Dark Reservations (6 page)

Bluehorse showed them the bullet hole in the driver-side door and offered his theories.

“Let's see you work some magic, Mark,” Joe said. He didn't feel hopeful, but he knew he had to cover every angle in order to uncover any possible clue.

“That's why I get paid the big bucks.” Mark passed out breathing masks and gloves to Joe and Bluehorse as the other agent took photographs of the vehicle and the surrounding area. Over the next hour, they shoveled out the rat droppings from inside the vehicle and ran metal detectors over the piles, looking for slugs or shells or anything else out of place that might potentially be a clue. They found nothing other than nuts and bolts, bottle caps, and metal brackets.

When they finished, Mark climbed into the vehicle to examine the bullet holes in the windshield and door. He and the female agent photographed and measured them all. When they were done, Mark focused on the door, placing his left cheek to the hole. He peered through.

“Oh yeah. This is going to be fun.”

Joe could hear a slight giddiness in his voice. He knew evidence guys—and gals—got excited by challenges at a scene.

“I feel pretty confident we can find this round,” Mark said. “No guarantee, of course. But definitely possible.”

Mark went to work. He opened the long black case and extracted a small box, a long metal rod, and a tiny tripod, all of which he handed to Bluehorse.

“Hold on to these until I get inside.”

Mark slid back inside the vehicle.

Bluehorse handed Mark the equipment.

Mark placed it on the battered dashboard, opened it, and withdrew several small white plastic cones with holes running lengthwise through them. He held them to the bullet hole in the door, inserting each one gently, and then removing it to try the next, searching for a cone that fit snugly into the hole and was oriented in the direction the round would have traveled. He seemed to find the one he wanted and placed the others back in the box.

He grabbed the long rod and pushed it through the bottom of the cone, sliding the small white plastic halfway down its length. Angling the rod, he inserted it through the bullet hole until the cone seated. He wiggled the rod assembly a few times until he appeared satisfied. He looked up. The rod pierced the driver's door like a magician's sword through a magic box.

“Now for the angle finder,” Mark said, more to himself than to the others.

Mark held a yellow plastic device at the back end of the rod. He read the dial and then made a notation on a small notepad he pulled from the cargo pocket of his pants.

Joe was absorbed by the process. He'd seen this technique used only once before, in an accidental shooting involving elk hunters.

Mark extended the legs of the tripod so they touched the now somewhat clean floorboard and then placed the rod in a small U-shaped clip at the tripod's top. After making a few adjustments, he leaned back and appraised his work.

“This is not going to be perfect, but it'll give us a good search vector.”

“You got my attention,” Joe said. “What's next?”

“Do you have any idea if the vehicle was moved over the last twenty years? Maybe pushed or towed? Even a few feet?”

Because of the car parts under and around the vehicle, they didn't believe it had been moved. It appeared to have been stripped in place.

“There are three unknowns we're dealing with here,” Mark began. “First, was this vehicle parked here when the shot was fired? Second, was there anything on the outside of this door that could have intercepted the round and subsequently changed its direction, like a person or a tree that's been cut down since? And third, was the round an ice bullet and has it since melted away?”

Bluehorse looked surprised.

Joe laughed.

“Okay, we only have two unknowns. But one of these days someone will try something tricky like that, and I'll be ready.”

“I pity the fool,” Joe said in a poor imitation of Mr. T.

Mark and Bluehorse both looked at him, heads cocked.

“The
A-Team
?” Joe waited for a response. Nothing. He shook his head. “Young'uns.”

Mark went on: “So we could do an entire three-part mathematical equation to calculate the round's time aloft, maximum height, and horizontal distance traveled, taking into account wind resistance and the Earth's rotation, but…”

Bluehorse bit. “But?”

“But we don't know the round's velocity, and without that, I can't do the calculations.”

Dramatic pause.

Bluehorse bit again. “Oh.”

“So we're left with one option. The string technique.”

No one said anything.

Mark continued, possibly a little disappointed by the lack of response. “I connect a laser to the rod and shoot out a beam for about two hundred yards or until something stops it—something that could have stopped a round. That's our trajectory. Then we run a string from here to that point and use a metal detector along the string's path. If the shot was fired from this vehicle while it was sitting here, and if my angle of travel is correct, the round should be within five to ten feet on either side of that string.”

Bluehorse clapped his hands together. “I'm game.”

“Let me make two disclaimers. First, the car is at a lower angle because the tires are gone. Second, if my angle of travel through the door is off, or if the car shifted to the side over the years, that round may not be in our search area.”

“Fair enough,” Joe said.

“Let's find ourselves a bullet.” Mark rifled through the little black box on the dash and pulled out a small penlike tube. He placed it at the back end of the rod and screwed it to the tip, making slow, careful twists, as though he were assembling a bomb. When it was connected, he checked the angle finder again and made an adjustment to the tripod.

“Bluehorse,” Mark said. “In my backpack you'll find several sheets of white card stock. Grab a piece and hold it in front of the rod.”

Bluehorse unzipped the bag.

A gunshot shattered the relative quiet of the woods.

S
EPTEMBER
25

S
ATURDAY
, 11:43
A.M.

R
ESIDENCE
OF
W
ILLIAM
T
OM
, F
ORT
D
EFIANCE
(N
AVAJO
N
ATION
), A
RIZONA

William Tom dipped the last piece of wheat bread into the mixture of egg yolk and green chili. As he lifted the soaked morsel to his mouth, he felt the light patter of liquid on his shirt. He shoved what remained between his fingers into his mouth and used his forefinger to catch the runaways on his stretched and yellowed T-shirt, smearing them into a single large stain. He called out to his wife.

