Zuni Stew: A Novel (7 page)

Forests loomed, then receded. Towering cliffs sank into water. There was no water.

Jack felt isolated, yet engulfed. As the plane changed altitude, the visual effect was magnified over the huge distances, exaggerating the vertical distortion, displacing images. Light was not reflecting. It was refracting. Bending.

A far-off mesa topped by dark lava vanished as light deflected over Jack’s head. Was it all a mirage or an illusion? Fantastic sequences flashed in Technicolor like a fast-paced dream. He sensed a sound. A sound like a heartbeat. In seconds, he saw duplications. Distortions. He felt like he was in a wavy-mirrored funhouse. Which image was real? Every ground object he could see was shifting. Was there just one mesa? Or six or seven?

“I will remember this,” said Jack. “Awesome.”

“Optical physics, amigo,” said Bill. “The team of light and air.” He put the plane in a wide arc to turn back, saying over the din of the engine, “Another day I’ll take you over to El Morro, Inscription Rock, but we better get to work.”



Rounds began right on time. They were joined by a third physician, back from a two-week leave. A pleasant-enough guy, red-haired, very little to say, but showing a clear disdain for his Indian patients. Seems the guy spent his free time in his trailer with his wife and new baby. This was going to be a Bill-and-Jack operation.

Bill called for a lunch break and headed home to check on Flapper. Jack closed the door to the office and called Winnetka. Twenty-two rings and no answer. He dialed the lake house. No answer. They could be out on the lake, but Jo Lou
didn’t like the water at all, so why wasn’t she answering?

A metal door down the hall slammed way too loudly. Shaking a sudden chill down his neck, he felt like his family was very far away. He closed the venetian blinds, a dusty shadow angled across a pile of charts. He put his hands in his lab coat, noticing for the first time a row of eight-by-ten black and white photographs simply framed in thin black wood with extra-wide mats. Western ranch scenes. A worn boot in a stirrup. Two unsmiling boys with snap button shirts and big-brimmed hats. Silhouetted horses galloping across a dark ridge, lightning in the background.

So Dr. Bill was artistic besides being a pilot. Way cool.



Admiral Zeller put down a notepad filled with his own kind of shorthand and lit a Lucky Strike. He had spent much of the morning on the phone, first with the Chicago police, then a call from the FBI. Not much information from either of them, nothing to point to a motive for killing an entire family—almost an entire family. Zeller knew full well there was much more to this case. The hush-hush, the FBI, for godsake. Neither agency provided a reason for wanting him to protect Jack. What did Jack know that would place him in harm’s way? That someone wants him dead. And how in the hell was he going to protect him?



The head of Cook County Hospital records was a self-important, grossly overweight woman, tough-as-nails, ready to give out nothing. Lori acted as if she was being drawn into a conspiracy, one which could bring down a doctor.

The woman responded in a whisper. She opened Jack D’Amico’s file, pointing to the form indicating his last salary check had gone to an address in Albuquerque, New Mexico—Forward as Necessary.

Not much, but something. The woman added that a man had called earlier in the week asking for the same guy. A secretary who fielded the call had just returned from maternity leave and should have known better, but she had told the man the doctor was on his way to another assignment in New Mexico. The man wanted his forwarding address. At first, the secretary balked, then agreed to check his file.

“Did she give it to him?” The woman shrugged.

From a pay phone, Lori told Brooks what she had learned. “Is there anything new that I need to know?”

“Nope,” said Brooks.

“I’m going to New Mexico, Albuquerque first, then Indian country.”

“You still think you can handle this case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you shoot?”

Lori cleared her throat. “I am an expert. What about back-up?”

“You’re it. Brass in DC said to keep it low profile.”

Brooks pressed his intercom. “Miss Cervantes, take care of whatever Agent Wilson needs.”

“Certainly, whatever she needs.”



The Chicago Division Office alerted Zeller that Jack’s car had been stolen. The APB had been picked up by the Kansas FBI Division. Someone sharp also noticed two speeding tickets for an Illinois-registered driver, not Jack, on US 54. Further, Cook County Hospital acknowledged Jack’s destination was Zeller’s office. US 54—a direct run to New Mexico.

