Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (25 page)

Fifty minutes later I have a name, ten minutes after that I get
the information I really want when I call Lovitta to get data
from NCIC, the national crime database.

"Judith Dunnigan Fletcher," I shout at the house. Talanc6n
comes to the doorway, pressing her hands up against the inside of the door sill and taking three long, deep breaths.

"Okay," she says. "You have a picture?"

I swivel my laptop so she can see the screen. She studies the photograph of a woman with short-cropped graying
hair, an open-necked button-down shirt, and tortoise-shell
glasses.

"Tell me about her."

"Judith Dunnigan Fletcher. Missing since July 3, 1997.
Thirty-six years old then, makes her mid-forties now. Missing
from Omaha, Nebraska. At time of disappearance, five-one,
105 pounds. White woman, but she looks a bit Latina. Graying hair, some brown left, brown eyes. No tattoos, no scars, no
birthmarks. No nickname, not married at time of disappearance, no children, both parents deceased, no siblings. If seen,
notify the Omaha Police Department. She's perfect."

"Let me see," Talancon says, flicking her fingers on the keyboard, scrolling up and down, reading and rereading the
information, finally clicking on the picture to enlarge the
image. "There's gray hair dye inside." She suddenly frowns.
"Why does it say to contact Omaha PD?"

"She's been missing for years. It's routine with missing
people." She nods. "I'll get my people on it. Except ..."

"Yes?"

"If I deliver this, how do I know I'm safe?"

"Safe?" she says. "You mean, that you'll stay alive?"

"Yes."

"There are suitcases inside the house." Not answering my
question. "We'll stuff them with clothes; when we get to Tucson, we'll go to an all-night drugstore, buy bathroom things,
whatever else is handy. We'll buy carry-on bags, at the airport
we'll get newspapers, everything normal. Then all three of its
will buy coach tickets and check the luggage. "

"First things first," I say.

"Now what?"

"I want to call the Sedona sheriff's department. I want
officers to protect my family. You won't do this for me, I do
nothing for you."

"Call them," she orders Rey, then stands six inches from
my face. "Okay. I give you the guarantee. Don't push on me
anymore, senora. Now get busy."

Her Rolex chronometer reads just under four hours. I call
Lovitta, direct her to the website JaneJohnDoe.com, and give
her the name I've chosen.

"You've got three hours plus," I say. "Then all the documents have to be at the Tucson airport. You know me, Lovitta.
Serious I seldom get. So now I say to you ..."

Another of our message codes. My heart pounding while
she works it through until she suddenly gasps.

"Ah," she says. "Don't worry. Tag, you're it."

Less than three hours later, Rey slings four suitcases into the
backseat of the Ford pickup and starts the engine. I'm sandwiched between him and the remodeled Talancon. Hair shorter
and grayer, Talancon wears a yellow sundress, a light cotton
shawl across her bare neck and shoulders, an iPod hanging
around her neck.

We drive north, few cars on the road, but the Mexican
produce trucks already headed up from Nogales. Predawn
light on the desert, the sun rising past mountains to the east.
Behind my right shoulder, loose gray clouds, the promise of an
early monsoon coming up from Mexico. We drive in silence
to Valencia Road, turn east, and ten minutes later leave the
pickup in the short-term parking lot.

Inside the terminal, Talancon quickly scans the departure
boards and heads its to the American Airlines ticket counter.
No problems picking up a waiting envelope containing her
documents and three round-trip tickets to Chicago, no problems collecting our boarding passes. A quick trip inside the
airport store for carry-on bags, mixed nuts, two newspapers,
the latest People and Newsweek magazines, and some beef
jerky. At security, we all take off our shoes, drop everything in
the X-ray buckets.

"Boarding pass, please," the TSA man says to Talancon.

"Sure," she replies with a smile.

Through the checkpoint, moving toward the departure
gate, twenty-seven minutes to boarding time. We buy water,
then Talancon points at three seats in the waiting area amidst
other passengers, mostly seniors, all sitting as far away as they
can from a mother and baby.

"Oh, come on," I complain. "I've got a fierce headache. This tension, this, all of this, it's just, I feel sick. Let's sit over
there, away from that squalling baby."

"Sure," Talanc6n says. "Why not?"

I move slowly, hands massaging my temples as I drop into
a seat facing away from the security checkpoint. Talancon
hesitates, then sits beside me and motions Rey to sit across
from us. I crack the seal on my water bottle, drink from the
nipple, then unscrew it and drink half the bottle.

"The list," I say.

"I'll give it to you in Chicago."

"Now," I say as lightly as I can against my tension. "I just
need to see it."

She snaps open her handbag, passes four pages to me,
handwritten on legal paper. I make a rough count. Well over
a hundred major meth dealers, all across the state, twentyseven on the Navajo rez alone.

