Can
Skinwalkers Swim?
Michael Wescott Loder
Michael Wescott Loder has hiked, climbed and caved his way across the United States, helped raise three children, been an Air Force officer, photographer, audio-visual technician, park naturalist—and an academic librarian for over 30 years. He worked in eight different states—including in Ganado, Arizona, where he lived for two years. Today, he lives in the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania, next to the family farm where he grew up. His home is a passive-solar, off-grid house he and his wife designed and helped build themselves. Wes started writing when he was seventeen. He is the author of a wide range of books, from a history of Nikon cameras to novels for young adult readers. Today, he writes from home, plays the highland bagpipe and occasionally weaves rugs. Can Skinwalkers Swim? is his first novel set in the modern-day Diné Nation. For More information visit wesloderwriter.cc.
Can Skinwalkers Swim?
Two worlds, Las Vegas’ rich suburbs and Navajo country, provide contrasting settings for a mystery/thriller and a coming-of-age story as a vendetta threatens a teenage girl. The discovery of three bodies in Lake Mead, Nevada, triggers a murder attempt against Darby Donati, the rich, snarky daughter of the owner of one of Las Vegas’ Casinos. As the body count grows, Darby must not only survive threats on her own life, but learn why and who she really is. As FBI agents work to identify the recovered bodies, Darby escapes a kidnapping attempt and flees to the remote Navajo chapter of Pinon, Arizona. There she discovers relatives she never knew she had. The friendship and care of her equally-threatened great-grandmother and aunt leads her to question not only her identity but her entire previous way of life.
Michael Wescott Loder
Bodies along a shore “I thought this was supposed to be some beautiful lake, like in a national park, or something.” Tony squinted, then eyed the white-stained wall that ran along Lake Mead’s shore. “This is no better than an oversized bathtub. It even has its own ring.” Grandpa Ozwell snorted. “Lake isn’t what it used to be, that’s for sure. Water level gets lower every year. You watching that line of yours?” Tony tapped his fishing pole. “Yeah. Nothing’s biting.” He shifted his butt, trying to find a softer spot on the metal seat and wishing Grandpa had remembered the boat cushions. His eyes drifted, then stopped to stare at a tall, thick structure several yards up from the lake’s current water level. “What’s that thing that looks like a chimney?” “Huh? Oh, that’s the site of the once great, booming town of Jensenville.” “Jensenville? Never heard of it. Like St. Thomas?” “Yup, like St. Thomas. Once had thirty-five inhabitants— according to the 1870 census. Even had its own post office, briefly. Mormons came down here from Salt Lake in the 1860s, founding settlements all over the place. Jensenville was supposed to be a ferry stop for migrants coming up the Grand River— that’s what they called the Colorado back then.” “So that’s a chimney?”
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Grandpa Ozwell nodded, then steered the outboard motor to bring the boat closer to the Nevada shore. “Chimney was part of what was to be a processing mill for Colemanite. Mill never turned one nickel. Place was abandoned even before the Feds built the Hoover Dam back in the 1930s.” “So how come there’s still a chimney? That thing must be thirty feet tall.” “Even when the lake was higher, the top of the chimney usually stuck out. Been sorta’ a land-, or lake, mark, if you will. Park Service left it be, then put reflectors on it to keep boaters from hitting it in the dark.” “And now it’s all dry land. That sucks. When did the water drop here?” Grandpa’s face took on a scrunched look, then he scratched behind his left ear. “I think there was still water around the base of the chimney as recently as a couple of weeks ago. When the water was higher, folks used to tie their boats up to it.” Tony wasn’t listening. Instead, he had his father’s binoculars out and was studying the brick structure. “Grandpa, what’s that stuff at the base of the chimney?” “What kind of stuff?” “I don’t know. Trash, garbage. Looks … looks like a skull?” “Shh…” Grandpa throttled down the motor and let the boat drift to a halt. “May I look? Been finding bodies out here ever since the lake got this low. They say gangsters figured a body at the bottom of the lake was gone forever.” He forced a laugh, then took the binoculars from Tony and studied the grey, bowling ball-sized object. “You might be right.” He opened up the throttle a bit and eased the boat closer to the shore. “Looks like we might be able to land over by that mud flat. Let’s take a look.” Tony hopped out as the boat nudged into a mud and gravel bar, grabbed the painter, and, when Grandpa shifted back, pulled the bow onto the top of the low bank. Grandpa got out and, after 6
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making sure that the boat was grounded safely, led the way back along the shore, then up to the flat area that had once been Jensenville. Except for the huge chimney, there wasn’t much to see—a couple of lines of stone and bricks to mark what might once have been foundations. The rest was just a scattering of tumbleweed and a few sticks of driftwood. The jetsam lying at the base of the chimney proved to be more interesting. “Definitely human, and definitely more than one,” was Grandpa’s reaction. “Oh, geez.” He pulled out a red bandana, mopped his forehead, then knelt, easing down to minimize the pain in his knees, “Looks like two of them. Not much left but the bones, plus some clothes.” “I think the one on the left was a woman. She had long, dark hair, anyway,” Tony managed. He touched fingers against his mouth, willing his stomach’s contents to stay down. Grandpa nodded, then took out his phone, thought for a moment, then took several pictures. “Grandpa? Look. There’s a third.” “Huh?” “Doesn’t that look like a baby, or child, lying between the other two?” “Oh, my God.” Grandpa took a deep breath and hit 911.
