Bad Medicine
Authors: Aimée & David Thurlo
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Contents
Praise for the Ella Clah novels
The Navajo Justice Church is solely a product of the authors’ imaginations and, despite the peyote ritual which the two churches have in common, it is not our intent to imply that our imaginary creation has any connection to the long-established, law-abiding, peaceful practices of the Native American Church.
While there are, unfortunately, radical groups and militant factions such as those
represented by The Brotherhood and the Fierce Ones, these two organizations are also our imaginary creations, not meant to represent any actual group or sect. In addition, the authors wish to state, for the record, that they do not support or encourage the violent methods of any militant or radical group.
To the following three people who helped make this series a success:
Melissa Singer, an extraordinary editor who supported us from the very beginning;
Cherry Weiner, who believed in us and gave us our start in the business;
Sue Stone, who has blurred all the lines as editor, friend, and agent.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With special thanks to Bill Hilburn, Jr., for his technical advice, and especially for his help in getting inside the heads and hearts of our cops. And to Mary Ann who stands beside him.
And to Walt Mestas of the Office of the Medical Investigator for all his help and for being there with the right answers when we needed him.
ONE
Special Investigator Ella Clah glanced at the dark clouds that loomed over Beautiful Mountain as she drove down the highway. The sacred peak rose toward that brooding sky as if imploring rain from Water Sprinkler, the rain bringer of the gods. The old ones of her tribe said that the mountains were living beings and, in a way, she agreed with them. The four sacred mountains that bordered their
land inspired a sense of history and permanency that was hard to explain, and impossible to deny. They were a part of her and the
Dineh.
The smell of dry air and dust filled her nostrils. It was a parched, skin-drying sensation that spoke volumes to anyone who’d been raised on the reservation. Unless the summer rains came early this year, sheep would be hard-pressed to find forage, and crops
would wither out in the fields.
Thunder echoed in the distance, resonating off the metal skin of her Jeep like the roll of a kettle drum. Despite the light show on the horizon, if today turned out like yesterday and the day before, there wouldn’t be any rain. The clouds would dissipate over the mountains, and the sun would break through just before dusk to warm the evening.
Ella shifted in her
seat, tugging at the seat belt and wondering why she couldn’t shake that vague sense of uneasiness that was nagging at her. It was more than the possible 10-27, the homicide, she was on her way to investigate. Trouble was brewing on the reservation, as evidenced by an increasing level of bad news and violence creeping across the area. It wasn’t just due to the sudden burst of warm weather after
a long, dry winter either. It was much more than that. She could feel it as clearly as the blast of dry air blowing across her face through the gap in the window.
Some said that she had supernatural powers, a legacy handed down through her family. But that was only because they didn’t understand how a cop developed special instincts, or how well-honed her training had made her subconscious observations.
At times, such things could spell the difference between life and death but, at the moment, they tugged at her mental shirttail like a child trying to get a mother’s attention.
Hearing the wind howling through the window, she gripped the wheel with one hand and cranked the glass down an inch more, easing the shriek to a dull roar. It was too cool right now for the air conditioner, but, inside
the Jeep with the windows closed, it got stuffy and uncomfortable in a hurry, despite the open vents.
Miserable day, miserable mood, and now, on top of everything else, her skin was crawling. That was a feeling she’d learned not to ignore.
In deference to her FBI training, which had taught her to block out distractions and focus on the task at hand, Ella forced her thoughts back to the crime
scene she was enroute to. From the initial report, she’d learned a Navajo man had been found beaten to death. The patrol officer sent to the area would secure the site until she and the crime-scene team arrived. On the Rez that task wouldn’t be much of a problem. Usually, little effort was needed here to keep civilians from satisfying their morbid curiosity. Fear of the
chindi,
the evil in a man
that stayed earthbound after death and caused problems for the living, was still strong here.
Distracted again by a sense of unease, Ella swept the area ahead with eagle-sharp eyes. All of her senses warned of danger drawing closer with each mile. She stared at the ragged cliffs that jutted up from the desert floor like enormous stone gods with their backs to a wall. The view looked the same
as always, but something about Four Corners
felt
different today. Ella’s hand went to the badger fetish that hung from a leather thong around her neck. Her brother had given it to her for protection and it comforted her now.
Ella’s radio broke her musings with its crackle. Picking up the mike, she identified herself.
“SI Unit One, proceed along highway sixty-four west of Hogback to investigate
a reported ten-forty-seven creating a traffic hazard,” the dispatcher ordered. “We have no other units in the area free to respond.”
