Zuni Stew: A Novel (10 page)

In the exam room, Lori said, “I wonder why the bear didn’t attack us. We were the ones eating rare steaks.”

Jack didn’t hear her. He was looking at the gold watch on the dead man’s wrist. Exactly like his father’s. He aimed the flashlight closer, started to take it off.

“Don’t touch him.”

“That watch is exactly like my father’s.”

“There have to be lots of watches like that.”

“I’ve got to look at the back. His initials are engraved on the back. My Mother bought it for him in Venice, on their honeymoon.”

Lori placed a vice-like grip on his arm. “Wait for the police.” If the watch belonged to Jack’s father, she would have to tell him the brutal truth. “I need some air, let’s wait outside.”

Pacing the exam room, Jack ignored her. Casual but expensive clothes. Soft Italian loafers. Polished fingernails. “What the...”

The waiting room door opened and Gloria appeared, leading a New Mexico State policeman, dressed in black from head to toe. And a Tribal
police officer wearing a baseball cap.

“I heard Officer Chino’s radio call. I decided to see what’s going on,” said the state trooper. “You’re the lady that called this in?” Lori nodded. “And you’re the replacement doctor?”

Instead of answering, Jack said, “I want to look at the dead man’s watch.” He took them to the corpse and reached for the limp wrist.

“Hold it, Doc. You’re already in trouble for moving the body.” The officer pushed Jack back from the table. They all heard the sound of vomiting in the bathroom across the hall. The cop pushed him further from the mauled man. “The body and all items associated with it are property of the State for now. You’ll have your turn after the state coroner is finished.”

“To hell with that. I am the physician here. Besides, this is not a crime scene.”

“I’ll decide that. Hey, Paul, get back in here. A bear attack is pretty unusual around here. Not unheard of, but rare, right, Paul?” said the state policeman.

Standing in the doorway, Officer Chino cleared his throat. The heavy-set former Marine said, “First time for me. Seen lots of corpses in Vietnam. This is worst.”

“Any of you know him?” asked the cop.

Jack nodded no, as did Gloria and Lori.

Panning the body with a flashlight, Lori said, “His shoes are expensive. Look at the snaffle bit. Gucci. I had a friend in Boston that said you could tell the net worth of a man by his shoes.” The light moved to the head. “His face is badly mutilated, but I still think I might have seen him in Gallup a couple of days ago. He was having his shoes shined at El Rancho—I remember the shoes.”

“Didn’t you say you were from Taos?” Jack interrupted. Watched her body language. “Taos is way east of here. Gallup is southwest.”

“I’ll explain later, Jack.” She pulled her ID folder from her pocket and flashed her badge. “Officers, I’m Special Agent Wilson, Chicago FBI.”

“FBI?” asked Officer Chino.

“Yep,” said Lori.

Chino stepped back beside Gloria. He knew when to shut up. Fact: a wild animal had killed a White man on Indian land. But the thought of the Feds taking over turned his stomach again.

The state officer looked down at Lori. “You should have ID-ed yourself immediately, but it doesn’t matter and you know it. No Federal crime has been committed. This is in my jurisdiction.”

Lori started for the door.

“Just a minute,” yelled Jack, half-running after her. “Just who the hell are you?”

Lori opened the door of the Scout and reached for the radio mike. Jack reached across her, his hand on the steering wheel. “Does the ‘L’ really stand for Lori?”

“It does,” she said coldly.

“Then why are you here, miles from nowhere?” He didn’t let her respond. “Miles from Chicago?” He wanted to smack her, but held back. “Cut the bull, Lori. Are you going to report back like a good girl?”

“Give me some credit. I told you I would explain everything. I’m here to take care of you.”

“I’ll take goddamned care of myself!”

17

A
flat-bed truck carrying the Chevy and the ambulance bearing the body pulled away. The state police cruiser followed, acting as escort to Albuquerque. Lori spoke a few words to Officer Chino before he left with Gloria in tow. Jack watched the vehicles turn onto the highway. The gold watch still on the dead man’s wrist. A Cartier, the style of ’31. Gone.

