Tainted Mountain Page 17

  Keeping an eye on them, Nora snagged a cup of coffee.

  Abigail turned to her. “Please pick up your feet. Shuffling is low class.”

  The mug warmed Nora’s hands. “Where have you been? Why did you break into my house? What are you doing with Charlie?”

  Abigail raised her eyebrows. “The tables are turned and she’s giving me twenty questions.”

  Charlie looked up at Nora and grinned. “I’ve been taking good care of her.”

  Nora ran a hand through her hair. “Excuse me, Charlie, but you can barely take care of yourself. Why would you overwhelm yourself with Queen Abigail?”

  Her mother giggled. “See?” she said to Charlie. “That’s why I like to be around her. She’s always so witty.”

  “Not witty, Mother. Tired. Worried. Confused. And pretty freaked out.”

  Abigail and Charlie exchanged a look that said “isn’t she cute?” Abigail patted Charlie’s hand and got up to fiddle with the bacon and start the eggs.

  Nora sipped her coffee, trying to clear her head. “I thought maybe you were staying in a motel or something.”

  “Now why would I do that?” Abigail poked a strip of bacon with a fork and transferred it to a paper towel–lined plate.

  Her mother was practicing her typical form of punishment. She’d force Nora to detail the offense, then she’d demand an apology.

  Frustrated, Nora took a breath and recalled their last conversation, before the fire on the mountain. “I’m sorry I called you a kept woman. I didn’t mean it.”

  Abigail nodded and continued with the sputtering and popping bacon.

  “I’m sorry I ran into Barrett’s bumper and probably ruined your lunch date.”

  Abigail grabbed the eggs and whisk and let them have it again. “You didn’t ruin our date. We had a lovely time.”

  Nora couldn’t fathom what a lovely time with Barrett looked like. Her imagination balked at anything romantic with that man, and thinking of her mother that way was just plain wrong.

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  Abigail poured the eggs into the warm pan. “I’m not pleased with your performance, no. But you are grieving. Perhaps you should see a therapist.”

  Nora looked at Charlie, hoping for some help.

  He dozed, head resting on his hand.

  Nora fortified herself with coffee. “Where were you last night, and how did you end up with Charlie?”

  Abigail folded the omelet in a move that impressed Nora. “I was understandably upset when I got back to Mountain Village. Honestly, Nora, you wear me out sometimes.”

  “So what about Charlie?”

  “When Barrett dropped me off, I went for a stroll instead of going directly home. I ran into Charlie and he took me for a cocktail at the Tavern.”

  Nora choked on coffee. “You went to the Tavern. With Charlie.”

  Abigail shot her a withering look. “Really, Nora. I’m not an ice queen.”

  Nora tried to keep from laughing.

  “We had a few drinks and he bought me supper— ”

  “At the Tavern? You know they only serve fried food there.”

  “I had a fairly nice salad.”

  “Okay, salad. How did you get from drinks and salad to spending the night with Charlie?”

  Abigail’s eyes blazed and she shot a look at the still-dozing man at the table. “I did not spend the night with Charlie.”

  Nora grinned. “You’re right. You’re home before dawn.”

  Abigail pulled the skillet from the stove. “Sometimes you’re so crude.”

  “So what happened?”

  “You know I’m not much of a drinker … ”

  Nora laughed, “You have a cocktail or two every day.”

  Abigail gave her a warning look. “While we were walking home I felt queasy and Charlie gallantly took me to his cabin. He gave me seltzer and aspirin, and I’m afraid I fell asleep.”

  “You passed out at Charlie’s house.” This was getting better and better.

  Abigail slid the omelet onto a plate and picked up a knife. “Would you please try to act like an adult?”

  Nora lifted her mug to hide her amusement. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “That’s all. There’s nothing more. I woke up, Charlie walked me home, and I promised him breakfast.”

  Nora followed Abigail as she carried the plates to the table and set one down in front of Charlie.

