The Tale Teller

by Anne Hillerman

  Black chuckled. “Some of the younger officers coming in now would have trouble reading this.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. They aren’t teaching cursive writing much anymore. My daughter just prints and types. But she’s learning to speak Navajo in class and that’s important. You can’t expect the schools to do everything.”

  Chee closed the file. “You know Ryana, his granddaughter, called us and said the old man made all this up.”

  “She called you?”

  “She called Bernie, actually, and denied that he was a burglary victim.”

  Lieutenant Black closed the folder. “That’s the Ryana who lives out that way toward the canyon, maybe with a boyfriend. She’s Navajo but with a Mexican-sounding name. Flores, Fresquez, something like that. That must be who you mean, right?”

  Chee nodded. “Did she come with Mr. Natachi when he made his complaint?”

  “No.” Black paused. “I remember her because years ago some boyfriend was beating on her and a neighbor called about it. Of course, when the officer got there she didn’t want to talk and said she got that split lip from walking into a door. The boyfriend was nowhere to be found. Later, I heard he was married and went back to his wife.”

  Black brought the conversation back to the burglaries. “We don’t have any leads. They target jewelry and electronics in the break-ins, stuff that’s easy to sell for drugs. They’re careful. No one sees anything, and they don’t leave fingerprints or other clues we’ve been able to work with.”

  “Anyone ever interrupted them?”

  “Not yet. Not that I know of.”

  “And none of the goods have turned up?”

  “Not until now. We have surveillance at the flea markets in the area and at those roadside sales that pop up around here. No luck.” Black closed the folder and stood. “Say hello to Mr. Natachi for me.”

  Chee recited the directions Bernie’s mother had given him.

  “Sounds about right. It can be hard to tell what’s a road and what’s not out there. The main house, Ryana’s place, is along a little wash. You’re lucky it hasn’t rained. It gets slick because of the caliche. Watch out for loose horses. Good luck.”

  Chee started the green-and-white SUV and headed from Chinle out toward Canyon de Chelly. Tséyi’, the place deep in the rocks, made his heart sing. Sacred country, a refuge, a quiet oasis even with van and jeep tours taking visitors into the canyon to see the pueblo ruins. He viewed this landscape as a living reservoir of the spirit tied to stories of the People’s emergence into the glittering world as they transitioned to five-fingered creatures. No matter how many times he saw the canyon’s buttes, spires, and mesas, they never failed to move him to a state of peace.

  In contrast, he thought of those who had lived here during the time of General James H. Carleton, Kit Carson, and their soldiers and pictured the terrible scene as homes and crops burned and fruit trees were destroyed. He felt the sorrow of terrorized families forced to abandon the very heart of Dinetah and to make the Long Walk.

  The canyon stirred many emotions. The songs he had learned in his quest to become a hataali rose in his memory. He drove into the parking area, opened the door to the morning’s heat, and walked the trail to the end of the Spider Rock overlook. Magnificent. He said a prayer of gratitude and added a request to Spider Woman for protection for himself, for Bernie, for all their fellow officers, for every good person they shared the world with.

  He stood in the sun, happy to be alive.

  Back in the SUV, his thoughts turned to the case and the interview ahead with increased clarity. It troubled him to think that someone, most likely Navajo since this was Navajoland, would steal from an old man, especially in the vicinity of such an important landscape of the spirit.

  He attended to Mama’s directions and made a right turn off the pavement just past the mile marker she mentioned. He headed south over a succession of hard-packed dirt roads that didn’t deserve the name. With only a few wrong turns, he found a house with a smaller home behind it. A tan sedan and a battered orange and white truck from the 1980s were parked alongside the main building. As he dodged the ruts and craters in what could have been a driveway, he noticed the dry gray tumbleweeds, shredded plastic bags, and yellowed newspapers that had collected around the pickup.

  There were no vehicles near the smaller house, but that didn’t surprise him since Mr. Natachi probably wasn’t driving anymore. Also missing were the dogs that alerted rural residents to arriving visitors. The late morning was quiet; he could barely hear the traffic on the canyon overlook road.

