Can Skinwalkers Swim?

Can

Skinwalkers Swim?

Michael Wescott Loder

Michael Wescott Loder has hiked, climbed and caved his way across the United States, helped raise three children, been an Air Force officer, photographer, audio-visual technician, park naturalist—and an academic librarian for over 30 years. He worked in eight different states—including in Ganado, Arizona, where he lived for two years. Today, he lives in the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania, next to the family farm where he grew up. His home is a passive-solar, off-grid house he and his wife designed and helped build themselves. Wes started writing when he was seventeen. He is the author of a wide range of books, from a history of Nikon cameras to novels for young adult readers. Today, he writes from home, plays the highland bagpipe and occasionally weaves rugs. Can Skinwalkers Swim? is his first novel set in the modern-day Diné Nation. For More information visit wesloderwriter.cc.

Can Skinwalkers Swim?

Two worlds, Las Vegas’ rich suburbs and Navajo country, provide contrasting settings for a mystery/thriller and a coming-of-age story as a vendetta threatens a teenage girl.

The discovery of three bodies in Lake Mead, Nevada, triggers a murder attempt against Darby Donati, the rich, snarky daughter of the owner of one of Las Vegas’ Casinos. As the body count grows, Darby must not only survive threats on her own life, but learn why and who she really is. As FBI agents work to identify the recovered bodies, Darby escapes a kidnapping attempt and flees to the remote Navajo chapter of Pinon, Arizona. There she discovers relatives she never knew she had. The friendship and care of her equally-threatened great-grandmother and aunt leads her to question not only her identity but her entire previous way of life.

Michael Wescott Loder

Can Skinwalkers Swim?

Michael Wescott Loder

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books

Terra Alta, WV

Can Skinwalkers Swim?

by Michael Wescott Loder copyright ©2026 Michael Wescott Loder All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. The geographical places mentioned in this work are real with the exception of Jensenville.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page.

To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781958914847 Library of Congress Control Number: 2025945376

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S T AT E S O F A M E R I C A

For Linda and Scott, Laura, and Lisa and in memory of Harris Richard Librarian, mentor, and friend

Bodies along a shore “I thought this was supposed to be some beautiful lake, like in a national park, or something.” Tony squinted, then eyed the white-stained wall that ran along Lake Mead’s shore. “This is no better than an oversized bathtub. It even has its own ring.”

Grandpa Ozwell snorted. “Lake isn’t what it used to be, that’s for sure. Water level gets lower every year. You watching that line of yours?”

Tony tapped his fishing pole. “Yeah. Nothing’s biting.” He shifted his butt, trying to find a softer spot on the metal seat and wishing Grandpa had remembered the boat cushions. His eyes drifted, then stopped to stare at a tall, thick structure several yards up from the lake’s current water level. “What’s that thing that looks like a chimney?”

“Huh? Oh, that’s the site of the once great, booming town of Jensenville.”

“Jensenville? Never heard of it. Like St. Thomas?”

“Yup, like St. Thomas. Once had thirty-five inhabitants— according to the 1870 census. Even had its own post office, briefly. Mormons came down here from Salt Lake in the 1860s, founding settlements all over the place. Jensenville was supposed to be a ferry stop for migrants coming up the Grand River— that’s what they called the Colorado back then.”

“So that’s a chimney?”

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Grandpa Ozwell nodded, then steered the outboard motor to bring the boat closer to the Nevada shore. “Chimney was part of what was to be a processing mill for Colemanite. Mill never turned one nickel. Place was abandoned even before the Feds built the Hoover Dam back in the 1930s.”

“So how come there’s still a chimney? That thing must be thirty feet tall.”

“Even when the lake was higher, the top of the chimney usually stuck out. Been sorta’ a land-, or lake, mark, if you will.

Park Service left it be, then put reflectors on it to keep boaters from hitting it in the dark.”

“And now it’s all dry land. That sucks. When did the water drop here?”

Grandpa’s face took on a scrunched look, then he scratched behind his left ear. “I think there was still water around the base of the chimney as recently as a couple of weeks ago. When the water was higher, folks used to tie their boats up to it.”

Tony wasn’t listening. Instead, he had his father’s binoculars out and was studying the brick structure. “Grandpa, what’s that stuff at the base of the chimney?”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I don’t know. Trash, garbage. Looks … looks like a skull?”

“Shh…” Grandpa throttled down the motor and let the boat drift to a halt. “May I look? Been finding bodies out here ever since the lake got this low. They say gangsters figured a body at the bottom of the lake was gone forever.” He forced a laugh, then took the binoculars from Tony and studied the grey, bowling ball-sized object. “You might be right.” He opened up the throttle a bit and eased the boat closer to the shore. “Looks like we might be able to land over by that mud flat. Let’s take a look.”

Tony hopped out as the boat nudged into a mud and gravel bar, grabbed the painter, and, when Grandpa shifted back, pulled the bow onto the top of the low bank. Grandpa got out and, after 6

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making sure that the boat was grounded safely, led the way back along the shore, then up to the flat area that had once been Jensenville. Except for the huge chimney, there wasn’t much to see—a couple of lines of stone and bricks to mark what might once have been foundations. The rest was just a scattering of tumbleweed and a few sticks of driftwood.

The jetsam lying at the base of the chimney proved to be more interesting. “Definitely human, and definitely more than one,” was Grandpa’s reaction. “Oh, geez.” He pulled out a red bandana, mopped his forehead, then knelt, easing down to minimize the pain in his knees, “Looks like two of them. Not much left but the bones, plus some clothes.”

“I think the one on the left was a woman. She had long, dark hair, anyway,” Tony managed. He touched fingers against his mouth, willing his stomach’s contents to stay down.

Grandpa nodded, then took out his phone, thought for a moment, then took several pictures.

“Grandpa? Look. There’s a third.”

“Huh?” “Doesn’t that look like a baby, or child, lying between the other two?”

“Oh, my God.” Grandpa took a deep breath and hit 911.

7

Chapter One “Darby!”

No response.

“Earth-to-Darby, listen to me. It’s almost noon.” Mrs. Morales, the family cook and household manager, shook Darby’s shoulder.

The skinny, dark-tanned girl’s eyes never moved from the screen of her iPhone.

Mrs. Morales reached and grabbed an earbud.

“Hey! What?”

“I’m talking to you. It’s lunchtime. Or probably still breakfast by your clock. Leave your headphones off and come to the table—now!” Darby gave the mid-forties, round-faced woman with dark, permed hair the stink eye. Mrs. Morales, in turn, stepped back to avoid the swipe of a hand aimed her way.

“I’m not hungry yet.” Darby resettled on the sofa and put the earbud back in her ear. “Sorry, Andrea. Adult interference,” she spoke into the phone.

“Darby, your father is here. He expects you to come and sit at the table and eat with him.”

Long sigh. “Okay. I guess.” Darby slowly gathered herself.

“Hey, catch you later. Gotta make sweet to Daddy.” She blanked her phone, then stretched and stood, rolling her eyes in the process. “Okay. I’m coming.” She fell in behind Mrs. Morales

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and shuffled out of the living room with its closed curtains and into the light of the breakfast patio.

“Good morning, Darby Sarah.” Pete Donati smiled at his daughter with false cheerfulness. “Or is it early afternoon?”

He checked his gold Rolex. “Ah, eleven-forty-five. Looks like you’re going to make it just in time today.”

Darby grunted then wiggled her nose, trying to clear her head. “To what do I owe your presence at home? Shouldn’t you be at work, making sure all the touristas are pouring more money into our bank vaults?”

Her dad forced a laugh. “Today … Ah … Today my workplace can take care of itself. I thought I might take a little time off … spend quality time with my almost grown-up daughter before she forgets who I am.”

Darby snorted. “I guess. What’s to eat?” Why the hesitation in that answer?

“How does waffles with strawberries and whipped cream sound for starters?” Mrs. Morales offered.

“Sounds okay.” What’s the special occasion? Darby gave her father’s outfit a long look before she took a seat at the farthest end of the glass-topped table. Today he wore a white silk shirt and tan linen slacks. A gold chain showed at the shirt’s open neck, nested in his thick, curly chest hair. A gold stud with a diamond insert hung in his left earlobe. The right hand that held his coffee mug featured three gold rings, all heavy and jeweled.

Only bare feet shoved into a pair of purple Tevas spoiled the clear image that here might be one of the most successful casino owners in Las Vegas, in addition to a casino in Reno and a controlling interest in one in Atlantic City.

Darby sometimes wondered at her own body’s contrast to Pete Donati’s full face, thin, faded brown hair, and rounded body that hinted at not enough time devoted to any physical activity.

Tall but small-boned, Darby’s hair was thick, straight, nearly black, and her eyes were hazel. Today, the only gold she wore 9

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had come on her sixteenth birthday back in January, a simple band in which a tiny garnet—her birthstone— glowed a dark, angry red. Black yoga pants and a ratty-bottomed, tie-dyed tee completed her outfit—the same clothes she had slept in. Once a string bean, in the last year her body had gained enough shape to cause male classmates to hoot and cheer when she first wore her new tiny swimming suit at a pool party in April. Whatever …

Darby eyed the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice set by her plate. She waited, her hands struggling not to reach for her pocketed phone. “Mmm …” She smiled and nodded a thank you to Mrs. Morales as the cook set a warmed plate filled with two layers of waffles smothered in red-and-white deliciousness.

“There are blueberries in the topping, too. I know you like them, so I added a few. That way, you get a July patriotic topping for breakfast: red, white, and blue.”

“Yummy.” Darby grinned. “Thank you, Mrs. Morales.” She picked up her fork and cut out a slice. She ate, then paused, fork still in her mouth, to stare at the headline of the Las Vegas Review-Journal still lying in the middle of the table.

“What’s this about bodies?”

Dad stiffened, then reached for the newspaper and folded it so the headline no longer showed. “Found more bodies in Lake Mead.”

“Ugh! How old were they?”

“Ah … No one knows. The Feds haven’t released the forensics yet. They know they were adults—a man and a woman.” Dad’s mouth twitched as if he felt the need to show concern.

Darby looked up at her father. Something’s not right. You’re holding back something. She reached over, grabbed the paper out of her father’s hand, and rotated the front page. He lifted a hand in protest, but then dropped it. Ignoring his silent, anxious stare, Darby scanned the first paragraph. She had taken a term of journalism during her high school sophomore year, and she knew that the first paragraph would have all the whos, whats, 10

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wheres, whens, and hows. “Jensenville—never heard of it.

Famous chimney: never heard of that either.” There was a child too! Why didn’t Dad mention that? Looked like they might have been stranded out by this chimney and were clinging to it until they drowned. Hmm. Well, what next? Dad obviously does not want to talk about this. “Is it okay if I go out with Daisy and Eric later?”

Dad relaxed only a little. “Okay, but I wanted to talk to you a bit—as long as we’re in the same place at the same time.”

Darby nodded, the itch to grab her phone growing stronger by the second. Please, not another lecture.

“It seems like you have been spending an awful lot of time with just Eric and his sister lately. I mean, you do have other friends. Is he polite and careful with you? You’re grown up now.

I know you’ve known him forever, but you know other people, too.”

“Dad! He’s good. And I am being careful. And Monica’s always with us.”

“I know Ms. Perkins is always there to watch you. It’s just that I can never forget what happened to your mother disappearing as she did.”

“That was like a lifetime ago. Look, I know what to watch out for. Okay, we’ve kissed, but that’s all. He doesn’t smoke or do drugs.” I also keep a couple of condoms in my bag just in case it comes to that, but I’m not about to tell you that.

“Good.”

“If he tried anything, he would be history. Believe me. And I don’t care if he’s the Eric. Not later but gone right now.”

Mr. Donati’s lips formed a hard, thin line. Darby watched as his eyes drifted back to the paper’s front page, once more lying on the glass surface between them.

“It’s sad,” she said. “What do you think happened? You think maybe they lost their boat and ended up stranded?” I might as well try to start a conversation with you.

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“Huh? What?”

“The couple in the paper that we were just looking at, that drowned with their little child a bunch of years ago.”

“Yeah. Thirteen years ago. Sad. Anyway, if Eric wants to see you today, stick to his place. Make sure Daisy stays with you, and keep Perkins in sight, even if you’re just swimming.

Okay? Too many shootings, too many crazy people out there, and I want you safe.”

Concern? How could Eric and Daisy’s minor mansion not be safe? I mean, it has a locked gate and a guard dog, like for whatever! Darby shook her head. She had planned to do some hill climbing with Eric in his ATV Quad. She had done it once before: racing up a slope almost as steep as a cliff, feeling the wheels start to lose their grip. Woo-hoo! She guessed that was now a no-no. Why the sudden “don’t go anywhere ban?” No clue. She took another bite of waffle.

“And I hope if you do go over to his place, that you don’t plan to wear that new so-called ‘swimsuit’ you just bought for a hundred and fifty bucks.”

“Dad, tsk, it covers all the important stuff.”

“Two strings and a bowtie. And can you keep that itchy hand of yours off your phone for at least one more minute?”

Darby managed a slight smile. Busted.

“I’ve asked Beth Anne to dinner at the Marble Plaza for Saturday night. Do you think you might be free to join us? She really would like to meet you.”

“Ah … Sure, okay.” Now I’m hearing the real reason for this tête-à-tête.

“Thank you. It will mean a lot to her to have you as a friend.”

Darby just nodded. As if I really want to get to know your latest gold-digger.

A kiss to her left cheek and another thank-you and the torture and breakfast were over. Earbuds back in place, Darby headed up to her bedroom suite, thumbs already dancing over 12

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her phone’s keys. Twenty minutes later, fresh from a shower, she was blow-drying her hair and texting Eric again. Yea! He was ready. ‘OMW!’ she texted back, then grabbed her new suit, ID stuff, extra clothes and her inhaler, dropped everything in a zipped shoulder bag, and yelled for Monica to let her know it was time.

Monica Perkins, Darby’s personal guard and constant escort, was waiting for Darby in the hall that led to Donati’s eight-vehicle garage. Today, the short-haired, natural blond was wearing her usual, ‘all-business’ uniform of a white shirt and black slacks. Black running shoes, no jewelry, a lean frame, and hard, muscled shoulders and arms all showed evidence of her humorless attitude and consistent exercise routines. Shades in place and an earbud in her left ear hinted at past positions with the federal government, perhaps the FBI. Or so Darby had been told.

What was the truth? Who knew? Monica never talked about her past. Only a 36C Lara Croft-shaped front compromised the overall tough-warrior effect. Darby had long ago figured out that the additional black vest Monica always wore not only kept her big boobs under control, but also served to help conceal the semi-automatic pistol she carried under her left breast.

“You ready?”

“I am so ready to get out of this climate-controlled box and into some pool time.” She gave Monica a smart-ass smile and headed for the garage and her own yellow-gold Miata—a gift from Dad for passing her driver’s test on the first try.

As Darby stepped down into the garage, she caught sight of her father, phone to his ear, standing in the hall. As she paused, Monica and her father exchanged looks, then he waved a negative hand in their direction.

Monica turned and blocked Darby as she was about to get in the Miata. “We’re not taking your car.”

“What? How come?” Darby pouted.

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“Mr. Donati’s orders. We’re taking the Highlander today.”

Darby moaned and sighed. “Okay.” The Miata was cool, and she loved the way it spun around corners and easily accelerated up to sixty in ten seconds or less. Her friends had been raving about it ever since the day she’d first rolled it into the high school parking lot back in April. But Darby has learned to drive on the older, gun-metal grey, stick-shift Toyota Highlander. It felt like hers, too, and she still kept its fob on her key ring. It wasn’t sporty, and it sometimes felt slow, but Darby knew that wasn’t really true. The Highlander, or Hunter as she had named it, was a custom job—a special order from the factory. Had to be to get a standard five-speed on the floor transmission. It also had a reinforced suspension with anti-sway bars and a larger capacity gas tank. Why? Who knew? Neither her father nor Monica had ever offered an explanation.

But why the Highlander today? Part of this ‘keep you safe’ business? No point in fighting Monica over it. She shrugged and followed her guard over to the older SUV. “You can drive, if you want to,” Monica offered.

“You sure? Thanks.” Darby got in, buckled up, waited until Monica was also secure, pushed the button on the remote to raise the garage door, and they were on their way.

“How come the switch of vehicles? I mean, I don’t mind, really. Hunter’s the car I learned on. It just seems odd.”

“As I said, Mr. Donati’s orders.”

Which really told her nothing. Odd, but her dad rarely explained a lot of things he did, or told her what to do. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

Out through the gate and by the guard house, three blocks and onto the local six-lane drag, and suddenly Darby was no longer thinking about her Miata. “Ah … Monica, why is there this black van barreling down on our butt?”

14

Chapter Two Doctors Ron Clayburn and Ken Yabosky stood across from each other, a body—or what remained of one—laid out on the hard slab between them. Both men wore full-coverage zip-up overalls and sweaters underneath to stay a little warm in the refrigerated room of the Clark County morgue. The coroner had already done his autopsies. Now, because the bodies had been found on federal land, it was the Feds’ turn.

Dr. Yabosky, the Federal Forensics investigator, looked across at Clayburn. “Your thoughts?”

“Female, mid-to-late twenties,” the coroner answered. “Hard to say exactly, but take a look at her teeth. Definitely the shovel shape in the upper incisors. I suspect Native American or East Asian. And she had long, black hair. Nice piece of Navajo silver work bracelet.”

Dr. Yabosky turned his attention to the blackened metal bracelet, its open lines made with heavy-gauge silver wire that served to hold a silver plate perhaps two inches across.

Silver beads, twisted wire, a flower, and a leaf framed a single turquoise stone and an abalone-shell bird. “Nice piece, and not cheap. Probably shines underneath all that black.” The federal investigator nodded, then added. “Distinctive. A woman’s piece, not a heavy man’s type.”

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He focused back on the body. “Looks like a wedding ring on the left hand. Okay. We can do a DNA test. Should be enough material left for that, and that should tell us something.”

Clayburn nodded in agreement. “Figured that would be next.

If she proves to be Navajo or Ute, that’s your area.”

Yabosky tapped his glove-covered fingers against the edge of the slab. “Lightly boned with a gracile physique. Might have Athabastkan heritage. Well, we’ll see.”

Clayburn pointed to the pelvic bones. “She’d had at least one baby. The child might have been hers.”

Yabosky stepped over to the next slab which held bones of what once must have been a small child. “Any guess as to age?”

“Skull sutures are fully closed, so over two, maybe three, but she still had all her baby teeth. So, first guess would be between three-and-a-half and five-and-a-half. Bones look like she was healthy.”

“A girl?”

“Yes. Might have been pretty cute by the shape of the face.”

Yabosky grimaced. “The man?”

The coroner glanced over at the third skeleton. “Was a male, Caucasian, probably in his late twenties-early thirties. Fit, strong, maybe ex-military, veteran.”

“Caucasian?”

“Ah-huh.

“Ex-military? How do you know that?”

“He took a fragment of something in his left calf, grazed the femur. Healed, so not recent. Probably didn’t bother him too much. Could have gotten that in some gang war, but somehow I don’t think so.”

“So, a probable Native American woman, no signs of violence. May have drowned. Little girl, older toddler, unknown heritage, probably drowned, and a young-to-middle-aged guy, also probably drowned.”

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“Well, not quite.” Clayburn grabbed the far shoulder of the male skeleton and rolled it halfway over, the still-articulated bones limply thunking on the slab in protest, “He also has a bullet lodged in his spine, and that wound was new. Would have left him paralyzed from the waist down.”

Yabosky leaned in for a closer look. “Can we get that out?”

“Was just waiting for you.”

“So, this isn’t some random drowning from some family missing their boat.”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Well, looks like a homicide, not an accident. Let’s get going with the DNA analysis and see where that takes us.”

Yabosky stepped back to let his colleague begin closing the body bags. “You had lunch yet? If not, I’ll treat, or should I say, the FBI will.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Clayburn nodded and smiled. “Be ready as soon as I have these back in the refer, get out of this suit and wash up.”

The two men were headed out the door when Yabosky paused. “No word of these findings to the press.”

“They already know something. A reporter from the ReviewJournal had me on the phone the moment I got to work yesterday.

Called me twice more yesterday. Fox and CNN have also picked it up.”

Yabosky drew a deep breath. “Well, try to put a lid on this if you can, at least until we can get an ID on these people.

17

Chapter Three Monica stared at the right-hand side-view mirror. “Speed up.”

“I am, but he’s still right there,” Darby whined.

“Slow down, see if he backs off.” Monica did not bother to hide the tension in her voice.

“I think he’s about to hit me!” Darby screamed as the Highlander suddenly jumped forward. “He just hit our bumper!”

“Speed up. No! Don’t let him pass! Control, Darby, control.”

“I’m trying! Please.”

“Get in the middle lane.”

“There’s someone else there.”

“Just do it!” Darby was aware that Monica had her gun out and had turned around in her seat. “Take the first left. Yeah, right in front of that pickup. Don’t signal, just push it.”

“I’m trying!”

Honks and yells as the Highlander lunged left, almost hitting the pickup. “Good. Now make the first turn to the left.”

“This street? Light’s turning red?” Darby could feel the tears starting, and her chest tighten. Breathe, just breathe.

“Go! We’ll make a Jason Bourne out of you yet.”

Darby took a deep breath. “Thanks.” The Highlander almost stalled before Darby managed to relax her right hand enough to get it off the steering wheel and over to the gearshift.

“Floor it! Damn! They went through the red.”

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“That van followed us?”

“Yes. Okay. Keep your eyes front. Let me worry about our follower. When you see a right, any right, take it.” Monica dropped her seat back all the way, then crawled and squirmed to the back seat. Darby could hear her snap up the back seat’s cushion, followed by metal clickings. “This alley do?”

“Yes! Take it.”

This time, Darby was ready. She swung the SUV right and downshifted in one motion, then shifted up and powered down the alleyway, dodging garbage cans and parked vehicles. “Van still there?”

“Yeah. Hit a few of those cans if you can. Maybe that will slow them down.”

CLANG BANG. “That one rolled in their way.”

Darby could feel this incredible surge of energy as her adrenaline kicked in higher. “What was that? Sounded like something hitting the back of my seat.

“They’re shooting. Just drive.”

“ACK! Okay … Take this right?”

Darby jumped as a gun went off behind her, once, twice, three times.

“Got ’em.”

Darby glanced in the rearview mirror to see the van jerk, then angle right and ram into a wooden fence with a loud mix of breaking boards and plastic bumpers.

“Okay. Okay, Darby? Earth to Darby, you can slow down now. Take the first turn to the right and back to the main road.

“Ah-huh. I think … I’m going to puke.”

“It’s okay. Once you make the turn, pull over.”

“Okay.” She stopped, stalling the Highlander in the process, then she was out of the SUV and vomiting her breakfast onto the alley pavement. “Oh, God. Oh, dear God! Please …” She tried to take a deep breath, then another. “My inhaler. I need 19

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my inhaler. I can’t breathe.” She was aware that Monica was standing beside her, a rifle with an extended magazine sticking out of its underside in her hands, eyes never leaving the alley they had just left. Darby could smell cordite and found she could breathe again, each breath searing her lungs, the smell from her vomit causing new waves of nausea to quake her shoulders.

“What happened?”

“You just proved you can be an awesome driver.”

“I mean …”

“We need to go. Those guys in the van didn’t all die. I’ll drive. Come on, get in.”

“Okay,” Darby whispered. She was managing to breathe.

Maybe she didn’t need to use her inhaler yet.

They drove two blocks, then turned back on the main drag.

After a minute, Monica punched a button on her body phone.

“They hit us on the pike. Yeah, she’s okay. A little shaken up. Yes. Yes, they were shooting to kill. Yes, I did. Their driver’s dead.

Not sure about the guy riding shotgun. We’re on the parkway and proceeding to the Hamish household. Touch base when we get there. Ten-four.”

“Could you, maybe … explain what’s going on? Are the casinos fighting again? Who were those guys? Were they from the mob?” Darby felt better—a little bit, anyway. She dug around the glove compartment until she found some wipes and dabbed at her lips and wiped off her tongue.

“We don’t know.” Monica nodded. “Let’s get you to Eric’s place and I’ll tell you what I may. Okay? Can you wait a few minutes?”

“I guess.”

Monica did not waste time. She kept Hunter at just a few miles over the limit, but did not hesitate to weave and jump ahead when she could. Five minutes later, they left the parkway to navigate a series of curved residential streets before turning 20

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into a driveway blocked by a high iron gate set next to an empty guardhouse.

“Darby Donati and Monica Perkins. We’re expected,” Monica spoke into the microphone box.

“Right-O,” came a reply, then the gate rolled back, and Monica drove onto Eric and Daisy’s grounds.

Monica saluted the camera peering at them, then continued for another hundred yards to stop next to a rather large century plant, which offered some concealment from the still-distant main house. “Okay. Here’s what I can tell you. The threats started yesterday, right … well, I was going to say, right after the news of those bodies hit the press. But … Maybe they aren’t related.

But this morning, Mr. Donati asked me to be extra careful. I guess he knows something, but he would not say more. ‘Take the Highlander,’ he said. Was he expecting something today?

Who knows? Maybe.”

Darby took a couple of whiffs of her inhaler just to be sure before managing to speak. “Where’d that AR-15, or whatever it is, come from?”

“Lives under the back seat. There’s a bunch of gear under there for just this sort of situation.”

“I never knew that. Did … they hit us?”

“Take a look.”

Darby did, staring at the row of holes that walked across the bottom of the rear window. Then she saw the shredded fabric on the back of the driver’s seat. “Should I be dead?”

“There’s Kevlar and steel between you and the seat cushion, same for the other seats. Protection against a rear shot. That’s why I was afraid of them coming alongside. There’d have been no protection from the side. Okay? Let’s go in and have fun with your friends.”

“Fun? I don’t know if I can now.”

Eric was waiting under the drive-up canopy. “Hey, guy! You made it. Come on back. We’re waiting by the pool. How come 21

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no Miata? Oh? What happened to your face? You been crying?

What’s wrong, little Booboo?” He leaned in close, about to offer a kiss, then recoiled. “Yuck. You stink, too. Were you just sick?”

“Ah-huh. Let me get to a bathroom and clean up. I’ll be all right.”

“You sure? You didn’t just get COVID or something?”

Darby shook her head at his feeble humor. She didn’t want questions, just a chance to clean up. She scampered by Eric, ignoring his offered arm, and headed inside and down the front hall to the nearest powder room.

Eric turned to Monica. “What happened, Perkins?” His tone changed from concern for an equal to master-to-servant.

“None of your stinking, little business, Hamish. She’ll be fine.”

“Ooh.” This was all new country. Eric paused, seeing a pit bull instead of a retriever for the first time. He rubbed his tanned, hard abs, stared at Monica’s chest, then followed her into the house.

It took ten minutes, but when Darby emerged, her face sparkled, she had on a clean, white tee, and her body offered only a whiff of Kate Spade. “Okay, ready to swim.” She gave Eric a fake smile, and when he bent closer, allowed a kiss to her right cheek.

“Hi, Darby. Hello, Monica. What just happened?” Daisy Sue, Eric’s twin sister, joined them. Like her brother, she was tall with an even tan that covered her entire body and accented her day-glow pink bikini. Unlike her brother’s blonde curls and blue eyes, her hair was a dull rust color, and her eyes were grey.

Darby glanced at Monica, who shook her head. “Nothing I think either Monica or I want to talk about. Right now, I just want to get in the water.” Without waiting for more questions, she headed for the back of the house and out to the pool.

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The pool ran fifty feet one way and twelve the other, with an end ten feet deep with two diving boards, one at three and one at seven feet in height. A tiled roof shaded the shallower end and half the patio, granting relief from the sun if one so desired. Twenty feet behind the pool, an eight-foot cement wall—bordered with a row of Joshua Trees imported from the nearby mountains—hid the pool from any nearby neighbors.

Darby kicked off her Tevas, then shed her T-shirt and shorts to reveal two sets of narrow straps that included a blue patch to cover her pubes and two more to cover her nipples and nothing else—the infamous suit her dad had just remarked on. A splash, and she was swimming toward the deep end, her brown body a dark contrast to the blue-green rippling water. Eric grinned and dove in after her.

Daisy stared at the two, Eric chasing and Darby avoiding.

She turned to Monica. “So what just happened that you don’t want my tattle-mouth brother to know about?”

Monica pressed her lips together before answering. “Some people tried to kill us on the way here today.”

“What! Just now? This have to do with Mr. Donati? Why would they go after Darby? She’s as innocent as anyone I’ve ever known, never done drugs, won’t even smoke pot.”

“What happened? Let’s just say that the team that had a contract on Darby will no longer be able to honor that contract.

As for Mr. Donati? Who knows?”

“Ah … Dead? You go bad! You shot them? I ask too many questions, don’t I?” “Yes, Daisy, you always do. Be gentle with Darby, she was driving. Now let me make some phone calls.” Monica nodded, then walked over to a chaise lounge and sat, phone to one ear, white coiled mic still in the other. Daisy was the more sensible of the twins, easy to talk to, but now was not the time.

Daisy stared at her for several seconds, then shed her sandals and dove in.

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Eric might be thinking this was a fun chase, and that soon he would be a winner with a complacent Darby in his arms, her body pressed firmly against his. It didn’t look that way to Daisy.

The harder Eric grabbed for Darby, the more determined she seemed to be to stay away. “Hey, Eric, give her a break.”

“Stay out of this, Sis. Come on, Darby, how about a hug?”

He slowed, and Darby took off for the other end of the pool.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s not in the mood.”

“I thought she was hot to come over here?”

“Maybe something happened.”

“Yeah. Hey, Darby, come back. I won’t bite.”

Darby grabbed a flamingo blow-up and brought it around so that it floated between her and Eric. “You gonna behave?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Psst. When were you ever a Scout?” But Darby relaxed enough to let Eric glide in beside her.

“Sorry, Kid. You want to do just laps?”

“Anyone else coming over?”

“Andrea and Todd said they were coming over in an hour. I think they plan to stay for dinner.”

“Dinner?” It was hard to think about dinner when she’d just had breakfast. Although her stomach did feel empty now. Where did her dinner on Saturday with Dad’s current flame fit in? She couldn’t figure out a way to avoid that.

“You want to sit out in the sun for a while?” Eric asked.

“So you can sit and stare at me and have mental orgasms? In your wet dreams. Look, Eric, I’m not in the mood today.”

Eric scowled. “Is it that time of the month? Maybe you don’t want to stay.”

And have to deal with just Monica, Mrs. Morales, and maybe my father? Darby shook her head. She would stick it out here for now. But how were they supposed to get home? Would driving home be another gauntlet to run? Darby pushed the flamingo 24

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away and climbed the ladder. “I’m going to sit awhile in the shade.”

She grabbed a fresh towel off a rack and took a chaise lounge two over from where Monica was softly shouting on a phone.

“No! They didn’t waste any time,” she heard Monica say. “We were barely out on the parkway. Knew she was driving. Aimed right at her.”

Draping the towel over her shoulders, Darby settled back and, eyes closed, let out a shudder. Even the sharp tang of the salted water hadn’t driven one micron of what had just happened from her mind. She felt more naked than ever, aware that her suit, even her tee and shorts, would have offered no protection against the bullets that had just shredded the back of the driver’s seat. Was that all Eric ever thought about: her bod? So why’d she wear this suit today? All the reasons for everything she had done up until stepping into the Highlander seemed stupid and distant now. She’d been such a lazy ass lately, and what had it meant?

If Monica didn’t keep after her to exercise, she’d probably be a blimp-in-training. She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone.

She checked Google News. “Huh?” Those bodies had been on the front page of the paper this morning. But now? Nothing.

“Come on. That’s impossible.” If the Review-Journal covered it—front page, no less—it had to be covered five times over on Google News. Fox never missed a chance to cover something like a triple homicide. “Hey, you guys remember about their finding some bodies along the shores of Lake Mead?”

“No … When was that?”

“In the paper this morning.”

“Who reads the paper?”

“Never saw anything.”

You two are worthless. She sighed in frustration. She so wanted to find something to help her forget about the drive over here, and now the Lake Mead mystery distraction was 25

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gone. Local news headlines were all about new water usage restrictions, heat, and traffic problems. Same old, same old. “I hate this phone!” She dumped it back in her bag. Everything had been so funky-clean and cool this morning. Three bodies show up, and now nothing was cool any longer.

Monica buttoned off her phone and stood. “Darby, we’re leaving now, right now. Sorry, guys. Just got the word. We’ve got to split.”

“Can I get dressed, use the can?”

Monica paused. “Yes, but that’s it.”

“Can we help? What just happened? You just got here.”

Both Eric and Daisy stood while Darby froze, then ran for the bathroom with her bag, grabbing her sandals off the concrete as she headed inside.

“All hell just broke loose back at the house,” Monica lied.

26

Chapter Four DNA results could take days, even weeks. Ken Yabosky had the first results in 36 hours. He studied the report on his laptop, going over the dry numbers and percentages with the understanding of long experience. The adult male’s DNA indicated 40 percent Northern European, 30 percent Mediterranean, with a dash of North African. The rest was all over, but still European. So, Italian, Spanish, French, British. A lot of possibilities—but maybe not Latino, nor Native American.

But the man’s teeth had already ruled that out.

The woman was definitely Native American, probably Navajo, maybe some Pueblo, but not much. Again, the bones and teeth had already indicated that, but it was still nice to get confirmation.

So, a Native American woman in the company of an Anglo and a little girl …

The little girl … Ken studied the third report. He did not like this one. “Northern European descent, or what appears to be British, maybe some central European, some Mediterranean, similar to the male, but not related. Definitely not Navajo. Do I have that right?” he asked the head of the Genetic Forensics unit back at his home base in Virginia.

“You have it,” his colleague replied via the federal Zoom connection. “Want to start to run this through the national ancestry database?”

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“Yes, please. Go ahead. Start with the male or the girl. Not many individual DNA records likely with a Navajo female.

They keep track of their ancestors better than white people, but not through DNA. I’ll call Window Rock. Maybe the police will have some record of a woman missing in Vegas from between twelve and fifteen years ago.”

“Good luck on that.”

“Thanks. Looks like this might be more complicated than we thought.” *** “Detective Begay here. How may we help you today?”

“This is Doctor Ken Yabosky, special investigations agent with the FBI. I’m looking for a detective who might be able to help us locate information on a missing person.”

“Navajo?”

“Yes.” “Well, I’m one of the detectives here in Window Rock. So, who’s the missing person?”

“That’s what we don’t know. Body was found on the shore of Lake Mead three days ago.”

“Ooh. A lot of our people go up to Las Vegas. Think they’ll like the bright lights. They get into trouble there and never come home.”

Ken nodded at his phone. “Know that. But was wondering if someone might have reported a missing woman back maybe a dozen, or more years ago.”

“A woman?”

“Yes. Body appears to have been a female in her mid to late twenties, in otherwise good health.”

“Fat or skinny?”

“Pretty sure she was thin. Was wearing small-sized jeans and a polo shirt. No tattoos… Well, hard to find tattoos after a body’s 28

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been in the water for twelve years or so. She was wearing a Navajo bracelet on her left arm. Might date back to the 1970s.

Does not look like pawn—style’s too new. We can send you a picture if that would help.”

“Please do that. Does it have a jeweler’s mark?”

“D&J CLARK, then NAVAJO below that.”

“Hmm. Sounds legit. Will check a book we have that covers Navajo silversmith hallmarks. Should have something for you by tomorrow. Finding a relative may take longer. Any rings, other jewelry?”

“Plain ring on left hand. Might be a wedding band.”

“Any engravings?”

“Yes, but hard to make out. shił hózhǫ́? That make sense? No date, no initials nor names.”

“Sounds like it could be Navajo. Perhaps a wish to ‘be happy.’ As in the promise to ‘walk in beauty.’”

“Thanks. Ahéhee.”

Officer Begay smiled. “Yá’át’ééh.”

Ken dropped the internet connection, opened a document, and began adding to the report he had been working on for two days. The biopsies were complete. Not much to find after over a decade in the water: just bones, a little bit of slimy hair. Even most of the clothes were gone. The lab could probably tell something about past diet and might even be able to identify what part of the world or country they had grown up in. Bones tended to reveal that sort of information, but would it be enough? Few people living in Las Vegas actually were born or grew up there.

Ancestry.com might be different. DNA matching was solving more and more old crimes where traditional methods had hit dead ends. This had to be their only hope in this case. No fingerprints to go on. Well, we’ll see. Ken decided to make one more call, this time to an artist who specialized in turning skulls into faces.

29

Chapter Five “Dad, I’m going crazy. When will I get to go anywhere?”

Donati’s thin voice, so different from what many expected due to his thick chest, barked at Darby over the phone. “When I say it’s safe, then you will be able to go out. So, hang in there.”

“Yeah, like that kitten in the poster. That’s what I’m doing.”

Darby tried but failed to keep the whine out of her voice.

“I’m working on something. How about tomorrow night?”

“What about tomorrow?”

“You still on for our dinner engagement to meet Beth Anne?

I’ll let Marie know, and she’ll let you know. Okay?”

“Okay. Yeah, I’m still on if it happens. Luv ya.” Darby hit the red button. For the sixth time that day, she took a walking tour of their house, moping from room to room. She idly touched various knick-knacks without really seeing any of them. Both her stomach and her lungs had been in constant conversation with her brain ever since that disastrous visit with Eric and Daisy yesterday. Nothing she tried to eat had any taste, and what she did manage to get down seemed to want to run around in her stomach, leaving her nauseated. As for breathing? Forget it.

Only if she moved slowly and kept the air conditioning going full chill could she breathe and not need her inhaler.

The worst part of all this misery was that no one, not even Monica or her dad, was willing to tell her what that whole attack was about. Or what had happened at the casino that afternoon 30

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that sent her father running into his office. She knew that owning a casino could be dangerous. Money attracts more money and evil people who want that money, but her dad’s place hadn’t had an incident that she knew of since forever.

Yesterday, after she got home, she had binge-watched four movie downloads. Now she couldn’t remember the plot or actors in any of them. Monica had tried to interest her in bowling in the three-lane alley in the basement. Ugh! She’d gone swimming in her own pool, but without Eric ogling her, it hadn’t felt the same.

She’d tried spending part of yesterday and today talking with Eric. That had come to an end when he’d asked her to show him her tits over the phone. “Come on, Darby, I’ve already seen the rest of your breasts.” What kind of monster had she created with that string bikini of hers? So who could she talk to now? Once more, she wished she had a cat or a dog, but with fur allergies guaranteed to trigger an asthma attack, that idea was a no-go.

She wandered through her dad’s trophy room. Glass-fronted case after case held golfing and tennis urns, bowls and cups, plus the usual statuettes of gold-plated jocks. A couple of silver and bronze medals for swimming and track were her only contributions to the displays. She loved to swim, but never seemed to have enough energy to bring home a gold.

Her dad’s bedroom was usually off-limits, terra incognito, the door locked when he wasn’t home. But today, when she idly pressed down on the brass handle, the tall, heavy door swung open with not even a whisper of protest.

“Whoa!” Dad had been in a hurry to leave that morning.

She’d heard the slam of the door to the garage when she had left her bathroom and headed back to her bed for a little more snoozing. Maybe he’d forgotten. She smiled to herself. Well, maybe she could take a peek.

Dad’s huge, canopied, king-sized bed dominated the far wall, its trim and lace all in gold with white sheer drapes.

Although she had seen the bed several times in the past, its huge 31

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size always caused her to gasp. She took in and remembered the various gold-trimmed dressers, vanity, and armoire as furniture she had seen before as well. It wasn’t like she’d never ever been in her dad’s room. Turning her head back and forth, she noted Dad’s five Renoir paintings, all small pastels or oils, all featuring full-bodied nude women, all worth at least a million each. When you’ve got the money…

The bed was a mess—sheets and a comforter twisted in a pile against the footboard, pillows and shams on the floor on both sides of the bed. A large bath towel lay on the deep-pile chartreuse rug, halfway between the bed and the bathroom door.

A pair of rumpled fire-engine red and blue striped boxer trunks kept it company. Hardly a place ready for a display illustration in Better Homes and Gardens—a magazine she once had browsed in her dentist’s waiting room. Or maybe it was Sunset. It was hard for her to remember details like that.

Then Darby spotted a small, framed picture lying face down on the opposite side table. She edged around the bed to stare, then picked up the picture and turned it over for a closer study.

Although matted and framed in gold, it wasn’t another painting but an old photograph showing three people—all staring at the photographer.

That must be Dad on the left. He was a lot skinnier, and he had more hair on top whenever the picture was taken, but still definitely Dad. Ha-ha. That must be her in the middle. And that would be her mother on the right. So this must date back to the ’teens. But …

The more she studied the picture, the more everything felt wrong. The other adult had to be her mother, but the woman was a flaming redhead. And the little girl in the middle—smiling, her hands open as if to prepare to clap—had ginger hair too, hair that fell in rolling curls to her shoulders. “Hmm. That can’t be me.”

Darby’s hair had never been anything but straight and dark her 32

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entire life. Well, it used to bleach a little lighter in places every summer, but never a ginger color. This little girl was a stranger.

As for her mother, she remembered some things, but not red hair. Surely that image would have been burned into her brain?

Darby set the picture back down on the side table, easing out the cardboard brace on its back so it stayed up. One hand over her mouth, she continued to stare at the picture, her breath coming in short spurts. “If that’s you, Dad—and it has to be—who the hell is this woman, and who is this little girl?”

A sound somewhere else in the house reminded her that this room was off-limits. She turned the photo back face down and pressed the brace flat so that it lay exactly in the same position where she had found it. She glided back to the door, her feet feeling like she was walking on eggs. Only when Darby was back in the hall with the door closed did she feel like she could take a deep breath, and even then, she had to take two puffs with her inhaler before she felt like she could breathe again. She closed her eyes. When they reopened, she found she was staring at Mrs. Morales, a stack of fresh linens in her arms.

The housekeeper blinked first, stepping aside to let Darby get by. Neither spoke a word, but after four steps, Darby paused and looked back to watch Mrs. Morales insert her key into the bedroom lock, turn it, then turn the key back as she realized the door was already open. She gave Darby a look. “You …?”

Darby hurried off.

“Darby, you are in such deep doo-doo. You know Dad never wants you in that room.” Feeling safe for the moment in her own bedroom suite, she allowed herself to think more about that picture. Okay, she did remember her mother—vaguely.

And she did remember another girl, her age, a sort of buddy and playmate. That girl’s hair had been bright. Used to cry all the time. Slightest disagreement over anything could set her off.

“Connie … That must be the Connie girl in that picture. But why would Connie be in a picture with her dad instead of herself?

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And was that really her mother? She looked more like she was the mother of that sweetie-pie sitting between the two adults.

If that wasn’t her mother, who was her mother? Was she confusing her mother with the nanny she also had vague memories of? What did she remember? First day of kindergarten—that she did remember, sort of. She remembered a brightly colored room and all the noise of other children. With third grade, the memories became clearer. That’s when Eric and Daisy showed up—her best buds all the way through 10th grade. Not so much lately. Now, whenever they visited, Daisy seemed to want to spend more time hanging out with Monica, and Eric …? Do rising male hormones turn every guy into a jerk? He once was her best friend. Now she didn’t feel like talking to him.

“All this: the shooting, the lockdown, her dad spending all day at the casino, all this started with that article in the paper about those bodies. Wait a second …” Darby, hand on chest, managed a deep breath. That article hadn’t mentioned how long the bodies had been in the lake, had never mentioned a time frame at all. So why had her father said ‘thirteen years?’ He had been so clear and definite about that. And thirteen years ago was when her mother had disappeared. Were the bodies related to that? Was the dead woman her mother?

A knock on her door. Was it lunchtime already? “Yes?” “May I come in?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Morales joined her, her face a mask of concern. “I see you managed to get dressed today. You feeling better? Breathing okay?”

“A little.”

“You went in your father’s room.”

Busted. “Yes. Just a little peek.”

“You know he does not want you to go in there.”

“I know. I didn’t take anything.” She was about to say she didn’t touch anything, but that would be a lie. She had long ago 34

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learned that Mrs. Morales could detect lies easier than a detective with a fib machine. “I left everything exactly the way it was.”

“Good.” Mrs. Morales took a deep breath. “I know it is so hard to be cooped up. Mister Donati, he’s been cooped up these last twenty-four hours, too. He just called me. Saturday, he is going to meet Miz Ryder—you know, the dinner he had planned before the shooting?”

“Ah-huh?” So dinner is still on.

“He still wants you to join them. So put on your happy face, keep that phone of yours in a pocket, and be ready at six-thirty.

He’ll be back home to pick you up around six. Okay?”

Darby could not stop her face from changing to a dying rat expression. Dinner out could be fun, but meeting another one of her father’s dates, not so good. “Okay.”

35

Chapter Six At 6 p.m. the previous day, a notice had gone out to all the police stations in the Navajo Nation. The next morning, a copy of that notice found its way to the village of Piñon west of the Balakai Mesa and south of the Black Mesa—one of the most remote locations on the modern Navajo Nation. All it said in English, Spanish, and Navajo was “If you recognize this bracelet, contact your local office of the Navajo Police.” Below was a picture of the bracelet that the dead Navajo woman found on the shore of Lake Mead had been wearing.

That Friday, an extended cab Tacoma pulled up at the Piñon Bashas’ department store. A young woman parked, then waited to extend a hand to the elderly woman who struggled down from the passenger seat. The elder woman’s long hair was white and tied up in a loop behind the back of her neck, her face wrinkled and eyes faded from long days under the bright sun. She wore a dark purple velveteen blouse such as had once been the uniform of nearly all Navajo women, but the cotton jeans were certainly contemporary, as were the dark glasses she took off before entering the store.

“Yá’át’ééh,” she greeted the young cashier seated next to the register, and when he returned the greeting, she pressed her right hand briefly against his. Her granddaughter grabbed a cart

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and began patrolling the aisles, filling the cart with various food items.

“No rugs today, Asdzáán Sarah?”

“I have one in the loom. When I have it finished, I might bring it in,” the old woman allowed. “Or I might just take it down to Ganado. They pay better money there than you could.” She gave the cashier a brief smile to indicate no offense, then stepped over to a stand-up freezer in the ice cream novelty section and helped herself to a cherry Popsicle. This she unwrapped and proceeded to suck on.

The cashier frowned, then shrugged before turning to the next customer. Fewer and fewer Navajo women were weaving the tribe’s famous rugs, so he always made a point to be polite to a famous weaver like Sarah. Maybe someday she might offer him one at a good price.

Five minutes later, the Popsicle was gone, and the old woman was looking around for some place to leave the stick. “Humph.”

“What is it, Shimásání?” asked Carmina Yazzie, the younger woman—who looked like she might be in her mid-twenties.

She wore an Arizona Sundogs T-shirt, jeans, and low-heel black cowboy boots covered in gold and red stitching in a butterfly motif. Her black hair was cut short and permed; her flat face smooth and pretty. She stared at the poster her grandmother was pointing to.

“That’s the bracelet,” her grandmother told her.

“That black thing. What are you talking about?”

“I bought that bracelet at the Navajo Fair in … in 1978, from the man, or his wife, who made it. I remember it had that bird next to that turquoise stone. I wore it for years until I gave it to your sister as a gift for her kinaaldá.

“Aoo’. I think I remember it a bit, now that you mention it.

That was Vivie’s? Who, why, is someone looking for her?”

“Maybe they finally found the body,” was Asdzáán Sarah’s dry response.

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The granddaughter paid for the groceries, including the Popsicle, and then they left. They drove to their home over three miles of paved highway, followed by seven miles of bumpy, washboard road. Then, with the groceries put away, they drove back out to the pavement and another five miles to the chapter house, where they conveyed the information that the owner of the bracelet had a name: Viola Yazzie.

Exiting the chapter house, neither one noted the Silverado with a reinforced bumper sitting at the other end of the lot, or the man in a black cowboy hat who got in to follow them to the turnoff for the road that led back to their home compound deep in the juniper-covered hills to the south. *** For dinner at the Marble Plaza, Darby chose a sleeved cotton top in a light, golden tan that complemented the color of her hazel-gold eyes. She put on black slacks and medium-heeled sandals. She knew her father hated high heels, and she did not want to annoy him tonight. She clipped on a pair of round silver earrings from which silver birds and yellow feathers dangled.

She’d gotten her ears pierced when she’d turned ten. That simple, little rite-of-passage event had turned into the worst disaster of her childhood. Her lobes had both turned bright red, swelled, and gotten so hot she was afraid to touch them. By the time ice packs and steroids had brought the swelling down, Darby was no longer interested in looking like the other girls she knew.

Besides, wearing clip-ons made her different. She liked that.

Now she was no longer so sure that being different was a good thing. Not if people wanted to shoot at her.

“I’m ready.” She spun around for Mrs. Morales’ approval.

“You look fine. Mind your manners and let your father do the talking.”

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“Yes, ma’am.” Darby giggled, and Mrs. Morales smiled.

Always the same instructions for so long, it had become a private joke between them.

“There is one change. You are to meet him there.”

“Oh?” Somehow, Darby had understood that this time Dad would be home to pick her up. “He’ll be with Miz Ryder?”

“I believe that’s the understanding. Hi, Monica.” Mrs. Morales nodded to Darby’s guard as she joined them, same uniform as always, except for a below-the-knee, black skirt instead of her standard trousers. Black, calf-length boots had replaced the usual ankle-high walkers. And tonight, she wore a black leather purse with a snap-flap closure. Probably where she’s hidden a gun, Darby thought.

“You ready?”

Darby nodded, grabbed her green, light-cashmere sweater and an over-the-shoulder, white leather purse, and headed for the garage.

