Cyber Way

CHAPTER 5

On vehicles that had been left in the parking structure for more than a couple of days he noticed a fine coating of what looked like rust but which on closer inspection turned out to be russet-colored dust. He wiped some off the nearest car and rubbed the grit between his fingers, suspecting this too was something he might become unwillingly intimate with in the days to come.

Ooljee led him to a stocky, non-aerodynamic vehicle mounted on oversized tires. The normally exposed back end was covered with an extended accordion cabover. The sergeant unsecured it electronically, popped the back door so his companion could dump his luggage in the rear. Then they climbed into the passenger compartment.

Moody watched as Ooljee entered the ignition combination and waited for the control LCD to light. Without waiting for the engine to warm up, he backed them out of the official parking space and headed for the exit. Map lights winked on the navigation screen. Moody recognized the uncertainty pattern and queried his companion.

“I’m not set up to patrol in Klagetoh,” Ooljee explained, “so they don’t issue me road software.”

The exit gate flashed them through. Ooljee deftly negotiated the maze leading out of the airport, avoiding the town as he headed for the Interstate.

Once clear of commercial traffic he entered their destination into the dash. The onboard navigation unit confirmed the entry and they began to accelerate. Ooljee let go of the wheel and relaxed. Beneath their feet, the ROM laser tracked the guide strip laminated to the pavement, coordinating speed and direction with all vehicles ahead and behind. Unless Ooljee altered the entry manually, they would travel the rest of the way into Ganado on automatic.

“You always work out of a pickup truck?” Moody asked conversationally.

“Old traditions die hard. This is standard issue transportation for plainclothes work. A department road cruiser would look more familiar to you, except that it would also come with four-wheel drive and steering. The roads on the Rez are much improved over the last hundred years, but there are still plenty of places that will destroy a normal vehicle. That is tradition too. Like the sandpainting.” He looked to his right as they passed a private vehicle stuck by the side of the road.

“Family breakdown. Help will arrive soon. Tradition is why I was able to get into this Kettrick business. For a lot of the people who work in the department, tradition is who won the league title two years ago. Now me, I have always been interested in the old ways.”

At a touch, a locked compartment in the dash dropped open. He fumbled through a disorganized, highly compacted mass of papers, opdisks, and mollyboxes until he found a color fax. Moody recognized the Kettrick painting.

“I have been working with this a lot since your department contacted ours asking for information. I’ve already run it through the files at the Museum of Northern Arizona, the Navaho Museum in Window Rock, and the University of New Mexico at Gallup. My friend, there are hundreds of sandpaintings, each distinctively different, and this one does not match up with any of them. There are individual elements which do, but they are drawn oddly and make no historical sense in the context in which they appear. It is very peculiar. I have talked to specialists in all three places about it and they agree they have never seen anything quite like it.

“Of course, I am only a policeman and they are only academics. We all agree that only a hatathli with much experience and a very active imagination could make anything out of this. His interpretation might not be accurate, but it would certainly be entertaining.”

Moody shifted in the seat. It was worn but comfortable. “So what you’re telling me is that nobody has any idea what it means.”

“That is what I am being told.” The engine hummed as they began to climb. He ran his finger over the fax. “There are figures and shapes and designs in this painting that some say are wholly nontraditional in origin. Other experts are not so certain. That is not to say the designs are meaningless; only that I have been unable so far to find anyone able to tell me what they mean.”

Moody stuck out his lower lip. “We assumed that it sure as hell meant something to the son of a bitch who murdered Kettrick and his housekeeper.”

“I tend to agree. I do not subscribe to the theory that we are dealing with a crazed collector.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not see a collector, even an insane one, destroying what he has gone to so much trouble to collect. I think it was the substance of the sandpainting the killer wanted, more than the original itself.” He looked thoughtful. “When we catch him I will be very anxious to ask him about that.”

“Ask all y’all want. I’ll settle for catching him.” Ooljee glanced at his colleague. “Your interests parallel but do not always duplicate mine. That is understandable.”

He turned forward again, lost in his own thoughts.

It gave Moody time to study the countryside through which they were passing. Paralleling the Interstate to the south were the four major east-west maglide tubes, shooting cargo and the occasional passenger car between Los Angeles and Albuquerque or the Montezuma Strip.

They hadn’t spent five minutes on the Interstate before the truck ducked down an off-ramp and crossed onto highway 191 running north. A glowing sign flashed past. METROPOLITAN GANADO—40 MILES

“That’s where you’re based?” Moody inquired.

