Chapter Twenty-two
AT ELEVEN FIFTEEN I called Klah Redhouse and asked for a meeting with him, his boss, the speaker, and the president of the Navajo Nation, to catch them up on the latest with Johnny Sani and Bruce Skow. The meeting happened at noon.
They were not pleased with my report. Not for how I’d been doing my job, which was not in dispute, but that two of their own had been victimized.
“You are working on this,” President Becenti said, in a manner that was not a question.
“Yes,” I said. “Johnny Sani and Bruce Skow will have justice. That is my word to you.” I waited.
“What is it?” Becenti said.
“You said yesterday that anything you could do to help, you would,” I said.
“Yes,” Becenti said.
“Did you mean that only within the parameters of the investigation, or would it extend further than that?”
Becenti looked at me doubtfully. “What do you mean?” he said.
“There’s justice, and then there’s sticking a knife in someone’s ribs,” I said. “The justice will come no matter what. Like I said, you already have my word on that. But the knife-sticking may come with an extra added benefit to the Navajo Nation.”
Becenti looked at the speaker and the police captain, and then back at me. “Tell us more,” he said.
I glanced over at Redhouse as I spoke. He was smiling.
* * *
At one thirty I was at my parents’ house, sitting with my dad in the trophy room. He was in a bathrobe and had a tumbler of scotch, neat, dangling from one of his long, large hands.
“How you doing, Dad?” I asked.
He smiled. “Perfect,” he said. “Last night someone broke into my house to kill my kid, I killed him with a shotgun, and now I’m hiding out in my trophy room because it’s one of the only rooms in the house that photographers outside don’t have a clear shot into. I’m doing great.”
“What did the police say about the shooting?” I asked.
“The sheriff came by this morning and assured me that as far as he and his department are concerned, the shooting was justified and no charges are coming and that they’ll be returning my shotgun to me later today,” Dad said.
“That’s good to hear,” I said.
“That’s what I said, too,” Dad said. “They also said the FBI came for the man’s body this morning. Does that have anything to do with you?”
“It does,” I said. “If anyone asks, the fact that you were about to run for the Senate meant that we had an interest in discovering whether the attacker had any ties with known hate or terrorism groups.”
“But it’s not really about that at all, is it?”
“I’ll answer that for you, Dad, but you have to tell me you’re ready to hear it.”
“Jesus, Chris,” Dad said. “Someone tried to kill you last night in our house. If you don’t tell me why, I might strangle you myself.”
So I told Dad the entire story, up to my morning visit to the Navajo Nation.
After I finished, Dad said nothing. Then he drained his scotch, said, “I need a refill,” and stepped out into the gun room. When he came back in he had considerably more than two fingers of scotch in the tumbler.
“You might want to ease back, there, Dad,” I said.
“Chris, it’s a miracle I didn’t just bring in the bottle with a straw,” he said. He took a sip. “Motherfucker was in my house three nights ago,” he said, of Hubbard. “In this room. Acting all chummy.”
“To be fair, three nights ago I don’t think he had planned to have me killed,” I said. “Pretty sure that came after.”
Dad choked on his scotch on that one. I patted him on the back until he stopped coughing.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Dad said, and waved me off. He set down his drink and looked at me.
“What is it?” I said.
“Tell me what I should do,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that son of a bitch tried to kill you,” Dad said, loudly, forcefully. “My only child. My flesh and blood. Tell me what to do, Chris. If you told me to shoot him, I would go do it right now.”
“Please don’t,” I said.
“Stab him,” Dad said. “Drown him. Run him over with my truck.”
“They are all tempting,” I said. “But none of those is a good idea.”
“Then tell me,” Dad said. “Tell me what I can do.”
“Before I do,” I said. “Let me ask. Senate?”
“Oh. Well. That,” Dad said, and reached for his scotch. I picked it up and moved it out of his reach. He looked at me quizzically, but accepted it and sat back. “William came over this morning, first thing,” he said, referring to the state party chairman. “He was all concern and sympathy and told me how much he admired me standing up for my home and family, and somehow all that puffery ended up with me being told that there’s no way the party could support me this election cycle. And perhaps it was just me, but I think there was the implication I wouldn’t be supported in any election cycle that might come up.”
“Sorry,” I said.
Dad shrugged. “It is what it is, kid,” he said. “It saves me the trouble of pretending to be nice to a bunch of assholes I never really liked.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “So. Dad. I need to you do something for me.”
“Yeah?” Dad said. “And what is that, Chris?”
“I need you to do a business deal,” I said.
Dad furrowed his brow at me. “How did we get to a business deal?” he asked. “I thought we were talking revenge and politics.”
“We still are,” I said. “And the way it will get done is through a business deal.”
“With whom?” Dad asked.
“With the Navajo, Dad,” I said.
Dad sat up, uncomfortable. “I know you’ve been busy,” he said. “But I just shot one of their people last night. I don’t think they’ll want to do business with me today.”
“No one blames you for it.”
“I blame me for it,” Dad said.
“You didn’t shoot him because he was Navajo,” I said. “You shot him because he was about to shoot me. He wasn’t there because he was a bad man. He was there because bad men were using him.”
“Which means I shot an innocent man,” Dad said.
“You did,” I said. “And I’m sorry about that, Dad. But you didn’t kill him. Lucas Hubbard did. He just used you to do it. And if you hadn’t, it would be me who was dead.”
Dad put his head in his hands. I let him take a moment.
“Bruce Skow was innocent,” I said. “Johnny Sani was innocent. Neither of them are coming back. But I have a way you can punish the person responsible for both of their deaths. You’ll also get to help out a lot of people in the Navajo Nation in the bargain. Something really good can come out of this thing. You just have to do what you already do better than anyone else. Do some business.”
“What kind of business are we talking about here?”
“Real estate,” I said. “Sort of.”