He sat down on the front steps. Lori started the Scout. In the dim light, he could see her hand holding the microphone. Who is this woman?

The radio band hissed, crackled as she dialed. Frequency: 170.72500 ChiA3, the primary repeater for the Chicago Field Office. Analog encryption, frequency inversion scrambling assured a secure channel. She refused to talk to anyone except Brooks.

He was on the line surprisingly fast. She heard him dismiss the dispatcher. She relayed the bear attack. The turf battle over jurisdiction. Technically, a Federal law hadn’t been violated. She was in the back seat. She got a look at the victim’s ID and car registration. Fakes. But she did have something. A Walther PPK. Loaded with special bullets. Hollow nose. Certain to kill.

“The attack was horrendous, so fast; I didn’t realize a shot had been fired. I did find the spot where the bullet nicked the concrete deck inches from where Jack was sitting. Must have gone off just as the bear attacked. I’m positive that bullet was meant for him.”

“Get it to Albuquerque ballistics. The killer found him. You can be damn sure they’ll send someone else when they find out about this. Get Jack out of there. Back to Zuni. And, Agent Wilson, I think it’s time that he’s told about his family.” The connection warbled and spat. “You’re breaking up. Brooks, over and out.”



Brooks didn’t waste any time alerting Admiral Zeller, who updated Dr. Newman. D’Amico was being escorted back to Zuni.

“It’s up to you to find somewhere absolutely safe to hide him,” said Zeller.

“When will he get here?” asked Bill.

“Three, maybe four hours.”

Bill fell back on the bed. Where in hell could he hide the guy?

The pueblo. A person could get lost forever in there. On went the wrinkled chinos and T-shirt left in a pile on the floor.

He had lived on the reservation for three years, long enough to begin to understand the Zunis’ relationship between the natural, observable world, and a multitude of supernatural worlds. Ceremonial dances followed the Zuni calendar. Exotic, sometimes grotesque. Mudheads. Kachinas. A Shalako. Kivas were sacred. Secrecy was complete.

Fifteen minutes later, he had driven down to the pueblo, turned left and up the dirt street to the walled cemetery in front of the old mission. The mission, circa 1612, had long dismissed Catholicism. It was home to the Zuni religion.

Across a dusty, weed-and-rock-filled lot to an alley. Walking alone in the pitch black of the moonless night to the sacred plaza. He glanced up. A living maze of mud and stone. Earthen and tin chimney pots. All surreal.

A single naked light bulb glowed in the plaza. He climbed a ladder at midpoint, east side. He knew where to go. He had been summoned once before by Louis Paul Jahata. Old Man Rainbird lay dying atop blankets in the middle of the receiving room. A severe heart attack.

Louis Paul knew his only cardiac medicine, foxglove tea, was weak.

Bill had treated the revered elder. The old man recovered.

He knocked at the low screen door. The door opened immediately. Candles glowed, casting shadows on the hard-packed earthen floor. Smells of piñon smoke, moist wool.

In silence, Louis Paul backed away and sat cross-legged. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. He motioned Bill to join him. Bill outlined his problem, telling him all he knew about Jack D’Amico—and his family.

Louis Paul knew everything he was telling him.

For the first time, he spoke. “I will protect Doctor D’Amico. Bring him to me. Come for him when danger has passed. Good night, Doctor Newman.”

Louis Paul sat alone, his mind’s eye surveying mountains. Cliff faces. Caves. Hidden places where approaching trails could be watched.

Sacred sites. Kiva members never knew the sites of other kivas. Official Zuni government wasn’t involved. Therefore each tribal policeman was only aware of his own kiva. All were sworn to secrecy.

“Yes, I will find a safe place for doctor,” he murmured aloud.

18

L
ori left the motor idling and slid out of the vehicle. Jack’s back was to her as he locked up the clinic.

He swung around, hoping she was going to say ‘Adios,’ or ‘Goodbye, I’m on my way.’ Instead, she told him to get in the Scout. “Where are we going?”

“Zuni.”