The sergeant nodded. “Window Rock’s still the capital, but Ganado’s the commercial center of the Rez. Has been for over a century. You’ll be seeing high-rises pretty soon.”

They were already in among sprawling assembly and manufacturing plants, Moody noted. “Nothing personal,” he said as they passed mile after mile of faceless industrial facilities interspersed with residential dormitories and service structures, “but surely you folks don’t own all of these?”

“No, but we are in most of them. There are not enough of us to fill the demand for skilled techs, let alone the uhskilled positions. A lot of Hispanics and Filipinos live and work on the Rez. Plus Anglos, of course. And Nicarags, ever since the big eruption that wiped out Managua back in sixty-five. Asians mostly in the administrative posts.” With a wave of his hand he encompassed the teeming industrial landscape.

“Most of the businesses here are tripartite joint ventures between Navahopis, Anglos, and Orientals. Isn’t it the same where you come from?”

Moody shook his head. “Greater Tampa’s still primarily a retirement and recreation city. Oh, there’s plenty of industry, but not a lot of high-tech. Humidity’s not good for electronics.”

“That is a problem we do not have here.”

They drove in silence interrupted only by Ooljee’s occasional checks with his office. Only much later did he venture to ask, “I don’t suppose any neighbors reported hearing any singing from the victim’s house around the time of the murder?”

Moody was taken aback. “Singing? Why? You think our nut’s the kind who celebrates over a kill?”

“Not exactly that. It is only that we are operating on the premise that our suspect is Navaho, or at least someone with detailed knowledge of Navaho custom. A hatathli always chants when destroying a sandpainting. I would give a lot to know if our killer is a hatathli. It would narrow the list of potential suspects considerably.”

Moody could not keep the irritation out of his reply. “No, as far as I know, nobody heard any singing.”

This sandpainting business was beginning to get to him. He’d been in the Southwest less than an hour and already he wanted out. Medicine men and chants! If any of this ever made it back to Tampa he’d have to deal with the jokes for years.

He tried to concentrate on the terrain. It was spectacular, but far too sweeping and barren for his taste. He preferred calmer horizons softened by the irregular green of tropical trees and framed by the glint of sunlight on still waters, not endless mesas that ran like veins of rust through a harsh blue sky. It was beautiful, sure, but to him, lifeless. And the lack of moisture in the air was making him itch.

He was only here to serve as a liaison, he reminded himself; to offer what aid he could while reporting back to Tampa on any local progress, which according to Ooljee was practically nil. He could back off from this hatathli nonsense and stick to standard police procedure.

If, he told himself suddenly, Ooljee wasn’t simply having some fun at his expense and setting him up for a few good gags with his buddies at the station. Sure, that made plenty of sense! He could envision it clearly: the paleface sucker from Florida somberly questioning other Navahos about sandpaintings and medicine men. He smiled to himself. Ooljee was good, and his guest had nearly bought it. Nearly.

Well, two could play. Moody would smile and nod and appear to take it all seriously, and when the time came, he’d be the one to deliver the punch lines. Ooljee was a good guy and a good cop. He was only having a little fun.

Just as Moody had it all figured, the sergeant threw him a big, fat, sweeping curve.

“I have been devoting some time and thought to the matter of a motive.”

“You ain’t been the only one, brother.”

“The sandpainting is the obvious solution. What we do not know is the question. I think whoever wanted it, or a copy of it, needed it for a particular reason, and not to complete a collection. It may be that this particular sandpainting was used against the murderer in the past, or against his family, or a close friend. Or it may have been employed against a stranger who hired the murderer.

“By destroying it according to tradition he may have been removing the threat it presented to someone. You would call it an exorcism.”

Lordy, mused Moody. Just when common sense had been reasserting its good ol’ self.

“If this guy can electrocute people by an as yet undetermined method, why the hell would he need to trash a bunch of colored sand? You ain’t trying to tell me we’re dealing with something like voodoo, are you?”

“It provides a rationale for a seemingly irrational act,” Ooljee argued. “The underlying principle is the same. To affect another, they need only believe they can be affected. ”

“This is starting to affect me,” Moody grumbled.

“It does offer us a motive.”

Moody eyed him sharply. “You don’t really believe in any of this scrim, do you?”

The sergeant sidestepped the question. “What matters is that someone else may. People who believe are people capable of anything.”

“So we’re back where we started,” Moody murmured. “The guy’s a nut.”