“The Rolls tonight?”

“That’s what Mr. Donati ordered,” Monica answered. That, of course, meant Jack Morales, Marie’s husband, would be driving.

Darby got in back, to the right of Monica, and took out her phone. The Miata was fun, Hunter adventurous, but the RollsRoyce was a private air capsule insulating her from the hot, outer world, traffic, and noise. For several minutes, she scanned YouTube shorts, then checked Instagram and Snapchat, even though she had just done that minutes before they left. She shoved her phone in her purse. Enough!

“Monica, what happened to all that news about the bodies they found by Lake Mead?”

Monica stared straight ahead.

“Monica? Miz Perkins? Earth-to-Monica, what happened?

And do you know what happened to those people shooting at us? There’s been nothing in the news anywhere. I mean, if 39

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someone died, the police would be investigating, wouldn’t they?

That stuff goes on the police scanners and reporters follow the scanners and police reports, right?”

Monica nodded. “Usually that sort of thing does.” Monica seldom talked about anything, but she seemed particularly closelipped tonight.

“Man, you never tell me anything. Come on, you’ve gotta have heard or read something.”

“Darby, the world, or our world, just changed a week ago.

And until this new business is over and taken care of, I may not talk about it.”

“What changed? Oh … Those bodies—the three people they found in that Jensenville ghost town? What’s that have to do with us?”

Monica gave a slow nod.

“Those people were related to us somehow? Family?”

Again, a slow nod.

A new thought caused Darby’s eyes to dilate. “Was the woman … Was she my mother?”

Monica took a deep breath. “Your mother died thirteen years ago—in a car accident.”

“Are you talking about Dad’s wife, Tessie Fineboro-Donati, the former singer and star of the Strip that Dad married in 2007? Did she have red curly hair?” Darby took a deep breath.

“Is she the woman in the picture Dad keeps by his bed? If that was Theresa, then I don’t look anything like her, nor do I look anything like the little girl she was holding in her lap. If she really wasn’t my mother, then who was?”

Monica closed her eyes, and a soft moan escaped her lips.

“Please … Stop the questions.”

Darby pouted. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“No. No, you’re not. You are very perceptive. Now, no more questions.”

40

Chapter Seven “Hello, Darby.” A nod. “Perkins.” Another nod as Monica escorted Darby into the partly hidden alcove off the main floor of the restaurant. A white linen tablecloth set for four featured silver-plated cutlery, heavy glass tumblers, and real cloth napkins.

Monica returned Pete Donati’s nod with a slight bow of her own, backed up, then slipped away, out of sight. She’s probably headed up to the balcony so she can watch us, but still be out of our view, Darby thought. I guess she’s not going to eat with us.

She turned her attention to the young blonde dressed in a deep-wine colored gown that covered all the critical areas of her body but was still structured in such a way that it left little to the imagination. She smiled with bright-red painted lips and extended a perfectly manicured hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Darby. Pete has been saying such wonderful things about you. I’m so glad we’re finally able to get together. I know it was supposed to happen a while ago.

Such an uproar at the casino yesterday. But everything’s okay now. Please, sit.” She patted the seat of the chair next to her and across from her father.

Darby glanced at her father. He smiled and gestured to the chair. Darby sat.

“Your father has been telling me all about the wonderful things you’ve been doing at school. He says you’re becoming a super swimmer. Made the school A team last year.”

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Darby smiled with her lips. “I like to swim,” she admitted.

“And you do equestrian, too.”

Darby hadn’t actually been on a horse for almost two years, but whatever. “Dad, have you been telling Beth Anne a bunch of lies?”

Pete shrugged and blushed. “Couldn’t just say you spend all your time on your phone.”

Darby gave Beth Anne an all-teeth smile. “Actually, social networking is my best, and only, skill—or was until last week. I guess now I’m an incredible race driver. Le Mans, here I come.”

She laughed to turn the last remark into a joke, but even that sounded hollow.

“Well …” Beth Anne looked away, searching for a place to put her hands.

“So, tell me, what do you do?” Darby continued to smile.

“I’ve started a career in vocals. I sing soprano. And I can do ballet and modern dance as well.”

“And …?”

“I just finished four weeks in summer stock, playing the role of Annie in a production of Oklahoma.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was a lot of work, but I made some good contacts.”

Like my father with his mega bucks?

Pete cleared his throat, his head turning to gesture toward the waiting server. “I’m ordering drinks. Dear, did you have something in mind in the way of a pre-supper sip? I already have a wine from our own Napa Valley vineyard set aside for when we eat.”

“Oh, sounds delicious. I’ll … I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Good. We’ll both have martinis, and Darby here will have a Shirley Temple.”

Darby rolled her eyes. A Shirley Temple? Why not just an iced tea? What kind of little kid did Dad think she still was? She 42

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was sure that the server wouldn’t dare card her, and she’d had mixed drinks before, so why the mocktail business tonight?

The server nodded and smiled, then took away the wine and beverage list.

The three waited. Darby took a sip of iced water, idly wondering if it came from that dried-up mud hole called Lake Mead. Where would all the water come from to sprinkle on lawns and keep swimming pools filled if the lake were to dry up completely? And where would all the power come to light up the Strip every night, plus keep everyone’s homes and businesses cool in summer?

Beth Anne played with her napkin, twisting and turning it into a series of knots.

Dad just sat, fingertips together, eyes on Beth Anne’s front.

Darby hid a twitch of her lips whenever Beth Anne leaned forward, and Dad’s eyes dropped to follow the line of his date’s cleavage.

“One martini for you; one martini for you, and one Shirley Temple for you.” The server set down the drinks in front of the three, then stepped back. “Good?”

“Good,” Pete answered.

“Would you be ready to order?”

Pete held up two fingers. “Give us two more minutes. Thank you.”

“Excellent.” The server stepped back, then faded into the background before turning to another table.

Darby stared at her drink. Did she really want to drink that pink, bubbly concoction?

When she made no move to take a drink, Beth Anne picked it up and stared at the glass. “You know, I’ve always wondered what these tasted like. May I try a sip?” When Darby shrugged, Beth Anne picked up the extra empty water glass and poured two thimblefuls worth into it, then added one of the cherries.

“Got to keep germs apart, don’t we?”

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“Go right ahead,” Darby nodded.

Beth Anne drank, then swallowed, her face twisting in disgust. “Ugh! That tastes like yuck. How can anyone drink this stuff?”

“Huh?” Darby reached over and took back her drink. She stared at the color. “That doesn’t look like any Shirley Temple I’ve ever seen.” That was true, although the only time Darby had ever had one before was at some birthday party when she was ten.

“Beth Anne? Beth Anne, what’s wrong?” Pete was standing, reaching across toward his date.

The young woman’s skin had turned greenish, then began to glow a bright red. Clutching at her own throat, she tried to stand, her mouth gaping and twisting.

Suddenly, Monica was there, staring first at Darby, then Beth Anne. “What? Oh, my god. Miz Ryder, did you just have some of Miz Donati’s drink? Puke now!” She grabbed Beth Anne by her neck and thrust two fingers in her mouth and down her throat.

“Puke now! Mr. Donati, call 911. Tell them we need a poison squad.” All Beth Anne was managing was a few spots of saliva.

“Damnit!” Monica fumbled in her purse and pulled out a small purple bottle. She unscrewed the lid and shoved the opening in Beth Anne’s mouth. “Drink! Swallow!” Monica ordered.

Three seconds later, Beth Anne was spraying mucky liquid all over the linen tablecloth and cutlery. After the first spew, she continued to heave while Monica thumped her back. “Let’s get you out of here. Serveur! Can we get this woman to where an ambulance can pick her up?”

“What’s happening?” Darby unfroze enough to plead.

“What’d she just drink?”

“Syrup of ipecac. Makes you puke.”

“Why?” “Because she’s just been poisoned. That drink was meant for you.”

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“Oh. Oh, my god. Dad, get me out of here!”

“Shut up and calm down, Darby,” Monica ordered. “Mr. Donati, stay with Beth Anne. Beth Anne, hang in there. Drink some water, if you can. As soon as the ambulance gets here, you will need to go to the hospital and get your stomach pumped.

Mr. Donati, go with her, take that drink that was supposed to be a Shirley Temple and give it to the ambulance crew. The poison team will need it to identify what hit her. I will stay with Darby and will get her home. Got it?”

Pete took a deep breath. “Got it. Is she … Is she going to die?”

“I don’t know. Serveur, could you get a cup with a lid to put that drink in?”

“Yes, ma’am.” In less than a minute, the waiter, now wearing plastic gloves, was back carrying a small plastic cup with a lid.

He decanted the remains of the drink into it and secured the lid.

“Here. Is that okay?”

Two other servers appeared carrying a folding screen, which they set up so that it blocked the view of the table from the rest of the restaurant with its whispering, partly standing, and staring crowd.

Beth Anne looked more and more ill, the initial redness now faded to a pale, statue-like pallor, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. She kept pressing a hand against her stomach, as if some brutish boxer was continuing to pound it.

Darby stared. All she could think was, this was meant for me. That could be me dying in front of my dad, Monica, and Beth Anne. Who? Why? The next ten minutes felt like a century. Then two EMTs arrived, pulling a stretcher, followed by two policemen. A minute later, the girlfriend, the tainted drink, the ambulance crew, one of the cops, and her father were gone. The second cop stayed long enough to get a statement from Darby and Monica, then he talked to the server.

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“Ready to go home?”

“Yes, definitely,” Darby answered. She grabbed her sweater and purse and followed Monica to a side door.

“I was up on the balcony, watching you,” Monica confided.

“Caught a glimpse of this guy standing next to the server bringing your drinks. He got in his way, then he was bailing out at super speed, back through the kitchen. A second later, I was taking those circular stairs two at a time. I was afraid I wasn’t going to make it. Looks like that bimbo just saved your life.”

“You think she’ll live, be okay?”

“I hope so, but no promises. Throwing up might have gotten most of the stuff out of her before it was too late. Fast-acting stuff, whatever it is.”

Jack Morales was waiting by the Rolls. “Done so soon?

Where’s the boss and the girlfriend?” he asked when Monica and Darby approached.

“Gone to the hospital,” Monica answered. “Someone tried a poison trick, and Miz Ryder took the fall.”

“Ooh. I was wondering what the commotion with the ambulance and all was about.” He paused. “Saw several young men, dressed in dark green hoodies, hanging around the lot.

Seemed like they were checking out vehicles. Figured I’d better stay close.”

“Thanks, Jack. Let’s get home. And hope no followers.”

“Amen.”

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Chapter Eight The image and voice from Window Rock, Arizona, came through clearly. “This is Herbert Begay, the detective you contacted concerning a missing Navajo woman found up near Lake Mead.”

“Yes? This is Doctor Ken Yabosky. You find something already?”

“Yes, a woman and her granddaughter saw the notice in the Bashas’ in Piñon. The granddaughter called and said that if it is the same bracelet, it belonged to a sister, Viola Yazzie. Sister says she’s twenty-seven, this Viola would now be thirty-seven, would have been in her twenties back then, so that would fit the age frame of the deceased.”

“Oh, good. Where is this Piñon place? Would she or her grandmother be willing to share a sample to do a DNA match?”

“North and west of here, just south of the Black Mesa. The granddaughter is coming over to Window Rock on Monday and says she could be here by late morning. She sounded anxious to know what happened to her sister. Seems pretty smart. Attended Rough Rock.”

“Rough Rock?”

“Bi-lingual demonstration school north and east of Piñon.”

“Okay …”

“We should have the sample in a vial and on its way to the Fed lab tomorrow.”

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“Great.”

Twenty minutes later, Ken’s cell phone rang. “Ken? This is Don Clayburn. There’s been a disaster. You will not believe what happened.”

“Ah … no? What?”

“Someone, probably last night, broke into the morgue. All three of the Jensenville bodies are missing.”

“Oh, crap! I’ll be … I’ll be over as soon as I can. Maybe it’s a good thing we shipped out those DNA samples as soon as we did. Did they get the bracelet too?”

“No. That’s in the police lockup.”

“I’m on my way.” Ken hit the red button and stood. This whole business was getting weirder and weirder. And someone apparently did not want these bodies identified. He guessed now there wouldn’t be any clay models of reconstructed heads.

Maybe the Navajo woman might offer a DNA match for the dead one. *** Carmina Yazzie was on the road by 7 a.m., headed east on paved Navajo Route 4. Asdzáán Sarah had wanted to go with her, but Carmina had refused. “It’s too long a trip. You can’t sit comfortably that long, and after an hour, you always got to pee.

I’ll go by Route 191. I can do it in four hours. I will be back by lunch, mid-afternoon at the latest.

“You get that bracelet too, while you’re talking to those policemen. Otherwise, they keep everything.”

“Shimásání! They don’t even have it yet. It will still be up in Las Vegas.”

“Humph. You be careful. Viola left our land, and what happened to her? There is evil here, yee naaldlooshii watch for those that leave, then they come back to take others in our families.”

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“Oh, Shimásání, I will be careful. See, I’ll have Custer with me. He’ll protect me.’

The grandmother still shook her head but said no more. She, too, was curious as to whether they would finally have answers to all the questions that thirteen years of silence had produced.

Carmina had checked the oil and the truck’s tires and made sure the Tacoma had a full tank before she left. In fifteen minutes, she was out on pavement and speeding east. An allwhite, medium-sized dog of dubious ancestry rode shotgun. He spent most of the trip with his nose thrust in the gap granted by the partly open window. Her late father had named him the minute she had brought him home from the pound in Winslow.

“He’s nothing but a ‘white dog.’ His name must be Custer,” he’d said with a twinkle in his eye. The dog had been young then, little more than a puppy with short ears and a need to snuggle and slobber all over anyone who got within reach of his tongue.

Since then, he’d quieted down, only barked at strangers and kept whatever dreams he might have for bitches in heat to himself.

East of the Balakai Mesa with its cliffs of white, yellow, and red eroded siltstone, the land opened up into rolling hills covered with short, straw-colored bunchgrass and dotted with pygmy forests of stunted piñon pine and juniper.

Carmina drove with her window open so she could smell the dust and sage and hear the occasional ring of collar bells that marked the location of a flock of sheep. Although most Navajo now lived in not-so-little towns sprinkled over the valleys— Chinle, Ganado, Many Farms, Kayenta, plus Ship Rock and Farmington in the Northeast—here the land still lay close to empty with only a few small, one-story houses or traditional eight-sided hogans dotting distant, shallow valleys. This was the land that Carmina knew best and loved. South of Chinle, she turned right on U.S. Route 191 and climbed up into foothills that would take her to Ganado and the wetter Fort Defiance Plateau with its thick forests of ponderosa pine mixed with more piñon 49

Can Skinwalkers Swim?

and a few Douglas fir. East of the plateau, the land dropped away, and half an hour later, she was driving into the Navajo Nation’s capital in Window Rock.

Following signs, she found the tribal police headquarters, parked, let Custer out, and motioned him to her side. He instantly obeyed, the result of long, patient sessions using hugs, pats, and occasional biscuits as rewards.

She stepped into the lobby, taking in the walls adorned with pictures of parts of the Dinéh. A query at the public window, and she was soon led back to the office of Detective Begay, Custer silently following her.

“Yá’át’ééh. Shí éí, yinishyé Carmina Yazzie.”

Begay smiled. “And I am called Herbert Begay. You made good time. Would you like some coffee? Please, call me Herb.”

“Aoo’,” Carmina answered with a smile.

Detective Begay was close to five feet nine, lean, and wore his jeans, gray and blue Western wear shirt, and turquoise-studded bola tie like a uniform. His hair was almost Marine Corps short, his gold-filled wired glasses adding a look of strength instead of the weakness that thicker rims might have given. The office was almost spartan clean with only one small decorative Ganado Red rug hanging on the wall opposite the room’s window. Two industrial steel chairs, a steel desk with a laptop computer and tiered shelves for paperwork on its surface, two filing cabinets, and a small table with a coffee machine next to a sink completed the furnishings.

He set a steaming mug on his desk and gestured for Carmina to take a seat, then placed a couple of packets of sugar and creamer on a Bakelite tray beside it.

“Ahéhee’.” Carmina sat, added two packets of sugar, and stirred.

Herb poured himself a cup, then sat and waited. When Carmina smiled, he spoke. “So many young ones no longer 50

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know anything of our language other than ‘Yat-ta-hey,’ badly spoken.”

Carmina snorted and smiled. “Not in our area, but I think even my grandmother knows English better than Navajo. But then she went to one of the old mission schools back in the 1960s.”

“And you went to Rough Rock?”

“Aoó. Rough Rock for eight years, then the high school in Piñon. Took the academic course, then went for one year to Diné College, back when it was still NCC. You went to Rough Rock, you had to speak Navajo.”

Begay nodded. “Good schools. Husband?”

She shook her head.

“Never married?”

“Dooda.” She answered with a sad laugh. “Had a boyfriend once, but he was the wrong clan, then he went and joined the Navy. Never came home.”

“Sorry to hear that. Your clan?”

“Tązhii Dine’é. Born for Dzaanééz Łání.” She did not add the clans of the grandfathers.

“I am Táchii’nii, born to Tó Baazhní’ázhí.” Begay smiled, happy to hear that this lovely woman did not share his clans.

“Your sister, the missing one? Viola?” He opened a computer document, then began to type as Carmina spoke.

“She’s ten years older than I am—or was. Left for Las Vegas when she was twenty. I was only ten then, so I hardly remember her. But she wrote my mother every week without fail. Just letters. We had no phone reception back then. Still don’t often have reception at home. Have to go over to the chapter house or the Baschas’ in Piñon to get good reception.

“Last time we saw her was when she came home for my own kinaaldá. I was twelve. I know that’s young for girls today, but I wanted to be more traditional. She brought a boyfriend—a bilagáanaa.”

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“Do you remember the man’s name?”

Carmina shook her head. “No. Wait. I think it might have been Ben. He did not talk much, just watched. Very polite. Big guy.”

“Features?”

“Ah … as I said, tall, big. Dark hair but light eyes. Blue, maybe. That’s all I remember.”

Herb nodded for her to continue.

“Then, when I was eighteen, the letters stopped. Just like that—regular letter one week, nothing the next, and never ever again. We made queries. She had said she was working for someone in the casinos, liked her work, but she never said which place. No trace of the boyfriend either. I remember in one of her letters she was actually gushing about this guy, I assume the same one whom she brought to my kinaaldá. Said he was ex-Army, still had nightmares about Afghanistan and Iraq, but he was always so gentle with her. She also said she would have a surprise to share next time she came home. I don’t know what that would have been. Maybe a wedding ring? I’m sorry. I …

It’s so long ago, yet like yesterday too. ádzaaígíí bąąh shíniʼ. I babble too much.”

“No. This is all good.”

Carmina drank half her cup.

“What do you do now?” Herb really didn’t need information about her, but he was curious.

“I live with my mother’s mother. She is a weaver. We have a holding near Piñon. I help her tend the sheep, plus I help card, dye, and spin the wool. I also work part-time as an aide at the Piñon school. Still have children come in who do not speak English that well. I translate for them, help them adjust to school.”

“Your grandmother weaves?”

“Aoo´. She once took prizes for her rugs—big ones, but now she only weaves little ones: two by three, about.” She gestured 52

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with her hands to indicate a space maybe a little less than two by three feet.

“No other family?”

“Dooda.” There was a sadness in her answer. “Shimá died five years ago. Cancer. Father caught the COVID in 2020. I have an elder brother, older even than Viola. He moved to California when I was very young. I hardly remember him. I still have my uncle, my mother’s brother. He drives a tractor-trailer. He comes home, maybe once a month. Whenever he comes home, we always see him.” She thought back to a time when the Navajo Nation forbade all outsiders, tourists, from coming to the reservation because of the deadly COVID. Herb nodded. “Many, many people here died of COVID in 2020 and 2021. All the news writers kept writing and talking about the cases in New York and LA, but here, so many were getting sick and dying, and reporters never mentioned that at all.”

Carmina emptied the mug and set it down. “So, can I leave my DNA sample? How do you do this?”

Begay took out a paper-sealed package and ripped open one side. “We’ll just need a few buccal cells from inside your cheeks.

Takes two seconds.”

Carmina washed out her mouth with water from the sink using a paper cup. Begay took the sample then Carmina watched as Begay sealed the tiny scrapings and saliva in a vial, labeled the outside and placed it in a small refrigerator under the sink.

“Done. We’ll have that shipped to the FBI’s testing lab tonight— overnight out of Albuquerque. The lab already has the samples from the bodies found up near Las Vegas, so if there’s a match, we and the FBI should know in three days.

“What about the bracelet, my sister’s bracelet?”

“We do not have that. The FBI or the police in Las Vegas have it. If the DNA tests prove positive, you or your family 53

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should be able to put in a claim for it once it is released from any need for evidence.”

“That might take forever.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My grandmother, she’s the one who bought the bracelet and gave it to Viola. I think she would like to see it once more before she dies. If she does, she will know Viola is dead, and she can accept that.”

Herb nodded. “Family is so important. Maybe this will be resolved quickly, and there will be no need to keep it as evidence.”

“Ahéhee’.” Carmina stood. “Custer, you ready to go home?

Dę́ę́ Naashá?” Custer snapped alert, got to his feet and shook himself off. “He understands Navajo better than English,” she explained.

Herb laughed and stood himself. “Not a Bilagáanaa dog, even if he’s white,” Carmina laughed back. “Just a white dog, but that’s why he’s called Custer.”

“Well, hágoónee’,” Herb escorted her and Custer out to the lobby. They shook hands in the Navajo way, palms pressed lightly against each other, exchanged nods without making eye contact, and Carmina was on her way.

Outside, she took a deep breath, sucking in the clean, outside air after breathing in all that throat-tightening, stuffy interior air that had stank of stale coffee and numerous cigarettes. “Glad that’s over,” she mumbled to herself. She was unlocking her truck door when Custer growled, causing her to freeze. “Daa, Baby?”

Then she saw him: a pale man, with frizzy grey hair, wearing jeans and a blue work shirt, black cowboy hat tilted low, pointing what might be a piece of bone directly at her.

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Chapter Nine The lights of Las Vegas gave off a distant glow on the far western horizon, a directional landmark for all the southern tip of Nevada. A mile off Interstate 15, a dark SUV hunkered down, its hood facing toward the distant light but hidden from the highway by an old borrow pit and the frame of a broken trailer from an eighteen-wheeler that had crashed and burned seven years earlier. Inside, a driver and her companion sat waiting for a call.

It was three hours and after 4 p.m. before the man’s phone finally pinged. He hit the green button and put the phone to his ear. He said nothing except a short “Yeah” when it connected.

Presently, he put the phone on speaker.

“She was in with the cops maybe forty minutes,” the voice said. “I followed her and rear-ended her on the drop down to Beautiful Valley right where I said I would. Doubt she ever saw me coming. Yeah, over the truck went, rolled over twice. Truck’s a mess, but you can’t see it from the highway unless you pull all the way over onto the shoulder and get out. No Navajo is going to want even to touch that truck. They’ll know a skinwalker did it. Her dog was still alive. I could hear him howling, but I doubt he’ll cause any trouble.”

“You didn’t kill him?”

“Ma’am, killing humans is my business, but I draw the line at harmless dogs.”

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“Yazzie definitely dead?”

“Ma’am, door looked like it was jammed shut, and I didn’t want to leave no prints that might make someone nosy. Too much traffic to hang around. I was lucky no one saw me do the job. No, no one could have survived that fall and roll.”

“Good.”

The call ended. “Sure took him long enough to get through.

Well, that’s one out of the way. Let’s get back home. Two more, and Constance will know peace in heaven.” *** Total lockdown. If Darby had felt like she was a prisoner before, the day after the poisoning felt even worse. At first, she hung on every bit of news regarding Beth Anne, bugging either Mrs. Morales or Monica for any new word since she could not reach her father. Neither one would, or maybe could, tell her anything.

Instead of solitary meals, Mrs. Morales and Monica joined her for lunch and supper. Dad would not be home. He was staying in one of the hotel rooms at the casino so he could be close to Beth Anne. Mr. Morales was with him. It was all so sad.

By the end of supper, Darby had had enough. “What the hell is going on?” Darby slammed her dinner glass back down on the dining room table, sending milk splashing all over the tablecloth. “I’m not some little kid anymore. If you won’t tell me what’s going on, and right now, I’m heading out of here if I have to walk, run, or hitchhike.”

Mrs. Morales held up both hands. “Please, Darby. Please.”

“Darby. If you want to be treated like an adult, you need to start acting like one,” Monica rejoined her.

“Then stop treating me like a crappy prisoner. My life’s on the line too.”

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Mrs. Morales and Monica exchanged looks before Monica spoke. “Okay. There is someone connected to you who has access to a lot of money and is used to having her own way. Your father—and now you—are her enemy. It’s a long story, but, yes, the bodies that turned up in Lake Mead are part of what has spurred this person to act, and that includes wanting you dead.

“Someone stole the bodies from the county morgue, so we aren’t even sure we can trust the police. Suffice it to say, your father and we would like you to stay alive. We think you are safe here. Can you wait just a few more days? And, if you want to help, put in a little effort toward getting in shape, so if we have to go someplace else, you’ll be ready to run and get going.”

“What do you mean?”

Monica gave Darby a slant-eyed look. “If we have to leave here, we may have to be moving fast and suddenly. You won’t be able to sit down and spend three hours deciding what to wear and what to take with you. I suggest you get out a small backpack, one you can carry with you, and pack it with only the most essential of essentials. Have it ready.”

“Like my passport, wallet, phone, laptop, toothbrush, couple of extra sets of clothes—that sort of thing?”

Monica nodded. “That sort of thing, although you might want to skip the laptop.

“Next thing. From now on, breakfast will be at 7 a.m., lunch at noon, supper at 6. Not later, not earlier. At 8 a.m. tomorrow, you’ll meet me in the gym. I’m sure we can find something for you to do there to keep you busy.”

Darby stared at Monica, taking in the stiff lips and hard eyes.

She moaned. “When do I get the black-and-white-striped suit so I can break rocks?” ***

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Carmina’s pickup had been violently shoved through a fence and over the valley rim to fall into the arroyos of Beautiful Valley near noon. It was over four hours and more than 200 vehicles later before an inebriated Navajo man, slowing for a black horse that had wandered through the breach in the fence, noticed the tire tracks cutting through the bare ground and ruined fence.

“Huh.” He came to a full stop and half stood to get a better look, blinking twice to clear his vision. That’s when he thought he heard a dog crying.

He remembered to put his flashers on, got out and stumbled through the break in the fence, then peered over the edge to where he could see a twisted pickup rolled on its top. “Well, that’s new,” he told himself. He gingerly made his way down the vermillion-colored slope, slipping and sliding on the soft siltstone. Two things caught his eye when he finally slid to a stop by using both hands against a back fender. One was the crumpled woman still bound in her seat belt, a deflated airbag half covering her. Second was the wide-eyed, mournful-looking white dog lying beside her. Certain he was seeing a ghost coyote instead of a dog, the man turned and fled.

Suddenly sober, the man jumped in his truck and was out of there, hitting seventy before he regained control of his breathing and senses. He slowed, took a deep breath, then did a U-turn and headed back south. In five miles, he hit the four-way junction at Burnside, where he pulled into the nearest gas station. “A woman in a pickup, just north of here. Skinwalker’s still with her, turned into a ghost dog,” he stammered before he slumped to the floor.

The volunteer fire department from Ganado was on the scene in half an hour. They were soon joined by a second crew from the more distant Chinle, plus two police officers and a crew of EMTs and paramedics.

One of the policemen on the scene was Detective Herb Begay, who had happened to be on his way to his home near 58

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Steamboat—nineteen miles west of Burnside—when he got the scanner alert.

He did not recognize the truck, but when he clambered down the steep slope to join the firemen, he immediately recognized the white dog growling at everyone from the front seat.

“Custer? Is that you, boy? Hago, hago wóshdę́ę́’, Custer.”

The dog backed away and began whimpering. When Herb reached through the open window, Custer crept over the woman to nose Herb’s hand. Herb grabbed the collar, lifted and carefully worked the dog past the broken glass and metal.

“Ahee, thanks,” the nearest fireman called out, then continued to work with a Jaws of Life device to break the door’s hold on the cab.

“You know this dog?” the other officer on the scene asked Herb as he snuggled the forty-pound dog in his arms. “He safe?”

“Aoo’. That’s Carmina Yazzie’s dog. chąą´. That must be the Yazzie woman inside. Please, can we get her out quickly?”

“Everyone, keep working,” the fire chief ordered. “Begay, could you keep the dog under control? Take a look around.”

“After they have Yazzie out of here,” Herb answered.

The crushed door popped loose with a bang like a distant gunshot, then fell off its hinges to crash to the ground, then partly slid under the truck’s exposed frame.

“Good.”

Ten minutes later, the rescue crew had the comatose Carmina in a cervical collar and back brace, in a litter, and started up the steep, rugged slope. When the crew finally had her on the flat land by the shoulder of the road and the medics could do a more thorough exam, Herb turned back to study the truck. Peering inside, he spotted a cell phone on the floor by the passenger door.

“That must be Yazzie’s.” Still holding on to the dog, he pulled on a blue latex glove, reached in, grabbed the phone, and slipped it in a plastic bag he pulled out of his pocket. Easing back on his 59

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feet, Herb took in the ground around the wreck. Then he shed the glove and scaled the bluff to study the tire tracks.

“What do you think?” the other Navajo policeman asked him.

“The crew here sure messed up a bunch of evidence, but I think it’s clear that there were two trucks. One, a bigger one, hit the Yazzie vehicle from the rear and shoved it over the rim.

Maybe thought that would hide it forever. Then, he or she drove back on the shoulder, got out and walked back to the break in the fence, half-straightened it, maybe checked over the rim, then took off.”

“Wasn’t here long.”

“Probably didn’t want to hang around. Too much traffic.”

“We’re on our way,” someone called down to the two policemen. The ambulance turned around and headed for the hospital in Ganado.

“I’ll stay with the truck,” the officer volunteered.

“Thanks. Let me call the FBI office in Gallup; see if they can get someone out here. We’ll need to secure the perimeter until then.” He rubbed Custer’s neck and shoulders. Dog was getting heavier by the second. “Let me put the dog in my truck. I’ll take him home with me tonight.”

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Chapter Ten “Herb Begay on the line. You remember—the Navajo police detective you contacted for a DNA sample?”

“Yes.” Ken turned in the chair where he was seated in the FBI’s field office for the Southern Nevada region to stare at his caller on the police screen.

“You heard about the murder attempt on Carmina Yazzie?”

“Yes. It was on an FBI bulletin two hours ago. How is the woman?”

“She’s in the hospital in Ganado. I checked. She’s in the trauma unit. Left hand broken, several cracked ribs, scalp lacerations, concussion, bruises all over her chest and face, left ankle and foot pretty mangled. If she hadn’t been wearing a seat belt and the airbag hadn’t gone off, she would definitely be dead. The FBI is up here, and we are treating it as an attempted homicide. We have our police outside her room on round-theclock guard. I think she might be able to talk to us this afternoon.

I’m planning to drive up to Ganado later. I have to let her know her dog is fine or is going to be fine anyway.”

“Her dog?”

“Yes, she had her dog with her when she came down to Window Rock to leave the DNA specimen.”

“And she left a sample for DNA testing?”

“Yes. The lab should have results the day after tomorrow.

Oh, and she told me, when I interviewed her, that her sister’s 61

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boyfriend was a big Anglo, might have been named Ben, and was a veteran of Afghanistan and Iraq.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a match for the male who was with the woman at the base of that chimney.”

Herb nodded. “If I get to talk with Yazzie, I will try to find out if she remembers any more. Also, we notified the police at Piñon, so her grandmother should know what happened. Of course, by dinner tonight, everyone in Piñon will know.”

“And so might the person who tried to murder her.”

“That too.”

“Do you know who from the Gallup office was out at the site to do a scan and check?”

“That was Agent Woody Thomas. We went over the site together this morning. I can probably answer any questions you might have.”

“Any collectable evidence: footprints, fingerprints, threads or hairs?”

“Nothing yet. If there were any footprints, the EMTs and fire crew totally wiped them out getting the Yazzie woman up to the road. They were too much in a hurry to be careful. That slope is so bad that we were all sliding all over the place yesterday, getting her out. All we could see were tire tracks and a few footprints as far as the fence.”

“Sounds like I could come down there and help with the forensics.”

“Thanks. I think it might help. Just let Woody and me know when you’re coming.” *** Eight-thirty in the morning, and Monica in black sweats and Darby in pink were pacing each other on parallel treadmills. At 9:30, it was weightlifting. Half an hour before lunch, Monica had Darby working on Kung Fu moves. At first, Darby was 62

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sure that her breathing would soon force her to stop, but as she walked harder and faster, she felt her bronchial tubes loosen up. She also found she was sweating harder than she could ever remember doing before. By nine, she was sure she was going to die, but by lunchtime, she felt good enough to look forward to more workouts in the afternoon.

Monica said little, showed no fatigue, just kept pushing. At two, she stopped. “Time for a swim.”

“Yes!” Darby cried. She quickly suited up in an older palegreen bikini and headed for the Donati pool. It was similar to the Hamish pool, but not quite as wide—more of a lap pool. Darby swam, moaning with pleasure at being able to float and get off her feet.

Monica hung out just under the eaves, never seeming to notice Darby—her eyes constantly shifting, taking in the walled compound perimeter or the skies above.

What goes on in that head of hers, Darby wondered. She never seems to care what I think or want to do, but she’s always there for me. She’s like my personal watchdog—faithful, yet unwilling to tell me anything other than woofs.

Darby’s father called her that evening. She complained about all the work that Monica was forcing her to do, but not as strongly as she thought she would. She was tired, but her sore muscles told her that she could do things she hadn’t thought possible in the morning.

Pete would, or could, tell her little about what was going on. His management team at the casino was working on a solution to the earlier problem. Whoever was threatening the family, particularly Darby, knew that he wanted peace. Maybe this would be over in a few more days. Could she please have patience? Oh, and Beth Anne was doing better. She would be okay in a few days.

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Darby sighed and grumbled, but finally agreed to tough it out. *** The next day was more of the same: workout in the gym in the morning, more workouts, and swimming in the afternoon. Darby had woken up with muscle cramps and soreness everywhere. It took an hour for the pain in her legs and shoulders to settle down to dull, constant aches. Monica did not seem to notice.

The previous night, Darby had hit the sack and been dead to the world in less than a minute. The second night, she came out of her bathroom to find Monica sitting on her bed. “Lie down and pull your shirt up to your neck,” she ordered.

“What?”

“Just do it. I’m not going to hurt you, but you need to stretch those muscles.”

Darby sat, then rolled over, face down. Monica dripped some kind of oil on her hands, massaged Darby’s legs, particularly her calves, then turned to her shoulders. Darby found herself first cringing with pain, then sighing with pleasure as her muscles relaxed. “I thought you never touched anyone?”

Monica grunted. “I once worked as a masseuse, mostly with veterans recovering from war injuries. Hold still.”

Darby stared wide-eyed at her pillow. Whoa! This was the first time she’d heard Monica say anything about her background.

“Where did you learn to shoot?”

“Undercover work for federal agencies.”

“Like CIA or FBI?” “Something like that.”

Darby felt a wave of boldness. “Monica, how old are you?”

“Almost old enough to be your mother.” The door to Monica’s past was open, but Monica was allowing only a peek.

“Where are you from, originally?”

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“Ohio, Steubenville, a good place to be ‘from’—far from.”

“Ooh, that felt good there.” Monica was working on her back now, rubbing up and down her spine. “A little higher. Mmm, thanks.”

After ten minutes, Monica stopped and stepped away, allowing Darby to pull down her pajama top and sit up. “Monica, how come you never talked about your past before? Why tell me anything now?”

Monica stared at the towel she was wiping her hands on.

“Maybe … Maybe what’s happening.”

“The shooting, the poisoning?”

“Maybe you’re starting to grow up.” Monica folded the towel and tucked it under her arm. “Sleep tight, Shí yázhíshízhí of my dreams. See you at breakfast.”

Monica walked out, turning off the overhead light and closing the door softly behind her. “‘Shí yázhíshízhí?’ What the hell does that mean?” Darby had no clue.

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Chapter Eleven Ken caught a flight on a government plane down to the Gallup airport the next morning. Herb Begay and Agent Woody Thomas were waiting just outside the terminal gates to greet him.

Agent Thomas was nearly six feet tall with a sturdy body that could easily put on weight without constant exercise. He wore a white shirt and dark pants—the usual outfit that one would expect for an FBI agent—except for the white, straw cowboy hat set on his close-cropped hair. Brief introductions and the three men were on their way north, two hours west over the plateau and back down to the edge of Beautiful Valley—a strange name, Ken thought, for a range of hills covered with eroded siltstone slopes with not even a weed in sight.

As Woody slowed to a stop, Ken took in the bare slopes: a world of reds, pale greys, yellows, and browns descending, layer after layer, down to the valley floor to the east of Route 191. It made Ken think of a multi-layer spumoni ice cream cake left out in the sun. Here and there, he noted petrified logs sticking out, evidence of a time when this world was wetter and deep forests grew.

They parked behind a Navajo police SUV, then hailed the officer seated inside. “We’re here,” Herb called.

“Yá’át’ééh,” the young officer answered, glad for company and, perhaps, an end to this idle duty.

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“I’ll let you look around up here first,” Woody said. “Let you draw your own conclusions before I tell you what I found.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Ken walked south, upslope to where he was almost a hundred feet from where the Yazzie truck had gone off the shoulder. “Looks like the only place where 191 runs close to the valley rim. This guy knew exactly where he wanted to push her,” Ken decided. He walked back toward the falloff, humming softly to himself, stepped through the broken fence, and rejoined the others. For several minutes, he took in the landscape and the ruined truck. “Looks like a Toyota Tacoma from the late 2000s.”

“She looks like she’s in good condition, too. Tires are almost brand-new. No odometer to read with the ignition dead, but my guess would be less than two hundred thousand.” Herb gestured, then turned to shake hands with the guard when he joined them.

“That’s still a lot of miles.”

“Out here, every place is far away. You drive twenty to thirty miles just to get groceries. Mileage builds up fast.” Herb turned to the fellow policeman. “Any visitors?”

“Everyone who goes by has to stop because they see my vehicle. Sometimes they get out and look over. But no one’s talked or stayed,” the officer answered.

“Good. Maybe we can be done with this today and get this wreck out of here.” Herb started down the slope for the second time, followed by Woody, then paused to look back up.

Ken hadn’t moved. Instead, his look drifted farther down the highway to where the road’s surface almost leveled off—his eyes following the tracks of the pusher vehicle to where it made it back on the pavement. He headed toward that point, paused, took a few more steps, then halted roughly 150 feet beyond where the Tacoma had left the highway.

“You see something?” Woody called up to him.

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“Maybe.” Ken took out an evidence camera. Woody and Herb started toward him. “Don’t come this way directly. Get back up and out on the highway if you’re going to join me.”

“Gotcha,” Woody answered.

“More footprints?”

Ken nodded.

“Why here?” Then the light dawned on Herb. “It took the other guy, the one who hit her, this far to stop his own vehicle.”

“Ah-huh. He stopped here, then hoofed it back to where he or she could get a look at the Yazzie vehicle. Looks like he/she was trying to step only on the grass so he/she would leave no prints.

Didn’t work. Not enough grass, not enough of anything. Now, if the driver had just rammed someone else’s vehicle, wouldn’t you think that when he/she stopped, there would be something dented on his/her front bumper?”

Herb and Woody followed Ken another five feet down the shoulder, then turned, and together they scanned the pavement.

“See some glass or plastic,” Herb pointed out.

The three all knelt. Then, while Ken took pictures, Herb fetched evidence bags.

When he rejoined the two agents, they were busy picking up glass fragments and taking samples from several oil spots.

“Well, who knows where the driver and the truck are now, but I think he needs to have at least one, if not both, headlights replaced. Bumper’s probably all bent up too. See a paint chip?”

“Ah-huh,” Woody answered. “I think so. White, or off-white.

Same as I saw on the back of the Yazzie truck.”

“That could point to a manufacturer,” Ken smiled. This was proving better than he had hoped.

It took an hour before all three were satisfied. Then they turned their attention to the faint trail the driver had made back to Carmina’s truck. “Hold up.” Herb sighted in on the spoor.

“Blood.”

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“Ah. Maybe the guy hurt himself a little.” All three could now see four faint, dark dots in line with the footprints. Ken scooped up each one and tipped them into an evidence bag.

A close examination yielded more white paint rubbed into Carmina’s truck bumper. Woody scratched his head. “You know, I saw these, collected a bunch of them, but nothing made sense yesterday. Why would a chrome bumper hitting another chrome bumper leave paint chips? Ah! Look. I bet her trailer hitch got tangled with his bumper. I bet his front end is a real mess right now.”

Herb agreed. “Easy to replace a headlight, but he needs a body shop, too.”

They went over the Tacoma, dusting for prints, but found none. At 5 p.m., they were done. Herb put in a call to Window Rock to arrange for a flatbed wrecker to pull the truck out and transport it back to the police yard. All three were climbing up the bank for what they hoped was one last time when Ken stopped.

“The driver walked back here maybe to make sure the Yazzie woman was dead—but he really didn’t make sure. Why?” Herb and Woody exchanged puzzled looks before Herb spoke. “The dog, Custer, was still in the truck and okay. Maybe the guy was afraid of him. Custer might have threatened him.”

“So why didn’t he just kill the dog?”

“Maybe he’s a dog lover?”

“Or shooting the dog would have left bullet evidence?”

“Maybe he is superstitious and afraid of a white dog.”

“Odd, but maybe another clue.”

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Chapter Twelve Darby swam hard, pushing herself against the two-pound weights Monica had fastened to each ankle. She had to keep pumping or her legs would instantly sink, pulling her backwards and down underwater. She’d managed three laps, but it already felt like she’d done more than ten. Reaching the deep end, she grabbed a ladder and hung on. “May I stop now?”

“Hug the wall,” Monica yelled back, then stepped out from under the eaves to point a twelve-gauge shotgun at the sky. Bang!

A pause, another bang, and Darby looked up to see smoking debris falling toward the perimeter wall.

“Holy crap! Was that a drone?” Another explosion, much louder, and Darby found herself flat against the pool wall as a shower of shiny bits and pieces—confetti from the sky—flew by, some to fall in the water with sharp hisses and burn snaps, others to thump into the house walls and roof.

Darby waited for the quiet to return, then she reached down to yank off the weights and toss them on the pool deck. “Can I get out?”

“Yes. Hurry. Get out, leave the weights, and come inside.”

Darby ran to where Monica was standing by the open patio door. She slap-trotted inside. Monica followed and closed the door behind her.

“Was it …? Was it spying on us?” Darby shivered.

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“It was carrying a bomb. Saw it yesterday, but it was too high for me to shoot with my pistol. Had the shotgun ready today, and it was coming down—aimed right for you.”

“Oh, man. Oh, Monica, I feel like I’m going crazy. What will they try next?”

Monica stared back outside. “I think as long as we’re in here, they won’t try to get inside this place. Lots of perimeter sensors, and they know that. Mr. Donati had Marie stock up on food the minute he knew the bodies had been found. So we’re good for that part, at least for another couple of weeks.”

“Monica, please, what are those bodies? Why are they so important?”

Sigh. “Okay, this is getting too dicey. Let’s get you dried off and changed, and I will explain, as much as your father is likely to let me. I wish he’d tell you himself, but … Go, go get changed.”

Darby showered, dried, and put on a yellow sundress. She came down to the living room, combing out her hair with her fingers, when Monica and Mrs. Morales joined her.

“She should not know,” Mrs. Morales was saying. “It will only cause her hurt and confuse her.”

“She needs to know if she is to survive. We’ve been silent, and what good has come of it? Look, all I’ve been doing is trying to protect her. You have too. What good has it done?”

Darby stared, first at Mrs. Morales, who looked like she was ready to cry, then at Monica—her face a map of pain, lips tight, eyes bright.

“Darby, the bodies that showed up on the banks of Lake Mead were a family. I think I told you that already,” Monica began. “Mr. Donati has enemies, some going back to his earliest days when he first started the Roma Mia. As long as those bodies were missing, his enemies could not be sure what had happened, so they waited.” Monica paused before continuing. “When the 71

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lake started to dry up and the water levels dropped, those people contacted Mr. Donati to warn him that if the bodies were there and showed up, they were coming for him, and his family—you.

“Me?” “But it is more complicated than that.”

“Wait a moment, if those three people, the bodies, are somehow related to Dad, who are they, or were they?”

“The man and the woman both worked for Mr. Donati.”

“What about the child?”

“She could have been the woman’s daughter, but … but I don’t think so.”

“And this was thirteen years ago? And Dad knew they had died then. That’s why he knew how long ago it was.”

“He told you?”

“Yes. He said it happened thirteen years ago, but no year was mentioned in the paper.”

Monica and Mrs. Morales looked at each other and both sighed.

“Is the woman in the picture by Dad’s bed my mother? Is that me in that picture? Or are they someone else?”

“Oh, Darby. No, she’s not your mother, nor is that you.”

“Then who am I? Am I really Darby Donati, or am I some kid pulled off the street, or smuggled in the back door so Dad could pretend he still had a daughter? Who is my mother? What really happened to Dad’s wife, the woman in the photo? Is Dad even my dad?” Darby was crying now, tears dribbling down her cheeks, getting in her nose, causing her lungs to freeze. “Ah, ah.”

“Quick, where is her inhaler? See, you should never have told her any of this.” Mrs. Morales ran up to Darby’s bedroom and returned with the inhaler. Hands shaking, Darby took the tube, put it in her mouth, and pumped.

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better. Thank you, Mrs. Morales.” Darby felt so weak now, not physically worn-out-from-exercising tired, but wrung-out tired, brain-tired. She stared at the inhaler, trying to think. “So, if that woman, the redhead in the photograph, is not my mother, who is she? Who is, or was, my mother? Was she the woman who drowned in Lake Mead?”

“Probably,” Monica allowed. “Yes, the one who drowned was your mother.”

“But is Dad my father?”

Monica and Mrs. Morales hesitated again, “We don’t know.

We think so.”

“What was her name, my mother?”

“Viola Yazzie.”

“Yazzie? What kind of name is that?”

“Navajo Indian.”

“Navajo! You mean I’m a god-damn Native American, or half-breed? This is crazy! Oh, God, what is happening?” She was sobbing harder than ever. “Could they do a DNA test, or something like that? That would prove it one way or another, wouldn’t it?”

Monica nodded. “A test would, but right now, I do not see how we could even get a sample of your cells or blood out of here and to a testing lab.” Monica knelt until her eyes were level with her charge’s. “Darby, flush all your prejudices down the drain right now. I barely knew Viola, but I understand that she was a beautiful and hard-working woman. She was a nanny for Mr. Donati’s other daughter.”

“A nanny? Oh, God, I just want this whole business to be over, to see Dad again, be able to go anywhere I want.”

“So do we,” was the other two’s response.

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Chapter Thirteen Ken got the word at his hotel in Gallup that night that Carmina Yazzie was awake and recovered enough to speak with the police. Interviewing victims wasn’t normally part of his job, but since he was in the area, knew Woody and Herb were going up to Ganado, and he had his own news to share, he accepted an invitation from Herb to join them.

Even though it was 10 o’clock in the morning, Gallup still had a quiet, lazy feel, and the streets were quiet. Like many towns bordering the big Diné Nation, it would come alive at night when indigenous Americans from many surrounding settlements, Navajo or Pueblo, would drive in to socialize and drink at legal bars.

Ken enjoyed that quiet as he drove from his hotel north, then west, over the Fort Defiance Summit, then down into the Ganado Valley. There, he parked in front of the Sage Memorial Hospital and made his way inside to where Herb and Woody waited. The three exchanged soft greetings and handshakes before heading up to the guarded room in the intensive care ward.

A Navajo policeman greeted them with soft handshakes and a big smile for Herb. “She’s been awake since eight. Was just talking to her grandmother by phone a couple of minutes ago.”

“Thanks.” Herb peeked into the room. “Carmina? Yá’át’ééh?

Is it okay if we come in?”

“Aoo’,” Carmina answered in a soft, dry voice. “Oh, so many of you today. You, Herb, I know. Agent Thomas, I met you yesterday.” Each word spoke to the pain she felt in her chest.

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“And I’m called Ken Yabosky. I’m a doctor and an FBI agent specializing in medical forensics.”

“Aoo’?” Carmina lay in a bed, partly propped up with pillows, the head end elevated, her left leg straight out in a blue cast that covered her ankle and most of her foot. Her left arm had its own cast. Bandages covered her head where a doctor had stapled part of her scalp back to her skull. Her red face and neck still showed major bruises where the airbag had hit her.

“We have some news,” Ken started, only to have Herb motion for him to wait.

“Can you drink tea? Coffee?” Herb asked.

“Tea might be better,” Carmina whispered.

Herb stepped back in the hallway, signaled to a nurse, and put in a request. When he returned, Carmina gave him a smile.

“This young man knows when to wait.”

“Sorry.” Ken apologized. “I do not know many Navajo customs.”

“One may not rush a visit, even one with important news.

There is time for everything,” Herb explained.

“Yes,” Woody agreed.

A gesture, and the two agents took the only chairs. Herb stationed himself against the sink counter. They waited until a hospital aide came in with a tray loaded with a stainless hot water pitcher, four ceramic cups, and a plate of tea bags, sugar packets, and non-dairy creamers. A minute later, she returned with a third chair.

“Ahéhee’,” Herb told the aide, then poured water into each cup. “Carmina?”

