Chindii Woman

Contents

Prologue

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Acknowledgments

About the Author

Prologue

Friday, September 12

On the last day of his life, Monty Yazzie was pushing his new pickup way too fast. He swerved, but not in time to avoid one of the large chuckholes that marred the reservation’s dirt road. Without his seatbelt, Monty bounced off the seat and his thighs hit the bottom of the steering wheel. Damn! Hope that didn’t screw up the wheel alignment, he thought, but he didn’t slow down.

Fork-tailed night birds swooped daringly through his headlight’s beam, attracted by the briefly illuminated insects. Those not eaten were smashed against the pickup’s grill.

He wouldn’t even be on this road if his little sister hadn’t called. She was so scared that he could hardly understand her. I’m here alone and the dogs won’t stop barking. I’m afraid that the Skin Walkers have come to steal the spirit of my mother-in-law!

Her mother-in-law had recently died, and Skin Walkers always came around after a death. Monty didn’t want his sister to be near the powdered human bones that Skin Walkers were known to drop through the smoke hole of the hogan. The touch of that powder will make a person so sick that they often died.

Did you call the Navajo Police? Monty asked.

Yes, and they’re on their way, but I’m afraid they can’t find my hogan.

Monty had been in such a hurry to leave the dance, he didn’t have time to convince Sally, his latest girlfriend. to accompany him. His only comfort was the full moon, and it was silhouetted behind the piñon trees that lined the road. Their spiney branches were elongated into reaching skeletal fingers.

The high, looming mesas funneled the road toward Devil’s Canyon where the Chindii Woman had killed so many men. Recently, she had killed his friend, Billy Arviso. The last swallow of beer chilled his throat, and he tossed the can on the floor. He hoped this one can of liquid courage would get him through the canyon. The dash lights reflected off his high cheekbones as he peered into the night. He rolled down the window to let the late summer’s cool night air blow through his collar-length hair. But his palms kept sweating, and he wiped them on his pants. The pickup groaned as he shifted into a lower gear and began the sharp descent.

The constellation of Diana the Huntress followed him as the road narrowed and disappeared around the bend of a sharp curve. He hadn’t seen any lights from an oncoming car, but he honked anyway. The two sharp beeps frightened a darting bat. As Monty completed the curve unopposed, his headlights swept past the metal guard posts that marked the steep drop-off. They were tipped with reflective tape, and were scarred and bent at odd angles.

The darkness deepened around him when the moonlight was lost behind the ridge of the high mesa. In his peripheral vision, he thought someone was in the cab beside him. The Chindii Woman? When he got the nerve to glance over, she was gone. Maybe she was just warning me.

Out of the blackness, a nocturnal furry creature appeared in front of him. Confused by the unexpected brightness, the animal froze, and the glow of ruby-red eyes challenged Monty for a share of the road. He jammed the brake pedal down and jerked the wheel. The locked tires skidded, throwing the pickup sidelong down the grade and out of control. Monty desperately fought the wheel to correct the pickup’s slide. When he finally stopped, the front tires were inches from a rocky drop-off, and the raccoon had disappeared.

Monty blew out a breath. That crazy coon almost killed me! He straightened the pickup, and in the distance, a coyote began its cry with staccato yelps and ending in a long howl.

Swallowing hard, his arm muscles tightened, and he hunched forward as if to physically push the pickup faster. At the top of a ridge, he saw a dark figure that seemed to be floating above the sagebrush and moving toward the road. Is that her? A cold sensation ran down his back, and Monty pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The engine pinged in protest but pushed the pickup faster. As he got closer, he could see that the figure was a Navajo woman wearing a long flowing skirt, clutching a blanket around her shoulders. It is her!

The woman stopped beside the road.

