Moonlight Water (15 page)

“I am a poor wayfaring stranger,

A-travelin' through this world of woe.

But there's no trouble, no toil or danger,

In that bright land to which I go.”

The harmonica felt rich, the minor chords sucked in and blown out like the soul's sweet air. She opened her throat and sang the words fuller, opened her heart and sang them truer.

“I'm going home to see my father.

I'm going home no more to roam.

I'm just a-goin' over Jordan.

I'm just a-goin' over home.”

She looked at him. The moon gleamed on the dark river now and threw a silvery light on his face. Regardless, she thought she saw a spark in his eyes. He said he didn't believe in anything. She believed in
Nizhoni.
She hoped she could walk in it every day, and she hoped he would find it.

She'd imagined an evening of playing music together, a much longer evening. But she reached over and put her hand on his cheek. She caressed it a little. Then she leaned across and kissed him, lightly, on the lips. Red returned the kiss. His lips felt full and good, and they were leading somewhere she was surprised to go. Didn't really want to go, when it came down to it.

Zahnie slammed on the brakes. She took his face in both hands, looked with feeling into his eyes, and said, “Sorry. It's not going to happen.”

She could see Red was not surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. “Maybe you can just enjoy my company.”

 

17

TROUBLES TO THE LEFT OF US, TROUBLES TO THE RIGHT

Don't hate anyone of the opposite sex, especially if he's ugly. You might end up marrying him.

—Navajo saying

 

Wrapped around her pillow, Zahnie felt sensuous. Dreams drifted sweetly by. She indulged herself.

What are you doing, Zahnie Rae?

She woke up hard and fast and gawked around her cabin. Unmistakably, that was her grandmother's voice rattling around the walls.
You crazy coyote,
the voice went on. Calling a Navajo a coyote was rude—coyotes always got things wrong.

Thank God, her grandmother was long gone and couldn't carp forever about Zahnie and Red Stuart or anything else.

She pictured Red at the main house sleeping in Winsonfred's bed. Though Red was no prince on a white horse, he was attractive and fun and intelligent, a warrior with heart. She saw world-weariness around the eyes, which felt to her like character.

She sat up and put her feet on the floor.
At least I didn't invite him to my cabin.

Don't walk into a dust devil! It will affect your heart.

Yes, Grandma, I did flirt with him
.

You almost got carried away. And you were the one who started it!

Amazing how Grandma could make her voice real in the room.

Zahnie grumbled at herself silently.
At my age flirting with a two-time loser at marriage, a man dedicated to nothing, running from everything.

Her grandmother chimed in,
Some way to act, Zahnie.

Grandma, why do you wake me up with your griping?

Zahnie Rae, you act
degees [
like a madwoman
]
around this
bilaganna [
white man
].

Zahnie didn't need Flora Kee's sharp tongue this morning. She was irritated with herself, irritated enough for both of them. She told her grandmother, “Shut up!”

Don't stare at the moon,
came the voice again, another Navajo proverb.
It will follow you
.

Carefully and quietly, Zahnie stood up and slipped some clothes on.
The ceiling and walls feel too close.

She stepped out onto her front stairs, pulled on her river sandals, and looked up to see Gianni sitting on the back steps of the main house, smoking. He gave her a big smile. She wasn't up to a smile. She walked past him without acknowledgment and went straight to clanking pots and pans in the kitchen. She wanted waffles, and she intended to have them.

In moments Red and Gianni were sitting at the table, trading talk she paid no attention to. Her mad was a hard-charging train, and nobody had better get in its way.

Winsonfred soft-padded to the table, sat down, and whispered something to Gianni. In a moment Gianni was standing next to her, mashing out sausage patties and throwing them into a hot skillet. She ignored him.

Breakfast passed in sweet, syrup-soaked silence. All three men looked a little tickled. If one of them said she was cute when she was mad, she'd clang him with her iron skillet.

The phone
brr-
rang across the room. Zahnie jumped to answer it.

