Aimée Thurlo - Restless Wind

“Do you think she has any idea where to go find him?” Hunter asked.

“Maybe. I suspected that she’d used the computer at the safe house so I searched its memory. I know she did an Internet search on medicine men and medicine hogans. It’s possible she also read a news article lifted from the tribal newspaper and has figured out the location of Hastiin Dííl’s medicine hogan. That’s no secret, because our new leader is also a well-known healer.”

“You’re making a dangerous assumption-that she’s innocent, and had nothing to do with the death of the Singer. But based on what?”

“I trust my instincts,” Ranger said, climbing into the truck and starting the engine.

“You said you believed she has the names of the Brotherhood of Warriors. If so, then she must know that you’re part of us.”

“The way I see it, she didn’t get all the names because I don’t think she knows quite what to make of me. I would have seen some kind of indication if she knew I was in the brotherhood. But it’s also possible she’s guarding the secret she was given.”

“So we’ll play this out and see what we get,” Hunter said. “ Trujillo ’s place-or more to the point, one of his places-is southeast of Farmington, near the Bolack Ranch. There’s only one road leading from the highway, so if she goes in that direction, you’ll have your answer. But what if she decides to make a phone call instead? There are pay phones at every convenience store between Shiprock and that location.”

“Then she only has to go as far as Shiprock, doesn’t she?” Ranger answered. “I’ll stay close in case she makes a stop, and keep in touch.” As Ranger ended the call, he took out the small unit with the GPS screen and turned it on. It would show, on a simple display, where Dana was headed.

He’d been certain that she wouldn’t go to Trujillo ’s, and was satisfied to see that his guess had been right. Currently she was taking the road that led to a small community called Rattlesnake. It was a mixed area, but traditionalists outnumbered modern Navajos four to one.

Ranger dialed his brother as he hurried on, taking a shortcut down a fire road that would get him out of the foothills. “Are there any medicine hogans close to Rattlesnake? She’s driving south in that direction.”

Hunter didn’t respond right away. “Not that I recall, but there’s the Bilagáana Trading Post. It’s farther south down the same road, maybe ten miles from Rattlesnake.”

Ranger had heard of it. Bilagáana meant white man, and the trading post had been aptly named by the white man who ran it. Jonas Sullivan was in his eighties, and had lived among the Diné almost all of his adult life. Jonas was one of the few white men who truly understood the concept of the Hohzo- maintaining beauty, order, harmony and stability in one’s life. Though it was a concept the Anglo world-the white world-found unattainable for the most part, Jonas Sullivan walked in beauty.

Twenty-five minutes later, after having just topped the hill leading into Rattlesnake, he saw the sedan passing the last house of the old settlement. Hanging back, he followed the dust trail down the graveled road.

Dana reached the trading post, a low, white cinder block structure with a nearly flat metal roof and one of those old-west-style fronts. She parked and walked right past the pay phone, disappearing into the store.

Ranger parked just down the road beside a small grove of stunted trees and waited. She was on a hunt of her own, but it wasn’t for a phone, obviously, or Trujillo, unless she was meeting him there. But that seemed unlikely. Trujillo, like Dana, would be remembered by everyone who saw him.

Ranger leaned back and prepared to wait and see how things played out.

DANA WENT INSIDE the trading post, stepping around the familiar potbelly stove, well-stoked at the moment to take the chill out of the interior. A cast-iron kettle on the top was steaming, adding humidity to the dry desert air.

Although it was barely 9:00 a.m., the general store was already crowded. Most of the patrons were Navajos, but there were two or three adventurous Anglo tourists who’d taken the back roads early today.

The sights and scents were all familiar to her-canned and packaged food, saddles, leather goods, garden implements and motor oil. Space in establishments like these was always at a premium, and every counter, corner and section of wall was lined with merchandise.

Soon Dana spotted Jonas Sullivan, the owner, speaking to a Navajo woman holding a child. Although he’d glanced her way, he hadn’t recognized her. She hadn’t seen him in over a decade but, to her, he hadn’t changed much. As far back as she could remember, Mr. Sullivan had always appeared old to her.

She waited, looking at some finely woven Navajo rugs. Most had the natural blacks, whites and browns of undyed wools. Woven from handspun wool, these were exquisite, and expensive as well. Mr. Sullivan had always carried the best of the best-including her mother’s paintings of the Navajo Nation. Dana waited her turn patiently, and eventually he came over.

“May I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

Dana beamed him her best smile. “Mr. Sullivan, don’t you remember me?”

His eyes narrowed and suddenly he smiled. “Dana! Of course! I haven’t seen you in ages. You know, I still have one of your mother’s paintings of Window Rock hanging in my living room.”

He lowered his voice, looking around cautiously. “I heard on the news that you had been the victim of a crime, and were now a protected witness.”

“I am,” she answered softly. “Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

“Follow me.” He took her behind the counter, nodding to the young Navajo clerk as they passed by.

Jonas had always lived in the back of his trading post, and as they stepped into his living room, she noticed that the interior was even more crowded than she’d remembered.

“What brings you all the way out here? Do you need my help?” he asked, waving her to the faded green couch.

“I need some information,” she said, sitting down. The cushions were so worn, she practically sank into them. “I came to you because you’ve lived in this area since before I was born. You must know just about everyone.”

He laughed. “I don’t know about that, but tell me what you need.”

“I have to find a medicine man-at least I think he’s a medicine man. But whatever it is he does, I’m betting he’s well-respected by the tribe. He goes by the name of Hastiin Dííl,” she said, careful not to reveal anything more than was absolutely necessary.

Jonas nodded. “I know who you’re talking about, but finding him won’t be easy. He lives northwest of here, almost to Beclabito. But you have to go in from the south because of the road. It’s not much more than a dirt track.”

“If he’s close to Beclabito, he might have electricity and a phone,” she said, thinking out loud.

“I don’t think so. And I should warn you-no one seems to know where he is at the moment. I’ve had several people stop by and ask me about him.”

“Patients?”

“Yes, and friends, too. The most recent was an Anglo man. He was the one in the T-shirt and baggy pants who was at the magazine rack when you came in. The guy in the baseball cap,” he added.

Remembering what Jenny had told her about a man wearing a cap, she followed up instantly. “I noticed him, but I thought he was just another tourist. A man in his thirties, right? Do you remember what the writing on the front of his shirt said, maybe the name of a company or school?”

“No, it was something like Gone to the Dogs. He smelled funny, too, come to think of it, like a wet dog,” he added with a smirk. “Maybe he owns a kennel.”