Song of the Lion

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Song of the Lion Page 10

by Anne Hillerman


  “You think so? You’ll have to come back for vacation. Spend some time at Canyon de Chelly, take a jeep trip, hike down to White House Ruin and buy some necklaces from the kids there.” Bernie slowed the SUV. “See that windmill up to the left?”

  “No. Wait. Yeah.”

  “That’s where we turn for Mrs. Nez’s place. She told me it’s down in the wash from there, but she didn’t say how far.”

  Cordova said, “I heard a rumor that in Michigan they have house numbers and street signs. That could take the adventure out of finding a witness.”

  “You’ll be bored.”

  The windmill had a metal water tank at its base. Tumbleweeds gray with time clustered against the broken fence of an empty stock pen. A propane canister and a supply of neatly stacked wood sat next to Mrs. Nez’s little house. On the other side, someone had parked an old red-and-white Ford pickup. The brilliant November sunlight might lull a person from elsewhere, like Cordova when he first got to Navajoland, into assuming that the day was warm when in fact the temperature might only reach freezing before the sun started to sink again.

  They saw the woman standing in the doorway even before Bernie turned off the engine. The lady seemed big-bosomed in a denim jacket that fit snuggly over a collection of sweaters. She wore a skirt that reached the ground and a paisley scarf over her thick gray hair. She motioned them to come in.

  Bernie zipped her khaki Navajo Police Department jacket. Cordova took off the seat belt and buttoned his long black coat. “Let’s get this over with. If she starts to ramble, bring her back on topic.”

  “Sometimes these elderlies are lonely. They want to talk, get a sense of us strangers, before they say anything that relates to the case.” Was white society all that different? she wondered.

  “Whatever. Just don’t let her go on all day.”

  Inside the house was only slightly warmer than outside. They kept their coats on, and the lady stayed bundled in her layers.

  Bernie introduced herself again, this time formally in Navajo. Mrs. Nez reciprocated. Bernie switched to English and introduced Agent Cordova in the mainstream American way, with his job title. She noticed that he did not offer to shake hands with the old lady. Good, Bernie thought, he’s learned a few things out here. Mrs. Nez had not invited them to sit, so they stood.

  Bernie said in Navajo, “We have something to tell you about your grandson.”

  Mrs. Nez stared at the floor.

  “I am terribly sorry, but a man was killed by an explosion last night in Shiprock. The FBI checked his fingerprints, and based on that we know he is your grandson, the one who shared this house with you.”

  She stopped talking to give Mrs. Nez time to digest the news but Cordova rushed to fill the silence. “The FBI identified the man killed as a person named Richard Horseman.”

  Mrs. Nez shuddered.

  Bernie scowled at Cordova. He might have been FBI, but he wasn’t an expert on how to get information from Navajo grandmothers. The names of the dead should remain unspoken; whatever evil remained from the dead one would come when it heard itself called.

  Mrs. Nez raised her head and stared toward the window. Her voice shook as she spoke in English. “How do you know it was him?”

  Cordova cleared his throat. “The FBI keeps a file of prints of people who have been arrested for certain crimes.”

  “Prints?” Mrs. Nez looked at Bernie.

  Bernie spoke in Navajo. “Your grandson’s fingerprints were in that file because he had been arrested before for a felony, a big crime. We came to tell you what happened because he listed your house as his most recent address.”

  Mrs. Nez did not respond.

  Cordova said, “Because of the circumstances during which your grandson sustained his fatal injuries, I need to ask you some questions about him.”

  Mrs. Nez remained still and silent. She looked deadly pale.

  “Please sit down, Grandmother.” Bernie spoke softly in Navajo. “I will help with this interview to make sure the FBI man knows what you are saying and that you understand what he asks.”

  Mrs. Nez waved her hand toward a couch covered with a frayed brown bedspread. Bernie sat, and Cordova did the same. Mrs. Nez took the chair across from them.

  Cordova started with an open-ended question, asking the grandmother to tell him about the young man.

