Moonlight Water (12 page)

One of Ed's duties was to clean up dead things. He circled for one more look. The Emperor and Empress were shouldering their backpacks and picking up their gear. Unfortunately, they looked perfectly healthy. Okay, today probably wasn't the day, but Ed could wait them out. Cleaning up the carcasses of the Emperor and Empress—Ed's tongue told him how savory that would be. He yearned for the day.

*   *   *

“I have no idea what we're dealing with,” whispered Zahnie, “but this close to the river, it can't be much, at the worst petty vandals.”

They kept to the soft sand of the wash and trod in silence. Five minutes, nothing. They crossed a broken-down barbed-wire fence. Ten minutes, Red could see motion. He put his hand on Zahnie's shoulder. She stopped, nodded, and used the binocs. Finally, she said, “The Nielsens again.” Without explanation she strode quickly toward the two figures.

The woman squeaked out a noise when she saw Red and Zahnie. The man dropped his tools and looked ready for who knew what.

Zahnie advanced, and Red followed warily. The bad guys were an obese, sixtyish fellow and a woman with a fierce and wrinkle-ravaged face. He would be cast as a rotund Lex Luthor and she as Lady Macbeth on a bad day. They wore huge gold wedding rings, and it was painful to imagine them in bed together. They carried shovels and other heavy-looking tools.

“Hello, Dr. Nielsen, Mrs. Nielsen.”

“Zahnie, you know you may call me James.”

“That's more intimacy than I want,” Zahnie said.

“Good morning, Ms. Kee,” said the woman. “My, but law enforcement is everywhere these days.”

“This is my friend Red Stuart.”

The doctor's hand was tiny for a man his size, and cold.

“Dr. and Mrs. Nielsen are pot hunters,” Zahnie said.

“Actually, I'm just a chiropractor,” said the doctor.

Zahnie went on. “They loot ruins like this one. They especially love to get into the kivas.” She inclined her head toward the buildings in front of them.

“What's a kiva?” said Red.

“A chamber sunk into the earth,” said Nielsen. “Tall, narrow, and circular. Like a water glass.”

“Where they performed their sacred ceremonies,” said Zahnie, “and left some of their best relics. Which is why the doctor and his wife would love to dig illegally there.”

Red could see the remnants of the kiva, two rooms to one side of it, and what looked like a storeroom on the left.

“Zahnie, you know it's legal. We restrict our collecting to private land where we have the owner's permission.”

“Unless you dig in grave sites.” She said aside to Red, “NAGPA—that's the Native American Graves Protection Act. Which the Nielsens probably intended to do right here.”

“Ms. Kee,” said Mrs. Nielsen, “we stick to the law. We keep in mind James's license to practice, and our relationship with our God.”

“Your God has probably seen you on public land, but I haven't. Yet.” She turned to Red. “They steal pots and other artifacts from the ruins. Then they show them off in their fancy collection or sell them for bundles of bucks.”

“We use them to beautify our house,” Mrs. Nielsen said.

“Their mansion,” Zahnie said, “and chiropractors don't make that much. Especially around here.”

“When we're gone,” said Dr. Nielsen, “our collection will go to the local museum.”

“And what do you plan to do here today?”

“Do you know we're on Kravin land here?”

“Probably are.”

“I will show you by GPS.”

“No, that's okay.”

“You may watch us work if you want.”

“I intend to, just to make sure you don't dig in the midden.” She glanced at Red.

“Mr. Stuart, would you like to see how collecting is done?”

“Sure.”

“Excavating for artifacts is a fascinating hobby.” The doctor did all the talking, his wife all the glowering.

“Will you come into the ruin, Zahnie, or are you traditional?”

“I'm not worried about
chindi,
” she said, and came close. Later Red found out
chindi
were spirits to avoid, the residue of disharmony and evil left behind by the dead. “My job is protecting ruins, and especially grave sites.” Zahnie's expression could have nailed boards to a fence post.

“What do you think?” Dr. Nielsen asked his wife.

“Front wall of that room,” she said, pointing to the largest one.

Red pulled Zahnie aside. “What's the story here?”

