Death and Desire (13 page)

T
race's phone danced on the nightstand, waking me from a deep sleep. For a moment, I was disoriented by the lights and shadows in his bedroom. He fumbled the phone, knocking it to the floor. His hand was on my thigh as he answered, “Yazzie here . . . Yeah, on my way.” He dropped his phone, rolled over, and kissed me. “Morning, sunshine.”

“What time is it?”

“Five a.m. I'm sorry. I have to go. Oil tanker overturned on 89.”

I kissed the stubble on his cheek. I was reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed.

He glanced back at me. “You don't have to leave.”

What a domestic scene that would be—Trace returning home to a pot of hot coffee and a hot breakfast that I had whipped up. Reality struck and I knew he would continue to the office from the wreck, and I had work to do. Plus, I hadn't mastered that cooking thing yet. “I have to go. I'm meeting Yanaha at the Diablo and giving her the ladle handle.”

“Give her my love.”

 

Cool morning air rushed through my car windows, scenting my car with pine. I smiled, remembering the evening. Trace was a great cook and conversationalist, and we'd devoured each other's bodies like two lusty teenagers. We had entire conversations that had nothing to do with meth, pots, and shapeshifters. Perhaps we could separate our jobs from our relationship.

Louis wasn't at work yet. None of the day crew were. The early morning agricultural and news people were coming off the anchor desk, still pumped from the rush of broadcasting live. I liked to be at work this time of the morning, anticipating an entire day of news yet to be covered. I hummed as I left a note for Louis, telling him I was meeting Yanaha with the ladle handle and wanted him to go with me to Dr. Hebron's office after lunch. As an afterthought, I wrote and circled
Galaxy cheese fries at noon
hoping to lure him with one of his favorite foods. I grabbed the ladle handle from the desk drawer. Under the bundle sat Gage's documents. I'd pester him until his voice mail was full of my phone messages.

From the station parking lot, I dialed the number of the Arroyo Alzheimer's Facility. I couldn't get the old couple and the cost of their care out of my head. A pleasant voice answered and identified herself as Ms. Pearson, then asked how she could help. I told her I needed care for my parents and wanted to visit the home and talk numbers. She invited me to drop by at my leisure. I told her I could be there shortly. I felt guilty for wasting her time when I no longer had parents that needed care.

Ms. Pearson met me in the foyer. The cloying scent of hospital mingled with the smell of fresh roses in the hall. The reception area was huge with comfortable chairs surrounding a round mahogany table covered with glossy magazines and color brochures advertising the facility.

“You'll like it here. We offer our patients so much love and care. The patient rooms are off both sides of the foyer with the dining hall right behind us. The greenhouse is down to your left and our library area is to our right so our patients can easily navigate the entire facility.” She smiled and led the way down the corridor.

The patients' names were posted outside their doors. She chatted easily about church services, the craft room, and in-house physical therapy. I looked at each door, scanning for the Etisitty name. There was always the chance they had a different last name or weren't kin to Susan, but I could get lucky. We paused in the greenhouse, a beautiful glass room full of lush trees and ferns. The sun sparkled through the windows and people were gathered in twos and threes, not interacting much, but a few talked quietly. “Let's go down to the library,” Ms Pearson urged. “We do have some patients who enjoy the books.”

She led the way, describing the benefits of living here, obviously proud of the place. Again, I scanned the names on the doors. I stopped before room 18. “I see a couple is together in this room. The Etisittys? I would want my parents to be together, too.”

“Of course, we can accommodate your parents in a room together. We have a vacant room right down here.” She chatted amiably while we walked a couple of doors down to the empty room. “The Etisittys have a lovely granddaughter. She comes to visit them often and brings them little treats from the bakery.” She opened a door. “This would be your parents home, only two doors from the library. Let's have look.” She stood back for me to enter.

The room was sunlit from a large window and furnished with a big flat-screen TV, two hospital beds, and a single chest. A small handicap-equipped bathroom completed the space. I took a few minutes to poke in the closet, beginning to feel uncomfortable about the amount of her time I was taking. “How much would it be for my parents to be cared for here?”

“Together, their bill would come to eighty-five hundred per month.”

I gasped.

