Bernie pictured Mama and Mrs. Bigman sitting at the table, drinking coffee from white Styrofoam cups. Laughing together. The image made her heart ache.
After dinner, Bernie cleared the table, secretly disposing of the garbanzos she’d hidden under a lettuce leaf and hoping Darleen’s experiment was a one-time adventure. She washed the plates and silverware and then joined Mama and Darleen in the living room. She noticed some books on the coffee table. Darleen and Mama must have been to the library, she thought. Then she realized they were textbooks, probably part of Darleen’s work for her GED, her long-delayed high school diploma.
After they had watched TV for a while, Mama patted her hand.
“Come with me to the bedroom.” She used Bernie’s arm to rise from the couch. Her grip was strong. She eased herself to her walker, straightened up, and then moved smoothly down the hall. Her balance seemed better, too. She and Darleen had learned that there was no point in asking Mama how she felt; she always said she was fine. Mama never complained about her health, saving that energy to give advice to her daughters.
Mama sat on the bed.
“Can I help you, Mama? What can I do?”
“You can tell me what is bothering you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I worked all day. I’m tired.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“No, something. Something troubles you.”
The house was still except for the murmur of muffled conversation from the television in the living room. Bernie was comfortable with silence, but Mama, the person from whom she had learned to respect silence, was better.
“Well, I interviewed people to find out if anyone knew what happened or why.” She might as well get the interrogation over with. “Some of the children were upset. That’s always hard to take.”
Mama patted the space beside her. “Sit down. Something else troubles you.”
The powerful quiet that filled the room made her think of the mountain lion, náshdóítsoh, the one the Holy People sent to guard Turquoise Girl on Mount Taylor. She stroked the fetish rock in her pocket. This was at least the fourth time Mama had asked. Bernie had to be honest in her answer.
“I did see something that upset me, a person who was badly hurt, burned. Then I learned that he died. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Daughter, stay here tonight.”
“I can’t, Mama.” Her body felt heavy, her brain unfocused, weary. “I have to get up early tomorrow for work.” She wanted to call Chee, go to bed.
Mama nodded. “Then drive safely. Rest. Say your prayers.”
Bernie pushed down the surprise of tears building in the back of her eyes. Mama’s concern made a Navajo policewoman feel like a treasured child.
She went to the living room to gather her backpack and say good-bye to her sister. Darleen had put the TV on mute and was fiddling with her cell phone.
“So, what did Mama lecture you about?”
Bernie hesitated. “Oh, she figured something was bothering me and wanted me to tell her.”
“Did you?”
“You know how she is. She could pry a secret out of a stone.” Bernie shrugged, waited a few beats. “How are your classes?”
“Fine. Mama wanted to know about the bombing, right?”
“Yes.”
“Was the Cheeseburger there, too?”
“No. Only me at first. Then backup arrived.”
Darleen twisted a lock of her straight black hair around her index finger. “It’s a good thing you were there. I’m proud of you.”
“I was off duty actually. It’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, it is. So who won?”
“I think the old guys squeaked it out, but I missed the end.” Bernie motioned toward the books on the coffee table. “How are your classes?”
“You already asked me that. They’re fine. Sometimes interesting.” Darleen slipped off her shoes and pulled her feet beneath her. “There’s a guy in my math class. He makes videos. He’s cute. I call him CS because he’s a veggie, you know, vegetarian.”
“Sea Yes?”
“The letters CS, short for Carrot Soup. I’m enjoying classes this time, more than high school. I guess I’m not as dumb as I thought I was.”
“You’re not dumb. You just got distracted.”
Bernie walked into the kitchen and filled her water bottle. She waited for her sister to say more about CS. Darleen picked up her books and headed into the kitchen, too. When they were children, Mama had told them to do their homework at that table after they had cleared the dishes. The lesson stuck.
Darleen got a pen and opened a notebook. “Sister, did you ever think about not eating meat?”
“You mean give up hamburgers? No pepperoni pizza?” Bernie shook her head. “That guy I married cooks the best steaks on the grill. No way I could live on lettuce and those ugly ball things.”
“Garbanzos. CS told me not eating meat is healthier and helps Mother Earth. You know about all those cows chowing down on the rain forest?”
“That’s not exactly what’s happening, but I’ve read about it. What’s Carrot Soup’s real name?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a cop and you’re my baby sister.” Bernie put the water bottle in her backpack. “I want to make sure he’s not a serial killer.”
“CS is OK. A little offbeat, but hey, so am I. The only cereal he kills goes in the bowl with soy milk.”
“Soy milk sounds questionable. What’s his real name?”
“Don’t stress out about him. He’s a good guy, and he’s even got Code Talker in his heritage. Don’t be so suspicious.”
“I’m just curious.”
“You can ask him when you meet him.”
On the dark, empty road, Bernie thought about Darleen. She still worried about her little sister, but she worried less these days. She’d been around enough drinkers to know that sobriety didn’t always last. Maybe Darleen’s would. Ever since she’d been arrested, her little sister had seemed happier, less angry.
