placed it carefully inside, sealing the bag.
“Still here looking, eh?” Officer Brandan Oakley of the Arizona Highway Patrol stopped a few feet away from Peter. His boss had told him an independent investigator, sanctioned by the president himself, would be out here poking around.
“I’m just going over ground I’m sure you boys and the FBI have already covered. I’m Peter Enright.”
“Brandan Oakley. What are you looking for exactly?”
“I don’t really know.” Peter considered for a moment. “Tell me about this stretch of road.”
Oakley shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. It’s relatively quiet—all this,” he indicated his surroundings, “is Navajo country.”
“So on a Saturday, there wouldn’t normally be anyone around?”
Oakley scratched the stubble on his chin. “That depends. This is an area the locals sometimes mine for minerals, precious stones, plants, and things, but if anyone saw anything, they sure haven’t come forward.”
“Did you interview anyone?”
“We asked around the reservation. Seems like nobody saw or heard anything.”
“You believe them?”
“I don’t have any reason not to. Folks over there tend to mind their own business. They don’t have much use for outsiders and they keep mostly to themselves, but they’re generally cooperative. Other than some drunk and disorderlies and traffic infractions, they don’t cause much trouble.”
“Mmm.” Peter thought for a minute, making a mental note to pay a visit to the Chinle Navajos. “How did you come to find the car if this is such a ‘quiet’ area?”
Lynn Ames
“Got a call from a passing motorist who got out to take a picture. He got a good whiff of smoke and noticed the broken guardrail. When he looked over the edge, he saw the car—or what was left of it—sitting down there on its roof.”
“How long do you figure that was after the accident?”
“Don’t know for sure, but it had to be a while. The car was nothing more than charred bits of metal and upholstery.”
Peter tried to remain objective, but it was hard not to picture Jay driving along, suddenly catapulted into space. It must have been terrifying. He shook his head to clear the image from his mind. Knowing Jay as he did, she would have been wearing her seat belt, so it was unlikely that she would have been thrown clear of the vehicle.
“In your opinion, Officer Oakley, could anyone have survived that crash?”
“I’ve been over it a thousand times in my mind since that day. I just don’t see how, barring a miracle.”
Peter nodded, resuming his search.
“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, here’s my direct line. Give me a call,” Oakley said.
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
It was several hours later when Peter saw it. It was buried underneath dirt and rocks, just barely visible to the naked eye. He squatted in front of it, studying it for several seconds before pulling a pair of tweezers out of his chest pocket and freeing it—a miniscule piece of cloth, barely as big as his thumbnail, but recognizable in terms of its color and texture. He bagged the find, stood up, dusted himself off, and prepared to call it a day.
From the cover of the same ledge under which he had hidden from sight the day of the accident, Tommy watched the stranger intently.
Every time Tommy drove past the spot, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, yet he felt compelled to look. This was the first time he had seen someone here since the first few days after the crash. He would tell the tribal elders what he had seen.
“Slow down, Tommy.”
“But, sir…”
“It’s okay, son.”
“Describe this man to me again.” Ivan Perry, tribal council elder, held the boy by his shoulders.
“Tall—very tall, thin, sandy blond hair. He was wearing jeans, work boots, and a dark jacket.”
The Value of Valor
“Okay, Tommy. You’ve done well. You can go now.” When the boy had left, Ivan walked swiftly
“Still here looking, eh?” Officer Brandan Oakley of the Arizona Highway Patrol stopped a few feet away from Peter. His boss had told him an independent investigator, sanctioned by the president himself, would be out here poking around.
“I’m just going over ground I’m sure you boys and the FBI have already covered. I’m Peter Enright.”
“Brandan Oakley. What are you looking for exactly?”
“I don’t really know.” Peter considered for a moment. “Tell me about this stretch of road.”
Oakley shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. It’s relatively quiet—all this,” he indicated his surroundings, “is Navajo country.”
“So on a Saturday, there wouldn’t normally be anyone around?”
Oakley scratched the stubble on his chin. “That depends. This is an area the locals sometimes mine for minerals, precious stones, plants, and things, but if anyone saw anything, they sure haven’t come forward.”
“Did you interview anyone?”
“We asked around the reservation. Seems like nobody saw or heard anything.”
“You believe them?”
“I don’t have any reason not to. Folks over there tend to mind their own business. They don’t have much use for outsiders and they keep mostly to themselves, but they’re generally cooperative. Other than some drunk and disorderlies and traffic infractions, they don’t cause much trouble.”
“Mmm.” Peter thought for a minute, making a mental note to pay a visit to the Chinle Navajos. “How did you come to find the car if this is such a ‘quiet’ area?”
Lynn Ames
“Got a call from a passing motorist who got out to take a picture. He got a good whiff of smoke and noticed the broken guardrail. When he looked over the edge, he saw the car—or what was left of it—sitting down there on its roof.”
“How long do you figure that was after the accident?”
“Don’t know for sure, but it had to be a while. The car was nothing more than charred bits of metal and upholstery.”
Peter tried to remain objective, but it was hard not to picture Jay driving along, suddenly catapulted into space. It must have been terrifying. He shook his head to clear the image from his mind. Knowing Jay as he did, she would have been wearing her seat belt, so it was unlikely that she would have been thrown clear of the vehicle.
“In your opinion, Officer Oakley, could anyone have survived that crash?”
“I’ve been over it a thousand times in my mind since that day. I just don’t see how, barring a miracle.”
Peter nodded, resuming his search.
“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, here’s my direct line. Give me a call,” Oakley said.
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
It was several hours later when Peter saw it. It was buried underneath dirt and rocks, just barely visible to the naked eye. He squatted in front of it, studying it for several seconds before pulling a pair of tweezers out of his chest pocket and freeing it—a miniscule piece of cloth, barely as big as his thumbnail, but recognizable in terms of its color and texture. He bagged the find, stood up, dusted himself off, and prepared to call it a day.
From the cover of the same ledge under which he had hidden from sight the day of the accident, Tommy watched the stranger intently.
Every time Tommy drove past the spot, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, yet he felt compelled to look. This was the first time he had seen someone here since the first few days after the crash. He would tell the tribal elders what he had seen.
“Slow down, Tommy.”
“But, sir…”
“It’s okay, son.”
“Describe this man to me again.” Ivan Perry, tribal council elder, held the boy by his shoulders.
“Tall—very tall, thin, sandy blond hair. He was wearing jeans, work boots, and a dark jacket.”
The Value of Valor
“Okay, Tommy. You’ve done well. You can go now.” When the boy had left, Ivan walked swiftly
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