin so by the time we get to the highway, I'm telling ya, we was a goddamn bloody mess."

"What does your story have to do with Peta Ross?"

"I'm getting to that. We flag down a state trooper and give him our story. He reports it to his commander and not only did they do nothing about the commune but they arrests us for public indecency."

"And your point is?"

"My point is that the next year my parents decide to get outta the South and move to Montana and I vow to someday become a police officer and not let shit like that happen again. It's not just about what they did to us kids but also what these people do in these communes, religious or whatnot. They think they've got free range to do whatever they want to people, treat them like property and the law be damned. If there ever was a law meant to be broken, it would be the laws these goddamn animals use to protect themselves."

"I still don't know the relevance of your story to the Peta Ross abduction."

"I'm telling you, there's a choice of what to do about Peta Ross. It's not one that's on the books."

"What's that?"

"Listen, if she stays in the commune she'll be nothing more than chattel or worse and if she goes back to live with her family and the evidence of possible sexual abuse are true, then we're just putting her back in harm's way and subjecting her to more physical and psychological damage. Plus, before I was a police officer when I was fresh out of college, I worked in Child & Family Services at DPHHS. I saw what happens. if the state sends her to foster care or a group setting she will face enormous obstacles to achieving a normal life much less regaining her sanity. She will likely need extensive counseling no matter where she ends up."

Axe said, "Following a moral path and following the law are sometimes two different things."

"Maybe you can figure out what's best for that young girl."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. You didn't hear a word from me."

# 30

Standing inside the lobby of Glacier Park Lodge with a backpack hanging from his shoulder, Axe sipped the remnants of a coffee that he had purchased in the Country Corner Mercantile. It was a little after 6 a.m. on the 4th of July. With an empty paper coffee cup in his hand and the resounding whistle of a Burlington Northern freight train rumbling through East Glacier Park Village in the background, Axe stared up at the skylights. His eyes danced from one mounted wall trophy to another. He settled his frame on one of the Native-themed couches. He noticed one man dressed in a business suit but clearly advertised as former military staring at him from another couch across the room.

Axe was about to get a coffee refill when he heard heavy footfalls enter the lodge. He noticed the man in the business suit nod to the recent arrival and then step toward the elevators.

Axe felt a firm hand grasp his shoulder. When he looked up his eyes settled on Sheriff Jim Buchanan. He was dressed in blue jeans, a western-style red, short sleeve button shirt, a black Courtright Cowboy Hat, and a red and blue paisley bandana tied around his neck.

"Sheriff Buchanan..."

"Call me Jim."

"Jim, I rented a room in the main lodge just upstairs. I have tape recordings you'll want to hear."

"Let's go."

Jim and Axe walked up the stairs to the room. Once they were inside, Axe locked the door, unzipped his backpack and pulled out a tape recorder. Jim sat in a chair while Axe set up the recorder on the desk.

"I recorded this live," Axe said.

"At the compound?"

"Hell no, I hadn't had a shower in three days, so I arrived here yesterday. I left recording transmitters in a few places at their ranch and recorded this late last night." Axe turned on the tape recorder.

_"Simon, what are we going to do? We almost got killed by Slade and his gang."_

_"I'll find a way for us to get out of here."_

_"Can we take Ede with us?"_

_"That's too risky."_

_"You heard Yeshua Goyathlay. He's ready to free her from her bonds."_

_"Ruthie, you know He won't do that. He's just saying that to give himself extra time. She produced two children for Him, who's to say that He won't want her to produce more?"_

_"He wants to replace her. I'm two wives removed from him. I never told you this but the reason he divorced me was that he found out I couldn't have children. I always wonder what will happen to me the longer I stay. You heard Him, tomorrow's the 4th and he's sending us back to the fair to scout another girl. Just like we did back in '92."_

_"Maybe He'll keep both until the new one is sixteen and then He'll release Ede from her bonds."_

_"That's if the police don't see us there and realize we were the ones who brought Ede here."_

_"Everything will be all right. Don't worry."_

_"Simon, don't be naive. We both know what He'll do with Ede when we find another young girl in an abusive situation in need of saving. I overheard Him talking to Joshua. Goyathlay was ready to sell Ede to Slade and his crew."_

_"Wait a minute. Goyathlay was happy that Slade is dead. He said so Himself."_

_"No, it's all a bluff. He'll use any of us if it benefits Him. When we're no longer of use to Him, He'll get rid of us. I've known this since He divorced me."_