Bernie focused on the swath of pavement her headlights illuminated, and thought about what awaited her at home. Or what didn’t await her. Chee. She’d never believed in love at first sight, but she’d been attracted to him from her first day as a neophyte with him as her boss. She hid her feelings so well that he treated her as one of the boys until she left for an assignment with the Border Patrol. Then, finally, he realized she was a woman in addition to a police officer. He was the man she’d always hoped to find.
And now, she headed home to an empty house. She rolled down the window to let in a blast of winter air scented with sage and dust and to allow her melancholy to escape. Instead her thoughts circled around the man who had died. Long before Bernie became a cop, Mama made her and Darleen promise they would never make her ride in an ambulance because of the chindis, the spirits of the dead.
After the cold stiffened her neck and shoulders, she rolled up the window and switched the heater to high. She replayed the conversation with Lona. Why would an ex-wife call to check on her ex-husband after a bomb exploded? Because they were connected through money—alimony, child support, a shared business interest? Because she still had feelings for him? Because she’d tried to kill him?
Bernie smiled. She was getting ahead of herself. She hadn’t spoken to Lona for years, and now she was accusing her of murder. But she’d mention the call when she talked to Leaphorn and to Cordova.
The Lona she remembered was smart, smart and quiet. When she dropped out, people were surprised. And then, when she came back to school, everyone knew about the baby. Lona returned with a new attitude, more serious and more grown-up. She never mentioned the baby or Aza Palmer at school, and they avoided each other on campus. Then, shortly after Palmer graduated, he married Lona and they moved away.
Bernie drove up to her empty house and turned on the lights. She put on the kettle and, while she
waited for the water to heat, jotted down a to-do list, which included a follow-up call to Lona. She was working the early shift the next day, which gave her time to check on Darleen’s new friend.
The buzz of her phone startled her. Bernie glanced at the screen: the captain trying to reach her.
She picked up the incoming call.
Largo got right to the point. “Cordova says they ID’d the body. A guy from right here in Shiprock, Richard Horseman, with no record of prior involvement in bombings. You know him?”
“No, sir. Richard could be Rick, the man Gloria Chino knew.” She filled him in.
“Horseman was in the system because he got arrested for car theft, but the charges were dropped. Cordova wants you to go with him tomorrow morning to interview Horesman’s grandmother. You can put the AA stuff on hold.”
“Yes, sir. I felt funny about that anyway.”
“How did you do with your contact list?”
“I gave some to the rookie. The rest is done. Nothing much new. Someone might have seen the dead man sitting in the car that blew. Someone saw another suspicious character out there. It’s in my report.”
Largo said, “After you do the interview with Cordova, take the next couple days off. The FBI is on this like ants on jelly and the rookie will come in.” She could practically hear him thinking over the phone. “How did he do out there?”
“He made some mistakes, but he didn’t panic. There was a lot going on. He tried to show some initiative.”
“Anything else you’d like to say?”
“No, sir.” Wilson Sam’s attitude toward her was something that she’d deal with privately.
“One more thing. Leaphorn wants you to give him a call.”
“Did he say about what?” She remembered that she needed to stop by and see the Lieutenant. Her days off would be perfect for that.
She heard Largo’s rumbling chuckle. “No, but if I had to guess, I’d say he needs to give you some advice or wants a favor. Or maybe some of each.”
6
Jim Chee walked from the motel to the Tuba City police station. He could have driven, but it was only a few miles and the early morning was crisp, cool, and bright with sun. The newscaster noted that a major winter storm could be on the way, but that was always the case in November. No use worrying. Enjoy today’s beauty.
The receptionist at the police station looked up when he entered.
“The meeting is down the hall.”
Chee knew the way. A pair of officers—a tall, thin sergeant and a shorter, younger, more muscled fellow with the posture of a Marine—stood in the hall.
“Hey, Chee, I heard you’d be up here,” the tall man said.
Chee nodded. “Yá’át’ééh.” He remembered Sergeant Art Redbone as a quick wit and a good cop. Redbone introduced the other man, Officer Billy Silversmith.
“I just found out from the sergeant that you worked with Lieutenant Leaphorn.” Silversmith looked serious. “He’s been consulting on a case up here. He was telling us about when he worked as a PI, helping a woman from Santa Fe find her granddaughter, and how your case dovetailed.”
“What else did Leaphorn say?”
Silversmith hesitated. Redbone grinned and picked up the conversation. “Nothin’ much, except that some dude named Chee nearly got him killed.”
Chee remembered the case. “That was quite a deal. Both of us nearly got killed by a crazed bilagaana researcher doing a study on bubonic plague. The guy had a special suit to keep the germs out, and he scared an old lady out there who thought he was a skinwalker.”
“I remember that,” Redbone said.
“If you have a chance, ask the Lieutenant to tell you about the case of the missing Navajo boy he worked at Ramah and Zuni Pueblo. That was before my time, but it was a classic piece of good investigating. Is he driving out here for the meetings?”
“No,” Silversmith said. “We do it all by computer, instant messages, texts, stuff like that.”
Redbone said, “Were you involved in the commotion at the high school?”
“No. My wife told me it was a real mess.”
“If that bomb had gone off with the lot full of people, it would have been terrible. Lucky that someone would go to all that trouble and screw up the timing.”