“Straight,” she answered.

Herb stirred a tea bag back and forth until the water looked a suitable darkness, then set the cup with a napkin on the stand beside Carmina’s bed.

“Ahéhee’.” She smiled, lifted the cup with her right hand, and took a sip. “Now, what is it you were so eager to tell me?”

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Ken paused to stare at his own cup. “We, the FBI, have completed a DNA study comparing the sample that you gave Officer Begay three days ago with the DNA from the bodies that were found by Lake Mead.”

Carmina nodded and took another sip of tea. She made a face as the tea went down her throat, then, hand on chest, took a slow breath. “Aoo’ …?”

“The DNA from all the bodies showed some deterioration, but was still good enough that we can state with ninety-five percent certainty that the woman from the lake is a relative of yours in the first degree.”

“First degree?”

“That means she would be either a sister, daughter, or mother.”

“Aoo’, I understand. So she is Viola, my older sister.”

Carmina looked away, her eyes traveling over the cabinets, stainless stands, and the folded-back curtain before returning to stare at her teacup. “It is as we thought, so long ago.” She nodded. “Does Shimásání, my grandmother, know?”

“Not yet,” Herb answered. “You will tell her?”

“I will tell her,” Carmina answered. She sipped again. “And the others?”

“There was a man and a little girl. Neither one is a relative, nor were either Native American,” Ken told her.

“Bilagáanaa?”

“Yes.” “So, maybe the dead man was this ‘Ben’ who came down for my kinaaldá fourteen years ago?”

“How well do you remember him? His face?”

Carmina gazed up at the ceiling. “I might remember. It was a busy time for me—the molding and corn grinding and almost no sleep, running toward the dawn, eating cake, partying, but there were only a few bilagáanaa there, so he stood out. He was tall, had dark hair, and a nice smile.”

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“If we were to show you a picture of a head, a reconstruction of what the dead man’s face looked like, do you think you might recognize him?”

“I don’t know; I can look.”

Ken turned to Woody. “We may have a drawing based on the genetics and photos in a day or so. I can send it down to you as a PDF. It will be rough, not as good as it would have been if the artist had the actual skull, but you might recognize him. You said the man’s first name was ‘Ben?’” Carmina nodded. “But never a last name.”

“In your report to Begay here, you said you got letters from your sister regularly up until when she disappeared. Did she ever say what her job was in Las Vegas?”

“She said that she was working for a very rich man who owned a casino. She never said which one. I think she was either a nanny or, what do you call it? Au pair?”

“So, the little girl might have been her charge?”

Carmina shrugged. “Who knows? But the girl could not have been her own, right?”

“No, but she might have been related to this mysterious casino owner.”

“So, is this casino owner—was that who tried to kill me?”

The three men all shrugged.

“Could you tell Ken what you remember about the accident, the attack on you?” Woody put in.

“I remember nothing. I remember leaving the Window Rock station. I might remember making the turn north at Burnside, but after that, I remember nothing until I woke up here two days ago.” Carmina licked her lips. It was obvious that she was fading.

“I … there was this man … I think he was trying to pretend he was a yee naaldlooshii.”

“What?” Herb put his cup down on the counter. Woody stared; Ken’s face went blank.

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“A skinwalker,” Woody whispered to Ken. Ken nodded and opened his computer tablet and started typing.

“Yes. I was about to get in shichidí. Custer started growling.

Then I saw him. He was on the other side of the parking lot. He pointed a white stick or bone at me. It felt very bad. I could feel it right in my heart, like he was stabbing me there with that bone.

I got in and drove away as fast as I safely could.”

“Could you describe this man?”

“Definitely bilagáanaa, white man, with lots of grey hair and pale face, no beard. He was wearing a light blue shirt—you know—like a work shirt, jeans, and a black cowboy hat. It was as if he was trying to look Indian, but didn’t know quite how to do it.”

“And he pointed a piece of bone at you. You absolutely sure?”

Carmina closed her eyes. “Aoo’. That is what it looked like—a bone such as might come off an animal, such as a small dog or a fox.” She sighed and was silent.

“That’s all?” Woody stood while Ken shut the tablet off.

“Aoo’.”

“Oh. One more thing. This your phone?”

Carmina opened her eyes and smiled. “Aoo’. Was in Shichidí?”

“Aoo´.”

Herb set the phone down on the tray by the bed. “It still has a good charge.”

“Ahéhee’.”

Herb leaned forward as if to touch her, but then backed off.

“Ahéhee’. Thank you. You have been most helpful. We know so much more now. Please rest, so you can get safely home. May you walk in beauty.”

“Hágoóne,” Carmina whispered. She did not open her eyes.

The three men tiptoed out of the room.

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Chapter Fourteen Bang … Bang … Bang, bang, bang. Darby squeezed off five more shots, let out her breath, lowered the Glock 22 pistol, and stared at the black silhouette at the other end of the underground shooting range. She sniffed, then wrinkled her nose as the faint smell of gunsmoke drifted away. Her dad had gotten into upland bird game shooting for one season three years ago. Like many of his hobbies, the interest had soon flagged, but the basement shooting range remained. Until this week, only Monica had been using it regularly.

Monica studied the target without approaching it. “Good.

Actually, better. All your shots are in the fatal zone this time.

Ready for a break?”

“Back to more Kung Fu?” “Yup.” Darby ejected the empty magazine, pumped the extractor once to make sure no bullet remained in the gun, then laid it on the stand, placed her ear protectors and safety glasses beside it, and rolled her shoulders. Rules, rules, always follow the rules.

“You know I hate shooting.”

Monica frowned. “I don’t expect you to like it. Just make sure you never love it.”

Huh? Darby shook her head. “So, does my dad know that I now know about this Viola Yazzie?”

“No. Not yet.”

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“Were those words you said to me the other day—were they Navajo?”

“Shí yázhíshízhí ? Yes. They mean ‘my little girl.’”

Darby snorted. “My little girl! Monica, you aren’t going all sentimental and gooey on me, are you?”

Monica shrugged as she led the way out of the firing range and across the hall to a room full of mats and various non-firearm weapons.

“How come you know something in Navajo?”

“Lived on the Rez for three years, back in the day.”

“Cool. What did you do? Were you undercover?”

Monica laughed, a sound Darby could not ever remember hearing before. “I was a pre-teen. My dad taught in the public schools in Ganado, Arizona.”

“Oh. Where’s Ganado?”

“Sort of in the middle of Navajo Land, west of the capital in Window Rock. You can look it up on Google Maps. It’s a busy place. Has schools K through eight, a brand-new hospital, a Presbyterian church left over from mission days, plus the Hubbell Trading Post National Historic Site. We left when I was twelve, when my parents divorced. Dad wanted to stay, loved the land and the kids. My mom couldn’t wait to get back to a city. He stayed; I moved to Phoenix.”

Darby replaced her T-shirt with a black top and loose, pullon trousers and tied a yellow sash around her waist. She began to limber up her body. “What were the other students like, I mean, the Navajo kids?”

“Pretty much just like you or I. It’s not like the Navajo today live in some primitive world full of medicine men and strange ceremonies. They drive cars or trucks, go to work on weekdays, watch TV, eat too much junk food, and sleep late when they can.

Back then, a lot of the older kids were into heavy metal. Pretty much the same as teens everywhere.”

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Darby made an ugly face. “I can’t stand heavy metal. In other words, Anglo society—our society—has thoroughly corrupted them?”

“Yeah, you might say that—for the most part. When people are poor—and most Navajo are—it’s easy just to do the easy thing, or the thing that gives the quickest gratification.”

“If I lived on the reservation, I’d try to be as one with the land, try to let the wind, the rain, and the sun dictate what I did or became.”

“Noble words, Darby—coming from someone who can’t live more than five minutes without air conditioning or without her phone glued to her hand. Try to remember those words if and when you’re not sure where the money will come from to buy your next meal or fix the truck you need to get to a job that’s fifty miles away—one way.”

“They make rugs, don’t they? Do any Navajo still weave?

I guess some still make the silver jewelry. I see that stuff in jewelry stores all the time.”

“A few do. It takes a lot of time and work to weave a rug, and no one wants to pay for that work to own one. You know that rug that hangs in the front room?”

“Ah-huh.”

“Two feet by maybe four feet. Medium-sized rug. Probably took a woman over a hundred hours to make that rug. How much do you think she got for it?”

“I don’t know. A thousand?”

“If she were lucky. More likely less than five hundred. The dealer and the store that sold it jumped it up to $1000.”

“That’s crap.”

“For a piece of display art involving that much work—yes.

A so-called ‘artist’ can take a canvas that size, slap on a range of paints in two hours, hang it, and demand—and get—over ten thousand or more. Native American fabric arts? Forget it.”

“Tell me about this Viola—what you do know.”

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Monica scowled. “Your father has a photo of her somewhere.

I saw it once. She had long, straight, black hair, which she kept folded and tied in the traditional Navajo way. She looked like she was tall and slender. Actually, I think she looked a lot like you, or you will look like when you’re just a bit older and finish filling out. Mr. Donati hired her to watch Constance when the little girl was almost a year old. I met her myself only a couple of times. I was just starting to work for your father when she … ah … she disappeared.”

“You started fifteen years ago, right?”

“Yes …”

“And I would have been a year old then, too. But did Dad know her before then? I mean, if she was a new hire when I was already a baby, how could I be Dad’s child?”

“I don’t know, but he’s always acting like you are, more so after Constance disappeared. Now it’s time you stop asking questions and start working for yourself.” Monica placed her palms together and turned to face Darby. They bowed to each other. Yes, time to go to work, but Darby still had many questions. *** Dower with jowls sagging, Saul Fineboro typically wore a face that would make a basset hound look cheerful by comparison. Not so today. Now he radiated fury. He lifted a pen out of its holder on the front of his desk and hurled it at the fortysomething woman who stood in front of him.

Theresa Fineboro ducked aside. The pen, a gold-tipped Parker, smashed into the birch-paneled wall behind her before clattering to the floor.

“She’s alive! What kind of incompetent idiots are you hiring?”

“No excuse, Father. And he’s gone.”

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“Fired?”

“No. I sent him on a job in Florida. There, he will be terminated. There will be no connection between the attack on the Yazzie woman and our people.”

“So, what next? The other daughter, that Darby Donati, is still holed up in that fortress of a mansion?”

“Yes.” “So, flush her out, and get rid of that Perkins who now is so determined to guard her while you’re at it.”

“Okay. Any ideas how?”

Saul paused, fingers tapping his left cheek. “Does she—the supposed Donati girl—have a boyfriend, girlfriend, any friend we can get to?”

“Eric Hamish,” the woman replied.

“Who’s he?”

“A sort of boyfriend—rich, spoiled. When he’s not with the girl, he hangs out with sketchy friends—and other girls. The girl has known him and his twin sister most of her life. Been close buddy-buds for some time. Our drones caught pictures of them making out, kissing, anyway. He might be a possibility.”

“Hmm. Sounds possible. So get on it. Pete Donati got away with murder once, but you say he still needs to pay.”

“How are we to get around Perkins? She hasn’t missed a trick yet.”

Saul smiled. “She is a problem. Warn your troops to take extra precautions.”

“Like what?”

“Guys, every time they face her, they can’t help but stare at her big boobs instead of where they should be looking—her face or her hands. By the time they remember what they’re there for, she’s got the drop on them.”

The daughter smiled with her lips, then chuckled. “Maybe I need a good woman of my own. Okay, we’ll get on it.”

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Honor, family honor, was what mattered now, as well as compensation for Constance. The mother and father were gone, but that other daughter finally needed to disappear as well.

84

Chapter Fifteen “It’s been a long time, Saul.”

“A long time for both of us, Peter.”

The two men eyed each other through the lens of a FaceTime connection. “You aren’t looking so good.”

Pete raised a middle finger at the other casino owner and his former father-in-law. “What do you expect? I’m cooped up here. I can’t go home, can’t see my own daughter, don’t dare go anywhere without worrying about your weasels gunning for me.”

“Vegas is a dangerous town,” the older man remarked. “You knew that when you came here twenty-four years ago.”

“Maybe a bit dangerous for your troops, too. I understand that you might be two short after last week’s attempt on my daughter.” Pete couldn’t help but sound snarky.

Saul waved a hand of dismissal. “Not my people. Things happen. Part of the cost of doing business. They knew what they had signed up for.”

“This isn’t about business,” Pete retorted. “If this were business, we’d reached an understanding a long time ago, and there would be peace.”

“We did. You and I both understood that as long as my granddaughter remained just ‘missing,’ neither of us would do anything to disturb that peace. She was just ‘missing’—like my daughter, your former wife. Turns out your little live-in squaw 85

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and her boyfriend tried to make off with her, didn’t they? Only they didn’t get very far. Too bad. Now that other daughter of yours—the bastard one that your squaw gave you—she’s gonna have to pay the price for what her sweet, red-skinned momma did.”

“Viola and Ben didn’t kill her. I now think they were trying to protect her, save her from Tessie and you.”

A flush of anger crossed Saul’s face. “Getting Constance away from us was in her best interests? Theresa had nothing to do with that. Bullshit!”

“How do you know that? By then, Tessie was so far into the drug scene that she was shooting up straight several times a week. I was getting calls from the floor, once, twice a day, that she was abusing my staff, yelling at the customers. It was getting so that I had a hundred patrons bailing out every day. She was crazy! Okay, you and I talked about this. I tried to get her to go to counseling, send her to that retreat place. No, she would not go without Constance. But Constance’s problems were Tessie’s problems, too. She had fetal alcohol syndrome. Cried all the time, couldn’t sit still. Viola was the only one who could calm her down and get her to pay attention. You knew Constance had problems, and you knew what the cause was. I don’t drink, never have.”

“So why’d the Navajo woman try to run off with her?”

“I don’t know.” Pete looked away, his eyes now sad. “Maybe, as I said, to get her away from her mother.”

“Okay. I think we both know what has to happen now. You’re a free man. If you want to leave your fancy penthouse with your current beauty … How’s she doing, by the way?”

“She’s recovering,” Pete admitted. “No thanks to you.”

“I didn’t tell her to drink that Mickey Finn. So, go home to your other daughter. Be nice to her, but know this. Tessie is the one in charge of this affair now. And I have no control over her at all. She’s sober, lean, and mean. She is not going to let go.

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Your bastard—what’s her name?—she is still going to have a fatal accident somewhere. When that happens, then maybe this will finally be over. We’re good, all good.”

“Darby’s my daughter.” Pete pressed his lips together. “I will not let you, or anyone, kill her because of what happened thirteen years ago. She’s a good girl—maybe a bit spoiled—but a good girl. Please, leave her alone.”

It was Saul’s turn to be surprised. “She is your child? Well, well. We thought that your nanny was the cause of your split with Tessie. That’s what Tessie always tells me.” Hand pressed against his chest, Saul took a deep breath, forcing the air past the pain he felt in his lungs. “I wish I could say all this was over. She won’t let go, not until her honor has been redeemed with blood.”

“Blood … That’s all you have to say? So, where is my honor?

I made Darby my family; she is my only family now. I can’t just stand aside and let your henchmen kill her so you can have your so-called ‘honor’ back.”

“Peter, I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other. I understand; you understand what must happen. May God be with you.” Saul moved the mouse to drop the connection.

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Chapter Sixteen Darby hit her desk hard enough to cause the keyboard to jump. “Jesus, man! What am I to do? I can’t stand it anymore!

Why can’t those spooks, whoever they are, go screw themselves instead of trying to kill me?”

Her dad was coming home tomorrow. He was apparently safe and okay, but she was still not to leave the house. That was so not right. She stared at her phone. Ever since Minute One of the lockdown, the word from Monica was, “You will not call or talk to any of your friends. Nothing is safe. You got it? Nothing.

Leave it alone.”

So why hadn’t Monica taken her phone away? Darby stared at her phone’s screen. 911, that’s why. If she didn’t have her phone, she would have no way to call for help.

She re-pocketed the phone.

Navajo. She was, at least, part Navajo. What did that really mean? She got up, stretched, and stood in front of her fulllength, gold-framed mirror. She angled her body back and forth, wiggled her tush, straightened, then pushed her chest up and out.

She fingered her hair, understanding its thick darkness for the first time. “I guess I kinda look Indian, don’t I?” “Navajo, Navajo …?” She returned to her computer and googled the Navajo Reservation. She studied a map of the Diné Nation, then switched to the landscape view, taking in the dry, open spaces, all tans and light browns. When she zoomed in, the 88

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land became mostly grassland with tiny dark green spots that, on a closer look, became scattered trees. She moused over to Canyon De Chelly and followed its deep canyons up into the eastern hills. She spotted little towns, and when she zoomed in on the open spaces, she discovered houses even in the most remote areas. When she looked closer, she could often see a whiteroofed house with a satellite dish on top, but also another round house beside it. Sometimes, there would be outbuildings with the dark circles of old tires dotting their roofs, plus evidence of fences surrounding these compounds in the middle of nowhere.

“How do people live in a place like that? If that were my home, I’d go total-ass crazy in a week or less.” Probably no cell reception, either. She closed her eyes, trying to banish such a horrible thought, but before she could, an even worse thought followed. Here I am, in the middle of the most glamorous city in the West, in the whole United States, with a million possibilities of things to do, and yet I might as well be living in a hogan in the middle of the reservation for whatever I can do.

“I have got to get out of here.”

A knock on her door. “Ready for your pre-dinner Kung Fu?” Monica asked.

Darby suppressed a scream and began to change into her robe and sash. *** Darby stepped out of her post-dinner exercise shower. She twisted her hair in a coil and wrapped it in a towel, then sat and stared at her red-painted toes. Trimming time again. She took out a clipper from one of the drawers in the vanity and began to clip and shape. Would have to repaint them after she was done.

Bunch of fun work. Huh? Her phone, left on the other stool, was causing the stool to vibrate. It was on silent—Monica’s orders, but someone must be 89

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trying to call her. She hesitated. No phone calls, no texting—that was the order: NO PHONE CALLS! The vibration stopped. Darby stood and finished toweling off—her eyes never leaving the dead phone—inanimate, yet ready to explode with life. She wrapped her body in another towel, tucking an outer end under an armpit. “All right! Just once.” She picked up her phone, unlocked it, and checked the missed messages. There were—like—thirty or forty missed calls or messages, but the most recent one was a call from Eric.

“Oooh.” She missed Eric now more than she thought she would. Surely one call wouldn’t mess up everything? She hit the “return call” symbol.

9:30 p.m. The house was silent except for the ticking of the windup clock in the front room. I hate that clock, Darby thought as she felt her way to the steps leading down to the garage. I am going to be in so much trouble when this night is over, but … “Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” she whispered to herself as she entered the garage and crept by the various vehicles. She stopped by the Miata and patted it, then eased the door open and settled down inside, dropping her emergency backpack on the passenger seat. She might be willing to break most of the rules, but now she felt afraid to go anywhere without her “bailout” bag.

A call to the gatehouse and Don, the guard on duty tonight, had been alerted that she was going out. Yes, Ms. Perkins knew and had given permission. Thanks, will be there soon. Will be back by midnight.

She exited the garage, never thinking about the noise the garage door made as it closed. At the gate, she nodded to Don when he waved, and she was out of there. “Wow!” So easy after all. “WOO-HOO! Man, I’ve got to do this again. Get my life back.” First time she’d ever gone anywhere without 90

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Monica riding shotgun. Felt odd, but only a little. She tossed her shoulders. “About time, is all I can say.”

Out to the boulevard and a right, through two lights. No one chasing her this time. She made a right at the next light and started through the series of back streets that curved through the estates until she reached the gate that marked the entrance to the Hamish family’s main establishment.

Instead of using the speaker, she keyed in the long-memorized entrance code, waited while the gate rolled away, then floored the Miata and roared onto the Hamish compound.

She pulled up under the drop-off pavilion and sprang out.

“Ah, I feel so great! Not tired at all. Eric …?”

The front door opened, and Eric was standing there, but not dancing out to greet her the way he always had before.

“Eric?” Darby’s eyes wandered left then right, aware that even the air felt wrong and that men, strangers, were approaching her from both sides. “Eric, what is this? Who are these creeps?”

Eric, his face too frozen to speak, held up his hands. Then Darby saw the man standing behind him, a pistol pointed at the base of Eric’s skull.

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Chapter Seventeen Darby’s emotions shifted gears from joy to fury in two seconds. “You rat!” She turned and tried to jump back in the Miata. The guy to her left was on her. She lashed out at him with the side of her left flattened hand, caught him with a cut under his chin, and bashed his Adam’s apple. He gagged and stepped back, giving Darby enough time to get in the car and hit the door lock. She fumbled for her fob and keys. They dropped onto the floor as the second guy punched out the side window. What do I do? All her recent defense training fled her brain as she beat on the hand that now gripped her left and began to pull her out of the car. She pulled back, felt for her keys with her free hand, picked them up, and rammed her house key into the back of the hand gripping her left.

He screamed and let go. She started the Miata and pressed down on the accelerator, bashing the other guy out of the way.

Out from under the pavilion, a U-ie and headed for the gate when a light and explosion hit the front of the car, lifting it a yard above the driveway to come down in a shatter of glass, plastic, and ripped steel. A moment later, the windshield became a spider web of cracked glass as several bullets punched through.

By now, Darby was screaming and cursing like a druggie on a bad trip gone crazy.

The three men were not gentle. The big one grabbed her ears and pulled. She did not resist this time, certain that if she did, 92

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her head would pop off her body. The second one grabbed her shoulders, and, when she came out of the car the rest of the way, the third one grabbed her legs.

“You bastards! Let me go,” were the last words she managed before one of them stuffed a washcloth in her mouth.

The trio zip-tied her ankles and hands, and carried her into the house, where they dumped her on the foyer floor in front of Eric, still guarded by the fourth stranger with the gun.

“That was a lot harder than we thought it would be,” the first man barely managed. He was still rubbing his throat where Darby had hit him.

“A real she-cat. Eric, I thought you said she was a real pussy, a real pushover.”

Eric just shook his head.

“Okay, let’s get her moving.” The big guy picked Darby up like she was a Sabine about to become a Roman bride and headed for the door. “One of you two, move her car out of sight.

“Number three, you stay with the hosts. We’ll let you know when the package is on her way to her new location.”

“Gotcha,” the one still holding the gun against Eric’s head answered. “How long before that butch guard of hers comes barreling in here with all her guns blazing?”

“Don’t know. Eric, remember: you want to see tomorrow, you saw or heard nothing. Comprendé?”

Eric managed a nod.

“Your sister, too.”

Again, a slight nod.

“Okay, we’re out of here. Clean up before you leave.” The big guy exited, picking up Darby’s bag from the back seat of the Miata with his free hand as he left.

Only when the big guy dumped her on the floor in front of the back seats of a Humvee did Darby regain enough brain function to wonder why they hadn’t covered her eyes. Nor had any of the four men bothered to hide their faces. She pondered 93

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that thought as the guy she had punched in the neck joined the big guy and they took off, exiting the Hamish place via a hidden service entrance.

They aren’t bothering to hide their faces because they don’t plan to have anyone who sees them tonight live long enough to identify them in court. I am so dead. I’m sorry, Monica. I’m sorry, Mrs. Morales—Marie. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m such a stupid, selfish shit. It won’t happen again. Next time, I’ll think. With the washcloth still stuffed in her mouth, she couldn’t say any of those words, but she could think them.

For at least twenty minutes, she worked at the gag, pushing it with her tongue, loosening it a bit at a time. Finally, it fell out and off her face. “Ah.” The two up front did not appear to hear her gasp of relief. The littler guy was on a phone. “Finish the cleanup. We’re clear,” she heard him say before the conversation ended.

She had no idea where they were headed or what “cleanup” meant. From her position lying on the floor, she could only see streetlights. They had to be almost out of the city. Then she knew they were turning and climbing some kind of on-ramp. I-15? Are we headed for Utah or the Arizona Strip? This is my last night on Earth, isn’t it? Sorry, Dad. A phone dinged, and the big guy picked up. “Yeah. Okay.

Gotcha. What? Noo! We’ll be done here shortly. Almost to the exit. Not good. Okay. Yup, 10-4.” The connection ended.

“Double, double crap! Sounds like a real CF.” “What happened?” The little guy whispered.

“They have everything cleaned up, set to look like a fatal break-in, and their Mexican housekeeper taken care of. Now they can’t find the Hamish girl.”

“What? I thought you shot her first thing.”

“The boss said she took care of her before she left. Said she even felt for a pulse. Ron says he went to check the body once 94

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more before they pulled out. It’s gone. Nothing but a small pool of blood.”

The little guy sighed. “Well, we can’t go back at this point.

Maybe she hid in a closet or something. The boss shot her in the chest, didn’t she?”

“No. I think in the head.”

“All right. Let’s get this over with. Boss is waiting.”

Oh, please, Daisy. Please be alive! Darby could feel her heart pounding so hard it felt like it was about to explode out of her chest. Please, throat, don’t shut down.

The Humvee exited the interstate, and Darby could see lights for casinos again. Mesquite, we must be in Mesquite, that little gambling haven right on the border with Arizona, she told herself, then wondered how she could be thinking about where she was instead of where she was about to be.

A few turns later, and the lights were gone. She could see nothing outside now. She stared up at the ceiling. Where is this going to end? Some abandoned mine shaft or borrow pit? Her ankles and wrists hurt, and she knew that there was no way she could free herself. She swallowed several times, still pleading with her lungs and throat not to seize up.

The vehicle slowed and made a careful left turn. Darby could feel the Humvee being shifted into four-wheel drive. Bounce, bump, the road—if it were one—was throwing her back-andforth, first against the back of the front seats, then against the rear seats. She gritted her teeth and tried not to whimper or cry out at the pain.

Finally, the Humveee came to a halt. The big guy turned off the engine and the lights, rolled down his window, and waited, the pings and pops of the cooling engine the only sounds Darby could hear. She could see nothing, not even stars.

Then she caught the crunching sound of someone approaching. A bright, narrow beam bathed the exterior. “You made good time.”

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“Stuck to the speed limit the whole way, ma’am.”

“How is she?”

“Alive. Very much alive. She’s a lively one.”

The smaller man made coughing noises but did not otherwise speak.

“What’s wrong with him?” the unseen woman asked.

“Girl here punched him in the throat. He can’t speak so good now.”

“Well, get her out. I want to get this over with.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The two men got out and opened the back doors. “What are you doing to me?” Darby screamed.

“Shut up,” the woman ordered.

“Want me to bust her face?” the big guy asked.

“Oh, I think she’ll cooperate once she meets me,” the woman answered.

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Chapter Eighteen The big guy grabbed Darby by the waist. The other guy lifted and held her head, and out she came.

“Set her up. You can cut her ankles loose,” the woman ordered.

A moment later, still twitching with pain in her feet, Darby found herself standing in front of a stranger. She could not make out much since the woman kept the light pointed to the ground, but what she saw appeared to be a medium-height woman with bushy hair dressed in a khaki jacket and dark slacks. Her face had lines, and her eyes sunk in. She looked a lot older than her voice and figure would have indicated to Darby.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” she demanded as soon as she was sure of her balance and her mouth settled.

“You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Theresa Fineboro, or Theresa Donati when you knew me.”

“You … you were my mother?” Darby tried but could not keep the shock out of her voice. “I thought you were dead?”

“No. Not dead, once mostly dead. Never your mother.”

“You’re the woman in the picture that Dad keeps by his bed, with the little girl.”

The woman sighed. “Yes, that would be me. Sentimental fool. Come over here. I’m going to tell a brief story. Then— because of what happened in that story—you are going to die— just like your spoiled, rich friends back in Vegas just did.”

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“Eric? Daisy? They’re dead?” So it was true, at least for Eric. Darby’s eyes darted left and right. “What if I don’t want to die yet?”

Theresa ignored her question. “Your mother was my daughter’s nanny. Thirteen years ago, when Constance was three, your mother kidnapped her. She and her boyfriend ran away, leaving you behind. A team tracked her and her boyfriend to the lake. Maybe they were trying to get across the lake by boat. Maybe just hide. Who knows? One of the team shot the boyfriend. But in the darkness, all three got away. None were ever found. No one was sure what happened—until three weeks ago.

“That kidnapping meant my daughter’s death. I promised that if Viola, your mother, was responsible for Constance’s death, I would make sure that her daughter and her family would die as well. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

“Yes … I think so. But why would my mother have wanted to kidnap your daughter? And what does that have to do with me now?”

“Because Pete Donati made you into his daughter substitute!

That’s why! Because you have gotten to enjoy everything that Constance should have, but never did. You’re an impostor.”

“I’m not Dad’s child?” Darby was trying to match what she was hearing with what Monica had told her earlier.

“Probably not. Although who knows. He sure messed around enough. When your mother started to work for Pete, you were already over a year old. I think he loved your mother. He certainly doted on you, which he did not do with Constance … or me.”

“Oh. So, you’re saying that when my mother took your daughter and ran away with her, he just turned around and acted like I was his daughter instead.”

“Yes. That appears to be what happened.”

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“But where were you when this happened?”

“In rehab. I had a problem, actually, many problems. I was in a center in California. I almost died. I had so many plans—for when I got out.”

Darby could catch a note of sadness now.

“Please, I don’t want to die. Killing me won’t bring Connie back. It won’t bring back my mother either. Could we, maybe, call it a draw?”

“No. Living won’t solve certain problems, and I swore an oath to do this. I will not break an oath.”

Darby pressed her lips together, then licked them. “Aren’t people’s lives more important than some oath?”

“No! Now, you ready? Let’s go.”

“I … I’ll try to be brave.”

“Good. This way. We have a resting place for you ready.”

The woman turned away, pointing out a rough path with her light. The big guy came up behind Darby, grabbed her shoulders, and partly lifted and partly walked her along the narrow path, behind a berm and down into a hollow to where Darby could make out another well-hidden vehicle.

“She have any jewelry, anything on that could easily identify a body?” the woman asked.

“I saw a small ring, nothing else.”

The woman, once Theresa Donati, now Fineboro, bathed Darby’s face and neck with her light. “No earrings, no necklace, no bracelet. Good. Deacon, take off her belt and her shoes while Ralph holds her.”

A single crack, and the kneeling Deacon rolled over in front of Darby and lay still.

“What the hell!” The big guy—Ralph—pivoted and pulled out a large semi-automatic as he turned. The next shot caught him in the chest, causing him to stagger and cough, the second went higher, close to the neck. He gargled and coughed again, 99

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reaching for his throat, his left hand fluttering, while his right tried to aim at the darkness. Darby turned to see a figure in black aiming at her, or maybe Fineboro. A gun fired from behind Darby. She screamed and instinctively fell left, then rolled away—anything to not be shot. Another shot came from behind.

Mrs. Donati was using her as a shield! “Leave me alone,” Darby yelled. She started kicking at the woman and the fallen big guy as hard as she could, rotating away, trying to get to her feet.

Two more shots came her way. The big guy stopped moving, his gun dropping to the ground. “Don’t you leave me, little girl,” the woman cried out. She grabbed for Darby, catching an ankle.

Darby kicked again, and when she felt the woman let go and heard what might be a gun and a light go flying, she knew she’d made a hit. Suddenly, the person in black was looming above.

“Darby, get up.”

“I can’t. My wrists are bound.”

It was Monica! Monica was here to save her. “Please, I’m sorry. I was so stupid. You were right about everything.”

“Be quiet. Where’s that stupid light? Ah.” Monica picked up the huge, pistol-grip hand light that Fineboro had been using while Darby wondered at the tight pain in Monica’s voice.

Monica pointed the light at Fineboro. “Not dead anyway.

She might live.” She studied the two men, then knelt to place a finger against each neck. “Don’t need to worry about these two.

Let’s go. Fineboro’s got a posse on its way, and I think they’re only ten minutes out.”

“My hands!”

“Oh, yeah.” Monica drew a pocket knife, opened the larger blade, and cut Darby’s hands free. “Come on. Hunter is maybe a hundred yards back up and out on the road.”

“Let me grab my bailout bag.”

“You have it with you?”

“Yeah. Took it with me to the Hamishs’. These guys took it out of the Miata and brought it with them.”

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“Well, you did something right.”

They were both run-walking back toward the road, Monica stumbling a little in the near darkness, the light swaying back and forth. A stop at the Humvee and Darby grabbed her bag off the back seat. Then they pressed on until the silhouette of the Highlander SUV loomed out of the darkness.

“Darby, you’re driving.”

“What? I can’t. I don’t know anything about where we are or where we’re going.”

“Darby, I’ve been shot. I can’t drive. I just hope we can make St. George before I bleed out. Here’s the starter fob. Get in. Just follow this road. It connects back to I-15 up near the Utah border.”

Darby got in, took the fob. Monica climbed into the other side. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“What about you?”

“I can take care of myself. Just drive, use the parking lights, and keep your eyes on the road at all times.”

Darby put the SUV in gear and headed back out to the paved road. She was up to nearly forty when she saw headlights in the rearview mirror come over the rise from where they had just come.

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Chapter Nineteen The lights disappeared once they started to climb. “Where are we going?”

“Over the Virgin Mountains range. Pay attention.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I don’t know. It got by my vest.” Every word Monica said spoke to her pain. “Please, just drive. No more talking.”

Darby could hear Monica working around her clothes, then the rip of some cloth being torn.

The road passed what looked like an abandoned house, its swaying lines just catching their dim lights. And, with that, the rough pavement turned to dirt.

Fifteen minutes passed. “See anyone behind us?”

“No.” “Then put on the headlights and gun it.”

“Gunning it” meant a maximum of fifty-five. The road had been graded but was still too rough for anything faster. Plus, they were gaining elevation. Rapidly. Darby could make out something—trees—on both sides of the road. “I think we’re in Joshua trees.”

“Yes …”

Sometime after eleven, Darby knew they were headed down again, rounding curves and sometimes sliding. “Monica, are you still there?”

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“I’m still here.”

She knew she shouldn’t, but she remembered that massage.

She had to know. “Monica, are you, like gay, lesbian?”

She heard a pain-filled chuckle. “I don’t think so. Just because a woman never finds some guy she wants to love … I mean, I love you, but not that way. Maybe I’ve been too fussy.

Met too many men who could never see past my big breasts. I guess I just wanted someone who wanted my heart or my brain, not my body.”

“You love me?”

“Ah-huh, even if you’ve been a bit of a trial lately. I figured you’d grow out of it. I think you are now.”

“How’s the pain?”

“No better, no worse. Please, just drive.”

“Do you know who killed my mother, Ben, and Connie?”

Monica did not reply.

“Theresa said that she had to kill me because someone killed her daughter.

“I know,” Monica whispered.

Somewhere near the border with Utah, they intersected I-15.

“That’s St. George ahead. Get off at the first downtown exit and stop at the first all-night fast-food joint you see. Someone there will get me to a hospital.”

“I can take you there.”

“No, you need to get out of here. I want you to head east as far and fast as you can go.”

“Where?”

“You have to get south and get across the Colorado River.

Only two places to do that. One at Marble Canyon. The other is at Page, east of the canyon and below the Glen Canyon. When you need to get gas, pay cash. There’s plenty under the back seat. Don’t let anyone know about the back seat. Don’t use your credit card. Okay, here’s an exit. Look for a fast-food place. That one should do.

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“Anyway, you need to go to the Rez and find your own people.”

“People? You mean the Navajo? My real mom’s people?”

“Yes.” Monica’s voice sounded weak as a tired recording.

“Your mother was Viola Yazzie. I told you that. I think she had a younger sister. Her grandmother was or is Sarah Roanhorse.

There were parents, but I think they’re dead. She came from some place called Piñon—middle of nowhere. Maybe that’s why she left. You find Piñon, ask around. Someone will remember and get you to whoever still lives there. You got it?”

“I … I guess. Viola Yazzie, a sister, a Sarah Roanhorse …

Is that where my middle name comes from? … Piñon, middle of the Reservation. I go to Page, cross the river there, then head into the Navajo Nation. What about a phone? I think mine fell out when they grabbed me at Eric’s.” It was gone anyway.

Everything—her whole world was gone.

“You won’t need one on the reservation. Not many towers.

You cross the river, you will be on the Reservation. There is a triple-A ‘Indian Country’ map in the glove box—just like Lieutenant Leaphorn used in the Hillerman novels. Study it.

Oh, and they prefer that you don’t call it ‘reservation’ anymore.

‘Navajoland’ or ‘Diné Nation’ is better. Here we are.”

Darby stopped, then ran around to the passenger side to help Monica out. Never had Monica looked so pale, her abdomen wrapped in rough bandages gone pink. “Now get me inside, and just go.”

Darby grabbed Monica’s right arm and got it over her shoulder and walked her inside. “Please, someone call an ambulance, call 911. Woman here’s been shot,” she cried out as she stumbled inside the burger joint. Even as she said those words, she felt Monica crumple and slip out of her arms. *** 104

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Sarah Roanhorse climbed down from her neighbor’s pickup, then reached back inside to retrieve several flour sacks. “Thank you,” she called to Mazzie McKenzie, her nearest neighbor, who had offered to bring her into Piñon to shop. Taking a cart, she dumped the bags in the bottom rack, entered the local Bashas’ and began walking the aisles, pulling down a can here, a jar there. A large can of Morrell Snow Cap lard joined several cans of peaches. Lastly, she checked out the fresh vegetables, selecting several peppers and tomatoes before heading to the checkout. “Add a twenty-pound sack of Blue Bird flour and put it on the bill with everything else,” Sarah told the cashier as she rang up the purchases.

“Okay. Will Carmina be back home soon?”

Sarah paused in her packing of goods into the flour sacks. “I spoke with her yesterday. I got a ride over to the chapter house, and Gertrude connected me via long-range radio. She sounds good. Starting to get around on crutches.”

“That’s wonderful. We all miss her.” The cashier—who was close to Sarah in age—smiled. “I hear she is so good with the children in the school. I bet you miss not having her truck, too.”

“That we can replace. Not our families. Well, hágoónee. And you take care of those knees of yours. Let me get that flour, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Freddy,” the cashier called. A pimple-cheeked teen appeared from over at the self-charge registers. “Help Asdzáán Sarah carry her flour out to the truck.”

The boy shrugged, then lifted a sack off a shelf and followed her out to the front of the store where Sarah’s neighbor waited, her own cart of groceries ready for loading in the canopycovered back.

The two women soon had the truck loaded. Done, Sarah was about to climb into the front passenger’s side when she felt a presence. She turned to face a man standing less than five feet away, his eyes politely averted but still much too close.

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He gripped a black, dirty, and stained cowboy hat in both of his hands, nervously turning it round and round. “Asdzáán Sarah? A warning, for your own safety. Someone will be driving out to your compound. She is a witch! She will try to kill you.

She looks young, but she is many years old, much older than you or I.” “A witch? A yee naaldlooshii?”

“Yes. You remember the one who pointed the coyote’s bone at Carmina. This is the one who will come for you now.”

“But that one looked like a man. Carmina told me.” She did not like this stranger, who did not look Indian, and smelled. Not the smell of drunkenness, but of an unwashed body, one who maybe had slept in his clothes too many nights. “How do you know these things?”

“I visited an aunt—a hand trembler. She told me. She told me that I must tell you, for my fate is bound to yours.”

Sarah studied the nearest gas pump while taking a sidelong glance at this man—short, bushy hair, sunburnt skin, a dirtywhite work shirt. He looked to be at least some bilagáanaa, maybe Naakaii—Mexican, Hispanic, but not Navajo. “Well, thank you for your warning. Now I must go.” She turned away and climbed into the truck.

“Remember,” the stranger called out one last time. Had he just pointed at her? Sarah shook her head and faced front.

“Who was that?” Mazzie asked as she backed the truck up, and they pulled away.

“I don’t know. Someone not good. He tries to act Navajo, but he is a twisted one. He is not Diné.” *** Back home, she carried in her grocery-filled sacks, her neighbor helping with the full bag of flour. A thanks, and Sarah sat down to stare at the departing truck, then turned to look at her 106

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loom. She would get back to work soon, but for now, maybe she should rest. She closed her eyes.

Oh, how she missed her granddaughter. So much in this world felt out of balance now. Even here, evil was coming.

What could she do? What could anyone do? What if that same person who tried to kill Carmina was coming here to kill her?

She sighed, rocked back and forth before easing to her feet, and walking over to a long, wooden trunk once used by her husband to store firewood. She dug around until she felt and took out a gun, wrapped in a cloth sheath. It was old, older than she was anyway, a 20-gauge, double-barreled shotgun. Once her husband had used it to shoot rabbits or quail, back in a time when the sheep were fewer and they lived alone. A thin patina of rust covered the outside of the barrel, but the bores looked clean.

She searched again until she found a box of shells. Looked okay.

There were no other guns in the house. It was a shotgun, so she did not need a good aim. Maybe it would frighten away a man— or a ghost—if she just aimed out the door.

What was she thinking? She could kill and butcher a sheep.

That was part of living. But kill a shape-changer, a skinwalker?

Would even a gun kill something that evil and strange?

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Chapter Twenty Darby had not left immediately as Monica ordered her to do.

Instead, she waited, holding Monica’s limp hand, trying to pray and wishing this night had never happened. She was such a total loser, a screw-up, a selfish brat who never thought about anyone but herself. Last evening, everything was … well, not great, but she was safe. Everyone was safe. Her dad would soon be home.

Now …? Why was she alive and unhurt when Eric and Daisy were both probably dead, and Monica might die as well? Why had her mother died, her possible father died, but she had lived?

The tears started again and were still dribbling down her cheeks when the first policeman arrived, followed by an ambulance crew, then a second cop.

The crew went to work. A medic cuffed Monica and started an IV while the EMTs got her out of the booth and onto a gurney. Please, would she let go of Perkins’ hand? Please, we need to get her into the ambulance. Darby couldn’t seem to let go. Finally, one of the EMTs gently pulled Darby’s fingers off Monica’s hand one by one. While they worked, they fired questions at Darby. Who was she? Where did she live? Who was an emergency contact? Darby gave them Monica’s name and her father’s emergency contact number.

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she from? Who shot Monica? What happened to the gunmen?

Where were they now? The questioning went on and on while Darby faded away until she could no longer keep her eyes open.

“I can’t think. I don’t know,” She found herself saying over and over. She knew she was sounding like an idiot, but she couldn’t help it.

The cop paused. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?

Maybe we can continue this in the morning. That’s right. It is morning already, isn’t it? You look beat. I’m sorry.”

“Ah-huh.” Darby tried to stand, but her legs refused to obey.

The second cop, younger and fitter-looking, joined them.

“Maybe she could get some sleep in the annex room at the station. Might be a bit homier than a holding cell.”

“Should work,” the first policeman agreed. “Okay, Ms. Donati, let’s get you going. Sorry to keep you here so long.”

This time, Darby managed to stand and walk toward the exit.

The outside air shocked her awake, and she was able to get to the Highlander and get it open without any trouble.

The two cops were following, the second one on his radio.

“Yes? Oh, that’s good news. Ms. Donati, the dispatcher says that he just got a call. You have someone coming to pick you up.

They should be here in less than five.”

“Who?” “Something about some friend of the Donatis? Your father, mother?”

“Okay.” Inside, she knew nothing was okay. Not if that someone was the same Theresa Donati-Fineboro, who was her dad’s ex-wife, who had just tried to kill her. She got in, belted, started the engine, put the SUV in reverse, did a U-ie and was out of there.

Without thinking, she ran a light and ramped back onto the interstate, headed north. First exit, she was off and running down a parallel road, then turning east onto Route 9. Only when the houses thinned out did she slow down close to the legal speed.

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Three o’clock in the morning. Not a soul on the highway.

She eased down her speed, then reached over to open the glove compartment and found the Indian Country map. She slowed some more, then pulled off on the shoulder and turned on the dome light. How’d one read a map? Whenever she’d wanted to go anywhere, even places that she knew, she’d just tell her phone the address and a voice would tell her where to go. Oh, what to do! Why’d she have to lose her damn phone! Finally, she located St. George and then Route 9. No way did she want to go through Zion National Park … Route 59? She’d take it. She got back in gear and headed east. *** Somewhere near Colorado City on the Arizona border, her energy faded again. Spotting a side road, she turned, drove until a hill hid the highway, stopped, lay back in her seat, and let sleep take over. *** Darby had no idea what time it was, where she was, or even how she got there when she finally woke. She had a headache, her mouth tasted like someone had walked all over her tongue wearing dirty boots, and if she didn’t pee right now, she was going to wet her pants. “Aaee.”

Somehow, she got out of the SUV and did her business behind a most pathetic juniper. “Gad! I’m such a loser, pissing out in the open like some old drunk,” she moaned to herself.

But when she stood up, Darby felt better, and after stretching and bending, she got back in the SUV. She retrieved her bailout bag and searched until she found a couple of granola bars. A water bottle sat in the console. “Good.” She ate and drank, then took a deep breath as her head cleared. “Now what, Darby-girl?

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No Monica to save your ass.” Her lip quivered. “I am headed east, for the Rez, like you ordered, Monica. Aren’t you proud of me?” A single tear drifted down each of her cheeks.

It would help if she knew where she was. How many parties were after her? Theresa Fineboro, for sure—if she was still alive.

Monica indicated she wasn’t dead. Then there had been those troops working for Fineboro coming over the hill and following them. Saul Fineboro was one of the richest men in Vegas. Was he Theresa’s father? Who were the people coming to St. George to fetch her? And, of course, now she had to include St. George’s police. So, stay out of Utah—if she could.

She got out the Indian Country map, oriented it, and began tracing possible routes. If she stayed on her current road, switched to US 89A, then kept on it to Marble Canyon, she could cross the river there instead of at Page. Oh, that would be closer, too. She searched the map until she finally located Piñon. Yes, it was in the middle of nowhere, north of the Hopi Land—just as Monica had said it was. “God, help me!

“Okay, Darby. Get a grip. It’s not the end of the world—yet.”

Darby turned around and cautiously drove back to the highway.

The Highlander’s tank was half full. She would look for gas in Fredonia or maybe Jacob Canyon. But she knew one thing was going to have to change as well. She was not a Donati, probably never was. Unless her parents had married and she had really taken her father’s last name, she was a Yazzie. And she might not be a Darby either.

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Chapter Twenty-one “Hey, Ken, want to take a ride and see some of the outback before you head back east? There’s been a shooting, double homicide, out in the Virgin Mountains in the Arizona Strip.

Federal land.”

Dr. Yabosky rolled away from the desk where he had been typing for two hours straight. “Sounds gory. This report is getting nowhere. Crazy stuff that doesn’t make sense. Let me close this, use the head, and I’ll be ready.”

Twenty minutes later, Ken and Preston Page, one of the local agents, were in a government SUV headed north on I-15. “I know you’ve been working on a report on the Yazzie homicide, trying to make a tie into the murder attempt against her sister two weeks ago. But we’re thinking we might have just found another connection. And where we’re going might be part of it.”

“How so?”

“You know about Peter Donati?”

“Owns Roma Mia, one of the biggest, most successful casinos in Vegas. Oh, and the dead Yazzie woman’s employer at the time she died.”

“Yup. She was working for him thirteen years ago—as a nanny for his daughter, Constance.

“Okay, knew that much.”

“But did you know that Donati’s wife back then, the girl’s mother, was a daughter of Saul Fineboro?”

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“Bring me up to speed.”

“The Fineboro family was, and is, the owner of Garda Villa, one of the smaller, but still successful casinos, also in Vegas.

Long-time establishment. Owner, this Saul Fineboro guy, has a not very respectable past.”

“Mob connections?”

“Probably. Anyway, Donati’s wife, Theresa, had one daughter, Constance, by Donati. Theresa also apparently had major drug problems, plus drinking. They divorced after four years, one year after your tests indicate that threesome ended up in the lake. Now, get this. There are now two bodies in the mountains, plus a Humvee they apparently drove there.

No identity on them. Vehicle registration is fake. Registered to a company that is little more than a P.O. box. We did some searching. That company might actually be owned by Fineboro Enterprises. Fineboro’s daughter was married to Donati. We’re thinking that he has to have somehow been involved with the death of the Yazzie woman and the unidentified girl and male.”

“He was Benjamin Blakeslee,” Ken interrupted.

“Huh?” “The male body at the base of the Jensenville chimney— his name was Benjamin Blakeslee. Just got a text back from Virginia via the Army. Coroner took dentals before the bodies disappeared. They matched with a sergeant who served in the Army twenty years ago. Was in the Tenth Mountain Division.

Served in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Purple Heart, Bronze Star.

Originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

“So we have an ID for the man and the woman, just not for the little girl.”

“We know she was not Yazzie’s child. She may have been the Donati child.”

“Ah, are you saying that the girl, Donati’s daughter, who is still alive and living in his household, may not be his daughter?

That she might be a Yazzie daughter, or someone else’s child?”

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“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Then is the child in the lake the real Donati-slash-Fineboro girl?”

“Could be. A DNA check would clear that up real fast.”

Both men nodded. “But the bones disappeared two weeks ago, along with her nanny’s. And, get this: An hour ago, the police scanner ran an alert for another homicide. They’ve found the body of the Donati girl’s boyfriend, along with the housekeeper, dead in his home. Both shot. The boyfriend’s twin sister was also shot, but hid and is alive. She’s in critical condition. Was shot in the head. She’s now in a coma and may not survive.” *** Following satellite links, the two agents located the murder site by ten in the morning. An Arizona state detective and two patrolmen greeted them with sober, closed-faced nods. For some time, all five stood quietly, taking in the scene. A few scattered piñon pines and thick stands of sagebrush covered the southfacing slope, mixed with straw-colored bunchgrass. Raw rock and small cliffs completed a hot landscape that promised neither comfort nor a livelihood. To Ken, it felt like a land that even God had forgotten. He thought about Las Vegas. How could millions of people want to live in a place that—take away the water— would be nothing more than this same desert?

