Never-ending-snake (29 page)

Ella considered it, then nodded. “All right. Just don’t be surprised if he never gets around to it. Besides, I don’t want him tempted to work. He needs to rest.”

Dawn wolfed down breakfast, then went to see her father.

A short time later Justine drove up. Ella went to check on Kevin one last time, but found her daughter in the hall, school
bag over her shoulder, watching him through the door.

Dawn placed both palms together, held them to the side of her face, and tilted her head to one side, signaling that he was asleep.

Ella smiled and blew her daughter a kiss, then hurried outside.

When they reached the highway, Justine glanced at Ella. “Where to next, boss?”

“There seems to be some confusion about when, exactly,
IFT signed
on with the tribe. Those mixed signals are coming from people who should know, so that makes me curious, particularly because that’s what Adam was working on when he was shot. I’d like to track down some of the lesser-known members of the Prickly Weed Project and see what they have to say. I figure we can go to the project’s office in Shiprock and introduce ourselves. I think they’re located across
the street from the community college in that old warehouse.”

“They are. A lot of the people who did the research and the grunt work on that proposal came from the community college.”

When they arrived, the enclosed parking area was nearly empty. They entered through a side door and found a young Navajo woman in her early twenties busy on the phone. A middle-aged Navajo woman with an air of
authority came into the room just then, saw them, and smiled.

“Hi, I’m Professor Frieda Beard. I teach botany at the college and volunteer here. Can I help you . . . officers?” she asked, noting the sidearms at their belts.

Ella introduced herself and Justine. “We need to learn more about the Prickly Weed Project, Professor. Can you help us?”

“You certainly came to the right place,” she said,
taking some coffee from the pot in the corner of the room and offering them some.

Ella and Justine accepted, taking foam cups of the hot brew.

Moments later, they were sitting around a circular table on the shaded concrete loading dock, which looked down on the parking area and their vehicle. It was a beautiful sunny day, the temperature cool and pleasant, and to the west they could see the
Carrizo Mountains, which lay over in Arizona.

“Where would you like to start?” the professor asked.

“I understand that the project has many staunch supporters,” Ella said, sipping her coffee, which, though dreadful,
was marginally better than that available in the machine at the station.

“Most of the support comes from people like myself who understand what’s at stake. There’s a real need for
new ways to fuel our cars and our machines. This project could make our tribe a player in the energy industry.”

“Yet, there’s some opposition to it,” Ella said. The Navajo Way taught that everything had two sides, and it was so with this, too.

“Yes, but having people like Councilman Begaye and the late Adam Lonewolf in our corner has allowed us to push this forward. Adam, in particular, never
hesitated to face the opposition and stand his ground.” She paused, then in a soft voice, added, “The tribe really suffered a loss with his death.”

“Do you think Adam made some enemies because of where he stood on this?” Justine asked.

“Oh sure,” Professor Beard said without a second’s hesitation. “In fact, I was with him at one chapter house meeting when things got especially ugly. But Adam
stood his ground and argued the point through logic—not anger—which is more than I can say about some of the others who spoke. The land use issue is the biggest single obstacle this project’s faced. Unless the current occupants agree to turn over the necessary acreage, the tribe will be forced to take the fight to court and a ton of bad publicity is sure to follow. Mind you, it’s still a small price
to pay considering the potential payoff, but our politicians are hoping to find another solution.”

Ella heard a car pulling up down below in the parking lot next to the loading dock. Glancing over Frieda’s shoulder, she saw Alfred Begaye climb out of his late-model luxury sedan and head toward the steps leading up to their level.

Frieda followed Ella’s gaze. “If you push Alfred to give you the
details, he’ll fill you in. Or you can just ask people who attend the East Fruitland Chapter House meetings.”

A second later Alfred stepped up onto the concrete loading
dock. “I didn’t expect to run into you again so soon, Detective Clah,” he said coldly, not even acknowledging Justine.

Frieda got up, and with a hurried good-bye, made a fast exit through the open doorway leading back inside.

“We’ve been looking into the land issue, Councilman Begaye,” Ella said. “You never mentioned that the Prickly Weed Project had stirred up a serious controversy.”

“It’s not our project that’s the cause of the violence you’re investigating. It’s that damned casino. Gambling—it never brings anything good.”

The young Navajo receptionist they’d seen earlier stepped outside and looked at Alfred. “I
thought I heard your voice, Councilman. You have a call from the tribal president, sir,” she said. “Something about a meeting?” Then, as the phone began ringing again, she ducked back inside.

Alfred looked at Ella, then Justine. “I’ve got business. Are we about through here?”

“Sure,” Ella said, standing.

As Begaye hurried inside, Ella took a deep breath, wishing the coffee had been stronger.
“Partner, before we do much of anything else, I need to stop by the Totah for a double shot of their brew. This java is not only dreadful, it’s weak.”

“You didn’t get much sleep last night, I take it?”

“No, not really, which is why I need strong coffee right now.” Ella walked back to the SUV with Justine.

They were only a few feet away from their vehicle when Ella noticed an elderly man making
his way slowly across the asphalt. In his late seventies or thereabouts, he moved carefully, as if his body were a mass of aching joints. Ella watched him step closer to Begaye’s sedan, and bend over. His back was to her so she couldn’t see what he was up to.

As she narrowed the distance between them she suddenly realized that he was scratching something onto the side of the car. “Hey, you, stop
that!” Ella yelled.

Ella was less than ten feet from him when he spun around and began waving an ice pick back and forth in a clear, threatening gesture.

