Dark Reservations by John Fortunato

brother, “What am I supposed to do? I can’t run after her.” He’d stopped driving when he started to lose his sight, so he just sat at home like a good invalid. He still wielded some power on the reservation, still had some friends—still had some enemies, too. He could find someone to pay a visit to one of her friends, but that would imply he still cared. He didn’t. Let her have her fun. He wouldn’t be around much longer. Didn’t want to be around much longer. Living was too much work now. Work and pain. As for him, they could put him in the ground tomorrow. A relic to be uncovered sometime in the future. A fitting end for an archaeologist.
    He tossed his shirt on top of the pile and spun his chair around. He wheeled through the living room, out the front door, and onto the porch.
    The Navajo Times lay there, wrapped with a rubber band. He bent and scooped it up, the effort making him breathe hard. He coughed. He smelled the air. The sage was strong and clean, energizing. As president, he had often told his constituents how much he loved the high desert and beautiful mesas, and how blessed the Navajo were to occupy their ancestral lands between the four sacred mountains. But after leaving office, he started telling the truth. He missed Vermont. He missed the deep greens and the vibrant colors of the Northeast. And more important, he missed the world-class hospitals there.
    He sat for several moments, enjoying the warm sunshine. Then he pulled off the rubber band and unfolded the paper. He focused on the top story. “Clue to Congressman Edgerton’s Disappearance Found on Reservation.” His hands shook as he read.
    S EPTEMBER 25
    S ATURDAY , 11:43 A.M.
    J ONES R ANCH R OAD , C HI C HIL T AH (N AVAJO N ATION ), N EW M EXICO
    Joe dropped to one knee, gun drawn. The sound of the shot had been close. Too close. He checked on the others. Bluehorse knelt by the fender. Mark’s head eased up to the driver-side window from within the car.
    Joe scanned the woods. Who the hell was shooting? And what were they shooting at?
    â€œPolice! Stop firing your weapon!”
    Another gunshot roared.
    It came from the east.
    Joe and Bluehorse moved behind the vehicle.
    â€œPolice! Stop shooting!”
    Silence.
    â€œGet out of there, Mark.” Joe said.
    Mark crawled through the passenger door on his hands and knees, staying low, below the dash.
    Bluehorse pointed in the direction of the shooter. “Maybe forty yards.”
    â€œSounds like a shotgun,” Mark said.
    Joe swept his weapon across the tree line.
    â€œAndi,” Joe shouted over his shoulder. “You all right?”
    Her voice came back immediately. “Right as rain!” She and the other agent were a little ways back, crouched behind trees. “Hunter?”
    â€œProbably,” Joe said.
    Another gunshot.
    â€œThis is the police! Stop firing your weapon!”
    â€œWhat do you want to do?” Mark asked.
    â€œLet’s move to contact before this asshole sends one our way,” Joe said. They made a quick plan. He would head toward the shooter. Bluehorse and Mark would flank right. Andi would stay behind to secure the scene, along with the other agent.
    He had worked with Andi many times over the years and would have preferred to go into the woods with her, but sometimes a situation dictated differently. Thankfully, Bluehorse and Mark both seemed more than capable of handling themselves. Some officers he’d encountered would have given him cause to worry. And he guessed his own squad may have felt that way about him.
    Another gunshot went off.
    â€œLet’s go.”
    They sprinted for the tree line.
    Joe’s adrenaline surged. Twenty steps and his heart was already hammering. His thoughts turned dark. Would he have a heart attack or catch a stray bullet from some yokel shooting cans? With less than ninety days till retirement, what the hell was he doing out here? This was the type