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Chapter One “Darby!” No response. “Earth-to-Darby, listen to me. It’s almost noon.” Mrs. Morales, the family cook and household manager, shook Darby’s shoulder. The skinny, dark-tanned girl’s eyes never moved from the screen of her iPhone. Mrs. Morales reached and grabbed an earbud. “Hey! What?” “I’m talking to you. It’s lunchtime. Or probably still breakfast by your clock. Leave your headphones off and come to the table—now!” Darby gave the mid-forties, round-faced woman with dark, permed hair the stink eye. Mrs. Morales, in turn, stepped back to avoid the swipe of a hand aimed her way. “I’m not hungry yet.” Darby resettled on the sofa and put the earbud back in her ear. “Sorry, Andrea. Adult interference,” she spoke into the phone. “Darby, your father is here. He expects you to come and sit at the table and eat with him.” Long sigh. “Okay. I guess.” Darby slowly gathered herself. “Hey, catch you later. Gotta make sweet to Daddy.” She blanked her phone, then stretched and stood, rolling her eyes in the process. “Okay. I’m coming.” She fell in behind Mrs. Morales
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and shuffled out of the living room with its closed curtains and into the light of the breakfast patio. “Good morning, Darby Sarah.” Pete Donati smiled at his daughter with false cheerfulness. “Or is it early afternoon?” He checked his gold Rolex. “Ah, eleven-forty-five. Looks like you’re going to make it just in time today.” Darby grunted then wiggled her nose, trying to clear her head. “To what do I owe your presence at home? Shouldn’t you be at work, making sure all the touristas are pouring more money into our bank vaults?” Her dad forced a laugh. “Today … Ah … Today my workplace can take care of itself. I thought I might take a little time off … spend quality time with my almost grown-up daughter before she forgets who I am.” Darby snorted. “I guess. What’s to eat?” Why the hesitation in that answer? “How does waffles with strawberries and whipped cream sound for starters?” Mrs. Morales offered. “Sounds okay.” What’s the special occasion? Darby gave her father’s outfit a long look before she took a seat at the farthest end of the glass-topped table. Today he wore a white silk shirt and tan linen slacks. A gold chain showed at the shirt’s open neck, nested in his thick, curly chest hair. A gold stud with a diamond insert hung in his left earlobe. The right hand that held his coffee mug featured three gold rings, all heavy and jeweled. Only bare feet shoved into a pair of purple Tevas spoiled the clear image that here might be one of the most successful casino owners in Las Vegas, in addition to a casino in Reno and a controlling interest in one in Atlantic City. Darby sometimes wondered at her own body’s contrast to Pete Donati’s full face, thin, faded brown hair, and rounded body that hinted at not enough time devoted to any physical activity. Tall but small-boned, Darby’s hair was thick, straight, nearly black, and her eyes were hazel. Today, the only gold she wore 9
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had come on her sixteenth birthday back in January, a simple band in which a tiny garnet—her birthstone— glowed a dark, angry red. Black yoga pants and a ratty-bottomed, tie-dyed tee completed her outfit—the same clothes she had slept in. Once a string bean, in the last year her body had gained enough shape to cause male classmates to hoot and cheer when she first wore her new tiny swimming suit at a pool party in April. Whatever … Darby eyed the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice set by her plate. She waited, her hands struggling not to reach for her pocketed phone. “Mmm …” She smiled and nodded a thank you to Mrs. Morales as the cook set a warmed plate filled with two layers of waffles smothered in red-and-white deliciousness. “There are blueberries in the topping, too. I know you like them, so I added a few. That way, you get a July patriotic topping for breakfast: red, white, and blue.” “Yummy.” Darby grinned. “Thank you, Mrs. Morales.” She picked up her fork and cut out a slice. She ate, then paused, fork still in her mouth, to stare at the headline of the Las Vegas Review-Journal still lying in the middle of the table. “What’s this about bodies?” Dad stiffened, then reached for the newspaper and folded it so the headline no longer showed. “Found more bodies in Lake Mead.” “Ugh! How old were they?” “Ah … No one knows. The Feds haven’t released the forensics yet. They know they were adults—a man and a woman.” Dad’s mouth twitched as if he felt the need to show concern. Darby looked up at her father. Something’s not right. You’re holding back something. She reached over, grabbed the paper out of her father’s hand, and rotated the front page. He lifted a hand in protest, but then dropped it. Ignoring his silent, anxious stare, Darby scanned the first paragraph. She had taken a term of journalism during her high school sophomore year, and she knew that the first paragraph would have all the whos, whats, 10