The state detective began to point out features. “Looks like that hole is an old borrow pit from a mining claim. Couple of shovels—new ones, not rusted—were beside the hole. We found signs of another vehicle. Was parked behind the dirt mound, possibly to hide it from the road. Judging by the tire marks, it was smaller than that Humvee monster. One of the victims, the smaller one, was shot here where he lies. Bullet hit lower back and exited near the throat, so he might have been kneeling.

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a vest. It took two shots before a third shot got him in the throat.

Whoever was the shooter knew where he had to aim once he figured out there was a vest. Now, the strange thing. Take a look at these tracks. Looks like there were four vehicles total.

Four! The Humvee—still here—a second vehicle—the one that was kinda hidden behind the borrow pit, a third one—maybe a pickup that came later since its tracks overrode some of the earlier tracks—and a fourth one that stopped a hundred feet back up the road.

“The fourth vehicle took off east, staying on the road. The third vehicle that stopped here also took off east. The second vehicle—the one that had been hidden—went back north, after the others left. It doesn’t make any sense—at least not yet.”

“So, at least two or even three survived this shoot-out.”

“It looks that way. We did spot some blood near where the hidden vehicle was parked, and on the ground nearby, but still three feet away from the little dead guy. And there’s a blood trail that goes all the way back to the vehicle that was parked way back on the road.”

“Oh, boy. This is not going to be an easy one. I wonder why no one took the bodies.” Ken and Preston walked around, carefully avoiding the many tracks left by both vehicles and persons. “Okay, let’s get out the tire track tracer.” Preston turned back to his SUV. Soon he was taking casts and photographing the clearer tracks.

Ken went over the bodies. “Police standard vest. That was some big round that hit him. Looks like .45-caliber or 10mm.

The bullet didn’t go through, but the impact would still have knocked him around. Whoever the shooter was did not mess around.” He turned to the smaller body. “Same weapon. No ID on either one?”

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envelopes. We’ll do a track on serial numbers. Not many places deal with hundreds.”

“Except the casinos.”

“Yeah. You’re right. Think this was a mob execution that went wrong? Wasn’t a robbery gone bad.”

“Something went wrong, or there wouldn’t be bodies here.

They would be in that hole back there and buried.” *** Two summits away, someone else studied the scene through a pair of 12-power Zeiss binoculars. He was not a happy man.

He had planned—been ordered—to come back and do some burying. Had he gotten here when he’d been ordered, the only evidence left would have been tire marks—and the wind would have eliminated them soon enough.

But the hunt for the Donati girl had taken too long. Who would have imagined the Perkins woman would have been able to drive all the way to St. George? He’d have thought she would have bled out trying to steer that Toyota through that back road.

Now she was alive and under guard in the hospital in St. George, and the Donati girl and their SUV were gone to who knows where.

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Chapter Twenty-Two The police in St. George were equally at a loss. Once they recovered from the shock of seeing Darby pull out and vanish onto the interstate, they called out a bulletin. But neither had noted the Toyota’s license number, nor did the first bulletin specify a Nevada plate ID. A roadblock on I-15 north produced nothing. The police added Route 9, then went statewide. By then, Darby was back in Arizona, north of the Grand Canyon—a land cut off from the rest of that state and with little law enforcement.

Darby didn’t know about any of this. She drove steadily east, smiling at the wide-open spaces in order to block new tears. She stopped in the little town of Fredonia long enough to fill the Toyota’s tank and grab a breakfast muffin and egg at a local burger restaurant. Route 89A took her up into the pines and spruce of the Kaibab Plateau, past the turn-off for the north rim of the Grand Canyon, then downhill again past miles of pinkred cliffs until finally, mid-afternoon, she crossed the Marble Canyon bridge and was south of the canyon and the big river at last.

At first, Darby kept glancing in her rear-view mirror, expecting to see flashing blue-and-red lights coming up her rear at any moment. But by the time she reached the bridge, her escape felt long gone, although not the ache in her heart or the urge to grab her phone.

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Monica, poor Monica. She had always thought her guard had to be the meanest bully in the world, always following her, always ordering her about, do this, don’t do that, never talking, never smiling. But she had been so right. Eric had turned into a real jerk. And her mother was Navajo. Gad, she had always been thinking and saying such nasty things about Indians. And she was a half-breed. What a racist term! She was Navajo, and she would be proud of it. She just hoped that when and if she found her relatives, they might be friendly. What was the word Navajo used to greet each other? Something like “Yacht-ta-hey”—only she knew that wasn’t right.

She reached a spot on the map labeled Bitter Springs. It seemed to consist of a few stores plus numerous wooden stands arranged along the roadside advertising wind catchers and other weavings. She pulled over just beyond the last stand and considered her route. South, then east on US Route 160, looked like the best way; then south again into Hopi Land, and possibly a route to Piñon. She drove on, although she knew she was tired and hungry again.

Tuba City, with its many stores and travel centers, looked promising. Again, Darby paid cash for her gas, even though it took longer. She used the facilities and bought some packaged snacks, then she was on her way, south and east, following a long, treeless ridge. Just before dark, she passed the Hopi towns—a series of vague silhouettes of low buildings perched on the mesa tops and dark against the fading light. Clusters of drab peasin-a-pod cement and stucco houses lined the highway below each mesa-top town. The last edge of sunlight was lighting her rearview mirror when she entered a canyon and began to climb.

Dark, afraid she would miss a turn and still feeling an ache in her heart, Darby pulled onto a gravel road, parked by a grove of juniper, and once more reclined the driver’s seat and tried to sleep.

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*** Sarah Roanhorse did not know what to do about the stranger’s warning. Without a vehicle and without a phone, all she could do was fret and wait.

She had spoken with Carmina again yesterday after Charlie McKenzie, Mazzie’s husband, had stopped by to drop off her mail, then taken her out to a hilltop where there was enough reception to use his new iPhone. It had been a happy but also bittersweet conversation. Carmina had been talkative and cheery, but Sarah could also sense Carmina’s ache to be home.

She said she was getting around with a walker and could use crutches. Her ribs were healing, and she could sleep better, albeit with some pain, if she tried to roll over. “It is good I have not come home yet. You would not know me with my face all red like a sun-burned bilagáanaa,” she told Sarah with a laugh. She promised to be home soon, then added that Herb, the Navajo policeman from Window Rock, had been back to see her twice, and last time he brought her a few books to read and clothes to wear when she got out of the hospital.

“He did that?”

“I wanted to refuse them, but I do not want to come home naked either. My shirt was all ripped up, and my jeans had big holes too.”

“He is sweet on you. What is his clan? Is it not ours? Watch out, next time he’ll bring you flowers or a box of candy.”

“Oh, Shimásání! He’s just trying to be helpful.” But Carmina did not sound then like she believed her own words. *** Sarah heated a deep pan with lard over the propane-fired stove, then mixed up a sticky dough using handfuls of the Bluebird flour, a cup of water, a dash of baking powder, and a 119

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pinch of salt. When the lard had turned into a pale liquid and began to smoke with heat, she dropped a spread of the dough into the oil, waited a few seconds, then flipped the new frybread over with a long fork. Another short wait, then, still using the fork, she picked up the bread and dropped it on a plate covered with a paper towel. Two more breads followed in quick order.

She turned off the heat and sat down to eat her lunch.

“Huh?” Sounded like a car approaching. Charlie was yesterday. He’d said he or his son would check back tomorrow.

He would not be coming today.

She heard the vehicle turn and park on the north, blind side of the house—something no friend would ever do. Someone opened a car door, got out, and started toward the house. No Navajo would ever do that either. Always, one of their own would park in front so he or she could be seen, then wait until she either came to the door to wave the visitor in or would get out and stand for a minute or more.

Her heart pounding, Sarah grabbed the old shotgun and stumbled to her door, clicking off the safety as she went. She lifted the barrel and, as the stranger turned the house corner and came in view, she pulled the first trigger. *** A girl screamed, over and over. Sarah, her earlier fear now bordering on panic, stepped outside to find herself staring at a girl, a teenager in a T-shirt and shorts, curled up on the ground, screaming and clutching at her face with blood-soaked hands.

“Oh, no!” Sarah set down the gun and rushed over to kneel by the wailing girl. “Are you okay?” She knew immediately that it was a stupid thing to say. The girl was obviously not okay.

“Please, I’m sorry. Can you get up? Where are you hurt?”

Darby could hear the singsong words now of an old woman.

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managed to get her left knee, then the right under her. “You shot me. I can’t see! Am I going to die?”

Sarah stared at the small, dark, round hole in the middle of the girl’s left cheek, surrounded by a bleeding ooze of blood and bruising. Below, on the side of her neck, was another hole, more of a graze. Two more holes were blossoming red from her left shoulder. But all Sarah could think was, I am glad I never aimed, and I’m such a poor shooter.

“Yá’át’ééh. Shí éí Sarah. Please, you must come inside now, so I might repair the damage I just did. ádzaaígíí bąąh shíniʼ.

I am sorry. I thought you might be a skinwalker that I was just warned about.”

The girl nodded, the undamaged part of her face twisted with pain. “What’s a skinwalker?” She stared at Sarah in a nonNavajo way. “You are Sarah? Sarah Roanhorse? Please, I … I think I’m your great-granddaughter.”

Sarah’s eyes went wide. “You are Viola’s daughter?”

Darby nodded.

“And I just shot you. Oh, this is a terrible thing. Come, come in. Maybe … Come in.” She gathered Darby by her right arm and led her inside.

At first, Darby wiggled and whimpered as Sarah tried to wash the wounds. The pellet that had grazed her neck was gone.

The three others were still embedded. The bleeding had slowed enough that Darby could block it with a towel, and she could see out of both eyes, although the flesh around her left eye was swollen. She closed her eyes, trying to stop gasping, trying to control the pain. Those pellets had to come out, but no way she could go to a doctor. She couldn’t let the whole world know she was here.

“Grandma Sarah, do you have a thin, sharp knife?”

“What do you mean to do, child?”

“Do you have one? I need to dig these pellets out before they fester.” That much she knew to be true.

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“You would do that? We must go to the clinic in Piñon.”

“No! Do you have a knife?” She knew if she did not act now, all her energy would drain away, and she would do nothing. She was so afraid, but more afraid of what a pellet inside her face might do.

A minute later, she faced a mirror and studied her cheek.

This was the important one. She brought up the tip of the knife, gritted her teeth, and, whimpering, dug into her cheek until she felt the knife meet her upper jawbone and a small, hard lump.

She rotated the blade, dug, and the pellet popped out to bounce and ping in the bathroom sink, like a freshly dropped ball in a pachinko machine. A fresh flow of blood followed, great big drops spilling into the sink.

“Oh, dear child! Good. You have got it. Let it bleed. That will flush out the wound.” Sarah held up a fresh towel.

Darby took the towel without a word, struggling not to faint.

She leaned forward, face in the sink where she waited, licking her lips, tasting the blood, staring at the red-stained, white porcelain, then feeling with her tongue, wanting to know whether the pellet had gone all the way into her mouth, or whether it had knocked any of her teeth loose.

Apparently, it hadn’t, for she could feel no hole inside. “I guess I’m ready for my shoulder.”

Sarah could only stare at this incredible young woman. “Are you sure you do not want to go into Piñon?” She kept shaking her head over and over, as Darby finished stripping off her T-shirt, then, body tight with pain, removed her bra as well to get the shoulder strap free.

One hole was high, barely under the skin at the top of her shoulder. Darby took a deep breath and squeezed the pellet out with her fingers. “That’s better,” she managed through gritted teeth. “One to go.”

“Ah, Aak! God, it hurts! Gad! God, Aaaagh … There, I have it.” Darby swayed, then this time she did faint.

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Chapter Twenty-Three Saul stared at his daughter. “You’re a sight. And you blew it, too.”

Tessie nodded, a hand involuntarily rising to pat her gauzewrapped scalp. “Had her at the hole we dug two days ago, had her in my sights, ready to pull, and that god-damn Perkins showed up.”

“And killed the others, but not you.”

“I don’t know what her plan was. I don’t understand that woman at all. Maybe she’s a bull dyke who hates men, but not women. Her bullet zipped the top of my head. Quarter of an inch lower and we would not be having this conversation. If you want to know, my scalp’s a mess of stitches and staples under this bandage. Knocked me out.”

“You left the bodies, and the state police have found them.

And with the Feds involved, they’ll know who they were in no time. This is big trouble, big time. You know that?” Saul pointed out.

Tessie nodded, although it hurt to do so. She still had a massive headache, but did not dare touch even the mildest painkiller. “I know that! But I was in no condition to bury anything yesterday.

And the Hamish parents found their son’s body, along with the housekeeper’s. But not the daughter’s! No one is saying what happened to her. It’s all over the news.”

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“If that one is alive … Okay. Okay! Let me think. No trace of the Donati girl—Darby.”

“Nope. She took off, left her bodyguard in the hands of the St. George police, and vanished.” Tessie kept blinking and squeezing her eyes, trying to block the pain.

“Do you think she could have headed for the Navajo Reservation, looking for her relatives?”

“Why? How would she know she has a connection there?

Maybe now she does—if Perkins told her. If she does, we’ll know that soon. News on the Rez spreads like a dust devil. One person knows in Page, and a day later, everyone in Shiprock knows, and everywhere else too.”

“I thought you were going to eliminate the Yazzie woman’s relatives.”

“We started to. The guy I hired turned out to be incompetent.

I wanted to get rid of him, tried to ship him to Florida, but he’s still on the Rez. Says he intends to finish the job, one way or another. Kept talking about making people think a skinwalker was after them. I don’t have many other possibilities. If he gets something done, we’ll hear.”

“That’ll only confuse things more. He sounds like a liability.

What are the chances of this body count coming back to haunt?”

“I don’t know, but I think we’re good. Perkins and I are the only ones left who know what just happened. I won’t talk to anyone except you. And Perkins knows better than to say anything herself.” Theresa looked up at her father. “What about Donati?”

“We’ve talked. He knows some things. He will keep quiet, with Perkins in the hospital, his only fangs are pulled.”

“Okay. Roberto is still available and reliable. And he’s half Jicarilla Apache. He knows how to blend in. I’ll have him head for the Rez tonight to see what he can find out. No way I can go myself. Not until this headache goes away.”

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*** Dawn of a new day. Every move Darby made involved pain.

Her face, her left shoulder, her neck, all were a move-preventing, burning throb—like a charley horse in her calves after a bad cross-country run. She could barely move her left arm. Her cheek was so swollen she could only squint out of her left eye. Putting her bra on was torture. She normally would fasten it by reaching behind. That proved impossible. She settled on fastening it in front, pulling it around, then slipping the cups and her right strap in place. Over it, she managed her extra T-shirt by doing a lot of stretching and moaning. Dressed—and she was exhausted.

Shower? No way. She’d taken one look at the tiny shower stall in the equally tiny bathroom, thought about getting her wounds wet, and decided that a quick face wash was a plan.

Even washing her face was hard. But then she thought about her aunt Carmina, still in a hospital in Ganado. She almost died because of me. She has broken ribs, a broken ankle, and other injuries. And Monica? What was she going through? Or was she even alive? Maybe a few bullet holes weren’t so bad.

To Darby’s mind, the worst of what was happening to her was what she told herself was ‘internet withdrawal.’ Every five minutes, she found her hand going for a side pocket, feeling for the phone that wasn’t there. There was a television set in the main room, but apparently no satellite or cable. Two Phoenix channels on good days only. Sarah never seemed interested in turning it on.

“If I had no Instagram, no Snapchat, no Google, I would slit my wrists,“ she remembered Eric saying more than once.

Now she understood. This need to thumb her phone was like a sickness. “I’m a druggie—for screen time,” she admitted to herself.

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with a conservation of movement—outside, inside, cooking meals, letting out the sheep, bringing them in, running a wash, or working at her loom. She kept asking how Darby felt and whether her cheek or shoulder felt hot with fever. She offered to make Darby a soup or soft bread, but all Darby could do was moan and shake her head.

All that first day in her great-grandmother’s house, Darby did nothing but sit on the main room’s old sofa—its cushions worn, faded, the foam shot—nursing her hurts, both physical and mental. Even opening her eyes caused her to cringe and hold her breath—the pain like an electrical current running between her shoulder and her face.

The second day, Darby felt better, well enough to eat meals, look around, and take in more details of the tiny house. A yellowand-red suncatcher hanging on the west wall caught her eye. On either side, framed photographs kept it company. Darby got up and shuffled closer to study the prints. The colors had faded and highlights bleached by prolonged exposure to sunlight. Still, she recognized a much younger Sarah in one, standing by a personheight rug, hung on a frame and festooned with a huge blue ribbon.

The other photograph showed a man and woman standing behind a boy and two girls—the one almost grown, the other girl still a child, all with smiles on their faces. The man was thick in the body and wore glasses and a bola tie with a huge silver clasp.

He beamed with an obvious joy that extended to all of the other four. The three females were all skinny with short, dark hair and looked similar. Such a happy family. Only the older girl’s smile was tentative, her body reluctant to be held like the others. That figures. She’s acting like I would in a picture session. Darby froze. Is that Viola? Is that my mother when she was my age?

Darby made her way back to the sofa and sat down. Ghosts?

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like. And Sarah has outlived almost all of them, yet she does not appear unhappy. *** By mid-morning of the third day, Darby felt physically better, her pain dulled and the urge to use a phone fainter, but she could still find no way to ease the pain in her heart, worrying about Monica and Carmina.

First thing in the morning, Sarah would half-fill two utility buckets—one orange with a Home Depot logo, the other plain white—in the kitchen sink and carry them outside. Five minutes later, she returned and half-filled both again. Curious, Darby got up and followed her out to a cornfield. She watched as Sarah poured a half bucket onto a clump of low corn plants, poured the second on the next clump, then headed back to the house. Darby counted thirty clumps, with squash vines and a few tomato plants intermixed, all surrounded by a fence to keep the sheep out. Thirty clumps! This must take her over an hour.

Darby followed Sarah inside. “May I, can I help you with the watering?”

Sarah smiled. “Aoo’. Here, fill this one half-full. I have another bucket somewhere. No, you take only one. It’s too heavy for your left arm right now.” She looked under the sink and came up with a regular wash bucket.

Darby took the half-full bucket and headed out to the field, groaning under the weight. Still, she made it and emptied the water on the next clump of corn where she could see a halfdozen cobs growing. She also noticed a trench dug over to the dry stream bed with a metal plate set in slots that might block or divert any water coming down the wash.

“I guess when it rains, it pours,” she told herself, then headed back inside for another bucket load.

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After helping to haul water, she felt better inside and found that she could watch as Sarah, with her glasses on, wove on her loom.

The loom’s frame started with tightened turn buckles set in a wood frame and attached to a horizontal, thick steel pipe. 2x6 board sides and more pipes locked in the tension of the white, slightly frizzy warp. Set in front of the south-facing window, the vertical warp would shimmer and glow as Sarah pulled her shed stick, opened a shed, locked it open with a flat batten board, then lay in a line of weft. Tamp, tamp, tamp, her wooden comb pressed the weft in place. Click, click, click her finger rings tapped on the comb as it rose and fell.

Next, she pulled out the batten, pulled down the other shed rod to open the other shed, then ran in the next pieces of weft, turning the threads to lock the design together whenever two colors met. Darby marveled at how effortless Sarah’s motions seemed to be, her fingers dancing over the growing rug, the comb always in one hand, her other hand moving the weft yarn.

“I don’t need such a big, strong loom to make a little rug like this,” Sarah told her. “My son-in-law made this one when I still made the bigger ones.” She used to make big rugs, but her eyes no longer could easily catch a missed warp thread that meant a speck of white would show in a finished rug.

“Do you make and spin your own yarn?” Darby asked. She had done some research on rugs after learning she might be part Navajo.

“The black, the grays, the white, and the red we buy from the Navajo Wool Association. But Carmina and I still keep some of our own wool to spin and dye for when we want to use natural colors.”

“It looks like this rug will be just black, white, grey, and red.”

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around here. That is what the trader at the Piñon post wanted back when we still had such a place and did most of our trading there. It is hard to change.”

“So, will this be like what Monica, my bodyguard, calls a ‘Ganado Red?’” Sarah paused. “I guess. But the rugs they weave down there seldom have this four-corner-to-center pattern. That is what makes it a Piñon rug.” She smiled. Even as she spoke, her eyes never left the loom, nor did her hands stop moving.

“Looks like this rug will have a black border. I’ve seen that in a lot of rugs, even the ones we have in my home. Will it have what they call a ‘spirit path?’”

“Probably. Never used to, but those weavers over east of the Chuskas started putting them in fifty-sixty years ago, said it was to ‘let the weaver’s spirit out,’ and now the tourists are always looking for one. Say it means a rug’s ‘authentic.’ Nonsense, but if it means an extra dollar or two, I’ll put it in.” She smiled as if she were enjoying a joke.

“I’m bored,” Darby finally admitted. “I mean, what do you do for fun here, for entertainment?”

“I do not understand. We have many entertainments. They stage powwows down at the school twice a year. Carmina and I always go there to watch the dancers. Piñon has its own rodeo grounds, and there is a rodeo every spring and fall. Sometimes the children put on plays at the school. In the winter, we have Blessingway ceremonies. There are many things to do.”

“I mean, what do you do every day?” Darby groaned. “You have no internet; you never look at the TV. I see no books or magazines. All you do is work all day.”

“Oh. But I like to do this. Isn’t doing what one enjoys fun?”

“I guess. But what is there for me to do?” She really wished she had a phone.

“I have woven enough this morning. Come, shí yázhíshízhí.”

Sarah got off her low, sheepskin-covered bench and stood.

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“Am I your little girl?”

“You know that phrase? Maybe not so little, even if you are a Yazzie.”

“Yazhi means little?”

“Aoo’. Come, outside. I need to check on the sheep.”

Darby followed Sarah outside, hugging her left arm against her body, moaning, but noting how Sarah circled clockwise out of the room to go outside. *** Besides the cornfield, the Roanhorse compound consisted of the single-story house where Sarah and Carmina lived. It had white stucco walls, a single large window to the south, and smaller windows on the east and west. Its single outside door faced east. Inside, it consisted of one room, a combination kitchen, dining, and living room with two small bedrooms and a bathroom in between on the north side, each with its own small window. A rack of solar panels provided by the Navajo Nation— instead of running power lines for over seven miles—ran across the top of the low-pitched roof. Next to the solar panels was a hot water panel.

To the north of the house stood a battery storage shed. To the south stood an eight-sided log building with a dirt roof. It also had a single door on the east side and one small window on the south side.

“That’s a hogan, right?” Darby asked.

“Yes.” “Do you ever use it?”

Sarah shook her head. “That was once our only home. Now, it might be a guest house. If we have a singer come, he will use it for the Blessingway or other ceremonies.”

“So, it’s sorta like your church now?”

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“I guess. It’s just a house—with many memories. Having a place like that helps to maintain hozho.”

“Hozho?”

“Ah … harmony, balance. It is so we might ‘walk in beauty,’ be as one to the world.”

“Oh …” Darby took a deep breath. “Does my coming here put your world out of harmony?”

“No. You’re coming here restores harmony.”

The sheep barn stood behind the house, along with a stack of hay bales under a green tarp, a manure pile, and the rusted remains of what might have been a Chevy truck. It sat on blocks with no wheels or rims evident.

A wire fence, strengthened with loose sticks and boards, surrounded the entire compound.

“Aren’t you afraid the sheep might get lost out there by themselves?”

“I worry right now with Custer gone so far away.”

“Custer?”

“Carmina’s dog.”

“Oh. Should I help by watching the sheep?”

Sarah turned and smiled at her. “They will be all right. You’ll see. I call them home every evening and they always come.”

Darby faced the sun and hummed to the light caressing her sore cheek. “I’ll stay outside for a little while. Is that okay?”

“You do whatever you want. I will ring a bell when it is lunchtime.” Sarah left her and went back inside.

Darby took deep breaths, savoring the scent of juniper and sage. She looked up at the sky, awed by the intense, clear blue.

Not too long ago, the air and sky had always been grey, Sarah had told her, due to the huge power plant that had burned coal dug out of the land just to the north. “Now the plant is closed, the Earth can heal and we can breathe again,” Sarah had said.

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Yes, and I am breathing better, too, Darby realized. “I’m not even sure I know where my inhaler is.” There was supposed to be an extra one in her bailout bag.

She crossed the cattle gate that kept free-range cattle or horses out of the compound and wandered uphill and out of the little valley with its dry creek bed. It always had water in the winter and spring, but not now, Sarah had told her, although there was a spring that always had a little water in it.

Fifty yards away from the compound and on top of the nearby rise, Darby drew in her breath. Never had she seen so much space, the land rolling away as soft hills, dotted with tiny trees, sage, and grass for as far as she could see. Distant, dark grey hills might be the beginning of mountains. Shadow patches dotted the landscape as white, puffy clouds caught and blocked the sunlight in places.

“Hmm. It is so beautiful. Empty, but beautiful too. My mother grew up here, didn’t she? So why’d she leave?” Darby wondered. I’m a Vegas girl—born and bred—yet I feel this space too. Nothing in Vegas is really pretty—in fact, much of it is ugly—but this place is beautiful.

She saw a fallen, debarked log, its bared seams spiraling up the trunk. “Okay.” She wiped dust off the wood and sat. When she heard the tinkle of bells, she knew the sheep were nearby.

First one, then two more emerged from behind a cluster of piñon pines. Darby watched them as they moved slowly over the land, taking a nibble here or a nibble there. They come home because it’s the only water source, she realized. “Speaking of which, I think I’m thirsty and hungry too.” She stood up and started for the house just as she heard the crack of a gun and watched as a branch on the nearest Piñon shattered.

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Chapter Twenty-Four “Run, stupid, run.” She ran, although it was hard while keeping her left arm against her side. She jumped over fallen trees, then felt her left foot turn and give way as she slipped on a loose rock. A moment later, another shot rang out, and the ground was flying to meet her. Thud. “Ugh!” Darby rolled partly over, trying to get pressure off her shoulder, then lay still and breathless, pain coursing through her body. “Aaah! Why, why does this happen to me? Why can’t I have just one day without something going wrong?”

Still whimpering, she struggled to her feet and, bending low, managed a trot back down to the compound. Reaching the sheltering house wall, she leaned against it, taking deep breaths and thinking. “I’m pissed. And I’m done running, whoever you are.” Guns! There’s at least one gun better than an old shotgun under Hunter’s back seat. She took a deep breath and ran for the Highlander, unlocked it, and crawled into the back.

Most Highlanders have fancy seats in the back, but Hunter had a single bench seat. Darby grabbed the cushion edge and managed to lift it using just her right hand. She stared at several padded gun cases plus ammunition boxes, a cleaning kit, what might be two sleeping bags, sleeping mats, freeze-dried food bags, and several gallons of water. What should she take? She grabbed a Glock semi-automatic pistol and then moved stuff around until she found its ammunition. What else? She unzipped 133

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a gun case. Looked like a hunting rifle with a scope. She slid open the bolt, then searched until she found ammunition that matched the breech. Okay, worry about the rest of the stuff later. She laid the rifle and ammunition on the floor and closed the bench’s lid, then peeked out the windows. Nothing. Probably wouldn’t see a shooter anyway. She tucked the pistol in her waistband, cradled the rifle and the ammo against her chest, and got out of the SUV. She checked to be sure the doors were locked and dashed back to the house.

Sarah looked over from where she was standing by the stove.

“Ready for lunch? How does frybread with tomatoes, green peppers, lettuce, and cheese sound? Ah … What happened to you?”

“Slipped and fell coming off the hill.” Darby sank onto the sofa, letting the long gun and the ammo tumble to the floor.

“Someone just shot at me. And Navajo tacos? Sounds … (deep breath) … great! Let me put this stuff down, and I’ll be ready.”

While Sarah stared at her horror-stricken, she staggered back on her feet, re-balanced, picked up the rifle, and took it back to Carmina’s bedroom where she slept at night. She dumped the rifle on the bed, took a deep breath, and came back out to get the ammunition, which Sarah was now holding in her hands.

“Thanks.” She was still standing there, unable to think, when Sarah set down the ammo boxes and gathered her in her arms.

“Oh, you brave, brave girl.” *** Carmina’s hospital room phone rang, startling her from a light nap. “Oh?” She pressed her good hand against her chest while she finished waking up. When the ringing persisted, she finally picked up.

“Hello?”

“Carmina Yazzie?” The voice sounded Anglo.

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“Yes?” “This is a warning. They plan to let you go home tomorrow.

Don’t go. They are waiting to kill you.”

“Who? Who is waiting to kill me?”

“The one who claimed to be a skinwalker, the one who tried to kill you once already. He is waiting.”

“What? Where? How am I to get home? I don’t know anything about any of this. The doctors haven’t said anything.”

The phone clicked to silence.

What was she to do? She knew the hospital was talking about discharging her. Her foot and ankle were still in a cast, but the bruises and face burns had faded. As long as she didn’t try to breathe too deeply, her ribs were okay. The biggest worry was her left hand. It was still in a cast as well, and she could do nothing with it other than wiggle the tips of her fingers.

She could not go home without Custer. Detective Herb still had him. Brought him in with him every time he came to visit.

She stared at the control panel on the far wall, then picked up her own phone and dialed Herb’s number.

It went to a mailbox. Should she leave a message? She sighed, then hung up. Saying anything could leave evidence for the wrong people. It might even find its way to whoever was a threat.

She looked out her third-floor window toward the Ganado Mesa and Round Top, the local promontory. It was Dinéh, but not Piñon. It was time to go home. She opened a drawer in her dresser and studied the new dark pink blouse and blue jeans that Herb had bought for her. She’d tried them on once. Everything had fit perfectly. He probably took the sizes off her old clothes.

He was, after all, a detective. He would know how to look for something like that. She fingered the blouse’s collar fabric, then climbed out of her bed and hobbled over to her room door, waved to the policeman sitting in the hall, then closed the door.

Back by her bed, she shed her gown and began to dress.

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It took some effort to get the jeans over the cast, and she felt weak by the time she pulled up the zipper. Shoes? Where were her boots? She had to wear the right one anyway. The EMTs had cut the left one off to free her foot. Well, it was still here. She would take it. Maybe she could get it repaired. Was she ready?

She took a small cloth bag from the drawer and put it in her pocket. She would not leave her corn pollen behind.

The room phone rang. Who this time? Another anonymous threat? A car warranty sales recording? She picked up and listened.

“Hello, hello? Did someone at this number just try to call me?”

“Officer Begay. This is Carmina. Please come quickly and get me out of here now. Bring Custer. I’ve got to get home tonight.”

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Chapter Twenty-five “The big guy was Ralph Lujan. Cuban-American, originally from Miami, Florida. Worked a range of jobs over the years.

Briefly in the Marines, discharged early, but under honorable circumstances. Came west six years ago. Worked as a bouncer for several casinos, including the Garda Villa—which—as you know—happens to be the casino owned by Saul Fineboro, Donati’s former father-in-law.” Agent Page was reading off the bios to Ken. “The other person was Gary Morales, also Cuban-American.

He supposedly was a ‘fixer’ at the Roma Mia. Guess maybe he was doing a little moonlighting. Not much of a past. A few runins with the law but no convictions.”

“Any connection to the two men found shot up in a van five blocks away from the Donati residence three weeks ago?” Ken was taking notes on his laptop.

“We don’t know much about that one. Local police have not shared much. Van was a rental—stolen, so no help there.”

“How’s the Perkins woman doing?”

“She’s off critical. Bullet pierced her colon, so a lot of internal bleeding, followed by peritonitis, but it looks like she should recover. They got her colon reconnected yesterday. If the infection stays under control, she should be good.”

“So, agents up there get to talk with her?”

“Not yet, but they intend to try again tomorrow.”

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“And all of this is connected to Darby Donati. And she’s disappeared off the face of the earth. What’s Pete Donati doing?”

Page made an ugly face. “Calling or emailing us every other hour demanding updates, wanting to know why we haven’t found his dear daughter yet. Threatening to call his Congressperson.”

“His ‘dear daughter’ sounds more and more like a spoiled brat who decided to take off.”

“With her guard?”

Both men sighed.

“I think Pete Donati knows more about what is going on than he’s volunteered. Think it’s time for a visit.”

“I agree, but I’ve got to get back to Virginia. Boss is breathing down my neck. I doubt you will need my specialty for an interview.”

“Enjoyed your company. I can keep you posted on anything we find.”

“Do me one favor.”

“What?”

“The bracelet that the dead Yazzie woman was wearing— her family wants it back. Carmina Yazzie specifically asked for its return. Too many times, evidence like that ‘disappears’ from police custody. Get a hold of the Clark County Sheriff’s Office and get it into our custody.”

“The County Sheriff owes me a few small favors. I’ll do what I can.” *** “There, all cleaned up again. Let me find another shirt for you to wear while I soak the blood out of yours.”

“Thanks, ah … Shichó … ? Did I say it right?”

“You said it just fine.” And Sarah hugged her by the right shoulder again. “But where did you learn our term for greatgrandmother?”

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“There is a dictionary on the shelf in Carmina’s room. I looked it up.”

“You are a smart girl, Shi At´ééd, and I love you already.”

They stayed out of the line of sight for the south window and kept the door locked, but neither saw nor heard anything outside. “We’ll just have to hope that whoever is out there is afraid to take on the house. Jackie McKenzie, my neighbor, will be by tomorrow. I’ll have him call the police and have them come out.”

“But will it be safe for him to come here?”

“I don’t know. We can hope they won’t shoot at an innocent neighbor.” *** Later, Sarah went out to bring in the sheep while Darby stood by the open door, rifle in hand. She could hear the tinkle of the bells and the many baas but didn’t look toward the barn.

Instead, her eyes swept the horizon, back and forth, watching for any movement: a branch moving, a spot of color, a sudden flight of birds.

When twilight came, the two got ready for bed by flashlight.

Darby was sure that she would not sleep a moment. Still, she set the loaded pistol under the pillow before lying down herself. In less than a minute, she was asleep. *** “Shi At´ééd, wake up, someone is here.”

“Mmm. What? Oh, my God.” Darby tried to get up, rolled on her left shoulder, and cried out. She reached for the Glock, dropped it on the floor, felt around, and finally had it in her hand.

“Someone’s outside?”

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“I heard a truck pull in.” Sarah was standing by the east window dressed in a white gown, peeping out from the edge of the window.

Suddenly, a dog started barking. “Custer? That’s Custer barking! Quick, a light.” Sarah turned on the outside light to reveal a white Navajo Police Ford SUV parked in front just outside the gate. The driver-side door opened, and Custer jumped out and ran, barking, pleading for someone to open the gate. “Carmina must be here! Oh, Yá’át’ééh, Yá’át’ééh. Come.”

Sarah stepped outside and waved to the man unfastening the gate. He waved, then walked to the other side of the SUV and opened the passenger-side door.

A sound like a loose stone suddenly rolling down the hill caught Darby’s attention. “Get down,” she screamed. “There’s still that shooter up on the hill. Shichó, get back inside.” She grabbed Sarah and shoved her behind the door. A shot rang out, punching a huge hole in the door frame where Sarah had been standing a second earlier.

Darby stooped, then jumped back inside herself. A second later, she heard the cop take two shots in the direction from which the shot had come. He lifted someone out of the truck and ran, carrying her toward the door. The guy, a pale Carmina, and a white barking dog all burst inside at the same moment. Carmina and the cop both fell to the floor.

“Oh, Carmina, my dear child. We did not expect you tonight,” Sarah cried as she locked the door.

“We did not expect someone to be shooting at us when we arrived,” Carmina panted in return.

“I’m Detective Herb Begay. Got the word that Carmina was in danger in the hospital and figured she might be safer here. I guess we were wrong. You are Sarah Roanhorse?”

“Aoo’.”

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“Who are you? And what happened to your face? You look like someone shot you already.” Carmina was struggling to get up on her knees.

“I’m Darby Yazzie. And, yes, I got shot two days ago.”

“Darby Yazzie? Are you shich’é’é? My niece?”

“Aoo´. You are Carmina Yazzie? Sorry. I was using your bed.”

“Let’s get all of you down and away from the windows. Let me call this in,” Begay interrupted, then hesitated, feeling his belt. “Chąą´! Radio’s still in the truck. Well, I guess … I guess I can run out and try to grab it.” He hesitated by the door.

“I can try to give you cover,” Darby stammered.

“You? Can you shoot?”

“I can shoot.” All those hours standing at the range with Monica yelling at her to hold her breath and squeeze off every shot—I hope I can shoot.

“First, let’s get you to a chair or that sofa.” Begay helped Carmina to get up, balance on her good foot, then, still holding her arm, hopped her over to the sofa. She leaned into his shoulder as he lowered her onto the seat. Even in the semi-darkness, Darby could not miss the man’s careful tenderness and Carmina’s grip.

He’s her boyfriend, she thought with a grin of recognition.

Sarah sat down next to her granddaughter and gave her a hug. “What did they do to you?”

“It’s okay. I have a broken ankle, cracked ribs, and a broken hand, but everything is going to be okay. All my bruises are almost gone. but what about this one? She has a hole in her face.

How did she get that?”

“Ah …”

“Ah …”

Neither Sarah nor Darby could look at each other. “Long story. Shichó here was frightened. I kinda burst in on her.” Darby explained.

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“So, Shimásání, you shot her? Did you think she was a yee naaidlooshii? In the face? What’d you use? That old rusty twenty-gauge?”

“Aoo’. It is all we have.” Sarah shook her head sadly. “I thought she was someone coming for me, like came for you.”

“I need to get to my radio.” Begay edged back to the door.

“See anything?” Darby asked. She wished she’d been able to bring in the other guns. This was a hunting gun, accurate, but how could she aim and shoot at something she couldn’t see?

Even the thought of trying to shoot and kill someone made her feel sick. Then she thought of Eric, Daisy, Monica, and her poor mother. Whoever was out there planned to kill her, kill all of them, maybe he or she was one of those who had already killed.

She knelt, opened the ammo box, and loaded the rifle, then reached around, grabbed the second box of bullets, and finished loading the clip for the Glock. She clicked it in place. “I guess I’m ready to cover you if you want to try for that radio.”

She brought the rifle up to offhand position, but in a moment lowered it. “I can’t. My shoulder hurts too much,” she moaned.

“Here.” She set the rifle down on the table and dragged a chair over to the door. The second chair went behind it. “I think, if I prop the barrel on this chair, I’m good.” She picked up the rifle, sat, and laid the barrel on the top of the chair back.

Begay peeked out the east window, then took a position behind her. “Might work. I think those shots came from up and behind that piñon. Let’s ease open the door, you sight in on that tree. When you say ready, I’ll sprint for the cruiser. If I stay on this side of my vehicle, I think I’ll be safe.”

“Got it,” Darby answered. She pressed her lips together, trying to stop her jaw from quivering.

“Just don’t hit me if you have to shoot.”

“Yeah. That would be bad, real bad.” Darby squinted and looked through the scope. All she could see was darkness.

“Ready?”

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“I’m ready. Go!” Begay swung the door open and ran. A gunshot rang out, then another. Darby “eeked,” but held on and could see the muzzle flash of the first shot in the scope. She had the gun centered on target by the time the second flash came, then pulled the trigger.

Noise and the stench of gunpowder filled the little house. She took a breath, worked the bolt, and fired again. This time, when her ears stopped ringing, she was sure she heard a moan or cry coming from up on the hillside where she had fired.

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Chapter Twenty-six She waited, eyes on the dark shadows. She could hear the policeman talking to someone. Otherwise, all was silent.

“Relax your fingers before you shoot that policeman by accident,” Sarah whispered from behind her.

“Thanks. If I can. Do you think I hit him, the someone on the hill?” Darby was fighting to loosen her grip on the gun. Right hand away, she sighed, then pressed the safety on. Tired, so tired, and her shoulder and face were hurting so much.

The SUV door slammed, and Begay dashed back to the house. No new shots. A pant, and Begay was inside and leaning against the wall. “Got through. Local station has a report in to Chinle. A team is on its way. Should be here in less than two hours. What a night!” He turned to Darby. “What happened? I heard you shoot. Think you got him?”

“I have no idea.”

“I guess we wait. How are you doing, Carmina?”

“I’m home; I’m fine,” she answered, although her voice said she was lying.

Begay took out a cell phone and activated it. “Nope. No signal. If I have to talk, I’ll have to go back out to the cruiser and bring in the police radio. What do you say we all get some rest?

I’ll keep watch.”

“You just drove for five hours.”

“I’m good.

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Working by flashlight, Sarah and Begay got Carmina into her own bed. Darby bedded down on the sofa with the rifle beside her. The policeman stayed up, slowly moving around the main room, eyes on the dark outside world.

“We’re in a siege, but we don’t know if the besiegers are still there. Are we still in danger, or are we safe? Did I just kill someone, or did I miss?” Darby placed the rifle on the floor and closed her eyes. *** “Wake up, wake up, little Suzy, wake up!” Theresa Fineboro moaned, rolled over in her bed, and fumbled for her phone. Eyes still blurry, she stared at the flashing icons. “Who the hell is calling me at 2 in the morning? Yes?” “Ms. Fineboro? It’s Roberto. I’m in Tuba City. An alert just came through on the police scanner. The Navajo equivalent of a SWAT team just took off from Chinle, headed for Piñon. Sounds like a shooter has a Navajo cop pinned down in some hogan with a bunch of women.”

“Tube City? Where?”

“Tuba City, in Arizona, in the Navajo Nation. I just got here an hour ago.”

“You drove?” Theresa was still having a hard time focusing.

“If I had flown, I would have ended up in Gallup or Flagstaff, would have still had to rent a car, and driven all night to get back here. I drove straight here from Vegas.”

“Okay. Okay! So, you think that involves the Donati girl?

How’d she find someone in Piñon? I thought she could only find her way to shopping malls.” She did a slow burn. “That idiot Barker. I told him to get out. Roberto?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Go on into Piñon but keep low. Can you blend in?” She shook her head. No one could just “blend in” in a remote place 145

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like that. “Look, go there, find Barker, if you can. Persuade him to leave, get him out of there any way you can. Then find the Donati girl, kidnap her, and get her back here—wrapped in ropes and zip ties if you have to. I don’t want blood on the Rez at this point.”

“What about the Yazzie woman and her grandmother?”

“Yazzie woman is still in the Gallup hospital under guard.

And, at this point, she doesn’t matter. Too many bodies already.

Leave her alone. As for the great-grandmother—I doubt she has a clue.”

“Where does this Navajo cop fit in?”

Theresa hesitated. “No clue where he fits in either.”

“Okay. Hasta la vista.”

“Good night.” The connection went dead. Theresa put down the phone, groaned, and straightened, then got up to use the bathroom. Back in bed, she lay on her back, staring at the plaster ceiling. Monica Perkins was the pin around which all these wheels pivoted. She controlled; she would be able to make Darby do whatever she wanted. Maybe she needed a visitor tomorrow. *** Darby opened her eyes and took in the pink and grey sky of an approaching dawn through the south window. She had slept, maybe a little. Didn’t remember falling asleep, but she must have.

“You awake?” A man’s hoarse voice whispered.

Who? Oh, the cop who brought her aunt home. Last name?

Begay? Herb Begay. “Yá’át’ééh Morning, Herb.”

“Oh, and a Yá’át’ééh and good morning to you too, Custer.”

She rolled on her right elbow and allowed the dog to nose her, then try to lick her face. “You are so sweet, but you smell too.

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sofa, rolling back the Pendleton blanket Sarah had placed over her. A yawn, which hurt her face, was followed by a stretch that hurt her shoulder. She was such a mess! “Okay, up and at ’em.”

She stood, waited for the dizziness to fade, and headed for the tiny bathroom.

She studied her face in the bathroom mirror. Still a big bruise, but the swelling had gone down. She longed to take off the bandage Sarah had placed over the hole, but dreaded what she would see. “I probably look like an idiot with an extra mouth in the middle of my cheek.” Well, maybe she hadn’t lost her sense of humor.

Bandages also covered the shoulder wounds. She didn’t want to take a look there either. She could smell coffee brewing.

When she came out, Herb was seated by the dining table, a pistol on its surface in front of him, a white mug in his hand.

“You look beat.” She slipped into the other chair, keeping an eye on the outside shadows just starting to turn into rocks and trees.

“I’ve had better,” he answered, but he smiled. “Quiet night.

Maybe our shooter didn’t stick around. Should be an emergency response team here at any moment. Actually, I think they got lost. Maybe GPS didn’t work. Should have been here two hours ago.”

“Huh?” “If you can stand guard again, I can try to get to my radio and find out where they are.”

“Okay.” Darby retrieved the rifle and shifted the chairs back to where she’d set them up earlier.

Herb dumped the mug in the sink, picked up his pistol, then straightened out his shirt before walking over to the door. “I’m ready any time you are.”

“Ready.” She was aware that Sarah was standing by the door to her bedroom, watching. “No, Custer. Stay inside. Custer!”

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The dog dashed around Herb, who stumbled getting out of the way. Custer charged up the hillside, barking. The detective ran over to the police vehicle.

“What the … Custer, come back. Dogs!” She eased back on her aim. Custer was right at the horizon near where she’s shot last night—and right in the way of her sight. “Custer, you’re in the way! Get away!”

The dog continued to ignore her. Instead, its excited barks had turned to snarls. “Huh?” Herb started up the hillside, pistol drawn. When he reached the place where Custer was snarling, he lowered his gun and waved back to Darby.

Darby stood, set down the rifle, and, with her own pistol pointed skyward, left the house and climbed up the hill to where Herb was standing. There she could see a male stranger lying on his back, right hand covered with blood, an obviously broken rifle by his side.

“Custer, stay, come here.”

Custer continued to ignore her, and she had no clue what the correct Navajo commands might be.

Herb nodded toward her. “They’re at the Piñon chapter house. They got lost. Who is this?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before, anywhere.”

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Chapter Twenty-seven “You’re telling me that this Benjamin Blakeslee might not have been the Boy Scout the military thought he was?” Ken was not having a good day, and it was getting worse.

“Well, some things don’t work out.” Preston shook his head.

“This report is saying that after his discharge, Blakeslee spent some time in drug rehab in Virginia before he returned to Albuquerque, which is where he was from. The FBI down there has tried to locate his parents. Both are apparently deceased, but a neighbor of theirs remembered Blakeslee as this quiet guy who would sit on his parents’ porch for hours at a time and do nothing.”

“Sounds like post-traumatic stress disorder. Happens.”

“Then, eighteen years ago, he just disappeared.” Ken continued to read from the e-mailed attachment.

“And ended up in Vegas?”

“Yup. Started as a bouncer in a bar off the Strip, then got a job at Donati’s casino.”

“Sounds like we have the right man for that body from the lake. He would have had the opportunity to meet the Yazzie woman,” Preston concluded. “Does that solve the mystery as to who the three bodies from Jensenville were?”

“One: Viola Yazzie, nanny for the Donati child, two: Benjamin Blakeslee, floor guard at Donati’s casino, and … “

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“Three: Constance Donati, Tessie Fineboro’s and Peter Donati’s daughter. Has to be.” Ken pounded a fist on the desk.

“There have been no records or sightings of the Constance girl for thirteen years. No death certificate, but no shot records or school registrations either, nothing. Except, all this time, there was this Darby Donati, registered and in school as Donati’s daughter.”

“If we had a DNA test for this missing Darby girl, that would answer everything, wouldn’t it? Whether she’s Donati’s daughter or Blakeslee’s, whether she’s Yazzie’s daughter, or connected to the Fineboro family. Man, this whole business is giving me a headache. Oh, for the good old days when all we had were fingerprints and blood types.” Preston stood and walked over to gaze out the office window. “But it does not answer any question as to who killed them, or allowed them to drown, why Yazzie and Blakeslee were off with the Donati girl, or what has happened to the other, supposed Donati daughter.”

Ken and Preston were both silent for a minute. “She could be Donati’s daughter, illegitimate,” Preston finally suggested.

Ken shrugged. “Whoever this girl is, someone wants her dead, and is willing to kill a bunch of other people to make it happen. Think of it. Since the Jensenville bodies showed up, five other people have died that we know of. Carmina Yazzie— who might be her aunt— was almost killed; Darby’s guard was almost killed, and we aren’t even sure the Darby girl is even alive, or even where she is. Not to forget the Hamish girl or Donati’s poisoned girlfriend.”

“You leaving tomorrow?”

“Can’t put it off any longer. Boss has been riding me to come home for three days now. I guess he didn’t like the idea of my flying down to Gallup, or running all over the place here once we got the DNA of the bodies somewhat sorted out.”

“I’ll be in touch with Woody and let you know if anything new comes up.”

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“Thanks, Preston.

“And I have a meeting tomorrow with the sheriff. Need to bring him up to speed, and I’ll see if I can get that bracelet. Do you have a picture as to what it looks like?”

“It’s in the file.” *** The Navajo equivalent of a SWAT team arrived twenty minutes after Darby and Herb had found the injured man lying under the Piñon pine fifty yards away and above the Roanhorse compound. A bullet in his leg explained why he had not gotten away; his shredded and mangled right-hand fingers and thumb explained why he had not taken another shot.

“Looks like your shot hit the bullet chamber, broke it, and sent the fragments into his hand,” the medic commented as he wrapped the remains of the man’s hand in gauze. “That was some incredible shooting.”

“More like the dumbest luck in the world,” a visually miserable Darby responded. “I had no idea what I was shooting at.”

The medic’s eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing more.

