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  "Don't move around too much," she cautioned, crouching at the waitress's side. "I'll have a medical team here in a flash." From the amount of blood on her clothes, Ella was surprised the woman hadn't gone into shock.

  "Thank God it's over," one of the men said, struggling to stand.

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  "No! Everyone stay down and don't move until the SWAT team says it's okay," Ella announced. "When they come in they won't know who any of us is. They could shoot somebody by mistake."

  She grabbed the receiver from the floor. The cop had held on. "It's over, guys. The perp is down. Come on in, we need two med teams fast!"

  She pocketed the derringer and moved to Jeremy's side. A bullet had pierced his rib cage. He was unconscious, but his breathing was steady. He'd make it. She'd seen others come through worse and Jeremy was a fighter. "Hang in there, buddy."

  Within seconds, cops were all over the coffee shop. Ella stood aside, watching the paramedics work while the officers helped the unharmed hostages to their feet and took their statements.

  Ella leaned against the wall, relieved that the only life lost had been the gunman's.

  A plainclothes detective came to take her statement, commenting, "You'll undoubtedly get a commendation for what you did. This could have been a real bloodbath." His gaze fell on the bag with the ammunition and explosives. Its contents had already been rendered safe by a SWAT team ordnance specialist. "He was ready for a siege."

  "Worse. He wanted to become a martyr, one guy fighting the system."

  The coffee shop patrons were being led out by police officers. Most flashed grateful smiles or asked to shake her hand. One elderly woman stopped and gave her a hug. "Thank you so very much," she said, in tears. "I'll be praying for you—and for that poor man's soul."

  As the woman left, Ella spotted her partner entering the diner. "Dennis, I'm over here." She waved briefly.

  Dennis Anderson looked like the ex-Marine, ex-college quarterback he'd been before getting into law enforcement. With his well-fitting suit and regulation dark glasses, he had FBI agent stamped all over him.

  "So much for your quiet supper after a tough day," he commented. "Lucky for the patrons that this is your favorite hangout."

  She nodded slowly, her gaze drifting over to one of the pools of blood that had started to congeal on the tile floor. "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you were in the neighborhood and decided to drop by."

  "The special agent in charge asked me to find you. He's been trying to raise you on the radio."

  "What's the boss want with me?"

  "He was probably trying to verify your whereabouts. My guess is that he got a call that you were involved in a hostage situation."

  "Yeah, that makes sense."

  "Let me give you a ride downtown to the bureau offices. You're in no shape to drive. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you look like shit warmed over."

  "Gee, thanks. I think you look like crap too," she countered with a wry grin.

  "I'm serious. Finish giving the detective your statement, then let's get rolling."

  "Sorry, Agent Anderson," the police detective said, joining them. "But we'll need Agent Clah to come down and help wrap this up for our captain. I doubt she'll be going anywhere until very late tonight."

  "How about extending a little professional courtesy here? She can come in tomorrow."

  "No way. The captain wants to get a full account while it's all fresh in her mind. He wants any statement he re-

  leases to the public to be complete and accurate. We also need your weapons for a ballistic comparison/' he said to Ella, holding out his hand.

  "Wait a second/' Dennis Anderson clipped. "Our agents are required to be armed at all times."

  "Then the bureau can drop off replacements at the station," the detective countered.

  Ella glanced at Dennis. "A derringer and my Sig. Both are bureau-approved, so they'll have replacements."

  Dennis nodded. "I'll make sure new weapons are waiting for you when you leave."

  "Thanks, Dennis," Ella answered.

  "Come on," the detective said, glancing at Ella. "IT1 give you a ride downtown."

  "No, thanks. Ill follow you in my car." She was tired, and in no mood to be agreeable. Besides, once they were finished with her, she didn't intend to hang around, waiting for a lift back to her vehicle. She'd go home, call her boss, then sleep for the next twelve hours.

  It was close to midnight by the time the honchos in the downtown L.A. station had asked their last question. Ella drove carefully to her apartment, concentrating on staying awake.

  Bone weary, she inserted the key in the lock of the thick metal door and turned the heavy deadbolt back with a thud. As she stepped into the room, Ella heard the beep of her answering machine.

  "Now what?" she mumbled, automatically sweeping her gaze around the kitchen/dining/living room of her tiny apartment to see if anything had been disturbed. Her little color TV and cassette player were still in place. They would

  be the first things taken. Break-ins were an everyday occurrence in the city, and her instincts never slowed, even at home. Navajos learned as children that the world was a dangerous place, and Los Angeles was a perfect example.

  Ignoring the incessant beep and flashing red light of the machine, Ella took a precautionary stroll around the place before slipping off her holster and dropping the new pistol onto the bed.

  Except for a few photos of her family on her tiny desk, the furnished apartment was pretty much as it had been the day she moved in. Neat, clean, and simple, the way she liked it. Ella kicked off her shoes and strolled back into the other room, stopping at her machine. There were two messages, at least one probably from her office.