“But you see,” she said gently, “that is their complete bill, for their care of course, but also their laundry and meals, and we do try so very hard to engage and entertain our residents.”

I thanked her and left wondering who paid the Etisitty's bill.

 

A swayback gray mare hung her head morosely, occasionally tugging the rope that tied her to a small cottonwood tree in front of the Diablo trading post. I parked well away from the horse and approached on foot, trying not to startle her. She had long eyelashes framing her nearly white face and muzzle. I stroked her neck and she nickered softly, bumping her big head into my shoulder. I was such a softie for horses.

“Hello!” Frank yelled from the doorway. “Yanaha and me are having some coffee. Care for a cup?”

I patted the mare's neck and turned to greet Frank. “Sure. How have you been, Frank?”

“Coulda had more business, but I got friends who drop by.” He winked.

Yanaha peered at me through the gloomy interior. “Granddaughter, I am happy to see you.”

I kissed her soft cheek. “You look like you feel better.”

She smiled. “Well enough to ride over for my groceries. I couldn't ask for much more.”

“Sit down.” Frank beckoned me to a chair. “I got fresh cream for your coffee.”

I didn't want to know where the cream came from. I set the package on the table and took the chair by Yanaha.

“Yanaha brings me cream every Thursday.” That solved the cream puzzle. Frank beamed.

At his urging, I poured Betsy's best in my coffee and added sugar.

“What have you got all wrapped in that Bubble Wrap?” Frank poked at the bundle curiously.

“An Anasazi ladle handle I bought at an auction down in Phoenix.” I put one hand on Yanaha's forearm. Her face was expressionless. “I brought it to you. Perhaps you could bury it in Kaih Canyon?” I rushed on, “It may not have come from there, but the ancient ones who made it would rather it be in the canyon than sitting on someone's mantel.”

She reached for the ladle and unpeeled the wrap. She turned the handle over, slowly inspecting it. “This black and white zigzag pattern was used by our people thousands of years ago. Your piece is very old.”

“It's not mine. The ladle belongs to you, the descendent of the woman who made it.”

Her veined hands shook as she carefully rewrapped the piece. “This is funeral pottery, taken from a grave. I will bury it in the sands by the willows when no one is near. You have held it several days?”

“Yes, I'm sorry I couldn't get it to you any sooner.”

“And you have been frightened?”

She startled me with the question.

“She wants to know if you've seen a witch,” Frank interjected.

“Yes, at my home,” I answered quietly.

“I knew you were in trouble.” She reached into a grocery sack and pulled out a leather bag that looked like Trace's medicine pouch.

“She put that together for you.” Frank nodded encouragingly.

“Did Trace tell you about the charm?”

“I knew, child, before he told me.” She pointed to her head. “I have seen the witch on the rim of my canyon, twitching his tail and watching the men with their bulldozers.” She placed the bag in my hand.

“In this pouch is corn pollen, sand from Kaih Canyon, and a bit of turquoise from our four sacred mountains. Keep this with you for protection. We will have a private blessing after Ben's Enemy Way.”

I took the pouch and she motioned for me to tie the leather thongs around my neck. It dropped down out of sight between my breasts.

“Thank you.” I fingered the soft leather and rose to leave.

“Wait a moment, my dear.” Yanaha reached back into her sack and pulled out her cell phone. She proudly slid her old finger across the surface, unlocking it.

“When did you get service?” I was relieved she could call for help if she needed to.

“Yesterday. What is your number?” She squinted at the small screen.

She dialed my number as I recited it, and my phone burbled in my bag.

“Now you have my number. You must call me and come out to Kaih and visit me.” She smiled happily.

“Of course,” I said delightedly. I took a step toward the door.

“You need any supplies?” Frank called to me hopefully.

“Uh, yes.” I looked at the closest shelf. “I'll take a couple of those big cans of apples and one of those bags of sugar.”

“Goin' to make pies?” He bagged the cans and handed them to me.

“My friend is,” I assured him as I paid. Behind him, Yanaha smiled and winked at me.

L
ouis was so sleepy from his huge, greasy Galaxy lunch that he begged me to let him nap on the way to interview with Dr. Hebron. He slouched down in the seat and pulled his ball cap over his eyes. Flag's not that big, so his nap was cut short. I parked in the visitor's lot and nudged his arm to waken him. “Time to go to work.”