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wheres, whens, and hows. “Jensenville—never heard of it. Famous chimney: never heard of that either.” There was a child too! Why didn’t Dad mention that? Looked like they might have been stranded out by this chimney and were clinging to it until they drowned. Hmm. Well, what next? Dad obviously does not want to talk about this. “Is it okay if I go out with Daisy and Eric later?” Dad relaxed only a little. “Okay, but I wanted to talk to you a bit—as long as we’re in the same place at the same time.” Darby nodded, the itch to grab her phone growing stronger by the second. Please, not another lecture. “It seems like you have been spending an awful lot of time with just Eric and his sister lately. I mean, you do have other friends. Is he polite and careful with you? You’re grown up now. I know you’ve known him forever, but you know other people, too.” “Dad! He’s good. And I am being careful. And Monica’s always with us.” “I know Ms. Perkins is always there to watch you. It’s just that I can never forget what happened to your mother disappearing as she did.” “That was like a lifetime ago. Look, I know what to watch out for. Okay, we’ve kissed, but that’s all. He doesn’t smoke or do drugs.” I also keep a couple of condoms in my bag just in case it comes to that, but I’m not about to tell you that. “Good.” “If he tried anything, he would be history. Believe me. And I don’t care if he’s the Eric. Not later but gone right now.” Mr. Donati’s lips formed a hard, thin line. Darby watched as his eyes drifted back to the paper’s front page, once more lying on the glass surface between them. “It’s sad,” she said. “What do you think happened? You think maybe they lost their boat and ended up stranded?” I might as well try to start a conversation with you. 11
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“Huh? What?” “The couple in the paper that we were just looking at, that drowned with their little child a bunch of years ago.” “Yeah. Thirteen years ago. Sad. Anyway, if Eric wants to see you today, stick to his place. Make sure Daisy stays with you, and keep Perkins in sight, even if you’re just swimming. Okay? Too many shootings, too many crazy people out there, and I want you safe.” Concern? How could Eric and Daisy’s minor mansion not be safe? I mean, it has a locked gate and a guard dog, like for whatever! Darby shook her head. She had planned to do some hill climbing with Eric in his ATV Quad. She had done it once before: racing up a slope almost as steep as a cliff, feeling the wheels start to lose their grip. Woo-hoo! She guessed that was now a no-no. Why the sudden “don’t go anywhere ban?” No clue. She took another bite of waffle. “And I hope if you do go over to his place, that you don’t plan to wear that new so-called ‘swimsuit’ you just bought for a hundred and fifty bucks.” “Dad, tsk, it covers all the important stuff.” “Two strings and a bowtie. And can you keep that itchy hand of yours off your phone for at least one more minute?” Darby managed a slight smile. Busted. “I’ve asked Beth Anne to dinner at the Marble Plaza for Saturday night. Do you think you might be free to join us? She really would like to meet you.” “Ah … Sure, okay.” Now I’m hearing the real reason for this tête-à-tête. “Thank you. It will mean a lot to her to have you as a friend.” Darby just nodded. As if I really want to get to know your latest gold-digger. A kiss to her left cheek and another thank-you and the torture and breakfast were over. Earbuds back in place, Darby headed up to her bedroom suite, thumbs already dancing over 12
Michael Wescott Loder
