Death and Desire (2 page)

T
wo hours later, the smell of the Coconino Forest pines seeped into the car, and I relaxed for the first time since leaving Albuquerque. Snow-capped Humphrey's Peak jutted through the clouds in the waning light leading me to my casita.

I needed to be alone. Too many people, too many conversations, a shock to my system, and I needed to retreat to my own space and recharge. Renewed, I could happily rejoin the human population and their demands. But now, right now, I craved the sanctuary of the house Eric had found for me. My little adobe house had a wraparound deck with views of the San Francisco Mountains, warm wood floors, and a big kiva fireplace—my little piece of heaven.

Mac greeted me joyfully, thumping his tail and wriggling between my legs as I dropped the gear bag at the door. I cradled his big black head in my hands. “You're a good boy. I missed you too, fella.” I was damn sure Mac had kept the house safe, but I walked through every room, looked in every closet, under the bed, and checked the windows to see they were locked. I tried to convince myself I was acting foolishly, but had no success. Everything was neat and orderly like I left it. Mac cocked his head and gave me his puzzled-doggy look. I stepped into the laundry room, kicked off my boots, and took off all my clothes, even my underwear, and tossed them in the washer on the hottest cycle. I stood there nude, staring at the dried red-brown stain on my favorite Lariats. I poured Clorox on a rag and dabbed at the stain, instantly removing the chocolate leather dye. I scooped them up and tossed them in the trash can.

Mac followed me into my bedroom where I sat on the bed listening for any sound that shouldn't be there. The wind rasped the pinion branches across the roof, sounding like claws scratching the shingles. The horror of Niyol's murder washed over me—his look of surprise, his blood congealing on the sidewalk. I was in my safe space now with no need to show the world my strength and competence. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I almost vomited, my stomach heaving, but it passed before I made it to the toilet. I sat on the closed commode and waited for another wave.

Mac, named for both sides of my family, McWhorter and Mc-Murchie, followed me into the bathroom. He whimpered and rubbed his head on my legs.

“I'm all right, boy.” I stroked his black curls, soothing his anxiety. He buried his head in my hands. Mac had a syrupy-sweet disposition that had stolen my heart. His mom was a black Labradoodle who fancied wayward studs. Mac and his two sisters favored their mom, a big frame covered with curly hair. The fourth little guy looked like he had been made from the spare parts. “It's been a crappy day, boy.” I rubbed my cheek on his muzzle.

I squinted at my reflection in the mirror, and there I was in all my magnificence—an investigative news reporter sitting on a toilet talking to a dog. And damn it, squinting made the fine lines around my eyes etch more deeply. I reached for the moisturizer.

Mac padded quietly behind me into the bedroom. I threw the bedcovers back and crawled into the safety of my nest. Covered with the filth of Albuquerque's streets, I waited for the fitful sleep I knew was coming. I awoke once, drenched in sweat, dreaming of speeding black cars.

A weak dawn brightened the eastern sky. I stripped my sheets, stuffed them in the washer, and showered. I had my Cheerios while watching KNAZ's early news anchor read the story of Niyol Notah's death in Albuquerque. Not even a picture of him flashed across the screen. He had initiated contact with me less than a month before, shortly after he was fired from Dinetah Mining and Engineering in Flagstaff.

 

I sipped my fourth cup of coffee, waiting in Marty's office for Louis to show.

Louis Dubois was my field producer and cameraman. He and his partner, Eric Jameson, were polar opposites, but made a good team. Louis's Baton Rouge roots gave him his trademark soft slur and courtly manners. Eric was all about his real estate business.

He rushed in, his shirttail hanging out on the left side. “Whew, made it.” He grinned as he flopped noisily in a chair and pulled paper and pen from his ratty notebook.

“Glad you could join us ten minutes late,” Marty growled. “Let's get started. Taylor, give me your story.”

“Niyol Notah e-mailed me about a month ago wanting to talk about the Dinetah Mining and Engineering Company. He moved to Albuquerque shortly after the company fired him.”

“He legit? You Google him? Find a phone number and address over in Albuquerque?” Marty barked.

“I did. Even drove by his house early yesterday morning. He has a small stucco ranch house, looked like it was from the 1930s or 1940s in an older part of south-central Albuquerque. I figure that's why he chose the diner on Central for the meeting. But I let him set the parameters for contact. He was skittish. He drizzled his story out over several weeks by e-mail and phone. Albuquerque police have probably pulled his cell records by now.”

