Death and Desire Read online

  He advanced the frame and zoomed again. “There’s a stream in that canyon. See the willows? There’s a pen back behind her hogan.” He held the zoom until the picture was getting fuzzy. “She’s got a horse back there.”

  “Back the footage up, please. Let’s look for tracks and signs of digging.”

  Louis slowly spooled the video backward frame by frame.

  “Zoom there, on those tire tracks.”

  Louis slowly rolled the video over and back a couple of frames, finally zooming in again on the tracks. “Big machinery was way off the road site back in the canyon.”

  “Good call. Look at how deep those tracks are,” I said.

  “Did you get pictures of the canyon walls?”

  “Yep. See those pockmarks up high on the walls? Right below that natural shallow cave?” He pulled the cursor over to a small, carved-out space on the wall. “Now look below it. That’s a machine-made opening into the wall. Someone dug into a burial site. You have any idea where this canyon is on the topo map?” Louis asked.

  “I do. I punched the coordinates into my GPS when we were out there.” I spread the topo map out on my desk. “Here.” I tapped the spot. “Look, that canyon is open on both ends. The stream flows all the way through, probably cut the canyon thousands of years ago.” I traced the blue line of water. I can get in that canyon back here off this county road without going past the mine property.”

  “How are you going to get the old woman to talk to you?”

  “Where’s the closest trading post? She’s not riding that horse into town to Walmart.” I spread a road map over the topo. “Right here.” I circled the name. “Diablo Canyon Trading Post. They’ll know who she is.”

  I handed him my USB drive. “Please put those last frames on my drive.” I grabbed my bag, checking for my camera.

  “You sure you don’t want some company?”

  “Nah, I got this.” My cell phone was ringing. Officer Nez. He would be waiting for me after I visited the trading post. Louis thrust the flash drive in my hand as I left.

  Diablo Trading Post was a frame building no bigger than a gas station. The boards had weathered to a dull gray. I opened the squeaking screen door into a dimly lit room full of shelves of flour, canned goods, horse bridles, and pellet fuel. In the back, an old man sorted weaver’s thread into stacks by color. “Good afternoon,” I called out.

  “Hello. Need something?” He winced as he shuffled around the counter and stuck out his hand.

  “I’m Taylor McWhorter with KNAZ.”

  “Seen you on the TV.” He smiled, showing yellowed teeth. “I’m Frank Aguirre.”

  We shook hands. “I’m doing a story on the reopening of the old Tsoodzil Mine by Dinetah Mining.”

  “Good. Someone needs to talk about that mine.”

  “You lived here long?”

  “All seventy-eight of my years.”

  “Were you running the trading post when Naalish Tsosie worked the mine?”

  A dry chuckle filled the air between us. “I’m old, but I’d most likely be dead if I was running the Diablo when Naalish operated the mine.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Aguirre, I didn’t mean any offense.”

  “No offense taken. My Dad was mining here back in the twenties. Used to tell us boys he bought a pickax and a burro and made a career out of it. He wanted better for us.” He started bobbing his head up and down. “Yes siree, he wanted something better for us boys than going down in that mine.”

  “Did your dad own this place, too?”

  “No, I bought it in the late fifties. I can tell you stories from the old days around here about that mine. Pour you some coffee?”

  “Sure.” No customers in sight. I wondered how long those cans of lard had been on his shelves. “Most of your customers Navajos?” I sipped my coffee.

  “Yeah, the old ones shop here for the basics. They got kinfolk who drive them into Flag once in a while. But I see my regulars pretty much weekly.”

  “There’s a hogan back in that canyon the mine opens into. Under some willows near the stream. Do you know who lives there?”

  “That’s Yanaha. She’s a regular. In here most Thursdays.”

  “Does she come on horseback?”

  “Yep. I don’t know who’s older, Yanaha or that old swayback nag of hers.”

  “Here’s my card. Would you give it to her when she comes in?” I flipped it over and scribbled my cell number.

  “Sure.” He tucked my card in his torn shirt pocket. “She don’t have cell service out there, but they say it’s coming. I got me a landline here. She uses it. Freshen your coffee? I got all the time in the world.” He grinned, showing me thousands in dental work that was never going to happen.