“Or set it off himself,” Silversmith said. “Bam. Maybe that guy who died was our mad bomber.”
Redbone said, “So your wife’s a cop, too. How do you like that?”
“It’s great. She’s great. She’s really good at what she does.”
Silversmith said, “I think it would be too much shop talk and not enough pillow talk. I’d have some trouble with that.”
Redbone chuckled. “You’re having trouble finding a wife in the first place. You need to figure out how to meet women someplace other than at crime scenes.”
Silversmith made a sound between a laugh and a snort.
Chee said, “Anything special at the meeting today?”
“I bet we’re going to get guidelines for handling hotheads,” Redbone said. “The captain expects a bunch of greenies to roll in from California. Some group famous for getting arrested and claiming police brutality. He’s giving us body cameras.”
Silversmith said, “The mediation hasn’t even started and we’re already working.”
Chee said, “If that group wants publicity, they’re coming to the wrong town. Tuba City doesn’t have a television station, a radio station, not even a newspaper unless the Navajo Times comes around. If we’re lucky, they’ll get bored and move on.”
“The Internet is everywhere,” Silversmith said. “Take a video with your phone, and bam, it’s viral even from downtown Tuba City. Of course, this place is kind of famous for combining things that normally don’t go together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, to start with, our Navajo Justice Center, where the meeting is, includes both a jail and space for those Peacemaking meetings so the bad boys get a scolding from their grandmother.”
Silversmith had greatly oversimplified Peacemaking, a concept society could use more of. Chee knew the program grew from the belief that families and friends were responsible for one another. If a person abused his wife, stole from a neighbor, or otherwise failed to follow the Navajo Way, his inner circle called him on it, challenged him to do better, and gave him a way to make amends and get back into harmony that did not involve jail time.
“And think about this.” Silversmith paused for effect. “Tuba City, one of the biggest towns on the Navajo Nation, is named for a Hopi who became a Mormon.”
Chee laughed. “You know we call it Tó Naneesdizí. Tuba City is only the English name. But I see your point. The mediator, the different delegates, and the protesters should be right at home here.”
Someone had propped open the door to the meeting room with a wooden wedge. The room looked as drab as Chee remembered. Beige walls, industrial gray carpet, florescent lights, no windows. The kind of space a person wanted to spend as little time in as possible. The brown metal folding chairs, some slightly bent at the seat or wobbling unevenly on three of the four legs, added to the sense that information would be disseminated quickly so life could resume.
Chee, Redbone, and Silversmith took the last seats in the prized back row. Officers from other jurisdictions: uniforms from the Havasupai people, a woman with Hualapai tribal law enforcement, Coconino County sheriff’s deputies, and even a couple of men from the Arizona Highway Patrol began to fill the room. Right before the captain stepped up to the podium, Chee saw Dashee enter by a side door and lean against the wall, followed by a blond man in the dark suit and perfect haircut that marked him as FBI.
Chee had met the officer in charge of the Tuba substation, Captain Bernard Ward, but didn’t know him well. Ward passed around a brief agenda.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to show you a video sent by the FBI about Save Wild America, one of the groups coming to protest. Agent Jerry Cordova, whom some of you kno
w, had planned to attend, but he’s working on a fatal car bombing at Shiprock, which may be connected to the meeting here and the protest. We are joined today by two other FBI specialists from the domestic terrorism unit and representatives from the Arizona Department of Public Safety counterterrorism.”
Ward directed a round of introductions, then motioned to an officer to dim the lights. The video unfolded on the screen in the front of the room. It showed a protest in Yosemite, demonstrators going limp, taunting police, spitting, and several officers losing their cool. Except for the scenery in the background, it wasn’t pretty. It lasted about ten minutes and gave Chee an idea of what to expect.
“Cordova asked me to read you this.” The captain put on his glasses and looked at a sheet of paper on the podium. “‘The group that you will be dealing with has been in court many times on charges of ecoterrorism, destroying government property, arson, and other crimes. They’ve also brought numerous suits against law enforcement, federal, state, and local authorities. They don’t play nice. In response, we need to be careful and professional.’”
Captain Ward put the paper down, took off his glasses, and looked at the officers.
“From our perspective, the bad thing about this meeting is the timing. From the media perspective, it couldn’t be better because, except for basketball and Thanksgiving, nothing much happens in November. People who like to protest have time on their hands. Reporters in Phoenix and Flagstaff looking for news can trundle up here to make life interesting, even if most of them don’t know what the hell is going on.”
Chee thought about that. The idea that the Navajo Nation might allow development—some sort of tourist resort—on its land near the Grand Canyon had been brewing for years, through many elections for Navajo Nation president. If the project, or some facsimile, eventually managed to win approval of the Tribal Council and got the president’s OK, the decision would certainly end up in court. Before the tribal government could reject the idea in total or express some openness to modified alternatives, everything would be considered, debated, amended, and reconsidered. It had taken eons for the Grand Canyon to form, and in Chee’s opinion, any development or permanent end to the possibility of development that might be in the wind operated on that same timetable. But outsiders viewed the situation as urgent.
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