“So? What have you got?” Marty challenged.

“He told me he was a heavy equipment operator, running bulldozers and road graders for Dinetah. Niyol worked for the mine when Naalish Tsosie ran the operation. The mine was closed for years, supposedly played out, and Tsosie was killed in a one-car crash down in Phoenix right before the mine cranked back up. Niyol got a job running a grader, building a new road to the backside of the old uranium mine. Until he got fired.”

“You get the new guy's name?” Marty interrupted.

“Of course,” I answered him patiently. “Sancho Chavez bought the rights to the mine.”

“You mean Chavez bought the mine?”

“No, the mine is on tribal land. The Navajo Nation sells the rights to operate the mine and receives part of the profits. Before you ask, Tsosie's death was ruled an accident by the Phoenix PD.”

“You gonna string this out all morning? I got work to do.”

I ignored Marty's bluster and continued, “Niyol claimed Dinetah Mining was trafficking in stolen Anasazi pottery looted from the job sites. Heavy equipment turned up the pots and their site foreman collected it on the spot. You can't dig a couple of inches in the sand without finding pottery. Hell, a good wind storm will uncover pottery. Niyol is—was—a traditional Navajo and was offended by the desecration of the burial sites.”

“He offer you any proof?” Marty asked.

“He sent me pictures he took on his cell phone, a night scene of a dozer working in a finger canyon, and a man he identifies as a supervisor holding a huge Anasazi pot. He didn't live long enough to share more. Niyol claimed the finger canyons are littered with Anasazi pit houses and burial sites. At night, the bulldozers tore open the graves and men looted the funeral goods. His buddy took the night work for triple-time pay. Not all the operators were asked to work overtime.”

“You get this friend's name?” Marty interrupted.

“No, he was giving me the name at our meeting. He did tell me his friend was fired and died within a week in a drunken car crash.”

“Anything else to add?”

“Yeah, Niyol saw the foreman of their group hand over pottery to a guy who had a truck with a license plate frame that advertised the Ford dealership in Flag.”

“Why was Niyol's friend canned?”

“Niyol claims he got the ax because he knew Dinetah was stealing.”

“You got any proof he wasn't drinking and driving?”

“Not yet. But I don't think it's a coincidence that Niyol was killed yesterday, and his friend and Naalish Tsosie were also killed in car crashes.”

“There's big money in those pots,” Louis interjected. “Asian collectors in Southern California and private collectors in Europe, who are none too concerned about provenance, will pay big money for Anasazi pots.” Louis stretched his long arms over his head. “Heard the Saudis were getting in the collecting game, too. Paying four hundred thousand a pop for big pieces.”

“I know you got jack shit on this story unless you find another source who works for Dinetah. So find something.” Marty stood, ending the meeting.

Louis waited until we cleared the doorway to say, “Let's get some lunch over at the Galaxy. Man, I haven't had their wet fries in months.”

“I'm there. You realize the Galaxy's wet fries should be on your bucket list once in a lifetime. All that cheese will kill you.” He followed me back to the newsroom for me to grab my bag. We left the station by the side door to avoid running into Marty.

The Galaxy Diner was a retro fifties fave of the locals, with a red neon sign in a fancy script over the door. The decor was faux mid-century, heavy on the chrome and cherry red. We slipped into a vinyl booth across from the bar that was rimmed with red barstools. Louis ordered the Galaxy cheesy burger with an order of wet fries on the side and a chocolate milkshake. I had my usual garden salad with a bowl of the day's chicken noodle soup.

“Jeez, Louis, where do you put it all?” I asked him. Louis had to be in his fifties and didn't have an ounce of fat on his lean frame.

“I'm a guy, girlfriend, and pushing all this testosterone means I get to eat more.” He dumped a healthy serving of wet fries on my salad plate. “There, you won't starve. Enjoy the fries. You and Mac can run a few miles later if you feel guilty. Now give it up. You didn't tell Marty all you know. Spill it.”

I savored the oil and salt on the lethal fries. “I don't want Marty to know until I have a chance to pursue a couple of leads.”

“What did Niyol tell you?”