  “Thanks.” I held out my cup and he topped it off. “Do you remember the miners getting sick when your dad worked in the mine?”

  His hands shook and his coffee dribbled onto the scarred countertop. He wiped the excess off his chin. “Sure did. Lot of ’em died from workin’ that old mine. Got the yellow monster, Leetso.”

  “Yellow monster?”

  “Yeah, that’s what them miners called it. Got uranium dust in their lungs. Made them cough up thick yellow mucus. Then the blood started comin’. They wuz bent over gasping for breath right before they bled to death on the inside. Terrible way to die.” He spat in the corner, then slurped his coffee. “Awful place to work, that old mine. Can’t believe they’re opening it again.”

  The gob of mucus gleaming on the floor made my coffee less appealing. “What about their families? Any of them have the yellow monster?”

  “Plenty of them died. Warn’t only their lungs that took them though. The cancer got them. Even them little kids died.”

  “What happened?”

  “Back then, the Navajo collected the rock tailings and used it to build their hogans. Them rocks were radioactive, leaking them isotopes, the scientist fellas called it. Killed those people. That mine killed ’em.” Tears cleaned trails on his dirty face. “I lost me some good friends.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I don’t spec that’s what you come here for. Hear an old man just talking old times.

  “I appreciate your story. Thanks, Frank.”

  He scrunched his face and wheezed out a long breath. “I seen something. Maybe last week some time.” He scratched his head, his face scrunched in thought.

  “What?”

  “I seen a stalled truck down on my road when I was going to town.”

  “You own the road out here?” I was puzzled.

  “Nah, I don’t really own it, but I been using it longer than them fellas up at the mine.” He sat up a little straighter and jutted his chin out.

  “I didn’t come past the Diablo when I went to the mine.”

  “You could have. Only two things on this road are the Diablo and the mine.”

  “Hmmm, okay . . . Frank, what did you see?”

  “I seen one of them open trucks like the military uses, stalled out cuz the driver was flooding the thing with gas. You could smell it something awful. He didn’t wave me down, but I stopped anyway. The canvas sides were rolled up and a bunch of Mexican men were sittin’ in the back of truck on benches. They all ducked their heads when I looked over at ’em.”

  “Did the driver talk to you?”

  “Yeah, he told me he didn’t need no help from me. One of them men sittin’ in the cab jumped out, and he dropped them canvas sides.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I backed off and acted stupid, but they were hauling a load of illegals up to that mine.”

  “Wow, Frank. That’s a good story. Thanks, I can use that.”

  He nodded and smiled at me. “I’ll be watching for them and call you if I see anything else.”

  I got up to leave, but hesitated. Not one customer had come in while I had listened. I picked up three cans of corn. Then I added five pounds of flour for good measure. “I’ll be needing these.” I dumped them all on the
counter for Frank to ring up. It was dangerous for me to cook, but Eric could make something out of it.

  Frank hobbled over to the counter and rang up the groceries. He handed me the change. “I’ll talk to Yanaha when she comes in and I’ll tell her about you. You come around any time. I got some more stories to tell.”

  I was tired and thirsty when I pulled into the tribal police station. The alert desk officer was still at her position. “Taylor McWhorter for Officer Nez,” I said. Trace’s door was shut.

  “Sure. How ya been?” Her perky cheerleader smile lit her face. “He’s back here in his office.” She opened the swinging gate that kept the civilians out and led the way. “Officer Nez, Ms. McWhorter to see you.”

  She slipped out of his office, but left Nez’s door open on the way out.

  “Glad we could finally meet Ms. McWhorter. I pulled the police report from Niyol Notah’s visit with me.”

  “Thank you.” I thumbed through the short police report while Dave Nez waited quietly. Satisfied the information in the file matched what Bidziil had told me, I asked Nez, “Niyol was killed shortly after he talked with you. Do you remember what his state of mind was when you saw him?”

