Page 5 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

W HEN THEY GOT back to the car, the sun had set and the evening dusk had settled over the badlands, turning the land a dusty pink.

The witch’s stubby finger was dramatically outlined against a burgundy sky, with a few other equally cruel-looking sentinels forming a backdrop into the far distance.

As the ER team loaded the evidence into the van, Corrie went over to where Sharp was sitting under the tent, drinking ice water.

A young Navajo man was there with him, sharply dressed in a police uniform and aviator sunglasses.

He had high cheekbones, a crew cut, and an aquiline nose.

His short-sleeved blue shirt was tight around his chest, and it looked to Corrie like he spent a lot of time in the gym.

“This is detective sergeant Jack Benally of the Navajo Nation Police, Crownpoint Jurisdiction,” Sharp told her.

“You’ll be liaising with him on the case. I’ve been telling him all about you—and our last case up in the Manzanos.”

Corrie shook his hand.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Benally said as he stood up.

“That was quite a case you had last winter. I hope this one won’t be quite so… melodramatic.”

“Me too,” Corrie said.

“Ice water?” Sharp asked, proffering her a paper cup.

“Heck, yes.”

She drank deeply and set down the glass, to find Benally looking at her pensively.

“Have you worked on the rez before?”

“No. I’m a new agent. I was assigned to the Albuquerque FO only a year and a half ago—never been to New Mexico before that.”

He nodded.

“Welcome to the Navajo Nation.”

“Thank you. I look forward to working with you.” And she did—Benally would have the kind of knowledge of this area she’d never acquire in a lifetime.

She recalled what Sharp had said about the Navajo police—how they were useful at opening doors—and an idea occurred to her.

“About four miles back we passed a trailer and a hut.”

“You mean a hogan.”

“Right. Hogan. There was an elderly lady there.”

“Oh yes,” said Benally.

“That’s Emma Bluebird.”

“Has she been there a long time?”

“Most of her life, I’d guess.”

“I was wondering if perhaps we could ask her a few questions. It’s possible she saw something, maybe even the victim herself—or might have an idea what happened.”

At this, Benally chuckled.

“Good thought. The only problem is, she keeps a shotgun by the door and she doesn’t like Bilagáana —that is, white people—coming around her place. Not that she’s prejudiced or anything: it’s just that in her experience, having a white person knock on the door is rarely a good thing.”

“Maybe you could come with me and explain the situation?”

Benally smiled.

“She doesn’t like cops, either. But we can try.”

“When?”

“Now’s as good a time as any.”

“We won’t get shot?”

He laughed.

“Shotgun’s not loaded. And she’s a peaceable creature at heart. In fact, she’s actually a noted weaver. In that hogan she keeps a loom made of juniper branches. Every year she weaves a rug made from wool sheared and spun from her own sheep and dyed with plants and insects collected around here—and sells it. That’s what she lives on.”

“Really? Amazing.”

Benally shrugged.

“If we don’t make headway with her this evening, I can put you in touch with the trader who buys her rugs. He has a trading post over in Crownpoint.”

“Thanks.”

They got back in their vehicles and Sharp followed Benally out in his white pickup truck, its doors emblazoned with the green-and-yellow Navajo Nation Police emblem.

The last of the light was disappearing in the sky and the stars were starting to come out when Benally pulled into the dirt track leading to the trailer.

He stopped well short of the house, turned off his lights, and waited.

Sharp stopped behind him and switched off his engine.

“Aren’t we going to go knock?” Corrie asked after a few minutes.

“No,” Sharp told her.

“It’s considered rude in Navajo culture to knock on the door—you’ve already invaded their personal space getting that close. She knows we’re here. We just wait.”

Minutes passed.

Corrie could see the dull glow of kerosene light inside the trailer, and the old woman’s shadow moving against the closed curtains.

After another minute, the door finally opened and she stood in it, silhouetted in the yellow light.

Sure enough, she had a shotgun crooked in one elbow, muzzle pointing downward.

At this, Benally got out of his police car and, without approaching, waved and greeted her in Navajo.

She shouted back in Navajo, and a short conversation ensued.

Even though Corrie could not understand it, she could see that it did not go well.

Finally, the old woman retreated into the house, slamming the door.

Benally came over to their vehicle and leaned in the window.

“Well, I guess that must’ve been self-evident. She doesn’t want to talk to us and wants us off her property.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Benally shook his head.

“You’re not going to get anywhere with her. And to be honest, I doubt she has any useful information. But maybe that trader I mentioned can get you an in.”

They got back in their vehicles and continued down the hideous road.

When they at last reached the highway, Benally turned southwest toward Crownpoint, while Sharp and Corrie headed southeast to Nageezi and Albuquerque.

Sharp turned to her.

“So. How did things go with Gradinski?”

“Just fine. We’re pals.”

“Really?”

“Just ask him. He even gave me a pat on the shoulder.” She let a pregnant pause hang briefly in the air.

“So—did I pass the test?”

Sharp chuckled.

“In more ways than you know.”

She looked at him.

“I don’t understand.”

Sharp drove a few miles before responding.

“Corrie, after that Dead Mountain case of ours—of yours, to be more accurate—I began to think my mentoring of you was swiftly growing irrelevant. Watching you at work again today, that feeling has only grown stronger.”

Corrie sat still, throat going dry.

“In my opinion, you’re ready for—lacking a better term—graduation. But there’s red tape involved, and we still have to run out the clock for another five months or so. In the eyes of the FBI, I’m still your mentor. But for now, I’m going to remain well in the background—and see how you handle this case on your own.”

Sharp was always a hard person to read, but this was the last thing Corrie had expected to hear…

especially at the start of a fresh investigation like this.

She felt a little like she’d just been thrown into the deep end of the pool.

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Oh, I’ll have my eyes on you, Swanson. But I’ll only step forward if I see you going off the rails… or you ask for my intervention.”

As she looked back to the blur of highway, Corrie tried to process this development—and how she felt about it.

On the one hand, she’d grown accustomed to having a mentor backing her up, taking ultimate responsibility.

On the other hand: now that she was in the pool, she had to admit the water felt fine.