her phone’s keys. Twenty minutes later, fresh from a shower, she was blow-drying her hair and texting Eric again. Yea! He was ready. ‘OMW!’ she texted back, then grabbed her new suit, ID stuff, extra clothes and her inhaler, dropped everything in a zipped shoulder bag, and yelled for Monica to let her know it was time. Monica Perkins, Darby’s personal guard and constant escort, was waiting for Darby in the hall that led to Donati’s eight-vehicle garage. Today, the short-haired, natural blond was wearing her usual, ‘all-business’ uniform of a white shirt and black slacks. Black running shoes, no jewelry, a lean frame, and hard, muscled shoulders and arms all showed evidence of her humorless attitude and consistent exercise routines. Shades in place and an earbud in her left ear hinted at past positions with the federal government, perhaps the FBI. Or so Darby had been told. What was the truth? Who knew? Monica never talked about her past. Only a 36C Lara Croft-shaped front compromised the overall tough-warrior effect. Darby had long ago figured out that the additional black vest Monica always wore not only kept her big boobs under control, but also served to help conceal the semi-automatic pistol she carried under her left breast. “You ready?” “I am so ready to get out of this climate-controlled box and into some pool time.” She gave Monica a smart-ass smile and headed for the garage and her own yellow-gold Miata—a gift from Dad for passing her driver’s test on the first try. As Darby stepped down into the garage, she caught sight of her father, phone to his ear, standing in the hall. As she paused, Monica and her father exchanged looks, then he waved a negative hand in their direction. Monica turned and blocked Darby as she was about to get in the Miata. “We’re not taking your car.” “What? How come?” Darby pouted. 13
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“Mr. Donati’s orders. We’re taking the Highlander today.” Darby moaned and sighed. “Okay.” The Miata was cool, and she loved the way it spun around corners and easily accelerated up to sixty in ten seconds or less. Her friends had been raving about it ever since the day she’d first rolled it into the high school parking lot back in April. But Darby has learned to drive on the older, gun-metal grey, stick-shift Toyota Highlander. It felt like hers, too, and she still kept its fob on her key ring. It wasn’t sporty, and it sometimes felt slow, but Darby knew that wasn’t really true. The Highlander, or Hunter as she had named it, was a custom job—a special order from the factory. Had to be to get a standard five-speed on the floor transmission. It also had a reinforced suspension with anti-sway bars and a larger capacity gas tank. Why? Who knew? Neither her father nor Monica had ever offered an explanation. But why the Highlander today? Part of this ‘keep you safe’ business? No point in fighting Monica over it. She shrugged and followed her guard over to the older SUV. “You can drive, if you want to,” Monica offered. “You sure? Thanks.” Darby got in, buckled up, waited until Monica was also secure, pushed the button on the remote to raise the garage door, and they were on their way. “How come the switch of vehicles? I mean, I don’t mind, really. Hunter’s the car I learned on. It just seems odd.” “As I said, Mr. Donati’s orders.” Which really told her nothing. Odd, but her dad rarely explained a lot of things he did, or told her what to do. Maybe she didn’t want to know. Out through the gate and by the guard house, three blocks and onto the local six-lane drag, and suddenly Darby was no longer thinking about her Miata. “Ah … Monica, why is there this black van barreling down on our butt?”
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Chapter Two Doctors Ron Clayburn and Ken Yabosky stood across from each other, a body—or what remained of one—laid out on the hard slab between them. Both men wore full-coverage zip-up overalls and sweaters underneath to stay a little warm in the refrigerated room of the Clark County morgue. The coroner had already done his autopsies. Now, because the bodies had been found on federal land, it was the Feds’ turn. Dr. Yabosky, the Federal Forensics investigator, looked across at Clayburn. “Your thoughts?” “Female, mid-to-late twenties,” the coroner answered. “Hard to say exactly, but take a look at her teeth. Definitely the shovel shape in the upper incisors. I suspect Native American or East Asian. And she had long, black hair. Nice piece of Navajo silver work bracelet.” Dr. Yabosky turned his attention to the blackened metal bracelet, its open lines made with heavy-gauge silver wire that served to hold a silver plate perhaps two inches across. Silver beads, twisted wire, a flower, and a leaf framed a single turquoise stone and an abalone-shell bird. “Nice piece, and not cheap. Probably shines underneath all that black.” The federal investigator nodded, then added. “Distinctive. A woman’s piece, not a heavy man’s type.”