The man only admitted through clenched teeth that his name was Justin Barker and he was from Phoenix. Beyond that, he would say nothing, not even give a reason why he would be setting up an ambush at a remote homestead. His wallet contained only his Arizona driver’s license, a blood donor card, an expired certificate for CPR training, 300 dollars in cash, but no credit cards. His cellphone was dead with an expired battery. No charger cord, and he refused to admit to knowing the password.

He had nothing else with him other than an empty canteen that smelled of grapes and alcohol, an old Army blanket he had been lying on, and a pair of cheap seven-power binoculars.

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The answer to how he got there turned out to be a 2007 Ford Silverado with a reinforced but bent front bumper and one headlight missing. Herb, Darby, and other members of the police team found it parked well off the road and behind a clump of juniper just a quarter of a mile away from the house.

“Not sure how I missed that last night,” Herb said.

“It is a dark green except for the replacement white front grill,” Darby noted. She still carried the Glock, but now felt silly doing so. Herb wore binoculars. When Darby offered to go with the team while they searched, Herb at first refused. Then, looking at her miserable, messed-up face, he relented. “This is not your fault,” he tried.

“Everything is my fault,” she answered.

The doors were locked, but the truck key Herb had liberated from Barker’s pocket worked. Inside, they found a floor littered with fast-food wrappers and empty plastic cups. Behind the seat was a rolled-up sleeping bag, a pillow, and an Arizona State logo gym bag with a few extra clothes.

A deposit slip for $10,000, found under the passenger-side floor mat, proved more interesting.

“Well, well. Someone’s account at Wells Fargo just got a bit flusher ten days ago.” Herb transferred the slip of paper to an evidence bag.

“Where’d the money come from?” Darby asked.

“We can run the numbers,” Herb answered.

“But will that tell us who paid this guy to shoot at me, and almost kill Carmina?”

“Maybe. We’ll see. But I think we have the guy who ran Carmina off Route 191 last week.”

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Chapter Twenty-eight “Good afternoon. I’m Special Agent Preston Page.” He presented his credentials for Pete Donati’s inspection.

“Oo … kay.” Pete pointed to a seat in his office. He did not offer to shake hands. “So, how may we help you today? Do I need my lawyer? I can assure you that we run the most honest casino in Vegas. We even lose money some nights.” He attempted a weak smile, which Page did not return.

“I do not think you need a lawyer for these questions—which are not about your operations. Nor do we think you might be involved with any crime. We just have a mystery, and we hope you might be able to answer some questions, and if not, perhaps guide us to where we need to look for answers.”

Page took the seat Donati had pointed to, but did not relax.

“I am not recording anything today, and if the bureau decides that it needs to turn this into a more formal query, we will, of course, encourage you to have counsel. What my questions today concern is the identity of the three bodies recovered from Lake Mead three weeks ago.”

“Oh? I know nothing about those bodies.”

“You don’t? The woman whose remains were recovered has been identified through DNA analysis as Viola Yazzie. We understand that at the time she disappeared, she was employed as a live-in nanny for your daughter, Constance. Is that correct?”

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Pete managed a slow nod, but he could not hide the dilation of his eyes.

“The man whose body was recovered has also been identified.

He was a Benjamin Blakeslee. Thirteen years ago, he was also an employee of yours. We believe he served as a bouncer or guard in your casino. Is that correct?”

Pete stared at the agent. “Maybe. I do not recall the names or identification of everyone who worked the floor back then. It is possible.”

“But you do remember Yazzie?”

“Of course. She was a member of my household.”

Page decided to go in for the kill. “Was the body of the child found with Yazzie and Blakeslee that of your daughter, Constance?”

Pete sat up like a bullet had hit him in his chest. He knew that someday this would come, had known since the surfacing of the bodies who they were. Maybe he had thought that no one would ever know who they were, maybe the investigation would drag on for months, or maybe his attempts to suppress public knowledge would be enough. He stood and turned to face the window, his eyes taking in the Las Vegas skyline without really seeing any of it.

Agent Page waited. Bingo! But who was the murderer?

Pete turned back around. “She was Constance, my other daughter, the daughter of Tessie, my wife at the time. You already knew this, didn’t you? Now I know for sure.”

Actually, we didn’t know that for sure. But you just confirmed what we suspected. “Then had Yazzie and Blakeslee taken her somewhere without your knowledge? Did they kidnap her? If so, why weren’t the authorities, including the FBI, notified?”

Pete sighed. “It was not a kidnapping. Or, it wasn’t supposed to be. Yazzie and the other one, Blakeslee, were trying to get her to someplace safe.” He swallowed and licked his lips, aware of how dry his mouth had become. “Look, it was not what it 154

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appears to be. There were problems, serious problems. I was being threatened, my whole family was being threatened. I, we thought that if the two girls were separated, both would be safe.”

“So you kept the other little girl, the one who might be Yazzie’s daughter, and raised her instead of the daughter who was your own wife’s child?”

“Darby is also my daughter.”

“Our research indicates that Yazzie’s daughter was already a year old when Yazzie started to work for you.”

“She is my daughter. I had my own DNA tests done. She is my and Viola Yazzie’s child.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“No! And I wish I did. She disappeared from our house in her little Miata six days ago. We, I, have been looking for her everywhere. Trying to be discreet, you understand. I don’t know where she is. My—her—personal guard, Monica Perkins, is also missing, along with another one of my vehicles. She was supposed to be tracking her.

“Agent Page, I don’t know what to tell you. My whole world has gone to total hell in less than three weeks. They find my one missing daughter, someone tries to poison my fiancée, then Darby disappears, Perkins goes after her, and she disappears too.

You’re asking me questions. I have questions too. What the hell is going on?”

“And Theresa Fineboro, your ex-wife?”

“We divorced the year after Constance disappeared. She took the money and disappeared too. I have not seen or talked with her in over a decade.”

“And you did know that Darby Donati’s Miata was found yesterday, crushed in a steel recycling center?”

Pete Donati froze. “No, please, no. Oh, my little girl!” *** 155

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Preston Page made a promised call that afternoon.

“Dr. Yabosky here.”

“Hi. This is Preston.”

“So, you met the supposed father?”

“Yes. Not surprised when I ID’d the lake bodies. Basically, he confirmed the identities.”

“What about the missing Darby Donati?”

“This is where it gets interesting.”

“Like an ancient curse?”

“Yes.” Page nodded. “He claimed that Darby is his biological daughter. Said he had a DNA test done years ago. That may be a lie, but we have no way to confirm that. That might put Blakeslee out of the picture. But the other thing is that he claims he has no idea where Darby is now. Or where Monica Perkins, Darby’s guard, is either. I think I believe him. He sounds like he desperately wants to find her.”

Ken snorted. “Either he’s lying or an awfully poor searcher.

Even we know that Perkins is holed up in the St. George hospital, recovering from a gut wound she suffered the night Darby disappeared. The FBI over in Utah talk with her yet?”

“I think our agent over there plans to see her today. She was in pretty rough shape from what I hear. It’s a wonder she didn’t die.”

“But no clue as to where Darby took off to?”

Page slowly shook his head. “None.”

“And she’s not at her home, or shacking up with some boyfriend?”

“We gather that the only boy who would have been a possibility was the Hamish kid who was shot in his home the night she disappeared.”

Ken knew he was starting to grasp at straws. “Someone was targeting Carmina Yazzie, who we believe might be her Navajo aunt. You think Darby might have known about her and headed her way?”

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“Who knows? Hey, what about the two dead guys that were found in the Virgin Mountains? They worked for Saul Fineboro, who was Donati’s former father-in-law. We thought there might be a connection?”

“I’m sure there is, but no idea what it is yet. Okay, thanks for the update.”

“Oh, by the way, I picked up that bracelet from the sheriff’s office. Have it in the safe here.”

“Good, excellent. Thank you. You hear anything new, drop me an e-mail. Thanks again.

“Will do.” Page hung up.

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Chapter Twenty-nine Theresa used an old ID that gave her name as “Louise Donati.” The policeman parked by the hospital’s room studied the photo briefly. “Family’s okay. You Mr. Donati’s daughter?”

You wish. “No. More like a cousin.”

“Ms. Perkins? You have a visitor,” the policeman called out.

“You okay?”

“I’m presentable. Show ’em in.”

Monica lay curled up in the bed, but she rolled on her back and sat up when Tessie and the cop entered.

“Is she okay?” he asked.

Monica took a deep breath. All life is short, she thought. “It’s okay, Hardin.”

Both women watched each other silently until the guard had gone back to his bag of chips out in the hall.

Theresa spotted a chair and sat. “I did not expect to see you again.”

“Same here.” Monica tightened her abdominals, trying to ease the pain. “If you came hoping I’d tell you where your stepdaughter is, forget it. I can’t tell you. Not just because I don’t want to, but because I really am not sure where she is at this point.”

“Oh? That does not sound professional on your part. I thought you were the one that Pete could always rely on to keep his precious other daughter safe.

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“Screw you.”

“Do you want to?” Theresa stood and made a motion as if to pull down her slacks.

Monica looked away. When Theresa had reseated herself, Monica straightened. “How’s your headache?”

“Better. Do you want to see the groove you ran across my scalp?”

“Not really. Do you want to see where I just got sewn back up? Why’d you come?”

“Thought you might like some company.”

“Pff.” “Where is she?”

“I already told you. I don’t know. You haven’t tracked her down yet yourself? Tessie, you’re slipping. Or don’t you have enough good men left to cover the territory?”

“Yes. Well, tsk.” Theresa’s face hardened. “You betrayed me.”

“I did not do so intentionally.”

“You were supposed to bring her back, not kill her.”

“Things did not go as planned.”

“Darby’s still going to die.”

“I know that. We all die eventually. Some sooner than others.”

“I don’t even know why I bothered to come here.”

“To kill me?” Monica shifted slightly—a move that Theresa did not miss.

“You let me live; I guess I owe you something. Have you ever heard of a guy named Justin Barker?”

Monica pursed her lips and stared at Theresa. “Mmm …

Maybe. Two-bit thug, gun-for-hire, out of Phoenix. Why?” “I sent him up to the Navajo Nation to do some research. No report. Seems he’s missing.”

“Too bad. I hate men like him.”

“You hate all men.”

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“No. Not true, just dangerous ones. I like ones who can keep their dicks low when they first meet me, men who are kind, sweet and believe in doing the right thing.”

“Like Pete, your boss?”

“No … You got me there.”

“Okay. I guess we’re done here.” Theresa stood, a hand dropped in a pocket, then she moved closer, bumping the tray holder by Monica’s bed with her knee. “Hasta la vista, Amiga.”

“Hasta,” Monica replied. Only when Theresa was gone and the door closed did she relax her grip on the Beretta she held in her right hand under her covers. *** Darby spent part of each day watching Sarah weave, although now she was sure that watching grass grow had to be more exciting. Sarah worked at her loom a couple of hours each morning, yet progress remained slow. Darby still had no clue as to what the final design would look like. It seemed like everything was in Sarah’s head.

When Sarah wasn’t weaving, she was usually outside, watering the cornfield or dealing with the sheep. “I’ve never seen such low corn,” Darby admitted as she continued to help with the daily watering.

“It is a blue corn. It makes a grey meal when we grind it. It makes the best corn cakes and bread.”

“Only corn I ever saw was tall, and the corn was yellow. Can you steam this right off the plant and eat it off the cob?”

Sarah laughed. “No. This must dry first, then we can grind it to make the corn flour.”

Carmina bustled around on her single crutch, helping with the meals or sitting outside with Custer, watching the sheep.

At home, Darby had not been expected to help with any household chores. Dirty clothes? Throw them in a hamper.

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Meals? Until Monica’s exercise crackdown, her whole summer had been a catch-food whenever operation. She had spent most of her awake time running around in the Miata, working on her tan, hanging out with friends, or shopping. None of those activities seemed an option here.

The Navajo detective, Herb Begay, was still in the area. He said he was tying up loose ends from the Barker shooting, but he still found time to come out and visit each day. When he did, he, Carmina, and Custer would take walks out to check on the sheep.

Darby smirked whenever they left the house together. Sometimes she would share a knowing look with Sarah, but neither said a word to the other about what was plainly happening.

Four days passed. That morning, Darby sat on a bench by the sheep shed, sighing with boredom, when Carmina limped over to join her. She took her crutch out from under her shoulder, balanced on her good foot, and rotated around so that she could sit down beside Darby. “You appear to be suffering from an extreme case of ennui.”

“Is that a Navajo word?”

Carmina laughed. “No, it means boredom. Am I right?”

“Right on the money.”

“How’d you like to take me to the school in Piñon? I need to make sure I have everything ready for my students. Plus, I need to do a little shopping.”

Students? School? “That’s right, Shichó said you work as an aide?” And I have to think about that too. Clark County schools will be open soon as well. Will I be home by then?

“Aoo’. Mostly with the first and second graders who have limited English.”

“Okay. I guess Hunter’s the only vehicle out here right now.

Herb coming by today?”

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“No. He had to go back to Window Rock, plus touch base with his parents in Steamboat, but he said he might put in for some vacation. So, in three days, he might be back.”

Darby smiled at the happiness in Carmina’s voice. “Your phone doesn’t work here, does it?. It’s so hard to keep in touch with anyone.”

“When we go up to the school, there will be a signal. You need to phone someone?”

Darby ached with the desire to get in touch with her father and Mrs. Morales, to find out how Monica was doing—if she was even alive! She knew she could drive into Piñon and maybe find a phone. She could even drive to the Bashas’ if she had to and buy a cheap burner phone. Yet each day she held off, wanting to know, but not wanting to know either. As long as she was alone and ignorant here, she felt safe. The rest of the world seemed to be an even more dangerous place than here. It might even be dangerous for her father to know where she was.

“You drive me, we can stop in the clinic and have the P.A. who runs it take a look at your wounds, make sure they are healing okay,” Carmina suggested.

“And check yours as well?”

“Aoo´. That too. Do I look better? My face, that is?” Carmina asked.

“Your face looks fine. Better than mine. But will they treat me? I’m not really Diné.”

“Many Navajo have one white, or bilagáanaa as we say, parent, or a grandparent, yet they are still Navajo. It will not be a problem.”

“You see me as Navajo? No way! Okay. You ready then?”

“Any time. And I will bring my phone, so you can call your father.”

Oh! Carmina—you have a phone? That sounded like an idea she could go for.

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Darby let Sarah know what the plan was. She responded with a quick shopping list for Bashas’. Darby helped Carmina into the SUV, and they were on their way. *** As they drove out the long driveway that would lead to the highway, Darby kept wondering how anyone could want to live this far from anything. The road bumped down over rock ledges, twisted the tires in washouts, and made sudden turns to get around trees or drop-offs. She tried to remember what it had been like coming in. Over and over, she had been certain that nobody in their right minds could possibly have a house this far in at the end of such a sketchy road. Only the gas station attendant’s insistence that Sarah Roanhorse did live a long, long way down this road had kept her going.

When the road finally settled into a smoother track, Darby began to ask questions. “You use Navajo words all the time, as if you feel more comfortable that way?”

“Yes. It is true. I think in Navajo. Shimásání even says I dream in Navajo.”

“But Sarah rarely speaks any Navajo, even when talking to you?”

Carmina nodded. “She was sent away to a mission school when she was six years old. They taught everything in English.

In time, she forgot most of her own language. I don’t think they did it that way to be cruel, like so many of the schools back then.

Her teachers just didn’t think knowing Navajo was important.

And they did not know Navajo themselves. When they heard the children talking to each other in Navajo, they grew afraid of secrets, so they forbade our language. My mother did not speak Navajo either because Shimásání did not know it, but she was determined that I would not grow up ignorant. That’s why they sent me to the Rough Rock School.”

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She chuckled then sighed. “It was a terrible experience for me at first. Everything was taught in Navajo. English came as a second language. I had to learn Navajo in order to understand anything. Of course, later, when English was expected for most courses, I did much better.”

“Carmina, your clan, and your father’s clan are very important, more important than last names. Right?”

“Aoo´.”

“What would my clan be, the one that came from my mother?”

“That would be Tązhii Dine’é. Which means ‘Turkey people.’ It is my clan also and was Shi’ma’s—my mother’s—and Shimásání as well.”

“Tązhii Dine’é? So I’m a turkey? Gobble-gobble!”

Both laughed.

“So the clan always goes through the mother’s side of the family?”

“Yes. But we also have our ‘born-to clan,’ which comes from our fathers. My father’s clan was Dzaanééz Łání, which means ‘Many mules.’”

“But my father would not have a clan, would he?”

“He is bilagáanaa. That is all anyone needs to know. Don’t worry, no one will hold it against you. It is only important that one does not marry another in one’s own clan, or the clan of the father, or even, sometimes, the grandfathers.”

“Sorta like incest?”

Carmina nodded.

“What is this thing called a kinaaldá? I heard you talking about it the other night to Shichó. Is it like the Mexican quinceañera?”

“It is a coming-of-age ceremony for girls.”

“So it is sorta like a quinceañera?”

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age, or even older, invite a bunch of family and friends, dress up and sing and dance. It was not always that way.

“Once it coincided with a girl’s first period. For three days, she would stay in isolation and eat little. Other women molded her body. She bathed, washed her hair, and ground corn. Each dawn, she ran toward the rising sun. Her female family would help her bake a huge corn cake in the ground. On the last night, the family and friends gathered to sing a chant with a singer.

Afterward, everyone ate the cake, and then there was a party.”

“Sounds more like a religious ritual than a party.”

“It is so that a girl can become a woman. She must become like Changing Woman so that she might be strong, healthy, and bear healthy children.”

“You make it sound like it’s not like a quinceañera at all.”

“Not when it is done correctly.”

“Did you have a kinaaldá?

“Aoo’.”

“When you were twelve or thirteen, in the traditional way?”

“Aoo’.” Carmina smiled. “It was very special that I did it the correct way.”

“I guess it’s too late for me.”

Carmina shook her head. “No. If you wanted to have the kinaaldá, we could still hold one for you. As I said, many Navajo girls today wait until they are older. If they follow the process, they may still walk in beauty.”

Darby smiled. “It would be different. I know I don’t really belong here, but maybe I would feel like I fit in a little better.”

“Aoo’. It helps to become a good and strong woman. Here is the main road. Turn right.”

What sorta ‘rite of passage’ did she or her friends know?

She had celebrated with a party after she had gotten her driver’s license. She guessed that was kinda an all-American passage—a passage to freedom. Going to her senior prom would be a passage 165

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too, but none of these events sounded like a kinaaldá. Neither made one a grownup.

They went to the clinic first, where a physician’s assistant removed Darby’s bandages and checked her wounds. She was healing nicely with no signs of infection. She would, however. probably have scars that would show. When she returned to her own home, she should make an appointment with a plastic surgeon to remove the one on her face.

Carmina was also doing well, and she made an appointment to come back in a week to get a walking cast for her left ankle and foot. The P.A. did a scan of Carmina’s hand and told her that the bones were knitting, but it would still be a while.

The news about scars confused and frightened Darby. The hole on her cheek had scabbed over and hardly bothered her except for a hard lump under the scab. Would removing that scar mean her face would have to be cut up again? She did not know what to do, but nothing could happen here. She would wait to see what Dad and Mrs. Morales said.

Next, they drove over to the Piñon school complex with its campus of modern buildings. She parked, helped Carmina out, then followed her inside. With no students yet, the place seemed empty, but the air conditioning was a welcome change. She went with Carmina to her classroom where she helped Carmina gather books and support materials and check to ensure that the number of everything was correct. While Carmina made several phone calls, she looked at the Navajo texts and wondered how a language could use the Roman alphabet yet require so many extra symbols for a Navajo reader or anyone to understand.

It was close to noon before Carmina announced that she was done for now, and they could go to the Bashas’ store.

There, Carmina moved easily through the aisles using her crutch while Darby followed with a cart. When they reached the checkout, the cashier asked Carmina if she wanted to put it on the account.

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“Yes,” Carmina answered.

“But why?”

“We pay it off once a month after the Social Security money shows up in shimásání account. It is simple and easy.”

“But I am eating your food too. I must pay for my share.”

Darby took out three twenties for the cashier.

He looked at Carmina, who reluctantly nodded, then he picked up the bills and handed Darby the change. “You are the great-granddaughter staying out with Asdzáán Sarah?”

“Ah … Yes.” “She is my cousin, so you are a cousin too. I hope you are enjoying your visit. Are you from the Rez?” “Ah, No. But I like it here.”

The young man smiled. “It is a beautiful place. Yá’át’ééh.”

“Yá’át’ééh,” Darby replied before picking up one of the sacks with her good arm.

Darby was back in the Highlander and backing up when a look of horror crossed her face. “I can’t believe I just almost told him where I’m from. And he already knows where I’m staying!

Are we really cousins?”

“Aoo’. He is my mother’s, your grandmother’s, sister’s son.

You handled it very well. Do you want to call your father now before we head home? He must be worried.”

Darby paused for almost a minute at the stop sign. “I should.

Do you have your phone?

“Aoo’.”

“Okay.” Darby backed up again, turned around, and returned to her earlier parking place. Will there be good news or bad?

When Carmina handed Darby her phone, she got out of the SUV and dialed home.

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Chapter Thirty “Hello?”

“Mrs. Morales? It’s me.”

“Darby? Darby! You’re alive? Oh, my dear God and the blessed Mary. Oh, oh … You’re alive! Oh, this is wonderful!

But where are you? Are you okay? Does someone need to come and get you?”

“Mrs. Morales, Marie! Calm down. I’m fine, and safe—I think. I … I would have called sooner, but I have had no phone until now. It is harder to make calls here.”

“But where are you?”

“I … I’m staying with my aunt and great-grandmother. They are very nice.”

“Where is that?”

“Middle of nowhere. Trust me, you would not know it.”

“Oh.” “How is Dad doing? How is Perkins? Is she …?”

“Your father’s fine. Monica is alive. She’s still in the hospital in St. George. Mr. Donati talked to her recently. He says she will be out of the hospital in another three days. She says she wants to go find you, but Mr. Donati says no. But you are alive and safe. Oh, so good to hear you.”

“Is Dad there?”

“He’s at work, like always. You know he lives there. He is with that girlfriend. He has been home only twice since you ran off.”

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“I didn’t run off. Well … I did do something very stupid.

How is Beth Anne?”

“Mr. Donati says she is fine, okay now. So when will you come home? Do you have a way to drive, or maybe fly, or ride a bus?”

“I have Hunter. I don’t know when I’ll come home. I guess I’ve got to be back before school starts.”

“The Hamishes had a service for that son of theirs two days ago.”

“I figured that would have happened by now. I’m sorry. What about Daisy?”

“We hear she’s alive but was hurt very badly. Head wound.

No one is sure if she will ever get all her mind back.”

“Oh.” Darby didn’t know what else to say. “I … I guess I’d better phone Dad, let him know. If I can’t reach him, would you let him know I’m okay? Say hello to Mr. Morales. I will be back before school. Until then, take care. I love you.” Click.

Darby stared at the phone. What was Dad’s work number?

She’d never had to remember. She almost didn’t remember her own home number. Everything had been on speed dial on her cell phone. And where would Dad be? If she reached his office, who knew who would answer? Beth Anne? Carmina was waiting in Hunter. She would try to call later. *** “Roberto?” Theresa held her phone close to her ear. “You find anything? Any sightings?”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s on the reservation, near Piñon, staying with this local old woman, Sarah Roanhorse. She’s been there a week and a half. Has left the holding only once, with another young woman.

“Good. Any word on Barker?”

“Yes. He’s in the hospital in Gallup.”

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“What!”

“He apparently got himself shot up pretty bad. Rumor is he may never be able to use his right hand ever again.”

“Who shot him?”

“It’s not clear. Everyone in Piñon was talking about a shooting. A team of police even came up from Chinle. Oh, and there’s been a Navajo plainclothes cop hanging around. He’s been out at the Roanhorse holding several times. Look, I know you want to settle this matter, but this isn’t the best place for it to happen. Not many people live here, but everyone watches everyone else’s back. Everywhere I go, I can see everyone looking at me.”

“But you’re Indian!”

“Apache. That doesn’t help. Can we wait? The girl has to come back to Vegas sometime. She’s got school coming up in August. I mean, that’s where all her friends are. I can’t imagine she’s enjoying herself sitting around a one-room cabin in the middle of nowhere with nothing but an old woman to talk to.”

“No, I can’t imagine Darby enjoying herself in a place like that. She’s a party girl. Okay. Hold, keep a grip—a strong grip. I have Perkins’ hospital room set with six legs. I expect that when Darby heads home, Perkins will get the word, then we’ll know too.”

“Good. I could probably get off a shot at the girl, but kidnapping is going to be hard. I will hold.” *** Agent Page stared at the microphone before turning to his assistant who had been following the recording of the conversation. It had taken two days to get the airways tap approval from the federal court. For two more days, the tap had picked up nothing, but what they had just heard was golden.

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“So, the Donati girl is alive and in Piñon, Arizona. Theresa Fineboro-Donati is the one running the show and has a follower on site watching the Donati girl. That puts Pete Donati out of the picture for now.” Preston clapped his hands and stood up.

“Okay, I need to get a hold of Woody in Gallup and have him also locate that Navajo policeman the Roberto guy mentioned in the call. We also need to let the St. George police know that Perkins’ room in the hospital is bugged.”

“But if they find it and take it out, won’t that tell Ms. Donati and her minions that we’re onto them?” the assistant asked.

“Hmm. Maybe we can get a tap there as well.” Page made a face. “Hmph. I wonder what the ‘Hold, get a grip’ meant?” *** Darby sat in the shade of the hay shed and sketched. I am so desperate that I have to take up art. She sniffed, wiping dust from around her eyes. Back home, it seemed like she was shoving her inhaler in her mouth every other minute. Today, even with the dust, she found she could breathe. “I guess that’s one good thing about hiding out on the Rez,” she told herself. A shadow blocked the sun on her tablet. She looked up as Carmina joined her, carefully easing down on the bench and placing her cane beside her. “May I see?”

“I guess.”

“Mmm. Not bad. Looks like a piñon. I like the way you are catching the twist of the trunk.”

“Ahéhee’.”

“You sound good saying Navajo words.”

“Some words are easy. Others twist my tongue. I can’t get them to sound right.”

“Would you be willing to drive me down to Chinle tomorrow so I can get my new pickup? Well, actually not new—used. But my cousin who lives there found it for me. He says it’s in good 171

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shape. Same model as my old one, but white and two years and 50,000 miles younger.”

“Can you drive?”

“My foot and cast are good enough to push a clutch. I can hold the wheel with my left hand now. It will be good.”

“Okay.”

“And Friday, the Chapter is sponsoring a pre-school year powwow up by the high school. How’d you like to go?

Darby hesitated. “What’s a powwow involve?”

“Those who dance wear regalia and come together to dance traditional Pan-Indian dances. All of us will dress up, even those who just go to watch. There’ll be lots of frybread and mutton stew. And there will be lots of singing. You will have a good time.”

“I’d feel like a fish out of water.”

“Pff. You say there’s nothing to do here. Come, you will have fun. I know you will. Okay?”

Darby nodded. “Okay. Yá’át’ééh.”

“And thank you for helping around the house and with the sheep.”

She was ‘helpful?’

“I can get around easier than you can.” *** Every day, clouds built up to the west, then turned into billowing white monsters before fading away to the east. Late that afternoon, one of those clouds actually brought rain. In less than five minutes, the dust was gone, and in another fifteen, the wash below the house was running water. “Come quick,” Sarah called as she rushed outside.

“What now?”

“She needs help opening the water gates,” Carmina explained.

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“Okay.” Darby took a deep breath and splashed outside to join Sarah in the creek. Together, they lifted the two steel gates to unblock the water and divert it to the corn and other vegetables.

Both Sarah and Darby were soaked and muddy by the time the flow slowed, and the ground under the corn was soaked.

“Now we won’t have to carry water from the sink for several days. That will feel good to these old bones,” Sarah laughed.

“It almost never rains in Vegas either. But this was good, even if it did not last long.”

“Come, Shi’deezhi yazhi, up here,” Sarah beckoned.

“What? Why?” “You’ll see,” Carmina called out from the doorway where she’d been watching the two work.

Darby shrugged and followed Sarah up the hill to the east until they were high enough to take in the view. Darby took one look and gawked. “Oh, my God! This is incredible.”

Behind, to the west, the re-emerging late sun was causing the trees and the ground where Darby stood to glow in yellow and pink. Overhead, dark blue clouds tumbled and flew like they were part of an ocean in the sky. East, rain still shimmered and sparkled, and above that, a huge, complete double rainbow arched across the eastern lands, glowing in its own bright colors.

“Náátsʼíílid at’ééd—Rainbow Girl—has come to bless you, Darby, just as she blesses all the Diné. What do you think of that?”

“Rainbow Girl?”

“She protects all of us. You see how in the likááh— sand paintings—that the singers draw to cleanse and restore harmony—Hozho—Rainbow Girl is almost always there, drawing an arc of protection to keep out evil.”

“She arcs from east to north to west, right? But not to the south.”

“No, she arcs from south to west to north. No danger comes from the east.”

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“It is so beautiful. I’ve never seen a rainbow like this before.

This is so awesome. But thank you, Ahéhee’, Shichó.” Darby could not understand why she was starting to cry.

That night, as Darby made her bed in the main room, she stared up at the dim ceiling. “At home, I have a queen-size bed with cotton sheets, my own bathroom—even a bidet. Every night, Mrs. Morales has clean jammies ready for me. Every morning, I shower and put on fresh undies and makeup.

“Here I sleep on fleeces, snuggle under old blankets and listen for the crickets that jump around the room at night.” She tried to remember when she had last washed her hair. She knew it was dirty. “I hope I get to wash my hair before I go to this powwow thing. Oh, my God, that rainbow, the whole view …”

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Chapter Thirty-one After a brief breakfast of cold cereal and canned peaches, Carmina and Darby were on their way. Darby gassed Hunter up in Piñon, then pointed her SUV east on Route 4. “How long to Chinle?”

“It’s all good roads. We should be there in about an hour.”

Route 4 was as Carmina described it: smooth with wide shoulders. Whenever Darby overtook another vehicle, the slower one would almost always move over to the shoulder so she could easily pass. Most of the traffic appeared to be pickups or vans with a couple of box trucks for variety. “Drivers seem so polite here.”

“When they are sober,” was Carmina’s dry reply.

“That’s the third house with a hogan beside it we’ve seen that looks abandoned. Are they actually abandoned, or just look that way?” Darby asked.

“Probably abandoned. COVID homes. Many Diné died during the COVID. If they died inside their home, no one will ever use that dwelling again. Well, some of the Christian Navajo—Baptist or Mormon—might, but not anyone who follows our beliefs.”

“What do you mean? Why?” Carmina took a deep breath. “If one should die inside a house, the walls will prevent the bad spirit, our chindi, from leaving. The ghost will then remain inside forever. Such a ghost 175

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might turn evil and become a skinwalker, or affect others, make them into what you might call a witch.”

“Ugh! But, but what if someone just leaves the door open?”

“A ghost cannot use the east side door to leave. That is so good might come in, but evil may not enter or leave from the east.” Carmina’s voice grew stronger, angrier. “Let me tell you what happened to many old ones who got the sickness. Many Diné live in isolated homes—just like where Shimásání and I live. If both of us became sick, who would check on us? Who would know? Some people in Piñon would know because I work, but if no one in one of those houses you see commuted to work, who would know? And people didn’t, and the aid workers were so overwhelmed they could not check on every holding.

“People became sick. When they knew they were dying, they would drag themselves outside so that if and when they did die, their spirits would not be trapped in their homes. People, families, searched, but many times they found just bodies, wrapped in blankets outside, sometimes a couple, still huddled in each other’s arms.”

“They moved outside so that their home would not be haunted? That’s awful! How many Navajo did die?”

“Far more than you read about. Hundreds, over a thousand.”

Carmina’s voice was flat.

“Back in 2020 and 2021, we would read about so many deaths happening every day, but I think I only heard of one person I knew personally dying, and it was not someone I really knew,” Darby said.

“Here, everyone knows someone who died.”

“Including your father?”

“Including Shicheii.” ***

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They met the cousin in a dusty lot next to a grove of cottonwoods. A friendly, older man with a slight mustache, he greeted both with Yá’at’ééhs and the soft, touching handshake that Darby still found strange. Carmina and he talked for several minutes about several seemingly unimportant topics—weather, the return of tourists to the canyon, and eating at the local Burger King—before he took them over to see a white Toyota Tacoma with an extended cab. A greenish-blue canopy cap covered the back bed.

“A turquoise cap,” Carmina exclaimed. “I love it already.”

She climbed inside, cane first, and when the cousin handed her the keys, she started it up. “Hmm. Sounds good, although not as loud as my old one.”

“This one has the four-cylinder engine; I think your old one was a six,” her cousin told her.

“You’re right. Maybe this one will have better gas mileage.

That would be nice.”

“It has four-wheel drive. I doubt you will ever need the extra power.”

She had to look at the engine and the bed under the canopy.

“Darby, can you look underneath. See how much rust there is?”

Darby knelt and peeked underneath. “All I see is dusty black.

I think you’re good.”

The inspection continued. Darby marveled as Carmina checked the oil, then looked underneath the front of the car for oil leak spots. She pulled at each tire and examined the treads.

“Let’s take it out. Join me, Darby?”

“Okay. Let me lock up Hunter.”

“We’ll be back soon,” Carmina told her cousin, and a minute later, Darby and she were out on the highway running through the little town and north.

“What do you think?” Darby asked after a half dozen miles.

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“It is not my old truck, but it might be better. I hear no noises that would worry me.” Carmina turned the truck around, then headed back south to the lot where the cousin waited.

Darby hung out by her SUV while Carmina completed the transaction. This seemed to take forever, but finally Carmina came over with a big smile. “Paperwork done. Ready? We can stop at Church’s Chicken, grab a lunch, and be back home by two.”

“Sounds good.”

They ordered a six-piece dinner plus shakes, then walked/ limped out to a table in the shade of a huge cottonwood.

“Oh, so good.” Darby wiped her mouth. “I have been here so long I had forgotten what fast food tastes like.”

Carmina laughed. “For me, this is a special treat. Do you eat out all the time?”

“Once or twice a week. Whenever I’m out with friends or visiting, it seems like we’re always ordering pizza or Chinese, or sometimes Thai. I think your grandmother’s frybread is a special treat.”

“I saw you making some the other day.”

“I was! Shichó Sarah was showing me how. I only burned myself once.” Darby looked at the tip of her right thumb. “Getting the dough to drop on the fat just right and not get splashed is tricky.”

Carmina nodded and smiled. “We all get our burns while we learn.”

Darby was collecting the paper and cardboard when three motorcyclists roared into the parking lot. To Darby, the red bandanas, denim vests and jeans, and black T-shirts looked the same as every other rider group she’d ever seen going full throttle on the Vegas highways. But all of these bikers appeared to be Navajo. The three parked and disembarked, shedding their 178

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leather gloves and cocking their shades on top of their heads.

Each gave Carmina a short nod and Darby a long nod and smile before heading inside.

“Maybe we should be on our way?”

Carmina smirked. “Are you afraid?”

“Single bikers are not a problem, but when I see them in threes or fours, I get worried, particularly when I feel like they’re trying to look right through my T-shirt.”

Carmina snickered but nodded her understanding. “Okay.

I’m done. We can leave now.” She balanced onto her good foot, got her cane in place, and headed for her new truck.

Darby was unlocking her own vehicle when one of the bikers came out of the restaurant, saw them, and waved.

Darby looked away and unlocked her door. “Oh, no. Please don’t come over.”

The guy was coming over. “Yá’at’ééh. You from around here? We’ve never seen you in town before.”

Darby took a deep breath. “Yá’at’ééh. I’m not from here.”

“Where’s home?”

“Piñon.” How easy was it to say words like that? Why didn’t I say ‘Las Vegas?’

“Ha. I know Piñon. Booming place. Hey, I hear they are having a powwow there tomorrow. You gonna be there?”

“Might be.”

“You dance?”

Darby could not believe what was happening. This biker dude actually thought she was Navajo? And he obviously was hitting on her. She allowed herself a shy peek. Broad shoulders and a tight waist. More buff than any of her male friends. She liked the huge silver and leather ketoh he was wearing on his left wrist.

“No. Would you teach me?”

“Ooh. I might. What’s your clan?”

“Tązhii Dine’é.”

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The young man’s face lit up. “Born to?”

“My father was bilagáanaa.”

“Ooh, Aoo’. Then we will definitely look for you tomorrow.

Your name?”

“Darby. Darby Yazzie. What is your clan?”

The young man, now all smiles, shrugged. “Tó’áhání. My born-to clan is Tó Dích’íi’nii. I know, weird, two clans, both with water. My name is Laurence Nez.” Darby could feel Carmina waiting in her new truck.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Aoo’. Tomorrow.” Darby gave the guy one last smile and got in Hunter.

Darby, are you crazy? He was flirting with you, and you were giving it right back. Oh, my god! If I go to this powwow thing and he shows up, what will I do? She managed a thumbs-up to Carmina, who grinned and waved back, then they were both on their way with Carmina taking the lead.

Two miles after turning back onto Route 4 to head west, Darby glanced a second time in her rearview mirror. Truck coming up behind fast. She set her cruise control and waited for the truck to either fall behind or catch up and pass. She checked her mirror again. The black pickup was neither closer nor farther away. “Okay. This is not good.” What could she do? She increased her speed to 70 and watched. Her follower maintained its same distance. She increased her speed again, although that meant she was getting too close to Carmina.

Carmina must have noticed because she sped up as well.

Soon, both were doing almost 80. The truck behind remained at the same distance as before. This was not working. Darby let up, dropping back to 70. The truck drew closer. She could make out two men in the front seat. Why, oh, why can’t this nightmare be over?

What if? Darby slowed and eased onto the shoulder.

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Carmina pulled over too. A minute later, the black pickup was a diminishing dot on the horizon.

“Oh, God.” Hand on chest, Darby took several long breaths, praying for her heart to stop pumping so hard. When Carmina eased back up to 70, she did as well.

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Chapter Thirty-two Agent Page was on the phone with Ken once more. “Donati is already headed for Arizona and the reservation. He and his driver should be there tomorrow evening. No, he doesn’t know exactly where the Roanhorse holding is, but there is a powwow at the high school in Piñon tomorrow and every local will probably be there. If no one will tell him at a store or gas station where she lives, someone at the powwow will know.

“Yes, I know. But it gets more complicated. We thought that Theresa Fineboro had pulled in her troops. May not be true. All the more reason to get the Donati girl out of there and home safely.”

Ken nodded. “Okay. You think the Fineboro woman has plans?”

Page nodded. “Yes, she’s using a code. Woody’s coming up from Gallup. He plans to be at the powwow. Herb Begay, the Navajo detective, plans to be there too. Should be half a dozen regular officers as well. Powwows are usually pretty safe with lots of children there dancing and playing, but sometimes there are drinking problems. That’s all I can tell you now.

“Oh, and Perkins? Word is that Donati just fired her. She is still in the hospital, at least for a few more days.”

“The agent who interviewed her didn’t get much information?”

“Nope. She’s holding out, but if Donati actually fired her, she might be more cooperative.”

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*** “That was scary. I thought for sure that pickup was following us.” Darby still felt weak in the knees when she finally climbed out of the Highlander SUV. Carmina limped over to offer her a hug. “All I could think was that truck driver was planning to do to you what that Barker man did to me. That was awful.”

Together they headed for the house, where Sarah stood waiting, taking in the new pickup.

“You like the new shichidí,” Carmina called out.

“I like the colors,” Sarah answered. “Does it drive well?”

“It seems to pull a little to the right. I may want to get the alignment checked. Otherwise, it drove fine.”

“Tomorrow, the powwow.”

“And we have to dress Darby up pretty. She may have a beau showing up.”

“Huh?” Sarah gave Darby a glance. “A beau already?”

“She picked up a young motorcycle rider at the chicken place in Chinle.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “What next?”

“Today, we all shower, then we wash our hair with yucca soap. That way we will be beautiful.”

“Yucca soap?”

“We make it from the roots of the yucca plant. It makes your hair shine. And you will have to dress like a Navajo lady.”

“Using what for clothes?”

The two women looked at each other and smirked.

“This is a short powwow. Only one day. The Grand Entry will be at noon, but the dancing will go on into the night. We will stay as long as you want to.”

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After breakfast, Darby and Sarah showered. Then Sarah filled the kitchen sink with warm water and dropped in small, chopped-up chunks of what she said were yucca root. When she stirred, the water turned sudsy. She had Darby dip her hair and head in the sink, then helped her scrub until Darby was sure her hair would fall off. As she scrubbed, then rinsed, Sarah sang songs, soft and sweet, like lullabies.

Next, Carmina took Darby into her bedroom where she opened a trunk and began to take out clothing. “You are mostly my size. These clothes should fit. Here is a blouse and a skirt.

Here are moccasins.” She spread the many items out on the bed.

“Some of these belonged to your mother.”

“My mother. Unreal. Are you sure this is okay?”

“Aoo’. Now let me take my own shower.”

“So you will be ready for your own young man?”

“Get dressed.”

The pull-on, collared blouse was made out of a dark-blue velveteen, the crushed fabric rippling with color across her chest and down to her hips. The skirt consisted of three wide pale-blue panels—one above the other— and made from a shiny, almost silk-like cotton, sewed together and quite full at the bottom.

Darby had seen moccasins like these before, with hard, white leather soles and soft red leather uppers. They closed with a flap that secured with a thong around a round silver button.

It hurt her shoulder to put on the blouse, but everything seemed to fit. “I’m ready, I think,” she announced when she joined Carmina and Sarah.

“She needs a sash,” decided Sarah, “And a belt, and she needs her hair up and in a tsiiyéél.”

“On it,” Carmina answered with a laugh.

They had Darby sit in one of the chairs. Sarah combed, singing more soft songs, then she took Darby’s hair and folded it twice in a bun and secured it with a wrap of white yarn with pretty tassels on the ends. “There, now it is where it belongs.”

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“Here is a necklace that belonged to your mother.”

“Wow!” Darby stared at the silver necklace, beads alternating with squash blossoms and with turquoise stones set in the ends of the U-shaped pendant at the bottom. She moaned at the weight when Carmina fit it on her, but then took a deep breath, and it felt okay.

They wrapped her waist in a long, flat sash woven out of white, green, and dark-red wool, then added a wide leather belt to hold it in place. Silver conchos stamped with arrows and lightning bolts almost hid the leather.

“There. You look as if you might walk in beauty,” Sarah whispered, and Darby wondered if she caught a hint of near tears in Sarah’s voice.

“Let us both finish getting dressed, and we’ll all be ready.”

Carmina hobbled back to her room.

“What about lunch? I’m sure it’s almost eleven.”

Sarah smiled. “We will eat there. There will be plenty of food. This is a little powwow, mostly for the younger ones to ready them for going back to school. It is new this year.”

“I see.” Although Darby did not really understand at all. She had heard of powwows but had no idea what was to happen.

“What about money?”

“Here is a little purse you can fasten to your belt.”

Finally, all three were ready. Sarah’s hair was up like Darby’s, and she wore a lavender-colored paneled skirt and a red velveteen blouse. From her neck hung strings of turquoise and red coral. On her hands, she wore several silver rings, one with a jet stone, one with a huge turquoise stone.

Carmina’s hair looked the same as always, but she had added silver earrings, and the collar tabs of her maroon-colored blouse were covered with silver points. Her skirt was also a pale blue.

“One more thing: a picture. We need a picture of you and the two of you,” Carmina announced.

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Darby groaned, but then she stood over in front of the suncatcher and smiled while Carmina took a picture of Darby with her phone. Next, Sarah had to stand with Darby for another picture. Finally, Carmina managed a selfie of all three of them.

“My face is so ugly!” Darby cried when she looked at the results.

“No. You are beautiful,” Carmina answered. “Come, now let’s go and powwow.”

They left the house together after telling Custer to mind the sheep. “We will be back to put the sheep away. Don’t you worry,” Sarah told him.

“Take the truck?”

“Aoo’. I need to see if that back is as comfortable as old nichidí.”

“We could take the Highlander,” Darby offered. “It would be more comfortable.”

“Dooda. The new truck is fine with me.” Sarah walked over to the truck and climbed in.

Carmina and Darby exchanged looks. “I tried,” Darby whispered.

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Chapter Thirty-three Agent Woody Thomas and Detective Herb Begay were the first to arrive, getting to the pavilion tent just before the Grand Entry started. They took separate positions in the crowd, saluted for the opening ceremony, bowed their heads for the blessing, then faded to the background. Herb counted six other Navajo policemen in their tan and brown uniforms mingling with the crowd, smiling and shaking hands with many.

The dances started as dozens of boys in regalia of bright feathers, ribbons, and hair roaches turned out on the ground beneath the canopy to stamp to the rhythm of a huge drum and its singers.

By the time Carmina pulled into a parking space at the back of the school’s lot, the powwow was well underway. Darby helped Sarah out of the truck, and the three joined the crowd as it swayed and sang along with the songs of the drum team.

Darby felt as excited as at a football game, but in a different way. This is fun, she thought to herself. She was watching one boy who could not be more than eight or nine bouncing through the steps when Sarah rejoined her with several Navajo tacos wrapped in paper.

“Ahéhee’. Thank you,” she said and dug in. On the second bite, she almost choked. Out on the dancing floor came the young guy who had flirted with her yesterday. His back bustle was a sea of bouncing red and blue, his eyes framed by hanging rings of beads. Red and white lines covered part of his face. A white187

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bone breast plate covered his chest. In his hands, he carried a long eagle feather fan and a stick like a wand.

“You are awesome!” she shouted. And when he turned her way, she waved without thinking. Maybe she caught a wink in return.

The dances continued all afternoon. No sooner did a drum stop than the MC would be calling for a new dance first in Navajo, then in English. The drum, or a different one, would start up again, and new dancers would make their way out onto the dancing ground. Sometimes the dancers were adult men or youth, sometimes they were boys. Women and girls danced too, in long dresses, using slow, precise steps. In one dance, the girls wore long, tasseled shawls which they would lift and sway. It was while that dance was going on that Laurence joined her, still in his regalia except for the bustles. “Yá’át’ééh, Darby. You did come.”

“Yá’át’ééh.” Darby wasn’t sure how she felt now about being with this young man, who, she had to admit, was quite goodlooking. “I did not know you were to be one of the dancers?”

“It’s fun. You should learn to dance too, Sǫʼ Anii’.”

“What? What did you just call me?”

“Sǫʼ Anii’.” You have a star, a red star in the middle of your cheek. It makes you ‘Star Face.”

Darby’s hand leaped to her cheek. “Is it bad? Does it make me ugly?”

“Naa. It makes you beautiful and mysterious.” He leaned a little bit closer. “Today, you look all Navajo.” He laughed and stepped back. “So you live here all the time? How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” she admitted.

“You go to school here?”

She slowly shook her head, puzzled by that question for the first time. Back home, she hated school. She and her friends’ biggest challenge each week was to find a new way to leave early or cut classes. Learning was boring. Only swimming and 188

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cruising around in the evening, when the air would cool, gave her a daily pleasure. She’d considered trying some of the less dangerous drugs, but with her breathing problem, had been afraid that even a little puff of something might be too much.

Here, learning actually sounded like it might be fun.

“Where do you live?” she asked him.

“Many Farms.”

“North of Chinle, right?”

“You got it, Sǫʼ Anii’.”

“Are you a student there?”

“Yes, a senior. Plan to start at Diné College next year. Want to be a teacher. Say, hey, catch you later. I’d better get back on the dance floor. We can talk again later.” He gave her a little bow and headed back to the school building.

Darby took a deep breath. “Wow! Sǫʼ Anii’? So, I’m Sǫʼ Anii’—Star face. Sounds almost like Scarface, but nicer.” She rubbed the hard spot on her cheek, then scanned the crowd. She could see Carmina standing next to Sarah, both talking to a young man. Wait! That’s Herb, the detective, the one who’s sweet on Carmina. So, he’s back here. Is that good? Darby hoped so. She should rejoin them. She started through the crowd, carefully stepping around the many children and giving bows of respect to the older women and men. A middle-aged man sidled up to her. “Where are you going, white girl?” he suddenly asked.

Darby gave him a sideways look but did not stop. He was tall with a hooked nose and smelled of sweat and dust. She wrinkled her nose but did not answer. Keep moving, she told herself.

“Hey, white girl, I’m talking to you. What are you doing here, acting like you’re one of the Diné. You need to come with me.” He grabbed her right arm—hard, painfully hard. It was difficult to understand his words over the sounds of the drum, the stamping feet, and the people all singing.

“Get away from me,” she hissed and twisted until she could dig her nails into his hand.

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He grabbed her fingers with his other hand, forcing her closer.

“You’re hurting me. Let go!” She rammed her right foot into his instep. The tall man loosened his grip but did not let go.

“You need to release her—right now.” A new voice, an Anglo, had the stranger by his other arm. The tall stranger turned to face the new man, who held up an open wallet on which Darby could see a badge and a photo. “FBI. You need to let Ms. Donati go, and you are under arrest for attempted kidnapping.”

A sudden, violent twist of the hand and the man was free and fighting his way out of the crowd, many of whom were falling back in confusion.

A crack loud enough that Darby heard it over the crowd rang out, and the tall stranger was on the ground, wiggling and crying.

Herb Begay stood over him, grabbed his arms, and cuffed him.

Darby closed her eyes and took one deep breath after another.

Calm … be calm, please, throat, please don’t close. She felt her throat with her hand, then moved over to rub her left shoulder.

The pulling had brought new pain.

“Darby?”

