Page 22 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

C ORRIE SAT NEXT to Detective Sergeant Benally in his squad car—a white pickup truck emblazoned with Navajo Nation Police logos—watching as they drove deeper into the badlands.

The latest victim had, like the first, been found in the Checkerboard part of the Navajo Nation, but this time on land belonging entirely to the Navajo Trust, which meant Benally was nominally in charge.

This was fine with Corrie; Benally was a stand-up officer, low-key, sensible, and easygoing.

The only problem was he, like Sharp, drove like a maniac over the reservation’s prodigiously bad roads, pounding and lurching along to the point that Corrie had to brace herself with the “oh, shit” handle to prevent her head from slamming into the roof.

When she’d suggested he might slow down just a bit, he’d said with a laugh, “If I slowed down on these roads, I’d never get anywhere.”

Corrie watched the landscape pass by.

It was a brutally hot July day, and she was glad for the air-conditioning.

They were going to visit a man named Jack Bia, the allotment holder for the section of land on which the woman’s body had been found.

He didn’t live there; his own home was in a settlement called White Horse, south of the badlands.

“Do you know this guy?” Corrie asked as they careened along.

“Never met him. I hear he’s a young fellow, studying to be a medicine man.”

“And what exactly—if you don’t mind my asking—is a medicine man?”

“Don’t mind at all. It’s someone who conducts ceremonies to restore balance in people’s lives, restore harmony, and cure them of mental or physical illnesses. I’ve heard Jack Bia is learning the Enemy Way ceremony.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s mostly for people returning from military service—especially if they’ve been involved in battle. It’s a long, chanted series of invocations and stories in Navajo that goes on for several nights, along with sand paintings, a battle reenactment, and other things. Afterward there’s usually a dance for young people called a Girl’s Dance. Used to be called a Squaw Dance, but that term’s totally uncool these days.” He laughed again.

“And this—as you said—restores their harmony?”

“Coming back from war, you’ve been around killing. You’re tainted by death, especially if you’ve killed other people yourself. You’re troubled by the chindi, or ghosts of those dead. The Enemy Way lays those ghosts to rest.” He paused.

“Your culture calls those ghosts PTSD.”

Corrie was struck by this.

“The Enemy Way is meant to cure PTSD?”

“Specifically, cure soldiers dealing with the horrors of war. Just about every Navajo family around here has members in the armed forces, so the Enemy Way is one of our important ceremonies.”

“Does it work?”

Benally turned to her with a faux-stern look, and Corrie realized she’d said the wrong thing.

Back came the memories of Horace Driver—which were never far away, as it was.

Why the hell couldn’t she remember to ensure her brain wasn’t in reverse…

before letting her mouth step on the gas?

“Of course it works,” he said.

“You think psychiatrists and pills do any better?”

“Sorry. That was a stupid question.”

“No worries. And here we are.”

It didn’t seem to Corrie as if they’d arrived anywhere at all, but Benally turned off the rudimentary road onto a track, which wound among some sand hills before approaching a prefabricated HUD house, a large and beautiful hogan made of adzed logs with a mud roof.

As was customary, Corrie now understood, Benally stopped the truck well before the house and waited.

The door opened almost immediately and a young, energetic-looking man emerged, waving and calling out.

They exited the truck and, as they approached, he invited them in.

Corrie found herself in a spacious and comfortable living room, with a carpeted floor, a wood stove, sofas and chairs, a giant flat-screen television—and above the sofa, an arrangement of photographs of young men and women in uniform standing against American flags.

“Jack Bia,” said the young man, shaking their hands in a curiously soft manner.

“Coffee coming up.”

He was full of activity, pouring coffee, dumping in sugar and Cremora without being asked, and serving it around.

It was exactly as Corrie liked it, and so, apparently, did Benally.

When the coffee had been served, Bia sat down, put his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward.

“So,” he said, “what’s going on?”

Benally glanced at Corrie.

Given where the body had been found, they’d already decided he would take the lead.

“Well,” said Benally, “as I mentioned on the phone, we’re investigating the death of a young woman on your grazing allotment up by Betonnie Wash. Apparently, she walked out into the desert, took off her clothes, and died of exposure.”

Bia said nothing.

“And we were wondering if you could shed any light on it.”

Bia remained silent another moment.

