Death Walker (45 page)

Ella pulled out her handheld radio and got Justine almost immediately. For now at least, it was over.

*   *   *

Ella accompanied
Justine back uphill to the position where the gunfire had begun. They collected and tagged blood discovered in a large, dried-out splotch on the ground.

“This won’t give us much without a suspect to link it to though. And I doubt they’ll check the guy into a hospital,” Justine said.

“I agree, but follow it up anyway,” Ella answered.

They searched the ground carefully for spent shells, footprints,
or anything else that might give them a clue.

“They were skinwalkers, I’m certain of that,” Ella said softly.

“If you never got a clear look, how do you know?” Justine challenged quietly.

“I’ve dealt with them before. The howls of rage and frustration…” Ella shook her head slowly. “It’s a half-human, half-animal sound. You don’t soon forget it.”

Justine nodded, accepting her explanation. “I
was afraid for you,” she admitted. “When I came back from Albuquerque, it was four in the morning. Mechanical problems kept us from taking off for hours. Then I learned your mother had left several messages for me. She and your brother were worried because you hadn’t come home or called. They felt that you were in danger and needed help. But they didn’t know where you were. I asked the dispatcher
to give me your last ten-twenty and started out this way as quickly as possible.”

Ella nodded. She had no doubt her mother and Clifford had sensed something was terribly wrong. It was part of that special ability the three had always shared, the legacy passed down through their ancestors that had always made them unique. “You need to go over this scene, but I have to get going to Lena Brownhat’s.
I’m taking your vehicle, since mine’s out of commission. You can ride back with the other officers if you finish before I’m done.” Ella paused, then added, “I’m worried about Mrs. Brownhat. The gunfire must have frightened her.”

“Maybe. Depends how sharp her hearing is, and the direction the wind was blowing last night. She’s in her seventies.”

“I’ll go check on her. In the meantime, make sure
you issue an alert that our calls are being monitored. From now on, if you need to talk to me about something important, switch frequencies. Use Tac two. The ordinary scanners can’t pick up our tactical channels.”

Justine nodded. “I’ll also let Big Ed know. He wants me to report back as soon as possible.”

“I’ll catch up to you later.”

*   *   *

Ella drove across the grassy knoll to the wooden
shack nestled against the hillside. She parked fifty feet or so in front of the door and waited. Time stretched out, but no one came to the doorway. Ella felt her muscles tighten as she looked farther up the hill, then down toward the river at a half dozen or so sheep grazing on the tall grass. What if the old woman had come out to see what was happening last night and been shot? She wasn’t sure
how discriminating Peterson and his allies had been prepared to be.

Ella glanced at the clock on the dashboard. She’d wait another two minutes, then she was going inside, invited or not. A breath later, Lena Brownhat appeared in the doorway. The elderly woman was dressed in a traditional long skirt and a faded yellow blouse. She wore a brightly colored scarf around her head. Mrs. Brownhat studied
the car for a moment, then waved for Ella to come inside.

With a sigh of relief, Ella got out of her car and walked to the door. The shack had a peculiar dusty, decaying smell. It was as if the dwelling had enveloped the scent of something that had outlived its time and usefulness. Ella glanced around, letting her eyes adjust to the semidarkness, and took a seat in an old folding chair that was
offered to her.

“The plastic on the seat is torn, but it’s still good,” Mrs. Brownhat said in the loud voice those who couldn’t hear often adopted.

“Are you Furman’s grandmother?” Ella asked in an equally loud tone, though keeping her expression gentle.

“That is my grandson’s Anglo name,” Lena Brownhat said. “Is there some trouble?”

Ella noted her surroundings without making any obvious glances
that might be considered rude. Mrs. Brownhat had an old iron bed, and few possessions. Her food was mostly canned goods, but there were plenty lining the wooden boxes that served as cupboards against the plywood wall. A big plastic garbage can probably held flour or cornmeal. Everything attested to the poverty and the marginal living found throughout the reservation. For those from big clans,
there was always a circle of family members or relatives around them. This woman, Ella knew, had outlived her contemporaries. Furman should have seen to her welfare, but that now seemed as likely to happen as the sun rising in the west.