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He focused back on the body. “Looks like a wedding ring on the left hand. Okay. We can do a DNA test. Should be enough material left for that, and that should tell us something.” Clayburn nodded in agreement. “Figured that would be next. If she proves to be Navajo or Ute, that’s your area.” Yabosky tapped his glove-covered fingers against the edge of the slab. “Lightly boned with a gracile physique. Might have Athabastkan heritage. Well, we’ll see.” Clayburn pointed to the pelvic bones. “She’d had at least one baby. The child might have been hers.” Yabosky stepped over to the next slab which held bones of what once must have been a small child. “Any guess as to age?” “Skull sutures are fully closed, so over two, maybe three, but she still had all her baby teeth. So, first guess would be between three-and-a-half and five-and-a-half. Bones look like she was healthy.” “A girl?” “Yes. Might have been pretty cute by the shape of the face.” Yabosky grimaced. “The man?” The coroner glanced over at the third skeleton. “Was a male, Caucasian, probably in his late twenties-early thirties. Fit, strong, maybe ex-military, veteran.” “Caucasian?” “Ah-huh. “Ex-military? How do you know that?” “He took a fragment of something in his left calf, grazed the femur. Healed, so not recent. Probably didn’t bother him too much. Could have gotten that in some gang war, but somehow I don’t think so.” “So, a probable Native American woman, no signs of violence. May have drowned. Little girl, older toddler, unknown heritage, probably drowned, and a young-to-middle-aged guy, also probably drowned.” 16
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“Well, not quite.” Clayburn grabbed the far shoulder of the male skeleton and rolled it halfway over, the still-articulated bones limply thunking on the slab in protest, “He also has a bullet lodged in his spine, and that wound was new. Would have left him paralyzed from the waist down.” Yabosky leaned in for a closer look. “Can we get that out?” “Was just waiting for you.” “So, this isn’t some random drowning from some family missing their boat.” “Nope.” “Okay. Well, looks like a homicide, not an accident. Let’s get going with the DNA analysis and see where that takes us.” Yabosky stepped back to let his colleague begin closing the body bags. “You had lunch yet? If not, I’ll treat, or should I say, the FBI will.” “Sounds like a plan,” Clayburn nodded and smiled. “Be ready as soon as I have these back in the refer, get out of this suit and wash up.” The two men were headed out the door when Yabosky paused. “No word of these findings to the press.” “They already know something. A reporter from the ReviewJournal had me on the phone the moment I got to work yesterday. Called me twice more yesterday. Fox and CNN have also picked it up.” Yabosky drew a deep breath. “Well, try to put a lid on this if you can, at least until we can get an ID on these people.
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Chapter Three Monica stared at the right-hand side-view mirror. “Speed up.” “I am, but he’s still right there,” Darby whined. “Slow down, see if he backs off.” Monica did not bother to hide the tension in her voice. “I think he’s about to hit me!” Darby screamed as the Highlander suddenly jumped forward. “He just hit our bumper!” “Speed up. No! Don’t let him pass! Control, Darby, control.” “I’m trying! Please.” “Get in the middle lane.” “There’s someone else there.” “Just do it!” Darby was aware that Monica had her gun out and had turned around in her seat. “Take the first left. Yeah, right in front of that pickup. Don’t signal, just push it.” “I’m trying!” Honks and yells as the Highlander lunged left, almost hitting the pickup. “Good. Now make the first turn to the left.” “This street? Light’s turning red?” Darby could feel the tears starting, and her chest tighten. Breathe, just breathe. “Go! We’ll make a Jason Bourne out of you yet.” Darby took a deep breath. “Thanks.” The Highlander almost stalled before Darby managed to relax her right hand enough to get it off the steering wheel and over to the gearshift. “Floor it! Damn! They went through the red.” 18
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“That van followed us?” “Yes. Okay. Keep your eyes front. Let me worry about our follower. When you see a right, any right, take it.” Monica dropped her seat back all the way, then crawled and squirmed to the back seat. Darby could hear her snap up the back seat’s cushion, followed by metal clickings. “This alley do?” “Yes! Take it.” This time, Darby was ready. She swung the SUV right and downshifted in one motion, then shifted up and powered down the alleyway, dodging garbage cans and parked vehicles. “Van still there?” “Yeah. Hit a few of those cans if you can. Maybe that will slow them down.” CLANG BANG. “That one rolled in their way.” Darby could feel this incredible surge of energy as her adrenaline kicked in higher. “What was that? Sounded like something hitting the back of my seat. “They’re shooting. Just drive.” “ACK! Okay … Take this right?” Darby jumped as a gun went off behind her, once, twice, three times. “Got ’em.” Darby glanced in the rearview mirror to see the van jerk, then angle right and ram into a wooden fence with a loud mix of breaking boards and plastic bumpers. “Okay. Okay, Darby? Earth to Darby, you can slow down now. Take the first turn to the right and back to the main road. “Ah-huh. I think … I’m going to puke.” “It’s okay. Once you make the turn, pull over.” “Okay.” She stopped, stalling the Highlander in the process, then she was out of the SUV and vomiting her breakfast onto the alley pavement. “Oh, God. Oh, dear God! Please …” She tried to take a deep breath, then another. “My inhaler. I need 19