  Chee sat in his unit for a few minutes for the sake of courtesy, and when Mr. Natachi didn’t appear, he climbed out of the SUV. As he walked toward the house, he noticed a tire track in the sand. From years of habit he bent down to look more closely, finding a spot where the tread was nearly smooth.

  He knocked on the front door. He waited and then spoke loudly enough to be understood over the radio inside. “Mr. Natachi, it’s Jim Chee from Shiprock. Your friend Bernie’s husband.”

  Chee rapped again. He spoke louder this time. “Hello, sir. Are you in there?” When no answer came, he tried the knob. The door opened.

  The room’s warm air smelled faintly of fried onions. The radio had switched from country music to a weather report: continued hot and dry. He moved through the doorway, stopped, and called again more forcefully. “Mr. Natachi, it’s Jim Chee. I’d like to talk to you.”

  Noise from the radio was the only response.

  The housekeeping here reminded him of his own home in the pre-Bernie days, when he survived without her propensity for having everything in its proper place. It had a casual man-living-alone look to it. Not exactly messy but hovering on the line. A coffee cup with a bit of dark liquid at the bottom sat next to a jar of peanut butter and an open box of saltine crackers. On top of a pile of papers, Chee saw an advertising circular for hearing aids with the name Herman Natachi on the label, quick reassurance that he had come to the right place.

  Chee stepped toward the back of the house, where he assumed he’d find the bedroom. Based on his experience, he prepared for the worst but hoped to see an empty bed.

  “Mr. Natachi. Mr. Natachi?”

  The room was empty, the bed made. No sign of a disturbance, just a pair of brown-framed reading glasses and a leather-bound book on the table next to the bed. Chee felt the stiffness flow out of his neck and shoulders. On a shelf across from the bed he noticed a beautiful belt buckle, a prize for roping someone had won at a rodeo ten years ago. If he was like most people, Mr. Natachi kept his jewelry in the bedroom, and sure enough, on top of the nightstand Chee saw the bolo tie with the silver tips Bernie had described.

  In the old days, some people used the pawn system for safeguarding valuables. Chee remembered his relatives going to the pawn shop to rescue their favorite turquoise necklaces and silver belt buckles for special events, then re-pawning them. In his grandparents’ days, people had nothing much in their homes to steal and the rare pilfering was handled among the clans, not by the police.

  Chee wrote a note on his business card, asking for a call, and wedged it between the screen and the front door. He might have guessed wrong about Mr. Natachi and driving. Or maybe the old gentleman had a buddy who picked him up—that would explain the fresh tire track. He ruled out a trip on a horse; neither this house nor the one nearby had a corral.

  He decided to check the nearby house to talk to Ryana before he headed to Chinle. She might know where her grandfather was. Maybe Mr. Natachi himself had stopped in for coffee and Chee could interview them both.

  He opened the door to his SUV and realized the July morning had heated the interior to pizza-baking temperature. He relocked it. The walk would do him good.

  The sun, glaring from a cloudless sky, had begun its daily job of baking the already desiccated landscape. He remembered the times he’d been in Washington, DC, in the summer, where trees blocked the sky, a monotony of gr
een dominated the color scheme, and the thick air left a sticky residue on your skin. In his opinion, brown held more interest. A person could see the bones of the earth out here. He felt at home.

  Like Mr. Natachi’s place, the larger house also seemed deserted. A shade covered the front window. A plastic bowl half full of water sat on the porch, but, again, no dog barked. He rang the doorbell, waited, then knocked. He studied the door frame, where a large spot of what looked like blood stood out, red against the white paint, at about shoulder height.

  He rapped again, louder and more persistently. “Ryana? Everything OK in there?”

  Then he heard a voice behind the door. “Grandfather?”

  “No, it’s Jim Chee.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Manuelito’s son-in-law. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Open the door so we can hear each other better.”

