Mourning Dove (41 page)

Ella recalled the raid in Albuquerque, wishing she had a high-powered rifle in her hands right now. Her team fired back, scoring hits, but all three men remained on their feet, their body armor making it impossible to achieve penetration. The shotgun and nine-millimeter rounds from their handguns would knock the suspects back a step, but all they’d do was flinch, then continue firing.

“Go for the head and legs,” Blalock yelled from his position behind and to the left of her.

“Volley on the first guy!” Ella shouted, ducking down below the bumper and aiming at the thighs of the attacker closest to them now.

Everyone fired, and several shots struck the shooter in the legs. He went down, screaming, losing his weapon and writhing on the grass.

The two men remaining hesitated,
then the second, short one emptied his clip into the pavement in front of Blalock’s car. Ella and Carson rolled behind the tires, and Blalock, taking fire as well, dove backward onto the grass, using the curb for protection. The shooters, having forced Ella and the two men with her to dive for cover, turned and fired from their hips as they jogged toward Justine and the AFT agents, who were behind
two vehicles.

“They’re after a car!” Carson yelled.

Justine, Officer Blacksheep, and the ATF men opened fire on the second shooter, who had stopped to reload. He took hits then, first dropping the magazine, then the automatic weapon.

“Help me, Sanders!” the wounded man yelled, pulling a pistol from his belt and staggering on toward Justine.

“Get him,” Justine yelled. A shotgun blast from an
AFT agent struck the pistol wielder’s vest, but he trembled, shook it off, and kept coming.

Ella slipped in another clip, stood up and used the hood as a rest, then took aim for a head shot. But Sanders opened fire with his assault rifle, sending Justine diving away as a bullet clipped her shoulder. Rolling away from the car and behind a tree, Justine continued to fire at the advancing men as
bark chipped off the trunk.

Feeling the heat and protection of the badger fetish she wore around her neck, Ella gathered her courage and squeezed the trigger. The man with the pistol stumbled, falling forward onto the grass.

Everyone opened fire on the remaining man, Sanders, who suddenly realized he was alone and in the open. The volley continued, and his body jerked like a marionette as several
shots hit his vest.

“I quit, I quit!” he said, dropping his weapon like it was on fire, then throwing up his arms.

“Give us a reason,” Blalock muttered as he jogged forward along with the others, all their weapons still on Sanders.

Ella looked over at Justine, who was on her feet now.

“I’ll live,” her cousin said, her hand pressed over a bloody spot on her upper arm. “A clean exit, two holes
for the price of one.” An ATF agent was already bringing a first-aid kit from his car.

The man Ella had shot in the head was dead, and the first man that had gone down, Miller, was bleeding badly but would probably live. Sanders had been hit at least three times in the arms and legs, and he and Miller were being given first-aid when backup and the EMTs arrived.

Ella and the others who’d first
surrounded the house stood back as FPD SWAT searched the house. The bomb squad was right behind them, but found no active explosive devices.

Carson stood beside Ella as they watched the EMTs treat
Justine’s messy but minor wound and the injured men were loaded into an ambulance.

“Those men are the exception rather than the rule,” Carson said somberly. “Our troops are second to none—they’re men
and women of honor who fight for their country. But every profession has its bad seeds. Like law enforcement.”

“You’re right. Greed is there in every walk of life.”

“Let’s see what they’ve been hiding inside,” Blalock said, brushing dust off his jacket, then scowling at a grass stain that had probably ruined his trousers. “The bomb squad just gave us the all-clear.”

Ella was first inside, but
as they passed through a small foyer into the living room, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “They were in the basement when we got here. Where are the stairs?”

Justine, who’d agreed to go to the hospital
after
checking out the house, walked ahead into the kitchen. “In here,” she said, stepping into view and motioning them toward an open utility closet with a washer and dryer and a
half-open door at the end. A light was on somewhere below, and she could see stairs.

Ella glanced at Blalock. “Lead the way, broad-shouldered one.”

“Heck no, ladies first. Besides, if the bomb guys missed something, your young reflexes are much better than mine.”

“Your chivalry brings a lump to my throat.”

“You made my day, Clah. Now quit stalling.” Blalock waved his hand, signaling for her
to go ahead.