He unloaded his gear: camera and tripod, light umbrella, light kit, and a field mixer. We schlepped it into the elevator and out on the second floor. Dr. Hebron's office was large and dark, crammed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves full of dusty tomes and reams of papers and journals.

Louis read his light meter. “Gonna be best to turn off the fluorescents and set up a key light and two fills. Just take a minute.” When he was finished setting the lighting, Hebron's office looked like a cozy book-lined den. Louis helped Hebron mike up and I wired the microphones into the field mixer and out to the camera.

Louis checked our audio levels on the meter and gave us the thumbs-up. Hebron agreed to be interviewed on camera. When I finished with the obligatory chitchat establishing he was an expert in the field, Dr. Hebron expounded ad nauseam about the importance of his grant. I pounced when he stopped for a breath and asked him about the environmental effects of leach-pit mining.

“Well . . .” He puffed out his chest and looked directly into the camera, though we had explained to him the camera in this interview acted as a fly on the wall, and he should address me when he talked. “The science of water and air pollution is very complex and extremely difficult to explain in layman's terms.”

“Let's start with how they get the uranium out of the ore. What is leach-pit mining?”

He crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward. “Leach-pit mining involves removing huge amounts of rock, crushing it, and leaching the uranium from the rock with chemicals. Some mines average ninety tons of waste tailings for every one ton of uranium they extract.

“Do those tailings pollute the environment?”

“Absolutely.” He tapped his fingertips together. “The mountain of mine tailings leaks the acid that was used to separate the uranium from the crushed rock. The chemical leaching process also leaves cyanide, hydrocarbons, and sulfur in the tailings. All of which seep into the groundwater.”

“Have these chemicals been found in the wells on the Navajo reservation?”

“Of course. Plus, when rainwater sluices through the tailings, the runoff pollutes streams and reservoirs miles downstream.”

“Is there any air pollution from the mine waste?”

“Certainly,” he spoke definitively. “The rock tailings are leaking radon gas because most of the radioactive material ends up in the tailings.”

“Is the radon gas dispersed by the wind?”

“Over miles of the desert. Radon is not the only air pollutant. Dust from the mine's earth moving equipment, particulate matter from planted explosives in the mine, and exhaust from all those diesel machines create a slurry of air pollution.”

“What are some of the health problems people might have?”

“Ingestion of heavy metals can cause cancer and birth defects. Inhaling particulate matter causes lung disease. Most mine pollution comes from carelessness and doesn't have to happen. We don't have to live in the shadow of heavy metal contamination and acid drainage.”

“How can the risk of the tailings be managed?”

“A liner of six feet of heavy clay should be installed under the tailings. Dump the tailings on the liner and cover them with a thick topping of soil to minimize the release of pollutants. In time, grasses will grow in the soil, minimizing erosion and create a wildlife habitat. For our future generations, we must safeguard the purity of our air and water.”

“How much would that plan cost a mining operation?”

“What price can you put on clean air and water and healthy children?”

“Helluva good interview, gal,” Louis said when we were back in the Rav.

“Thanks. I have to call Sancho Chavez over at Dinetah and give him a chance to respond.”

“Don't see much point. I bet I can write what he'll tell you. We abide by all federal and OSHA regulations, blah blah blah.”

“Yeah, I agree. But I need Chavez to say it on record and own it in case there's ever an accident at the mine.”

“You going out there? Need me to go with you?”

“No need to go back out there. We've got cover footage from the mine and I'll just get his statement on the phone. I don't want to smell that stink again. It clung to my clothes and my hair. Can you imagine working there all day in that smell?”

“Nope, I couldn't do it.”

“Those workers are undocumented Mexican nationals. Frank told me about a stalled truck full of young men heading out there. The driver wanted Frank to clear away and he did, but Frank thought they were hauling illegals to the mine. Remember how the workers hung their heads and shied away from any eye contact with us? And that strange Mexican music?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Trace told me the music was
corridos
, ballads about the cartels' battles. I looked up
corridos
and it's the most popular genre of music in Mexico right now. When I was a kid, I visited my uncle on his cotton farm. When field hands heard a helicopter, everyone who was illegal threw down their hoe shouting ‘
Vamanos
' and ran into the adjacent cornfield to hide.”

