Zuni Stew: A Novel (18 page)

He crawled into his pickup and drove south-by-east, toward a rare, high desert lake, a site considered sacred to Zunis and other Pueblo Indians. The Acoma, Laguna, Hopi and Taos, as well as Apaches and Navajos all revere the
Ma’l Oyattsik’i
, the Salt Mother deity. Pilgrimages were vital. Trails radiated in all directions.

Only four-feet deep at most, the dry season evaporation reduced the lake to a small pond near the center, a geologic crater, or maar, leaving exposed salt beds, some of the earth’s finest. Native Americans annually collected it—both for eating and ceremonial purposes.

To Louis Paul the lake was the umbilical cord tying all Indians together. Even in times of inter-tribal wars, they camped side-by-side in the presence of the Salt Mother in sort of a Neutrality Zone. All tribes were not allowed to even kill game or attack an enemy. All creatures were free to
come and go without molestation. For him, as a Zuni, this place was the center of the world. Center of his son’s world, and Tito’s sons to be.

The Feds seized the lake in the 1880s, treating the 18,000 acres as wasteland. The thought burned in the back of his throat. He was no idealist. He did not believe in the American dream. Real power exists in nature, like a rainstorm, a river. Real time is Indian time.

A shadow flashed on the windshield. A red-tailed hawk circled, riding the air currents. He took his eyes off the road and spoke to the majestic bird. “We were here before them. We will be here forever.”

The lake, bordered by forest and high mesas to the north, sat in a valley reaching west like a broad fjord opening to the sea. He made a sharp left hand turn onto a barely decipherable track. The truck bucked. Steep rises, sudden drops. He hit a sandy arroyo, choked with chamisa and tightly bordered by Russian olive trees. Thorny branches struck the cab, sending screeching noises into the air. Suddenly the two front wheels were in the air, hanging over a precipitous drop-off. Back tires spun the sand for control. He already had the truck in low gear. Shifted in reverse. Back to low. Back to reverse. He could smell burning rubber as the clutch screamed, the motor roared. The truck swerved, grabbed, pitched hard to the right. Steering into the slide, the truck bed swung back and forth until he was finally able to straighten out, scooting backward to solid ground.

The engine sputtered, stopped altogether, rolling to a stop in a maze of creosote brush. After repeated attempts to start the engine, he gave up, slid from the truck and began climbing to the top of the purple mesa. The sanctuary below was surrounded by a few grass clumps and tenacious, bent trees.

He spotted clouds of dust in the distance. Wind devils, he thought at first. Squinting in the brilliant rising sun, he watched the dust plumes grow closer. He knelt, focusing on a line of trucks that were moving toward the south edge of the salt flats where a yellow backhoe was digging, belching exhaust.

“Coal miners,” he muttered in disgust, knowing they would anger the Salt Mother. The region couldn’t afford to lose more water. “When the water is gone, it’s gone, and She will leave,” he worried aloud. His grandchildren’s future could be lost, drained for the white man’s profit. He slid down the hillside. Broke into a hard run.

Back in the stalled truck, he pumped the gas pedal. Tried the starter. Grinding. Silence. He climbed out, opened the hood. His eye caught something in the sand, a cigarette butt, then another. Tracks, but definitely not Indian tracks. The footprints, like the butts, were recent.

He read the sign—the left print dragged. A limp. The right showed weight on the heel. About one-hundred-sixty pounds.



The Piper climbed easterly toward El Morro. A reliable waterhole was hidden at the base of the giant sandstone bluff. He knew the Headland Trail well, uneven and worn. Always leaving him blistered and sunburned after the climb.

Searching for signs of Jack, Bill began a slow turn south, setting a new course due west, paralleling the route he had just flown. For an hour-and-a-half, he flew a crisscross, low-level search pattern, gradually working further south over Fence Lake, between Circle Butte and Santa Rita Mesa.

Zuni Salt Lake came into view.

Seeing a lingering trail of dust in the otherwise crystal-clear sky, he broke his pattern to check it out. Trucks were moving across the salt flats toward a waiting Caterpillar. Not just any heavy-duty trucks. Sidelifters. Specialized to hoist and transport intermodal containers. Capable of loading/unloading giant containers using hydraulic-powered cranes mounted at each end of the chassis.