“Oh, hi, Yazzie. Are the Nielsens and Kravin back okay?”

“Yes. Now get ready. Your name among the feds currently is, get this,
Heroine
.”

“What?”

“You did really good yesterday. They're impressed.”

“They don't say I was interfering?”

“Uh, Wayne Kravin and the Nielsens were the last warrants the feds had, but they couldn't find them. They appreciated you.”

“Coincidence, you suppose? Any chance the Nielsens and Kravin got tipped off? To save them from the federal bust?”

“Hell, even we didn't know. Listen, I have something for you, something good, and we'll rub the feds' noses in it.”

He paused and she heard paper crinkling. “I got a report last night from two hikers. They saw a flatbed truck loaded with heavy equipment on the trailer heading up Lukas Gulch. The women couldn't say what kind of equipment. They don't know a bulldozer from a backhoe from another.”

“Heavy equipment,” she murmured. Lukas Gulch was a roadless area. It would be hard to get anything wheeled in there. Besides, no one but Travis Kravin, as far as she knew, had been jackass enough to take yellow iron to get at a ruin.

“Yeah,” said Yazzie. “Yesterday a big sting and today this.”

“The timing is weird, Yazzie.”

“Definitely. Look, as far we know, no way the fed bust has anything to do with Lukas Gulch. The government yo-yos are probably pulling out this morning anyway. You're a heroine, and this is our job. Go take a look.”

She thought. “Are you sure the feds are leaving?”

“That's the way I'll remember it. No charges of obstruction.”

She was silent, stalling.

“I know,” said Yazzie, “it's boring. These tips rarely lead to anything. Humor me.”

“Deal.” She called to the room at large, “I gotta go hunt bad guys.”

Red stepped out from the foyer where Winsonfred reclined. Red said, “And I'm going with you.”

She studied him.

“I saved your skin,” Red said.

It was irregular to take a civilian, but this would only be a long drive in the backcountry. Zahnie said, “Yeah, yeah, okay.” To Gianni she called, “Do not tell me you want in, too.”

Gianni shook his head. “Closing a mineral rights deal today.” He smiled at Red. “Got to take care of me and my friend.”

*   *   *

She was comfortable out here. True, not many people would call what they were driving on a road. A track, maybe, or a trace. Parallel bare spots through the sand and sometimes across the naked rock. You had to be a longtime local to navigate this part of the planet.

The country bumped by. There was strange stuff out there, the slickrock, sand blowing and rolling and somehow frozen in place. It was like the Anonymous Source (she had to admit she liked that term) poured it molten and it ran across the land like lava and stiffened into curvy sculptures. The Anonymous Source was definitely being playful when She made this place and when She carved the hoodoos. Playful and in a semi-spooky mood.

From time to time Zahnie slowed down and eased the four-runner diagonally through soft sand, or across the rocky bottom of a wash, or once through a piddly excuse for a creek.

She turned onto a dirt road. This was actually a bad road instead of a track.

“More big rock walls,” said Red.

“And more,” she said.

He rested his head on the seat back and closed his eyes. She knew that only a native could tell what direction they were headed, where north and south were, where the river was, anything.

Then she heard it.

“Damn it!” she said. The whirlybird machine-gun
whap-whap
was unmistakable.

“Who the hell?!” Zahnie again.

She slammed on the brakes, yanked some binoculars out of the pack. Then she realized she could already see it with the naked eye. Helicopter, one o'clock, low, way out, but moving fast.

Zahnie jammed the car into gear. “They're coming hard,” she said. “They spotted us.”

“Who? Why?”

“Who knows? Listen, you've got to hide.”

“I'm not a criminal!”

She ground gravel as she stopped. “Gotta be feds. They'll say Yazzie and I are ignoring their orders by doing this on our own. I am violating regs by bringing you along and could lose my job.
Out! Go!
Into those rocks.
Now!
”

Red fumbled with the door handle and half-fell out of the car.
“Go!”