_"Then why did you bring Ede here?"_

_"The only reason I brought her to the ranch that day five years ago was that I felt a cosmic connection with her. I knew that she was in danger at home. She's the daughter I should have had if I could."_

_"Well, what are we going to do?"_

_"We do it discreetly just like we did before. I'll get the doctor to turn over a few ice cubes of roofies and then I'll stow them in the camper's fridge. You bring along the lemonade, just like last time. We find a young girl in a bad situation, bring her to Him and then he grooms her to be his new wife. Then when the time is right, you, me, Ede, and the new girl find a way to get the hell out of here. Then we drop her off outside the police station in Troy and you, me and Ede head for California. I know people in a commune there that will keep us safe from the law."_

Axe shut off the tape recorder. "What do you think?"

Jim stood up. "That may be enough evidence to allow us to search the compound again. Whenever we've done that in the past we have never found Peta Ross. If she's there do you know where they hide her?"

Axe shook his head. "No, I don't." Axe glanced at his watch. "The parade starts at 11 a.m. and it's 6:45 now. It'll take about three and a half hours to get there." He looked up at Jim. "We should go."

"I'll call it in."

Axe stared at him. "No. If they see police show up they're liable to just pack up and leave."

"You're thinking just you and I?"

"We can easily handle Ruthie and Simon at a booth. They may not recognize you out of uniform."

"The few times I was at their compound, I believe I only saw them once or twice and that was two years ago." Jim stared at the recorder. "Can you start up this thing again, maybe we can find out where they are right now?"

Axe pulled out his cellphone. "I use my phone to initiate a connection. Then I link the recorder to my cellphone. I'll show you how I do it, but we can't listen in for more than a few minutes or else we could be late getting to their booth."

Axe setup the devices and initiated the connection. After a minute or two they were live. Axe sat crunched over in a chair, leaning his elbows on his thighs. Jim sat on the bed with his arms folded. The sounds of footsteps on gravel and car doors opening and closing dominated most of the live recording.

"Doesn't sound like much is going on," Jim said.

Axe glanced at his wristwatch. "It's 7:05 now. The Troy Police will shut down the road for the parade at 10:30. We're cutting it close."

"Just a few more minutes," Jim said.

Then voices came through the recording.

_"I still say we should take the camper and run the booth like we've done before. That was the plan all along until this morning. What changed His mind? I don't like going to the Town Pump, they know us there."_

_"Ruthie, Joshua said that Yeshua Goyathlay told him to coordinate this and we have to listen to Him. The masks will work, no one will recognize us. Plus, they'll hide the bruises and cuts we got from Slade and his crew, so no one will be able to provide descriptions of us."_

_"It's too risky. I don't like it."_

_"It'll be okay. Joshua's in charge and he recruited Peter."_

_"Peter? What's he going to do? He's just a teenager."_

_"Listen to me. Don't worry, Joshua and Peter are taking the truck and we'll be in our pickup with Ede. We'll wait for the sirens, get the cash, split and when Joshua heads up north on 508 back to the ranch, we'll stay on U.S. 2 and head for the west coast."_

_"What if he follows us after he turns up north?"_

_"We can outrun that box truck, he'll never catch us."_

_"You got the guns?"_

_"Yeah, here's yours. I got mine."_

Axe sat up in his chair and Jim got up off the bed.

"We've got to go. You'll ride with me," Jim said.

Axe shut off the recorder, grabbed his gear and said to Jim as he left the room, "You'll slow me down, I'll meet you there."

# 31

Axe sped down U.S. 2 into Troy, arriving at 10:18. People annexed their own viewing spots along the parade route. Some put down blankets along the sidewalks, a few brought folding chairs, while others sat on their front lawns and porches anticipating the holiday event.

Axe pulled left onto South 2nd Street and parked his Harley across from the Town Pump in the back lot of the high school. He sat on his bike and called Sheriff Buchanan on his cell. After a few rings, Jim answered.

"Buchanan here, is this Axe?"

"Yes, where are you?"

"I just drove by the Kootenai Falls parking area. I should be in Troy in a few minutes. Where are you?"

"At the high school parking lot but I'm going down to the Town Pump."

"I know where that is. I'll see you there."

Axe hung up and rode his Harley down South 2nd Street to U.S. 2 and waited at the intersection.

