Dark Reservations Read Free Page A

in his right hand, letting the loop dangle by his side.
    Eddie whimpered.
    â€œWhat did you tell the FBI about me?”
    Eddie licked his lips, smearing the trickle of blood from his nose, spreading it wide, giving himself a clown’s red mouth.
    â€œYou’re right. I’m sorry. I got scared. Real scared. I was never in trouble like that before.”
    â€œWhat did you tell them?”
    â€œThat I used to make jewelry for you, and when I couldn’t do that anymore, I started getting you things.”
    â€œWhat things?”
    â€œI told them about the prayer sticks … and the artifacts.”
    â€œDid you tell them about the Chaco carving?”
    Eddie hung his head.
    â€œAnd they want you to talk to the grand jury, right?”
    â€œI’ll disappear. I have a cousin in California. I can hide out there. Really. I won’t talk to them again. I promise.”
    â€œI know you won’t.”
    Books dropped the belt loop over Eddie’s head.
    The silversmith clawed at the thin strip of leather.
    Othmann stared into the dying man’s empty eye socket.
    Later that night, in the environmentally controlled vault below, while replaying the hidden-camera footage, feeling the effects of Cuervo Black and a line of Christmas powder, Othmann would think about this moment and tell himself he saw his father staring out of that depthless black hole, the tip of his cigar glowing with the brilliance of hellfire, and his wrinkled lips mouthing the words You’re a little light in your goddamn pants!
    S EPTEMBER 24
    F RIDAY , 9:38 A.M.
    B UREAU OF I NDIAN A FFAIRS , O FFICE OF I NVESTIGATIONS , A LBUQUERQUE , N EW M EXICO
    Supervisory Special Agent in Charge Dale Warren thumbed through a copy of that month’s issue of Model Cars Magazine, pausing on an article about applying alclad chrome to bumpers and grilles. His cell phone rang. He recognized the number and answered.
    â€œIt’s assigned,” he said. “I gave it to one of my … older agents.” Dale disconnected the call without waiting for a response.
    Then he picked up the 1952 Moebius Hudson Hornet convertible parked at the edge of his desk and eyed its bumpers. The metallic paint was dull and pitted from a poor application he’d attempted the previous summer. He laid the car back down and returned to the article.
    S EPTEMBER 24
    F RIDAY , 10:31 A.M.
    J ONES R ANCH R OAD , C HI C HIL T AH (N AVAJO N ATION ), N EW M EXICO
    Joe pulled his Tahoe behind the marked Navajo Police vehicle and stepped out. They were parked on the side of Jones Ranch Road in Chi Chil Tah, a small Navajo community twenty miles southwest of Gallup, consisting of a school, a small housing development, some scattered trailers and ranch homes, and a chapter house, the Navajo equivalent of a town hall. The blacktop had ended about four miles back, and now he stood on hard-packed clay surrounded by piñon trees.
    The officer, who had been leaning against his ride’s front fender, approached. He wore the tan uniform of the Navajo Police Department, and wore it well, crisp and clean. A rookie.
    â€œAgent Evers?”
    â€œCall me Joe.” He flashed his credentials, then slipped them back into his sport coat. He didn’t ask the officer’s name. His name tag read R. BLUEHORSE.
    A big grin spread across the officer’s face. He reached out and pumped Joe’s extended hand with all the enthusiasm of a teenager being given the keys to the car for the first time. “Glad to meet you. I’m pretty new to the force. My first week out on my own and I caught this case. Lucky, I guess.”
    Lucky? A cold case? Lots of work and little chance to clear it. The kid had no idea.
    Joe pulled his hand to safety. “Sorry, I’m a little late.” Mornings had become more and more difficult for him over the past year.
    Bluehorse looked at Joe’s shoes. “Did I tell you it was in the woods?”
    The cuffs of