  “I can’t talk now. I’ve got to go to work, my ride is on her way.”

  “I see blood out here. Are you hurt?”

  “Blood?” The space on the other side of the door drew quiet.

  “Where do you work?” Chee felt sweat accumulating in the places where his hatband touched his skin.

  “At the senior center.”

  “I saw a car out there. Why do you need a ride?”

  “Oh, that’s my boyfriend’s. He’s not here right now or he’d drive me.”

  “I’ll give you a lift. We can talk in the car. My unit has air-conditioning.”

  “Oh, what the hey.”

  The door opened.

  He’d seen a lot of surprises in his days as a cop, and this was another. Ryana was almost as tall as he was, something around six feet, with jet-black hair that fell to her shoulders in a neat, blunt curtain. She had sparklingly clear dark eyes and, as far as he could tell, perfect skin. She wore jeans that hugged her long legs and a shirt with a green-and-black print design, cut low enough to allow room for a silver-and-coral necklace to rest against the burnished skin of her chest. She met the textbook definition of beautiful.

  “Come on in.”

  He followed her, admiring a hanging lamp made of antlers over the dining table. He smelled the residue of coffee and toast from her small kitchen. She walked ahead of him into the living room.

  “Sit. I just need my shoes and a minute to call Elsie. I hope she hasn’t left already to pick me up.”

  “I have to talk to Mr. Natachi, too. Do you know where he is?”

  “No. He and I usually have coffee before I go to work. I guess he made other plans and didn’t tell me. I heard a car drive up to his house this morning.” Chee recognized worry in her voice. “What did you say about blood?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  “OK.”

  Ryana disappeared down the hall and closed the door. He hadn’t seen any bandages or noticed wounds on her hands or arms. The shade drawn over the window that faced the road gave the morning light the color of Canyon de Chelly’s sandstone. He listened to the unexpected crunch of tires on the dirt road. Then he heard the gunshots.

  9

  The closeness of the gunshots propelled Chee to his feet. He moved his hand toward his gun as he raced for the door.

  “What was that?” Ryana came from the bedroom, a shoe in her hand.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  He ran outside in time to see a black car pulling away from the house. He watched a person slowly rise to hands and knees in the cloud of dust the car left in its wake. The man crawled for a moment and then collapsed, rolling onto his back. Chee saw the red stain on his denim shirt. He sprinted toward the person, keeping an eye on the retreating car.

  Behind him, he listened to Ryana’s racing footsteps and the wail of her scream. He knelt next to the victim. He knew that the gunshot could have nicked an artery, injured the heart or the lungs. If the spine was involved, moving the man could cause more damage. He also realized it would take time, too much time, for an ambulance to find the house.

  Ryana grew quiet and squatted next to him. “They got him. They hurt my shicheii. Oh my God. This is on me.”

  The old man’s lips parted at the sound of her voice and he moaned. Ryana began speaking to Mr. Natachi in Navajo.

  Chee trusted his instincts and made the decision. “We’ll have to get him to the hospital.” He ran to his unit and moved his first aid kit and a blanket from the trunk to the front seat.

  As he drove toward them, he rolled down the windows to allow the sunbaked air to escape. He parked as close as he could to the injured man, grabbed the blanket, gloves, tape, and a package of sterile dressing from the first aid kit.

  “He’s still alive.” When Ryana looked up, he saw the blood on her shirt. “What’s that sound?”

  “I think it’s air flowing into his chest from the bullet hole.” He noticed her focus on the pinkish foam seeping through the man’s shirt.

  Ryana looked at him. “Tell me what to do. I’ve had a bunch of first aid classes as part of my job at the senior center.”

  He put on one pair of gloves and quickly moved the fragments of cloth from Mr. Natachi’s shirt away from the edges of the hole. He handed the second pair of gloves to Ryana. “I’m placing the plastic from the dressing over that hole to keep the air from rushing in. I want you to tape it here along the edges. Not too tight.”

  “There’s so much blood.” He heard her fear.

