Twilight Warrior. Aimee Thurlo

Navajos believed a person’s name had power that belonged to its owner. Using it needlessly depleted an individual of an asset that was uniquely theirs to draw on in times of trouble.

      “I need to know if you’ve sold any fertilizer within the past week. Ammonium-nitrate crystals, specifically, in the big bags,” Travis said.

      Jim raised an eyebrow. “It’s a bit late in the season for that, but I don’t know for sure offhand. Three people work the cash register these days, not just me. I’d have to check.”

      “I’d appreciate it,” Travis answered.

      “No problem.” Jim walked out front, went behind the counter and sat by a computer on a desk against the wall.

      They followed and stood behind him, watching him work. Jim fiddled with the mouse and keyboard, going from screen to screen, then cursed as the display locked up. “I hate this danged thing! New or not, it keeps crashing. I’ve had Lester out here twice already. He says it’s the user, not the interface.” He shook his head and moved the mouse around some more, going through several windows. After a few minutes, he looked up again.

      “Okay, I’ve got it. The last bags I sold were back in April. The weather’s too hot to fertilize now, but we’ll sell more again in the fall. Ammonium nitrate stores well.”

      “Who purchased the bags?” Travis pressed.

      “Mike Petersen bought all six. He grows a lot of corn and sunflowers.”

      “And you’re sure you didn’t sell that brand of ammonium nitrate to anyone else?” Travis asked.

      Jim shook his head. “That’s it,” he said. “I keep track, be cause, you know, it can be used to make explosives.” He paused, then added, “But come to think about it, I had a break-in about two weeks ago. Not much was taken, not that I could tell anyway. The person cut open some bags, marked up a couple of saddles and tipped over several stacks of feed in the back room.”

      “Did you report that to the department?” Travis asked him.

      “Sure I did. My insurance requires it.”

      “Is it possible a bag or two of fertilizer was stolen at that time?” Laura asked him.

      Travis glanced her way, his eyes narrowed. “Did you ever check?” he added, turning back to Jim.

      Laura bristled, but the message was loud and clear. She could ride along but it was his case.

      “My inventory software has some bugs, or maybe I screwed it up. Take your pick,” Jim said, letting his breath out in a hiss. “So I can’t really tell you for sure if anything’s missing. But I do recall that several bags of ammonium nitrate were tipped over and three had split open. I had to do a lot of sweeping up and repackaging.”

      “Do you have any idea who was responsible?” Travis asked.

      Jim hesitated. “I think Roy Connors was behind it but I can’t prove it, so I didn’t give the police his name.”

      “Connors… That name rings a bell,” Travis said.

      “The guy spends a lot of time in the drunk tank since his wife left him. When I hired Roy, I told him I didn’t care what he did in his off time, just so long as he showed up to work on time—sober. I figured the man needed a break.”

      “I remember him now. There was a brawl over at the Painted Pony,” Travis said. “Connors took a swing at the bartender and the bouncer had to jump in. It got out of hand fast after that. Every available officer was called to the scene. I nursed a sore jaw for days after somebody sucker punched me.”

      “Roy came in with a black eye and skinned knuckles the next day,” Jim agreed with a nod. “I fired him not too long after that because he showed up to work drunk. The following week I had the break-in, the first one in years.”

      They were on their way moments later. Travis got Connors’s last known address from dispatch and they headed east.

      “Okay, what’s the plan?” she asked, shifting in her seat to face him.

      “Crusher and I are going in to question a witness. That’s it.”

      “Yes, but you can’t be sure he’ll be sober, and it looks like he’s quick with his fists,” she said. “I’m not armed but I’ve got a full canister of Mace in my pocket. If I go, too, I can help if it gets ugly.”

      “No need. He’d have to be blind to even consider taking Crusher on. You might as well just stay in the car.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m going with you.”

      He expelled his breath in a hiss. “Okay, but stay back and let me handle it.”

      “What do you know about Roy?” she asked, not responding directly to his request.

      “Not much, but I’ll know a lot more after I run him through the Report Review,” he said, pulling over and punching out the needed codes on his mobile dispatch terminal.

      Moments later, incident reports came up on the MDT monitor. “He’s ex-rodeo and has a rap sheet three miles long, mostly due to alcohol-related incidents,” Travis said.

      “There’s something else you might consider,” Laura said.

      “Roy may have been paid to do the job. I’m thinking along the lines of ‘wreck the place to your heart’s content. Just take a bag of fertilizer and cut the rest open to throw off the weight count.’ What do you think?”

      “Interesting theory, but before we reach any conclusions, let’s see what he has to say,” Travis said.

      Leaving the old highway that now served as a truck bypass, they drove down a long dirt road. Eventually they reached a single-wide trailer that looked as if it had seen better days decades ago. Travis parked just out of view of the front windows, then sat back and watched the mobile home.

      “He’s not Navajo, is he? We don’t have to wait out here to be invited in.”

      He smiled. “You remembered.”

      “Of course I do. But that doesn’t answer my original question.”

      “I want to get a better feel for things before we go charging in there.” He glanced at Crusher, who stood up, ready to go, then looked back at the trailer. “Judging from the music coming over the radio, I’d say he’s home. But no one’s looked out, so he might not know we’re here.”

      “Or he’s passed out. See all those bottles at the top of his trash can?” She pointed to the gray, overflowing plastic waste bin.

      “Whatever the situation, stand down unless I tell you differently. Let’s go,” he said.

      He climbed out of his unit, letting Crusher out behind him. The dog remained on Travis’s left and Laura moved to the far right, making sure they didn’t line up too closely and turn themselves into easy targets.

      Tension thrummed through Travis. Laura could see it in the rigid set of his spine and the lack of emotion on his face. Standing to one side of the door, he knocked loudly and identified himself. No one answered. When Travis tried a second time, they heard a low grumble from inside.

      “Hold your horses,” a groggy voice said.

      They heard slow footsteps coming closer. Soon the door swung open about a foot. In front of them stood a bleary-eyed man whose weathered face looked as if he’d placed last in a boxing tournament.

      “I ain’t buying or praying, so scram,” he muttered.

      Laura sized Roy Conners up quickly. He was wearing a T-shirt with no sleeves, and she could see the tattoo of an anchor and chain. He was navy, or at least he had been at one time. From the size of his upper arms, she was pretty sure he worked out as hard as he drank. The combination, from her point of view, wasn’t good. He obviously liked thrills and danger, judging from the