“I got that allotment from my grandmother, but I haven’t ever used it. I don’t have time to run sheep. I’m studying to be a medicine man.”

“When was the last time you were up there?”

“Oh, at least ten years ago. When I was a teenager, helping my grandmother herd sheep.”

“Do you have any idea why someone would go into that area?”

“The only outsiders I’ve ever heard about are rockhounds wandering in there, looking for fossils or petrified wood. Oh, and supposedly the oil company has people in there now and then.”

“Speaking of the oil company, the victim was named Mandy Driver. She was an archaeologist working for Geo, which is fracking up in that area.”

“Right. Those fracking leases include my allotment.”

Corrie spoke.

“You mean they’re fracking on your land?”

“Not yet, maybe never. But they have leases covering that land.”

“How do those leases work?” Corrie asked.

“Do you get money from it?”

At this, Bia made a wry face.

“Me? Get money? I wish! That land is Navajo Nation Trust Land. They lease it to the oil companies and collect the royalties. The state and BLM also own land in that checkerboard, and they do the same—lease it and collect royalties. They all cooperate together so the leases aren’t broken up. The royalties get divided, some to the Navajo Nation, some to the state, and some to the feds. I don’t see a dime of it. It’s not my land—I just have the grazing rights.”

“I see.” Corrie glanced at her notes.

“Did the victim ever contact you about visiting your land in her capacity as an archaeologist for Geo?”

“No. They come and go without informing me, and I’m never up there anyway.”

“There’s a rock formation out there, black and rather weird. That’s where the victim was found—at its base. Is there any significance to that particular landform?”

At this, Bia’s face tightened a little.

“Why do you ask?”

“The other victim was found near a similar formation. It just seems like an odd coincidence.”

Bia looked down.

“In Navajo belief,” he began again, much more slowly, “every landmark, every mountain and canyon and mesa, has a story behind it. Our land, the Diné Bikéyah, is sort of like your Old Testament, in that our creation stories are told not by words on paper, but by landforms.”

“And that black formation has a part in this story?”

“Yes.”

He seemed reluctant to continue, and Corrie felt similarly hesitant to inquire further.

Benally nodded at Bia.

“It’s okay to share the story. She’s on our side.”

Bia thought for a moment, then nodded.

“All right. In the beginning of time, when the earth was young, the Navajo people emerged and came to live on this land. But they found someone had been there before, leaving their ruins behind. We used to call them the Anasazi, the ‘ancient enemies.’”

He paused, drew in a long breath.

“I know the word Anasazi is no longer supposed to be used to describe the ancestral Pueblo people. And that’s fine. But I have to explain something. The translation of the Navajo word Anasazi as ‘ancient enemies’ is a mistranslation. The word ana means ‘stranger’ or ‘outsider,’ not necessarily ‘enemy.’ Anyway, since Anasazi is a Navajo word, I’m going to continue to use it.”

Corrie waited as Bia took a long sip of coffee, as if preparing himself.

“The story my grandmother told me—and it’s an old story, one of the most important in our creation cycle—goes like this: the Anasazi who lived here before us were very powerful. They had medicine men, lots of sacred turquoise, and potent ceremonies. One medicine man was the most powerful of all, called the Noqoìlpi, the Great Gambler. The Great Gambler tricked the people in gambling games and eventually won everything they had. Then he ruled over them, drunk on his own power. He misused the ceremonies in order to control and enslave the people, forcing them to build the great houses at Chaco Canyon and other places. But this displeased the Yei, the gods. Wind, Darkness, the Bat, and the Great Snake came down. They challenged the Great Gambler to games. He eventually lost everything. He began making threats, so to get rid of him, Darkness made a bow and shot him far into the sky, way into the south. Some say he became the god of the Mexicans, others the god of the Americans. After he left, the people were freed and moved away from the great houses. All those places fell into ruin and were abandoned—left as a warning about arrogance and the misuse of power. And that is how we Navajo look on the ruins of Chaco Canyon and elsewhere today—as a warning.”

There was a brief silence, then he resumed.

“That black spire on my allotment—my grandmother said it, and the others like it, were left by the Great Gambler as a sign of his lingering evil. I’ve never been up there… and I don’t intend to ever go.”

Bia drained his coffee, put down the cup.

And Corrie could tell from the expression in his eyes—although still friendly—that he wasn’t going to answer any more questions about the witch’s finger.