  He opened his eyes and smiled at Abigail. “This looks perfect.”

  Abigail sat. “You need some companionship, Nora. Charlie and I think you should start seeing Cole Huntsman.”

  Nora nearly spit her coffee. “Good idea. It will make it easier for him to kill me.”

  Abigail laughed.

  “You agreed with this?” Nora asked Charlie.

  Charlie smacked his lips, loving the omelet. “He’s a fine man.”

  “Well, if you love him so much, why not take him a cup of coffee—make stalking me more comfortable?”

  “What do you mean?” Abigail said.

  “He’s sitting in the parking lot right now making sure I don’t get away.”

  Abigail smiled. “That’s so sweet.”

  Nora wanted to go to bed forever. She glared at Charlie. “You approve of what he does for a living?”

  Charlie sat back and patted his belly. “Nuclear energy is cleaner and more efficient than coal, though I don’t think they need to gut the Grand Canyon for uranium. But Cole’s a good man and he’s working on other things. ”

  “What else? Murder?”

  Abigail set down her coffee cup. “Really, Nora. You should get more rest. You sound confused.”

  Charlie stuffed a giant bite in his mouth and closed his eyes in ecstasy. Or was he hiding something about Cole?

  When he swallowed and opened his eyes, he saw her staring at him. “You ought to get that front window fixed,” Charlie said.

  “I’ll get to it later.” She sipped her coffee. “Did you rip the screen or just bend it?”

  Abigail sighed and got up for more coffee.

  “And why didn’t you use your key?” Nora asked.

  Abigail filled Charlie’s cup and gave her a puzzled look. “I did.”

  Nora reached for a piece of bacon from Abigail’s plate and received a slap for her effort. “If it was so easy for you guys to break in maybe I ought to put bars on it.”

  Abigail’s head snapped up. “Are you listening? We didn’t break in, Nora. I told you, I used my key.”

  Twenty-Seven

  She left Charlie to the window repair and as soon as Cole drove away and Abigail turned her head, she jumped in the Jeep and started for the rez. Maybe Cole could sit around and wait for his friend to intercede, but Nora needed action. She had to help Heather and do something to stop Alex before he broke into their home again. The next time, Abigail might be home and ripe for murder.

  Nora traveled as fast as she dared the nearly seventy miles to Winslow. She turned off the interstate onto a two-lane paved road and pushed the accelerator even more, the bumps and swells of the poorly maintained surface creating a sway like a sailboat. The sign to Second Mesa told her she had to travel another sixty miles on a road that ran straight to the horizon.

  She headed toward the three Hopi mesas, each with some villages. Nora had heard that Old Oraibi, on Third Mesa, was the oldest constantly inhabited village in North America. Cole had said today’s dance would take place on Second Mesa.

  Poor farms and ranches of the Navajo Nation dotted the roadsides miles apart, each compound with a hogan, the traditional home structure of the Navajo people.

  After what seemed like five hundred miles, the road ended at a T. On the right, a mesa rose and Nora barely detected the symmetrical lines of structures on the flat surface above her. The buildin
gs blended with the yellow dirt of the desert, effectively camouflaging the town. A sign pointed left to Second Mesa. She passed a large, new school and turned right on a road leading up the side of Second Mesa. Around a switchback the road tilted sharply upward. It continued to get steeper with two more switchbacks. Shanties and worn buildings with signs identifying them as tribal and U.S. government and health facilities squatted alongside the road.

  The third switchback, about halfway up the mesa, brought her to a stretch of road occupied with cars, people, and several card tables set up under bright awnings. The tables displayed food and crafts.

  Whatever Nora expected of the ancient village, the truth disappointed her. The settlement looked like a Third World country. Dirt dominated everything. Yellow dust covered the paved strip of road, which broke off in uneven edges and dropped to windblown dirt shoulders. Houses made of cinder block, rock, and cobbled-together materials clung to the bare dirt hillside.