“Negative, PD. I’m enroute to a ‘twenty-seven south of Morgan Lake.” She didn’t have time to investigate a drunken driver complaint now. If by some miracle it did rain today, all the physical evidence would have to be gathered before moisture destroyed the integrity
of the scene.
“Channel Six,” came another voice, only a few seconds after she’d racked the mike.
Ella recognized the voice of Big Ed Atcitty, the police chief. She switched to the new frequency and picked up the mike again, guessing what he would say. “I’m enroute to the ten-twenty-seven, Big Ed.”
“Take the ten-forty-seven, Shorty,” the chief ordered, using the special nickname he’d given her,
though Ella stood a head taller than he.
“But—”
“The victim will still be dead if you arrive ten minutes later. Get that driver off my highway first.”
“Ten-four.”
She replaced the mike, grumbling. They needed more cops on the Rez, but that wouldn’t happen as long as the current budget crisis prevailed, especially with federal funds drying up and the tribe relying on its own resources. Passing
the Morgan Lake turnoff, she continued west, away from the murder scene.
Ella was surprised when, instead of dissipating, her uneasiness increased though she was moving away from the crime scene. She tried to ignore the sensation, but the certainty that she was about to start down a dangerous path made her heart race.
Less than ten minutes later, as she drove toward Shiprock, she spotted a slow-moving
vehicle ahead. The cherry red sedan, in mint condition, would have been enough to get her attention even if it hadn’t been veering all over the road. Pickups and inexpensive sedans were common on the Rez, but not too many local folks drove flashy cars. Money was just too tight, and the roads were lousy.
Ella took note of the prestige plate that read
ANGI
then flashed the portable lights she’d
affixed to the dashboard of her unmarked Jeep. The drunk driver in the car didn’t slow down or show any sign that she was even aware of the signal. Ella tried the siren, but the driver seemed oblivious to that as well.
Moving over as if to pass, Ella pulled up in the left lane beside the red car to ID the driver and signal her to pull over. As she did, Ella saw that the woman was shaking, as
if in the throes of a convulsion.
Ella quickly checked to see if the road was still clear ahead, then looking back at the driver, sighed with relief when she saw that the seizure, or whatever it was, had passed.
She kept her eyes on the young woman a moment longer, trying to assess the situation. Then, abruptly, “Angi” turned her head and looked directly at Ella. The girl’s eyes were blank,
glazed over as if she were stoned. There was no recognition, no sense of awareness.
Ella felt her skin grow cold. She took her foot off the accelerator, and fell back behind the red car, weighing her options. Should she pull ahead to warn oncoming traffic, or try to force the dangerous vehicle off the road? The narrow roadbed and sandy arroyos would make the latter option risky, not to mention
the regularly spaced dump-truck loads of gravel left by the highway department crews upgrading the road.
Ella noted the long, wide curve of the asphalt ahead. After they made it around the corner, if the road was clear, she could pick a spot to force the driver off to the side. Until then, she had to make sure the driver wouldn’t have a head-on with another vehicle.
She accelerated past the
red sedan, sirens and flashers on again in case anyone was coming. As she completed the move, she checked the car in her rearview mirror. The red sedan had failed to negotiate the turn. All Ella could see was a cloud of dust where the vehicle had left the road.
Ella worked the brakes and turned the wheel hard, putting the Jeep into a controlled one-eighty with a screech. As she sped back, she
called the accident in. Seconds later, she pulled to a stop by the side of the road, grabbed her hand-held radio, and looked down the slope. The red car had left the highway, nosed over into the shallow wash, then slid sideways and rolled down a steep embankment. It had come to a stop upside down, with the driver’s compartment half buried in a mountain of gravel. It was impossible to tell anything
about the condition of the woman inside.
As she slid down the incline on the seat of her pants, the notion that someone was watching her became a certainty in her mind. She tried to brush aside her uneasiness by telling herself that if someone
was
there, she hoped they would show themselves and help. She could use an extra pair of hands to dig out the driver.
Her forced optimism did little to
ease the pitch and roll of her stomach. Her muscles were taut, and her hearing almost painfully sharp as she listened for sounds that didn’t belong.
Focusing on the task that required her immediate attention, she began to scoop away the gravel by hand, trying to uncover the driver’s door. She could hear the car radio playing an impassioned ad for a local auto dealership, and used that to guide
her to the driver. As the smell of gasoline filled her nostrils, she slowed down. She had to avoid creating a spark. Gasoline was leaking through the gravel into the ground, staining the dry earth a reddish brown, like dried blood.