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my inhaler. I can’t breathe.” She was aware that Monica was standing beside her, a rifle with an extended magazine sticking out of its underside in her hands, eyes never leaving the alley they had just left. Darby could smell cordite and found she could breathe again, each breath searing her lungs, the smell from her vomit causing new waves of nausea to quake her shoulders. “What happened?” “You just proved you can be an awesome driver.” “I mean …” “We need to go. Those guys in the van didn’t all die. I’ll drive. Come on, get in.” “Okay,” Darby whispered. She was managing to breathe. Maybe she didn’t need to use her inhaler yet. They drove two blocks, then turned back on the main drag. After a minute, Monica punched a button on her body phone. “They hit us on the pike. Yeah, she’s okay. A little shaken up. Yes. Yes, they were shooting to kill. Yes, I did. Their driver’s dead. Not sure about the guy riding shotgun. We’re on the parkway and proceeding to the Hamish household. Touch base when we get there. Ten-four.” “Could you, maybe … explain what’s going on? Are the casinos fighting again? Who were those guys? Were they from the mob?” Darby felt better—a little bit, anyway. She dug around the glove compartment until she found some wipes and dabbed at her lips and wiped off her tongue. “We don’t know.” Monica nodded. “Let’s get you to Eric’s place and I’ll tell you what I may. Okay? Can you wait a few minutes?” “I guess.” Monica did not waste time. She kept Hunter at just a few miles over the limit, but did not hesitate to weave and jump ahead when she could. Five minutes later, they left the parkway to navigate a series of curved residential streets before turning 20
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into a driveway blocked by a high iron gate set next to an empty guardhouse. “Darby Donati and Monica Perkins. We’re expected,” Monica spoke into the microphone box. “Right-O,” came a reply, then the gate rolled back, and Monica drove onto Eric and Daisy’s grounds. Monica saluted the camera peering at them, then continued for another hundred yards to stop next to a rather large century plant, which offered some concealment from the still-distant main house. “Okay. Here’s what I can tell you. The threats started yesterday, right … well, I was going to say, right after the news of those bodies hit the press. But … Maybe they aren’t related. But this morning, Mr. Donati asked me to be extra careful. I guess he knows something, but he would not say more. ‘Take the Highlander,’ he said. Was he expecting something today? Who knows? Maybe.” Darby took a couple of whiffs of her inhaler just to be sure before managing to speak. “Where’d that AR-15, or whatever it is, come from?” “Lives under the back seat. There’s a bunch of gear under there for just this sort of situation.” “I never knew that. Did … they hit us?” “Take a look.” Darby did, staring at the row of holes that walked across the bottom of the rear window. Then she saw the shredded fabric on the back of the driver’s seat. “Should I be dead?” “There’s Kevlar and steel between you and the seat cushion, same for the other seats. Protection against a rear shot. That’s why I was afraid of them coming alongside. There’d have been no protection from the side. Okay? Let’s go in and have fun with your friends.” “Fun? I don’t know if I can now.” Eric was waiting under the drive-up canopy. “Hey, guy! You made it. Come on back. We’re waiting by the pool. How come 21
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no Miata? Oh? What happened to your face? You been crying? What’s wrong, little Booboo?” He leaned in close, about to offer a kiss, then recoiled. “Yuck. You stink, too. Were you just sick?” “Ah-huh. Let me get to a bathroom and clean up. I’ll be all right.” “You sure? You didn’t just get COVID or something?” Darby shook her head at his feeble humor. She didn’t want questions, just a chance to clean up. She scampered by Eric, ignoring his offered arm, and headed inside and down the front hall to the nearest powder room. Eric turned to Monica. “What happened, Perkins?” His tone changed from concern for an equal to master-to-servant. “None of your stinking, little business, Hamish. She’ll be fine.” “Ooh.” This was all new country. Eric paused, seeing a pit bull instead of a retriever for the first time. He rubbed his tanned, hard abs, stared at Monica’s chest, then followed her into the house. It took ten minutes, but when Darby emerged, her face sparkled, she had on a clean, white tee, and her body offered only a whiff of Kate Spade. “Okay, ready to swim.” She gave Eric a fake smile, and when he bent closer, allowed a kiss to her right cheek. “Hi, Darby. Hello, Monica. What just happened?” Daisy Sue, Eric’s twin sister, joined them. Like her brother, she was tall with an even tan that covered her entire body and accented her day-glow pink bikini. Unlike her brother’s blonde curls and blue eyes, her hair was a dull rust color, and her eyes were grey. Darby glanced at Monica, who shook her head. “Nothing I think either Monica or I want to talk about. Right now, I just want to get in the water.” Without waiting for more questions, she headed for the back of the house and out to the pool. 22