He climbed in altitude. Made a wide loop, directly over a dark sedan which turned off State Road 601 in the direction of the trucks. Refuel. Get to Louis Paul.

34

“
H
old him tight, Lori,” Jack said, positioning her hands on Tito’s shoulders.

“Shouldn’t we get him to the hospital?”

“No. The tendon is retracting and the longer we wait...”

They had dumped all the supplies from the knapsacks and Lori’s bag. A sewing kit from the hotel. Jack—duct tape and a coil of 6# test monofilament fishing line. Selecting his ‘instruments,’ he carefully flashed them with a match to sterilize them.

Without anesthetic, Jack used pliers to pull the tendon attached to the heel bone at the back of the ankle. A lateral slice. He removed a one-inch piece of tendon, producing a notch.

Tito uttered not a sound.

Identical procedure to the tendon attached to the calf muscle. Piecing two tendon sections together, overlapping them at the site of the notches. He broke out the fishing line, threaded it, and began sewing the tendons together. Attachment completed. Skin pulled into place, taped. Only then did he look at Tito’s face. It was twisted, pale. Sweat beaded above the upper lip and brow.

“You did great, Tito,” Jack said softly. “You did great.” A strip from his own T-shirt covered the surgical site.

Lori kissed Tito on the forehead, brushed back his damp, black hair, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

“Sick?”

“No, I’m okay.” The rain had stopped; clear sky appeared above low clouds. Blood- stained earth stood out starkly where Gabriel’s face had been gutted. Standing beside the dark sienna stain, she tried to sort out Gabe’s last statements. Brooks, her own boss, was deeply involved. Was Josh Flores working for Brooks or did Yolanda send him as her contact?

The name—Mr. K? Lori knew Chicago’s high-rollers, good and bad. Closing her eyes, she used her alphabetized memory to pull a file from a cabinet in her brain. (A talent separating her from most of the men at Quantico.)

Mr. K.

Knapp. Society column. She pictured a man in a tuxedo, hair combed back. Caption:
Mr. K Saves Ravinia Festival Season.
Major philanthropist on the Chicago scene. D. C., too. Lots of people were on Knapp’s payroll. Could he be the puppeteer? Did he order the D’Amico murders?

If she was right, she had to prevent both Brooks and Knapp from knowing Jack was still alive.



Bill decreased the plane’s altitude to better see. Headed north to the airport. A deserted truck caught his eye. He dipped, recognized the brown pickup. He nosed the plane closer to the ground, banking to make a second pass. Louis Paul stepped back from the hood, waving as he watched the plane descend.

Bill pulled up, but too late. He crashed in a tangle of tall sagebrush. Sinewy branches grabbed at the undercarriage. The wheel collapsed, swinging the Piper around. A full 180-degree spin. An abrupt stop. Threw him against the door which flung open. The left wing was crushed.

Louis Paul ran through the coarse silver-grey growth to the crippled plane. “Doctor Bill!”

“I’m okay. Goddamn! Where did that tree come from?” He slid to the ground. A strong pungent odor emanated from gouged brush. “Whoa, we’re outa luck—shit on a stick.” A nasty gash over his left eye. Bruises on both wrists.

“Steady, Doctor Bill. Sit.”

“No time.” He lurched back to reach under the pilot seat to grab his pistol. “Where’s Jack?”

“Not far, FBI woman, Tito, too.”

“Got to get them out.”

Jogging ahead, Louis Paul grabbed a pack from his truck bed. Headed south. Ten minute run to a solid wall of sandstone. He pointed to a barely visible crevice, flashed a rare smile. “How many burritos today, Doctor Bill?” He raised the pack above his hat, got a foothold with the toes of his boots and pulled himself into the slit, face pressed sideways against the stone.

Bill stuck his gun in the back of his waist and followed, sidestepping
along the foot-wide channel. Narrow, and climbing vertically. Within twenty feet, the crevice widened. Crowned out above a shale-laden drop-off.

Louis Paul crouched on the edge of the precipice. Bill dropped to his knees beside him. “God, I could use a beer.”

“I put plug in the jug a long time ago. Water?” Louis Paul handed him a battered canteen.