“People have killed for stranger reasons: because their god or their devil told them to, or simply because they didn’t like the cast of another man ’ s eyes, or the tone of his voice. ” Moody couldn’t argue with that. He’d seen it happen too often on Tampa’s mean streets.

“It does not matter,” Ooljee went on, “that we are dealing only with a pile of colored sand and pulverized masonite. What is significant is that whoever did the damage may believe that the sandpainting had real power. It gives us a new line to pursue. There are ways of checking such things. Not as thoroughly or efficiently as I would like, but we can make a beginning.”

“Right.” Moody relaxed a little. It was a relief to find out that Ooljee had had a serious goal from the start.

Beyond the fact that Ganado served as the commercial center of a major high-tech manufacturing area, Moody knew nothing about the city. As they drew within sight of the first towers, however, he knew he was going to have to discard many of his preconceptions.

Fanciful spires rose from massive office blocks that had seemingly been integrated elsewhere and then laid down intact atop the high desert plateau. Not one of the buildings could properly be called old, every one of them having been erected within the last century. Patterned after the rugged buttes and monuments he’d seen from the air, the structures appeared a part of the landscape, as though escarpments and mesas had been hollowed out and overlaid with glass and plexan and composites. Climate-controlled pedways connected the major buildings above street level, soaring

arteries of spun composite and metallic glass.

Downtown, the tall buildings shut out the sun. New construction was going up everywhere. Moody was assaulted by advertisements in a dozen languages. He might as well have been in Manhattan. Only the buildings themselves hewed to a smaller scale.

The peculiar squiggles and curves on many signs which he thought comprised some unknown Middle Eastern language were in fact, according to Ooljee, components of written Navaho.

“Until the early part of the twentieth century there was no such thing as written Navaho.” The sergeant eased their truck around a slow delivery van. “It may look confusing, but writing it is nothing compared to trying to learn the grammar. And you should see what Hopi looks like!” He uttered a nasal melange of consonants and gutturals.

“For something so difficult to write, it sounds beautiful. It is much like singing. The Chinese understand.”

As he tried to make sense of his companion’s linguistic discourse, Moody studied the hovering, acrobatic laser ads. Downtown Ganado was a stroboscopic maze of holos and cold neon, of plasma sculptures that beckoned and danced and teased tired travelers. They alternately tickled and battered the senses not only in English, Hopi, Navaho, and Zuni, but also in Japanese, Mandarin, Thai, Bahasa Indonesia, Malay, Tagalog, and the inescapable Spanish of the South American community.

“How much of this can you understand?” Moody inquired dazedly, more than a little overwhelmed by his unexpectedly cosmopolitan surroundings.

“Some Spanish. A little Japanese and Thai. A few words of Malay, plus my English and Navaho. Not as much Hopi as I should. You should hear the patter of some of the local street gangs. In the old days they used spray cans on the walls. Procter and Gamble’s graffiti-out took care of that.

Now they mark their territories in other ways.

“You can’t walk through certain parts of town without triggering a playback voc stuck to a ledge. It does not bother the standup citizens, because what comes out sounds like gibberish to them, but I have seen such messages drive other gang members to distraction.

“You take all those languages I just listed for you and mix them all up with street slang as a catalyst and the result is something we have to use a Cribm molly to decipher. It does not make street work easy.”

“How’s ya’ll’s gang problem here?”

“No worse than that of a city of similar size, though when you have so much new money and excitement concentrated all in one place you are always going to have trouble. There are many wealthy local people and, as always, many poor ones as well. Some of the young poor join gangs, as they always have everywhere. They run phar-macuties, weapons, industrial stats and information, the same way gangs have supported themselves since the beginning of time. I am told it is a little more intense here than some other places. We have unique problems of cultural as well as fiscal disenfranchisement.

“It helps that every major high-tech corporation in the world would like to do work here. It took them a while to discover that the people of the Four Comers region are the best high-tech workers on the planet. There are plants here that literally turn out zero-defect product. Combine those human resources with the unique tax advantages available to multinationals on the Rez and you have a combination irresistible to many companies. Our street people and our problems reflect this influx of outside influence and money.”

So did the ethnic mix that swarmed the walkways, Moody noted. Between the Indians and Asians and Hispanics, Anglos were a distinct minority here, just as they were in parts of Tampa. It did not bother him. He’d been in the minority all his life. Fat people were an unrecognized minority all their own.