  Mrs. Nez leaned back. The old woman took so long to answer that Bernie wondered if she had fallen asleep with her eyes open. Finally, she started to speak in Navajo, stopping periodically so Bernie could translate.

  She began the story when her grandson was a small boy and came to live with her because his mother drank too much. He liked sports and art, she told them, and she detailed his school achievements. He wasn’t good at reading but he went to classes for a while at Shiprock High School. He moved away after that to get a job in Albuquerque with a relative who ran an auto repair shop. But his plan didn’t work out so he came back to Shiprock to help her.

  Mrs. Nez stopped talking.

  Cordova said, “Is that it?”

  “I’m thinking.” The impatience in her voice reminded Bernie of Captain Largo on a terrible day. The old woman paused a bit longer and then resumed the story.

  Since he’d been back, her grandson had lived with her on and off, mostly coming to her house to sleep and eat. He sometimes spent a few days with a girlfriend. Her grandson was handsome. He had two jobs, and besides that, he helped her with wood for the stove and bought groceries for them when he could. He used to buy beer, but he stopped drinking. He took her to the clinic for her appointments and picked up her medicine.

  “He’s a good boy. That’s what I have to say.”

  Cordova jotted a few notes. “Tell me what he did last night.”

  Mrs. Nez began to speak before Bernie could translate.

  “He came home, we ate dinner and talked. He told me he was going to the big basketball game and that he would stay somewhere else that night with the friend who picked him up.

  “Do you know the friend’s name?”

  “I didn’t see who drove up, but it could have been the girlfriend.”

  “What’s her name?” Bernie heard the irritation in Cordova’s voice.

  “He calls her Sonnie.”

  “Do you know Sonnie’s last name?”

  Mrs. Nez shook her head.

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Over there in Farmington or maybe Bloomfield.”

  Bernie said, “Do you know who her family is?”

  Mrs. Nez switched back to Navajo. “She’s a bilagaana. From Boston or Vermont or someplace like that. She told me but I forget. She talks funny. She works as a secretary for one of those drilling companies.”

  Bernie translated. Cordova frowned. “The explosion last night destroyed a car that belonged to a man named Aza Palmer. Did your grandson ever mention a man by that name?”

  Mrs. Nez hesitated, and Bernie translated. The woman shook her head.

  “Did he ever go to any meetings about environmental issues? Stopping development, things like that?”

  Mrs. Nez waited for Bernie to translate, then responded. “I don’t think so. He goes to those meetings to help people keep beer away.”

  Cordova glanced at his notes. “Did he have a computer?”

  The old lady gave Cordova a wry look. “Too expensive.”

  “Did he ever make anything that blew up?”

  She sat quietly for a few moments, then rose, went to a shelf by the window, and came back with a small carving. She switched to Navajo. “This is what he makes. He carved this for me.” She extended it toward them, a palm-sized wooden image of an eagle. Bernie noticed the fine workmanship; Cordova barely gave it a glance.

  “Can I see Horseman’s bedroom?”

  Mrs. Nez looked puzzled. Bernie clarified in Navajo, “He would like to see where your grandson sleeps and where he keeps his belongings.”

  Mrs. Nez indicated the couch where they sat with a twist
of her chin. “He sleeps there. He has clothes and things in that closet by the window.”

  Cordova rose. “May I take a look?”

  Mrs. Nez nodded. Cordova opened the closet door, and Bernie watched him take a step back in surprise. The pungent stench of mothballs escaped and mixed with the aroma of wood smoke from Mrs. Nez’s stove. Bernie had grown up with the smell and would have been surprised if Mrs. Nez hadn’t used them as well as natural cedar to protect her rugs.

  From where she sat, Bernie could see that, like the rest of the house, the closet was neat. A large rug rolled into a cigar shape filled the single shelf. The floor had a pair of white athletic shoes, insulated boots, and a small gray suitcase. A few shirts, jeans, and a padded camo jacket hung from the clothes bar.

  Bernie asked, “Are you sure your grandson never talked about Aza Palmer?”

