Wild Indigo (8 page)

As Mountain and I came in the door of the BLM, Rosa, the receptionist, looked at me, jumped to her feet, moved to the edge of the counter she was stationed behind, and gasped with horror. “Eeee! Jamaica! What happened to your face?” Her eyes were wide, her mouth gaping.

That morning I had woken numb and angry, although I had no clarity about why. I laced my smoke-jumper boots, tucked my tan BLM shirt into my brown uniform pants, put on my RPA belt with the pistol holster, extra ammunition clips, collapsible nightstick, knife, and handcuffs. I pulled on my multipocket khaki vest with the shield pinned on it. I looked in the mirror and felt disconnected, as if I weren't in my own body, almost as if I were looking at someone else. My wavy blonde hair streamed around my face, over my shoulders, and down my back. I squared my hat up even with my eyebrows, then tipped it a little to the left—just the way I liked it, as if I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The four claw marks on my face looked like war paint, bright scarlet, crossing the right cheek on the diagonal from the corner of my eye and ear to the edge of my mouth and the jawline. I had a strange feeling of detachment about my disfigurement.

Now Rosa's face was a very different kind of mirror, reflecting a heady mix of revulsion and dismay. She couldn't stop staring at me.

For some reason, I felt irritated by her interest—or more likely, by having to explain something I couldn't. “It was wild animals,” I said, and I continued down the hall toward Roy's office, leaving Rosa staring after me, her mouth still agape.

Roy was behind his desk, which was littered with papers. He had his head down studying the incident report I'd filed late Saturday night. I tapped on the door frame, and he looked up over the little cheater glasses he'd been using to read. He ripped them off and stared at me. His mouth fell open, too. Mountain ran around Roy's desk and wagged his tail. Roy reached out absentmindedly and patted the wolf on the back, but he never took his eyes off my face. Mountain was obviously frustrated by the lack of attention. Normally he was the object of intense adoration when we visited the BLM—or anyplace else, for that matter.

“Mind if we come in?”

“What the hell happened to your face?” Roy stood up from his desk and came around to study me up close, the pup following him, hoping for more rubs. Roy went to the door and pushed it shut. “Looks like you been in a damn fight with a big cat.”

“Close,” I said, moving in front of the desk and lowering myself into one of the two chrome and leather chairs—the one farther from the entry since I don't like to sit with my back to a door. Mountain took his place beside me and sat down, too.

The Boss sunk into the chair next to me, a gaze of disbelief on his face as he studied my cheek. “How'd you get that?”

“Well, it's hard to explain.” I felt uncomfortable in his unbridled stare.

“Not the wolf.”

I snorted. “No.”

“Was it that thing with the buffalo? I didn't notice anything the other night.”

“No.”

“You're not getting into it with that forest ranger of yours, are you? I thought he was a—”

I cut in. “You know better than that. It was…You know what? You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

Roy twisted his mouth to one side, impatient. “Try me.”

I shook my head no.

“You gonna need shots or anything?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“You'll need to see a doctor anyway or that thing could be a permanent fixture on your mug.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Don't mess around with it, Jamaica. Better safe than sorry. There's a dermatologist in Santa Fe who took care of my wife when she got a spot of skin cancer on her nose. You can't hardly tell where he cut it out.” He picked up his pencil. “I'll get you his number.” Before he could say more, there was a sharp rap at the door. The Boss vented loudly at it. “Go 'way. I'm in a meeting.” He thumbed his Rolodex.

But the doorknob twisted and Rosa stuck her head in the narrow opening she made. “It's kind of important.”

“What?” Roy barked, still holding the pencil, ready to write.

“It's the governor of Tanoah Pueblo, Eliseo Contreras. And War Chief Ruben Rael.” She looked at me then. “They asked to see Jamaica's supervisor.”

Roy snapped the pencil in two. “Oh, hell. What now?” Then he looked at me. “You stay right here.” He started toward the door, pointing at Rosa. “Go put them in the conference room. And don't say a word about Jamaica being here.”

I sat in Roy's office and counted to twenty, then to fifty. I could feel the claw marks on my face burning as if hot coals were being held against my skin. My breathing was shallow and my teeth were clamped together. I gripped the arms of the chair so tightly my wrists ached. I tried to imagine why they had asked to see my supervisor, why the governor of the pueblo would come here, especially during a holy time.

Finally my anxiety gave way to anger and I rose from the chair. I opened the door of Roy's office. I put the flat of my hand against Mountain's nose where he lay on the floor. “Stay!” I barked. Then I started for the conference room. In the blind-covered window of the office next to Roy's, I could see my reflection as I walked past. I looked like a fierce warrior.