“Those mine workers live out there.”

“Right. They're under Chavez's nose all the time, fed and housed. Chavez fired the Navajo workers and replaced them with illegals he can control. They can't squeal to anyone about anything without getting deported,” I said.

“But if they talked, that would hurt Chavez, too,” Louis responded.

“It's a fine for employing illegals, not jail time. First offenders pay less than two thousand dollars, second offenders less than five. Even the third time you're caught, the fine is less than ten thousand. I think Chavez has all the connections he needs to beat the rap. Think of how many politicos and celebrities got caught paying illegals and are
still
politicos and celebrities.”

“Depressing as hell, gal.”

“I agree.”

He snapped his fingers. “Hey, Eric's hounded me twice to remember to ask you and Trace to dinner this weekend. Eric's dying to meet him and he's been puttering around with his recipes. He's hoping the weather holds so we can have dinner outside on the deck. We have a propane heater out there if you get cold. How about seven on Sunday night?”

“Sounds good. I'll clear it with Trace. Thanks, Louis.”

“We got to get a good look at this guy you're dating. Eric wants to see if he approves.” Louis winked.

When we turned into the station's lot, Louis said, “I'll get this video loaded while you call Chavez.”

I didn't get past Chavez's secretary who said, “Mr. Chavez is busy with an employee. I'll tell him you wanted to speak with him.”

While I waited to hear from Chavez, I dialed Trace's cell.

“Dinner with Louis and Eric? Sounds good. They want to look me over, right?”

“Yep, better spiff up so you can pass muster. Can you meet me for a drink later?”

“Love to, but I can't. I'm still doing the paperwork on that oil tanker. Look, I gotta go, but I know I'll make it to Ben's ceremony. See you at eight in the morning?” he asked, apologetically.

“I understand.” And I did. Neither of us was in control of our work. Sounded like a great night for a classic movie and some wine.

When Chavez returned my call, he said what Louis predicted, adding a few specifics. “The tailings from the Dinetah mine discharge no acid into the groundwater because the waste is located well away from any drainage areas formed by rainstorms. State inspectors regularly test the tailings for leakage of radon gas. The mine is a good neighbor to the Navajo. We have never been cited by any state or federal organization.”

Good quote, and I planned to use the sound bite. Chavez was right. I checked state and federal records and the mine had never been fined. I'd also remind the audience that Dinetah had only been operational again for a short while. I added his quote to the story file and started to work on my voice-over.

Louis and I worked through the frames. We sent the story to the server, agreeing it was one of our best. Late in the afternoon, Marty walked up to my desk. “Good work. I'm going to lead with it tonight.” He turned on his heel and marched out the way he came in.

Louis grinned. “He's always had the social skills of a goat.”

“I don't—” My phone rang. Gage Notah! Finally. I snatched it up. “Hello, Gage.”

“Ms. McWhorter, I don't have much time. I'm outside my office building. We have to meet. Not here,” he added hastily.

“Name the time and place and I'll be there.”

“You know where the Wupatki National Monument is?”

“Off US 89?”

“Yes, but don't go all the way to the gate into the park. There's a dirt road off east from 89, three miles from Wupatki. Go down that road until you see a stand of cottonwood trees. I'll be parked there.”

“I'll be there. When?”

“Monday after five.” I heard a soft
click.
He didn't wait for good-bye.

“You got a meet with Gage?” Louis asked.

“Yeah. Monday evening.”

“You want me along?”

“No, the guy sounds scared to death. I don't want to spook him by showing up with a man he doesn't know.”

“Text me if you need anything. See you two on Sunday evening,” he said over his shoulder as he left work.

I drove home planning to cocoon. Mac and I had dinner together. He had his usual kibbles, which he ate with gusto, while I nibbled on a wonderful hard Parmesan cheese and crackers. I washed it down with a glass of white wine. I might have dinner over my kitchen sink, but a good white wine gave the meal some class. I curled up on my sofa and watched
Casablanca
for the millionth time.