Ella went down the narrow flight of stairs carefully, holding onto the small rail on the right, her weapon in her left hand now, ready. There was no such thing as too much caution in sites like these, and she’d seen enough action for today. With luck, things would go smoothly, but she wasn’t counting on anything.

Downstairs, on the rough plank floor, were racks made of unfinished
pine holding at least a hundred weapons—pistols, rifles, assault rifles, curved, fancy knifes, and semiautomatics—and
a big plastic tub half full of rings, earrings, necklaces, and gold watches that she suspected would sell for many thousands of dollars. She didn’t know one piece of jewelry from another, but she knew the name Tag Heuer, and recognized that many of the pieces were from the last
century or earlier, probably antiques looted from the Middle East.

Samuel, who’d been the last in line coming down the stairs, walked around the room slowly, taking it all in. “I thought that once we found my brother’s killers, I’d feel better—that it would stop hurting. But nothing’s changed.”

His grief touched her deeply as she recalled her father’s brutal murder—the event that had brought
her back to the reservation—and the pain her family had endured. “I can tell you one thing—life doesn’t end,” she said softly. “Your brother is . . . someplace else now,” Ella said, her voice barely above a whisper. “A happier, safer place. I
know
.”

“I heard about your accident. Were you really . . . dead?” Samuel asked, his tone matching hers.

She nodded. “The essence of who we are continues.
I can’t prove it to you—but I know what I saw.”

He nodded once. “Thanks. I’ve heard all that from preachers and the department chaplain, but it’s different coming from you. The religious people . . . well, they kinda have to believe that, but people like us don’t. We’re cynics . . . cops.”

“Speaking of ministers, why don’t you come back with me to Shiprock and bring that copy you made of the
coded story your brother sent you? Reverend Bilford Tome has been looking at the pages I received from your brother and trying to help us figure out the hidden message. We found our own answers the hard way, but if we all put our heads together maybe we can finally fill in the gaps.” Looking back at Blalock, Ella added, “You, too, Dwayne, if you’re interested.”

“Yeah, I am.”

In response to Ella’s
glance including him in the invitation,
Carson shook his head. “I’ll take a pass. I’ve got all I need here to proceed with the CID case. If you get more details on how they moved the stuff, I’d like to know. I’ll certainly need it for court. But right now, I’m going to concentrate on our prisoners.”

Forty minutes later they met in Big Ed’s office. Reverend Tome was present and anxious to examine
the remaining pages. Samuel read the part of Jimmy’s story that Ella had received while the others read over the segment Samuel had discovered in Sanders’s desk—pages five and six.

Once everyone was up to date, Ella spoke. “What Jimmy sent Samuel is pretty straightforward, talking about a time for balancing the good and bad, with the Dark Ones being sent to judgment. I can now guess at some of
the IDs in the story, but I think Samuel can fill in a lot for us because he knew Jimmy best.”

Samuel nodded and began. “In my half of the story Gray Wolf is also known as
naat’á yázhí
, which means ‘little chief.’ I remember my uncle Marvin, who went by that nickname. He was a sergeant in the Marine Corps, so Gray Wolf is undoubtedly Sergeant Kent Miller.”

“I agree with your logic,” Ford said,
smiling. “Neil Carson can probably confirm that from the unit records, correlating them with what Gray Wolf does in Jimmy’s tale.”

Everyone else nodded.

“Gopher is also known as
dinédííl
, which means ‘stockily built man.’ A friend of our father’s went by that name. He was a mechanic, so I think Jimmy was telling me that Gopher was Richardson,” Samuel added.

Justine jumped in. “Jimmy said that
Trickster’s other name was
bi’disziih
. That means ‘one who turned up missing.’ Can that be the photographer, Zamora? He was forced out of the unit and turned up dead the same day Jimmy was killed. My guess is that one of the suspects ran him off the road, maybe Miller.”

“That sounds right. How about Stripes, who was also known as
hastiiltsoii
,” Ella asked Samuel. “Another family connection?”

Samuel thought about it for a moment. “It means ‘yellow man’ . . . we used that term when my brother and I played cowboys and Indians and, of course, the Indians were the good guys. The bad guys, the cavalry, were led by a lieutenant with a yellow stripe on each shoulder of his uniform. He had yellow stripes on his pants as well. We got that from a TV series we watched.”