Zahnie stepped to an area directly in front of the ruin. “This,” she said, “on the south side, is probably the trash midden. That's where the goodies usually are, and where they'd dig if we weren't here. The Anasazi buried their trash and their dead in the middens, and nice belongings were interred with the dead. It's illegal. NAGPA says one bone and you're out.”

“Zahnie,” said the doctor with his amused smile, “your tongue spoils your beautiful face.”

“The men in my life, past and present, would agree with you.”

Mrs. Nielsen snorted.

Red hid his grin.

Dr. Nielsen ducked through the low portal into the room and stomped his feet. The rest of them peered over the half-wall. The corner where roof and walls once met was missing. “This is going to be hard work.” He peered out at Red. “Mr. Stuart, you look fit. Feel up to digging?”

“Not unless you want to walk home,” said Zahnie to Red. “Without any water and weighted down by the curses of the ranger.”

“Look here.” The doctor rose to hand Red a miniature corncob. In coming up, he cracked his head.

“You're going to knock Wayne Kravin's ruin down with that hard skull of yours,” Zahnie said.

Dr. Nielsen rubbed the spot, regarded a little blood on his hand, and spoke softly. “The Puebloans farmed for most of their food. Cobs like this are emblems.”

“Don't pretend you respect these people and what they've left. Not in front of me.”

“Listen up,” said Red.

Zahnie looked at him sharply. She'd been talking, but now she heard it, they all heard it, the throb of an engine.

“Who's coming?” said Zahnie.

“Probably Wayne Kravin,” said the doctor. “He said he'd come by.”

Zahnie made a disgusted face.

An ATV came into sight, driven by a man shaped narrow and hard, like a tree trunk. Garishly painted purple and white, it passed the Suburban, jumped the low bank into the gully that had blocked the Nielsen vehicle, and putt-putted on to the bottom of the slope. The wiry man moved up toward them fast. It was an uneven slope, with dirt and rock jutting out, but he bounced up with a mountain goat's agility.
Strong,
thought Red. They all moved out of the ruin to meet him.

“What are you doing here?” he said, glaring at Zahnie.

“Checking out a potential violation of the law,” she answered calmly.

“It's all right, Wayne,” from the chiropractor.

Wayne gave Dr. Nielsen a look that could have set his hair on fire. If Red had seen Wayne drunk in a bar, he would have grabbed a cue stick as a weapon, knowing trouble was brewing.

“Get off my property,” growled Kravin, his furious eyes aimed squarely at Zahnie.

Everyone froze. Mrs. Nielsen was eyeballing Kravin with an avid expression, like lust, or thirst for blood or money, or all of that mixed up. Her husband didn't seem to notice. Red reached down behind and got the handle of Nielsen's spade.

“Get off my property,” repeated Kravin, “you and your boyfriend.”

“Wayne, NAGPA has holds on private property just like public. Native American Graves Pro—”

“I know your talk and your laws and they don't mean squat to me. I want you moving out before I count to three. One!”

Red flicked his eyes briefly at Zahnie. Looked like she intended to stay.

“Two!” Kravin moved a few steps in Zahnie's direction.

Red watched Kravin. Timing, timing. The man was a half-dozen steps downhill, well out of reach of Zahnie. Red stood two steps up and sideways from Kravin, and was half again as big.

Kravin reached for his hip, raised a .45 toward Zahnie.

Red took one step, swung the blade, and whacked the gun hand. The .45 flew half a dozen feet.

Kravin collapsed to one knee, holding his hand.

Red bulled into him full force.

Kravin fell backward on a yucca, which stabbed him in tender flesh somewhere near the crotch of his jeans. He howled and rolled onto his back.

Red slugged the big man in the solar plexus.
Whumpf!
exploded from his throat. Kravin gasped desperately for air.

“Help him!” cried Mrs. Nielsen. “He's dying.”

“I hit him in the diaphragm,” Red said calmly. “He'll start breathing in less than a minute.”

Red grabbed the .45, flipped Kravin over, and sat on his butt. Then Red waited for the breathing to start. The moment it did, Red stuck the barrel of the .45 against the bastard's temple. He worked the action, so the man would know a shell was in the chamber. “Kravin, you feel that muzzle?”

Kravin nodded.

“I'm going to stand up and back away. If you try to get up, I'll shoot. What do you think, Officer Kee?”

“That would be murder!” cried Mrs. Nielsen.