  Nora stepped out of the Jeep. A candy wrapper fluttered under her feet. Feeling uncomfortable and unsure, she headed for the sound of drums.

  Several groups of Native Americans meandered up a route etched into the side of a nearly vertical mesa. Nora crossed the road and started onto a rocky trail that switchbacked up the steep mesa. The path was ground to fine yellow powder by centuries of feet trudging through the village.

  From time to time bunches of weeds survived, covered in yellow dust. A few food wrappers and other trash flitted across the ground on the dry, hot breeze. The sun beat on her; with no sunscreen or hat, she’d be crispy in a matter of minutes.

  Nora topped out on the mesa and the savory smell of roasting meat struck her. The muffled sounds of men singing joined the constant beating drum. The people on the roof of a two-story building looked down the other side at whatever activity caused the singing and drumming.

  She assumed the building held two stories because it rose that high above the mesa, but no windows showed on this side to indicate its structure. Built of natural rock, it became a part of the mesa as if it had been uncovered by shifting desert dirt. Cars and pickups ranging from shiny and new to rusting heaps, all under a coating of dust, crowded the narrow alley behind the building. Smatterings of Native Americans moved in and out of the confusion. Like any other outdoor celebration, they carried camp chairs, water, and bags full of necessities.

  Nora approached a friendly looking older woman. “Is this the way to the dance?” A few heads turned toward her, but Nora didn’t feel hostility or even much curiosity.

  The older woman eyed Nora’s jeans and though she didn’t change expression, Nora felt chastised. “This your first time?”

  How could she tell? Nora nodded. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Follow me,” the woman said. She led Nora to the corner of the solid structure, where another building stood at a right angle leaving a narrow passage. People crowded into the opening all facing toward the drumming and singing. A young woman with a little girl about ten years old shuffled aside and made room for Nora. She nodded her head at the older woman.

  The two buildings comprised half of the parameters of a village square, with an identical set of buildings making up the other half. Nora stood transfixed by the scene in front of her.

  The plaza was about as wide as a basketball court and twice as long. Color, drums, and singing whirled around her as she tried to sort out the images. A circle of bare-chested men lined the length of the plaza—all wore masks, their long black hair falling down their backs. In a symphony of feathers, paint, leather, bells, plants, and animal skins, the men danced in their vibrant costumes, each one different from the others. Or maybe some looked similar to one another; the alien mix made it impossible for Nora to capture all the details.

  The fifty or so men chanted and stomped their feet. Some held rattles they shook in rhythm to the drumming. It sounded like unintelligible syllables to Nora, but apparently they were singing words and verses because suddenly they all stepped back and turned in a line dance more synchronized and impressive than one in any cowboy bar.

  “Wow.” She couldn’t muster more intelligent words.

  The older woman didn’t take her eyes from the dancing.

  The dancers continued to sing and move in unison. The drums pounded, rattles kept time, spectators sat quietly and watched. Time and place vanished from her normal life of businesswoman in the middle of American society. Through the space between the buildings across the plaza, the desert stretched from the mesa into eternity. The sky offered bunches of clouds in the expanse above.

  “What is this about?”

  The woman whispered. “Those are the kachinas. They come from the sacred peaks every spring. They perform dances, most of them secret in the kivas. This is a summer dance. Just a celebration.”

  “What exactly is a kachina?”

  The old woman considered before answering. “The kachinas represent things that are important to Hopi. There are more than three hundred of them. They act as a kind of go-between for Hopi and the supernatural world. Mostly they are spirits, like animals or ancestors or plants, clouds, stuff like that.” She shut her mouth as if the conversation officially ended.

  The celebration resembled a Fourth of July picnic. Smells of cooking wafted around the plaza. Women in aprons moved in and out of the houses, taking a moment to sit and watch the dance, then going back to attend to whatever emitted the wonderful aromas. Unlike the American holiday where children ran and shot off fireworks amid a buzz of activity, for the most part the crowd focused on the dancers. It seemed like a mix between church and a barbecue.