He had to agree that this would be a tough town to police. You’d need specialists in a whole range of languages and cultures. Tampa’s ethnic mix of Anglo, Black, and Hispanic was much more straightforward, whereas Ganado was a seething southwestern bouillabaisse.

“Your people aren’t restricted to assembly work, though?”

“Oh, no. We own our share, individually and through the Council Enterprises. You can always tell if a building is Navaho-owned. Whether it is an apartment building, office complex, shopping tower or private home, the entrance will always face east.” He hesitated. “I am sorry. This is a lot for you to absorb all at once, and you just got off the plane.”

“No problem.”

‘‘Well, you won’t meet many Hopis, so don’t worry about that. They have their own commercial center over at Seba Delkai. The Zunis stick mostly to New Mexico. But if you have trouble with any Navaho, just smile and say ‘doo ahashyaa da.’”

“Do a hashee duh,” Moody essayed. Ooljee repeated the phrase slowly and carefully until he was sure Moody had it reasonably correct.

“What am I saying?” Moody asked him.

“It will tell people that you are a stranger here, not to be feared, and in need of assistance. I assure you they will be instantly sympathetic. Few Anglos make any attempt to learn Navaho. This will endear you to anyone you meet. It is a useful greeting phrase, though not readily translatable. Just like yatahey is Navaho for shalom.”

“Say what?”

“Never mind. Just stick with doo ahashyaa da and you will be okay no matter who you meet.”

“Except for the guy we’re after.”

“Yes. I do not think he will be instantly sympathetic to anyone. I would give a great deal to know if we are dealing with someone medically certifiable.”

“I doubt it. A nut wouldn’t be able to hide his tracks this well.”

“Not necessarily. A sane person is somewhat predictable. A crazy one is not. He could be more difficult to locate because of that.”

“Unless some other sandpainting collector gets himself blown away.” Moody nodded out the window. “I’ve seen some paintings in a few storefronts, haven’t I?”

Ooljee nodded. “Downtown is the center of the important tourist and shopping areas. It would be unusual if you had not seen any sandpaintings by now.”

“Nobody uses the patterns for anything else? Advertising, maybe?”

“Oh, no. That would be like making underwear out of the American flag. Eye-catching but unsettling. It is interesting that even those who insist they are completely modem and do not believe in the old ways would never do such a thing. It might make your business go bust or your building fall down. The one per cent uncertainty factor, remember? “Here is something else you might find of interest.” Ooljee switched off the laser pickup and resumed manual control of the truck, turning left and heading down an incline into a natural basin in the plateau. Ancient trees lined a stream through which water ran lazily. The land had been turned into a park, preserving the old trees and a cluster of aged buildings. Rocks had been sculpted into pleasing shapes or benches on which old people and young couples relaxed.

“This is what remains of old Ganado. This is what all this country used to look like. The only silicon and gallium arsenide at this spot is in the ground. Not that anybody uses that stuff much anymore anyway. The park idealizes things a little but I have seen old two-D pictures of the area. The simulation is accurate.” He pointed to his left, at a hill fringed with gleaming towers.

“They even saved the old Hubbell Trading Post. It occupies the lobby of the new one on Betatkin Boulevard.” He sat staring at the unhurried stream, the couples wandering along its modest banks. “Have you got a place to stay?” Moody shook his head. “My department told me to check in anywhere comfortable.”

“I see. Then you will of course stay with me.”

“Hey, no chance! First off you probably don’t have a bed that’ll fit me.”

‘‘I think we can manage something, if you don’t mind sleeping a little on the diagonal.”

“And second of all, there’s no way I’m gonna put you and your wife out on my behalf.”

“Are you a noisy person?”

“I’m not likely to play shuntbuzz all night, if that’s what you mean. But that’s not the point. The point is…”

“The point, my friend, is that it would be rude of you to refuse my hospitality. Perhaps I can convince you another way. How are you to pay for your accommodations here? Are you using a department card?”

“Card, but…”

“Restricted?”

“Of course.”

“Then you are functioning on a per diem designed to cover your daily expenses while you are working with us. A per diem you receive as a supplement to your salary regardless of how you spend it. If you choose to stay in an expensive place, you have to cover the difference out of your own pocket. But if you choose to live cheaply, you have a balance you can spend at your own discretion. That is how we operate here.”

“It’s the same in Tampa,” Moody admitted.

“Which means that if you stay with us, the money which would otherwise go toward your room and board will be

yours to pocket. Would that not help to compensate somewhat for being sent to a part of the country you dislike so intensely?”