Stay right where you are. Damn you, stay there! Monty commanded her. But the woman dashed in front of him and whipped the blanket from around her shoulders. She waved it, making the turquoise and gold lightning pattern come to life. Adrenalin rushed into Monty’s system. Above the scarf that covered most of her face, her eyes were pinpoints of penetrating rage. To dodge away from her, he jerked the wheel. With the sudden change of direction, a box of tissue and the empty beer can were thrown to the floor. He heard her hysterical laughter as she ran to herd him to the side of the road.

The pickup dove over the steep cliff, and the air bag billowed out against him. As he plummeted down the embankment, piñon tree branches scraped past the side windows. He might have survived, but the pickup hit a large boulder. With only the deflated air bag for cushioning, his head hit the windshield and his chest was crushed against the steering wheel.

The woman calmly lit a cigarette and peered over the edge of the road. The branches from the trees muted the glow of the pickup’s tail lights. She turned and disappeared into the night while the continuous blaring of the horn grew faint behind her.

1   

Monday afternoon, September 15

When Darcy Redbird first saw the majestic sandstone formations, she thought they adorned the desert like a strand of coral beads. She thought, Scenery this beautiful should come with its own soundtrack. No wonder Joe loved it here. A full symphony orchestra could barely do it justice.

Darcy turned off the freeway onto a paved two-lane road that quickly gave way to the dustiest and roughest dirt road that she had ever seen. On her map of New Mexico, this road was a thin line that wound across the eastern portion of the Navajo Reservation. Red printing beside a serpentine section of road warned her of Devil’s Canyon. That’s where her brother, Joe had died. A small dot farther north of the canyon marked her destination, the community of Black Horse.

A legal-sized envelope jiggled to the edge the seat. She rescued it and slid it in the side pocket of her purse. The envelope contained a letter from Clyde Murray, principal of the Bureau of Indian Affairs boarding school at Black Horse. It was her notification that she had been selected as his administrative assistant. Darcy was thankful that her Native American status with the bureau gave her employment preference over non-Indians. Along with her education and experience, this status enabled her to be selected for a job where she could investigate the mysterious circumstances surrounding Joe’s death.

The Navajo reservation was so different from her own Lakota reservation. She marveled at the landscape, baked to peach, buckskin, and yellow. Olive-green brush clustered along the drainages and spires of yucca poked skyward. Her attention was on the tall mesas, topped with a layer of rocky crags, and she was surprised when the road ahead disappeared. Devil’s Canyon! She hit the brakes and ineffectively pulled back on the steering wheel as her car went down the steep descent. She managed to slow her jelly bean shaped compact enough to maneuver through a series of tortuous curves and grades. She felt like she was driving on a roller coaster. Rounding a sharp turn, she saw a tow truck was blocking the road. Not another wreck! The truck was backing toward a precarious drop-off. On the opposite side of the road, three emergency vehicles waited: a large white SUV with the symbol of the Navajo Nation on the side, a white sedan with the McKinley County Sheriff’s starred emblem on the door, and an ambulance. An officer in the middle of the road wore a tan uniform with dark green trim. He held out his palm and Darcy stopped.

His pistol-laden leather belt creaked as he walked to her car. He bent down and leaned on her open window frame. I’m with the Navajo Police, ma’am. A line of sweat ran through his slightly flared sideburns. The officer’s face was shaded by the brim of his hat. You’re going to have to wait until we get that pickup out of the arroyo. Behind him, the tow truck was backing up accompanied by a series of beeps.

Darcy assumed that arroyo meant that big dry ditch. I hope it won’t take long.

The officer glanced in her back seat, full of packing boxes and a wilting fern. Maybe twenty minutes. He walked back to his position in the road.

Darcy turned off the ignition and stepped out. Noticing the black vultures with red heads that cruised overhead like gliders on the updrafts, she wondered if this accident was near where Joe died.

Two male emergency technicians leaned against the front fender of the police car and watched her. While they smoked, one attendant speculated in English, broken with a few Navajo words, that Darcy might be a nurse, needed at the understaffed hospital.