  Pressing the rewind button, she reached for the volume control and turned it up. "Ella?" the message began, then there was a sound that could have been a sob. Ella's heart fell into her stomach, and she turned up the volume even more. She hated those in-the-middle-of-the-night calls; they were never good news.

  There was a long pause, then the message continued. "This is your mother ... there's been ... something terrible has happened ... uh ... please call me right away ..."

  Without waiting for the next message, Ella turned off the machine and grabbed the phone, punching out the numbers automatically. Her hand was shaking, and she had to redial twice. Finally there was a distant sound of ringing, as if she were really listening to the family phone back in New Mexico. Her mother picked up on the second ring.

  "Hello. Ella? Is that you?" Her mother's voice was weak and strained.

  "Yes, I just got home. What's wrong?" Ella tried not to

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  let the fear show in her voice. "Has Dad been in an accident?"

  "No, not an accident. It's ..." Rose began sobbing, and Ella's mouth suddenly went very dry. "Could you come home? He's been murdered."

  "I'm coming, Mom, right away. I'll call back in a few minutes and let you know when. Bye." Ella hung up and started thumbing through the yellow pages, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold on to it. This was the first time her mother had ever asked her for anything.

  Then she remembered the second message. Setting down the phone book, open to the airline section, she played the other message. Just as she'd figured, it was the special agent in charge, asking her to call as soon as she got in.

  Dialing, Ella tried to clear her throat. Whatever it was would have to wait. No matter the cost, job or no job, she was going to New Mexico tomorrow.

  BLACKENING SONG X 29

  hero of a romance novel: tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with chiseled features and a square jaw. But somehow, in Henry, the total was less than the sum of the parts. He looked like a Cro-Magnon who'd taken up weight lifting.

  "You talk to anyone back on the reservation yet?" he asked softly when Ella stepped into his office.

  "I spoke to my mother last night. I also telephoned tribal police headquar
ters in Window Rock," she answered, determined to keep her voice even and cool. "They wouldn't give me any details about the murder, but they implied the case was far from ordinary. That didn't exactly come as a surprise. When the murder of a Navajo preacher makes the Los Angeles newspapers ..."

  "You did a helluva job yesterday, on and off duty. I'm really sorry about your father." He slid an open file across his desk. The topmost fax was a copy of the Navajo tribal police report. "I'm doing this as a courtesy, Ella. But this isn't, nor will it be, your case. Is that understood?"

  "But the bureau will get involved. It's within our jurisdiction."

  "Yes, but you won't be working on the case. That's bureau policy."

  She studied the file. The coroner's report was preliminary, mostly listing the condition of the body when it had been found. Yet even those sketchy details were enough to make bile rise to the back of her throat. It took all her willpower to school her face into neutrality. "Unless you have a member of our tribe handling this, you'll get nowhere," she said at last. "There are unusual facets to this case. It isn't easy for an outsider to conduct any investigation on the Rez. But this one will be impossible."

  "You have an idea who killed him?" Estrada's eyebrows rose.

  "No. All I can tell you is that my father's religious vocation, and the zealous way he pursued it, angered many Navajos. My mother wrote me less than a month ago about some anonymous threats made against him. When I called home, he told me it was the work of some old enemies. They were upset because his preaching was leading the People away from traditional beliefs. He didn't think anything would come of it.

  "It's an age-old problem. But to find my father's enemies, you'll have to understand the Dineh and our ways."

  "That problem is being dealt with. The bureau will work hand in hand with the tribal police."

  "When will the coroner's report be complete?"

  "I don't know, but there's no reason for you to see that." He looked her right in the eye and held her gaze.

  She knew this was her boss's way of warning her to stay away from the investigation. To Navajos, eye-to-eye contact was considered a confrontation, and Estrada knew that. Still, Ella couldn't back off.

  "I need an extended leave of absence. I'll have to get my father's affairs in order and help my mother cope with what's happened."

  "You can have up to a week with pay."

  "I appreciate that, but I'll need longer, even without pay."

  "How long?"

  She couldn't afford to pull her punches now. "Sir, I helped crack the fraud case that kept this office tied up for months, and I worked alone to resolve that hostage situation yesterday. Thirty days shouldn't be out of the question under the circumstances."

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  Estrada took a deep breath, then let it out again. "If I hear that you're investigating the case, I'll have the local police bring you up on charges for obstructing justice. Clear?"

  "Abundantly."

  He continued to hold her gaze with an unblinking one of his own. "Thirty days is pushing it. I'll approve your request, but anything more than that could jeopardize your career."

  Relief began to uncoil the knots in her stomach. It hadn't been as hard as she'd expected. "Thank you, Henry."

  He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Let me know as soon as you're ready to come back. If you can make it in three weeks or less, so much the better."

  She nodded once. "Can you tell me who has been assigned to the case?"

  "No, but it'll be someone from the New Mexico office, or a resident agent near the reservation. I'm sure you'll be contacted. Help with background on your father will be appreciated. Interference will not." Estrada's voice was firm.

  Ella left his office and quickly filled out the reports and request forms she needed. By the end of the morning, she intended to have a full load of gear, including extra weapons and ammunition, ready to ship next-day delivery to her mother's home. Then she'd book the next flight there.