He skedaddled.

Zahnie followed him, intending to create visual confusion. As the sound from the helicopter got louder, she considered. Red was already plunging in between two big slabs of rock shaped like pieces of bread leaning against each other. She needed a distraction so he could get hidden—good luck, with that bulk of his—and she needed a reason for being out of her truck.

What to do, what will work?

She put on her uniform hat, as if it would help her think.

The helicopter
whap-whap
was nerve-wracking.

Eureka!
She grinned.

Hands shaking, she reached for her belt and started unfastening her shorts.

 

18

ZAHNIE AND THE COPS

Don't wear two hats at once. You'll get twins.

—Navajo saying

 

Red felt like a giraffe trying to hide in a petunia patch. He pushed his way forward. Hell, anyone could see right through the crack in these slabs of rock, sky at the top and musician in the middle. He had a sudden thought. About twenty feet up, a boulder the size of a VW was jammed like a chock stone, suspended in the air.

He damn well could turn into a rock climber.

It wasn't bad. He found footholds and handholds and reached and struggled and slid into a slice of shade between chock stone and slab. He raised his head and peered over. Beyond the hood of the Bronco he saw Zahnie's head or, rather, her flat-brimmed uniform hat. Why'd she put her hat back on? From the angle of her head she was staring forward along the road.

The
whap-whap
grew crushing overhead. For some reason they weren't landing yet. On the passenger door of the copter he could see the insignia of some federal agency, eagle wrapped in blue and white.

Eyes back to Zahnie and he got it. In the red sand of the road she squatted. Her drawers were dropped, hind end exposed.

Whap-whap-whap-whap!

Zahnie stared at the horizon out from under the brim of her hat with a peculiar concentration familiar to everyone.

The copter's shadow flicked over Red and then stopped in midair above Zahnie. He pictured the guys' faces

Leisurely, she took something white out of her shirt pocket, made a swiping motion in her nether region, pulled up her underwear, wriggling her bottom the way women do, stood up, raised and buttoned her shorts, and cocked her head up toward the copter. Casually, she tossed the white whatever onto the floor of the Bronco and looked up at the feds.

Red pulled his head back down.
Goddamn! What a woman!

Red had a clear view of Zahnie and the copter. He figured there were two advantages to being this close. (Though he would have preferred farther away. Like Nebraska.) Advantage One: If the guys stood near Zahnie, he might hear what they said. Two: He could sure tell if she was in the kind of trouble that would require a quick assist from a hidden friend. Not that jumping in between over-amped cops felt healthy. Especially when you're carrying a concealed .45 auto without a permit.

Zahnie stood and squared her shoulders.
She's calming herself down,
he thought. He watched her like observing an actress from backstage. She pulled out her Attitude makeup, applied it to her face, and spoke her lines.

“You buncha dripnoses,” she shouted. She shook her fist at the descending helicopter.

They probably couldn't hear her over the rotors, but she was letting them see she was going to be in their faces big-time. The copter sidled sideways and teetered gently to earth. They cut the engine. Two men wearing camos with sidearms jumped to the ground, a little white guy and a big Mexican.

When the rotors stopped, the Mexican grinned and started out, “
Chiquita
—”

“That's
Officer Kee
to you,” she interrupted. Zahnie stuck her ID toward him.

He took it. His lips smiled faintly as he read.

“I'm Lieutenant Roberts.” This was the little white guy, younger than her but with just a ring of hair, like a monk. He double-checked the name on the ID. “Zahnie Kee,” he called to the copter pilot, spelling both names. “BLM. Check her out, McFay.”

“Chiquita,”
began the Mexican

“Again, it's
Officer Kee.
And I'm Navajo, not Mexican.”

“Okay. I am Agent Hernandez,” the Mexican went on, “Officer Kee.” His tongue nearly licked the words. “Don't worry, we ain't after you for a public indecency rap. We wanna know what the hell you're doing out here.”