I could also be a doctor, she wanted to tell them. Is there gender prejudice in every culture?

***

With the protesting whine of the tow-truck’s pulley, the Anglo sheriff ambled closer to the truck with subtle authority.

The driver dropped his cigarette onto the hard clay and ground it out with his heel, and then whistled tunelessly through his teeth. He held the lever at an angle while the cable slowly pulled a maroon and white pickup onto the roadbed. Long droplets of radiator fluid seeped from beneath the mangled grill and bumper. The front wheels were bent into fat crescents, and the windshield was shattered.

The sheriff took off his light tan cowboy hat, ran his hand over his salt-and-pepper brush cut. As he peered into the driver’s window, his round belly pressed against the door. He quickly pulled his head back out. His face was in a grimace. He’s been dead about three days, he said to the driver.

The driver wrinkled his nose. Yeah. I can smell him from here.

Snugging his hat back on, the sheriff called to the ambulance attendants in Navajo. Darcy was surprised that he knew their language.

The attendants pulled the gurney out of the ambulance, and a loose wheel fluttered in the gravel as they pushed it across the rutted road.

The pickup door gave a sharp crack as the sheriff pulled it open, and an empty beer can rolled out onto the road. He kicked it into the arroyo, sending several dirt clods with it. Another drunk Navajo with pickup trouble. He laughed with a deep Heh, heh, then added, It couldn’t stay on the road.

Sure looks like it, doesn’t it? The driver’s grin stretched the dry skin over his sun-reddened cheeks.

***

Darcy had been listening to the men’s lighthearted chatter with growing anger. A man is dead, and they make a joke out of it? Had they been as cavalier with Joe? Her rage exploded. My brother’s accident was blamed on drunk driving, and he never drank a drop of alcohol! She ran toward the sheriff. How can professional investigators be so presumptuous?

The sheriff stopped her before she got close to the pickup. This is a crime scene, ma’am. Please return to your car.

Darcy put her hands on her hips. Is this how you handle all of your investigations? What do you mean, another drunk?

Calm down lady. He grasped her by the elbow and steered her back to her car.

One beer doesn’t mean he was drunk. Darcy angrily pointed to where he had kicked the can.

Of course it doesn’t, he said as if he was explaining to a child. But because he was alone, that beer can indicates that he did drink. And he probably had more than that one before he started driving. That was likely his one-more-for-the-road.

Yes, but.

And. The sheriff held up a hand to keep her from continuing. There weren’t any skid marks. You would slam on your brakes if you saw you were going off the road, wouldn’t you?

I would. Darcy wondered if Joe had also done that.

He looked down the road, where it disappeared around a curve. In my time, I’ve investigated a lot of accidents along this stretch.

Darcy nodded. Devil’s Canyon.

That’s what the maps say. Around here, we just call it, the Canyon. He nodded to the mangled pickup. The accidents are just like this one. One vehicle. Ran off the road. Driver killed on impact. Sometimes the gas tank explodes; then they burn. One time there was this wreck, a brand-new four-by that ran into an embankment. The drivers head was a bloody pulp but he still had a whiskey bottle in his hand. Now, what would you think?

That he had been drinking, she conceded. But that wouldn’t always be the case.

That’s true. He may have swerved to miss a deer, a worn tire blew out, or his attention was on his cell phone. I just report what I see. Besides, the coroner’s autopsy makes the final determination of the cause of death. He looked over his shoulder at the attendants taking the body out of the cab. Excuse me, I’ve got to help these guys. He returned to the pickup and held the door as wide as possible while the attendants gently lifted the body onto the gurney, treating him as gently as if he were still alive, despite the pungent smell of rotting flesh and flies buzzing around the dried blood that covered his head. The attendants covered him with a sheet, and his black hat bounced on his chest as they pushed the loaded gurney to the ambulance. The Chindii Woman got another one, said one of the attendants. There was real terror in his eyes.