“That makes Stripes the
code name for Calvin Sanders, who was Jimmy’s lieutenant. It all fits,” Big Ed interjected.

“Like a glove,” Ella added.

“From everyone else’s smugness, I guess you’ve already figured out what those names like Walpole and Mountbatten mean,” Samuel said. “Would somebody fill me in?”

Ella explained how Jimmy had apparently used a computer search to find character names associated with certain
crimes to indicate, indirectly, what the corrupt soldiers were doing to get guns from the Iraqis. “Of course we need to clarify all this, and make sure it matches with what the other soldiers report, and the unit records and history. That’s where Neil Carson’s help will be needed. And I heard from the officer who accompanied Miller to the hospital that he wants to testify and avoid the death penalty.
He claims Sanders was responsible for killing Jimmy and Herbert Edsitty. Zamora is another issue at this point, but I doubt his death was really an accident.”

“If I’d known about the packet Jimmy sent me and the one sent to you, we could have broken the code days ago,” Samuel said.

“It’s finished now. That’s the important thing,” Ella said. “Jimmy’s writing career may have been shorter than
he planned, but it certainly had an impact. He’s saved even more lives now that most of those guns will never reach the streets.”

Big Ed received a call, and after a few words, put the caller on the speaker. “Warrant Officer Carson of CID would like to fill you in on some details. Go ahead, Carson.”

“I’ve got information that may clear up a few more details. It appears that Calvin Sanders and
the men in his platoon, including those in Jimmy’s section, stayed at a home of a wealthy Iraqi for a few weeks. The owners had been killed in an air raid. That’s where they found that stash of jewelry, and it gave them an idea. Eventually, they branched out to weapons smuggling. Two soldiers who were involved initially got cold feet after several months and an ‘accident’ was arranged for them.
The group’s operational objective was to amass enough cash overseas to get their dreams off the ground once they got back. Richardson, Zamora, Sanders, and Miller were the only ones associated with the military who were involved in the actual crimes and smuggling. We already know about their civilian contacts here in the States. They were the ones who received and processed most of the smuggled weapons.”

“Neil, Miller’s agreed to testify against Sanders,” Ella told him. “Let’s hope he makes it through surgery.”

“No honor among thieves. Thanks for the info. Good working with you and your team, Investigator Clah,” Carson said, and hung up.

“Between the physical evidence and the testimony from Richardson and Miller, it looks like the operation is going to be shut down for good,” Ella said, sitting
back in her chair.

Big Ed looked around the group and nodded in approval. “Good job, officers. Go home. Take some time off. You all deserve it. You too, Reverend, if you can get permission from The Boss.”

The rest of the week passed quickly. When at last the wedding day arrived, Rose was calmer than Ella, who couldn’t make herself sit down for more than a few seconds at a time. Maybe it was
the long, deep purple pleated skirt and silver concha belt Ella was wearing instead of her comfortable slacks.

She rarely wore a traditional outfit like this—the last time had been at her brother’s wedding years ago.

Dawn, who was beside her now, was dressed in similar fashion, and, like Ella, had her hair in a traditional
tsiiyeel
, the signature knot for Navajos. The style symbolized keeping
good thoughts and knowledge stored away.

After one of the longest days in Ella’s life, sundown finally approached. Although, traditionally, Herman would have arrived on his horse, and his saddle carried to the hogan by the bride’s family, these were modern times, and concessions had to be made. Herman drove up in his shiny, polished, and freshly waxed pickup, and Ella and Dawn took his saddle
from the back and carried it into the ceremonial hogan.

“And this shows that he’ll never leave
Shimasání
, right, Mom?” Dawn whispered excitedly, then seeing Ella nod, added, “It’s
so
cool, Mom.”

“The wedding basket she’ll carry represents the home and symbolizes Navajo wisdom,” Ella reminded Dawn. “The cornmeal mush we’ve been cooking all day will go in it. Corn is life to the Navajo and white
corn, in particular, represents the East. That’s where everything new is born.”

“I want a wedding like this someday,” Dawn said quite seriously. “There’re lots of special meanings and rules and things to remember, but that’s what makes it so . . . cool. Why did
Shimasání
choose Uncle’s hogan for the wedding?”