Rey's eyes suddenly open wide at something behind me
and I drop my water bottle, liquid spilling across my lap and
onto Talancon's shoes. Snorting angrily, she bends over to
brush off the water and I leap out of the seat and run sideways. Talancon's quick to react, half rising to chase me before
a green-uniformed Border Patrol guard raps a handgun against
her head. Talanc6n staggers before two other BP guards batter
her to the floor and handcuff her.

"You've made a bad mistake," Talancon says to me in a hiss.

"I'm your biggest mistake," I shoot back.

She doesn't know what I'm talking about.

"You don't know computers," I say. "You knew what to ask
for, but you didn't know why I chose that legend." She shakes
her head rapidly, trying to clear the fog, her eyes alert, halfnarrowed, menacing. "Judith Dunnigan Fletcher. You didn't
ask me why she disappeared."

Talancon is very, very puzzled, suddenly very, very afraid.

"She murdered her entire family. Embezzled several hundred
thousand dollars from her corporation. And just disappeared."

"Where is she now?" Talancon croaks.

"Right here," I say, inches from her face. I rip out her wallet, open it to her brand-new, platinum-grade driver's license
with her photo and new name. "And here's your new U.S.
passport. Judith Dunnigan Fletcher. Plano, Texas."

"I'm not her," she protests. A strong surge of passengers
floods by, exiting an American gate. She bolts to her feet, shrugging off deputies, tries to run and blend with the passengers.

Two suited men block her way, grasp at her arms, fighting
to contain her manic energy while holding her subdued.

"Meet Jackson Caller, U.S. Marshal," I say. "Here to take you
to Texas where you'll quickly be tried for murder."

"I'm a Mexican national," she announces boldly. Still a
tigress. "I can prove that in any court. The documents are
fake."

"Meet Jack Bob Deeter, U.S. State Department," I say. "He'll
verify that your U.S. passport is absolutely, entirely authentic.
These aren't counterfeit IDs. I arranged for real paper."

"You arrogant whore," she hisses. "You've killed me."

"You threatened my daughter," I say. "My daughter. She's
my life-you threatened my life. No longer. No more. We're
done."

"When I'm free," she shouts back over her shoulder,
"when I prove who I really am, I'll come for you!"

I figure I've got at least a year before she beats our legal system. By then, I'll be lost myself, adrift on the Navajo rez with
a new name and a new life.

Ashland, Montana

ame Elk awoke suddenly. He knew he had been dreaming. Now he tried to catch the dream before it disappeared down the dark hole dreams escape to when
you're not fast enough to catch them. For a few moments he
almost had it. Then it was gone.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and the bilious
taste told him he was going to be sick. He rolled off the cot
onto the cement floor. Propped on his hands and knees in
the darkness, he retched, the dry heaves tightening his abdomen like a fist. Gasping for breath, he fell onto his side, then
pushed himself into a sitting position. Assaulted by the stink
of his vomit-encrusted clothes, he forced himself to breathe
through his mouth even though it made the dryness worse.

A metal gate screeched and the corridor outside his cell
was flooded with light. Lame Elk blinked at the knife thrust of
light that penetrated his skull. At least now he could see where
he was. Staggering to his feet, he filled the plastic cup on the
dirty sink with cold water and drank. He was on his third cupful
when he heard footsteps approaching The deputy, Tyler Erickson, was staring at him through the bars of the cell door.

"You are one sorry son of a bitch, Lame Brain," said Erickson, inserting a key in the lock and swinging the door open.

The Indian tried to force a smile but his lips were too
bruised and swollen. The deputy, a tall, wiry man, stood with his thumb hooked in his belt, the hand resting next to the butt
of his revolver.

"How the hell can you stand your own stink? I told the
sheriff we should have left you lying out there in the snow, but
you know how good-hearted he is."

"I don't remember anything," Lame Elk said. He had difficulty recognizing his own voice. "What happened to my
face?"

Erickson snorted and shook his head in disgust. "Russ says
if you try to come into his bar again he'll send you to the
happy hunting ground. You owe him for a busted stool and
a smashed mirror. Here's the bill. He says you should put the
money in this envelope and mail it to him by the first of the
month or he's going to press charges."

"Did he do this to my face?"

"You got into a fight with three guys. Not from around
here. Russ called its but by the time we got there they were
gone. You were lying in the street. Twenty below zero and you
were just lying there."

"You should have left me there."

"If it was up to me, I would've. Let's go. I have your jacket
and stuff in the office. You can go back to the rez and sleep it
off. This jail ain't a motel."

Lame Elk, unsteady on his feet, shambled after the deputy
down the brightly lit corridor. His large bulk filled the doorway as he followed Erickson into the office. The deputy picked
up a form from the desk and pointed to the items lying next
to it. "One wallet containing six dollars. A pocketknife. One
sheepskin coat. Sign here."

The Indian leaned over the desk and rested his wrist on
the paper to control the trembling of his hand. At that moment the front door of the office opened and a ruddy-faced man entered, his Stetson pushed low on his head. The burst of
frigid air that accompanied him into the room blew the paper
from the desk as Lame Elk turned to face him.