  Officer Nez sighed, his face intent on the question. “You know, I don’t remember much. He was an old man. I was surprised he was still running heavy equipment. He was small and wiry, but he was way too old for hard work like that.” Dave shrugged his shoulders in apology. “I’m sorry. He didn’t seem terrified or anything.”

  “Did you follow up on his report of pot hunting in the canyons?”

  “Ma’am, there just wasn’t enough evidence. A cell-phone picture and his story didn’t give me much to go on. We still got a lot of people who think pot hunting is a leisure activity for a lazy afternoon. It’s illegal, but I didn’t think there was enough evidence to start investigating Dinetah Mining.”

  “Did you think it was unusual he was killed shortly after he talked to you?”

  “I did think about that,” he said defensively. His young face sagged. “I messed up not taking his story more seriously, and I feel guilty about the old man’s death. I should have told my captain, but instead I just put it in a file.” He looked down at his hands. “Captain Yazzie called me in and told me a man who has poor judgment won’t ever make captain.”

  I looked at his impossibly young face. “I don’t know that you could have saved Niyol’s life if you had taken the report to Captain Yazzie. Thank you.” I shook his hand. When I left, I nearly stumbled over Officer Etisitty, who was hovering outside Nez’s door.

  She stepped aside for me to pass saying, “You have a nice afternoon.” She turned quickly and made a show of stacking papers on her desk. I felt her curious eyes on my back.

  “Ms. McWhorter?” His sexy voice rumbled over me.

  I turned to find Trace Yazzie standing in his doorway.

  Etisitty swiveled her head from him to me.

  He held out his hand and smiled, oblivious to Susan’s insatiable curiosity. “Nice to see you, again. I mentioned we would.”

  He looked gorgeous in his uniform. What was it that made me limp in the knees over a guy in trim khaki pants and a matching shirt with a cowboy hat tossed on his desk? He tantalized me with another gentle smile. I grasped his hand and felt that Trace-tingle of excitement shoot up my arm. Whoa, Taylor. You are standing on the precipice of stupidity. I squeezed his hand, then dropped mine. “Nice to see you also.”

  He opened his mouth, but the phone on his desk buzzed to life. He looked from me to the phone.

  “I’ll see you later. You’re busy.” I swallowed hard.

  “Yes. Definitely.” He grabbed the phone. “Yazzie here.”

  Chapter 7

  Louis looked up from his editing when I plunked the groceries on his desk. He pawed through the bag. “If you want corn pudding for dinner, Eric’s gotta have some milk and cheese.”

  “See, I knew Eric could cook up an old Scottish dish with these groceries! Frank wasn’t doing much business.”

  “You find out who the old woman is?”

  “Yanaha. Frank Aguirre’s going to put a word in for me. He’s the old-timer who owns the post.” The video was edited and paused on the timeline. “You ready for my voice-over?”

  “Ready. I used the second take of you opening the story. You got two places to voice-over.” He handed me the microphone and backed out, shutting the door.

  Five minutes later the package was on its way to the server. I wanted to talk to Marty before he pulled it off and viewed it. I walked down the corridor rehearsing things to say to persuade Marty to run the story.

  His office was a jumble of papers and pizza boxes. I shoved one of the dying potted plants on his credenza over and perched on the edge. His wife marched in every week or two with a new one to decorate his office. “Just sent you the story about the mine reopening. Chavez gave a good interview. He talked about leach-pit mining and the environment.”

  “You get any evidence of pot hunting? Pot hunting is your story, isn’t it?” he barked.

  “Louis got footage back in the canyons showing scarring on the canyon walls. Most likely it’s evidence of looted burial sites. You don’t dig many holes in the canyon walls to grade a road bed.”

  “You need more than that to run a story about looting.”

  “I’ll get it. Give me some time.”

  “So what’s this environmental crap you’re spouting at me?” He put his feet up on his desk and crossed his hands over his ample belly. “Convince me, McWhorter, to keep you on the payroll.”

  “I pull my weight around here,” I said easily. “I’m working three stories. The opening of the mine is an economics story because it brings jobs to the community.”

  “You did that one. What else you got?”

