He couldn’t control a smile at the thought of Megan’s surprised look when he’d called her Doli. He liked the idea that someone, a girl, from such an old culture, could wonder at anything his straightforward life and mind could possibly offer.
Keane hardly caught a glimpse of the small green sign that read Entering Navajo Lands as his Nova blazed past on his quest for Doli. Keane wasn’t sure what he expected to see when entering the reservation, but quickly began to wonder where all the people were. The reservation was only a big freeway and endless rocks, scrub, and sand. Finally, he saw a roadside stand where several older looking Indian women were selling jewelry. Pulling over, he approached self-consciously, tired from the long drive, certain they wouldn’t be able to help him. Doli was gone forever. “Hello,” Keane said. He waited for their response, his eyes trying furtively to meet theirs, but they only crossed their arms and smiled half smiles. “Can you tell me where I can…is there a city…actually a city? I’m trying to find a young Navajo woman.” The two women looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “It’s not like that. I just met her, last week, and she said she lives on the reservation with her uncle and aunt. I was guessing there must be a town near here?”
“Perhaps a necklace or a blanket would help you?” the shorter and fatter of the two women said. Her appearance was neat. She wore brown, loose fitting clothing and large blue jewelry. She smelled of lavender, or at least one of them did. She seemed apathetic yet pleasant. Keane looked at the jewelry and several rolled-up blankets while Nascha sniffed at the best smelling spots around the stand. The other woman unrolled several inches of a blanket so he could see what they were like. “They are all hand stitched,” the taller, skinnier one said.
One necklace, a simple leather thong threaded through a large, black, unpolished stone stood out to him. Seeing his interest, the first woman placed it around his neck. She smoothed out his t-shirt and centered the stone on his chest.
“Forty dollars,” she said.
Keane pulled several hundred dollars out of his pocket, giving her two twenties. She looked satisfied. “Can you tell me how I might find my friend?” he asked.
“Tell us her name,” both women said nearly in unison.
“Her name is Megan.”
“Me-gan?” The fatter woman pronounced each syllable as if they were separate words. “Are you sure?” She seemed to imply she might have intimate knowledge.
“Yes!” Keane was growing excited. “She said her Indian name was Doli.”
Both of the women laughed spontaneously. “Are you sure you want to find such a girl? The bluebird is not an easy bird to live with.” They laughed as people who are accustomed to mirth laugh.
Keane laughed also, uncertain what they meant, but happy the Navajo women were beginning to warm up, even if the joke was at his expense. “I am certain I want to see her regardless of her name. I have to consult her on a spiritual matter.”
“Very ‘spiritual,’ I am sure...” It took two minutes for the women’s laughter to die down sufficiently to allow the skinny one to talk. “Turn off the main highway several miles from here. There is a dirt road on the right that will lead you closer. You can ask for her there. But I warn you, most tourists keep to the paved roads.” Her words had an ominous tone.
He thanked the two women, climbed into the Nova and headed north, Nascha taking up her position as co-pilot. He almost missed the turn, which was obstructed by a sharp corner and tall scrub. Carefully, he guided his car onto the dirt road, causing dust to swirl and the tires to slide just enough to feel a moment of excitement. The further Keane drove, the faster he found himself driving. When he saw the first dwelling, a dilapidated trailer far from the road, he eased his foot off the gas. Soon more homes appeared. He was shocked by their poverty but couldn’t contain his excitement. When it seemed he’d entered something like a small town, a collection of nondescript dwellings, he parked his car and walked from place to place smiling at the cloudy shapes of people he could see through streaky windows.
After half an hour of finding no one about, Keane resolved to knock on a door. Just then, four young Navajo men appeared from behind a small shack. In an instant they were upon him, standing in a half circle just feet away, smelling of alcohol and sweat. The backdrop of red hills looked on impassively, more interested in the new winds which promised to soothe their antiquities. “What are you doing here?” asked the largest of the four, his eyes filled with carefully constructed rage.
Keane answered, unaware the youth’s question was less of a question than a statement. “I am looking for someone…” Nascha growled, her white teeth catching Keane’s eye. As he bent to scold her, he felt a fist slam against the side of his head, knocking him to one knee. Keane, never one to take a fight lying down, sprang upwards, his fist firing into the jaw of their leader, staggering him with the vicious uppercut. Nascha leapt straight at his exposed throat. Keane had little time to celebrate, to appreciate the warm pain in his knuckles, before something blasted impossibly hard into the base of his skull, and he was out, falling face first into the dust.
When he’d finally come to, it was dark out. Keane’s eyes took some time to adjust, but finally computed that he was in some sort of small wooden shack. What light was there filtered through the structure’s many cracks, courtesy of the crescent moon. Why the gang chose this place to drag him, Keane could not guess. His hands found Nascha lying beside him. There was a long, thin cut on her head, and the damp, sticky blood clumped on his fingers. Keane cried openly on the dirt floor, every part of him in pain; the men hadn’t been satisfied with just knocking him out.
Abruptly, Nascha cocked her head, listening.
Keane froze, stifling his tears. Were they coming back? He shrugged off the moment of terror, struggled to his feet, and made himself ready. He would not be such easy prey, not this time. Several minutes passed. Just as he thought to relax, Keane heard something moving closer through the darkness, through the corrupt wooden walls of the shed. As he swallowed, the dryness of his parched throat caused him to cough. Instantly he closed his mouth, the smell of piss and dry rot twanging the receptors in his flaring nostrils, the taste of blood on his cracked lips. Nascha didn’t move, save for the hair that had risen in a long, thick black line down her sinewy back.
The sound moved closer.
Keane thought to put his shoulder against the door but decided he should stand back so that he would have room to fight. He would make the most of his confines to gain a strategic advantage. If he could help it, they would pay. Looking around for a weapon, he spied a long, thin board. It felt good in his hand, like a baseball bat. He was ready.
A shadow appeared across the threshold. Whoever it was, they’d stopped there, making little noise, but noise nonetheless. Keane listened, his back tensing. “What the fuck is that?”
“Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh…huh, huh, huh…”
It sounded like panting.
Keane was growing frustrated. “Look, I’m going to leave the fucking reservation.” Reflexively, he patted his jeans pockets to locate his keys. They were there and so was his money, folded in a wad, deep in a front pocket.
“Huh, huh, huh…”
The panting came faster.
“The hell with this!” Keane threw the door back as hard as he could and charged out with Nascha at his heals. The door wobbled violently on its loose hinges, smacking against the inside of the shed and making a horrible racket. Keane winced, his bat up, ready for anything. What he saw surprised