A white police cruiser with the insignia of the Troy Police Department was parked at an angle blocking the eastbound lane of traffic. A police officer wearing a yellow safety vest directed traffic. When the officer turned to let people cross, Axe noticed that it was Sergeant Daryl Bishop. As he waited, Bishop nodded to him.

When the people had crossed, Sergeant Bishop stopped traffic along U.S. 2 and waved Axe across the intersection. Axe rode onto the gas station property, past the fuel pumps and parked in the lot adjacent to the station, near the back door. He reached into his saddlebag, pulled out his Smith & Wesson J-Frame .357 snub-nose revolver and stuck it into the inside pocket of his lightweight mesh motorcycle jacket. A few minutes later, Axe saw Jim arrive in his Ford F250 Super Duty pickup truck and drive up the hill to the high school back parking lot. Axe watched him walk down the street. A couple of people stopped to speak with Jim and one woman even shook his hand.

Axe called Jim on his cellphone. "What are you doing?"

Jim responded, "I'm across the street from the Town Pump."

"No, I mean why are you socializing?"

"This is the western end of Lincoln County and Cedar County is just a few miles west. People here know me."

"Just don't become visible and spook the suspects."

"I won't."

"You ever been to one of these parades?" Axe asked.

"Can't say that I have. I'm always in Taylor on Independence Day. This is my first time here on the 4th."

"Then let's not be seen together. I'll go inside the Town Pump and make sure everything's okay. I'll try to keep as many people safe as possible. I think you should stay outside in case more people arrive from the ranch."

"Are you sure you're not putting yourself at risk?" Jim asked.

"I'll be fine. If you see anything suspicious or doesn't look right, call me right away."

Jim said, "Will do."

Then Axe asked Jim, "In the recording, what do you think Simon meant by wait for the sirens and then get the cash?"

"Probably when he hears the police vehicles approach then he grabs the cash from the register."

Axe was silent for a moment and then said, "Why would he wait until law enforcement arrives before he robs the store? It doesn't make sense."

Jim said, "I think you're right. If the Town Pump gets robbed they'll probably signal a silent call and the police will respond without sirens to prevent the situation from escalating."

"My guess is that Simon just doesn't know how the police will respond," Axe said.

"Our job is to either make sure that a robbery doesn't happen in the first place or if it does, keep as many people safe as possible."

# 32

Xerox copiers were an amenity in this part of Montana and the Town Pump in Troy had recently installed one. In fact, it was so new that when Axe walked past it, his eyes settled on the dog-eared plastic screen protector still adhered to the copier's main screen.

It was now past 11 a.m. and outside on East Missoula Avenue, better known as U.S. 2, the parade had begun. The long line of antique cars rolled down the street followed by other parade participants but there was still no sign of Ruthie, Simon, or anyone else from the ranch.

Axe looked around the store and spotted three customers milling about the aisles. Another customer stepped out of the restroom and the cashier was handling one customer with four more waiting in line. A store clerk stocking shelves was the only other person in the store. A total of 11 people that Axe had to account for.

He thought, _if they all cooperate we'll be fine_. The fact that they were just innocent people and potential unsuspecting victims deeply troubled him. He walked up to the front of the store, pulled out his badge, flashed it to the employees and customers.

"Listen to me now. I'm an undercover FBI Agent. We have intelligence that a group of people will rob this store within a few minutes. The police will arrive once the robbery occurs. I need everyone except one store employee to go into the backroom and lock yourselves in."

The cashier stared at Axe. "Is this a joke?"

Axe again flashed his badge. "No, it's not. Get the customers in the back...right now."

"How do we know you're not the one who's going to rob the store?" one customer asked.

Axe watched the cashier stare at his badge and then turn to the customers. She said, "Holy shit, this is the real deal."

When one customer started toward the door, Axe shouted. "Don't open that goddamn door. They could be right outside."

The cashier yelled, "Get away from that door." She turned to Axe. "I'm the assistant manager, what do you want from me?"

"Get the stock clerk to bring those people into the backroom and lock themselves in."

"Johnny, you heard the man, get these people in back. Lock the door and only open it when you hear the police say it's okay."

The stock clerk complied, and the customers followed Axe's orders. They filed into the backroom and locked the door.