  “Don’t think about that. Put on the gloves and do this, and tell your shicheii that you need him to live.”

  The improvised bandage worked with the wound well enough that Chee felt comfortable moving the old gentleman into his unit.

  “Help me get him onto the blanket, then we can lift him.”

  Ryana was strong and knew how to follow instructions. Using the blanket as a sling, together they placed him on the back seat. She squeezed into the car near her grandfather’s head.

  Chee closed the back door and slid behind the steering wheel. “You know how to find the entrance to the ER.” He phrased it as a statement so she would respond in kind.

  “Yes. Can you get back to the pavement?”

  “Sure.” His sense of direction and orientation had always been good, and his years in law enforcement had strengthened that quality. He remembered seeing signs for the hospital and was positive he could find it himself on the first try. But he wanted to keep the young woman involved so she wouldn’t panic and create an additional problem. He used his cell phone to advise the Chinle station of the situation. He described the black sedan with dark tinted windows and the white license plate he saw leaving the house and the direction in which it was headed. If he had been a little quicker, he knew, he might have captured the plate number.

  They had reached the asphalt by the time that call was done. He turned toward Chinle.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “His eyes are closed, but he gave my hand a squeeze.” He heard the catch in her voice. “Do you think—”

  “He’ll be OK.” Chee infused his voice with so much confidence even he believed it. “You said this was on you, Ryana. What did you mean?”

  “I just . . . Oh, slow down. We’re coming to an intersection. Turn left.”

  He put on the brakes, thankful that the truck with the trailer behind him wasn’t following too closely. “Tell me where to go a little sooner, won’t you?”

  “Sorry. This is a shortcut.”

  “Why did you say this was on you?”

  “No one would want to harm my grandfather. I thought I’d fixed everything but—” She stopped to stifle a sob. “He doesn’t look so good. Do you really think he’ll make it?”

  The radio came on before he could respond.

  “Sergeant Chee, I have notified the hospital that you are on the way. When you arrive, a crew will be in front with a gurney. Is there a family member or someone we can contact to provide the hospital with the necessary information?”

  “Hold on.” He turned to
Ryana. “Can you stay at the ER with your grandfather and talk to the people there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Florez.”

  Chee went back on the radio and gave the dispatcher the name. He had turned on his emergency light bar as soon as he had left Ryana’s house. “There’s more traffic, so I’m turning on the siren. I don’t want to take a chance on anyone hitting us as we drive through Chinle.” He reached for the switch, then pulled back.

  “Tell me who did this.”

  He heard another sob.

  “Tell me so I can catch the son of a gun and make him pay for hurting an old man.”

  “I . . . I . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  She choked out the name. “Yazzie. Arthur Green Yazzie.”

  Chee called the dispatcher with the information, then turned on the siren and made his way through Chinle with record speed. He parked at the ER entrance, and followed the hospital crew, the old man, and Ryana to an exam intake room. The Chinle IHS staff was quick, professional, and appropriately noncommittal about Mr. Natachi except to say he would need emergency surgery and possibly a blood transfusion. Ryana moved away from her grandfather, giving the staff room to work, and Chee stood next to her. “I need more information about the shooter. What else do you know?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You said someone drove to his house this morning. Did you see the car?”

  “No, I just heard the noise. I was in the bathroom.”

  “I, or someone, will go back to your house to search for the shell casings and whatever else we can find to figure out who did this.”

  “Do what you need to do. I can’t think about that now. Didn’t you hear what the doctor said about blood? It’s not good to have a stranger’s blood in your veins. I have to see if I can be a blood donor. Or if he’ll survive without it.”

  Chee understood. Many traditional Diné believed that blood from a blood bank carried unseen dangers. Some who had received emergency transfusions reported nightmares, fatigue, visits from chindiis, and even taking on the personality of the donor. To have blood that had flowed in a non-Navajo or a person who was now deceased could bring danger, and even blood from another Navajo might cause problems. A relative made the best donor, and the closer the kinship, the better.