Ella froze in mid-step. “You don’t want to do that, sir. I’m Special Investigator Ella Clah of the Navajo Tribal Police, and waving an ice pick at someone carrying a gun is
not
a good idea.”

The man’s eyes widened, and an instant later, he
took off in what was probably his version of a run.

“Stop where you are,” Ella ordered as Justine circled around, blocking the way out the open gate. “Don’t make things worse for yourself,” Ella added. Even from several yards away she could hear him breathing—wheezing was more like it.

The man suddenly stopped, and leaned over, hands on his knees. For a moment, Ella thought he was having a heart
attack, but as she approached, his breathing evened and he stood up straight again.

“Begaye had it coming. He’s a traitor to all the
Diné
,” he managed, his breathing still labored, but less raspy. Then he lifted his arm, still clutching the ice pick in his hand.

Justine reached for her pepper spray, but Ella signaled her to wait. “You’re already having problems breathing and a shot of pepper spray will make things a lot worse for you,” Ella said. “Drop the ice pick, sir.”

“Yeah, do it or she’ll drop
you
,” Alfred said, from somewhere behind Ella.

Forcing herself not to react to Begaye, Ella met the old man’s gaze. “
Now
.”

With a long sigh, he did as she asked.

Ella stepped up and quickly kicked the ice pick away. “What’s your name, sir?”

“I’m known as
Dinéchilí
,” he said, opting for the traditional way of introducing himself.

The nickname meant “stockily built man.” “My clan is the Salt People, and I was born for the Black Streak Wood People,” he added, referring to his father’s clan. He gestured to what
he’d scratched into Begaye’s car. It was the word
anaashii
, the Navajo term for squatters. “That’s exactly what his people will be if they move into my clan’s land with those prickly weeds of theirs.”

Ella was familiar with the term etched into the vehicle. With no place to go, and the population of the tribe soaring,
Navajos sometimes moved onto unused land that wasn’t theirs, setting up trailers
or building hogans. “Ownership” of land on the Navajo Nation had always been a complex—and volatile—issue.

Alfred stood by his car studying the damage, then muttered a loud oath. “Emerson Lee, you crazy old man! Ruining someone’s car isn’t going to get you sympathy from anyone,” he said, then spat out another curse.

A security guard came up to them and took Emerson’s arm, but Alfred shook his
head. “No, just let him go.”

The guard looked at Ella, waiting for her reaction, and she looked back at Begaye. “Are you sure you don’t want to press charges?” Ella asked. “Two police officers were witnesses to the vandalism.”

“No way I’m pressing charges,” Alfred said, biting off each syllable, then looking at Emerson, he added, “Just get out of here.”

The old man smiled at Ella. “Can I have
my ice pick back now?”

“Forget it, old man,” Alfred answered before Ella could speak. “Leave it right where it is, or I’ll have them put you in jail right now.”

Emerson looked at Ella, and seeing her shake her head, walked away, muttering in Navajo.

“Why did you let him go?” Ella asked Alfred, more curious now than ever. “Those scratches are going to take serious bucks to fix—for you or your
insurance company.”

“The old man doesn’t have the money, and if I’d sent him off to jail he would have become a martyr to those standing in the way of the project.” Alfred shook his head. “No way I’m giving him any more ammunition.”

Alfred took several photos of the damage with his cell phone, then glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get going. I just found out I’m needed in Window Rock. Are
we through here?”

“Sure. I can find you if I need you,” she added with a smile.

Alfred glared at her, then taking one last look at the word scratched on his car, cursed and slipped behind the wheel. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” he said, then drove off.

Justine came up. Until now, she’d purposely stayed back, not wanting to interfere with the way Ella was handling the situation. “I
think we need to find out more about the ones who oppose the project. If Emerson’s willing to break the law in broad daylight in front of witnesses, what are the others capable of doing? And who are they?”

Frieda Beard came up behind them. “That’s an easy enough question. At the heart of the problem is a local contingent of the Salt People Clan and a parcel of land that has been theirs to use
for decades. When Eleanor Lee was alive she had grazing permits and lived off her sheep and a bit of farming. When she passed away, her son Emerson turned the place over to his daughter, Trina Morgan. Since she has a full time job, Trina sold off her grandmother’s sheep and let the grazing permits expire. That’s why the tribe can now legally take back the land. It isn’t being used and the tribe has
plans for the bulk of it.”

“Yet Trina and Emerson are still planning to fight?” Ella asked, confused.

“Oh yeah. The second Trina heard what we were planning to do, she and her husband Chester immediately brought in sheep. Then they took their dispute to the chapter house, so they could get public opinion on their side. After hearing their story, a lot of others who live in the area suddenly
panicked, thinking that the same thing would happen to them. Face it, lots of people forget to renew their grazing permits—lack of money or just not paying attention—so they don’t want her to lose. But the laws regarding land on the Navajo Nation are clear—basically, use it or lose it. Bringing in sheep after the fact isn’t going to change anything.”

“What’s to fight? Unused parcels of land serve
no one, and the Tribal Council can do whatever it wants,” Ella said, still trying to understand.

“You’re right. The tribe could just take the land like it did before when the coal companies moved in. But people still remember all the bad things that happened after that particular land grab. In exchange for some jobs, we ended up with poisoned water wells, dead livestock, and land no one could
use even after the mines shut down. People were victims of so-called progress once before and those memories linger,” she said. “Of course this is a totally different situation. Our politicians are spearheading the project and placing their reputations on the line. That’s one reason everyone wants to go the peaceful route—to convince people instead of forcing something down their throats. And that
was what Adam Lonewolf did best.”

“I’m surprised that any politicians are taking a stand on a volatile issue like this one,” Ella said.