  “Uranium mining has some horrific effects on the environment and ultimately the health of the people who live around it.”

  “Tell me about.”

  “The uranium dust causes lung disease and people who are exposed to the radioactive isotope develop cancers.”

  “What else you got?”

  “The mine’s got a side business looting burial sites and selling the pottery on the black market. Before you say ‘prove it,’ I’ve a couple of good leads.”

  “You’re worth your pay, for now. Get me evidence your other stories exist.” He swung his feet to the floor. “You want to take one of these dying plants off my hands? The wifey doesn’t get it—I’m no botanist.”

  I selected a withered, crispy-brown plant and carried it back to my cubicle. Eric could resurrect it. He grew a riot of flowers in their yard. Louis was impatiently waiting for me.

  “Marty give the go ahead?”

  “Yes, after the usual bluster. The Chavez interview will run tonight. The other one, we should talk about someplace else.”

  “Come over for a drink tonight. About seven, okay? Don’t bring the plant. Eric’s turned the house into a jungle like the yard.” He scratched his head and dropped his chin sheepishly. “Uh, Mac upsets Stumpy and we have a hard time getting him calmed down.”

  “I’ll be there without Mac.” I laughed. “I’m still sorry about that evening. How long has it been since you rescued that cat?”

  “Eric rescued the damn cat, not me. Stumpy’s still not a joy to live with. Believe me, no one wants to live with a twenty-five-pound Manx that lives on the edge of rampage. I still insist we close him out of the bedroom at night. I have nightmares about something as big as a bobcat at my throat.”

  I did my best thinking when I ran. Mac loped along beside me, never straying far from the trail. Even the errant scent of game didn’t keep him long from my side, and I felt safer running with him.

  I slowed to a fast walk as I neared my house, thinking about my developing stories. Yanaha was an important key, but I needed to review that crash report, find the dozer driver’s widow, and get in front of Gage Notah. I had to get Gage to talk to me. Plus Alison Garcia over at
NAU was a renown southwest anthropologist—she’d know something about the black market. She provided provenance for the NAU museum and the Heard Museum down in Phoenix. She had to know something of the dark side of collecting.

  Images of Trace Yazzie formed a slide show in my head and I quit totting up the work I needed to do and enjoyed the mind show. Sexy grin, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, and oh, my God, those hands. Hands that could heat up a woman’s body. I shivered as I thought about his hands roaming my body. Sliding over my breasts, grazing my nipples . . . Oh, hell! Stop with the fantasies!

  I leaned on the little fence surrounding my casita to catch my breath. Mac bounded over and nudged my hand for a pet. “We’re a good team, boy.” The evening gloom gathered in the pines in the woods around my house. Nothing. Not one thing was out there.

  The sight of my snug adobe home always pleased me. Inside, the living space had viga-beamed ceilings, and the rounded adobe fireplace cast a golden glow on a cool night. When I arrived in Flag, Louis had sent me to Eric, claiming he could find me the perfect house. He had. Better yet, it was walking distance from Louis and Eric’s home.

  I shrugged out of my running clothes, dropped them in the washer, and padded naked to my bathroom. I turned on the shower, letting the water heat to steaming, so it could knead my shoulders.

  I towel dried my hair and pulled it in a low ponytail, dismissed the idea of wearing makeup, and put on my favorite pair of soft old jeans and an oversize white shirt. A Phoenix Suns baseball cap completed my look. Mac got a rawhide bone to work on in my absence, and I walked up the street to Louis and Eric’s broad front porch and knocked.

  Eric opened the screen door. “Any reason you’ve brought that dead house plant to happy hour?” He stepped back for me to enter.

  “A hostess gift.” I shoved the plant in his hands. “You can make it bloom.”

  “Ivies don’t bloom.” Eric kissed my cheek. “But I’ll nurse it back to health. The usual for you?”

  “Yes, please.” We walked into their cozy keeping room. “You have been busy.” I motioned at the spread of food on the coffee table. Stumpy stalked over to me with his nubbin of a tail held straight up. I reached out to stroke his head and he wailed a protest and marched off.