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The pool ran fifty feet one way and twelve the other, with an end ten feet deep with two diving boards, one at three and one at seven feet in height. A tiled roof shaded the shallower end and half the patio, granting relief from the sun if one so desired. Twenty feet behind the pool, an eight-foot cement wall—bordered with a row of Joshua Trees imported from the nearby mountains—hid the pool from any nearby neighbors. Darby kicked off her Tevas, then shed her T-shirt and shorts to reveal two sets of narrow straps that included a blue patch to cover her pubes and two more to cover her nipples and nothing else—the infamous suit her dad had just remarked on. A splash, and she was swimming toward the deep end, her brown body a dark contrast to the blue-green rippling water. Eric grinned and dove in after her. Daisy stared at the two, Eric chasing and Darby avoiding. She turned to Monica. “So what just happened that you don’t want my tattle-mouth brother to know about?” Monica pressed her lips together before answering. “Some people tried to kill us on the way here today.” “What! Just now? This have to do with Mr. Donati? Why would they go after Darby? She’s as innocent as anyone I’ve ever known, never done drugs, won’t even smoke pot.” “What happened? Let’s just say that the team that had a contract on Darby will no longer be able to honor that contract. As for Mr. Donati? Who knows?” “Ah … Dead? You go bad! You shot them? I ask too many questions, don’t I?” “Yes, Daisy, you always do. Be gentle with Darby, she was driving. Now let me make some phone calls.” Monica nodded, then walked over to a chaise lounge and sat, phone to one ear, white coiled mic still in the other. Daisy was the more sensible of the twins, easy to talk to, but now was not the time. Daisy stared at her for several seconds, then shed her sandals and dove in. 23
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Eric might be thinking this was a fun chase, and that soon he would be a winner with a complacent Darby in his arms, her body pressed firmly against his. It didn’t look that way to Daisy. The harder Eric grabbed for Darby, the more determined she seemed to be to stay away. “Hey, Eric, give her a break.” “Stay out of this, Sis. Come on, Darby, how about a hug?” He slowed, and Darby took off for the other end of the pool. “What’s wrong with her?” “She’s not in the mood.” “I thought she was hot to come over here?” “Maybe something happened.” “Yeah. Hey, Darby, come back. I won’t bite.” Darby grabbed a flamingo blow-up and brought it around so that it floated between her and Eric. “You gonna behave?” “Scout’s honor.” “Psst. When were you ever a Scout?” But Darby relaxed enough to let Eric glide in beside her. “Sorry, Kid. You want to do just laps?” “Anyone else coming over?” “Andrea and Todd said they were coming over in an hour. I think they plan to stay for dinner.” “Dinner?” It was hard to think about dinner when she’d just had breakfast. Although her stomach did feel empty now. Where did her dinner on Saturday with Dad’s current flame fit in? She couldn’t figure out a way to avoid that. “You want to sit out in the sun for a while?” Eric asked. “So you can sit and stare at me and have mental orgasms? In your wet dreams. Look, Eric, I’m not in the mood today.” Eric scowled. “Is it that time of the month? Maybe you don’t want to stay.” And have to deal with just Monica, Mrs. Morales, and maybe my father? Darby shook her head. She would stick it out here for now. But how were they supposed to get home? Would driving home be another gauntlet to run? Darby pushed the flamingo 24
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away and climbed the ladder. “I’m going to sit awhile in the shade.” She grabbed a fresh towel off a rack and took a chaise lounge two over from where Monica was softly shouting on a phone. “No! They didn’t waste any time,” she heard Monica say. “We were barely out on the parkway. Knew she was driving. Aimed right at her.” Draping the towel over her shoulders, Darby settled back and, eyes closed, let out a shudder. Even the sharp tang of the salted water hadn’t driven one micron of what had just happened from her mind. She felt more naked than ever, aware that her suit, even her tee and shorts, would have offered no protection against the bullets that had just shredded the back of the driver’s seat. Was that all Eric ever thought about: her bod? So why’d she wear this suit today? All the reasons for everything she had done up until stepping into the Highlander seemed stupid and distant now. She’d been such a lazy ass lately, and what had it meant? If Monica didn’t keep after her to exercise, she’d probably be a blimp-in-training. She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. She checked Google News. “Huh?” Those bodies had been on the front page of the paper this morning. But now? Nothing. “Come on. That’s impossible.” If the Review-Journal covered it—front page, no less—it had to be covered five times over on Google News. Fox never missed a chance to cover something like a triple homicide. “Hey, you guys remember about their finding some bodies along the shores of Lake Mead?” “No … When was that?” “In the paper this morning.” “Who reads the paper?” “Never saw anything.” You two are worthless. She sighed in frustration. She so wanted to find something to help her forget about the drive over here, and now the Lake Mead mystery distraction was 25
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gone. Local news headlines were all about new water usage restrictions, heat, and traffic problems. Same old, same old. “I hate this phone!” She dumped it back in her bag. Everything had been so funky-clean and cool this morning. Three bodies show up, and now nothing was cool any longer. Monica buttoned off her phone and stood. “Darby, we’re leaving now, right now. Sorry, guys. Just got the word. We’ve got to split.” “Can I get dressed, use the can?” Monica paused. “Yes, but that’s it.” “Can we help? What just happened? You just got here.” Both Eric and Daisy stood while Darby froze, then ran for the bathroom with her bag, grabbing her sandals off the concrete as she headed inside. “All hell just broke loose back at the house,” Monica lied.