  With a final hard pound of the drum the dancers stopped chanting and stamping their feet. The bells and rattles ceased, and the kachinas took up a moaning sound. Perhaps it was in lieu of applause. Their chorus sounded strange; like the deep cooing of doves or the low whine of dogs, but not really either of those. Maybe a combination. Maybe it was a Hopi amen.

  A man in the middle of the circle shouted as the cooing accented whatever he said. Sometimes the drums beat or the rattles sounded. Several men moved from the circle to the crowd to distribute parcels of food. Nora couldn’t unravel the mystery of why certain women received these. They offered no exchange of smiles and thank yous, as she’d expect. The women simply accepted the food and passed it back to other women, who disappeared through the doors with it. It looked like an arbitrary mixture, store-bought white bread, homemade cakes and pies, fresh vegetables, cooked ears of corn, melons, bags of chips—all gathered in various containers such as cardboard soda flats, plastic storage containers, baskets, and bowls.

  The food distribution and oration went on for a while. Nora tucked herself next to a building, taking advantage of a sliver of shade. Time became irrelevant. How long did she stand watching the dancing and gift giving?

  The kachinas eventually formed a line and exited the intersection of the buildings opposite Nora.

  Whatever the ceremony meant, the Hopi had performed it in almost the exact same way for centuries. The masks and costumes might have gained a few modern touches over the years; the jingle bells on the dancers’ legs wouldn’t have been available until after Europeans brought trade goods, and there were probably other bits and pieces constructed of synthetic fabrics, though none were obvious to Nora. How was it possible that these customs—older than the castles in Europe—had survived intact?

  The heat and yellow dirt yielded the answer. The mesa didn’t welcome stray visitors. Outsiders who did venture up here didn’t want to stay. Even early settlers coveted rich farmland and easy water sources. The harsh environment here kept the Hopi isolated and able to focus on the old ways.

  Nora’s gaze wandered back to the crowd and she realized how off-track she’d gotten. She couldn’t waste time on a cultural mission. She needed to find Heather. With a thudding heart, she scanned the plaza. She finally spotted Heather on a r
ooftop across the plaza. At least she appeared uninjured from the lava tube blast.

  Heather stood with folded arms, her body rigid. She had no interest in the plaza. Behind her, a decorated figure moved into sight. He towered above Heather. His hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder.

  Alex.

  Nora gasped and ran several steps across the plaza, but a glimpse of a familiar beaked nose and sunburned red skin stopped her in her tracks.

  Big Elk.

  Twenty-Eight

  It was a regular convict convention, with no law enforcement around to protect them. A costumed Alex now stood within a few feet of Heather, and they were alone on the rooftop. Nora could tell by his body language that he was very upset. Who knew what he could do to Heather up there?

  And Big Elk. He hated Nora enough that her white hide would be worthless as soon as he saw her here on the rez.

  Alex reached out and Heather let him touch her arm. Nora had to get up there without being seen. Even without horses available, being drawn and quartered seemed possible if Big Elk spied her.

  Big Elk held several young women in thrall. He could look over here any time. He’d sic his minions on her and she’d disappear into the desert wind without a trace.

  Sweat dribbled down Nora’s spine and she dared not move from her shady safe spot. Big Elk now spoke to a middle-aged woman. She considered his words then shook her head and walked away.

  Big Elk scowled after the woman. He glanced in the other direction and hurried from the plaza. Today’s faithful following was noticeably devoid of Guilty White People. He must have thought they’d bring down his cred out here and asked them to stay away from the rez.

  Alex pulled away from Heather and she reached to stop him. He shrugged her off and disappeared off the back of the rooftop.

  Here was her chance. Nora lit out after Heather.

  A hand on her arm made her squeal.

  A man decked out in yellow mud with facial features painted in black frowned at her. He looked like a clown. “You can’t go back there, miss. That’s for the kachinas.”