Shut up! His partner scanned both sides of the road as if he expected someone to jump out from behind a juniper tree. She’s still out there!

Darcy felt a tingling on the back of her neck. Is someone watching me? She looked around but didn’t see anyone. Who is this Chindii Woman? Did she kill Joe too? She got back in her car and waited for the road to clear. From experience, she knew the grief and shock this man’s family would soon feel and she sympathized with them. She watched the tow truck and sheriff’s car pull out behind the ambulance. The Navajo policeman waved her on, but she pulled up beside him. What happened here?

His welcoming smile disappeared. It’s obvious.

Who is this Chindii Woman that the attendants were talking about?

His jaw tensed. "Chindii means devil in Navajo," he said and then looked over the roof of her car like he saw something in the distance.

So that’s where this canyon got its name. I wonder why he didn’t want to tell me about her. To get his attention back, she asked, How can I find the boarding school in Black Horse?

Just follow this road and look for the sign. He pointed north using his lips in an exaggerated kissing motion. You can’t miss it. As she began to pull away, he called, Be careful.

Why did he use his lips to point? Darcy carefully continued through the canyon and was glad when the road became less challenging when she topped out. A herd of antelope bounded across a flat until they got to a barbed-wire fence. She was surprised when they crawled under instead of jumping over. Beside the low hills, she saw clusters of mobile homes, stucco houses, and hogans. She knew from Joe’s descriptions that these six-sided structures with domed roofs were the traditional homes of the Navajo.

The sign that the policeman had mentioned directed her to a paved road that lacked the center-marking dashes. It skirted around the base of a mesa and led to a complex of rusty brown buildings.

Darcy parked in a lot beside the largest building, which likely contained the auditorium, the classrooms, and the principal’s office. A wide sidewalk led to double doors, and she pulled on one of the handles. It was locked. Thats strange. Cupping her hands beside her eyes, she peered through the glass and saw a man with shoulders like a buffalo and a taller woman at the end of the hall. When she tapped on the glass, they turned toward her. She yanked on the handle, causing the bolt to clang. The man strode quickly toward her and the fluorescent light reflected on his balding head. He pushed the inside bar, opening the door.

Darcy stepped in. It’s three thirty in the afternoon. Why is the school locked?

That other door was open. Can I help you? He continued to hold the door open, making Darcy feel like she was in the wrong building and he was ready for her to leave. Annoyed that he seemed to be patronizing her, she stepped inside.

I’m looking for Mr. Murray.

His smile broadened. Isn’t everybody? The man chuckled, and let the door slam shut behind her. He’s in another meeting. You must be his new assistant.

Yes. I’m to report here.

I’ll show you to his office. He led Darcy down the hall. Their shadowy inverse reflections mirrored their images in the waxed floor, and the faint scent of disinfectant came from the nearby student bathroom. I’m Frank Nelson. He appeared to be in his early forties, nice-looking but the way he seemed to appraise her made her feel uncomfortable.

She told him her name and noticed sawdust coated the front of his black and yellow plaid shirt. You work here?

Frank brushed off his shirt, leaving a grainy trail behind him and laughed. I love to work with wood but that’s just my hobby. Here, I teach sixth grade. They walked toward the tall lady he had been with earlier. I’ll introduce you to our resident master teacher.

Darcy wondered what momentous task this woman had accomplished to earn such an award. The woman’s silky shirt floated over her slender frame, and her long face was one that had never been attractive. The woman cleared her throat, and with a jangle of silver bracelets, shook Darcy’s hand. I’m Opal Hunsaker. The woman’s grasp was firm but her fingers were cold. You’re Clyde’s new assistant?

Darcy nodded and told Opal her name.

Welcome. Her penetrating light blue eyes appraised Darcy, from her long dark hair to her dusty tennis shoes. I heard that you’re Lakota.

At the mention of tribal affiliation, Frank took a step toward Darcy. I’m half Navajo. On my mother’s side. Born for the Towering House People clan.

