ANTELOPE GIRL – CHAPTER 20

About the same time Mary Malone was getting fired in Flagstaff, Navajo Officer Dalton Singer was driving to Phoenix to meet Special Agent Travis Jones at the FBI headquarters on East Deer Valley Road. The building reminded Dalton of brown and blue shipping containers with little tinted windows, all stacked atop one another. The ugly structure rose from the edge of the sagebrush and mesquite desert like a modern-day fort.  

The drive south had entertained Dalton immensely. It was better than television and filled with a mix of curious names that seemed to have nothing to do with the real identity of the places he passed. 

As he dropped off the Mogollon Rim on busy I-17, he cruised by the roadside attraction of Kachina Village, a white oasis of cabins in the forest for the folks from Phoenix trying to beat the summertime heat. Colorful roadside billboards for the faux Mexican village of Tlaquepaque, the “heart and soul” of trendy Sedona, popped up every few miles like flowering weeds. The prehistoric stone dwellings of Montezuma’s Castle guarded the interstate highway like a majestic Indian fort embedded in the middle of a towering white limestone cliff. A few miles later, he came to Camp Verde and the gaudy Cliff Castle Casino, owned and operated by the Yavapai-Apache Nation.  

As he neared Black Canyon City, Dalton got out to stretch his legs at a roadside pullout overlooking a curiosity called Arcosanti, “the world’s first prototype arcology.” Dalton was mystified by what that even meant. According to the interpretive sign, Arcosanti had been established by a non-profit foundation in 1970, and its mission was to “inspire a reimagined urbanism that builds resilient and equitable communities sustainably integrated with the natural world.” Modern, brown and gray, domed adobe houses tried to mimic the old Hopi villages like some Southwest version of Buckminster Fuller World. Dalton laughed as he returned to his vehicle and got on down the road.

Once into the heart of the sprawling city, Dalton had stayed in the slow lane on I-10, driving the posted speed limit as cars and trucks zipped past like he was standing still. The city people were always in a hurry. It was like they all were being pursued.

Dalton had gotten his criminology degree at Arizona State, so he was no stranger to the fast-paced life of Phoenix. But after serving for a few years as a patrol ranger out on Navajo, he had learned to appreciate the slower pace.

He parked his Chevy Blazer in the guest section of the FBI lot and strolled up to the front door, admiring the morning light on Camelback Mountain. The air-conditioned building felt like an ice box.

At the metal detector checkpoint, a couple of security officers whispered among themselves. Dalton figured Indians didn’t frequent the facility very often.

Neither his tan Navajo Tribal Police uniform—minus his cowboy hat, which he’d doffed at the door—nor his appointment with Special Agent Jones won him any professional courtesy. The guards eyed him warily as they took away his gun and made him remove all the metal items from his pockets, forcing him to go back and forth through the metal detector every time the alarm went off. Before long, a long line of disgruntled FBI staff waited impatiently behind the tall Indian. Dalton found it amusing. He was in no hurry.

Agent Travis Jones eventually ended the standoff, and the party was over.

“I’m sorry you were treated like that,” apologized Travis as he handed Dalton back his firearm and paraphernalia. 

 “Cowboys and Indians,” said Dalton with a friendly smile.

They drove Dalton’s white Navajo police Blazer to Vladimir Petrov’s fancy resort in Scottsdale. Dalton’s air conditioning didn’t work and it was a hot morning in the Valley of the Sun. They drove with the windows open. Dalton didn’t mind the heat, but Travis was baking and on edge. He tapped his right foot against the floorboards as they crept along in the morning rush hour traffic. Clearly, something was up, but Dalton knew better than to ask. All in good time.

They took 7th Avenue south to the Pima Freeway, which was a parking lot because of a nasty accident between a motorcycle and a woman in an SUV.  

As they sat in the traffic jam, Travis gave Dalton the big news.  

“You aren’t going to believe what we just discovered. The FBI forensics team found trace amounts of a poison called K2 in Hunter Maxwell’s body.”

Dalton knew nothing about K2. With nothing to add, he said nothing.

 “This is significant, maybe a breakthrough,” Travis told the surprisingly stoic Indian. “K2 is a deadly toxin developed at the notorious poison laboratory of the Soviet secret services in Yasenevo, near Moscow. The place goes by several different names—Laboratory 1, Laboratory 12, and Kamera. Kamera means The Cell in Russian. It’s what they used on Putin’s political opponent Alexei Navalney.”

Travis pulled out his small blue notepad, found the right page, and read: “K2 is a lethal cocktail mix of carbylamine, chlorine, and chloride that is tasteless, odorless, and extremely hard to detect post-mortem. It kills its victim within fifteen minutes.”  

Travis slipped his damp notebook back into his damper jacket pocket. Hot as he was, he didn’t take it off. “Unless we were specifically looking for a Russian connection, we wouldn’t have screened for K2 and would have never noticed it. Your folks wouldn’t have spotted it in a million years.”

Dalton let the insult pass; more Cowboys and Indians. “But I’m guessing that it doesn’t leave a fingerprint, so we can’t tie it to any specific person, right?”

Travis nodded. “Yeah, but who other than Petrov’s goons would have access to K2 and go out of their way to murder someone who was making trouble for their boss?”