When I opened the door, all three men were standing and the air was charged with anger. I hesitated. They hadn't seen me. I stepped into the room. Rael was dressed in a black apron over jeans and a black shirt, his hair pulled back at the nape of the neck and tied with cloth. But Eliseo Contreras was observing a much older tradition in his dress. He wore a white burnoose, rarely seen anymore but once a mainstay of Pueblo men's traditional costume. The wrapped cloth headpiece sat high on his wide, smooth forehead, light against his deep amber skin. Beneath it, his eyes had a dark severity. He was cloaked in a blanket that draped over his shoulders but was open in front. Inside the neck of his shirt, he wore a necklace of bear claws and chunk turquoise. The door slammed behind me and they all turned. Rael's expression registered first as he drew back when he saw my cheek. Governor Contreras's reaction was similar.

I met Roy's alarmed gaze. “Is this about me?” I asked.

The Boss answered, “Governor Contreras and War Chief Rael are concerned about the incident with the buffalo. We just need a few minutes to talk, Jamaica. Why don't you wait in my office?” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“If I can be of any help…,” I said.

“No, we got this under control,” Roy said. “You go on and wait in my office. I'll be there directly.” He flagged the back of his hand at the door to shoo me away. I hesitated, but couldn't see a good alternative, so I left.

It was almost a half hour later when Roy walked in. Mountain had fallen asleep on the floor, and he raised his head just enough to see who it was and then returned to his nap. Roy looked at me and shook his head in frustration.

“What'd I do?” I said.

He didn't say anything, but went instead to his desk, where he slumped into his chair as if he could no longer resist the immense pull of gravity. His face bore a pained expression.

“Is this about Jerome Santana?”

He shook his head no.

“What then?”

He leaned forward and touched the intercom button on his phone, then picked up the receiver. “Rosa, get me the guy at the BIA, what's his name? Yeah. And get the area super in Albuquerque, too. Find out if we have an attorney in this part of the state. We're gonna need one.” He hung up the phone and looked across the desk at me.

“I'll get someone to look at your Jeep as soon as I can. I'm pretty sure the BLM will either fix it or replace it, since you were trying to do your job when the damage happened—even if you weren't supposed to be out at the pueblo right then. You better get what you need and go home, Jamaica. Looks like you're going to be off the clock for a while.”

“What the hell is going on, Roy?”

He set his elbow on the desk, chin on his fist, and looked right in my eyes. “The tribal council is claiming it was you who started the stampede. That you're responsible for Santana's death.”

I leaped from my chair. “What?”

“Calm down. There's no way they can make that stick. If they were serious about this claim, they'd have gone to the sheriff or the FBI, not come here to me. My guess is they're trying to punish you for being out there when you shouldn't have. Just the same, a charge like this is serious, no matter who they bring it to. I'm going to suspend you with pay pending an investigation, Jamaica. It's for your own protection.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “But how can they say that? The buffalo were already wandering out of the fence. Someone had opened the gate. It was inevitable the bulls would run.”

“They say the gate was shut. They're claiming Santana was just out there praying near the buffalo pen and that you drove up too fast and too close along the fence and incited the stampede.”

I started pacing. Mountain, who had noticed my distress, fell on a close heel and began panting nervously, watching my every move as he shadowed me.

Finally I stopped and faced the Boss. “This is bullshit, Roy. This is fucking bullshit.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, I know. I know. But it's some serious bullshit, Jamaica. It's some real serious bullshit.”

“I want to change that report,” I said, gesturing toward his desk.

Roy grabbed the paper protectively. “Now, try not to go off half-cocked, Jamaica…”

“Give it to me!” I said, holding my hand out. “I'm going to say what I really saw instead of playing it down, putting it between the lines!”

The Boss held the report to his chest. “Let's just calm down for a little bit. Let me think about it. We may want to amend this, but let's talk to a lawyer first, find out what's best for everybody.”

“What's best for everybody? They're accusing me of causing a man's death! I think it's best that I tell the truth.”

He looked at me and set his jaw. “I'm not going to have you rushing me on this, Jamaica. Now, I told you, go home. I'm going to get right on top of this, get some advice. I think we need to keep our heads cool so we can do the right thing. I wish to hell it hadn't happened while you were off duty. And while the pueblo was closed.”

I glared at him. Then I went for the door.

Roy stood. “Jamaica, stay away from the pueblo.”

“But the family…”

“They'll just have to understand.”

“They'll see it as a slight.”

“And the tribal council will see it as an offense on the part of the federal government against the sovereign nation of Tanoah Pueblo if you don't do what I say. You'll just have to make it up to your friends later.”

“But, Boss—”

He interrupted with a stern tone. “I'm not asking you a favor, Jamaica. I'm telling you what's going to happen. You're suspended with pay pending an investigation. Now, the sooner we start working together instead of fighting each other on this, the better it will be. You got the tribe on the warpath for you; do you really want to fight me, too?”