I wish I knew my clan.

But I’m not a reservation Navajo, he continued. Won’t catch me living in one those hogans. My father’s side is Irish. My wife is Irish too. We were raised in Denver. Ever been there?

Darcy shook her head slowly, and Opal looked bored.

The Mile High City! Great place! Lots of museums and skiing. Really hated to leave, but I got this job because of my mother’s tribe. Indian preference, you know. Couldn’t get on any place else. And I looked everywhere. Isn’t the BIA great? Can’t get benefits like this just anywhere.

BIA? Darcy asked.

Bureau of Indian Affairs, Opal told her.

Frank added, Or Boss Indians Around, depending on who you ask.

Darcy wondered about this branch of the Federal Government, if this was how the employees regarded it. But I guess you find that in any workplace. If you’ll excuse me. She stepped back from them. I really need to find the principal’s office.

I’ll show you. Opal led Darcy away from Frank and down a narrow hallway.

Don’t mind him. Opal coughed hoarsely into a loose fist. He’s always on a non-stop ego trip. I liked the way you got away from him. Usually the new ones just listen to him rave on.

He does come on a little strong.

Around here, we call him the bull snake because he’s such a fake.

Why a bull snake?

A bull snake will imitate a rattlesnake by shaking its tail in dry leaves.

So he doesn’t bite?

Well, I didn’t say that. He’s just not poisonous. But look out for him. Opal directed Darcy to an office where a large Navajo woman sat behind a gray metal desk. Leaning back in her chair, she was looking out her window while talking on the phone. A bookcase with geometric designs carved into the sides stood behind her desk, and bank of square mailboxes dominated one wall. Her hand-tooled leather nameplate read Rosalene Becenti.

Have they planned the funeral yet? she asked the person at the other end. While she listened, she slowly turned around, her chair creaking with her shifting weight, and she saw her visitors. I’ve got to go. She quickly hung up and greeted Opal in Navajo.

"Yaht-eh, Opal answered, and then in English introduced Darcy to Mr. Murray’s secretary. Rosalene was one of my favorite students. She’s like a daughter to me. Opal hugged the secretary around the shoulders. In return, Rosalene smiled up at her and pressed her hand on Opal’s. I made sure that she went to secretarial training, and now she has this good job and a wonderful family. Opal pointed to a studio photo where Rosalene and her husband had the same dour expression. Their four girls, in summer dresses and butterfly barrettes, ranged from kindergarten to about twelve. She’ll take good care of you," Opal said before leaving.

Thanks, Darcy called to Opal. She reminds me of my third grade teacher who insisted on absolute quiet but made sure every child had a present on Christmas. Darcy took the envelope out of her purse. I have a letter telling me to report to the principal.

Rosalene ignored the envelope. I know what’s in there. I wrote it.

Surprised by her abruptness, Darcy returned the envelope to her purse.

We expected you earlier. School started two weeks ago. The secretary flipped through a stack of folders.

Darcy noticed the secretary’s chewed fingernails. After I was notified, I had to wait for the moving van to pick up my furniture.

You should’ve let us know.

I did. I included my anticipated arrival date with my acceptance letter. Darcy took a folded sheet of paper out of her purse. Here’s a copy. She handed it to Rosalene.

Rosalene glanced over the letter and shook her head in disgust. Mr. Murray has been opening his own mail again. He probably still has it on his desk. She sighed. Have a seat.

Darcy sat down, glad to have this confusion cleared up. In spite of her weight, she’s very pretty.

Rosalene looked through Darcy’s folder. Your paperwork is complete except for your signatures. Rosalene slid her nameplate aside and removed a black ballpoint pen embossed with U.S. Government from the wire mesh container.

Darcy scooted her chair up to the desk and accepted the pen. I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about a funeral.

With a surprised look that said she didn’t realize Darcy had heard her personal