“Niyol was antsy about telling me anything specific in his e-mails. I think if we could have just met, he would have opened up. But here's what I do know. He didn't want to be anywhere near Dinetah after he was fired. Right before he was killed, he snail-mailed me some financial records his nephew Gage filched from the Dinetah office. Gage told Niyol that the mining company was involved in some funky accounting.” I sighed. “It's a bitch because I don't want to spook Marty. I'm on a fishing trip for dirt on one of the biggest employers in northeast Arizona. I checked with Linda over in sales and Dinetah buys a lot of advertising time from us. They're a big donor to our 5K Run for the Kids. Our general sales manager will be plenty pissed if the CEO gets mad and pulls their ads.”

“What reason did you give Linda for wanting to know how much Dinetah spent with us?”

“She was busy putting together the end of the month statements and only half-assed paid attention. I told her I was doing a little research on our major advertisers.”

“I can see her buying that.”

“Hey, I need your help. You've lived here for decades. I want to be at Niyol's funeral and meet his brother. Do you know any of his relatives ?”

Louis scratched his head with one long finger. “Yeah, I went to school with Klah Notah, same clan as Niyol.”

“You think you can talk to Klah? Get us to that funeral?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure. Klah lives out by his mother at his family's sheep camp. I'll go by there to pay my respects and ask him if we can come to the funeral to honor his uncle. He'll smooth it over with Bidziil. Niyol was born to the Towering House Clan and for the Rock Gap people. Funeral's gonna be large. Lot of folks in those clans.”

“Tell me again about the clan structure.”

He mimicked a Scottish accent. “Aye, lassie, you oughta know all about clan structure. You just visited your Scottish family down at the Highland Games in Phoenix.”

“Both the McWhorters and the McMurchies are septs of the Buchannan's—all of them fought under the same battle flag.”

He grinned. “So that's a Buchanan battle flag you're flying off your deck?”

“You bet.” I popped a fry in my mouth. “Tell me about Navajo families.”

“A Navajo is born to his mother's clan and born for his father's. Navajo's must marry outside their clans, and the man goes to live with his wife's people. It's a matrilineal system. You'll see how it works at the funeral.”

L
ouis and I rattled across the washboard ruts of a red sand road on the way to Niyol Notah's funeral. Finger canyons full of pinion pine and sagebrush riddled the sandstone cliffs. The sky was a merciless blue, and the sun tried unsuccessfully to warm the cold, dry air.

Louis wrenched the wheel of his old truck, trying to miss the worst of the potholes. He took his eyes off the road long enough to notice me. “You're fidgeting over there. Ever been to a Navajo funeral?”

I stilled my hands in my lap. “No, and I don't know what to expect.”

“Relax. You'll do fine. The Notah's are burying Niyol in the traditional Navajo way.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Four of Niyol's closest male relatives will have washed and wrapped his body in a blanket before the funeral. The service will be brief and the mourners will be quiet. No tears or crying.” Louis glanced over to me.

“Why not?”

“Because noise might attract the spirit of the dead person, his Chindi. Traditional Navajos believe that when someone dies, they go to the underworld, and a quick and proper burial ensures that the spirit is released.”

“What happens next?”

“We're here.” He put the car in park. “Just be quiet and follow my lead.”

Louis nudged me and nodded to two men. “Bidziil and Klah,” he whispered.

We stood at the edge of a group of nearly fifty Navajos. The women wore traditional long velvet skirts in the rich colors of the sky and earth. Thick silver and turquoise bracelets laced their sun-wrinkled arms. Heavy pendants hung around their drooping necks. Their men wore weathered boots and jeans broken in from hard use. The men respectfully held their battered felt hats in their hands and shifted their weight from one foot to the other.

The group was quiet, staring ahead expectantly. One tall, much younger Navajo man stood apart from the mourners. His lean body supported broad shoulders and long legs. He wore a well-cut suit tailored to his lithe form. He had a square jaw, punctuated with a deep dimple in his chin. Large expressive eyes dominated his face. I glanced away when he caught me looking.

When he resumed scanning the crowd of mourners, I took the pleasure of staring at his slim form. He held himself casually, but with an air of authority as he spoke quietly to an older man beside him. Creases ringed his mouth in a warm smile and the old man grasped the younger man's arm, nodding with relief. The younger man resumed his restless search of the crowd. His movements were fluid, almost sensual, flushing me with warmth. When he turned his head, we locked eyes. A slow smile bathed his face.

Louis poked me. “Stop staring. It's a sign of disrespect to traditional Navajos.”

