ANTELOPE GIRL – CHAPTER 17

On the day after the Fourth of July, as everyone was returning to their jobs and plugging back into the real world following their brief summer holiday, a news flash rocked the Navajo world.  

The Peabody Coal Company, the owner of the largest coal mine in the world, Black Mesa, the open pit mine on the Navajo Reservation, announced they were shutting down their operations, and with it, the large power plant in Page. That meant hundreds of Navajos would soon be out of work. The loss in revenue to the tribe would be catastrophic—millions of dollars a year.  

For years, the Navajo had bad-mouthed Peabody and bemoaned the contracts foolishly signed back in the fifties that paid them a pittance of what the coal was worth on the open market. Now the Navajo were about to learn the very hard lesson that something was way better than nothing.

After partying with his friends at the Wahweap Marina until the wee hours of the morning, Josh David was nursing a hangover. He was watering a short cedar tree in his front yard when he noticed that his beater Honda Civic looked like it was sitting lower than usual. He walked over to the driveway to have a look. All four of his tires had been slashed.

“Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” groaned Josh. “The Mystery Man strikes again.”

Josh wasn’t sure where to start trying to repair the damage—probably call a tow truck. And that wouldn’t be cheap.

As he weighed his limited options, his cell phone rang. It was his editor in Phoenix.

“Did you see it?” barked the gruff newspaperman into the phone.

Josh found it interesting that his boss never offered a greeting. He didn’t care, but it was kind of rude. Today he was in no mood for getting pushed around.

“See what?” asked Josh as he turned off the water and started coiling up the garden hose, holding his Apple phone under his chin.

“My god, son, am I the only one paying attention here?”

“Well, apparently,” said Josh, trying to control his temper. “But as a poorly paid, part-time reporter with no benefits, I don’t think I should be on call 24/7.”

Tom wasn’t interested in Josh’s bellyaching. There was a big story to be had. “Go online and check out the Peabody Coal website. A press release there just announced the closure of the Black Mesa coal mine, along with the power plant in Page.”

“When?” exclaimed Josh excitedly.

“Doesn’t say,” answered Tom. “But I’d guess the shutdown is imminent.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Josh, “the Navajo are going to go apeshit.”

“Yup,” replied Tom. “And check out the press release that was just posted on the Navajo Nation homepage. Chairman Greyeyes is going to hold an emergency press conference at three this afternoon.”

“That could go in a lot of different directions,” said Josh.

“Yes, it could,” replied Tom, “and that’s why you need to get out there to Window Rock right away.”

“Not happening,” answered Josh.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” asked Tom, his voice rising with displeasure.

Josh had been stewing about his job for a while now, and the four flat tires brought his dissatisfaction into the open. “Have you ever looked at a goddamn map, Tom? It’s over two hundred miles between Page and Window Rock. That’s four hours each way, and a lot of gas. I’ve done that drive four times in the last six days. Throw in the side trips out to Hopi, and I’m on the road more than anything else I do. I should be running a taxi service instead of working for a paper that pays peanuts. Plus all the fast-food meals I pay for. I need some help, Tom. Shit, you’re selling papers and I’m losing money feeding you the stories.”

“You’re right,” replied Tom without hesitation. “I’ve been meaning to discuss this with you. I really have. How does a hundred dollar-a-day per diem allowance sound when you’re traveling for the paper and using your car?”

Josh hadn’t expected his editor to concede so quickly. “That sounds fine, Tom.”

“I thought it might, Josh. And we’ll make the deal retroactive. Just submit an invoice and start your billing with the night you attended the Tribal Council meeting.”

“Now you’re being reasonable, Tom,” replied Josh.

“You bet your ass I am,” barked the veteran editor. “So pack your gear and take to the highway, son.”

Josh remembered the four flat tires that had triggered his outburst.

“I’ve got a problem, boss. Someone slashed all the tires on my car. I’m not going anywhere.”

There was silence on the other end.

“When did this happen?”

“Last night sometime.”

“Ever had something like this happen before where you live?”

“Not that I know of,” answered Josh.

“Okay, we can deal with this later. But in the meantime, we need to get you a car. Page has a car rental company, right?”

“Sure, there’s an Alamo right up the street off Lake Powell Boulevard.”

Tom didn’t miss a beat. “I’m going to call them just as soon as we hang up, and I’ll order a car for you. Keep it until you get those flats fixed. It will be charged to the paper. Then you make tracks for the Navajo Tribal Headquarters in Window Rock for that press conference at three. Got it?”

“Absolutely,” replied Josh, feeling jazzed.

“Call me when you get there,” Tom instructed. “And don’t forget to get a quote from someone on the Tribal Council—preferably Tribal Chairman Greyeyes.”

“I’ll pin somebody down,” Josh promised, his determination renewed.

As Josh was about to hang up the phone, the editor continued so softly that Josh could barely make out what he was saying. “I take it you didn’t hear about Hunter Maxwell?”

“I was out all last night with friends, watching fireworks, shooting off fireworks, and getting really stupid. I hadn’t blown off steam in a very long time. I needed to clean out the pipes. I left my phone at home. What happened to Hunter Maxwell? I’m guessing it wasn’t good.”

“He’s dead,” Tom replied. “They found him in his car out on Navajo land. Apparently, he died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Looks like suicide.”

“No fucking way!” yelled Josh.

“Do you have an alternative theory?” Tom asked.

“It was Petrov’s crew,” Josh said. “It had to be.”

“Well, if you have some facts to support that theory, Josh, you’ve got a story we could print. In the meantime, I suggest you go pick up your rental car and hit the road.”

Josh had a headful of everything Tom had said. “I’ll leave right away.”

“And you be careful, son.”

Josh’s hands were shaking and he took a deep breath. “Arizona is an open carry state, Tom. And I plan to be carrying my Taurus snub nose with me from now on wherever I go.” 

“That would be wise,” said Tom as he ended the call.

Josh loaded his blue daypack with a few snacks, some bottled water, a change of clothes, and a box of ammo. He put the shiny black pistol in the waistband of his jeans and covered it with his untucked shirt.

He had five hours before the press conference in Window Rock. That would give him enough time to stop at Navajo Police headquarters and get the latest on the suspicious death of Hunter Maxwell.

He locked his house and looked at his vandalized car. He was now in the crosshairs.

As he walked up the street through his quiet neighborhood, he looked at everything with wary eyes.

A vehicle came slowly up the street from behind, and Josh moved his right hand to his gun.

The car pulled up alongside. It was his neighbor Kelly Flanagan.

“What the hell happened to your car?”

Josh let go of the pistol and sighed with relief. “I guess somebody doesn’t like me,” Josh said.

Kelly shook his head. “Man, that sucks.”

“Hey, listen, Kelly, I’m heading out of town, and I’d appreciate it if you could watch my house.”

“No problem,” smiled Kelly.

“Oh, and if you see something, just call the police. Don’t be a hero.”

“Understood,” replied Kelly as he drove away.

As Josh neared the Alamo car agency, he remembered the words of his journalism professor at the University of Arizona. The man had once worked for the Herald Tribune and was one sharp knife. He used to say that a good reporter should focus not just on the story, but on the story that lay beneath the story. The story that no one wanted other people to know. That was good advice.

Josh was no longer going to focus all his attention on the Esplanade project, or the closing of the Black Mesa Mine. What he was most interested in now was who was pulling the strings behind these two stories that had to be connected. The reporter was pretty sure that Hunter Maxwell’s death could also be added to that list.