Darby’s eyes widened. “Father? Dad, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to take you home. Come, we’re leaving right now.” Her father could not quite block the rage in his voice.

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Chapter Thirty-four “Oh, Dad.” Darby reached out and tried to hug her father.

He stiffened, then placed one arm around her. “We must leave right now. Mr. Morales is waiting in the car. I have reservations in Page.”

“Dad! I can’t leave right now. I have to talk with my aunt and great-grandmother. I have to return these clothes, go get my own.” She was starting to cry, although she could not seem to know why. “I have to go get Hunter.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t need the Highlander because right now, you’re grounded. You can’t go running off to the wilds of nowhere, not tell anyone where you are, and play Indian without a care in the world. You are going with me. You can mail those clothes back to your supposed relatives after you get home.”

“No! No, I can’t just do that.”

“Mr. Donati? Hi, I’m Detective Begay. We have this man under control and in a vehicle lockup. I believe it is safe for your daughter now. It will only take an hour for her to go back to the Roanhorse holding to pack up her stuff and get her vehicle. I believe it would be safe to wait that long.”

“How do you know anything at all about my daughter?”

“Excuse me. I am Herbert Begay, and I am a detective with the Navajo Police. We have been investigating this whole affair since the beginning of the month, since those bodies showed up

by Lake Mead. One of those people was Navajo, so naturally we were interested.”

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Pete was digesting this information when Carmina and Sarah joined them. “What just happened?” Sarah asked. “It looked horrible.”

“Who are you?” Pete demanded.

“I’m sorry. Shichó. My father can be very rude. Dad, this is Asdzáán Sarah Roanhorse, my great-grandmother. This is Carmina Yazzie, Shi’ma yazhi, my aunt, my mother’s sister.

They are the ones I have been living with these last weeks. I am sorry I have not spoken to you directly. I have no phone, and we have no reception at the house. I did call Mrs. Morales. I wanted to call you, but it is so hard to reach you.” She sniffed, her tears under control now that she knew she was not going to have a breathing seizure. “Other than you, they are my closest living relatives. I thought it would be okay to stay here and get to know them. It has been safe. Monica told me to go here.”

“Perkins told you what?! And how did you get that hideous mark on your cheek? Did you go through some initiation?”

“No. I was shot. It is only a little hole, and I’m fine.” She almost smiled at the ashen look her father gave her.

She was aware that Laurence had rejoined her. “Hi.” He offered a hand to Pete. “I’m Laurence Nez. Are you her father?

She’s been enjoying the powwow.”

Never had Darby seen such horror and hatred sweep across her father’s face as he stared at the youth with his beads and painted face. .“Mr. Donati?” the federal agent stepped in front of Laurence, took Pete’s arm, and pulled him farther away from the crowd.

“We need to get some information from you and your daughter. I think it’d be better if we did that back at the great-grandmother’s holding instead of here in front of hundreds of other people.”

“What about that man who looked like he was about to abduct my daughter?”

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think Detective Begay has things under control. Please, can we go?”

“Okay. But I don’t want that savage friend of my daughter coming with us.”

Darby took a deep breath and turned to her dancer. “I’m sorry, Laurence. I never knew my father could be such a bigot.

Please, I have to go, but do you understand? When I get back here, maybe we can see each other again?”

“I understand.” Laurence nodded, but his face had gone hard, and he would not look her way.

“Okay, Shichó, let’s go. My father will follow us.”

“No.” Pete tried. But when Darby took Sarah’s hand and started for the back of the lot, he did not follow.

“We will wait by the exit for the lot, and you can follow us,” Darby called back.

The three got in the truck and drove to the school lot’s exit.

There they waited until a Land Cruiser with Nevada plates pulled in behind them. Herb in a Navajo SUV pulled in behind, then the federal agent pulled in behind him. Carmina waved to a policeman standing there, and they were on their way.

“Your father? Oh, dear. He is not as I expected. I do not know how Viola could have loved such a man.”

“I am beginning to wonder that as well,” Darby put in. Why was there so much hate all of a sudden?

“Hush, do not speak evil of your own,” Sarah said.

“But Laurence is not a savage!”

“We were watching. He seemed to be a well-spoken young man. Do you know what his clans are?”

“I already asked. None of ours.”

“Oooh, Shi’deezhi yazhi already knows what is important to know.” Sarah laughed.

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sickness of separation, I know a singer who would be willing to do the Enemyway ceremony.”

“Thank you, oh, dear Aunt Carmina, Ahéhee’.” *** It was nearly dark before they turned into the compound.

Darby hopped out to open the gate to let the truck in, then let the waiting sheep in.

“I must check that there is enough water for the sheep. You go on ahead and get packed,” Carmina told Darby as she limped over to the barn.

“Ahéhee’,” Darby answered, then waited for Sarah to enter the house before she followed.

She fled back to Carmina’s bedroom where she took off the necklace, belt, and sash, clenched her teeth, and pulled the blouse over her head. “God! That hurt,” she whispered and rubbed her shoulder until the pain dulled. Skirt off, she reached for her jeans. She was starting to cry again. “I don’t want to go back— not yet, not this way.” She gingerly pulled on a sleeved T-shirt with its Under Armor logo, changed her shoes, and grabbed her jacket. She left her hair tied up with the yarn.

She could hear her father’s voice out in the main room, complaining, demanding, but also answering questions from the agent and Herb.

“Okay, what else? Carmina, can you help me?” She called out. Darby stared at her bug-out bag. For almost three weeks, it had been her only suitcase. What if … She reached in and grabbed her wallet, her passport, and the fobs to the Highlander.

What else did she really need now? Nothing. All this would keep and be ready—just in case.

“What is it?” Carmina asked. “May I come in?”

“Yes. Listen,” Darby whispered. “I’m leaving my bag here.

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back here, but I may need it when I do. How can I get a hold of you?”

“Just our names and ‘Piñon Post Office, AZ’ will reach us.

Oh. But how will we reach you?”

“What is your number? If and when I get a new phone, I might be able to keep the old number. Here, do you have something to write on?”

“Just enter it in my contacts.” Carmina logged into her phone and handed it to Darby.

A minute later, Darby had done all she could think of and left the bedroom. “I’ll be ready in a minute. Just let me use the bathroom.”

Pete, still talking to the FBI agent, grunted.

She used the toilet then stared at herself in the mirror, studying the red star on her cheek. “You are Sǫʼ Anii’ now. You have a Navajo name given to you by another Navajo. This is the real you, not some Darby Donati who never thought about, nor cared for, anyone else.”

A sudden thought entered her mind. She remembered how Carmina had learned that she was related to the dead woman by the lake. DNA, it was through her DNA. She grabbed a facial tissue out of its box, wiped the inside of her mouth with the tissue, then spit in it as well. Coming out of the bathroom, she carried the tissue over to the kitchen counter near where Herb stood.

“I’m ready.” She nudged Herb. When he looked her way, she pointed to the tissue with one hand while pointing to her mouth with the other, then left it on the counter.

“Aoo’,” he whispered without seeming to look her way.

“I’m all ready now,” she told her father.

Pete took a deep breath. “Good. Mr. Morales will drive the Highlander. You will ride with me. It’s late, but I think we can still make Page by eleven. Keys?”

Darby pulled one fob out of her pocket and handed it to her father.

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Chapter Thirty-five Pete led the way in the Cruiser, followed by Mr. Morales in the Highlander, taking the route in reverse that Darby had driven coming from Utah. The road was dark and quiet, the cruiser’s lights piercing a black nothing, except for flashes of bunchgrass like miniature fans of yellow-white opening and closing as the breeze from the vehicles’ passing moved them.

“Desolate. How does anyone live out here? How can anyone stand to live out here?” Pete wondered.

I once wondered that too, Darby thought, but she said nothing.

“You know you are grounded? Totally, completely. No visiting with friends, no shopping, no going anywhere—period.

Except for school, once that starts. Mr. Morales will drive you there, then pick you up to take you home. That’s it.

“And don’t go giving me that drop-dead face. This is not just punishment, it’s also for your own safety. The people who would kill you are still out there. We’ve won some of the battles, but have not yet won the war. Can’t you see how dangerous it is?

Another one almost got you tonight.”

“I was taking care of myself. And I have friends who were watching out for me. You didn’t have to pull me out of there right then.”

“Who? That kid all dressed in costume and war paint?”

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“What he was wearing is called ‘regalia,’ not ‘costume.’ He doesn’t wear that every day. And, yes, I think he would have taken that guy out if Herb Begay hadn’t gotten to him first.”

“Begay was the plainclothes cop who came back to the house?”

“Yes.” “He, and that federal agent—Thomas—were sure asking a lot of questions.”

“I think they have to. It’s their job.”

“Too many questions.”

Both were silent for several minutes.

“How’s Monica doing?” Darby finally asked.

“You will not be seeing her again.” A pause. “She’s recovering. All her medical expenses were covered or will be covered.”

“Meaning?”

“She no longer works for Donati Enterprises.”

“She doesn’t? Dad, I’m sorry, but that really sucks. She just saved my life, and almost lost hers doing it. Why?” “She disobeyed me.”

“And that’s it? After how many years of giving up her whole life to protect me? That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair.”

Another long silence.

“How is Daisy Hamish doing?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Do I get a new cell phone?”

“What happened to your old one?”

“Fell out of my pocket when I was kidnapped at the Hamishes’.”

“Oh.” More silence.

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Lodging brought the next crisis when Darby revealed that she had no pajamas, toothbrush, or extra clothing with her. “What the hell were you doing out there? Did you just go primitive?

Did you wear the same clothes night and day?”

“No, I just slept in my skivvies,” Darby lied, and was pleased by the look of horror on her father’s face.

“I should have gotten you out of there sooner.” *** Woody placed a call to the Virginia Headquarters the next day. “Hey, Ken. Herb and I just mailed you a saliva sample.

Could you rush process it, then compare it to the DNA that we got off the three victims in the Lake Mead homicide? Both the woman and the adult male.”

“What? Whose is it?”

“Pete Donati’s daughter’s.”

“Ooh. I thought Donati said he’d already gotten a DNA test and it proved that she was definitely his daughter.”

“That’s what he said, but we need to check.”

“How did you get it?”

“Darby, the daughter, gave Detective Begay a tissue she’d spit in.”

“Did he ask her for it?”

“No. She just handed it to him without being asked. Took both of us several minutes to be sure what it was.”

“Why would she do that? How’d a teenager think to do that?”

“I don’t know, but we have it. This might be one of the answers we’re looking for.” *** The two SUVs reached Las Vegas in the afternoon of the second day of the journey. The happiest moment came when 198

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Mrs. Morales ran out of the house and into the garage to hug and kiss Darby. “Oh, my little one. You are safe and home. All my prayers have been answered.”

“What about me?” Jack said, laughing. “Don’t I count?”

“Poof! You’re just my husband. I knew you would be safe.

But this one, she is the lost sheep that God has brought home.

Come, we knew you were coming. I have salmon and rib-eye steaks—surf and turf—special for tonight, with new potatoes and fresh-cut green beans—better than that Marble Plaza place ever serves. Oh, and a surprise for dessert. You will see. Ugh. What happened to your face? You have this red mark like a star on your cheek? Is it paint, or a scar? How could you get such a thing?”

“Someone shot me,” Darby told her.

“Oh, dear, dear Jesus. No! But you are well? Okay? Come, let’s get you inside, out of this heat, so you can freshen up and get changed. You have any baggage?”

“No, Marie. Just me.” Darby winked at Marie.

“Did you just call me ‘Marie?’ You never did before. I guess, with you all grown up, it’s okay. Well, go on, get inside.”

The moment Darby left, Mrs. Morales turned on Pete.

“What did you do to her? She is a changed person. Look at her: Straighter, leaner, maybe older. All of a sudden, poof, child is gone.”

“You know what happened. She was with those Indian relatives of her mother’s.”

“Yes. Well, except for that mark, it does not seem to have hurt her.” Marie opened the door to the main house, then followed Pete and Jack inside, kissing her husband as he went by. *** School would start on Monday. Darby lay on her bed on top of the coverlet and stared at the ceiling, wondering what 199

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was about to happen that day and every day after that. Always, before, it had been Daisy, Eric, and herself in every class, eating together every lunch, going to concerts together. They had even shared swimming and cross-country sports together. ‘The Three Musketeers’ other classmates had called them. Now, she was alone—a lone musketeer? Sure, she had other friends, Andrea, Todd, Ginny, all part of an academic clique that considered themselves the best of the best that her high school had to offer.

Daisy might be back someday, but she already knew it would not be the same. She had cost her brother his life. How could anyone forgive that?

“Were we, are we, snobs?” What would all these friends think when they found out she was half-Navajo? She could already hear the remarks. “Squaw-Girl,” “Half-breed.” “Oh, Little White Dove, are you looking for Running Bear?”

How do we grow up so intolerant? So prejudiced? She did not want to go. “I have to …because I tell you to.” If she didn’t go, how else was she to get out of this prison? She had to go.

The next few days were going to be impossible. Her father had said, “No visitors.” This only made it worse. Several of her friends tried to call her on the house phone. Marie did tell her that. When she did get to answer and tried to explain that she was in lockdown, the response was “Oh, I’m so sorry. I won’t bother you again.” The last call was yesterday. Now she knew she would welcome even a scam call.

And she was afraid. Yes, she was safe and home, but …

Twice she had tried to get Dad to explain what and who the danger was. All he said was “We’re working on a solution.” If he really was, wouldn’t that strange Theresa Fineboro, or whoever she was, be in jail? Why had no one with the police interviewed her?

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Long sigh. She dragged herself back onto her feet. If only she could talk to Monica, but her former guard appeared to have vanished from the face of the Earth.

She wandered down to the kitchen. Marie would have to be there now, working on supper. Once, Marie would be bossing her around one minute, then consoling her the next. But since Darby had come home, Marie had barely said a word to her.

Marie could not complain about her behavior now. The last two mornings, she had gotten herself up by seven, dressed, and even made her own breakfast. She worked out in the gym, walking the treadmill and lifting weights with her legs. With her still-tender shoulder, the barbell was out of the question, but she lifted dumbbells with her right until her body glowed with sweat.

Once she tried to make her own frybread, but couldn’t find any lard in the house, and all the flour was coarse-grain, unbleached, healthy stuff. Somehow, Darby knew that any results would not taste or cook the same.

“Hello, Marie. What are you making?”

“Meat loaf. You like it. It’s my own special recipe.”

“Ah-uh. I like it.”

“Good. So, why so glum?”

“Too many unanswered questions.”

“I’m not so good at answering questions. You know me. I try to lead a simple life. Stay out of trouble. Such as?”

“The woman who died in the lake: She was my mother.

Monica told me that. Then who was the man, and who was the little girl that was with her?”

Marie stared at the loaf pan as if it was about to hold answers instead of ground beef and pork. “Monica told you the truth; that woman was your mother. You met your aunt—her sister—and a great-grandmother. So you know it is true as well. Too many lies. This whole city is lies; the casinos, everything is built on lies. Viola—Vivie, we called her—was sweet, hard-working.

She loved little Connie, maybe, I admit, more than you. She was 201

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the only one who could stop her crying and make her smile. She was such a pretty child, delicate, like a glass sculpture, but a real handful. You used to try to play with her, but she would beat on you, steal your toys, scream. Sad, so sad.”

“And that was Connie, the child’s body, who was found?”

“I assume so.”

“Who was the man?”

“That was probably Ben, although no one has said publicly.

Ben Blakeslee. He worked at the casino. He loved Vivie. And, I guess, she loved him. Maybe that’s why Mr. Donati … maybe why he didn’t want Ben around the house. We did not see him very often. He was always good to you when he came, always when Mr. Donati wasn’t home.”

“So, is Mr. Donati my real father? Or was this Ben Blakeslee?”

Marie froze.

“Please, I want the truth. Not the lies everyone tells me all the time.”

“Darby, I can’t answer your question with truth or lies, because I don’t know. All I know is that when Vivie started to work for Theresa and Mr. Donati, you were already a year old.

“I remember when she interviewed. She had to meet Connie, of course. Connie was crying up a storm, rolling around on the floor, screaming. Vivie came in, and you were with her. “It was a test, you know, to see what Vivie would do. She was the fourth nanny. The first three quit because they couldn’t control Connie. Vivie put you down, and you immediately tottered over to Connie, and offered her the toy you had brought with you.

Connie stopped crying just like that.

“And that was it. Vivie was hired because you could calm Connie. But did Mr. Donati know your mother two years earlier?

Or did she already know this Ben? I don’t know. Mr. Donati knows many women; many want to know him. Anything is possible.” Marie, eyes averted, began to shape the ground meat into the baking pan.

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“The woman I met up in the mountains, the one who called herself Theresa Donati, or Theresa Fineboro, is she really Dad’s former wife? Was she Connie’s mother?”

“If she told you that was her name, then that’s who she is.

Why no police? Quien Sabe? Who knows? Here, money talks, and the police listen.”

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Chapter Thirty-six Seven a.m., Monday, and the first day of junior year. Darby still did not have a phone of her own. “We’ll see, soon,” was the response to the question from her father. Actually, Darby didn’t miss it that much. She marveled at this new indifference as she dressed in cargo shorts, a school-code blue polo shirt, and jogging shoes with pom-pom socklets. Was the phone itch all gone? Would it have to be a thumb’s touch away when she had one again?

She picked up a comb and began to comb out her tresses.

Once she had always worn her hair down—one fall of a dark, almost black wave ending just above her waist—or in a ponytail when she ran. Now all she kept thinking about was how cool and comfortable it had felt all folded and secured by the yarn—what Sarah called a tsiiyéél. She still had that length of white yarn.

She opened her top drawer and stared at it. “Don’t be stupid!”

She closed the drawer and started downstairs, paused, then went back up to her room. This time she opened her larger jewelry box, lifted the inner lid, and took out a brown leather belt stamped with leaves and vines. Its silver buckle held one small turquoise stone. “Hmm.” The buckle had been a gift from one of Pete’s aunts years ago. She’d been into gold-colored stuff then and hadn’t given it more than a glance and a quick “thank you.” In fact, she had never worn it.

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“I bet this is Navajo.” She threaded the belt through her shorts’ belt loops, studied the results in her full-length mirror, and resumed her trip to the breakfast nook.

“Oh, you are here already. I was just about to call for you to get up.” Marie smiled her morning greeting. “I was just making bacon and eggs. Any way you want your eggs?”

“Over-easy, my usual.” Darby got out a loaf of whole-wheat bread and took two slices off the end and popped them in the toaster. Then she started to search the refrigerator for butter.

“What are you doing, Poko Puerta mia?”

“Just trying to help get things on the table.”

Marie shook her head, then turned her attention back to the bacon.

Jack Morales was waiting beside the black Cadillac SUV that Darby’s father used when he wanted something fancy, but not quite as fancy as the Rolls. Another man, tall, big, with his head hair shaved off, stood beside him. “You ready, Ms. Darby?”

“I am so ready. Who are you?”

The big guy stepped back, but then offered a slight dip of his head. “I’m Mr. Ryan. I am to be your new bodyguard. Sorry, we had not met earlier. I just started yesterday.”

“I’m Darby Donati-Yazzie. Pleased to meet you.” She suppressed a smile as both Ryan’s and Jack’s eyes went wide.

“Let’s go.”

As they stopped at the school drop-off zone, Darby turned to Mr. Morales. “By the way, I have cross-country, so I will be here, but done by 4 p.m. I will be waiting just inside the gym doors and will watch for you to pull up.”

“Mr. Donati didn’t say anything about after-school activities.”

“I’m sure, Mr. Ryan, if it were going to be a problem, Dad would have mentioned it.” Without waiting for another protest, Darby jumped out of the car, grabbed her gym and book bags, and headed up the steps for the main entrance of her school.

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“Hey, Darby. You’re back!”

Just inside the metal detectors, Darby paused to wave to one of her other friends.

Andrea was petite with almost-natural-appearing blonde hair, a small bust and a not-so-small butt she was always complaining about. Darby had long ago gotten tired of hearing complaints about Andrea’s “big tush,” but otherwise, she was okay, almost as close a friend as Eric and Daisy had been. “We missed you at Eric’s funeral. I’d have thought that you, of all people, would have definitely been there. God, it was so crazy, everyone crying, and Daisy sitting there like a zombie, not saying one word. So sad.”

Andrea gave her a close stare. “You were in Arizona, right?

Phoenix, Tucson?”

“I was in Arizona.”

“I tried to call you several times, even tried your house number. The woman there said you weren’t taking calls yet.

Someone else said you’d gone down there to check out schools for after you graduate. Oh, hey, there’s Todd. Hey, Todd, look who’s back.”

Todd waved. “Looks like one of the Three Musketeers has survived. With Eric and Daisy gone, we thought maybe you were gone for good, too.”

“Daisy’s alive, isn’t she?” Darby asked.

“In body, yes, but I think her brain took a flight to San Francisco or someplace. Hear she can’t speak except to make grunting noises. And she walks like she’s drunk. It’s sad, so sad.

We may not see her in school at all this fall.”

Darby could not think of a word to say. Her sore shoulder was nothing compared to what the Hamish family had gone through. “Can we get to homeroom?” *** 206

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The first day of classes was “run-run, go-go” all day. But after greetings from friends, the rest of the day did feel close to normal. Darby caught a few stares, but no one commented on her cheek—at least not to her face. She was beginning to hope that the last month might be water under the bridge—until she started changing into her running shorts and top for crosscountry. She groaned as she pulled off her polo top and Susie, another, not-as-close friend, eeked, “What happened to your shoulder? Did you get shot?”

Darby sighed. “Yeah. Twenty-gauge shotgun at less than twenty feet.”

“Oh. Did it hurt? Who did it? Did he get away? Was he arrested? This have anything to do with Eric getting shot? Were you there at that break-in?”

Susie asked too many questions, and Darby didn’t want to answer any of them.

Other girls were staring at her and her still-red shoulder.

“That looks like it was real bad. You’re lucky you didn’t lose an arm.”

Darby stood. “I’m okay. It was just a flesh wound.” How cliché did that sound now? “Yes, it was connected to Eric’s killing, but I wasn’t there when it happened. And I may not talk about it, okay?”

“I hope I never get shot.”

“Cool, but not cool.”

“Better a shotgun instead of one of those AR-15s, or whatever they’re called.”

Darby checked her shoes and went outside to run.

Mr. Ryan, in a sweatshirt and shorts, was waiting beside the coach, who was holding his watch and pad to mark starting times. Coach nodded to Darby as she stretched and trotted in place. “You know this guy?”

“Yes. He’s Mr. Ryan.”

“He’s your new bodyguard?”

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“Yes.” “Okay. Got a call from your father saying this guy was coming in. Says he’ll run with you.”

“Okay.” What else could she say? “I’m on my way.” She waved, joined Andrea, and headed around the football field track to warm up, then took off across the yucca-and-bunchgrasslittered back acreage.

After five minutes, Darby knew that something was different.

She was running—faster than she had ever run before—but, except for her shoulder, she felt great. Her heart wasn’t pounding, her lungs were easily sucking in air, her legs were just eating up the ground. Last year, every time she ran, she’d felt like her throat was about to close up any second. She’d always had an inhaler with her, hoping she would make it, and that no one would order her out for drugs. Today, she didn’t even have the inhaler with her. Turning the first turn of the track, a revelation hit her. In the Diné Nation, she was over a mile high, maybe over 6,000 feet; here it was only 1,500. She remembered how tired she’d felt at Sarah’s the first few days. That is what it had been—altitude.

She glanced behind her. Andrea was not too far behind her, but her face was bright red and shiny. She looked like she was about to die. Right behind her was Mr. Ryan, pushing along, eyes moving left and right. How fit is this guy? If I push, can I lose him, even for a minute?

Darby, he’s not here to protect you, but to guard you. No way is Daddy going to let his dear, wild, irresponsible daughter run off again.

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Chapter Thirty-seven “He has her back where he wants her.”

Saul nodded. “So, what do you want me to do about it?

Look, Theresa, you blew it. You know that; I know that. If you’d just have told that Roberto guy to shoot her while she was still hanging out with her Indian buddies, we could just have called it a day and be done. But no. You told him to bring her in alive.

Now I got to find a way to bail him out of the county jail in Winslow without a money trail coming back to bite me. And Pete has his Darby locked down tighter than a cow’s bunghole in fly time.”

“Dad, your language!” Theresa groaned. “Their place is like a fortress,” she admitted.

“School?”

“Have you tried to break into a school, any school, these days? They’re like Fort Knox: guards, locked doors. Plus, she has this big guard guy hanging around her. Runs with her during cross-country, hangs out with the other guards the rest of the time. They won’t let him bring a gun into the school, but he looks like someone who could clear out a bar in a fight, including the bouncer.”

“Okay, Theresa. I hear you. Please, why don’t you give it up?”

“And live the rest of my life knowing that she’s getting to live the life my Constance was supposed to have? And right 209

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now, if Pete dies, she gets everything, and you and I get nothing.

No way! She has got to die!” *** Mr. Donati was waiting in the living room when Darby, Jack Morales, and the new guard got home from the school. “How’d it go, Darby?”

“For a first day of school, a more normal day than I thought possible,” Darby admitted. “What’s for supper? I’m starving.”

“Supper in half an hour,” Marie called from the kitchen.

“Let me take my shower, and I’ll be ready.” She headed for the stairs.

“Darby. We need to talk.”

Darby paused, one foot on the first step. “Right now? Can it wait until after I shower and eat?”

“Right now.”

Oh, crap. “Okay, I guess. Where? Right here?”

“No. In the library.”

Darby had been avoiding her father for days—since she got home—with many questions swirling through her mind but knowing that he would probably not answer any of them—at least not honestly. She followed him into the library with its shelf after shelf of beautiful leather-bound, gold-stenciled volumes.

She had never seen her father read any of them.

“The woman who met you in the mountains—she said she was Theresa Donati?”

“Yes.” Darby sat down in one of the room’s wing-back chairs. Her father took the other. “She said she ‘once was Theresa Donati, your wife.’”

“What else did she say?”

“She told me that my mother was her daughter’s nanny. That my mother ran away with her boyfriend and her little girl, and that a ‘team’ tracked them down. The team shot the boyfriend.

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But, Dad, why would my mother run away with this Connie girl and leave me behind? Why would she run away at all? And how did they manage to drown in the lake?”

“She told you all this?”

“Yes.” “Do you believe what she said?”

“Why wouldn’t I? She was about to kill me. Why would she lie if she was going to zero me?”

Dad just shook his head. “Why did you think you needed to go to the reservation and find your mother’s relatives? Why didn’t you drive back here after you got Ms. Perkins to the hospital in St. George?”

“Because that’s what Monica told me I had to do.”

“Perkins told you to do that? And why’d you stay there, even after a man tried to kill you?”

Darby had to think about that one. She’d already been shot.

She was in pain. The man had shot at her family. “I don’t know. I guess, after the police took him away, it felt safer there than back here.” Sarah shot me, too, but somehow, I trusted her right away.

“Here you are safe; you are not safe anywhere else. Do you understand that?”

“Is Theresa still a danger?”

“Yes. More than ever.”

“Then why hasn’t she been arrested? Does that mean I’m stuck inside here—except going to school—for the rest of my life?”

“Yes, unless we can locate and convince Theresa to stop.”

“Why aren’t the police or the FBI involved?”

“This is not a police matter. This is family. Family will take care of it.”

“The police and the FBI were involved in Piñon. Dad, this is stupid! You’re telling me that I have to be a prisoner here forever because this is a ‘family matter?’” Darby waved her hands in quotes. “What isn’t a ‘family’ matter? You make this sound like 211

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some kind of Mafia hit or Mexican cartel gang war. Can’t you talk to these people, work something out?”

“I’m telling you this. We are talking with people, trying to work things out. Until then, this is how it has to be.”

“Did I answer all your questions?”

“I guess.”

“Then I’m going to take my shower. I stink.” Darby got up and walked out. *** The rest of the school week was the same: An escorted trip to school with Jack driving and her personal guard up front. Darby did learn that his first name was Jason, but that “Mr. Ryan” was the expected address. He still showed up for her afternoon run.

The guys tried kidding him about an old guy trying to keep up with them. He ran faster. The girls all avoided him. “He’s spookier than a dark alley on Halloween,” Andrea confided.

“How do you stand to be around him?”

“Like I have a choice.”

“Does he stay in your house too? Twenty-four hours, seven days a week?”

“I don’t know. I never met him before Monday, when he just showed up. Maybe he’s using one of the back bedrooms.

Whenever I come down for breakfast, he’s always ready and waiting.”

“And the school is okay with this?”

Darby shrugged. “I guess.” *** The internet was also off-limits. She still had her laptop.

She needed it to write up assignments. What about research and submitting papers?

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“No,” was the immediate response from dear Dad, but then he relented enough to allow her to use Wikipedia and log into the school account so she could submit her homework. Dad must have gotten some kind of filter put on her machine because the one time she tried to do a Google search for information on the bodies found in Lake Mead, her computer froze. She had had to reboot, and everything she had entered in her search was gone.

Saturday, Mr. Ryan was off. Which, Dad told her before he left for the casino, meant no computer time at all.

“What am I to do? Watch my hair grow?”

“Watch a movie?”

“If I can’t get online, how am I to download a movie?”

“Use the entertainment center in the family room. Or play a computer game? Or exercise in the gym. Darby, you think about it, I’m sure you’ll figure out something to do. There’s got to be more possibilities here than that tiny house on the reservation.”

“I had people there to talk to and who cared for me.”

“We all care for you here. That’s why the lockdown.”

“Can I please go somewhere, anywhere? I mean, I know Mr. Morales will have to drive me, and Mr. Ryan has to be there, but please, pretty please—anywhere other than here, at least for a few hours.”

“No. Well, maybe in a week or two, if things have settled down.” *** “A match?”

“The sample the girl left with the Navajo detective is right on the money: ninety percent for Viola Yazzie—which we expected—but also, for the male—who we are certain was this Benjamin Blakeslee.”

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Agent Preston Page stood up and walked around his office, flexing his fingers. “So, what Donati, her supposed father, told us is all a lie.”

“How did he lie?” Ken asked over the computer’s speaker.

“Said the girl was definitely his daughter, that he’d had a DNA test done to prove it.”

“Yes, then he lied.” Ken agreed. “But now get this. We requested a birth certificate for Darby Sarah Donati. Nevada can’t find one. Nothing. Checked with Arizona: nothing.”

“But she has a passport, right?” Page stopped to stare at the Skype image on the computer screen.

“Yes. Maybe the birth certificate the State Department got was fake. But we did just learn something else. Our friend with the Navajo Police, Herb Begay—the same detective who sent me the girl’s DNA sample to test—he has just sent me something else.”

Preston looked blank.

“You might not remember the name, but he worked with Agent Thomas out of the Gallup office and with me on the investigation into the attempted murder of the Donati girl’s aunt.”

“I remember that part.”

“He just contacted me two days ago. The Donati girl is registered with the tribe. But not under the name Darby Donati.”

“What! Explain, please.”

Ken opened a separate document on his computer and sized it to share the screen with the view of himself. “You can read it here. A person with at least one-quarter Navajo ancestry—in other words, at least one Navajo grandparent—can register as a member of the tribe. Any Navajo parent—wherever she or he lives—would have a major interest in seeing that their child is registered because it carries employment preferences, benefits for medical care, and education courtesy of the tribe. So, since 214

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Yazzie was Navajo, she would have wanted her daughter to be registered, even if the father was white.”

“I see. But how did Begay find her?”

“He looked under ‘Viola Yazzie,’ her mother’s name. Here’s the registration: born in Las Vegas hospital, January 12th (sixteen and a half years ago), a daughter. You should be able to read it on the screen?”

“I can read it. ‘Mother’s maiden name: Viola Sarah Yazzie.

Father: Benjamin Oswald Blakeslee. Name: Nááts’íílid Sarah Yazzie-Blakeslee.”

“Nááts’íílid? Sounds Navajo. That’s a mouthful. What does it mean?”

“I looked it up. First word means—get this—‘rainbow.’

She’s a ‘rainbow girl.’ Maybe because she’s half-Navajo, half Anglo.”

“Nááts’íílid? I guess I could get used to it. You pronounce the two As high but even, right?”

“And the long Is, with a glottal stop in the middle. Sorta like NAts’ ilid.”

“What do we do now? How do we let the girl—and her supposed father— know?”

“Good question. She’s back in school, but otherwise, no one has seen her.”

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Chapter Thirty-eight Darby paused, forkful of no-name custard half-way to her mouth. “Todd, why are you staring at me?”

“When did you get that scar on your cheek?” her classmate asked from his seat across from her. Darby and Andrea were sharing their lunch table with Todd and Stevie, another male friend.

Darby took a deep breath, realizing that she’d forgotten to put a dab of face cream on the scar that morning. “Four weeks ago.”

“What happened?” Andrea was staring at her too now.

“Gun accident.”

“That’s awful! That the same shot that hit your shoulder?

You could have lost an eye, or been killed. Did it happen while you were in Arizona?”

Darby sighed. How could she answer her friends’ questions without ending up with a lie. “Yes. It happened while I was in Arizona. Someone thought they saw something. Turned out that something was me. I kinda walked into it.”

Todd harumphed. “It looks sorta like a star.”

“That’s I: Sǫʼ Anii—Star Face.”

“Sǫ? Where’s that come from?”

Darby took a deep breath. “It’s Navajo. I found out last month that I’m half Navajo.”

Todd gasped. “And we always thought you were just dark Italian. Wow, what do you know?”

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“You really are part Indian—Native American, Indigenous?”

Andrea reached across the table to touch one of Darby’s lower arms.

“Ah-huh. Is that okay? It doesn’t make me icky, does it?”

“No. You’re still cool. Actually, cooler with that star on your cheek.”

Darby closed her eyes for a moment and sighed.

“So, do I get to go anywhere this weekend?” Darby dumped her school bag at the foot of the stairs and headed for the kitchen with its promise of a quick shot of Marie’s homemade lemonade.

“Yes.” “What!” Darby rotated to stare at her father. “You’re letting me out? Woo-hoo!! How long?”

“How does four hours on Saturday afternoon sound? Mr. Morales will take you anywhere you want to go as long as it’s not the Strip or any of the places near the casinos.”

“So, I could go out in the countryside for a little while?”

“That’s what we’re thinking.”

“I’ll … I’ll take it. Thanks, Daddy.” She leaned close enough to give him a dry peck on one cheek, then headed for the kitchen.

“It will make her so happy,” Jack whispered to Pete.

“Just you and Jason make sure she stays safe. We’re not free of that she-demon yet.” *** Darby almost felt like singing all through supper, then took an evening swim for the first time since school had started. She took several laps, then grabbed the pool’s inflated mattress and just floated for several minutes. Why out on probation? Something’s still not right. She let her thoughts wander, then got out, toweled herself, and walked around back and entered the garage. The Highlander was still there. The rear window was new, but the 217

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back of the driver’s seat was still a rag of shredded cloth. The doors were locked. She expected that, but everything else inside looked the same as when Jack brought it home. Which might mean the guns and various emergency supplies might still be under the back seat. She had put the Glock and the hunting rifle back there after the police had taken the would-be shooter away.

If push comes to shove … She sketched a possible escape route in her mind. A copy of the garage door opener should still be in the glove compartment. She knew the combination to open the outer gate. Unless someone had changed it …? But the big question remained. If she bugged out again, where would she go? Shichó-Sarah’s? It would be the first place her father, or that new bodyguard, would look. She would think about it.

Now, as to this Saturday? What if? And maybe Andrea might help her with something else she needed to do. *** In her bedroom, Darby opened the middle drawer of her desk and eased out a packet of pretty note paper. The edge of each sheet featured pink curly-cues and flowers. The sheets came with matching envelopes. It had been a gift from the same Donati aunt who had given her the silver belt buckle some three or four Christmases ago. She had never used any of it. She tore off a sheet and began to write, leaning over the paper to conceal what she was writing from any possible overhead cameras.

Dear Aunt Carmina and Asdzáán Sarah, I miss both of you so much it makes my heart ache. I even miss Custer and the sheep, everything. I hope all of you are safe and well …” She began.

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stamps. And she dared not ask for any. Maybe she could ask at the office at school. And maybe Andrea would mail the letter for her. It was the only solution she could think of. No way could she get a letter out of here any other way. *** “Dad, I’m ready. I’m leaving.” Where was he? “Where’s Dad?” “He left fifteen minutes ago. Said he was going to put in a few hours,” Marie told her. “I think Jack and Mr. Ryan are ready if you are.”

“Thank you. Mr. Morales, Mr. Ryan, I’m ready! I am so ready.” She paused by the rose bowl, plucked a large, fresh red rose from the bouquet, then skipped down to the garage and stood waiting by the Cadillac, a light jacket—which she was sure she wouldn’t need—binoculars, a plastic water bottle, and sunglasses in hand. Mr. Ryan opened the left hand back door, and she climbed in.

“Where to, Ms. Donati?” Jack asked.

“Valley of Fire State Park.”

“Now that sounds like a good choice, Ms. Donati,” Jack smiled, and when all three were buckled in, he backed out, and they were on their way. Neither of the men asked about the flower that Darby clutched in her fist.

As they started north, two other vehicles pulled onto the highway behind the Cadillac. Both were nondescript, grey SUVs, both had tinted windows, and both drove at speeds that just matched the Cadillac’s. Yet neither seemed to see the other.

Both concentrated on the black car headed northeast.

Twenty minutes later, Jack took the Moapa exit and headed south. The first follower slowed, then continued on. The second SUV took the exit, but then stopped in a truck parking lot. The driver and a companion got out, stretched, then opened a case 219

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and took out a drone. A few adjustments and up in the air the drone flew. Then the twosome got back in and headed south, behind the Donati vehicle, but well out of sight.

Jack was almost out of the Moapa Valley when Darby leaned forward. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Could we go down to the lake first? I want to see this Jensenville place where the bodies turned up in late July. Please, pretty please. It won’t take long, and it’s just south of the park. Then we can hit Valley of Fire on the way back north and drive through the park.” A pause. “Dad said I could go anywhere I want.”

Jack slowed momentarily, then picked up speed again. “I guess it’s okay. We should be able to see anyone trying to get close. Wow, that guy’s sure in a hurry!”

All three stared as a white SUV whipped past, then continued south.

“Must have been doing eighty—and in a no-passing zone.”

Mr. Ryan held his breath a moment. “Ah, Ms. Donati, I don’t like this.”

“I’m not running off. I just want to see this chimney thing where they found the bodies.”

“Okay.” But Darby could tell her bodyguard wasn’t happy.

He kept looking behind them, scanning the horizon all the way to the lake.

“Turn south here,” Darby told Jack when they reached the white dried mud flats that once marked the shore of one of the largest man-made lakes in the United States. Several miles farther and a small, white lettered, brown sign marked the turnoff to “Jensenville.”

Darby was not sure what she expected. A brand-new, rough, dirt parking lot, a few low walls, and the famous chimney were all she could see. Three other cars were in the lot, including the white SUV that had passed them earlier. Only one person was in view, an old, white-bearded man who looked like a haircut and beard trim were both long overdue. He was standing near 220

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the chimney, hands in his dungaree pockets, a Vietnam veteran ball cap on his head, a sad, quiet expression on his face. Darby wondered if maybe he was waiting for the lake to rise.

She hopped out without waiting for any permission and walked over to where she could stand the same distance from the chimney as the old man. They exchanged looks, and the man winked.

“Huh?” Darby gulped down her surprise at that gesture, then took in the dozen or so plastic flowers and wreaths that lay against the chimney’s brick base. “Who left all these flowers?” she asked to no one in particular.

The old man spoke in a tired, squeaky voice. “People do that all the time. Don’t matter who it is, whether they knew them or not. Always folks who feel a need to honor the dead.”

“How long have these been there?”

“First ones appeared the day after the discovery. Local Mormons left them. I guess they thought they might be some of their own. The Park Service just put out a notice that they will remove any still here tomorrow.”

“You know all this?”

“Yup. Live just five miles from here. Me and my grandson, we were the ones who found the bodies. Weren’t nothing left but bones, but they once were people, sure enough. Been coming down here almost every day, checking on things. Is that a rose in your hands? You leaving that too?”

“Yes.” Darby took a long breath, one hand on her stomach.

“One of the bodies was my mother.”

“Ooh? First time I heard that anyone had identified who they were. You are?”

“Darby. Darby Yazzie.” He seemed like a nice, safe person, and she offered him her hand.

The old man shifted so his back was to the cars. “I’m Dale Ozwell,” he said and shook. Someone’s car door opened and slammed. Darby froze, then slowly eased the palm-sized, hard221

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bodied object the man had just placed in her hand away and into her shorts pocket.

“You go ahead and leave that flower. Your mother, I am sure, would have appreciated it.”

Darby was starting to shake. If only … if only what this guy had just given her was what she thought it was. “Yes. Thank you. I want to do that.” She stepped away without a glance and tiptoed to the base of the chimney. There she set the flower on a projecting rock. It seemed small compared to the sun-bleached plastic offerings already there. “But it’s a real flower, not some fake,” Darby told herself. She sighed, stepped back and looked up to trace the multiple “bathtub” rings. She added her own silent prayer that those who died here might now walk in beauty before turning away—one hand tight against the tears she knew were forming. “Thank you,” she called to the old man. Then she waved to Jack and Mr. Ryan standing by the Cadillac, faces maps of concern. “I’m coming; I’m coming. I’m done. Let’s go back to the park.” *** Five minutes after the black Cadillac had left, the driver of the white SUV got out and walked over to the old man, still standing next to the chimney. “She get it?”

“Yup. Palmed it like a pro, never even looked at it, but she knew what it was, I’m sure. Acted like nothing had happened.”

“Well, thank you, Dale. Wish I didn’t have to bring you back here, but you done good.”

“It’s been a long time.” He lifted his ball cap briefly, then set it back in place. “A perfect mess what happened here.”

“I agree,” the driver answered. “Let’s go before I start getting headaches remembering. Treat you to dinner?”

“No, I think I’ll just go on home. I have some pro golf I want to watch. But thank you.”

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Chapter Thirty-nine For the next two hours, Darby acted like the red rocks and cliffs of the Valley of Fire State Park were the most interesting and exciting landscapes she had viewed since forever. If she noticed the drone steadily following the Cadillac as it drove the circuit through the park, Darby gave no sign. She asked to stop at almost every overlook and spotted birds with her binoculars, showing an interest in nature that Jack Morales had never observed before.

Mr. Ryan made noises about her talking to strangers back at the chimney, but it was hard for him to get too angry since the old man had obviously been harmless and maybe even not quite right in the head. “He was telling me a little of the history of Jensenville,” Darby volunteered, but that was it.

With an hour still to go before the four hours would be up, Jack turned the Cadillac around, and they headed back to the Vegas suburb that Darby still knew as home. As they pulled onto Interstate 15, one of the grey SUVs pulled in behind them but quickly fell back until it was lost in traffic. *** The driver of the other SUV stopped long enough to bring in the drone.

“Did you see it?” Preston Page was almost giddy with excitement.

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“Yes, I saw it. The old guy gave her a cell phone or what looked like a cell phone.”

“Right in front of Donati’s goon, too. I can’t believe whoever was running that operation pulled it off. Any idea who the guy is, or who he’s working for?”

“Not a clue. Not the Donati-slash-Fineboro woman, that’s for sure. She’d have handed her a bomb, not a phone.” “‘You know your pocket’s ticking?’” Preston quoted.

“Something like that.”

“Maybe we should have stuck around there to see if that guy met someone afterward.”

“But we didn’t. We followed the Donati vehicle. Too late now.”

“There were three vehicles in the lot when the Donati Cadillac arrived. We can take a look at them back at the office.

Maybe that will tell us something, although probably not plate numbers.”

Everything packed up, Agent Page and the other agent pulled out, got back on the interstate, and headed south. *** Darby made sure to thank her father for allowing her to take the trip away when he phoned home at five to check. Mr. Ryan then talked to Pete as well, and Darby heard him say that the trip went fine and was uneventful. They thought there might have been vehicles tailing them while on I-15, but neither saw a follower in the park. Yes, it had gone well.

When he hung up, Darby uncrossed her fingers. She itched to touch the device in her pocket, but she promised herself not to even think about it until bedtime.

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dressed and undressed in the bathroom. The thought of Mr. Ryan or maybe even Jack ogling her naked body gave her the creeps.

If there wasn’t a camera, how’d they know she had holes in her shoulder? Except when she was swimming or working out in the gym, her shoulders were never bare—not since she’d returned from the Navajo Nation. Someone had seen her and shared that information because Marie had asked what had happened to her shoulder two days after she came back. Darby had just shaken her head and refused to talk about it—which she hated to do, since she loved Marie—but she no longer felt like she could confide in anyone. “Everyone is so nosy. I hate here!” then softer “I really need to get out of this place.”

After dinner, Darby happened to “borrow” a flashlight that Marie kept in a kitchen drawer. Upstairs, she hid it in her bathroom drawer. At bedtime, she shifted the device to the pocket in her pajama top, then turned off her room light before leaving the bathroom and getting into her bed. Under a sheet and blanket, she set the flashlight on dim and pulled out the device.

“Yes!” It was a phone, not a little, cheap, burner such as the kiosks sold in the promenades of every mall, but a late-model iPhone with a fancy camera.

Taped to the back was an access code and a note: “Pre-paid but only use in emergency. Trust you know what I mean. Use your old charger.” Who was “I”?

Darby tried the access code, and the phone silently came alive with a dim screen. She killed the flashlight, accessed the settings, then entered a new access code. Done. For a minute, she stared at the small cluster of icons. Whoever “I” was didn’t intend for her to have much play time. Okay, done for now.

Darby placed the phone under her pillow, smiled, and tried to sleep. *** 225

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Saul Fineboro was not a happy man. But neither was Pete Donati, the other casino owner whose visage he was looking at.

“You have her home and locked up. Are you happy now?’

Pete shrugged. “As happy as I can be considering the threats to my daughter’s life. She can’t even go to a state park without Tessie or her minions following her.”

“Are you sure that’s who was following her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say that we happen to know, on that little excursion to the Valley of Fire, three vehicles were involved. One, we will admit, might have been associated with my daughter—although I can’t be sure. She won’t say, and I doubt she would have gone after your sweet daughter without a kill in mind. But the other two vehicles were not associated with Tessie in any way.”

“Then who?”

Saul tented his fingers and stared at them. “You had a faithful employee at one time, did you not? A very lethal employee …

One absolutely faithful. Yet you fired her when she was still recovering from a bullet she took to save your daughter’s life.

“You know, I can’t tell you how to run your life, your employees, or your business, but my thoughts, if they are worth anything, are that loyalty cuts both ways. She was willing to take a bullet for you. But were you willing to take one for her?”

“She betrayed me! The two-faced bitch betrayed me. She sent Darby to the reservation to live with her mother’s relatives.

I ordered her to never, ever let Darby know about her mother, or … or what happened. Now she knows—at least some of—the truth. She hates me now! I can see it in her eyes every day I’m home. And that’s all Perkins’ fault! It was Perkins’ fault thirteen years ago, too.”

Pete quieted, then pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed off the spittle on his lips. “So, you’re saying Perkins might have been in one of the other vehicles. What about the other one?”

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“All I will suggest is that when crimes occur on federal land or an Indian reservation, you and I know who will get involved.

It is unfortunate that your daughter’s mother’s remains happened to show up on federal land. It’s even more unfortunate that that discovery led to more crimes on Navajo land.”

“FBI?” “Reach your own conclusions. But if they are interested in your daughter, and maybe her safety, they might also be interested in your operations. And, if you have to suddenly shut down, I might just have to foreclose on the private loan I made you to help purchase that casino in Reno.”

“But we’ve been partners!”

“Not really. Not since one of your people happened to have caused the death of my granddaughter. You need to make a choice, Pete. She’s not really your daughter. What’s more important? Her, or everything you own?”

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Chapter Forty Darby was barely in her homeroom seat before Andrea was leaning over to whisper. “Daisy’s back!”

“Oh, wonderful! Is she okay?”

“Not sure. She’s walking. I think she’s in Room 34C. Maybe we’ll see her at lunchtime. Oh, I’m so excited.”

Darby nodded. This was good news, but how did Daisy see her now?

Darby caught a glimpse of Daisy in the hall after her ten o’clock class. She was walking, limping slightly, staring straight ahead. The left side of her face had a droop, and her hair, once long and bright rust in color, was short and dull. What did that bullet do to you? Oh, Daisy, you look like you had a stroke, like Henry in the movie “Regarding Henry”.

She waited to get in the lunch line until Daisy limped in, then joined her in line. “Daisy, eat with us, please.”

The girl paused and faced Darby. Her lips moved as if to spit out words. “Ah … Ah … O…kay.”

“I can help carry your tray.”

“Th …th…ank you.”

“Hi, Daisy, come join us,” Andrea and Todd both called out when Darby and Daisy reached their favorite table. All four ate in silence for several minutes. Darby noted that Daisy didn’t use her left hand at all. Instead, it lay limp in her lap. Close up, the 228

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droop to her face did not look quite so bad, more like her cheek was frozen, her left eyelid lazy. Darby also noticed a thin red line that ran along the edge of her hairline.

Darby had never thought of her friend as super beautiful, but she had always carried herself with a confident, wide-eyed expression that everyone noticed. People wanted to be seen with her, to be her friend. Was all of this gone now?

She reached out and touched Daisy’s arm. “Daisy, I’m sorry all this happened. No one should have to suffer what you have been through.”

The girl lifted her head. “Okay.” She raised her right hand and touched Darby on her scarred cheek. “You… you shot too?”

“Yes. I was shot, too, but I’m okay.”