Zeller walked down the hall and poked his head in Dr. Martin’s office. “What was that you told me earlier, our doctor at the Jicarilla Apache Med center?”

“Doctor Davis had to be rushed to Albuquerque. Acute appendicitis,” Martin answered.

“Perfect. Up near the Colorado border. I’ve got you a replacement,” Zeller said, already walking back to his office.

He got the head doctor at Zuni, saying, “Bill, send D’Amico to Dulce, ASAP. Have him use one of the Gallup motor pool cars. Tell him to lock that Jeep of his in a garage—you’re worried about car theft.”



Yolanda booked Lori on United through Denver, telling her she was from Aurora, south of the city. “Not the Hispanic ghetto. My father runs a grocery store; brought in produce other suppliers couldn’t get from Mexico. Poblanos, jalapeños, mangos, papayas, avocados, jicima. You name it. He predicts a Mexican-food craze is on the horizon.”

“Are you going back there after you retire?” asked Lori.

“Sí, como no.
Of course. After September first, I’m heading home, start my own accounting practice—Cervantes, Esq. LLC, CPA.

They both heard Brooks’ door slam—they tightened as he walked by. Without looking at either, he slid a file toward Yolanda. “I think both of you pretty things have more to do than chat. Schedule me for a massage and manicure. Then I’ll be at the club, dinner with Senator Trask. No calls unless it’s urgent. Do call my wife, the usual excuse.”

When the elevator doors closed, Yolanda practically spit the words, “Enjoy your martinis, asshole.” She darted her brown eyes at Lori and snapped, “That man uses me like toilet paper.”

Lori laughed. “Don’t let it get to you. Just keep on pickin’ cotton.”

“Whatever. I do find it exhilarating that
el cabrón
trusts me. I may be treated like chewing gum on his shoe, but I see, and I remember everything he does.

“Okay now, your flight leaves O’Hare at eleven-forty-five in the morning. In Albuquerque, you will be met by a friend of mine, from my old college days. He’s way cool. He’s also the one who steered me into the FBI. I’ll be tracking you, keep in touch.”



At the Albuquerque Sun Port she was met by a fifty-ish agent with buzz-cut greying hair and a limp. Worn Levi’s, a tan shirt, dark glasses. A badge on his chest, gun in a black holster at his belt. His tan face was as worn as the jeans.

He introduced himself as Josh Flores, a forest ranger based in the Mt. Taylor District of the Cibola National Forest. A huge territory, 1.6 million acres.

As they walked out of the airport, he said, “Yolie told me to look out for you, but I don’t know what you’re working on, and I don’t want to know. When I leave you, you’re on your own.” He led her to a battered green truck with a Department of Agriculture/Forestry Service shield on the door. “I’ve done some prelim work for you. Hop in.”

“Where are we headed?” asked Lori.

“My pad. Grants.”

“I expected an undercover agent.”

Josh smiled wryly. “Maybe I am.”

Route 66 was nearly empty. An occasional big rig heading for the coast. He pushed the pickup, making risky passes on double yellow lines. A small leather pouch, tightly cinched, swayed back and forth on the rear view mirror.

Josh caught her glance and said, “I’m in good with the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Made nice with the chief. He gave me that to protect me. Hey, it can’t hurt. I’ll try anything.”

“Yolie said you two met in college.”

“I’m older—met her when she was a freshman and I was about to graduate.”

“You dated her?”

“Totally. We did some real fine boot-scootin’ together. Course that was before I got reamed.”

“So after UNM, you went into the FBI?”

“Later. Like you, I got a master’s in criminal justice. Georgetown.”

“And that prepared you to be in the Forestry Service?”

“I’ll tell you about that later. We’re home,” said Josh. He pulled in under an awning next to a drive-in window, a FDIC sticker still on the glass. A grey International Scout was parked in the next bay in front of an old Jeep Wagoneer.

“You live in a branch bank?”