Bill took a long drink, coughed. “You saw the trucks?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Jack?”

Louis Paul pointed down the shale slope and jumped.

Lori was the first to see them, and yelled to Jack, “It’s Louis Paul. Bill’s with him.”

“Hey, man,” he said, with a pounding hug to Jack. “Been looking for you. A guy dropped by, said he was your uncle.” Bill stopped to catch his breath. “The bastard killed Flipper, threatened me. He’s looking for you.”

“Gabriel.” Jack pointed to the blood-stained ground. “He’s dead.” He put a hand on Louis Paul’s shoulder. “He hobbled your son.”

Louis Paul dropped to his knees beside Tito. Held his hand above the bandaged ankle.

Tito winced. He touched Lori on her forearm, gave a shrug toward the outside. She left with him. Neither said a word.

The compliment to Lori was unspoken. Louis Paul wanted her company. He ducked into a grove of tall ponderosa.

“You observe,” Louis Paul said finally. “Respond.” He held a dense pine branch back for her to pass.

“Yes,” said Lori.

“We are in an endless Sea of Spirits. Things appear in different physical forms. You know this, don’t you?”

She nodded. Stopped walking. “I don’t grasp the organized idea of a force. I don’t get it. But I do believe there is a spiritual world practically without boundaries.”

“You are right. You are wise. Like my fetish.” He showed his prized carving, a small bear. “I revere it. It is my mediator between human and spirit worlds. Man is most vulnerable. The fetish, if treated right and true, has a living power. When this is over, we talk more.”

They emerged on the edge of a vast grassy meadow. He ducked down, made a few quick slices with his knife. Tucked the cuttings under his arm. “We go back now.”

Returning with a clutch of sagebrush, Louis Paul was already pulverizing stripped leaves.

“No time for a poultice,” he murmured. “It’s okay, doctors, I promise.” He removed the bandage. His hands worked fast, with great strength. Crushing silver-grey leaves and sap. A paste applied on the incision. Covered with a piece of his shirttail. Bound with bark strips. “Topical dressing. Halts internal bleeding, infection.”

“I was worried about that,” Jack said.

“Doctor Bill, tell what you saw at Salt Lake.”

Trucks. Sideloaders. Caterpillars digging. Lots of motion. A trailer. Then he remembered the black sedan. “I could just make out their silhouettes—a big guy was driving, another guy was in the backseat. I climbed and got the hell out of there.”

“A man in the backseat with a chauffeur?” asked Lori.

“You think it was the guy on my tail?” said Jack.

“Yes, and I think I know who he is.”



Director Clarence Kelley, at one end of the conference table surrounded by FBI brass, was fuming over a confidential report from Chicago regarding the Gary, Indiana Port of Entry. He pushed a stack of yellowed and smudged bills of lading down the table. Someone in the agency, his agency, was helping to facilitate illegal shipments. And Kelley certainly didn’t think it was being pulled off by some petty thief in Canada.

The Deputy Director reminded him that Canada had some of the richest ore in the world. Radioactive uranium. Lots of money.

Kelley demanded to know more. Details were presented regarding uranium mining in New Mexico, particularly on the Indian reservations. Plus the added fact that a recently passed Congressional Bill relocated a boundary in far western New Mexico, placing Zuni Salt Lake under the jurisdiction of the Bureau of Land Management. A site sacred to the natives.

Kelley, clearly agitated, wanted to know the lake’s connection with radioactive uranium.

“Salt is an excellent material for controlling the natural radium released by purified uranium,” said the FBI’s top Cointelpro agent.

“Who sponsored the legislation to get that boundary relocated?” asked Director Kelley.



Like his crew, Knapp dressed in khaki slacks, tan shirt, desert boots. Black baseball cap, big dark glasses. Standing beside his ops manager, he looked like everyone else. 104º. Knapp’s shirt was sweat-ringed. He took off his glasses, wiped the lenses, squinting in the wavy light.

Yellow Caterpillar backhoe loaders systematically removed salt in a staked grid layout. Like an archaeological dig site. Knapp’s design, his plan. The cross-country transfer, everything from a catering truck to portable toilets. If the men were comfortable, they didn’t mind twelve-hour shifts, night and day.