Axe said to the assistant manager, "Act like nothing's happening. I'm going into the restroom and I'll keep the door slightly open. When I hear them come in and I'm sure that the situation is somewhat secure, I'll confront them. When I do, I'll shout _ON THE GROUND_. I want you to drop with your belly to the floor, keep quiet and don't move. I'll keep you covered."

The assistant manager nodded, Axe returned the nod and disappeared into the restroom. A few minutes later, a loud wail of sirens blasted from the street and a few minutes after that a box truck pulled up to the pumps.

# 33

Everything descended into chaos within a split second. Five people wearing masks entered the store each holding a gun. One of them rushed the counter and pointed a pistol in the assistant manager's face. Another demanded the keys from the assistant manager, locked the front door, and then stood guard. The blaring of sirens continued outside.

Another of the masked intruders looked around and asked, "Where's everyone else?"

The assistant manager said in a calm voice, "You missed the morning rush. We had a line of customers a few minutes ago."

"You're fucking lying. I didn't see any customers leave."

The masked intruder with the gun handed the assistant manager a zippered bank deposit bag. "Hell with the customers. Open the fucking register and put the money in the bag."

Axe dialed Jim on the phone and asked in a hushed voice, _"What's going on out there?"_

_"A parade of dozens of service vehicles, the Troy Fire Department, the Bull Lake Fire district, and rescue teams are in the parade with their sirens blaring and the drivers are tossing candy onto the road for the kids. Sergeant Bishop is trying to direct traffic and keep the kids from going out too far into the street and getting hit by the trucks. Anything happening in there?"_

Axe said, _"It sounds like five or six just busted in here and I think one locked the front door. Did you see them?"_

_"A box truck pulled up at the pumps just a minute or two ago blocking my view of the front door. I'm coming in now."_

_"Give me a minute to stabilize the situation,"_ Axe said.

Axe rushed from the restroom toward the counter. He extended the chain from his badge and slung it around his neck.

He spotted the assistant manager stuffing the bank deposit bag with cash until it was overflowing. With his revolver drawn, he turned the corner and yelled, "ON THE GROUND." The assistant manager dropped to the floor and then Axe said, "It's time to end this before someone gets killed."

"What the fuck is going on?" one of the intruders asked.

"FBI Agent Axel Killian. You're under arrest for robbery."

"Son-of-a-bitch." One intruder stared at another. "Did you know he was FBI?" He aimed his gun at Axe creating a standoff.

Pounding on the front door from outside distracted everyone's attention. Axe noticed Jim and Bishop leaning their shoulders onto the outside of the door.

A cleanshaven Joshua pulled off his mask and fired a wild shot at the front door. A bullet tore through the upper corner of the door causing a spiderweb effect. When Jim and Bishop jumped away from the entrance, one of the intruders placed their gun on the counter and grabbed a bottle of wine next to the register. She whaled it across the side of Joshua's head and he fell to the floor out cold. Then she pulled off her mask. It was Ruthie. Simon also pulled off his mask and dropped his gun to the floor.

A crash caused everyone to turn their heads toward the entrance. An officer drove his cruiser through the front door, shattering it to pieces. Jammed in the doorframe, the vehicle's front end caught onto brick masonry and sheetrock debris stuck to the bottom and the sides of the cruiser. The driver slammed the transmission into reverse attempting to back out.

One of the two remaining masked intruders, still holding his pistol, pointed it at Axe. The other lone masked intruder tore off her mask and said, "Peter, don't be fucking stupid."

It was Ede and it froze Axe for a split second.

"Drop the weapon," Axe commanded.

"Peter, drop the gun," Ruthie said.

"I didn't want to do this," Peter said. He dropped the gun and threw his hands above his head.

Axe stepped toward the group and kicked the guns away. He asked Ruthie, "Why?"

"If we didn't, Joshua said that Goyathlay was ready to sacrifice Ede's children to God, a test for the apocalypse. I don't know who you are anymore, but I know that you and Ede share a bond. Protect her, give her a new start."

Ede wiped away a tear. "Ruthie, I don't want to leave you."

"Go now." Ruthie glanced at the front door.

The police cruiser's engine howled as the vehicle rocked forward and backward.

Axe glanced at Joshua who was semi-consciousness and then at the front door where the vehicle had just freed itself. Additional officers kicked in the broken glass and twisted metal.

"Police...get back," one of the officers shouted.

