Black Thunder
Authors: David Thurlo
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us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.
To Melissa Singer, our editor, who believed in us from day one. And to Sydney Abernathy—may you always walk with beauty before you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With our special thanks to:
Steve Henry, Attorney at Law, Corrales
Bill Ellis, Professor of Law, Emeritus
Sergeant Ryan Tafoya, Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department
CONTENTS
ONE
Tribal Police Investigator Ella Clah stood next to her department’s cruiser, a dusty, white SUV that had more miles on it than a Two Grey Hills sheepdog. As she stood beneath the shade of the Quick Mart station’s island, watching the dollar amount shoot past fifty as the pump fed regular into the tank, her second cousin and partner, Justine Goodluck, was busy cleaning the windshield.
“It’s
been so quiet lately,” Justine said. “I hate slow days. I’d rather be up to my ears in an investigation than catching up with paperwork. It’s nine in the morning and it already feels like we’ve been on duty all day.”
“I hear you,” Ella answered. “At least we’re not behind a desk.”
Justine stopped working on the windshield and looked directly at Ella. Although among Traditionalists that would
have been considered extremely rude, tribal cops had learned to walk the line between the old and the new, adapting to a reservation in transition.
“What’s eating you, partner?” Justine asked. Seeing Ella shrug, Justine added, “Don’t try to tell me it’s nothing. We’ve known each other too long.”
There were many advantages to working with a close partner but the ability to second-guess each other
was often a two-edged sword. With some partnerships, familiarity bred contempt, as the old saying warned. Yet Justine and she had found a middle ground. Though they weren’t what Ella’s daughter would have termed BFFs, they’d become attuned to each other in a way that gave them a distinct advantage out in the field.
Ella was still thinking of how to answer that when a call came over their radio.
“S.I. Unit One, see the clerk at the First United Bank on Highway 64, east of the bridge. He reports a man posing as Chester Kelewood is trying to cash a two-hundred-dollar check. The clerk will try to stall the subject until you arrive.”
Ella hung the gas nozzle back onto the pump and reached inside the open window to pick up the mike. “Unit One responding,” Ella said as Justine paid the bill.
“We’re less than a mile from there,” Justine said, slipping behind the wheel. “How do you want to handle this?”
Ella began accessing information on the MDT, Mobile Dispatch Terminal. As her partner eased out into downtown Shiprock traffic, she answered, “Chester Kelewood has been on our missing person’s list since last June second, and in these situations the bank always flags their accounts.
Let’s go in silent and try to get next to this scam artist before he catches on.”
A few minutes later, Justine dropped Ella off near the bank’s front door, then headed for the closest parking slot. As Ella approached the entrance, an anxious-looking man stepped outside—not Kelewood, judging from the image she’d just viewed on the terminal. She hesitated, wondering if this was the suspect or just
another patron.
His gaze shifted to the badge clipped to her belt and a second later, he spun around and bolted down the sidewalk.
“That’s him!” a man in the foyer yelled.
Ella raced after the man, who darted around the corner of the building.
Although he’d only had a slight lead, the man moved like the wind, fear of arrest undoubtedly motivating him. He reached the back corner of the bank,
then disappeared down the alley to his left.
Just as Ella appeared in the alley, he reached a six-foot cinder-block wall. Seeing her closing in, he scrambled clumsily over the top.
Ella followed, jumping up, then over. This was a lot easier than the ten-foot barrier at the county police academy’s obstacle course. Dropping to her knees to absorb the shock of landing, she searched the perimeter
and quickly spotted the suspect. The Navajo man was hightailing it down a dirt road.
She hit Justine’s speed-dial number on her cell phone, slowing just enough to make the call. “Justine, I’m in pursuit. Drive down the ditch road and try to cut him off. He’s heading north through the brush.”
“Roger that,” Justine replied, then hung up.
Ella continued pursuit into the
bosque
, the wooded area
that lined the riverbanks. She knew she couldn’t match his sprint speed in a 440 or less, but she was sure she could wear him down cross-country, providing she could keep him within sight or track him. Even as she processed this thought, the man raced fifty yards down the road, then cut right and disappeared into a clump of twelve-foot-high willows, red and gray-green from their early summer growth.
Less than ten seconds behind, she ducked in after him. Ella could hear his labored breathing and the thump of his boots on the sand as he ran parallel to the San Juan River, here only about a hundred yards wide. Although there were steep bluffs on the opposite shore, on this side there were many possible exits back along the north bank. She’d have to be careful he didn’t slip back into town. Hopefully,
Justine would see him if he crossed the ditch road.