“Zuni, hell. I’m assigned here and there’s plenty of mess to clean up, not to mention my sick patients, and the earthquake injuries that are bound to come flooding in.”

“Get in.”

“Just who the hell do you think you are? You’re not going to boss me around.”

“Jack, listen, and I mean it, listen to me. People are after you—this very minute. That man was just the beginning, I’m positive. Please, get in.”

She shifted into four-wheel-drive when at the detour. Twenty-weeks at Quantico learning driving tactics paid off. Massive boulders. Sheared Ponderosa pines. Sudden drop-offs. Headlights flashed and bounced. Slick clay soil ahead. She slammed the SUV into reverse, gunned it. Whipped the wheel to spin 180-degrees. Like a bucking bronco, she attacked the rock-strewn hillside, skirting the sucking clay pit.

The moon dropped from view, the domed sky went jet-black. Jack turned in his seat to face her. “Exactly what in hell are you doing here?”

Silence.

“Look, it’s time.” Silence. “It’s time to tell me what on earth is going on. Why are you so concerned about me?” Nothing. He slammed his hand on the dashboard.

Her eyes never left the road.

“Shit! What’s so goddamned important about me, Miss Lori? Why me?”

“It sure as hell isn’t your personality.”

He pressed back in his seat, his mind filled with such anger he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Calm down. There had been times in med school when he felt totally without control, completely in over his head. He had thought his way out of each crisis. He was going to think his way out of this one.

Seventy miles an hour. Rock and roll.

“You better slow down—you’re going to kill us.”

Lori ignored him, pressing down on the gas.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Still not a word out of her.

Jack shut his eyes and his mouth. He wanted to stop, bodily pick her up, and get some answers.

Crack. Crack. Smashing violent cracking. A sudden deafening noise. Coming from Lori’s side of the road. A wall of rock, earth, and trees were sliding, rolling directly at them. The sound was unbelievably loud. Gathering speed, spewing debris.

“Christ!” he yelled. “The side of the mountain is coming down on us.”

Lori shot a glance out her window, only to be met with a mass of rocks striking the hood. She jerked the wheel, pitching them down a precipitous hill toward a wildly rushing stream.

“Can’t outrun it!” she yelled over the roar.

The Scout plunged into the churning water. Jack was thrown on top of her. He grabbed the wheel.

“Get your hands off!” yelled Lori.

They were sinking. Submerged. The tires hit bottom. The chassis rotated sideways.

“Hang on.” She floored the gas pedal, the wheels spun. They were hit by a torrent of foaming, churning water. Huge branches. Entire tree trunks. Blasting the two-and-a-half ton vehicle, ripping off wipers, cracking the windshield. The rear window imploded. The Scout began a sickening spin.

Completely drenched, Jack sat helpless, watching the frothing water rise toward the base of his window. He grabbed the bar above the door just as one wheel caught on solid ground.

Traction.

She floored the pedal, catapulting the Scout up onto the bank of the rushing creek. A second front wheel grabbed at rock and dirt. The drive train screamed. Traction. The vehicle lurched up and onto the embankment.

The groaning Scout rolled to a stop. Shuddered. The engine died. Jack cranked his window down a few inches. The entire pane dropped into the interior panel. Thunderous sounds bounced and echoed through the canyon. The smell of freshly ripped pine. A metallic taste to the air.

“You did it,” he whispered. He touched her shoulder. She jumped.

“Sorry. That was pretty hairy.”

“You are one helluva driver.”

A half hour passed before Lori attempted to start the engine. It coughed repeatedly, eventually yielded to a rough idle. The mudslide stopped. The convulsed mountainside stilled. Jack wedged out of the Scout, brushed off debris, then picked up a long branch, threaded his way through deep mud and downed trees to the stream and plunged it into the water. About eight inches deep, a slower current. He crawled back up to his seat, mud up to his knees. “Ground clearance good to go.”

There was a terrific rattle emitting from the oil pan, so she drove slowly across the Navajo nation toward Gallup. They did not speak. His mind darted, holding a thought was difficult.