I didn't say anything.

“Now go home.”

I looked up at the ceiling and drew in a breath. “What am I supposed to do? Can't you at least transfer me back to Range? I could do my old job.”

“Why don't you go see that doctor?” He looked down at his desk, ripped the card right out of the Rolodex, and offered it to me.

I didn't take it. Mountain moved in beside me, eager to go. “I'm not going to take this lying down.”

Roy lowered his hand to the desk, the card still in it. “Listen, this is a delicate situation. We need to be as careful as mice or it could go real bad. We've got to get someone in here who can mediate.”

I snorted, then swung the door open and made to leave.

He called to me. “Jamaica?”

I turned and looked at him.

“Are you going to tell me what happened to your face?”

“No,” I said. And I went out the door.

When I came out of the BLM office, a package waited on the front seat of my Jeep. The slim brown parcel was a flattened cylinder perhaps sixteen inches long. It was neither taped nor tied, but the paper, cut from a grocery bag, had been folded carefully and tucked at each end. I unfolded these tips and began to unroll the wrapper. Whoever had made the bundle had turned the printed side of the bag inward so that only brown kraft paper showed on the outside. I thought of Kerry—
perhaps a rose? Or a print of one of his photographs?
Maybe he'd had a reason to leave the ranger station in Tres Piedras and come to the Forest Service offices next door to the BLM. I felt a twinge of eagerness.
Maybe this day is taking a turn for the better.

But once I had removed the wrapping I couldn't be sure of that. The object within was a peeled willow branch, perhaps an inch in diameter, which had been painted blue on one side and yellow on the other. The thicker end of the branch had a series of carved grooves and notches. The other end of the stick had a crown of feathers tied to it with a wrap of white leather thong. The feathers—seven of them—were the stiff wing feathers of the nighthawk, slim and pointed, dark gray with a wide bar of white about midway up the length. As I lifted the wand from its packet, I saw grains of blue and yellow cornmeal in the paper beneath it.

I looked around the parking lot. Two BLM vehicles, Roy's truck, Rosa's old Dodge Charger. And next door at the Forest Service, just a few of their trucks and a station wagon. Nothing extraordinary.

I looked at the feathered object again, turning it over, examining it from all sides. A thin strip of thong slipped from among the feathers and dangled from the stick. On the end of the leather thong was a tiny bear fetish.
Momma Anna! She's from the Bear Clan! This must be from her.
I looked around again to see who might have brought the cryptic gift. No one in sight.

I loaded Mountain into the back of the Jeep. As I was standing beside the driver's seat, tucking the mysterious feathered wand back into its wrapping, a car pulled into the space next to me. Noah Sherman, reporter for the
Taos Times,
got out of his vehicle and came around the back of mine. I leaned into my Jeep to toss the package on the passenger seat. The parcel was lighter than I estimated, and sailed across the seat and onto the floor.

“Ms. Wild? Can I talk to you a minute?” Sherman asked, pulling a steno pad from the bag dangling off his shoulder, juggling a camera to one side as it hung by its strap from his neck.

“What about?” I frowned, leaning farther into my Jeep to retrieve the misplaced item. Mountain stuck his head out the opening where the door had been and eyed the stranger.

Sherman took out a pen, balanced his steno pad on his thigh as he thumbed to a fresh page, and then asked, “I understand you witnessed the death of Jerome Santana?”

“My boss already gave a statement on Saturday,” I said.

“Yes, but he wasn't there when Santana died, was he?”

“I don't have anything to add to what he said.” I rubbed Mountain's head to calm him. And me.

“The BLM statement said it was an apparent suicide.”

“That's what the statement said, all right,” I said, pulling my keys out of my pocket, indicating I was ready to leave.

“A tribal spokesman has told the press that Jerome Santana was involved in prayer rituals near the bison confine when he was killed by a sudden stampede.”

I kept my eyes toward my Jeep. “They said
near
the bison confine? Is that how they put it?”

“In so many words,” Sherman said. “There was some indication that they believe the stampede might have started when you drove up.”

“Did they say why Santana was performing the rituals at the bison pasture?”

The reporter laughed. “Hey, correct me if I'm wrong, but in an interview, it's the reporter who's supposed to ask the questions. Is there going to be an investigation at the BLM?”

I turned then to look at Sherman. “Why would you ask about an investigation?”

He winced at the marks on my face. “How did that happen?” was all he could manage.

“Wild animals,” I said. I hopped into my Jeep, started it up, and began backing carefully alongside Sherman, who appeared shell-shocked and unable to move.

“They got your Jeep, too, huh?” he said, fumbling again with his camera as I pulled past him, then turned and headed out of the BLM parking lot.