  Mrs. Nez had been watching Cordova unzip and rezip the empty suitcase. She said, “My grandson never mentioned that name.”

  Cordova said, “Was R—”

  Bernie caught his eye and glared. How many times did she have to tell him?

  “Um . . . was your grandson interested in the Grand Canyon?”

  “He never talks about that. Never been there yet.”

  “What about the proposal to build a new resort? Did he speak to you about that?”

  “No.”

  Cordova rejoined Bernie on the couch and leaned forward toward Mrs. Nez. “Officer Manuelito and I are almost done here. Is there anything else you wish to tell us about your grandson?”

  She turned to Bernie, switched to Navajo. “He’s a good boy. He helps me here more after we had the ceremony for him. I don’t know why he got hurt. I don’t know what I will do . . .” Her voice cracked and she turned away.

  Bernie translated, giving Mrs. Nez a moment to compose herself.

  Bernie noticed Cordova glance at the keys on the counter. “I need to inspect the truck,” he said. “Is it locked?”

  Mrs. Nez didn’t respond.

  Bernie shook her head. No reason to lock a vehicle out here.

  Cordova rose from the couch. Bernie followed. “Ahéhee’. Thank you for your time, Grandmother. We may be back in touch with you if additional questions arise.” She conveyed her sympathy to Mrs. Nez and left a business card, although she doubted that the grandmother would ever call.

  When they were outside, Cordova said, “I’ll take a look at the vehicle. Be right back.” Bernie climbed into her unit, started the engine for the heat, and watched him disappear behind the house and emerge on the other side after a few minutes. He slid in, put on his seat belt.

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Nothing suspicious in the cab or the bed. I didn’t see a bomb-making studio outside there either.”

  Bernie turned onto the bumpy trail of a road.

  He said, “It would be nice if Mrs. Nez knew more about the girlfriend. Sonnie in Farmington. Not much to go on there. You think the old lady was truthful about that?”

  “Most grandmothers I know would have more information, but she seemed to be talking straight there. But she’s lying about something. Well, maybe not lying, but not telling the whole truth.”

  “Probably about Horseman being a good boy. What makes you—”

  His phone buzzed, and he held up a finger and answered.

  “Sure. Absolutely. We just finished with the grandma.” A pause. “The standard ‘how could my angel be involved.’” And then, “Oh really?” He ended the call.

  Bernie said, “Was Mrs. Nez helpful to you?”

  “Yeah. I doubt that Horseman had anything to do with the bomb. He was a petty crook, considering driving off with an expensive car at the wrong time.”

  “If he was going to steal the car, why didn’t he? Why did he just linger there?”

  “Maybe he wanted to wait until the game was nearly over so he wouldn’t stand out from the crowd. Maybe he reconsidered the heist while thinking about his sweet Granny? If the bomb was triggered by the ignition, he’s dead because he was dumb enough to pick the worst possible car to steal. If it was triggered by a cell phone somewhere, then we’ve got a new layer of questions.

  “So while you and Sam check for potential witnesses, I’m going to look into those e-mail threats. I’m sure this is tied to the mediation. Whoever did this knew there would be extra security at the meeting, so they planned the attack for Shiprock.”

  Bernie nodded. “At the game, just the rent-a-cops.”

  As they headed back to the substation, the clouds moved away from the sun. Tsé Bit’a’í, the volcanic monolith of Ship Rock that gave the town its name, stood bathed in the welcome late-fall light. The formation had many different personas depending on the season, the time of day, the weather. Today it looked formidable and imposing, a sacred guidepost in the Navajo cosmos. Diné stories of the Hero Twins’ journey to make the world safer mention the huge stone landmark rising from the desert floor as the place of both bloody murder and wise compassion. She relished the gift of being born Navajo, part of such a special place.

  Cordova removed sunglasses from the inside pocket of his coat and put them on. “You know, I’m going to miss these views when I get to Michigan. That, and the sunshine.”

  “What’s Michigan like?”