“Well, it’s better than a Dairy Queen. The bank got a contract with the Laguna tribe and needed a bigger building. I got it cheap. Actually it has everything I need.”

He opened a thick double-paned glass door into a vestibule filled with rangy red geraniums. Another security door led to the waiting area. A couch, a table. A cheap stained wall heater. Cardboard boxes everywhere, brimming with files. Recessed ceiling fixtures glowed down on the teller counter, a/k/a the kitchen. The truck and SUVs were in view through the teller windows.

“My bedroom was the manager’s office.” He limped across the room and pointed down a hallway. “Down there I have my very own vault.” He reached behind the bedroom door and handed her a bullet-proof vest. “FBI-issue. Whoa—it’s way too big for you, but it will still stop a bullet.”

Lori laughed. “I feel like a rodeo clown inside a padded rain barrel.”

“When I quote-unquote ‘left’ the FBI, I gave them some bologna about all my equipment getting fried. Then I kept it.” He handed her a set of keys. “The Scout is yours.

Everything you need is in there. A quick look, and I’ve got to go.”

Raid jacket. Enough evidence equipment to process a large crime scene. Assault rifle in a roof-rack. “That police radio will connect you to tribal police or dispatcher. I’m always out in nowhere, but they usually can find me.”

She followed him to a junction. He thrust his arm out his window, gesturing straight ahead—Route 66 to Gallup. He turned south onto State Route 547. It was dark when she pulled into Gallup. Thank goodness Flores had made a reservation.

El Rancho Hotel. Like a faded postcard. Past its time, but a place to park. An elderly Indian was polishing the shoes of a heavyset man sitting in one of the leather high chairs. Ponderous log furniture. A huge
Yei-bi-chai
Navajo rug. Mounted deer and antelope heads. Unique background music, low sounds of Indians chanting, drumming.

She was more interested in eating. The desk clerk told her the restaurant had closed for the night, but the 49er Bar was still serving.

She could use a drink.

Seated in a red leather booth, she ordered a bourbon and water.

“Short or tall?” asked the waitress.

Lori laughed, saying, “Better make it tall. I’ve wanted to be tall all my life.”

“And to eat?”

“The biggest steak you’ve got, rare.”

“You got it, girl.”

The television behind the bar, despite the snowy picture, occupied the attention of a cowboy with long sideburns, moustache, and Stetson. A spokesman was saying the White House had sent a letter to the Oglala Sioux chiefs promising to discuss the Fort Laramie Treaty.

A pair of inebriated Indians at the bar began shouting and slamming down their bottles of Budweiser. “We stand by our brothers and sisters at Wounded Knee.” Then more insults. “We curse the FBI. Stinking pigs!”

She turned away. The American Indian Movement versus the FBI, BIA, Federal Marshalls, local Police. Gun battles, tear gas barrages, fire-fights. Almost a full-scale military offensive. A dark period in the Dakotas.

At least the drink was strong. She learned to drink at the University of Colorado. Her father, a Methodist minister, would have whooped her if he had known. Home was southeastern Colorado. La Junta. Flat plains, wind-driven snow. Space. He taught her to hunt and fish. His parish pay was paltry—he justified the hunting because the family needed food.

He taught her how to gut an elk, skin a rabbit, filet trout. Make elk sausage, rabbit stew. But she was no hick. A scholarship got her a master’s at Harvard. That was where she shared a tiny apartment and a bedroll with her dog, Bo. She existed on cottage cheese and ketchup.
Saltine crackers
and mustard.

Thankfully, the steak arrived.

12

J
ack read the temporary reassignment orders. “What the shit? I just got here.”

Bill gave him a letter of introduction, and orders for a car, adding, “I’ve got you a ride into Gallup—the pharmacist is heading into town to pick up stuff.”

Stan drove a faded red VW bug with ratty seats. He turned out to be a talker, a big guy with thinning grey hair and bushy sideburns. His pharmacy jacket barely buttoned over his gut.

At Vanderwagen, he pulled in to pick up his mail. The post office was inside the White Water Trading Post, on the left.