Dalton clicked his tongue. “Well, there’s knowing, and then there’s proving. But it confirms that we are on the right track. These people play for keeps.”

They eventually broke out of the traffic jam and drove on to the Velvet Shadows Resort. After valet parking, they walked inside the ritzy hotel/spa/golf course complex. The cold hit them like ice water.

But the welcome was warm. They were greeted in the Aztec temple lobby by a tall Russian in his thirties, wearing a shiny, gray, sharkskin suit. He seated them near the pool, then walked away silently. 

A young Indian server brought two tall glasses of water with lemon wedges and straws.

Dalton eyed the young woman in her silly Indian maiden uniform. “Gho’éé”, he said with a smile.

The girl looked at him in amazement. She couldn’t believe he’d thanked her in her native tongue. She walked away grinning.

“Cute girl,” observed Travis. “Navajo?”

Dalton shook his head. “No. Mescalero Apache. They are Athabaskan like the Navajo, so the language is a bit similar.”

Travis fiddled with the straw in his water glass. “This is how I’d like to handle our conversation with Petrov. I’ll introduce you and explain that since the vandalism of Mary Malone’s equipment and Hunter Maxwell’s apparent suicide took place on the reservation, the Navajo police technically have jurisdiction. You act really friendly. Thank him for taking time out of his busy schedule to meet with us. Then I would appreciate it if you would let me ask the questions. You should just smile and nod. You’re good at that. If I want you to offer something, I will ask. Otherwise, you need to let me do the talking. Is that okay with you?”

Dalton smiled and nodded.

“Perfect,” laughed Travis.

Dalton was checking out all the ornately fake Indian trappings around the pool. He was fascinated by the fact that rich white people in the Southwest loved to adorn their expensive surroundings in tacky Indian motifs. Their ancestors had tried their best to wipe the Indians off the planet. So why would they decorate their mansions like an amusement park version of those same people? Dalton was pondering this cultural riddle when he noticed that Travis looked like he had seen a ghost.

“You gotta be kidding me,” said Travis under his breath as he watched a short, balding man in a dark suit and horned rim glasses make his way over to their poolside table. It was the new Assistant Secretary of the FBI, Ron Rosenbush. Travis knew him from photos he’d seen after President Trump appointed him. Rosenbush had been promoted to the number two post at the FBI after the ignominious firing of Director James Comey. He previously served as the wingnut bully-boy attorney general of Oklahoma.  

Dalton had no idea who the guy was but could see that Travis did. 

Rosenbush offered no introductions or small talk. The assistant secretary cut right to the chase. “I was up at three this morning and flew out here to this shithole in the sun at the attorney general’s request, so I could give you your marching orders in person. What I am about to say comes from the highest levels of our government and will not be shared with anyone other than ourselves. Is that understood?”

Dalton smiled and nodded while Travis tried not to swallow his tongue.

Sweating fully suited in the Arizona heat, Rosenbush clearly wanted to be gone.

“First of all, Mr. Petrov will not be attending today’s meeting—or any other meetings—with you two. You are disrupting a very important case that others in the Bureau have been working on for over a year. Your meddling could jeopardize that case. So you need to cease and desist when it comes to Vladimir Petrov. You are free to go after anyone else, but you need to leave Petrov alone. We do not want you to spook the man any more than you already have. Any questions?”

Travis was speechless.  

Looking into the belegana’s eyes during this lecture, Dalton realized he was looking at a witch. You didn’t mess with witches. You got away quickly—if you could.

That’s exactly what Dalton did. He smiled, nodded, and excused himself. He didn’t say another word as he walked back to the hotel lobby and then out to the valet to get his police vehicle.  

He was joined a few minutes later by Travis, who could barely contain his anger. Travis didn’t know as much as Dalton did about witches.

The Navajo put his hands on the younger man’s shoulders and spoke calmly. “Leave it be, my friend. There are powerful winds blowing around us, and we need to stay low and hug the ground.”  

Travis pulled away. “There’s definitely something fishy going on here.” 

Dalton opened the passenger door for the FBI agent. “Do you believe in karma, Agent Jones?” 

Travis gave Dalton a look of befuddlement. “Sure. I guess. But what does karma have to do with any of this?”  

Dalton closed the door as Travis sat down, then walked to the driver’s side. “Karma to the Navajo is maintaining the psychic balance of life and death. Navajo witches try to disrupt what the Navajos refer to as the Corn Pollen Path to Beauty, the Navajo version of the Hopi Sun Way.”

“That’s wonderful,” snapped Travis. “But what does it have to do with what just happened in there?”    

Dalton turned to face the young FBI agent. “Your man Rosenbush there is a witch. It is pointless, and very dangerous, to take on a witch. But the Holy People will. They will restore harmony and balance, just as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.”  

Travis exhaled loudly. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but mystic Indian mumbo jumbo is not going to solve these cases or bring down Petrov. And I am not going to walk away from a murder investigation.”  

Dalton smiled and nodded as he drove away from the Velvet Shadows Resort. As they merged onto the interstate, Dalton put on a Ralph Nakai CD, and the soothing flute music filled the air like the sound of hummingbirds.