“I … I think, but hard to say what I think. I know all of you—faces—but I can’t remember names. Teach … me.”

“I’m Darby. Darby Donati-Yazzie.”

“Yazzie?” Andrea’s face was a blank.

“That was my mother’s maiden name. It is Navajo for ‘little.’”

Daisy nodded, but did not say anything else for some time.

Everyone was done, finishing up, waiting for Daisy when she lifted her left hand. “Thanks. I am … I am getting better. I can … smile. See?” She managed a smile that spread over the right side of her face. “No running this year.” She smiled some more. “You … guys are all great.” She had some trouble wiping her face and standing up at the end of lunch, but was ready to go, lifting her tray with her right hand. She pitched right, and for a second, Darby was afraid Daisy was going to fall onto her. But then she straightened up. “I remember the faces, the two … men, the woman.”

“Woman? I don’t remember any woman at your place.”

“She left before … be … fore you got to our house. She’s the one who sh … shot me.”

“Okay.”

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“She’s … the one who shot me. She said. ‘This…this is for…Co…Connie.’” *** It was almost one, and her next class was five minutes away before Darby got a chance to hide in a stall in the girls’ lavatory and really check out her new phone. She quickly discovered that the Apple Store function was disabled. Programs she thought were standard, like iMovie, iTunes, or Mail, did not have an icon and must not be on this phone. But the phone did have a list of contacts, none of whom she recognized at first. Who were Ken Yabosky, Preston Page, and Woodrow Thomas? Wait, was Thomas the FBI agent who had shown up at the powwow? And there was an entry for Herbert Begay, the Navajo detective, as well. “Oh my God!” There was an entry for Carmina Yazzie, and even one for M. Perkins! And … and one for Laurence Nez. What was that one for? Darby shook her head. No way that guy would ever speak to her again.

“Wow!” Perkins. Monica … She’s alive. Is this from her?

Darby’s finger hovered over the call button. “Shove it, Darby.”

For emergencies only, and if she was caught with a phone on in the school, that would mean probation, and dear Daddy would know she had this one. She took out the still unsealed letter for Carmina and copied down her phone number at the bottom of the page next to her name, then sealed the envelope. She hit the off button, then held it down until the phone totally turned off, shoved the phone back in the lower pocket of her cargo pants, and headed out as the bell rang for 1 p.m.

The phone now felt like a bomb riding in her pocket. Maybe she should be calling someone, but which one? One thing was certain: she wanted to get that letter in the mail to Carmina and Sarah.

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Next break, she stopped in the main office. “Does anyone have a postage stamp, just one, please, pretty please. I’ll even pay for it.”

Mrs. Rogers, the building administrative assistant, gave Darby a smile. “Just one?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Rogers opened a drawer and pulled out a roll of stamps.

She tore off the end one. “Here you go.”

“Oh, thank you, THANK you. What do I owe you?”

“Just take it.”

“Andrea, wait up. Could you, maybe, do me a great, big favor?”

“What is it?”

“Mail this letter for me? Please.”

Andrea took the letter. “Ah. Can’t you mail it yourself?”

“No. The home front finds out I’m writing my aunt and great-grandmother, and I’m in total do-do up to my neck.” She held up her hands with middle fingers crossed over her index fingers. “Please.”

“Okay. But you owe me.”

“Thank you.”

“And you’d better tell me all about this great-grandmother some time. How old is she?”

“Ancient, but still kicking. She’s super cool.”

“I’ve only one grandmother left, and she’s in a nursing home where you have to go through tests and everything to visit her because they’re afraid of someone bringing in COVID. Last time I saw her, I wasn’t even sure she knew who I was.”

“Shichó Sarah is definitely still all there.” *** Preston and Pam Ortiz, his associate agent, both sat in front of a large monitor, following the view of the drone as it flew 231

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south. “You kept it right over the Donati vehicle. So, good chance they missed it overhead. Oops! There goes that white SUV speeding past the Donati car. Man, not a risk I’d want to take. Okay, the Donati car approaches the lake, then turns south.

Wait … Wait … There, it pulls into the parking lot at Jensenville.

They have arrived.

“And the speeding SUV is already there, parked next to that old white pickup. Looks like a Silverado. Maybe the SUV wanted to get by the Donati vehicle so it could get here first.

What do you think?”

“Can’t think why the driver would have been in such a hurry otherwise,” was Pam’s take.

“Okay. Old guy is already standing near the chimney. Was the old guy in that SUV, or did he just get out of the pickup? Or maybe the other car at the other end of the lot.”

“No way of knowing. Okay, man is standing there. Girl, Darby Donati, gets out and approaches the chimney. At first, she just stares at the chimney. Now, see, they’re talking. She approaches him. Notice how he turns just enough away from the bodyguard waiting by the Cadillac to block that guy’s direct view of the handshake.” Pam was getting excited. This was feeling more and more like an espionage meet-up out of a spy novel.

“And catch that car door opening and slamming on the SUV. The driver hit that perfectly—distracted the bodyguard and probably the driver too.” Preston added.

“Okay, Darby goes back to the car, says something to her guard, gets in, and they head out of the lot. What does the man she met do? Nothing. Still just standing there as the Cadillac rolls out of view. Want to run it again?” Pam asked.

“Let me think a moment. Darby and the stranger exchanged something. A packet, phone, camera, something small and easily concealed. Whatever it was, neither one wanted the Donati team to know. Was this by pre-arrangement? Did she know that man 232

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was going to be waiting there? Who is that man? And why the contact?”

“Okay, what next?”

Pam hit the forward button, and the drone view resumed its forward motion. The two watched as the Cadillac headed back north, then exited into the state park. For forty minutes, the car made its way from one overlook or viewpoint to the next.

Sometimes they would stop. The guard would get out, then open the door for Darby. “What’s she doing? Birdwatching?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“This is as exciting as watching casino fountains. We should have kept watching that other SUV. Wait, go back. Can we get a look at the plate on the other vehicles?”

A rewind and the two were once more studying the scene at the town site. “Chevy Silverado. Looks like Nevada plates, but I can’t read the number. Sorry, angle is wrong. Same for that white SUV. Other car same.”

“Okay, let’s check back on the Donati party. Where were we?”

“Ah, there they are. Nothing new going on. Looks like they’re just getting back on Route 169.”

“Wait! Isn’t that the white SUV that was in that parking lot headed north? And there goes that pickup. It does not stay on the main road but turns east on what is that? County Route 12?

It’s heading back toward the lake shoreline. Gone. Out of the picture.”

“Whoever drove the pickup is a local. Or had business at Overton Beach.”

Ten minutes later: “Watch what happens when the Cadillac gets back on the interstate. Heads south, heading home. There’s that same SUV, coming on and following, three cars back. But watch. See that other grey SUV? Watch what it does.”

“They’re both tracking the Donati vehicle, aren’t they?”

“And that’s when we pulled in the drone. Show over.”

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Pam took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Am I thinking what you’re thinking?”

“What’s that?”

“Maybe a trip out to what used to be the Overton Marina might be worthwhile? Maybe look for a white Chevy pickup from around 2010-2013?”

Preston nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking, too.

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Chapter Forty-one That evening, Darby finished her homework early and decided to watch a movie instead of taking her usual swim and working out in the gym. It was supposed to be a romantic comedy, but ten minutes into it, she had to shut it off. People acted so stupid. The real world was not like that at all—at least not the world she knew now. Who was she back in July?

She stared at her image in the bathroom mirror. “You are only fooling yourself, you know that,” she whispered. “You smile and laugh with Andrea and Todd, say sweet things to Marie, but inside? You’re nothing but a phony. ‘My name is Darby Sarah Donati-Yazzie.’ Who are you trying to kid? You’ll never be a Navajo. You aren’t indigenous, even with your black hair and darker skin. You caused your boyfriend to get killed, and three weeks later, you were flirting with a guy at a powwow. You are such a jerk! Oh, Daisy, I’m sorry, so, so sorry. And I’ve ruined your life too.”

Darby sniffed and felt the tears start again. “Don’t, or your bronchial tubes will seize up!” She stamped a foot in frustration.

The tears began to roll down her cheeks. Náátsʼíílid at’ééd, Shichó Sarah had called her: Rainbow Girl. No, all I am is Sǫʼ Anii’, Star Face. I might as well be ScarFace. She cried all the harder. *** 235

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“How’d you enjoy your outing?” Dad had asked again that last Sunday.

“Fine. Even the most hardened troglodyte enjoys a bit of sunshine occasionally.”

“Darby, please. Your bitterness does not become you. Ah, how do you know a word like that?”

“Dad, I’m not stupid. Snarky, spoiled, selfish, and out-of-it, but I’m not stupid.”

“Sorry. Maybe you can get out again on Saturday or Sunday, depending on the weather. Maybe take an all-day trip.”

“The warden is most generous.”

“Go easy on the sarcasm.”

“I’ll try.”

So here it was now Thursday evening, and neither her father, nor Jack, nor Marie had brought up her going out Saturday or Sunday. What was it to be? She took a deep breath, happy, at least, that she could breathe. She took her phone out of a tampon box where she had hidden it before turning off the bathroom light and dragging herself to bed.

Under her covers, she held the on button and waited for the white Apple logo. Across the desktop, a notification of a message stared at her against a light green background.

“Huh?” Darby sniffed several times before she logged onto the phone. Finger over the message icon, she took another deep breath, then touched it.

“If you get out this weekend, do not go anywhere near the Arizona Strip. If you do not go out, be ready to bug out. Erase this after reading.” The number was the number listed for “M. Perkins.”

Darby read the message five times, then erased. She crawled back out of bed, pulled her extra book backpack out from under her bed, and began packing extra clothes by feel in the semidarkness. What could be about to happen? What was it to be?

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*** Carmina sat in the judge’s hearing room in Winslow, Arizona, wondering why a judge considered her presence essential for a bail-bond hearing. What difference would it make if she said that the man was too dangerous to let out on bail?

She felt uncomfortable sitting in a room where everyone else was Anglo in an Anglo town far from her home. She tried to listen as a lawyer explained why his client, Justin Barker, of Phoenix, Arizona, should be granted bail. It sounded like the lawyer was citing the man’s serious injuries and the need for him to be in a major hospital, such as Phoenix offered, where proper reconstructive surgery would be available.

Carmina was not impressed. In the courtroom, Barker sat in a wheelchair, his cast-bound right hand held up in plain sight, a feeble, sad look on his face. But not fifteen minutes earlier, she had seen him go into the men’s room out in the hall under his own power and with not even a trace of a limp. She also knew, because Herb had told her, that the hospital in Albuquerque had already put his hand back together, and the expectation was that he would be regaining almost all his former function.

What made all of this difficult was that the county seat of Navajo County, of which Piñon was part, was eighty miles to the south and outside the reservation. If Barker were Navajo, the Navajo Nation government would be dealing with this man. But since he was a bunch of other ethnicities, but not Navajo, he had gotten his appeal moved here.

She sighed. A day off work. She hated to leave Sarah right now when getting ready for the colder months was a higher priority. The propane truck was expected today, and Sarah wanted to butcher one of the older ewes that had failed to breed.

She knew Sarah had done butchering multiple times, but it was not getting easier.

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“Yá’át’ééh, Carmina,” Herb, dressed in sports coat and bola tie, slipped into the bench beside her. “How’s it going?”

“The man is telling many lies.”

“That figures. He doesn’t look like the type to want to stay in a county jail, even with its three meals a day and a warm bed at night. Hey, the judge is calling you.”

“Carmina Yazzie, please come forward to the witness stand.”

“You’re on. You’re good. Talk to you afterward.”

Carmina gave Herb a weak smile. She was nervous. Why should she be nervous? All she had to do was tell what happened.

She took the chair the court officer indicated and swore to tell the truth.

The questions all focused on whether she thought Barker here might be a danger to society, or to her personally, if he was released on bail.

To each of these questions, she answered yes. When pressed, she explained that she understood that this was the man who had pushed her truck off an embankment in an attempt to kill her, then shot at her grandmother and niece in an attempt to kill one or the other of them. If he were out of prison, she would not feel safe. No, she did not trust him to return to Phoenix to wait for a trial.

Herb testified next, detailing the setup he had found that Barker had used to ambush the Yazzie-Roanhorse home.

What prevented him from carrying out this alleged attempt?

“Sharp-shooting by a very courageous girl,” Herb replied.

That resulted in raised eyebrows from both the judge and Barker’s lawyer.

“Where is this girl now? How old is she? Would she be available to testify?”

“She is Darby Donati-Yazzie, Carmina Yazzie’s niece. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada,” the county’s assistant county prosecutor answered. “However, to demand that a sixteen-yearold student leave school and travel here from another state for a 238

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simple bail hearing does not seem like a justifiable expense or use of the court’s time.”

“Thank you. Give us a couple of minutes, and we will announce a decision.” The judge beckoned to Barker’s lawyer and the assistant prosecutor. The three talked, the lawyers standing in front of the judge’s stand. Finally, the two lawyers returned to their seats.

“We are granting the request for bail, which will be set at $200,000. The accused is to provide an address in Phoenix where he may be reached. A trial date will be announced in two weeks.” He banged the gavel. “This hearing is adjourned.”

Herb rejoined Carmina as she got up to leave. “How is everything going?”

“It’s going,” Carmina answered. “This is not good. He’s incredibly dangerous, and now I’m afraid again. Maybe he won’t be able to come up with the money.”

“I suspect someone already has the money for his bail. But you have not heard the worst of it.” Herb touched her arm.

“What do you mean?”

“Roberto Castro, the man who tried to kidnap Darby, also made bail. But he missed his first bail meeting two days ago. He has now disappeared. Both the state police here and in Nevada are looking for him but have no leads.”

Carmina sucked in her breath. “I did not want to come here today. It is so far to drive, and we are so busy at home and work right now.”

“Sarah stayed home alone?”

“Aoó. That’s the way it always is. I work at the school; she stays at the holding.”

“I think … I’m not sure what I think, but maybe you’d better head north as soon as you can. I might be able to follow you.

Yá’át’ééh?” Herb gave Carmina’s arm a gentle grip, then he headed for his patrol SUV. 239

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She watched him get in the vehicle and pick up his police radio. What did he mean? A chill swept through her body. She limped toward her truck as fast as her weak ankle and foot would allow.

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Chapter Forty-two Preston Page turned onto County Route 12 and headed for the Overton arm of Lake Mead. Once the site of a thriving marina, the lake shore was now a white, mineral-crusted mud flat. Abandoned docks and racked four-person aluminum fishing boats hinted at past business.

Preston and agent Pam Ortiz parked near the largest of several buildings. He got out and strolled around the grounds until he saw an older, white pickup parked in the shade of a juniper tree. “Hmm.” He gave a thumbs-up to Pam, then circled closer, taking in the landscape and picking up details that would identify the vehicle if he ever saw it again. Taking out his phone, he recorded the license plate number.

“May we help you?” A youth, maybe mid-teens, was standing on the steps of the nearer building.

“Yes. I hope so.” Preston took out his credentials and showed them to the boy. “FBI. Would you know to whom this truck belongs?”

The boy studied the badge and ID for several seconds.

“Yeah. Belongs to my grandpa. You one of those investigators who removed those bodies down by the Jensenville chimney?”

“Yes. I was one of the agents there. Was your grandpa one of the people there when we took the bodies away?”

“I’m not sure. I know I wasn’t.”

“Is your grandpa around?”

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“Should be, if his truck’s here. Let me go and check.”

“Thanks. I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Okay. I’m Tony, Tony Bontelli. My grandpa’s name is Dale Ozwell. He’s lived here forever. I just come down here sometimes on the weekends. Used to fish a lot here, but since the lake left, fishing ain’t been so good. Grandpa! You got visitors.”

Preston, joined by Pam, followed Tony inside. The screen door closed with a bang behind Pam—the only sound in what once might have been a bait ’n tackle shop, its empty shelves covered with a patina of red dust. No lights on, which meant that Preston could not see anything beyond the patch of sunshine on the worn wood floor.

“I’m coming,” someone called from somewhere out of sight.

Preston heard a toilet flush and the opening of a door. The same white-haired, white-bearded man from the drone movie came around the end of a corner.

“Oh. Who are you? How can I help you?”

Preston identified himself as he checked out the man in front of him. Had to be the same guy. “Dale Ozwell?”

“Yes?” The man was obviously very old and spoke with a shake in his voice. “You here about them bodies that showed up at the base of the chimney down lake in Jensenville?”

“Partly. Do you know a girl, teenager, named Darby Donati?”

Dale stared at the empty counter. “Can’t say that I do. Why? She missing?”

“No. Not that we know of, but we have evidence that you had a conversation with her last Saturday at 2 p.m. Do you remember that?”

The old man thought some more, lips pressed together. “You know Monica Perkins?”

Preston and Pam both looked blank.

“Well, if you do, then that’s why you’re here. And if you don’t, you’d better get talkin’ with her before you come down on me. I just ran the boat. Didn’t do no shooting. We were trying to 242

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save her.” He stared at Preston. “Well, maybe I’d better shut up now and not say anything more until you’ve had a chance to talk with Perkins. She’s the one with the answers. Yeah. Tried to save someone. And that’s all we’re trying to do right now as well.” *** Carmina could see the distant plume of smoke from Tribal Route 4 miles before she reached the turnoff to the road leading to the Roanhorse/Yazzie compound. “No! Please, dear God, no!”

The mark of wide tires on her road confirmed that a heavy vehicle had just driven down the dirt track. Carmina found she was cursing in both Navajo and English, then praying before cursing some more—all the way to the holding.

Both of the Piñon community fire trucks were on the scene, hosing down what was once the little house. The walls and northside roof still stood, but the main room was a mess of burnt furnishings covered with broken and twisted, shattered solar panels and plumbing. “Sarah! Shimásání, where are you?”

She got out, afraid she might faint, afraid of what the volunteer firemen were about to tell her. “Please …”

“Yá’át’ééh, Carmina! You are here,” Albert, one of the men from Piñon called out. “Ádzaaígíí bąąh shíniʼ. We did not know until someone saw the smoke at the school. We came as quickly as we could.”

“Where is Asdzáán Sarah, Shimásání?”

“She’s over there. She’s fine.”

“Carmina. I’m here.”

Sarah came around the back of the hogan, then the two came together in one sad-happy hug.

“Oh, I was so worried—all the way north from Winslow, I was sure something was happening here. And I was right. What happened?”

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“I was in back, behind the barn, burying the new rug in dry sand to clean it when I heard a loud noise—a crashing noise.”

Sarah took a deep breath. “I didn’t know what had just happened, so I left the rug and came around, and there were already flames coming out of the south window, which was broken. I could see a man standing by a pickup outside the fence. He had a gun and was watching the fire, but not doing anything. I waited, he turned away, and I ran behind the hogan. When he walked over to our house, I slipped inside the hogan and locked the door.

“He checked the door of the hogan once, but could not get in.

I hid against the east wall so he would not see me. After several minutes, I heard his truck leave. So I came out. The flames were so hot by then, I couldn’t get close enough to save anything. I’m sorry.”

“Sarah, Shimásání, it’s okay. You’re alive, that’s all that really matters.”

“Is it? You loved the old silver and the old clothes. And all that corn we were about to parch.”

“Shimásání, It’s okay. We can replace any of that, and we haven’t lost the memories. You are alive.”

“I guess that’s good too.” Sarah managed a tight smile, then let Carmina hug her some more.

A firebomb, thrown through the south window, was the cause, the fire marshal quickly decided. “Maybe he thought you were inside. If you had been, you’d never have been able to get out your door.”

Sarah nodded.

“Did you see or recognize who might have done it?”

Sarah gazed out toward the driveway. “He was driving a blue pickup. He was the man who tried to take our Náátsʼíílid at’ééd, our great-granddaughter, our rainbow girl.”

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Chapter Forty-three Pete was home for supper—with Beth Anne! Darby marveled at the spread that Marie laid out. It even included a special angel food cake with strawberry topping that she usually only saw on her birthdays. “And why can’t we celebrate occasionally?”

Marie declared as she brought the cake to the table.

Dad seemed unusually sweet and attentive. Darby, in turn, held her tongue and said nice things to Beth Anne.

Darby had been coached on this before dinner. “She lost her voice due to that poisoning. Can’t sing at all. So be nice,” Marie had warned her.

Darby was shocked at the change in Dad’s girlfriend. She had seemed a bit of an airhead before. Now she spoke with a rasping whisper and with as few words as possible, her eyes sad.

Am I different, too? Darby wondered. What would I be like now if I had taken that poison and lived? She winced as she felt her left shoulder protest when she reached for the water pitcher.

What if I could never do again what I most loved? What if I could once run or swim, but I was now like Daisy, crippled in mind and body? Her appetite gone, she nibbled at her piece of cake, smiled, and tried to keep from crying.

“What’s wrong?” Pete had noticed.

“I’m fine, Dad. I’m just happy we can all be together for once.”

“Any place you have in mind for tomorrow for your weekend outing?” he asked.

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“I am thinking maybe I could go on a longer trip, maybe into the Pine Valley Mountains north of St. George, then circle back through Beaver Dam State Park and come home that way.”

She could see Dad thinking, his eyes looking up, trying to visualize the route she was proposing. Finally, he nodded. “The Pine Valley is a beautiful part of Utah. Real trees—not palm trees. I guess that’s not too far. Marie, would you make enough lunches for Darby, Mr. Ryan, and your husband to take along?

Pack plenty of water.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She was standing, ready to head upstairs, when Pete came around and gave her a hug. “You turned out to be such a nice girl. I wish … I wish I’d taken more time to know you. Now, I guess, it’s too late.”

“Dad …! Dad, it’s never too late. Geez! I’m only sixteen.”

“I know, but is it?”

“Is what?”

Pete shook his head and turned away.

The previous Monday, Darby had started turning on her phone right before she tried to sleep, then turned it back off in the morning. That night, she must have been sleeping well, for when the phone began to vibrate, she had no clue as to what was happening. “Oh, my god! Oh, my god! Huh?” She pulled the phone out from under her pillow and stared at the flashing front.

Who was calling? Had to be someone who knows this number.

“Hello?”

“Darby, get dressed and get out of the house right now. Daisy will meet you on the block before you reach the Hamishes’ place.

Go!” “Monica?”

“Yes, just go.” The connection ended.

Darby moaned, hand pressed against her chest as she blocked her panic. “Go!” She jumped out of her bed, tripped, and landed 246

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on her left shoulder. She rolled over, eyes trying to block the tears. “A-a-ah!” She managed to get in the bathroom, shed her jammies, then turned on a nightlight. Two minutes later, she was dressed, her phone was in a pocket, flashlight in one hand, and her new bug-out bag in the other. She unlocked her door, eased it open, then followed the hall nightlight to the stairs.

She could hear noises outside now, near the swimming pool. What was happening? Who could possibly be out there?

She decided to leave through the kitchen. As she unlocked the outside kitchen door, she heard a squeak behind her and looked back. Marie was standing there, robe clutched tight around her throat. “Marie?”

Marie waved, a clear “just go” signal. “Good-bye, God bless, Náátsilid.”

“Náátsilid?”

“That’s your real name. Go!” A nod, and Darby was outside.

Three steps and she was in the garage, circling the dark vehicles, looking for Hunter. She unlocked and opened the driver’s door. Its creak sounded like a football yell. Inside, she pressed the start button while opening the glove compartment.

Where was the garage opener?

“Hua.” She turned the flashlight on. There it was. Work, please work! Someone just entered the garage using the end door, just as she had.

The garage door lifted, and someone yelled. She put the Highlander in gear and was out of the garage before the door was halfway up, just clearing the rising door. She hit the closing button, dropped the opener on the floor, and headed down the driveway. A single blast and the passenger-side back window dissolved into a falling wave of fragments. Gate coming up.

Where was the gate opener? She stopped and fumbled in the glove compartment again. Where was the opener? Please!

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Another gunshot pinged somewhere behind her. Did she have to get out and manually put in the number?

Suddenly, the gate was sliding back. “Ah!” She hit the accelerator and cleared the opening just as someone grabbed a door handle. She jerked the vehicle left, then right, and felt someone drop away.

“Drive, Darby, just drive,” she told herself. Little traffic. What time was it? In five minutes, she exited the boulevard and turned onto the back streets that would take her to the Hamishes’. Why, why the Hamishes? What! Darby hit the brakes and skidded to a stop five feet beyond where Daisy stood under a streetlight, small travel bag in hand. When Darby waved and hit the door locks, Daisy got in.

“Where to? The airport?”

“No, just away. Mo … mo … nica said that, that there’s people w …waiting for me there. As far away … as possible.”

“Okay. How’d you like to visit Navajo Land?”

“Whatever.”

Darby took two right-hand turns and one left and was back on the boulevard. She headed east.

“What’s happening? I hope you know more than I do.”

“I … I think I can explain. The woman who … who shot me wants to e … eliminate me as a witness, okay? I guess you’re a witness too. Mm… maybe.”

Daisy talked as Darby drove, although it was clearly difficult for her. Her voice was clear, but it sounded like she was constantly searching for words and not finding them. She explained how this woman had grabbed her and pointed a small gun at her head.

She remembered nothing after that until waking in the hospital with a huge headache and a huge bandage wrapped around her skull. Later, she learned that a neighbor had found her wandering around several blocks from her house with no idea who she was or how she got there.

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For days, she could not seem to make words at all. She couldn’t even remember how to dress or eat. Her past was a complete blank. Recently, she remembered faces, but she still could not remember names. “I’m a mess,” she kept repeating.

“But I’m getting better,” she would always add.

Darby hit the Utah state line just as the pre-dawn light began to turn darkness to bluish-greys—the land creeping toward a world of soft forms that hinted of mountains and distant Joshua trees.

“I … I have a letter from Monica Perkins. She says for you.

You’re to read it when you can stop.”

“Okay. It would sure be nice to know a little as to what’s going on.”

A half hour later, Darby once more rolled into St. George, Utah. She exited, fueled up the Highlander, then stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and sugary delights to fuel the next couple of hours. She did not see the other car that pulled off behind her, then waited until she turned on Route 9 before turning around and heading back the way it had come.

It was close to 8:30 a.m. before that vehicle once more entered the limits of Clark County, Nevada.

“FBI. Las Vegas office, how may we direct your call?”

“My name is Perkins. I would like to meet with your special agent in charge. This morning, if at all possible.”

“Perkins? We’ve been looking for you. Just posted a bulletin.”

“I know. I know where you are. I’m on my way.”

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Chapter Forty-four Monica entered the lobby of the FBI office, nodded to the receptionist seated behind bullet-proof glass, and placed a Glock semi-automatic pistol in its holster on the counter. As the guard watched bug-eyed, she next removed a small 9mm Beretta from an ankle holster and added that to the pile. A short, stout knife was the final weapon she discarded. “I’m ready to come through the gate.”

The guard did a check on the detector, then escorted Monica to a hall where a puzzled Preston and Pam stood waiting.

“Come in,” Preston gestured toward the open door to his office. “We were looking for you. Can we help you? Can you answer some questions?”

“That’s why I’m here. You have an unsolved crime that dates back thirteen years. I believe I can solve it for you. I was the person who shot and killed Ben Blakeslee, which led to the deaths of Viola Yazzie and her charge, Constance Donati.”

Monica sat in one of those grey, steel chairs that only a GSA purchaser could ever imagine being either attractive or comfortable. This one, at least, had arms. She nursed a cup of coffee while Pam adjusted the lights. “Camera and recorder are rolling,” she announced.

“My name is Monica Suzanne Perkins. I was born on July 1st, 1985, in Steubenville, Ohio. I am a former employee of both 250

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the Department of Guns, Drugs, and Alcohol and Homeland Security. My most recent employment was as a security guard for Peter Donati. I worked for him for fourteen years. He fired me a month ago for refusing to follow his orders to let his former wife kill his foster daughter.

“Okay, that’s the short-short version. After I get some food and sleep in me, I will give you the longer, more detailed version, but you may want to take some measures right away, so I’ll keep to a semi-short version for now.

“Seventeen years ago, Peter Donati was a ‘new kid on the block’ in Vegas. He got to be friends and pals with Saul Fineboro, the owner of Garda Villa. He helped Fineboro with some personnel issues that Fineboro had. In turn, Fineboro introduced him to Theresa, his daughter and only child. The two married.

“Theresa was a lively one, a singer with acting ambitions.

She had appeared in several TV programs and sung on the Strip. She also had a drinking problem complicated by various recreational drugs. Pete didn’t know about this when he married her.

“A year later, Theresa bore him a girl, Constance. It was apparent from birth that Constance had serious behavioral problems. By the time she was one, the diagnosis was that she was suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome.

“Theresa was by this time in serious troubles of her own.

She was refusing to get treatment for her own problems, but also kept insisting that there was nothing wrong with her daughter that hiring a good nanny couldn’t fix. Enter Viola Yazzie.

“Yazzie had worked the floor of Pete’s casino, where she met Mr. Donati. He was attracted to her and tried to make time with her. What he did not know was that she had married Ben Blakeslee two years earlier and already had a one-year-old daughter of her own, whom you know as Darby. She agreed to apply for a job as a nanny for Constance. Constance responded 251

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to Viola and to Darby. Mr. Donati was thrilled, for it meant that Viola was now in his household, where he could court her.

“Two years passed. Darby, Viola, and Constance had grown close. I was now part of the Donati household as well—sort of Mr. Donati’s fix-it woman with a gun. Then all hell broke loose.

Mr. Donati got into a money bind. Saul bailed him out, but now Mr. Donati was in debt to Saul—big time. In the meantime, Mr. Donati had fallen in love with little Darby. He was sure she was the daughter he should have had. Mr. Donati got Theresa admitted to a hospital in California to try to dry her out. He next demanded that Viola divorce and leave Ben, whom he had fired.

“Ben and Viola’s reaction was to flee—with Constance.

Now, why they made that decision, I don’t know. Viola may have been afraid that Mr. Donati or Theresa was going to harm Constance. We all knew that Mr. Donati wanted Darby to be his, and loathed Constance, just as he had grown to loathe his wife.

“My orders from Mr. Donati were to track Viola and Ben down, kill Ben—but make it look like an accident—and bring Viola and Constance back. I trailed them down to the lake. We thought that they were going to try to get across at the Hoover Dam. So I had other guards posted at the bridge. I also had people sent upstream to Page and the Marble Canyon bridge in case they made a break for the Navajo Nation that way. Then I got a call from Dale Ozwell, an old friend who worked at one of the marinas. He told me that the couple had rented a small boat that evening. We think now that they planned to cross the lake by boat and maybe hook up with someone they knew on the south shore.

“I drove down there as fast as I could. Dale had a big power boat waiting for me. He described the little fourteen-footer they had rented, and I headed out, searchlight on. I caught up with the Yazzie-Blakeslees about seven miles south of the marina, still close to the shore, putting along. I came up beside them, ordered 252

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them to stop, then, when Blakeslee stood up—per Mr. Donati’s order—I shot him in the back.

“That’s when everything went wrong. Ben fell, but grabbed the thwart of their boat as he went over. The motor sped up and the boat spun and rolled over, spilling all three into the water.

That was it.

“I spent two hours scanning the water and searching the nearby shore. I guess if I had noticed the chimney, I might have found them, but back then, only the tippy-top showed. I called Dale. He came down and we both searched. Finally had to give up. Searched again the next day. Finally found the boat—empty and capsized—but no bodies.

“Mr. Donati’s reaction was: ‘Well, at least I still have Darby.’ I know Saul Fineboro was furious at the disappearance of his granddaughter. But nothing could compare to the fury of Theresa when she got out of rehab. She swore that if it could ever be proved that Constance was dead, she would hold Viola responsible for her death and wreak vengeance on Viola and all her family. Of course, Mr. Donati and I at that point kept our mouths shut. She’d had me killed if she knew what had happened.

“So that’s the semi-short story. Darby is somewhere east of here, headed for the Navajo Reservation, I assume. I think she’ll try to hook up with her indigenous relatives again, like she did in July. Right now, she’s in serious danger. Mr. Donati will not lift a finger to save her; Fineboro is financing Theresa’s hunt, and Darby has Daisy Hamish—the girl who’s still recovering from being shot in the head by Theresa—with her. I already took care of one vehicle pursuing the girls. You should find it in a ditch with blown-out tires just north of the Virgin River Canyon on the Utah border.

“I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. It’s up to you guys find Darby and arrest Theresa Fineboro—if you can find her.”

“Is Darby Donati the girl’s real name?” Pam asked.

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“No. Her real name is something Navajo, Nááts’íílid Sarah Yazzie-Blakeslee. We all just called her Naatsilid, or, later Naatie. But Constance called her ‘Daaka-ee.’

“Where did ‘Daaka-ee’ come from?”

“Dá’áka Bit’oh is the Navajo word for Las Vegas. Constance thought that was really funny. She started calling Naatie that, and somehow it morphed into Darby.”

“Ooookay. Anything else?”

Monica shook her head. “I’m done.”

“Hmm. Just one more question. Why’d you leave the DHS and Guns and Alcohol?”

Monica stood and rolled her shoulders back so her chest stood out. “Why do you think?”

Preston turned away and blushed.

Preston stared at the woman lying on a bed in one of the holding cells in the back of the building. “Never actually have met a killer before. I guess we’d better get the charges written up.”

“When a murderer confesses, there’s not much choice.”

Pam took a deep breath. “She left those places due to sexual harassment? Why am I not surprised? Okay. I sent a bulletin to the Navajo Police and an alert to the FBI office in Gallup. I think we’ve got a race against time here. Sounds like this Fineboro woman has several armed persons on the hunt, including herself.

Naatie-Darby can’t have many survival skills. And trying to hide in a place where she has no knowledge of the land won’t work well. And she’s got that other girl, the Hamish girl with a bullet just removed from her brain. Odds are not good.”

“And getting worse with every minute.”

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Chapter Forty-five Darby kept the heat on full blast, trying to compensate for the missing glass on the passenger side. She drove while Daisy slept, following the same route she had driven back in August.

The novelty was no longer there, and she kept checking her rearview mirrors. They stopped for a few hours of restless sleep by an overlook for the Marble Canyon, then drove into the night.

She stopped in Keams Canyon on the eastern edge of Hopi Land the next morning to gas up before backtracking seven-and-a-half miles and turning north for Piñon.

All the while, her fears roiled around in her stomach, mixed with the anticipation of seeing her aunt and great-grandmother again. Oh, they will be so surprised—and, hopefully, happy. But was she also bringing danger back with her? Did she dare stay, or should she and Daisy move on? How far would be far enough?

“Where are w…we going?” Daisy woke and asked.

“To a holding outside Piñon where my great-grandmother lives.”

“You actually have a … great … great-grandmother?”

“Yes, and an aunt, both Navajo.” Darby slowed. “Oh. Here’s the turn, I think. Yes, I recognize the hubcap hanging in that tree.”

She made the turn, then switched to four-wheel-drive as the road roughened.

“So much dust. How … how do you breathe?”

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“I don’t know. The air doesn’t seem to bother me here.”

“How long?”

“Another mile or so. There’s the turnoff to Shichó’s nearest neighbor, the McKenzies. Huh?” Something was wrong. She should be seeing the solar panels and the hot-water panel by now, with the edges of their metal frames catching the lateafternoon sun. “Something … something’s missing. Oh, no! Oh, no!” Darby braked to a stop and stared at the blackened walls and twisted and shattered panels. She rolled down a window.

“Sarah? Shichó Sarah? Carmina?”

Then, she heard the tinkle of bells and the bark of a dog.

“Custer? Custer, are you there?” Darby climbed out of the Highlander and knelt to take the full force of Custer’s happy leap into her arms.

Darby took in everything—the still-intact hogan, barn and hay shed. And behind the house ruins, the white pickup with its turquoise-colored top. She waved when she saw Sarah, followed

by Carmina, come into view. “Yá’át’ééh,” she cried out, surprised when Carmina, in response, limped to her and hugged her. “Oh, Shi’deezhi yazhi, you … you have come home!”

Darby turned the Highlander around and parked it off the driveway. She introduced Daisy. The two women gave her greetings and touched her hand in the Navajo way.

“Come, you must have come a long way. Are you hungry?

How do corn cakes sound?”

The supper was simpler than Darby remembered meals being before, but it was obvious that there was no refrigerator now.

At last, she could hold her tongue no longer. “What happened to your beautiful house?”

“It burned,” Sarah said.

“A man, a stranger, came and threw a firebomb through the south window,” Carmina added.

“No! Did they catch who did it?” she exchanged a horrified look with Daisy.

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“No.” “What … what happened to that beautiful rug you were weaving?”

“It was finished. It was not in the house.”

Darby did not know what to do. How could she stay there with no place to sleep? Sarah would have none of it. “We are using the hogan right now. The chapter is talking about helping us rebuild or bringing in a trailer. They promised to replace the panels with new ones that gather twice the power the old ones did.”

“But what about all your belongings, your furniture, your family stuff?”

“Darby, it is only that—belongings. It is not who I am. Some of the silver and other jewelry were safe in the bedrooms. Your bag and some clothes survived as well.”

“Teeny-tiny swimsuits aren’t important here.”

“What? What do you mean?”

Daisy smiled, then Darby blushed. *** Darby remembered the sleeping bags and pads under the back seat of the Highlander. She carried in the two bags and pads, then offered them to Sarah and Carmina, who had been sleeping on flour sacks stuffed with leaves. After a lot of refusals, Sarah relented and took one of the bags and its pad. They made up beds in the hogan, which Darby had to admit was drier and more comfortable than she thought it would be.

So many fears; too many threats! Okay, Maybe. Darby returned to the Highlander and went through the rear seat arsenal. Finally, she decided to bring in an AR-15 plus the Glock she had used before. But would she ever want to use either one?

“Oh!” She took out and opened the letter from Monica. Standing 257

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outside in the evening light, she slanted the letter west to catch the last sun’s rays.

“You’re on your own, Kid,” it began.

Darby felt her heart sink. Please, Monica, how could you be doing this to me now?

“As soon as I see you safely east of St. George, I will be returning to Las Vegas, where I intend to throw myself at the mercy of the FBI and the federal government. So you will not see me again, unless it is in a court of law where I would be on trial for murder.”

“WHAT! No, Monica. No, please no. All you’ve ever done is try to save my butt. Those people were going to kill me.”

“This has nothing to do with the men I killed to keep Theresa from shooting you. This has to do with the death of your mother and father, and Constance Donati.”

Darby sank on a bench made from a piñon log. “No, Please, Monica.” She was starting to cry again. Monica could not have been the one who killed her mother.

She was aware that Carmina, Sarah, and Daisy had come out and were standing beside her, Carmina carrying a battery lantern. “Do you need more light?”

All Darby could do was shake her head. Read, she had to keep reading. This was so all wrong. When she reached the end, she slowly refolded the letter and carefully inserted it back in its envelope. She took a deep breath, then she took it out again and reread, then reread parts again.

“Don’t deny, Darby. And you’re really Náátsʼíílid— Rainbow, little rainbow, not Dá’áka Bit’oh, not even Darby.”

She managed a short laugh.

“Náátsʼíílid. Not very feminine. What was my mother thinking? That I would want to be in the gay crowd someday?

Well, come to think about it, Darby’s not very feminine either.

And I ended up as Darby because of Vegas?”

“What are you talking about?” Daisy asked.

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Darby tried to explain. The more she tried, the funnier it seemed until even Sarah and Carmina were laughing. “Our ‘Darby,’ for the Navajo word for Vegas.” Daisy managed.

“Oh, my goodness.” Carmina gasped. “Vivie kept referring to her ‘Naatie’ all the time in her letters. We never knew what she meant. It was Connie and Naatie did this or that. And Naatie was you—all that time it was you. We thought maybe she was a playmate, but not Shich’é’é.

“And I am not a Donati, either, but definitely Yazzie, YazzieBlakeslee. Well, good-bye to Donati.” *** It took a long time for Darby to fall asleep.

“We say ‘fall asleep.’ Why? Why don’t we say ‘rise to sleep,’ or ‘settle to sleep,’” Darby whispered, then shook her head.

Monica—ordered to kill her father, so what? So the man she had thought was her father could make time with her mother? Had her mother loved little Connie more than Darby? Monica wrote that she never intended to kill her mother or Connie. But did that matter? And why had Monica done everything possible to save her life, not once but twice, or even three times? This Theresa was sick—this woman she had only met once, and then in the dark, who had tried to kill Daisy, one of her best friends. And she really was Náátsʼíílid, Rainbow—not Darby, but Naatie. She wrinkled her nose. I guess okay, but I think I will stick to Darby.

Well, maybe Naatie with the long A wasn’t so bad.

And where were they to go now? This place was dangerous, too. Any minute she stayed here, she was further endangering her own family—her real family. She placed a hand on the Glock, set inside its cordura holster, then stroked its cold hardness but received no comfort. *** 259

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“Da … Darby, or do you prefer Naatie?”

Darby moaned and squinted at Daisy.

“Sorry. I …I … I think someone’s outside.”

“Oh, no …” She could hear Custer starting to growl. Darby threw her blanket off and crept over to the hogan’s only window.

Daisy followed. A large, white vehicle stood outside, parked next to the gate.

“Navajo police?” Carmina whispered after she had joined them and looked too. “Maybe Herb.” She took out her phone and activated it. “Oh, miracle, I have a signal.” She dialed.

The phone rang half a dozen times before they heard a click.

“Yá’át’ééh, Herb. Carmina. Did you just get here?” Pause. “No? Then who’s in the white vehicle parked outside the hogan? You don’t know? The girls, Darby Yazzie and Daisy Hamish, are here. Aoó. Ah-huh. Okay. Not good. Ahéhee’.”

“Someone just got out,” Darby whispered. She could hear the thunk of what might be a stick or gun hit the SUV’s doorframe as that person exited.

The snug little hogan now felt like a trap with its one door facing toward where the strange vehicle was parked.

“Herb is headed this way. Says he’s about an hour out. He’ll put in a call to the local police station. Maybe someone can come out.”

The three continued to stare out the small window. Darby could feel Carmina gripping her arm, Daisy breathing hard, and her own breath coming in gasps. Custer paced around their legs, almost growling. “Please …” A deep breath, hold it, slowly release. There, that was better. She took the Glock out of its holster, checked the safety, and racked the first round.

Lying in bed, she’d had a dream of this monstrous truck in full pursuit, of her pointing an AR-15 out a rear window and taking out first one headlight, then another, then blasting out the center grill before going higher and taking out the entire windshield. The truck had slowed after that blast, but still had 260

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kept closing in. Now that same truck, or something like it, was here, and she wished no truck would ever be in her dreams. She wished she never had to touch a gun again—its cold metal now like a poison soaking into her hands.

A spark of yellow light lit up the stranger, revealing a lined face under a battered red ball cap. The light flicked out, replaced by a tiny red glow that pulsed slowly. “Dóó’niidíinii,” Carmina whispered.

Darby nodded in agreement. Why light a cigarette and reveal one’s presence? He must think we’re asleep. If she knew this was one of Theresa’s team, she could shoot him right now. All she’d have to do is aim at that red glow when he raised it to his face.

But she could not be sure. Maybe it was a policeman, waiting for backup. Or a mobster … “I don’t want to shoot anyone!”

“Is it just the one?” Carmina asked.

“I don’t know.”

Darby holstered her gun and returned to her bed, where she finished getting dressed and tied her boots. She could hear Daisy struggling to do the same.

“What are you planning to do?” Sarah asked.

“Find out who’s out there,” Darby answered. “Is he still there?”

“Aoo’,” Carmina answered. “Dropped the cigarette.

Otherwise, the same.”

Darby edged over to the door, drew the Glock, and clicked off the safety. She opened the door—which creaked like a giant turning windmill in the silence—and peeked out, her nose twitching to greet the cool fresh air. Custer started barking.

“He heard us,” Carmina hissed.

Darby stepped outside. “Who are you?” she shouted.

The stranger responded by firing at the door frame where Darby had stood a second earlier. She dropped to her knees, looked out again, and instinctively fired twice at the dark 261

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silhouette still standing in front of the pale SUV. The man screamed and disappeared.

“You just shoot him?” Daisy was back by the window with Carmina.

“I don’t know. I heard a scream.” Darby’s hands were shaking so badly that she could barely hold the gun.

“Now what?”

“Wait for Herb or the local police, if Herb reached someone in Piñon.”

“I … I think we need to get out of here,” Daisy cried. “I feel clau …claustrophobic. Please, I … I need to get out.” She ran to the door, grabbed Darby’s arm, and tried to get by her.

Darby shoved her to the ground as another shot hit the door frame again, spraying her already scarred left cheek with wood splinters. “A-ee.” She dropped full length and rolled on the ground, twisting her head back and forth, trying to escape the burning sensation on her face. “Where’s my frickin’ gun?”

She’d dropped it when she fell. She scooted right and left with her left hand, trying to find the gun by feel, while pressing Daisy against the ground with her right. Where was it? She moaned against her pain and frustration as another round hit the open door. Suddenly, the whole world above her bellowed in fire.

Darby could feel chunks of hot metal hitting her body. The white vehicle lifted in the air, then dropped as the tires went flat and the glass shattered. New screams cut out when a second blast followed the first.

“Carmina, no! Please, stop! STOP!” Darby yelled.

Silence, except the ringing in Darby’s ears and the tinkle of empty brass rolling off Daisy’s and her body and onto the ground. Then Custer started barking.

She lay there, eyes closed, feeling the air moving in and out, in and out, her throat dry, her head throbbing with sickness over what had just happened.

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“Darby? Naatie? Daisy. Are you okay?” She knew Carmina was touching her on the back, her voice tight and shaking.

“Come, can you get back inside?”

“Try.” She never wanted to leave the ground again. Ground was safe; ground was a friend. She could hear Daisy starting to cry, her voice keen with a quiet hysteria, like a weak, distant, highpitched fire siren, or the thin cry of a kitten.

“Daisy, I’m okay. You’re okay. Can we get back inside?”

“Please, I’m not going back inside, never, ever,” Daisy pleaded.

A light shone above Darby and, when she raised her head, she could see where Carmina was shining a flashlight beam on the once-white pickup. No, not a police SUV or travel-all. She could see a row of holes running across from the front fender back as far as the rear fenders, up and down, side-window gone, the engine smoking. The driver was now an unmoving dark hulk lying on the ground beside the driver’s door.

“How many rounds did you shoot?”

“I don’t know,” Carmina answered, her breath coming in short spurts. “I just kept pulling the trigger until it wouldn’t shoot any longer.” Darby could hear tears wrapped around every word.

“I think it had a thirty-round clip.” Darby eased up on her elbows, then scooted around so she was sitting facing the destroyed truck. When she did, she felt the Glock and picked it up. “Did we get him? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know.”

Carmina came outside, carrying the flashlight, and limped toward the truck. Darby, then Daisy, got up and followed.

The man was certainly dead. Huge bloody, gooey holes were gouged in his shoulder, arm, neck, and chest. A rifle lay beside him, its scope shattered. “Oh, dear God!” Darby placed fingers on her lips, closed her eyes, and turned away—willing her 263

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stomach to settle. She could hear Daisy retching on the ground behind her.

“Carmina, Shichó Sarah … we’re going to have to leave.

Daisy, I’m leaving. You want to stay with me, you may.”

“But, Naatie, why?”

“Every time I come here, I bring disaster with me. I come here, and they try to kill you. They burn your home, now they try to kill you again. Every minute I’m here, I’m a danger to this place and my family.”

“I … I’ll stick with you,” Daisy managed.

“Okay, let me put some alcohol or iodine on my face, pack our bags, and we’re out of here.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we can find a motel room in Chinle, maybe we can hide up in one of the canyons for a while. Hunter’s got plenty of food. If Herb gets here soon, he’ll have plenty to do to figure out who this guy was. When he knows it’s safe, he can try to reach me in Chinle. If we head into the hills, I’ll leave directions as to where we’re going with someone.”

“I know him.” Carmina ventured.

“What?”

“This man. He’s Justin Barker. Look at his right hand. He was the one you shot before when he came here and hid up on the hill. He was the one who shoved shichidí into Beautiful Valley and almost killed me. I just testified at his bail hearing three days ago in Winslow.”

“But he was not the one who tried to kidnap me at the powwow.”

“No, nor would he have been the one who burned down our house. That happened while I was in Winslow.”

“Carmina, I, we’re going. Keep the rifle. I’ll get out more ammo for it before I leave. Do you think you’ll be okay until Herb gets here? If not, we’ll wait.” A sudden thought. “Maybe 264

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he was waiting for a second person before he attempted to kill us?”

“Theresa,” Daisy whispered.

“What? Oh.” Darby nodded with sudden understanding. “He was waiting for Theresa. She wants to be the one to make the kill. We’ll wait. If she’s coming, I don’t want you two to be here alone.”

“Please, it’s okay. You go. She wants to kill you, not two women.”

“No. Is there a place back up a mile, where we can watch for anyone coming in?”

“Back a half mile, where this man hid his truck before.”

Darby nodded. She remembered. She felt so tired and confused now. She could not seem to think. “Let’s get our stuff.

We’ll drive up to the hiding place and wait. If we see Herb come in, we’ll know you’re safe, and we’re gone. If it’s any other vehicle, we’re coming back down to try and protect you.”

“I don’t want to be trapped in the hogan again,” Daisy added.

“Me neither. Let’s go.”

“Let me get your bag that you left before. It was safe in my bedroom. And please, take care, Shi’deezhi yazhi.”

Ten minutes later, both girls were on their way up to the ridgetop in the Highlander and to the place hidden by the juniper.

Darby backed it into the spot, turned off the lights and engine, and prepared to wait.