“Hey, I never said I didn’t like it here. Hell, I just got here.”

“Your expression speaks eloquently even when your mouth is closed.”

“What’s that?” Moody was angry at having been so transparent. “An old Navaho saying?”

“No. Actually I got it from an Italian variety show that was on the RAI transponder last week. What do you say?” Moody didn’t want to start the week by insulting the guy he was going to be working with. By the same token, the thought of spending time in a cramped little apartment with kids underfoot—hadn’t Ooljee said something earlier about kids?—struck him as less than appealing. But he didn’t see how he could turn down the offer.

“I’ll give it a try,” he said reluctantly, “but none of this ‘board’ business. I’ll pay for my own food or you’ll be broke inside a week.”

“All right.” Ooljee grinned. “But I warn you. My wife loves to cook. She is an experimental gourmet and will be delighted to have a new vict—guest, to try out her latest recipes on. As to what you do with your money, that is up to you. The pleasures of full-time police work are few, and should be indulged in whenever possible.”

They enjoyed the park for a while longer. Then Ooljee rolled up the windows and reprogrammed the onboard. The engine revved softly as the laser pickup exchanged information with the nav strip embedded in the pavement of the parking lot. The truck backed, turned itself around, and departed.

Now that his plans were settled, Moody was able to devote his time to examining the exotica of urban Ganado. He was especially intrigued by the kids’ attire, an eclectic and inventive combination of all that Asia and America had to offer. It would have looked out of place back in Tampa. Here it all belonged.

He made Ooljee slow down so he could study an exceptionally attractive young woman. Her black hair was crested by a pair of dyed-blond aerodynamic curls that swept up, around, and out from the sides of her head. Silver wire shimmered among the obsidian strands. The rest of her outfit consisted of red leather jacket and skirt dripping with buttons and carved fetishes, bits and fragments of salvaged componentry, reflective plastic boots, and a false tail built up out of twisted silver.

Ooljee watched his colleague watching. “The hairdo is traditional Hopi. The decorations are not.”

“How do they keep it up like that?” Moody marveled at the gravity-defying array.

“It’s an old technique, though the girl is probably Navaho. There has been a lot of intermixing the last fifty years. Would have been more, but old enmities die hard.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I’m from the South.” As they turned westward they left the city center with its glitz and flash behind, entering an area crowded with individual homes, apartment buildings, and service structures. Cedar and stunted pine grew densely on uncleared land.

“You do not have much of what I would call a Southern accent, my friend.”

“Accents disappear fast in Metropolitan Florida.” Moody shifted in his seat. “It ain’t like living out in the country, on the family place. You find accents in Georgia and Sip, but Florida’s full of folks from all over everywhere. In that respect it’s a lot like L.A. I know Cubanos who sound like they’re from Chicago, not Havana.”

“Traditions are stronger here and down in the Strip,” Ooljee replied. “You’ve probably heard about the Strip. Imagine a whole cluster of Ganados strung out along the Border. A good place for a man to lose himself. So we are concentrating our search here and there. Our suspect has a real dilemma. He could go to Portland, say, where he would stand out but where the search is not as intense, or he can stay here where he blends in naturally and try to hide. Me, I think he is around here somewhere.” High beams from an oncoming truck dimmed tardily, highlighting the sergeant’s face.

“You are not married?”

“Been there.” Moody stared out the window as they rushed past a gleaming all-night market. “Twice. It ain’t easy being married to a cop.”

“My wife and I seem to have no trouble. I try not to bring my work home, and I think that helps. You look healthy. No serious on-the-job injuries?”

“I’ve been shot at a few times. Lucky so far. I do a lot of research for the rest of the department. After a while, you find out what you’re good at and stick to that. Neither my mental, physical or work profile suits me for chasing outgrabed crazyboys down dark alleys.”

“I know you must be good at what you do or your department would not have chosen you to come here. You are probably an expert at observation and at putting disparate elements together. Like sandpainting.”

“Nothing personal,” said Moody sharply, “and while it’s central to the case, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t keep bringing that up.”

Ooljee glanced at him in surprise. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not a superstitious guy and I’m getting tired of it. I can’t tell when you’re putting me on and when y’all are being serious, and it’s making me uncomfortable, okay? I’m a rational empiricist, or whatever the hell it is they’re calling folks who believe in common sense these days. So gimme a break, okay?”

“Okay,” Ooljee replied as he added very softly, “but it is central to the understanding of our suspect as well as everything else about this business.”