The path the suspect had chosen kept him close to the river. The chase required constant swerving and twisting to avoid getting whipped by the long willow branches or tripping on a tuft of salt grass. Ella found herself constantly ducking and throwing up her right or left arm to avoid being, literally, bush whacked.
She’d already eased into
her long-distance running rhythm: two strides, inhale, two strides, exhale. She knew from her regular conditioning runs that she’d be able to keep up this pace for miles. Even with the heavy ballistic vest she always wore under her shirt, she’d catch up sooner or later. Unfortunately, the moment he realized that, he might turn on her, so she’d have to be ready.
Still on his tail, she remained
alert, forcing herself to keep her breathing smooth and regular. Even if she hadn’t been able to hear him crashing through the brush like an enraged bull, his tracks were easy to follow. Soon she noticed that he was angling steadily toward the river. The bluffs a quarter mile farther down were lower and receded from the banks, leaving easier access to the shore and possible escape. Maybe he’d decided
to swim for it next—though it was probably more of a deep wade or wallow unless he dropped into a pool or undercut in the bank.
Suddenly Ella stopped hearing his footsteps. She slowed to a brisk walk and listened carefully. Almost instinctively, she reached up to touch the turquoise badger fetish hanging from a leather strap around her neck.
Her brother, Clifford, a medicine man, or
hataalii
as they were known to the
Diné
, the Navajo People, had given her the Zuni-made fetish years ago as a gift. Since that time, she’d noticed that the small carving invariably became hot whenever danger was near. Right now it felt uncomfortably warm. Though she’d never been able to explain it, she suspected that the heat it emitted might have something to do with her own rising body temperature in
times of crisis. Either way, she’d learned to trust the warning.
Ella stopped and slowly turned around in a circle, detecting the acrid scent of sweat—not her own. Before she could pinpoint it more accurately, a man burst out from behind a salt cedar, yelling as he swung a big chunk of driftwood like a baseball bat.
Ella ducked and the wood whooshed over her head, missing her skull by inches.
Before he could take another swing, Ella drew her weapon and aimed it at her assailant.
“Drop the stick, buddy, now!” she ordered.
The man dropped the branch, but dove to his right, rolling into some tall grass. Then, leaping back to his feet, he sprinted away.
“Crap!” Ella holstered her gun and took off after him again. No way this jackrabbit was going to get away from her.
Running out of
steam, the panting suspect tried to leap a fallen cottonwood branch, but caught his toe, or misjudged the jump. He fell to the sand, face-first.
Ella caught up to him a second later, but he swung around, still on his knees, and dove for her feet. He grabbed her boot and twisted her leg, trying to knock her down. Ella broke free and recaptured her balance just as the guy leaped up and lunged.
Ella kicked him in the chest with her heavy boot.
The impact stopped him in his tracks, and he gasped. He was wobbling back and forth, but somehow he stayed on his feet. He took a step back, then held up his fists, waving them to and fro like a fighter working out in a gym as he took a bob-and-weave defense.
Ella kept her fighting stance. “Stop. I’m a cop. Don’t fight me. You’ll go down.”
“You
wish,” the Navajo man yelled, his face beet red from exertion.
“Have it your way,” Ella said, and reached for the canister of Mace on her duty belt. She had it halfway up before his fists suddenly opened up. Showing his palms and outspread fingers, he took a step back.
“No, stop! I’m allergic to that stuff. Really. I give up.”
Ella immediately spun him around and cuffed him. “If you run for
it again, I’ll Taser your ass.”
Taking him by the arm, she informed him of his rights as she guided him east toward the dirt road that paralleled the
bosque
along the irrigation ditch. As he stumbled along she asked him for his name, but all she got was a request for an attorney.
By the time they reached the road, a patrol cruiser was waiting, having come from the north. Justine was inching
up from the south in her unit, less than fifty yards away. Ella looked at the uniformed officer climbing out of the cruiser. She recognized Mark Lujan, a young cop with about four years on the tribal force. “Thanks, Lujan, but I’ve got him now. My partner and I will take him in,” she said, seeing Justine climbing out of the SUV.
“Let the officer take him, boss,” Justine said, leaning her head
out of the SUV. “We’ve got another call.”
“What’s happening, partner?” Ella asked, climbing into the vehicle.
Justine turned the SUV around, then spoke as they drove toward the highway. “A Navajo crew was replacing fence posts on the Navajo Nation side of the border, just the other side of Hogback, when they found a body.”
“On tribal land—they’re sure of that?” Ella reached for a tissue from
the glove box, then wiped away the perspiration from her brow with one hand and redirected the air-conditioning vent toward her face and neck.