Ella measured her words carefully. Lena Brownhat had enough to handle living out here. “I need to know about him, that’s all.”

Lena’s eyes sparkled with intelligence.
“My grandson has done something bad, I can tell. I can tell,” she repeated.

“You sound as if you were expecting that.”

“I have been,” she admitted, practically shouting the words, and oblivious to the fact. “He was never the same after his mother died. They lived way out on the reservation, even further than this place. They were not close to Shiprock or any town at all. My son preferred it
that way. He made a good life because he was a hard worker, even though he never went to the tribe’s school. I’d brought him up to speak Navajo only. He appreciated our ways.”

Ella nodded, wanting the woman to go on at her own pace.

“Then one winter my daughter-in-law grew ill with a fever. They waited, thinking that she would improve, then a
hataalii
was called in. But she got worse, not better.
Finally my son decided to take her to a medical doctor at one of the clinics. But their car was old, and it was winter. It wouldn’t start, no matter how hard he tried. He had sold his horses just that fall. My son ran miles to the highway to get a car to stop. The one that did held an Anglo man and his woman, but they couldn’t understand him. They didn’t let him into their car.”

“Did your daughter-in-law
die?”

Lena Brownhat nodded. “By the time a Navajo man in a pickup came by to help, it was too late. Even the Anglo doctors with all their medicine and machines couldn’t stop the fever. She died. My grandson was only twelve at the time, but he blamed his father. Furman said that if they’d been just like everyone else, and turned their backs on the old ways, his mother would have still been alive.
Eventually my son couldn’t stand seeing the hatred in his own son’s eyes. He went out one winter night and just sat down in the snow and froze,” she said, her voice fading.

“Does your grandson ever come to see you?”

Mrs. Brownhat shook her head. “I took him in after his parents were gone, but he kept running away to the town. He wanted nothing to do with our ways. He couldn’t stand living out
here, following our rituals. He hated everything Navajo. He said that useless people like me were dying out, and that those who continued to teach the old ways were hurting the young people.” Her voice broke, and she lapsed into a short silence.

“I tried, but I couldn’t make him understand,” she continued. “One day the people at the tribal welfare office came and took him away. They said he needed
proper schooling. They put him in a boarding school at Chinle. I didn’t try to stop them. I thought maybe he would be better off there.”

“How would he feel about enemies of the tribe, like Peterson Yazzie?”

The old woman’s eyes grew wide. “You mean the skinwalker?” Her voice was still loud, but much more muted than her normal speaking level. Seeing Ella nod, she sighed. “I can tell you for sure
that he hates them just as much as he hates
hataaliis.
I saw my grandson last year when I went to Shiprock to trade some wool for supplies. He told me he was glad that you had killed so many skinwalkers. He said they were like vultures on the modern world.”

“Do you think he would ever join with them, if only to destroy those who teach the
Dineh
the old ways?”

The woman considered it, then shook
her head. “I know Yazzie escaped,” she said. “Every so often, my friend’s daughter comes by in her car. She brings me food, and reads the newspaper to me.” Lena gave Ella a long, thoughtful look. “My grandson would never help a skinwalker. He would try to destroy him. They’re part of the old ways, too, you see. What he might do is learn all he could about them, then use that knowledge to hunt
them down.”

“Your grandson has enrolled in the community college. He’s a good student. Maybe he’s changed.”

Lena closed her eyes slowly, then opened them again. The gesture spoke of weariness and sorrow. “He is very smart, and when he puts on his act he can fool almost anyone. Don’t let him trick you too: He believes it is his mission to destroy the old ways. He would never give up on that.”

Ella stood up. “Is there someplace I can take you? Anything you need?”

Lena smiled. “I’ve lived out here most of my life. Where would I go? This is home. I have my sheep and a good dog watching them now. This is where I’ll stay until I go join my ancestors.”

Ella looked at her for a long time. She really didn’t want to leave Lena all alone here. If something happened to her …

“Go now,” Lena
said, as if sensing her conflict. “I have plenty of food, my cupboards are full. I have friends. I lack nothing. If I moved into town I would lack my home and peace. This is where I belong.”