“Chllarrr!” Swallowing, he tried again. “Char!”

“
Ha'átíí
?” Charlene replied, annoyance apparent in her voice. She was sitting in the living room, watching cartoons.

“I need a new shirt.”

“
Biniiyé?
”

“Because I got a stain on it.”

“
Biniiyé?
”

“Damn it! I need a new shirt.”

“
T'ah.
”

“Stop watching that shit and get me a shirt.”

“
T'ah.
”

“You're a disgrace to your Navajo ancestors, woman. Don't speak the language if you can't live by the traditions.”

“Go get it yourself, old man,” she said, switching to English.

He pushed himself away from the kitchen table, his wheelchair sliding easily over the linoleum floor. He wheeled into the living room, looking at the back of Charlene's head as he went. At forty-two, she was twenty-five years his junior. Her liver was probably older than his, the way she drank, but that was probably all. She would surely outlive him.

He never touched alcohol and always ate well, but that hadn't made a difference. His whole body had given up on him a decade ago when he'd developed type 2 diabetes. He'd lost his right foot from a complication eight years ago. Then they took his lower leg. Last year, they took his thigh. Two months ago, a sharp tingling started to come and go in his left foot, but he kept that quiet. He'd lost most of the sight in his right eye and had been surprised that the doctors hadn't offered to cut that out, too.

In the bedroom, he maneuvered himself to the dresser and opened the middle drawer. The bottom three drawers were his, the top three hers. He pulled out a once-white T-shirt, now a sickly shade of piss.

William had left the Navajo reservation at the age of ten to attend boarding school in Vermont. He stayed there until he was eighteen, with few trips back home during those years. He went on to study archaeology at the University of Pennsylvania, and only after graduation did he return to the reservation. He wanted to bring his education back to his people. He was appointed as director of Navajo Antiquities, a department of government that safeguarded the Navajo Nation's cultural history, and a place where he tried to make a difference. But that position offered little opportunity. So, many years later, he ran for president of the Navajo Nation. One requirement for presidency was fluency in Navajo. Because he'd left the reservation so young, he'd never mastered the language. But when he wanted something, he did what was needed to attain it, so he'd studied hard for most of a year to gain fluency. He was elected in 1991, the same year he met Charlene, his third wife. His first two wives had become too traditional for him. Now, in his later, wiser years, he wished Charlene would become more traditional.

He pulled off his stained shirt and placed it on his lap. It took him a little time, but he put on the new shirt and adjusted it down around his back. His body had grown weak these last few years and simple tasks like getting dressed tired him quickly. He wheeled over to the laundry basket. The clothes were piled high, overflowing onto the floor. The pile would grow much larger before Char got around to doing the wash. He rolled up the soiled shirt and was about to toss it on the mound, when he saw a pair of her panties on top.

She had gone out the night before and hadn't returned home until after two, waking him up when she stumbled through the front door. She'd gone to Gallup, she'd said, with a few friends and had some drinks at the American Bar. When he asked her how she had gotten home, she said a friend drove her. She would not name the friend. He looked at the panties now, tempted to examine them for evidence of infidelity, to prove once again that she was cheating on him. But he realized it wouldn't do any good. He'd confronted her before, and she hadn't denied it.

“What do you want me to do?” she'd said. “I'm a woman. I'm young. You just want to sit home and read your stupid books. I can't do that.” She hadn't spoken Navajo that time.

That was the first of a dozen arguments they'd had about her sleeping around. His family would tell him from time to time that they'd seen her here or there with this guy or that guy. He'd tell them to mind their own business. Once, he told his brother, “What am I supposed to do? I can't run after her.” He'd stopped driving when he started to lose his sight, so he just sat at home like a good invalid. He still wielded some power on the reservation, still had some friends—still had some enemies, too. He could find someone to pay a visit to one of her
friends,
but that would imply he still cared. He didn't. Let her have her fun. He wouldn't be around much longer. Didn't
want
to be around much longer. Living was too much work now. Work and pain. As for him, they could put him in the ground tomorrow. A relic to be uncovered sometime in the future. A fitting end for an archaeologist.

He tossed his shirt on top of the pile and spun his chair around. He wheeled through the living room, out the front door, and onto the porch.

The
Navajo Times
lay there, wrapped with a rubber band. He bent and scooped it up, the effort making him breathe hard. He coughed. He smelled the air. The sage was strong and clean, energizing. As president, he had often told his constituents how much he loved the high desert and beautiful mesas, and how blessed the Navajo were to occupy their ancestral lands between the four sacred mountains. But after leaving office, he started telling the truth. He missed Vermont. He missed the deep greens and the vibrant colors of the Northeast. And more important, he missed the world-class hospitals there.

He sat for several moments, enjoying the warm sunshine. Then he pulled off the rubber band and unfolded the paper. He focused on the top story. “Clue to Congressman Edgerton's Disappearance Found on Reservation.” His hands shook as he read.

S
EPTEMBER
25

S
ATURDAY
, 11:43
A.M.

J
ONES
R
ANCH
R
OAD
, C
HI
C
HIL
T
AH
(N
AVAJO
N
ATION
), N
EW
M
EXICO

Joe dropped to one knee, gun drawn. The sound of the shot had been close. Too close. He checked on the others. Bluehorse knelt by the fender. Mark's head eased up to the driver-side window from within the car.

Joe scanned the woods. Who the hell was shooting? And what were they shooting at?

“Police! Stop firing your weapon!”

Another gunshot roared.

It came from the east.

Joe and Bluehorse moved behind the vehicle.