“Self-defense,” corrected Zahnie. “He tried to assault an officer of the law with a deadly weapon.” She paused. “And reporting crimes is what the satellite phone is for.” She reached for her belt, pulled out the phone, and started punching buttons.

“You going to be still?” said Red to Kravin.

Kravin nodded.

“Reach in your pocket and give me the keys to that ATV.”

Hesitation.

“Now.”

Kravin fumbled around and dropped a key ring onto the sand. Red picked it up, slid backward off Kravin, and carefully, not letting the barrel waver, stood up.

“Yazzie?” said Zahnie. “Yazzie?”

Impatiently, she punched more buttons. “Dispatch? Dispatch? Dispatch?”

She put the satellite phone back on her belt. “No angle on the satellite, the canyon's too narrow,” she said to Red. She got out her GPS, tried it, and gave Red a strange look. A pale look.

“That's all right,” Red said. “Mr. Kravin's not going to make any trouble. Are you?”

Kravin tried to manage an evil eye, prone, with his head pointed down the slope. “When I get loose, I'm going to cut off your balls and feed them to my dogs.”

“You have quite an imagination, Mr. Kravin.”

Red backed up, pistol still on its target, until he stood beside Zahnie and the Nielsens.

Zahnie said, “Mrs. Nielsen, give me your purse.”

With baboon fury on her face, the woman did.

“Dr. Nielsen, give me your truck keys.”

The doctor did.

“Any other keys, the three of you, on you or in your vehicles?”

Silence.

“I'll take that for a no.”

Red put in, “If it turns out that you're able to drive away, I will become your personal nemesis.” He glared at each of them, one at a time.

Zahnie said, “Mr. Stuart and I are going to walk back to the river and to satellite reception. Then I will call my superior. They'll send a helicopter to pick up you perps.”

“We didn't do anything!” shouted Mrs. Nielsen. She pointed at Kravin. “It was all him.”

“Your testimony may affirm that,” said Zahnie. “In the meantime, sit nicely and wait for the helicopters to arrive. You'll probably post bail tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” protested Mrs. Nielsen.

“Enjoy the ruin!” Red said.

 

14

CELEBRATING

Don't shake hands with a stranger. He might witch you.

—Navajo saying

 

“You were fantastic!” said Zahnie. They were out of earshot, a hundred yards down the wash, odd-footing their way along.

“Got to be some good come from a life spent in beer joints,” Red answered. “What's with Kravin anyway?”

“I put his father in jail.” The glee rang in her voice.

“No wonder he's so fond of you.”

“I caught the old man looting, called for help, testified against him, and he went to federal prison.”

“Federal?”

“Your government is tough on looters.”

“Oh, jeez. Well, Kravin
really
loves you now.”

“He and his family, old-timers here, they've been looting ruins for a hundred years, just like some of the other longtime Mormon families. Anyway, I caught Travis Kravin on public land bulldozing a kiva.”

“What?”

“Just what you heard. Knocking down a kiva with a skid loader. You saw how narrow and deep those ruins are in the canyon. Now they're filled with blowing sand thanks to Travis. He wanted to get in the easy way—anything of value would be in the ground on the bottom—so he was taking the whole kiva out. He had to bring the skid loader in on a flatbed.”

“What are those kivas for?”

“Two things: men's clubs and ceremonies. If I hadn't already gotten past the Navajo taboo about going into ruins, kivas would have done it. Shadows of people past, sounds, intimations … never mind. Trouble is, pot hunters love them, too. Besides middens, kivas are where you'll find the fanciest, most decorative stuff. If you found a whole pot in an ordinary ruin, it might be worth a thousand bucks. In a kiva you'd find a very unique pot, worth a lot more.”

“How much?”

“Depends on the quality and age. Through a New York auction house? You could be talking six figures.”

“It's legal to sell it openly?”

“If it's acquired legally on private property. Most of us find looting kivas even more disgusting than looting dwellings. Kravin totally destroyed the site and destroyed the chain of people past and future along with it.”

Red snorted. “There's no end to where greed will lead a man, and that's the truth of it.” He could almost hear his grandfather's voice, and for a moment he imagined Angus and Winsonfred having a smoke together on the back porch, bemoaning the loss of civilized ways.