Daisy set her seat back and sighed, “I always … wanted … a more exciting life.” She sniffed. “Eric got to do everything. I miss him. But now, too much excitement.”

Darby nodded. “All this because someone wanted my father dead.” She wondered what he was like. He must have been nice enough if her mother had loved him. Must not have had any prejudices if he married a Navajo girl. And she had loved him.

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The sound of a vehicle going by woke Darby. She got a goodenough look to know it was one, then two Navajo police SUVs that drove by. “Okay. That has to be Herb Begay. You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Darby turned out onto the road and headed back toward the highway. As they turned onto Route 4, she ignored a black van coming the other way. It braked by the turnoff, did a careful U-turn, then fell in behind the Toyota Highlander as it headed east.

266

Chapter Forty-six Three years ago, when the Diné Nation had finally reopened for tourists to visit, Laurence Nez’s uncle had offered him a weekend job cleaning rooms in the motel he operated in Chinle.

At first, Laurence had hated the vacuuming, scrubbing, and washing, but he quickly found that he didn’t hate the money. He used it to purchase a secondhand Honda 750 motorcycle, which he rode to commute down from Many Farms on weekends. That Saturday, the uncle had asked him to come down early. The tourist season was almost over, but a youth group was expected from Flagstaff late in the morning, and his uncle thought that some of the group might be staying at the Cottonwoods Plaza.

Laurence was just taking the trash out of room 118 when he saw a dusty SUV with a broken rear window pull into the motel lot. Two girls—teenagers—got out and headed for the office.

Laurence stared, intrigued—partly because both girls were obviously young but unescorted, partly because it was too early for someone to usually request a room, and lastly because both were attractive. He dumped the waste bags into the main plastic bin, then waited.

Soon enough, the two girls emerged from the office and returned to their vehicle. The dark-haired one put the Toyota in gear, backed up, and then drove over to back into one of the parking slots next to Room 123. When the girls got out a second time, Laurence got the biggest shock he’d ever experienced in his two years as a cleaning assistant.

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“Darby?” he whispered to himself. “That’s Darby, the Yazzie girl from Piñon. What’s she doing here? And who’s the red-haired Anglo with her?” He left his bin and walked over just as Darby slotted a card to get into the room.

“Darby! Darby Yazzie?”

Darby spun around, dropping her bag and fumbling a huge pistol out of a holster on her hip. “Oh! Oh … Laurence? Oh my god! You damned near just made me pee in my pants. What are you doing here?” She was hyperventilating, the gun still shaking in her hand. Finally, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and re-holstered the gun. “Okay.”

“Yá’át’ééh. I was just about to ask you the same thing.” He nodded to the other girl with her strange, blank expression. “I’m Laurence Nez. Darby here knows me from a powwow.”

“I … I am Daisy Hamish. How do you do?”

“I’m fine. Can I help you with anything?”

“No,” Darby answered. “We’re good. Just need to get out of sight and get some rest.” She recarded the door and when the lock released, went inside the room, then held the door open for Daisy.

“I work here, so if you need anything, just look for me. I’ll do what I can.”

“Ahéhee’, Laurence. You see anyone come in who looks suspicious, let me know. Later.” The room door closed with a resolute click.

Laurence stared at the blank door for a minute, then headed back to the trash bin. Ten minutes later, he noted another earlybird arrival, this time an equally dusty black van with dark-tinted windows and Nevada plates. Talk about suspicious …

He watched with surprise as a woman got out of the passenger side of the van, stared at Darby’s Toyota, then went into the office.

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took out a motel-logoed pen and wrote the license number on the palm of his hand, then knelt and began to pull weeds out of cracks—a job normally reserved for the groundskeeper who came in once a week.

The woman came out of the office and got back in the van.

Laurence thought she might be in her late thirties–early forties, once attractive, and her hair once red, but her face wrinkled and aged. He wondered at the hard look she had given him. Here is one who walks in anger. She does not know beauty, he thought.

When the van left, he went back to cleaning the next room. *** Agent Woody Thomas came out of his office, adjusting his under-jacket gun harness, and nodded to the office manager.

“Okay, we’re on our way. Word from Herb Begay with the Navajo Police is that the Donati and Hamish girl should be on their way to, or are in, Chinle. No one seems to know what the two plan to do after they get there, but we must assume that the Fineboro woman is on their trail with plans to kill them if she can. Charlie and I will stay in touch. Forward the call if anything new comes in.”

Woody got into the FBI’s grey SUV as his associate, Charlie Ryan, got in the other side. “All gassed up and ready to go. Let’s head for Chinle.”

As the two men drove, Woody filled Charlie in on the details.

“Perkins, the former bodyguard for this Darby Donati, turned herself in at the Las Vegas office yesterday. She’s confessed to the killing of this mystery man whose body showed up on the shore of Lake Mead in July. And she confirmed that he was the missing Benjamin Blakeslee. The sixteen-year-old girl whom she has been protecting—who everyone thought was Darby Donati—and Peter Donati’s daughter—turns out to be the daughter of the Donati daughter’s nanny, and her name is really 269

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Naatie Yazzie-Blakeslee. Her first name is Navajo and more complicated than that, but I guess that’s what she was called.

Perkins, in her confession, indicates that Theresa, once Donati, now back to Fineboro, is after Darby-slash-Naatie as an honor revenge for the death of her own daughter, whose body showed up with the dead Blakeslee and the Darby-slash-Naatie’s mother, Viola Yazzie. You got all that?”

“Mostly. How does this all tie into the federal audit going on at Roma Mia, Donati’s Vegas casino?”

“Not sure, but there may be a will involved that, if Donati dies, would put a lot of money into the Yazzie-Blakeslee girl’s hands. Blakeslee and Viola both had life insurance policies that no one had collected because both were still listed as missing persons. So, we’re talking big money. But if Darby’s dead, Donati’s money would likely go to the Fineboro family.”

“Why?” “Because Donati owes a huge sum of money to Fineboro, the father, which he is calling in.”

“Right at the moment that the tax people are knocking on Donati’s door.”

“Right.” *** Laurence was in the laundry doing end-of-shift stacking of sheets and pillowcases when he heard a “Psst.”

“Darby? Why’d you come back here? You don’t belong on the Rez.” “Had to. Otherwise, someone will kill me.”

“Doesn’t seem like that father of yours likes Indians.”

“He’s not my father.”

Laurence faced the girl. “Now you’ve got me. If he’s not your father, who is he? And was that woman who stopped by the one looking for you?”

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“Aoo’. The guy acting like my father was my, I guess you might say, my foster father. Look, my name isn’t really Darby.

It’s Náátsʼíílid, and I just learned that yesterday. Call me Naatie, okay? But that’s not what I’m here for. Could you, maybe, get us, Daisy and myself, into the backcountry where we can hide until the police or FBI catch the woman and her troops who are looking for me?”

“You mean, say, into Canyon De Chelly?”

“Aoo’.”

“Your bilagáanaa friend may not go up the canyon without an authorized Navajo escort.”

“I know. But I’m half Navajo. Could you, maybe, be our escort?”

“That’s a big ask.”

“Please. You saw that woman this morning. We saw her through the shades. I know she’s waiting somewhere for us to leave and go elsewhere.”

“Naatie, I think you need to call the police or the FBI yourself. I don’t want to make trouble or get in trouble.”

“I understand. Sorry I asked.” Naatie turned away. “Maybe I’m afraid to call anyone, in case I’m being monitored.

“What are you doing for food?”

“We don’t know. I have some supplies in the Highlander, but I think Theresa has my SUV under surveillance. The moment we get back in it, she’s ready to pounce.”

“What if I make a run over to Subway or Pizza Edge. I could bring you back something to eat.”

“Oh. Would you? Thank you. Ahéhee’, Ahéhee’. Here. Will a twenty cover it? No, here, take another twenty, so you don’t run short.”

“I’ll call home. Let them know I’m going to be late.”

“Tell them you have a hot date with two beautiful girls.

They’ll understand.”

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Laurence laughed. “You’re a funny one. How do you know I won’t just run off with your money, or tell that Theresa person on my way out what room you’re staying in??

“You won’t do that ’cause you’re too good a dancer.”

“Meaning?”

“I heard the songs you danced to. They do not speak of evil.”

“Okay. Wait until I finish here. Say, half an hour.”

At five, Laurence was on his motorcycle and headed for Route 191 and the main drag. He hummed a little to himself as he drove. The first stop was the pizza shop, where he ordered one large pizza to go. Next, he drove over to the Bashas’ Diné store where he picked up several soft drinks and a veggie tray (after all, that’s what white girls like, don’t they?). He swung back by the pizza place, picked up the pizza, plates, napkins, and plastic forks, and five minutes later was rolling back into the parking lot of the Cottonwoods Plaza.

The Toyota SUV was still parked where it had sat all day.

Laurence parked several rooms away, unstrapped the pizza box and bag of drinks and salad makings, and made his way back to Room 123.

“Pizza delivery,” he called out with a knock.

The shade next to the door moved, then he heard the lock click, and the door opened. “Quickly.”

The girls had already cleared the room’s little table. Both beds looked like they had been used with covers and pillows every which way. “Oh, good. You brought plates. And pizza. I didn’t know what you’d bring back.” Naatie took the pizza box and set it on the table.

“Smells so good,” Daisy added. She managed a small smile.

“Smells I still remember.”

“If I didn’t remember what pizza or good Chinese smelled or tasted like, I don’t know what I’d do,” Naatie agreed. “Let’s eat.”

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She flipped open the pizza box and froze to stare at the piece of paper impaled on the white box tent set in the middle.

“What … What’s it say?”

Naatie reached into the box and freed the paper slip. “Be ready. We are ready. This won’t take long. TF” “TF?” Daisy and Laurence both drew a blank.

“Theresa Fineboro,” Naatie answered.

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Chapter Forty-seven “Hello. Yes. Yá’át’ééh. Aoo’, this is an emergency. To the Navajo police. Aoo’, Ahéhee’. Yes, this is police? Please have someone come to Room 123 at the Cottonwood Plaza in Chinle as soon as possible. Someone is outside waiting to kill us. Yes. No, not this second, but we just received a written warning.

There are three of us here. My name is Laurence Nez. Yes, from Many Farms.” Laurence waved to the girls that they should eat.

“Yes, a black van with darkened windows is outside by the road.

We will be waiting inside, trying to stay clear of the windows.

Okay.”

Laurence hung up and grabbed a slice of pizza. “Oh. Here’s your change.” *** “Damn. Where’d those two come up with that long-haired punk on a motorcycle? Well, they should know we’re here now. Hope this flushes them out.” Theresa sighed, but kept her binoculars focused on Room 123’s door.

Roberto nodded, one hand holding a half-eaten granola bar, the other pressed against his left-hand headphone. “They haven’t called anyone for help.”

“What are they waiting for?” Theresa wondered. “Wait, what if the punk had a phone. What if he called 911?”

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“I think I can see a flashing blue light heading this way.”

“Damn! All right. Let’s get out of here for now.”

Roberto pulled out, headed east, passing the police car coming from the opposite direction headed toward the motel. *** The police, seeing no black vehicle and finding three teenagers eating pizza, were not amused. When Naatie tried to explain what must be happening, she knew in a minute that everything she was saying was being discounted because she was bilagáanaa, with a bilagáanaa girlfriend. As for the punk Navajo boyfriend, he’d be better to get on home, and be careful doing that because it was looking like it was about to rain—a heavy ‘male’ rain.

“I tried,” Laurence whispered before reluctantly leaving.

The girls listened to the sound of the motorcycle starting up, then leaving the motel’s lot.

“Okay, girls, you’re here alone?” the one cop told them.

“We’ll check later, but I think you’re safe now. Keep your doors locked, and don’t open to strangers.”

Naatie and Daisy sat staring at the cool pizza. “We are so dead. I thought all the police had been alerted about us.”

“It’s starting to pour outside. I’m eating.”

“I am, too. Let me try to call this FBI number. Hello? This is Naatie Yazzie, no wait, you know Darby Donati. Yes. Listen, we’re at the Cottonwoods Plaza in Chinle. We’re sure that Theresa Fineboro is right outside and is going to try to break in and kill us. You believe us. Oh. Please that’s better than the local police. What?”

“Stay put,” Woody answered. “Do not go anywhere. Begay is on his way. Says he’s leaving the Roanhorse/Yazzie residence right now. Should be there in an hour.”

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“We can’t wait that long! Someone’s at the fire exit to the room right now.”

“Oh, boy. If you have to leave, we can track you.”

“Track us? How?” “Perkins told us that your vehicle has tracking. We just located its GPS signal. We know exactly where you are.”

“Then so does Fineboro. That’s why she’s always been right on our tail. Aaagh!”

“I heard that. What just happened?”

“Someone just shot out the back door lock. We’re out …”

Woody stared at his phone. “Dead. Connection’s dead.” He dialed Herb. Charlie accelerated to ninety. *** Never had Naatie or Daisy jumped in a vehicle faster in their entire life. Never had Naatie roared out of a parking lot at such a speed.

“Where we go …ing?”

“I don’t know. South. We go back to Piñon, it’ll only endanger Sarah and Carmina all over again. Get out the Indian Country map. See if you can figure out someplace to get lost in.”

“But if F-fineboro can track us, how can we hide?”

“I don’t know. I’m not going to stop right now to figure out how to turn it off.” Naatie hit Route 191 and spun onto the route south. A look in the rearview mirror confirmed that a black van was right behind them. Naatie took advantage of the straight open road to push Hunter to a hundred.

“How? Where are we? How does a map work?”

“Find Chinle on the map. Should be toward the middle. Find Route 191 going south. That’s where we should be.”

“There … there’s a turn to someplace named Nazlini in about three miles.”

“We’ll take it!”

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“There!” Tires screeched as Naatie hit the brakes and skidded on the wet pavement, fish-tailed, then pulled into the left-hand turn, biting into the shoulder gravel briefly before she regained control.

The new road was rougher and twisted as they climbed out of the valley. Fresh puddles splashed water on the hood and windshield—briefly obscuring Naatie’s vision. She slowed enough to follow the road. “They miss us?”

“I don’t see them.”

“Okay. Let’s try to get to this Nazlini place, and maybe we can stop and figure out how to kill the GPS. I think I got soaked just getting to Hunter.”

“So did I. I’m … I. Oh, I can see them now. Someone’s headlights. Maybe use your gun?”

“Gun? Gun! Oh, no. I hid it under the mattress when the police came. I forgot to get it back out.” Deep breath. Think, think. “Daisy, climb in the back and look under the rear seat. See if there are any bulletproof vests back there. Guns, too.”

“Okay.”

Naatie concentrated on the driving, trying to ignore the sounds and movements of Daisy reclining, then climbing over her seat and crawling into the back. She eeked several times as the Highlander rolled back and forth. “I found two vests. No guns. Let me see if I …I can figure out how the da, da, damn thing goes on.”

“Go for it. Hey, I’m going to look for some kind of side road.

Maybe we can lose her on a back road. Maybe she’ll get stuck.”

Daisy just grunted.

“How about here?”

Another grunt.

Naatie shifted to four-wheel-drive and turned left onto a dirt track that was little better than a jeep trail. They continued to climb, the bare dirt of Beautiful Valley lost behind them. “We find a place to pull off, maybe we can get away from the road and 277

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hide until the FBI catches up with us. They have to be tracking us, too.”

“I’m cold.”

“Did a vest fit? Put your jacket back on. Hold on, I’m taking a left here.”

The headlights were picking up more and more trees, and Naatie could feel the outside air cooling. “Rain’s letting up.

That’s good, I think.”

Suddenly, the track pitched downward, and the Highlander slid over shelves of wet rock before straightening out on a stretch of level rock as flat as a tennis court. “Whoo-ee!” Ten seconds later. “Oh, shit!” Naatie skidded to a stop and stared at the deep, rushing current in front of her headlights. On the other side, she could see signs of their road continuing out of the canyon they had just dropped into. To the left, a rain-swollen river, to the right, a pink cliff. “We’re trapped. Out, out! Maybe we can climb that cliff.”

She grabbed her headlamp and dropped out of the SUV, only to freeze in the glare of the headlights that had been following them.

“Hold it right there, Darby.” A floodlight was blinding her, causing Naatie to instinctively cover her eyes with an arm. “Yes, right there. Don’t move, keep your hands up.”

She could hear vehicle doors open and two people get out.

She also heard the faint sound of a large motorcycle slowing down. “And what do you know, poor Daisy Hamish. Like fish in a barrel. Looks like you made a few wrong turns. Roberto, you ready? Let’s get this done. No more speeches this time.”

Fineboro laughed. “What are we worried about? No Monica Perkins to the rescue this time.”

Naatie gulped. “The FBI is coming right behind you. You’re trapped here, too.”

A pause.

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Naatie turned her head to eye the rushing water, blinking to adjust to the darkness.

“They have the GPS tracking too? Okay, time’s up.”

“Theresa, one last question. Can skinwalkers swim? Sorry, Daisy!” Naatie took a deep breath, pivoted, and dropped into the rushing waters of the Tse Deeshzhaá Wash.

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Chapter Forty-eight Theresa fired once, then again and again, the bullets vanishing into the rushing waters with zouks of sound following each bang. Roberto was firing too, then turned on Daisy, who unfroze, dodged around the Fineboro vehicle, and then headed back up the road and into the darkness.

“Damn! God-damnit! Jesus! You get the other one?”

“Twice. Saw the bullets hit her back. Each time she stumbled but kept going.”

Theresa was taking deep breaths now, sighing, trying not to cry. “Why does this always happen? Why can’t she just die like Constance did?” She turned, stumbled back to the SUV, and lay her empty gun, then her head on the hood, which sputtered and sizzled as fresh raindrops splashed on its warm surface.

Roberto placed a hand on her shoulder. “Here comes someone,” he cautioned.

“Who?” “Can’t tell. Probably FBI, no, looks like Navajo police, plus another. Ready for the cavalry?”

“I wanted so much … but maybe this way her blood is not on my hands.” She turned to face the headlights and the three men getting out of their vehicles, guns in one hand, flashlights in the other.

“Freeze. Hands up.”

Both Theresa and Roberto complied.

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*** For Naatie, it had been a simple ‘Lady or the Tiger’ moment.

A bullet would certainly kill her, but the floodwaters? Let the waters take her where they will, then maybe she could fight free farther downstream.

The cold water sent a shock through her body, but she locked her lips, holding on to her breath. When she felt her face surface, she sucked in another breath and held on, scraping and bumping around rocks and sliding down the creek bed.

“Ouch!”

“Mmph!”

The current slackened as she bumped into a piñon log.

Instinctively, she grabbed at the tree, clutched a branch, and wrapped her body against the trunk, staring at the blackness. She felt for another branch end and gripped the next one she found.

A snap and it broke off.

“Ach!” Naatie was almost on her way again. She felt weak now, wrung out, cold, the wetness chilling even her inner core.

She had to get out. If the other snag broke, she knew that she would not be able to keep herself afloat any longer. And she hurt, god, she hurt all over.

What if? Naatie took another grip on the rocking, almost floating trunk and pushed herself on top of the log, which stopped moving. Oh, good. Please. She clenched her teeth, let go with her first hand and reached beyond the log—and felt rock, nice, solid, sensible rock, beautiful, sensible rock, salvation. A shudder, a push, and she rolled off the trunk and onto the rock surface, momentarily lost her balance, and almost rolled back into the water. The piñon trunk promptly fell away to vanish downstream.

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place her hand on the cold surface. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Thank you for saving my life.” *** “Theresa Fineboro? Don’t move, stay right where you are.”

Woody gripped his gun with both hands and slowly moved forward until he was five feet from her. “Hands against the fender, lean forward, spread your legs.”

Theresa complied. Woody did a quick body search and patdown. “Who’s your associate?”

“Roberto Castro.”

“You have him under control?” Woody asked Herb.

“As good as gold,” Herb answered from where he was cuffing Roberto’s wrists. “Second time. This guy’s a slow learner.”

“You are?” Charlie asked the girl coming back into the light.

“Daisy Hamish.”

“Where’s Darby Donati?”

“Dead,” Theresa answered in a flat voice.

“We heard gunfire. Did you shoot her?”

“She jumped into the river there. Water carried her away.”

“Why’d she jump? Fineboro, were you shooting at her?”

“I think I need to see a lawyer.”

“Okay. Hands behind your back.” Woody got out his own cuffs. “Understand, you have the right to remain silent …”

Laurence came into the light.

“It’s okay. These people are no longer a danger,” Woody told him. “Thanks for waiting at the turn so we knew where Naatie went.”

Laurence shrugged. “Aoo’.”

The two agents and Herb secured Theresa and Roberto in the back lockup compartment of the Navajo police SUV. Daisy had two serious bruises on her back. Otherwise, she seemed okay.

She insisted she would not leave until she knew Naatie was safe.

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“Naatie is?”

“Was Darby. Her Navajo name,” Woody and Laurence both told Herb.

“Let’s look,” Woody decided.

“I had better stay with the prisoners and Naatie’s friend,” Charlie offered.

Laurence, Herb, and Woody all took deep breaths and then began to walk downstream, following the torrent as it slipped between slots of rock and uprooted trees.

They kept slipping on the wet rock and had to move carefully for fear of sliding into the cold waters. “When it rains, it pours.

Darby? NAATIE, can you hear us?” Herb called.

Voices? Naatie could hear faint voices—the roar of the creek blocking most of the sound. She lifted her head. They were men’s voices, not Theresa’s. “Yes,” she cried, surprised at how little noise her throat could make. “I’m here. Over here.”

The voices called again. She got her hands underneath her body and managed to sit up. “Here. I’m over here.” This time, it did sound like a yell. A light beam swept over her head, paused, and came back.

“Darby? You’re alive. Oh, God, thank you. Unbelievable.”

Herb could not hide the relief in his voice.

Two lights shone on her now. “Are you okay? Can you stand?” Woody called.

“I think I’m okay. I’m not sure I can stand. I’m afraid I might fall in again. I’m just very, very cold and wet. Is Daisy … Is Daisy alive? Is she okay?”

“She’s okay.”

“What are we going to do?” Woody asked. “She’s on the wrong side of the wash.” He wished they could wait until daylight but knew they did not have the gift of time.

“She’s not going to last another hour out on that rock. Let me go get a rope out of the police wagon,” Herb volunteered.

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“Darby, can you hear me?” Woody called. “Begay is going to get a rope. We’re going to see if we can pull you across.”

“I guess.” Naatie’s teeth were chattering now. She rubbed her arms and shoulders, trying to stop her body from shaking. It did not seem to make any difference. *** Within half an hour, several other local Navajo, alerted by the many lights, had joined the rescue effort. By then, the rain had ended as quickly as it had started. Together, the rescuers lay several logs close to the dropping water and used that as a place to stand and throw the rope over to Naatie. It took several tries before Naatie had a bowline securely tied around her waist. She slipped down to the water, and the men pulled her across, then Woody and Herb carried her up to the vehicles, where towels and dry clothes got her semi-warm. All this time, Naatie kept whispering Ahéhee’ over and over again. She made some remark about her ‘free show,’ when she shed her shirt and jeans, but didn’t seem to mind Herb’s warm rubs on her back, legs, and feet.

Around midnight, the party was over, and everyone headed west and north back to Chinle. *** The next morning, Naatie sat up in a bed in the clinic in Chinle. Laurence sat on one side, Daisy sat on the other, while Naatie talked. “I was such a coward; all I did was run away.

Instead, I almost died. Lying on that rock, I was so, so cold! I couldn’t seem to move anything. I was so sure I was going to become one solid ice cube. If I had, if I had died, would I have come back as a skinwalker, shape-changer?”

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“Eternally looking for re-revenge against the F … Fineboro family?” Daisy laughed.

“Your speech is better.”

Daisy shrugged. “Words I remember. Saying is the … the problem.”

“Naatie, you would have died outside. So your chindi would have been free to travel on to the next world,” Laurence answered.

“Can skinwalkers swim?” Naatie asked again. “I thought, if I died, but ended up on the other side, I would be lost in that world—always trying to get back to all of you.”

“So, you’re leaving here?” Laurence was fiddling with the emergency call cable. He seemed to want to change the subject.

“They have your room back at the motel. And that other FBI agent brought your Toyota out. It’s parked there too.”

“If that GPS is off, I’ll drive it, don’t you worry.”

“Hey, how are all you kids doing?” Woody and Charlie peeked in and then joined the three.

“We’re doing great! How are you?” Naatie waved toward a chair.

“Listen, Naatie, your aunt and great-grandmother are on their way down from Piñon. They can take you back there as soon as you want to leave here,” Woody told her.

“What about me?” Daisy asked.

“Your parents are also on their way from where they were in Reno. They are flying into Gallup, where they intend to rent a car and come up here to get you.”

“So, it’s safe to go home?”

“Yes. Okay, but here’s the rest of the news. The FBI in Las Vegas served a warrant on Saul Fineboro yesterday. He’s under arrest on charges of tax evasion. With charges against Theresa Fineboro for attempted murder and solicitation for murder, she’s going nowhere but jail. Daisy, you’re safe and get to go home.

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soon. There may be others, but without the Fineboro family to direct them, we doubt they will do anything.” Woody paused to take a deep breath. “Darby … Naatie, I guess there’s a question as to where you want to be. That got complicated yesterday after we tried to get the word to your foster father, Mr. Donati.”

Naatie froze. “What happened?”

“He passed.”

“Dead? Theresa get to him?”

“Shot himself. Left a suicide note.”

The three stared at each other. Finally, Laurence managed a single “Wow.”

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Chapter Forty-Nine Naatie and Daisy returned to the Cottonwoods Plaza where they waited for the Hamishes to arrive from Gallup and take their daughter back home. The entire Nez family joined them there, followed by Asdzáán Sarah and Carmina. All had supper together before sharing sad and awkward goodbyes.

Over and over, Naatie would sigh. “I was such a coward yesterday. I never once tried to defend myself. All I wanted to do was get away from Tessie.”

The fourth time she said that Sarah and Carmina seized her hands and together held them in a tight grip. “Naatie, please.”

Sarah pleaded. “You were trying to save us. You aren’t a coward for caring more about your family than about yourself. That’s what heroes do—care more for others than themselves.”

Naatie snorted but said no more. *** Naatie followed her aunt and great-grandmother back to Piñon, spent two days there, then—with a promise to return when possible—insisted on driving back to Las Vegas in the Toyota Highlander by herself. Two days later, Marie and Jack Morales welcomed her back to her Vegas home. The next day, the Highlander was in the shop to get its window glass replaced, and Naatie was back in school.

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Over the next few months, Naatie often thought about that strange, private, often lonely trip back to the place she had once thought of as “home”—mile after mile of silence except for the whiz-vroom of vehicles passing her going the other direction.

Everything had felt so different: friends gone, new ones made.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the man whom she had thought was her father—and who left her to fend for herself against persons intent on killing her. She thought about Monica—who had saved her life many times but had killed her real father and mother. And she thought about Theresa Fineboro, whose little daughter had died—so twisted, so angry, and so sad.

Finally, Naatie thought about herself. Maybe she had been thinking more about Carmina and Sarah than her own safety.

Maybe running was okay if it meant not killing people. And what if she had never fled to Piñon, never met or known her aunt or Asdzáán Sarah? Would she have gone through life never knowing who she was or who her real family was? Her Navajo family was the one who had stayed and defended her. They were her real family.

In school, she discovered that everyone still insisted on calling her Darby and could not seem to get a handle on YazzieBlakeslee either. It bothered her at first, but once she got back into her classes and resumed running, she found that she could lead a close to normal life. Then, as winter loomed, and with her shoulder healed, she went out for the swim team. Once, Todd asked her for a date, but she politely declined.

She wrote to Carmina and Sarah often. She sent a letter to Laurence thanking him for helping save Daisy and herself and got a friendly reply back. So she continued to write him via text.

Carmina sent her copies of the pictures she had taken of the three of them before the powwow. Naatie studied each one for a long time, and then smiled and used the selfie of the three of their faces together, all grins, as part of her personal web page.

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Then, in November, the installation of a new cell tower near Piñon brought a reliable connection to the Roanhorse holding, allowing Naatie to phone whenever she wanted to. In December, she heard that Carmina had received an Enemyway ceremony to help her recover from her attack and the shooting. She told Naatie that it helped her to feel whole again. “I once more feel beauty around me instead of sickness,” she told her niece. “The ugly and the anger are gone.”

Naatie thought about that often and wondered if such a sing would help her feel better as well. She still felt a sickness every day remembering the shootings, but by Christmas, she started considering other possibilities.

She learned that Peter Donati had left her a portfolio of stocks and bonds, plus a substantial share in the casinos. He also left her a letter apologizing for all the hurt he had caused her.

Working with Donati’s lawyers, she arranged for funds to pay for a new home for Carmina and Sarah, still small and simple, but with three bedrooms instead of the old two and an updated solar system. One by one, she closed off her old ties to Vegas.

The mansion, the only home she had known, was now hers as well. She spent too many hours with lawyers making arrangements for Jack and Marie Morales to stay there as caretakers, while allowing her to come and go as she willed. *** She phoned Carmina and asked her to locate a singer, and on March 15th, she was in Piñon for a Blessingway to dedicate the new house.

She sat quietly through the ceremony, listening to the singing and spreading of the corn pollen and corn meal. She smiled at the many people gathered by the compound—many of the women in traditional paneled skirts or dresses and velveteen 289

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blouses, the men in western-wear, snap-flap shirts and black or white cowboy hats.

She nodded as first Sarah, then Carmina, came forward for the singer to place pollen on their lips to bless the owners of the new house. But when he called out for Náátsʼíílid YazzieBlakeslee to come forward, Naatie froze. She could not connect that name with the gestures from Sarah and Carmina to join her.

In a daze, she walked forward to stand before the old man as he spoke, then with a smile placed the corn pollen on her tongue.

Afterward, she spoke to the singer, and to Sarah and Carmina.

“Yes” was the answer. He would set aside four days the end of May for it to be done.

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The Closure of the Circle This time when Naatie came to Sarah’s holding she brought several suitcases and travel bags—everything she knew she needed to remember who she was or had been, but not any more— and no guns. She did not stay in her own special bedroom in the new house with its tan-stuccoed walls and new solar panels, but in the old hogan that still stood next to it.

That first night, she lay on her back, arms firmly placed against her sides on a bed made from fleeces and blankets and looked up at the central hole in the roof through which the smoke of open fires had once risen. Stacked logs laid at angles stepped the ceiling up to the hole. “It is like looking up the inside of an oldfashioned beehive,” she whispered. Then Naatie thought about the world of Las Vegas—her other world—filled with sparkling, flashing lights of a never-ending circus and flat, plastic ceilings.

She thought about the eternal noise of traffic, always there, even in the sanctuary of the mansion that had once been her only home. She thought about all the many, pretty things she owned—and still owned—that had once meant so much for such brief periods of time. She thought about her many friends; she thought about Eric, Monica, Daisy, and Pete.

Then she thought about this place—so far from everything, the middle of nowhere, yet so close to the earth and the sky— Mother Earth, Father Sky—the world of her family, her clan but especially her mother’s world. And she thought about Náátsʼíílid 291

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at’ééd, Rainbow Girl, arching over all, protecting, making the world whole. Was that why her mother gave her that name? So that she might someday be as one with this place? She did not know, but she cried a little anyway. She wondered again if this was all the right thing to do. She’d messed up so badly, made so many stupid decisions the last nine months. Would this be just another mess-up?

“Am I doing it right now? Will I do it right?” she asked herself. She sat up, slipped on a sweater and moccasins, eased open the door of the hogan and stepped outside.

Immediately she hugged herself against the high-altitude cold, then took in the dark shadows the buildings and trees were casting in the light of a close-to-full moon. “Aee. So, so different than Vegas.” Huh? Someone else was standing by the door of the house. “Shichó? Shi’ma yazhi?”

“Aoó.” Carmina stepped closer. “It’s okay. Come, I will walk with you.” She took Naatie’s hand. “Up here. Yá’at’ééh. All is good.”

Naatie felt the warm hand holding hers and no longer felt the chill. She walked up slope to where she had once stood to watch the rainbow, then gasped to stare at the faint white halo that hung around the moon. “Is … is, does Yádiłhił, Father Sky…? Is Ooljéé’ speaking?”

Carmina nodded. “Do you feel the breeze? That is the voice of the divine speaking.”

“To me?”

Carmina squeezed Naatie’s hand. “The world speaks to all of us, if we listen.” A pause. “Now sleep. All will be well.” *** The first light of the coming sun was just touching the top timbers of the hogan when Naatie rose and, wearing only a slip, bra, and panties, put on moccasins and again stepped out of the 292

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hogan and into the cold air. Shichó Sarah was already waiting this time. “Sit,” she whispered.

Naatie knelt while Sarah combed her hair with a comb made from a bundle of yucca spines.

“Now dress.” And Sarah gestured toward a pale-blue, satin-finish, paneled skirt and a dark blue velveteen shirt. She wrapped a new red, white, and green sash around Naatie’s waist and secured it with a belt made of silver plates like the one she had worn to the powwow. “Now lie down, face down.” Naatie lay on a rug that Sarah had already laid on the ground in front of the hogan’s door.

Sarah began to whisper in Navajo as she ran her hands over Naatie’s body, arms, and legs, pushing, shaping, and molding.

“Now run,” she ordered.

Naatie stood, turned, and faced east, took a deep breath, and began to run. “Sun, come see, I run to meet you,” she whispered.

She ran past the enclosure, out of the little valley with the spring that never failed, up the hill, past the spot where the gunman had once hidden, who had hurt Carmina and tried to kill her. She ran toward the sunrise until a stitch in her side told her she had gone far enough. Trying not to breathe so hard, she turned and walked back.

A bag of corn lay by the hogan door next to a stone mortar and grinding stone. Naatie knelt and began to grind the kernels into cornmeal.

By midday, Naatie was sure that she was going to die of hunger before the four days would be up—if her tired arms didn’t fall off first. Carmina brought her frybread, cakes made from cornmeal and water without honey or anything else to make the food taste good. Naatie ate, then continued to grind.

That night, Naatie lay alone in the hogan again. Even though she was tired, she felt better, no longer nervous. “One day down, three to go,” she told herself.

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The next morning, Naatie once more ran east, following the same route as the day before. Then it was back to grinding more corn. Later, she took corn husks and sewed them together using big, rough stitches. “I have never sewn anything before in my life,” she realized. Carmina and Sarah took her over to a level spot near the household fire pit. Taking a shovel, she dug a new pit and lined it with stones to hold the heat. By now, she had a huge pile of cornmeal.

“Fire tomorrow,” Sarah told her.

The third day began as the others had with the run for the sun.

Then she laid wood in the pit and, following Sarah’s guidance, lit a fire. Then she ground some more corn. As the day faded, she mixed up a soupy mush made from the corn she had ground.

“It is ready, quickly,” Carmina called out. The three took out the last coals, lined the pit with the wet corn husks, and poured the grey mixture into the hole where it steamed in the heat. They covered the cake mixture, and that part was done.

Finally, Sarah took Naatie out and showed her yucca plants to dig up to make the soap for her washing.

On the fourth day, when Naatie stepped out of the hogan, she found several people waiting—neighbors, including the McKenzies and people from the school where Carmina worked.

As she took off on her run, she could hear the visitors start to sing. It was harder today. She was so tired and so hungry, but she pushed and smiled when she reached the point beyond the ridge where she had stopped before.

When Naatie got back, she saw that even more visitors had arrived, including Herb Begay, the Navajo detective; Woody Thomas, the FBI agent from Gallup; and others. She was particularly curious about an Anglo stranger dressed in a dark grey suit who spoke with Herb and Woody, but otherwise did not seem to belong. Then she noticed Carmina spot the stranger and greet him with happy smiles. He, in turn, introduced a woman and two children: a little dark-haired, pig-tailed girl and an older 294

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boy, all dressed in warm jackets against the late-spring chill.

She gave them a smile, but smiled even more when she saw Laurence arrive on his motorcycle. He too was dressed up, in a black leather jacket and black leather chaps, but when he took them off, she could see he wore a silver squash blossom necklace and a concho belt, each plate holding its own large turquoise stone.

Sarah had her sit while she bathed her hair and knotted it with a leather thong. Then the old man who had sung for the Blessingway escorted her into the hogan. Into the evening and all night, the hogan buzzed with the singing ritual as Naatie sat at the west side, facing the east and the door. More and more people arrived, people whom she now knew were cousins or clan brothers or sisters—the women stepping to the right to take the north side, the men going left to the south side. Somehow, everyone fit in, although by midnight Naatie could feel the heat of the crowd. People, even strangers, would approach her and touch her with corn pollen. A woman, a total stranger, lay a necklace made from red coral and turquoise beads around her neck. The singer touched her cheeks with white clay, pausing as he brushed her scar. Once more, Naatie heard the words “Sǫʼ anii’.”

You are now “Changing woman, bride of the sun,” she had to keep reminding herself. This is what all women must do to be one with the Earth and be Diné. If I can cook, make things, take care of myself, and run like this and stay healthy, maybe I will be a good person. If I do these things, I will be human and part of the Earth as I should be.

She listened to the singer as he spoke to her, first in Navajo, but then in English. “Draw out a life for yourself. Remember what and who you are today. Make it the pattern of your life. If you have a plan, act on it, pray for it. The Holy People bless you today. And may you always walk in beauty.”

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Naatie stood and walked out to face the rising sun just touching the rim of the distant hills to the east. She ran for the last time. She could hear other girls running behind her, laughing and calling out, even the little Anglo girl who had come with the stranger family. All were running behind her. “Aaee!” Naatie cried out with a flush of pure joy to feel the dawn racing to greet her.

She dragged back this time, all four days of labor with little sleep or food, rushing up to try to pull her to the ground.

Standing before the hogan, she swayed a little until Sarah helped her to the ground for one last molding of her body. “Ah, that feels so good,” she whispered, then stood to see the dozen girls gathering around her and turning their backs. She reached out, grasping their ears and lifting. “May you grow strong and tall,” she whispered to each one. She had to bend over to lift the little pig-tailed girl, who giggled as she lifted.

“Oh my God. So much food now.” There were frybread and mutton stew, but also sweet rolls, potato salad, and veggies from Bachas’. Someone was handing out mugs of hot coffee. Naatie was grabbing some frybread when Sarah came up. “Hold still,” she ordered, and she untied the leather thong holding Naatie’s hair. “Now you must serve the cake.”

Naatie walked to the fire pit, which some of the men had already opened to pull away the cover that had kept the heat in. Carmina and Herb helped her carve out chunks of cake, which she placed on a Navajo ceremonial basket. Then Naatie circulated through the crowd, offering pieces to everyone, thanking them for coming and for blessing her. She was making her second round when the Anglo man she did not know stepped out to stand in the middle of the crowd.

“Please, all of you have given Naatie, Darby, something special today, something that she will always remember and cherish as long as she shall live. I have something here as well, not a gift, but a return.” He paused, his hands fumbling to open 296

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a box. “Why is it that? Because sometimes we think we lost something when it’s just waiting to make the world whole again.

Just as the circle of life makes the world whole, maybe this will bring closure to the past and help all of you, Asdzáán Sarah, Carmina, and Naatie.” He lifted the box’s lid and took out a silver bracelet and, when he motioned for Naatie to extend her arm, placed it on her wrist.

“What … What is it, Shichó? Why are you crying? Carmina, you’re crying too.”

“Ahéhee’.” Sarah finally managed, then she grabbed the strange man by the neck and kissed him. Then she hugged Naatie and cried as Carmina, her eyes filled with wonder, tried to explain that this was her sister’s bracelet, which they thought had been lost forever, and now had come home.

“You see, Shi’deezhi yazhi—my little sister—you have come home, and your mother has come with you. Now the ghosts are gone, and we once more can walk in beauty.”

“I see, and yes, today I too walk in beauty, with all of you, together.” Naatie grinned through her tears as she grasped the bracelet with its leaves, flower, and turquoise and the white abalone shell bird, which already told her that her mother would always be with her now, forever and ever. She had come home.

The End

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Epilogue Monica Perkins received a life sentence with parole possible after twenty years for the murder of Benjamin Blakeslee. The judge allowed a plea of self-defense in the deaths of Ralph Lujan and Deacon Morales. No other charges followed. If Perkins had committed other crimes, she did not say, and the district attorney did not ask.

Despite her earnest attempts, Theresa Fineboro never did manage to kill anyone herself. After some negotiations, a plea bargain resulted in a sentence of twelve years with credit for time served plus a fine. Once out of prison, she promptly disappeared.

Her whereabouts are not currently known.

The courts convicted Roberto Castro of attempted homicide for the shooting of Daisy Hamish plus the arson of the Roanhorse residence. His past rap sheet did not help him, and he received a sentence of twenty years. He will be eligible for parole in fifteen.

Daisy Hamish managed an almost complete physical and mental recovery and was able to graduate from high school with her class. She and Naatie remained close friends, and she promised that, come summer, every summer, she would visit Navajoland again, but this time as a tourist.

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Author’s comments & acknowledgements

In June 1978, Linda, my wife, along with Scott, our twoyear-old son, and Laura, our two-week-old daughter, left Eugene, Oregon, and drove to Ganado, Arizona. There I was about to begin my first professional job as the Assistant Librarian for the College of Ganado—a small, private college once affiliated with the Presbyterian Church.

The Navajo Indian Reservation that we discovered was far different than the one that I had visited as a twelve-yearold boy in 1957. Back then, it was still an empty land of stark, treeless beauty with nothing to mark humanity’s presence except dirt roads that could turn from red dust to car-swallowing mud in a matter of minutes. The Navajo we saw still drove by in open wagons pulled by horses. The only sign of what was to come were the huge dump trucks driven by Navajo men—their traditional coiled hair covered by hard hats—as they drove to and from the new uranium mines.

Ganado and the Navajo Nation in 1978-1980 were already a country in transition. In addition to the two-year college, Ganado featured a modern public school, K through 12, a hospital-clinic, two trading posts, a food-mart, as well as the famous Hubbell’s Trading Post National Historic Site.

For many of the children attending school there and even the college, English was their first language. Many barely knew or 299

spoke Navajo. We met weavers and purchased rugs from them, but most were already in their sixties or older. While we lived there, the Hunt brothers’ attempt to corner the silver market led to cost increases that drove most of the Navajo silversmiths out of business. We saw many horses, but no wagons. We saw many sheep and dirt roads, but many paved ones as well. Few Navajo were living in hogans, although most still had one of these traditional one-room log buildings next to the newer, white, single-story homes that seemed to be everywhere.

We lived in Ganado for two years. We took a course in Navajo; we dyed our own wool. Linda wove a rug in the traditional way. We visited many places, natural and historical, and met and became friends with many people.

Pinon, or Piñon, was still the site of a traditional trading post in 1979—a single large building, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The road to it and the parking lot were terra cotta red dirt, and the inside was a huge dimly-lit room selling everything from ice cream to horse harnesses. It seemed, even then, to be something out of the past, still existing due to the forty miles of isolated driving it took to get there.

Today, trading posts that still exist are more like dollar stores or local general stores than bartering stations where once Anglo traders negotiated purchases of rugs and silver in return for essential supplies like coffee and flour. Once these places held huge safes or secured safe rooms to hold the heavy silver concho belts and squash blossom necklaces the Navajo men and women so prized and used as pawn.

The 1974 division of the Joint-Use reservation land would, in time, change Piñon. Navajo who lived on what was now Hopi-only land were ordered to relocate. For many, Piñon was the closest place to move to, the closest place to homes some had known for generations. Today, Piñon includes a public school system, K-12, a road maintenance center, dozens of governmentfunded houses—many with eight sides and east-facing doors to 300

replicate the feel of a traditional hogan—a chapter house, a huge Bashas’ grocery and department store, and even a restaurant and a pizza parlor.

I have been back to the Navajo Nation several times since we moved away in 1980. Each time I visit, the towns seem bigger, the roads wider, the traffic busier, the once-remote places more inhabited, with more houses, gas stations, quick-food restaurants, churches, and schools.

In writing this story, I drew upon my many memories.

But, just as the Dinéh had changed from 1957 to 1978, so it has continued to change, and I have tried to know and show those changes in this story. I probably got a few things wrong.

If I have erred, I apologize and hope that readers will forgive and understand. This is a work of fiction. While places like St. George, Window Rock, Ganado, Chinle, and Piñon are real, the details are my own and may not describe any place accurately or precisely. This is just what we, as writers of fiction, sometimes have to do.

A deep debt to Linda, my wife of 57 years, who has shared our walk to search for beauty in people everywhere in this world, and who has read and copy-edited my manuscripts.

A special thanks to my many writing friends who continue to encourage me to write, particularly the members of the Bold Authors Group and especially Nancy A. Hughes and Dori Hoch.

An Ahéhee’ to my friends in the Navajo Rugs, Blankets, Baskets, Pottery, and Native American Artifacts Facebook group who have shared so many thoughts and good feelings. A special thank-you to RG Sherman and Lynda Curtis for agreeing to read the manuscript and provide feedback from a Navajo perspective.

Your support has been most encouraging.

I also need to thank our son and daughter-in-law, Scott and Rayne Loder, for taking us to so many places in Southern Utah and Northern Arizona, both public and hidden, private and 301

sacred. It was good to once more know the feel of these special lands.

And, finally, a deep and special thanks to Cathy Teets, editor and publisher of Headline Books, for her faith and support of my writing.

Sources My primary source for the Navajo language was the Dual Language Navajo-English Dictionary published by the Rough Rock School. I also checked my notes from my semester of Navajo I took while living in Ganado and used <https://rephrasely.com/ translate/translate-english-to-navajo> and Google Translate for words not covered elsewhere.

Google Maps proved to be a godsend for locating the many places in Navajo Land that appear in this story and for checking their current status. Scanning the landscape using the aerial view was like having a personal drone to fly anywhere.

And, of course, I used the California AAA Indian Country map just as Tony Hillerman’s Joe Leaphorn and so many others, real and fictional, have done to navigate through the Navajo and Hopi nations.

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Glossary of Navajo terms that appear in this story. Ádzaaígíí bąąh shíniʼ Ahee, Ahéhee’ or Ahéhee ana’ie Anii ánti’įhnii Aoó

“I am sorry” Thanks. “I am grateful” Enemy/foreigner alien/stranger Face Navajo evil spirit, ghost person Yes. Often repeated to encourage a conversation to continue Asdzáán Grandmother, an address of respect for any older woman bilagáanaa People of European descent, Anglo Chąą´ Crap Chidí vehicle, car, automobile, or pickup Shichidí my vehicle Nichidí your vehicle Chindi Bad spirit or devil. Part of a person that tends to evil Daa What Dá’áka Bit’oh Las Vegas, Nevada Dá’ák’eh Halání Many Farms, Arizona Dę́ę́ Naashá Home Dibáá nisin I am thirsty Diné People, the Navajo word for themselves Dinéh The land of the Navajo Dooda No Dóó’niidíinii Idiot Dzaanééz Łání.

Many Mules (a clan) Hago, hago wóshdę́ę́’ Come , come here, this way hágoónee’ Goodbye Hozho State of harmony ketoh Bow guard 303

kinaaldá likááh Náátsʼíílid at’ééd Ooljéé’ Shi Shiamá Shi At´ééd Shi éi Shich’é’é Shicheii Shichó Shi’deezhí Shi’deezhi yazhi Shí yázhíshízhí Shí éí yinishyé shił hózhǫ́ Shimásání Shi’ma yazhi Shichó Sǫʼ Táchii’nii Tązhii Dine’é Tsiiyéél Tó’áhání Tó Baazhní’ázhí Tó Dích’íi’nii Yee naaidlooshii Yá’at’ééh Yádiłhił

304

Coming-of-age/puberty ceremony for girls Sand paintings Rainbow Girl Moon Me. My Mother My girl I am Niece Father Great-grandmother My girl My little sister My little girl “I am called …”

My happiness My grandmother My aunt Great-grandmother Star Red Running into the water (clan) Turkey People (clan) The wrap of wool that Navajo use to secure their long hair Near the Water people (clan) Two came to the water (clan) Bitter water people (clan) Skinwalker—witch. “By means of it, it goes on all fours” “Good,” used as the universal greeting Father Sky

Skinwalkers Can

Swim?

Michael Wescott Loder

Michael Wescott Loder has hiked, climbed and caved his way across the United States, helped raise three children, been an Air Force officer, photographer, audio-visual technician, park naturalist—and an academic librarian for over 30 years. He worked in eight different states—including in Ganado, Arizona, where he lived for two years. Today, he lives in the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania, next to the family farm where he grew up. His home is a passive-solar, off-grid house he and his wife designed and helped build themselves. Wes started writing when he was seventeen. He is the author of a wide range of books, from a history of Nikon cameras to novels for young adult readers. Today, he writes from home, plays the highland bagpipe and occasionally weaves rugs. Can Skinwalkers Swim? is his first novel set in the modern-day Diné Nation. For More information visit wesloderwriter.cc.

Can Skinwalkers Swim?

Two worlds, Las Vegas’ rich suburbs and Navajo country, provide contrasting settings for a mystery/thriller and a coming-of-age story as a vendetta threatens a teenage girl.

The discovery of three bodies in Lake Mead, Nevada, triggers a murder attempt against Darby Donati, the rich, snarky daughter of the owner of one of Las Vegas’ Casinos. As the body count grows, Darby must not only survive threats on her own life, but learn why and who she really is. As FBI agents work to identify the recovered bodies, Darby escapes a kidnapping attempt and flees to the remote Navajo chapter of Pinon, Arizona. There she discovers relatives she never knew she had. The friendship and care of her equally-threatened great-grandmother and aunt leads her to question not only her identity but her entire previous way of life.

Michael Wescott Loder