Ella walked out of the ramshackle home. If it had been up to her, she would have taken Lena back to Shiprock and arranged for one of the agencies to find suitable housing for her. But to take away her right
to be where she wanted to be was wrong too. That was a lesson she’d learned from history. Sometimes irreparable harm was done by those who tried to do what they thought was best for others.

*   *   *

Ella picked Justine up on the way back and filled her in. Justine took the news with remarkable poise, even when Ella put out an APB on Furman, along with orders to tail rather than apprehend him.

“I know this is hard on you,” Ella added as they walked inside the station. “And I want you to be extra careful. Furman has paid you a lot of attention.”

“I feel as if I’ve failed at the one thing I wanted to do well,” Justine answered quietly.

“You haven’t failed, not if you’re learning from what happened. There’s a difference.”

Justine nodded. “Big Ed should be happy that we found shell casings,
drops of blood, and some clothing fibers at the ambush site. We also have plaster-cast prints of the tires and footprints.”

“Good. Anything easily traceable on the shells?”

“Easy to trace? Only if we find the actual weapons. These are .30-30 Winchester shell casings, the most common caliber and brand around here. But we have other things, and there are people out there trying to follow the tracks.
I expect they’ll lead to the highway, but if I can identify the vehicle, or type of vehicle from the tracks, and identify the fibers, we may be able to ask some pointed questions of gas station owners and convenience food places that line the main road.”

Ella stopped a few steps from Big Ed’s door. “Let’s just hope we manage to locate Furman quickly.” She took a deep breath to brace herself before
going inside. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

Big Ed’s face was expressionless as Ella gave him a detailed report.

“The dispatcher checked with me on the APB that involved the Farmington police,” Big Ed said at last. “I called their chief myself. He assured me his men would take care of things from their end.” Big Ed sat back. “I also heard from the public defender’s office. It appears that
Bruce Cohen has resigned. He and his wife are staying back east with an old school friend of his. They won’t even go outside the front door alone.”

“I expected something like that. Peterson scared him half to death. Cohen wasn’t prepared mentally to deal with someone like him,” Ella answered.

“What’s the connection between Furman Brownhat and Peterson Yazzie?”

“I don’t think there is a direct
link. In my opinion, Peterson used the murders to get attention for himself, though he wasn’t actually involved in them. He has his own agenda. If Furman and Peterson ever meet, I believe one will kill the other.”

“Is there a chance they’ve combined forces, if only for a short time?” Big Ed persisted.

Ella considered it. “Peterson would have used anyone and anything to escape. Furman, I also
believe, would use anything he could to accomplish what he feels is his mission. A partnership between the two seems unlikely, but stranger things have happened.”

“Watch yourself. I don’t like the way this is shaping up,” Big Ed warned. “Peterson hates you most of all.”

As Ella left Big Ed’s office, Justine came up to her. “No one with a gunshot wound was taken to the hospital either last night
or this morning. No big surprise there. Also, this arrived in the mail for you. It’s from the PD in Columbus, Georgia.”

Ella took the package and tore it open. There was a folder inside, with a letter clipped to the outside of it.

“I’m going to go to that store that has the designer jeans and show them Furman’s college photo,” Justine said. “I’ll pick up a copy at the college records office.”

“Excellent idea,” Ella said.

Ella read the letter in her office. The officer in Georgia had looked up some news photos taken just after her husband’s accident. He’d sent them to her as a professional courtesy. As she studied the prints, her eyes fell on a familiar face in the background. Taking out a small magnifying glass from her desk, Ella looked closely. Her eyes clouded with tears as she
recognized her father-in-law in the crowd staring at the wreckage, his expression filled with mixed emotions.

Ella felt the bitterness that rose inside her, and she began to pace. Swallowing hard, she willed back the tears that threatened to come spilling down her face. Peterson hadn’t lied. Her father-in-law
had
caused her husband’s death. With that one act, he’d set himself on the path that
had killed him, and her on the path she now followed.