"They're almost in, go now," Ruthie said and got on the floor with her hands behind her back. Simon and Peter followed her lead.

Axe knew what to do. He grabbed Ede's hand. "Let's go."

"Good-bye Ruthie. I'll always love you," Ede said.

She limped past the locked backroom trying to keep pace with Axe and headed toward the back door. When Axe opened the door, he came face-to-face with a lone police officer and the barrel of his Colt Government Model 1911.

The officer pulled back the hammer of his gun. "Stop!"

"Sergeant Bishop, it's Axe Killian."

He stared at Axe and then his face turned to the teenager in Axe's company. He slowly dropped the barrel of his pistol until he held the gun at his waist.

In a slow and deliberate delivery, he said, "My-oh-my's..."

Ede smiled and answered, "Looky those big green eyes."

"Peta...Peta Ross?" Bishop asked holstering his gun.

"Sergeant Bishop, I remember you. You helped me up off the ground at the fair."

Axe observed Ede stare at Bishop's dark brown eyes. Somehow, he knew they had a connection. Perhaps it was a recurring stare between two people near this same place on this same date five years ago. Perhaps it was something more. Axe watched as she held out her hand to Sergeant Bishop. He took it.

"Peta, I'm so sorry. If I had known then what life you came from and what life you were getting into, I would have done something that day. You deserve better in life than what you've received," Bishop said.

Ede took a step forward and hugged Sergeant Bishop. She looked up at him as tears welled in his eyes. She said, "Sergeant Bishop, don't cry for me. I'll be all right." She glanced at Axe and then back to Sergeant Bishop. "I'm leaving."

Bishop wiped away his tears and said, "Hurry, go now, both of you. As far as I'm concerned, you're both innocent in the eyes of the law. I'll tell them I saw you headed toward Libby."

Ede reached up and wrapped her arms around Sergeant Daryl Bishop's neck and pulled him down to her. She planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you, Sergeant Bishop. May God bless you."

Axe nodded and took Ede by the hand. They headed toward his Harley and when Axe climbed aboard, Ede mounted the saddle and settled behind him. When she wrapped her arms around Axe, he noticed they felt tighter than ever before.

Axe heard the officers enter the Town Pump and then Sheriff Buchanan's commands to drop to the floor. No gunshots ensued, and Axe knew that was a good sign.

Amid the sounds of the sirens blaring on the parade route and the confusion of hundreds of people milling about the street, Axe looked back and spotted Sergeant Bishop enter the Town Pump through the back door. Axe kick-started his bike and he rode off with Ede's arms clasped across his waist and the left side of her face against his back.

Nearly eight hours later, as they continued to ride west on U.S. 2 and an hour or so before Axe would take the hidden cutoff to the forested US-Canada Border Slash, the sun began its descent beyond the western slopes of the Cascade Mountains. The song _Lost in Love_ played over and over in his mind, as it always had ever since his dream that first night after he met Ede.

Axe thought about what the courts might do with Ede and how the familial and bureaucratic demons have for so long manipulated, neglected, and abused her.

Another song abruptly raced through his thoughts. The realization that _Helplessly Hoping_ by Crosby, Stills & Nash had suddenly become a relentless anthem for their chosen actions. It not only described their current predicament but would also herald the destiny they'd soon encounter.

Axe also knew his career with the FBI had now come to a close and that Special Agent Costa and Sheriff Buchanan would both make it a point to track him down. Axe realized that neither he nor Ede could ever go back to their old lives. They would always be on the run, hunted as prey for as long as they lived.

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THE END

# Also by Felix F. Giordano

JIM BUCHANAN SERIES

MONTANA HARVEST

Murder for profit meets Native American justice

MYSTERY AT LITTLE BITTERROOT

They say dead men tell no tales but do their spirits?

THE KILLING ZONE

A gritty tale of revenge, mayhem, murder, and miracles

# About the Author

Felix F. Giordano is the award winning author of the mystery/suspense/thriller series, The Jim Buchanan Novels whose protagonist is a Native American sheriff from western Montana. His first novel in the series, "Montana Harvest" was a 2016 finalist for the Independent Publishers of New England Book Award and a 2017 Book Award winner in the mystery/suspense category. To date, Felix' novels have sold in multiple countries worldwide. He is also a professional freelance editor, lecturer, and workshop coordinator. He lives in New England with his family and a very spoiled but loving Boingle.

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