Alo hurried to Christopher’s place and ran up the front steps, taking refuge from the rain under his small, rickety porch. He knocked on the door. There were a few moments before the older man pulled the curtains from his front door window and looked outside.
“Alo,” Christopher’s eyes grew wide, “Yá’át’ééh, how are you, boy?” He unlocked the door and opened it.
Alo shook his head, “Not ok.”
“Alright, alright, let’s move to the hogan. Just a minute.” Christopher grabbed his raincoat, shut the door behind him, and they stepped toward the hogan. “Give me a minute, Alo.”
Alo returned to the overhand as Christopher re-entered his house and grabbed a few things. They hurried into the hogan, and Christopher began a prayer for clarity.
“Be still within yourself, and know that the trail is beautiful. May the winds be gentle upon your face, and your direction be straight and true as the flight of the eagle. Walk in beauty and harmony with God and all people.”
Alo kept his eyes closed, letting the words center him. He slowed his breathing and felt a sense of relief.
“Feel a little better?” Christopher asked.
Alo nodded, “A little, yeah.”
“Now…tell me what happened?”
They found a seat, and Alo broke it all down: the drugs, getting ‘wet,’ finding himself in the dirt, seeing the body, and having no idea what was going on. Christopher was receptive.
“Yeah, that’s a lot,” Christopher said. “Sherm will do that to you. But it’s true, there’s more. Things are coming to a close tonight. The events haunting this place.”
“How do you know this?”
“The killer left the body where the cops would find it. They’re emotionally running on empty, which means there’s not a lot they’ve left to give. They can only give up the darkness in themselves. So they do things that get them caught. The killer is giving up.”
“Where’d you get that from?”
“CSI…On my streaming services. Look, Alo, we only have so much reservoir in us, and when it’s empty, so are we. We have to restore ourselves. Recover from the bad things that have happened. Once our reservoir is empty, we are done. Our spirit is tanked.”
“It’s all too much; we have too many things weighing us down.” Alo was getting upset, “The white man…”
“People who lord over others don’t relent. And this happens all over the world, Alo. It’s not just the white man, and it’s not just brown men. All men are flawed and can be evil. But there’s something we need to remember. We are still here on the land of our fathers. We don’t own it, like the white man believes. This land keeps us. And we have to take care of all of it. Starting with…” He points to his chest.
“With me…”
“Have you been taking care?”
Alo shook his head.
Christopher stood. “Come…rise.”
Alo stood, feeling his chest getting heavy again.
“Where do you stand?”
Alo shook his head.
“Maybe it feels terrible now, but it wasn’t that long ago we were everywhere, kept by our lands and proud of how we were. We can be there again. YOU can be there again. You stand on the same soil they did. Right now. Where do you stand?…”
Tongo perused over the entire scene, pulling his raincoat tighter as Bobby and another deputy had nearly finished roping it off. Peter watched over Tongo as the sheriff looked back, almost glaring at the FBI agent. He knew the feds were trying to help get a handle on all that was happening, but it wasn’t helping anything.
“Bobby,” Tongo said, “There are a few black tarps in the back of my truck. Let’s get them. The rain isn’t going to let up for a while.”
“I’ll help,” Peter said. Bobby nodded, and Tongo showed Peter where the tarps were. The three of them worked to get the scene covered, keeping the rainwater from washing away remaining evidence.
Bobby noticed Peter was watching over him. It was getting uncomfortable, and the deputy finally lost his patience. Bobby raised his hands from his sides, glaring at the man. “What?”
Peter stopped maneuvering the tarp and squared off. “Is something on your mind?”
“Yeah,” Bobby snapped, “you can leave. We don’t need you here. Suits ruin everything.”
“Bobby!” Tongo shouted, “Just do the job.”
The deputy turned away and released the tarp, hurrying to his vehicle. He got in, started the motor, and sped off.
“The hell is his problem?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Tongo shook his head. “Just give me a hand, will you?”
They covered the scene and then hurried back into Tongo’s truck to get out of the rain. He readied his crime scene kit. Tongo located the case from the back seat and opened it up. He found a collection of blank manila folders, with the template for a homicide investigation, including a set of nitrile gloves.
“How worried are you?” Peter asked.
“About what?” Tongo set the gloves aside and began working on the report.
“About the half dozen murders in the past few days?”
Tongo shook his head.
“You’re not worried.”
Tongo shook his head again. “Why would I worry?”
“Because the situation is getting more intense by the day.”
“It’s always intense. You never know what’s going to happen around here.”
There was a roar from a raging truck engine screaming toward them, leaving only a few seconds before the front end of a dark SUV was speeding toward them. The vehicle smashed into the passenger side, crushing the back door and tossing the truck into a roll. Tongo and Peter held fast to keep from being flung out of the truck.
Tongo heard the sound of the vehicle backing up. It sped at them again, smashing into their cab as the truck slid on its top. Peter was the first to lose consciousness. Tongo followed.
Alo heard the crash as he was walking home. The hell now? He hurried toward the noise, arriving on the scene and seeing the two police vehicles entangled. He approached slowly, worried that something truly terrible had happened. Alo knew the truck and stopped. It was Tongo’s.
Several officers were run over, their bodies next to the crime scene, where Alo had discovered the homicide victim earlier. “My God…”
“What are you thinking?”
Alo recognized the voice. “Bobby,” he said, slowly turning to face his brother. Bobby was standing there, in black military fatigues, a wool sweater with smooth shoulder patches. He also wore scruffy black work boots. He was holding a tire iron.
“Well?”
Alo took a step back. He stopped, hearing movement coming from the overturned vehicle.
“What’s going on, Bobby?” Alo demanded, “This looks like…”
“Then don’t look! Turn away and let me do what I need to do. The witches don’t belong here.”
“Witches?”
“Yeah. Warlocks, man! They come here, and they take our goods and our lands, and they cast spells and make everything terrible. We must get rid of all of them.”
“Bobby, what are you talking about?”
“Are you with me or not?!”
Alo shook his head, watching as Bobby held the tire iron like a club. His brother looked deranged, like he was going to do something terrible.
Alo began backpedaling.