I dropped my head and glanced back at him under the fringe of my lashes. He was still watching.

A weathered old man stepped out of the mourning crowd and faced us. His eyes squinted into the morning sun. “I welcome you, friends of Niyol Notah and family of the Towering House Clan. We will honor Niyol Notah's life today.” He spoke in Navajo over the blanket-covered body. When he paused, the group spoke a few words in concert with him.

“May you walk in beauty and live in
hozho
,” the old man finished abruptly in English.

Four men with ash-covered faces stepped forward and put Niyol's body over the back of a snorting black horse. One man held the reins, two flanked the horse, and one man walked behind the horse to warn the onlookers not to cross the path of the dead man's body. After the burial, the bearers would return to brush away all the footprints and destroy the tools used to prepare the grave.

I leaned in to speak to Louis, but he shook his head and continued to look straight ahead. The funeral group stood respectfully until the four men walked so far into the finger canyon that the pinion hid them from view. Louis leaned over and whispered in my ear, “They'll take him back into the canyon and bury him in one of the dozens of little caves in the cliffs. Then the four of them will purify themselves at the sweat lodge. Your best chance of speaking with Bidziil is now. This group is going to break up in a hurry.”

A flock of noisy black ravens cawed in the branches of the pines behind us. Their raucous calling was the only sound in the stillness until an old man muttered, “
Ya'ah'tee,
”
It is good
, and the crowd began moving to their trucks. I caught up with Bidziil.

“Mr. Notah, I'm Taylor McWhorter from Flag—”

Bidziil turned around and stared with no recognition on his passive face.

“I'm sorry for your loss. I was with your brother when he died. . . .”

“He was murdered,” he growled in a low voice.

“Yes, he was. Niyol wanted to talk with me about Dinetah Mining, but he died before he could. I hope you're able to tell me your brother's story.”

“Why would he contact you?” Bidziil Notah showed me no warmth. A silent old woman stood beside him, watching me. She restlessly fingered her velvet skirt.

“I'm a reporter for KNAZ. Could we talk some place privately, Mr. Notah?” I begged.

“Come by Basha's in Tuba City at seven tomorrow evening. I'll be getting off about then,” he answered in a soft voice as he and the old woman shuffled away.

Louis came up beside me. “You get a meeting with him?”

“Yeah, tomorrow evening. You know what he does at Basha's?”

“I think he's a butcher. You think he knows anything?”

“He wouldn't agree to meet with me unless he does. How much he decides to share is a different matter.”

 

I was in Basha's Grocery and Deli fifteen minutes early. Battered grocery baskets littered the scarred hardwood floors. Business was lively. Navajo families shopped the short aisles stacked with twenty-pound sacks of flour and five-gallon buckets of lard. A barrel of dry pinto beans marked the end of the aisle facing the butcher shop. A child was seining pickles from another barrel and a weary-looking young mother, jostling a baby on her hip and herding two other children, shooed him away.

Bidziil was cleaning a meat slicer when he saw me. No one was waiting for his services. “Meet me at my truck in the back.”

I nodded, not breaking my stride and went to the Basha's bakery. I bought two pastries and two cups of coffee.

Evening came early and the security lights over the rear door of the store chased the dark from the small lot. Bidziil sat in a battered pickup truck that had once been red, but now was faded by the desert sun to a dull hue between pink and orange. He had parked as far from the glow of the security light as possible. A huge dent in the right front fender and a sagging bumper gave the entire truck a forlorn air. When I opened the passenger door, the interior light didn't come on. He was either careful or the light was another casualty of hard wear.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Notah.” I handed him a coffee and pastry, dropping the sugar and powdered-cream packets in the well between the seats.

He poured sugar in his coffee and left the cream untouched. “I have thought of this matter. How do I know my brother contacted you?”

I reached into my bag and took out my phone. “Here are our e-mails.”

Bidziil put on his cheaters, studied my phone, and gave it back to me. I pulled the thick sheaf of accounts Niyol had hard-mailed me out of my bag. He thumbed through a few pages and shrugged helplessly.

“You were with him when he was murdered. Tell me what happened ?” He peered at me over his half-moon glasses. His face remained immobile and his voice devoid of emotion.

“He was walking to the diner when a car jumped the curb and ran him down. He died before he fell. It wasn't an accident.”

“I believe that. What will you do with Niyol's story if I tell you?”