  “Good hunting. Good football. Lots of water—the Great Lakes. They have a bunch of colleges. Trees everywhere and a lot more towns and people. You ever heard of Detroit, Ann Arbor, Battle Creek?”

  She ignored the question. “Do you have friends there?”

  “Not me, but my wife’s college roommate lives in Wyoming.”

  “Wyoming? Chee and I want to go to the rodeo in Cheyenne next summer. Are you heading up there before you leave?”

  Cordova chuckled. “I meant Wyoming, Michigan. It’s near Grand Rapids. You never heard of it? Just like I never heard of Sheep Springs until I came out here.”

  They drove awhile, and then he said, “What do you think Mrs. Nez was lying about?”

  “I don’t know, but it has something to do with her grandson’s past.”

  “She glossed over the past. OK, here’s what we know. Horseman was arrested for car theft, which probably means he stole other vehicles before getting caught. Rookie Sam discovers Horseman’s burned body at the blast site. You and I visit Horseman’s house. There’s no evidence of bomb making, no sign that he knew or cared a thing about explosives or knew Palmer. You with me so far?”

  “Yes.” Bernie kept her eyes on the road.

  “OK. Granny says an unknown friend, maybe the girlfriend, picked him up to go to the game even though he has a vehicle and that he’s a good boy. But she knows he’s not a good boy. I think Horseman’s a guppy in the shark pond. I’m moving on to the big fish.”

  Bernie thought as she drove and Cordova went back to his phone messages. She wanted to believe what Mrs. Nez told them about Rick turning his life around. But, in her gut, she knew the old lady had a secret.

  8

  When all the delegates were seated, Palmer walked to the microphone to officially open the session.

  “Welcome, everyone. Yá’át’ééh. I am Aza Palmer and it is my pleasure to be here on this important day. I will be mediating this series of meetings to help resolve issues surrounding a proposed development for an area of the Grand Canyon at the confluence of the Little Colorado and Colorado Rivers, adjacent to the national park.”

  He switched to Navajo and gave his “born to” mother’s clan as Irish and German and his “born for” father’s side as Towering House Diné. He detailed his Navajo grandparents’ lineage, then moved back to English.

  “I am honored to have an opportunity to help these delegates come to agreement about an issue that will affect not only all of us in this room but also many generations to come.

  “Before we proceed, the elders have requested that our session begin with a prayer. I ask you all to please stand.”

  Palmer stepped back from the microphone. The Hopi Bear
Clan man wearing a starched white shirt, new blue jeans, and freshly polished cowboy boots rose from his seat at the table. The other delegates and the audience stood. Chee felt his phone vibrate, but ignored it as he bowed his head. The elder began speaking, whisper soft at first and then a bit louder. Chee absorbed the spirit, rhythm, and music of the words, even though he couldn’t understand the Hopi. The wail of the ambulance provided an odd background.

  The Hopi prayed long and hard. Palmer thanked the elder for the blessing, and moved back to the podium. “I will briefly explain how the mediation process works. After that, the delegates will speak, each taking no more than five minutes. Then I will open the floor for comments from the audience. We seek your input today.”

  Chee glanced around the room. The audience was paying attention, not restless yet, although he noticed a few studying their cell phones. He hoped the worst thing that happened today was booing. He’d love to agree with Palmer that his services were superfluous.

  Palmer said, “Mediations are done in private, with the resolution or lack of success announced later. But because of the tremendous interest in the possible resort, the delegates want to hear your ideas today before their work begins. Everyone at the table also has pledged to listen to every other delegate with respect and attention. When I look at the faces of the men and women around this table, I see commitment. People who want to do the right thing.”

  The men and women at the delegate table did look serious, Chee thought. They looked worried, in fact. News of the bombing had spread throughout Indian Country as fast as a dust devil, and the police presence must have underlined the reality of the threat. If the Shiprock incident inspired these folks to work hard, settle the multitude of issues that surrounded the possible resort, and go home, it well might be an example of good springing from evil. He wondered if any delegates or anyone in the audience had been at the Shiprock game. He’d ask Bernie about that.

 

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