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Chapter Four DNA results could take days, even weeks. Ken Yabosky had the first results in 36 hours. He studied the report on his laptop, going over the dry numbers and percentages with the understanding of long experience. The adult male’s DNA indicated 40 percent Northern European, 30 percent Mediterranean, with a dash of North African. The rest was all over, but still European. So, Italian, Spanish, French, British. A lot of possibilities—but maybe not Latino, nor Native American. But the man’s teeth had already ruled that out. The woman was definitely Native American, probably Navajo, maybe some Pueblo, but not much. Again, the bones and teeth had already indicated that, but it was still nice to get confirmation. So, a Native American woman in the company of an Anglo and a little girl … The little girl … Ken studied the third report. He did not like this one. “Northern European descent, or what appears to be British, maybe some central European, some Mediterranean, similar to the male, but not related. Definitely not Navajo. Do I have that right?” he asked the head of the Genetic Forensics unit back at his home base in Virginia. “You have it,” his colleague replied via the federal Zoom connection. “Want to start to run this through the national ancestry database?” 27
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“Yes, please. Go ahead. Start with the male or the girl. Not many individual DNA records likely with a Navajo female. They keep track of their ancestors better than white people, but not through DNA. I’ll call Window Rock. Maybe the police will have some record of a woman missing in Vegas from between twelve and fifteen years ago.” “Good luck on that.” “Thanks. Looks like this might be more complicated than we thought.” *** “Detective Begay here. How may we help you today?” “This is Doctor Ken Yabosky, special investigations agent with the FBI. I’m looking for a detective who might be able to help us locate information on a missing person.” “Navajo?” “Yes.” “Well, I’m one of the detectives here in Window Rock. So, who’s the missing person?” “That’s what we don’t know. Body was found on the shore of Lake Mead three days ago.” “Ooh. A lot of our people go up to Las Vegas. Think they’ll like the bright lights. They get into trouble there and never come home.” Ken nodded at his phone. “Know that. But was wondering if someone might have reported a missing woman back maybe a dozen, or more years ago.” “A woman?” “Yes. Body appears to have been a female in her mid to late twenties, in otherwise good health.” “Fat or skinny?” “Pretty sure she was thin. Was wearing small-sized jeans and a polo shirt. No tattoos… Well, hard to find tattoos after a body’s 28
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been in the water for twelve years or so. She was wearing a Navajo bracelet on her left arm. Might date back to the 1970s. Does not look like pawn—style’s too new. We can send you a picture if that would help.” “Please do that. Does it have a jeweler’s mark?” “D&J CLARK, then NAVAJO below that.” “Hmm. Sounds legit. Will check a book we have that covers Navajo silversmith hallmarks. Should have something for you by tomorrow. Finding a relative may take longer. Any rings, other jewelry?” “Plain ring on left hand. Might be a wedding band.” “Any engravings?” “Yes, but hard to make out. shił hózhǫ́? That make sense? No date, no initials nor names.” “Sounds like it could be Navajo. Perhaps a wish to ‘be happy.’ As in the promise to ‘walk in beauty.’” “Thanks. Ahéhee.” Officer Begay smiled. “Yá’át’ééh.” Ken dropped the internet connection, opened a document, and began adding to the report he had been working on for two days. The biopsies were complete. Not much to find after over a decade in the water: just bones, a little bit of slimy hair. Even most of the clothes were gone. The lab could probably tell something about past diet and might even be able to identify what part of the world or country they had grown up in. Bones tended to reveal that sort of information, but would it be enough? Few people living in Las Vegas actually were born or grew up there. Ancestry.com might be different. DNA matching was solving more and more old crimes where traditional methods had hit dead ends. This had to be their only hope in this case. No fingerprints to go on. Well, we’ll see. Ken decided to make one more call, this time to an artist who specialized in turning skulls into faces. 29