“I'll do my job, Mr. Notah. Find the truth and tell it.” I watched him over my coffee cup. Did he realize that he put himself at risk if he told Niyol's story? Would he weigh that in his decision?

The air in the truck was stale with the smell of wet wool and long-ago-finished greasy meals. I waited for him to decide. He put his glasses in his breast pocket and stared out the windshield. “My brother, he worked for over thirty years. He started out driving dump trucks full of rocks, and then he began operating heavy equipment, bulldozers, road graders, and front-end loaders. It was hard to find steady work here until the mine reopened.”

“Did he like his job?

He nodded slowly. “It was a good job. Niyol worked for Naalish Tsosie when he ran the mine. Things were better back then. Naalish was a traditional Navajo who hired his own people. He respected our people and traditions. But he closed the mine.”

“I heard the mine played out.”

“He mined all the ore that was easy to get to. Things began to change when Sancho Chavez reopened the mine. Lots of new faces. Few of them Navajo. The supervisors were Hispanic and they rode the men hard. Barking orders, writing up poor performance reports in the field. Lot of Navajos quit or got fired.”

“Why would Chavez buy the rights to a played-out mine?”

“He claimed there were new ways of mining. Naalish always said there was still uranium in the mine, just no way to get to it.”

“Is Chavez successful?”

Bidziil shrugged. “I guess he is. He pays his men.”

“Why did Niyol stay?”

“He needed work,” Bidziil explained simply.

“What do you think happened to your brother?”

Bidziil sighed and shuffled the papers still in his lap. “He was fired because he discovered Dinetah is looting Anasazi grave sites. At night, they use bulldozers to open the canyon burial sites. Men with shovels follow and dig out the pottery.”

“How did he know they were digging at night? Did he follow them?”

Bidziil waved his hand irritably. “Wasn't hard. There were signs of fresh digging in the sides of the canyons when the day crews went to work in the mornings. The Navajos talked about it among themselves. The burial sites are sacred to our people even though our own children will dig for pottery to get the money to buy crystal meth.” He grimaced. “Our children don't fear the torment of the Chindi who poison the minds of those who desecrate the ancient ones' graves. There will be no
hozho
.”

Bidziil looked out his driver's side window into the darkness. The panicked squeal of a small animal in the sagebrush pierced the night air. Bidziil picked up Niyol's story. “One day, Niyol unearthed an Anasazi pot and the supervisor stopped work so his men could remove the pot from the road bed with hand tools and brushes. The state and tribal anthropologists should have been called to the site to survey it and remove the artifacts. They weren't.

“The next day Niyol was taking his lunch break alone under the cottonwoods at the mouth of the canyon. He saw his supervisor hand the pot over to an Anglo who drove off in a pickup. Niyol hid in the tree line and didn't come out until after his supervisor had walked away. But after that morning, Niyol couldn't do anything right on the job site. He was cited for careless driving and insubordination.”

“Why didn't he just report the looters to the tribal police?”

He snapped his head around to stare at me. “He did. Niyol went to the tribal police and saw Officer Dave Nez, a son of the Rock Gap clan. My brother told Dave what he thought was happening, showed him the picture. Dave said he would look into it.”

“Did he? Do you know?”

“My brother had many ideas about wrongdoing but maybe not enough proof. Shortly after Niyol went to Dave, Dinetah fired him. He moved to Albuquerque that same month. Dave? I don't know what the tribal police did.”

“These financial papers Niyol mailed me . . .” I pointed at the papers strewn across his lap. “Did he talk to you about these? Do you know what they mean?”

Bidziil shuffled through the sheaf of financial data again. “No, Niyol didn't tell me about these.” He held up the papers. “I don't know about financial reports. I'm a butcher.”

I gathered the papers out of his hands. “Niyol got them from Gage Notah.”

“Gage is my nephew. He works at Dinetah. When you talk to him, don't see him at Dinetah. Please, Ms. McWhorter.”

I climbed out of Bidziil's truck and watched him drive slowly into the darkness. The only sound that punctuated the still desert night was the soft thumping of his muffler. I didn't for a moment believe he'd told me all he knew. He wanted to see what I would find out. I wanted my story. Where those overlapped, he would share. Where they didn't, the Notahs owned the space. For now. After Niyol saw the tribal police, Dinetah fired him. Then someone killed him. His friend hadn't fared any better. I would tread lightly.