  As she worked, Ella found herself wishing she could honor Estrada's order not to get involved. But her boss didn't understand—she was already involved. The facts she'd gleaned from the police report suggested the murder had ritualistic overtones, things no Navajo would ever discuss with an outsider. Ella was the only hope of catching her father's killer.

  n X AIMEE & PAVIP THURLO

  She arrived in Farmington the following morning, feeling as rumpled and stale as week-old laundry. Though she'd slept on the red-eye special out of Los Angeles, she'd been stuck with a three-hour layover in Albuquerque. The final leg of the journey had been the worst. The thirty-minute flight had been a bumpy, quick climb, and a roller-coaster descent.

  As she stepped out of the plane and walked across the concrete runway to the small Farmington terminal, doubts crowded her mind. She hadn't been home in six years, and for a brief moment she felt again like the shy, insecure girl she'd been most of her life. But as she glanced across the green San Juan River valley city of Farmington, the feeling passed. Those days were gone. She was a woman now, aware of her capabilities and her limitations. In accepting both, she'd found her strength.

  She was on her way to claim her one suitcase when a face, and a voice, from the past startled her.

  "Hey, little cousin! I had to come to Fannington today to mail off some evidence to the state lab, so your mother asked me to give you a ride home. Sorry to welcome you back to civilization under these circumstances, though."

  She glanced at Peterson Yazzie's khaki-brown uniform, noting that he was now a tribal police sergeant. According to her mother, he hoped to someday become tribal police chief.

  "Good to see you again," she said, knowing Peterson was stationed at the Shiprock office. He might be able to tell her if any new evidence had been uncovered. She retrieved her suitcase quickly. "I'm going to be involved in the investigation," Ella added, choosing to leave out the fact that this was in no way an official involvement. "What's been happening here?"

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  "I wish I had answers for you," he said guardedly.

  "I've been away for a long time, but we are cousins/' she said, trying to keep barriers from being erected. She was aware that some of the people she'd known on the Rez thought she'd become an outsider.

  "We don't really know much. Your dad was on the way home from the site where he plans ... planned to build his church. He'd been having open-air services there already. For some reason, he stopped a few miles from home and got out of his pickup. We found his body fifteen feet from the road."

  "He wouldn't have stopped without a darned good reason. There'd been threats against him."

  "What threats?"

  "Nobody told you?" She exhaled softly. "I should have figured that."

  "Fill me in."

  "Mother wrote me that he'd gotten some threatening phone calls, and that he'd received some notes."

  "Why didn't he come to us?"

  "Dad didn't take it seriously. He blamed it on the traditionalists. It's the same fight they've been having since I was a kid. To be honest, I didn't take it seriously either."

  Peterson nodded slowly. "But now it's a lead we can't afford to ignore. Can you get your mother to turn over those notes to me?"

  "She may not still have them, but I'll ask."

  Ella followed Peterson to his tribal police car. She'd intended to rent a vehicle, but for the time being this suited her better. She wanted to get all the information she could before Peterson realized she wasn't actually assigned to the case. She'd made no false claims, so she didn't feel too bad about the subterfuge.

  "I understand that my father's murder had some unusual, maybe even ritualistic, elements. Can you tell me what you know about that?"

  He turned away, and she could see how hard he worked to not let his feelings show. That effort frightened her more than anything he could have said. "I'll take you to view the body. I'd rather you see this for yourself."

  To handle the body
of someone who'd met a violent death was thought to be dangerous, for the chindi was said to linger nearby. Ella didn't believe in the chindi, and she was certain Peterson didn't completely believe either, but some traditions were too ingrained to cast aside easily.

  "Has my aunt Merilyn come to stay with my mom? I don't think Clifford will be much help."

  "He isn't," Peterson said, then shook his head. "What I meant to say is that we haven't been able to locate him. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He goes off by himself for weeks at a time."

  Something about Peterson's tone made Ella's throat go dry. "How long has he been gone?"

  Peterson took a long, deep breath. "The last time anyone saw him was the night of your father's murder."

  Forty minutes later, they arrived at the coroner's office, a small cubicle down a side corridor at the public health hospital in Shiprock. By then a thick, uncomfortable silence had descended between them. Although Peterson hadn't said anything more, the implication was clear. Ella's brother Clifford had fought against everything their father stood for. Obviously, he was a suspect.

  Ella followed Peterson down an empty corridor filled with the overwhelming scent of pine disinfectant. She hated

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  morgues. No matter how many times investigations brought her to such places, she couldn't get used to them. Death seemed to echo back at her with each hollow clack her shoes made on the sealed concrete floor.

  Her father was dead—she knew that, yet in defiance of logic she still hoped to discover that it had all been a horrible mistake, that some other man's body was lying on the metal table inside.

  "I'm glad you're here," Peterson said, interrupting her thoughts. "I wasn't looking forward to working with that bilagdana agent, Blalock. He demands instant answers, and never understands when none is given."