Page 18 of Badlands

Nora began walking the site, head down, looking for lithics, artifacts, or anything else of interest. She canvassed the swale, then made a loop around the finger of rock. But she found nothing—just sand and cactus.

She rejoined Corrie in the small puddle of shade at the bottom of the rock, took a long drink of water, then sat down to rest. “Why take off her clothes?”

“That’s the rub. I didn’t want to speculate too far with Sharp, but… well, part of me wonders if her going out here like this was a form of suicide.”

“Anything’s possible, of course. But if you want to kill yourself, dying of heatstroke and terminal dehydration is a pretty awful way to go.”

“No kidding.”

“Perhaps someone else was with her, forcing her to do it?”

“That’s a possibility,” said Corrie. “Remember that hogan we passed not far back? An old Navajo lady lives there. I really wish I could get her to talk.”

“You tried?”

“I did. She wouldn’t talk to me or a Navajo policeman. She was more interested in filling my ass with buckshot. I contacted the trader she sells her rugs to, but he couldn’t help, either.”

“On the way out, let me give it a try,” said Nora. “I speak a few words of Navajo.”

Corrie nodded dubiously. “Seen enough?”

“Sure have. I can’t wait to get back to the AC of that Tahoe.”

11

ABOUT FOUR MILESback down the rutted road, Corrie slowed the Tahoe and turned onto a dirt track. Up ahead, Nora could see a hogan and, behind it, a trailer and some sheep corrals.

“That’s it,” said Corrie.

“Stop here.”

Corrie brought the SUV to a stop a good hundred yards from the trailer.

“I’m going to get out. You stay in the car.”

“Remember, she’s got a shotgun,” said Corrie.

“They all do,” Nora said. She stepped out into the heat, put on her hat, and, leaning against the car, waited. The sun was so bright it was hard for her to see inside the trailer, and the door to the hogan was closed. It looked like nobody was there—except Nora knew the woman must be around somewhere. The sheep were in the corral, huddled in the shade of a shelter.

Five minutes went by, and finally the door of the hogan opened and a lady with iron-gray hair stepped out, a look of displeasure on her face. A shotgun was tucked in the crook of herarm, broken open and ready for loading. She made a dismissive gesture with her arm, warning them off.

“Yá’át’ééh shimasani”—Hello, Grandmother—Nora called out, hoping her pronunciation wasn’t too terrible.

The woman frowned and waved her off again.

“Haa’íílá nt’é?”How are you doing?

The woman scowled. Nora could see, in the dim interior behind her, a loom with a half-completed weaving.

“Bilagáana bizaadísh dinits’a’?”Do you speak English?

At this, the woman looked puzzled.

“Bilagáana bizaadísh dinits’a’?” Nora repeated. Navajo was such a tongue twister, she thought, she might be ordering moo shu pork without realizing it.

“Haash yinilyé?”What is your name?

At this, the woman’s face wrinkled up, and for a moment Nora thought she was going to drop two shells into the shotgun barrels—but then she realized the woman was laughing. Her thin, cackling voice came through the air, sounding like a cricket with hiccups.

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