Song of the Lion

by Anne Hillerman

  “Mr. Gardner, the delegate representing Canyonmark.” Lee put his hat back on, making it easier to talk with both hands. “He wants me to do some contracting work if the project is approved and told me about the big powwow here. I’d never met him in the flesh. So I figured I’d mosey on out here and say hello. I wanted to find out about the hubbub over the hotel, or resort, or whatever the heck the plan is before I sign on to work with him. Did you see those demonstrators out there?”

  “I did. There are quite a few groups here. I didn’t expect so many different viewpoints.”

  Lee adjusted his shirt cuffs. “The worst are those self-righteous guys like Blankenship, the man who represents the commercial rafting organizations. Those folks are only concerned about themselves. That man is a liar, and a cheating son of a gun. Before he opened his raft business, he was an organizer for one of the wacko groups that want the world to go back to 1890 or something. My sister gave that bunch money she couldn’t afford to and, of course, she didn’t get it back even when they had to close because of fraud. He’s a—”

  She heard the chime of a cell phone and saw Lee pat his shirt pocket.

  Bernie said, “Do you know when the session will reconvene?”

  “Well, the mediator said they’d start up again in ten minutes and now it’s been twenty. Excuse me, Officer. I’ve got to take this. If you’d like a seat, you can have mine.” He indicated a place in the second to last row on the aisle.

  The delegates had filed back on stage, with a portly, balding man in a dark suit arriving last. Palmer headed to the podium. He seemed older than he had at the game, perhaps because, instead of a basketball jersey, he wore dress-up clothes. He hung his Pendleton jacket with turquoise in the design on the back of a chair and she noticed his fancy western shirt with pearl buttons.

  A few moments later, Chee came striding across the back of the stage. He looked tired, she thought, tired and worried. Palmer readjusted his microphone and turned it on. “Welcome back, everyone, and please be seated. We’ll get started with public comments.” He gestured to the two stands with the microphones in the back of the room, arranged so the speakers would be facing the delegates, and explained the rules for commenting. “I invite anyone who would like to address the panel or myself to please approach the mics.”

  Bernie watched Chee watching the audience. He was tense. She kept her eyes on him, admiring his good looks and wondering what troubled him.

  Then the creak of the door behind her caught her attention. She turned to see the TV man enter the room carrying a large black duffel bag. He began to unload and set up equipment, a tripod, power cords, and more she didn’t recognize.

  Onstage, Palmer was summarizing. “I ask that everyone act with respect, including respect for those with whom you disagree. Stick to the topic. Mention your most important points first, in case you run out of time.

  “Speaking of time . . .” Palmer held up a card with the number thirty on it. “I will raise this when you have thirty seconds to complete your remarks.” He held up a second that read “Thank you.” “When you see this, your time is up and you need to sit down.” Palmer glanced at the people who had assembled at the back of the room. “The lady in the blue T-shirt, please introduce yourself, tell us if you are speaking on behalf of a group, and make your brief remarks. Then I will call on the man with the red tie at the second microphone.”

  The woman mumbled her name and gave a rambling talk about the importance of the Grand Canyon as a place where city people could enjoy the night sky without light pollution. The cameraman stopped the video.

  Next came a man in a button-down shirt with a fish-logo tie who identified himself as a member of Swim Free, a group dedicated to preserving habitat for an endangered fish, which he named in Latin. Because the fish could not speak for itself, he said, he and his organization protected its interests as they related to planning for and construction of the resort. He began a discourse on the interconnectedness of nature that sounded to Bernie remarkably like something her grandmother might have said.

  Palmer held up the sign with “30.”

  Mr. Swim Free talked a little faster.

  She saw Palmer’s hand move to the “Thank you” sign. Then, suddenly, the microphone died and the windowless room plunged into blackness. Although she hadn’t heard an explosion, the protester’s reference to a bomb threat flashed in her mind.

  13

  Bernadette Manuelito rushed to the back of the room and opened a door to let in more light. Officer Silversmith followed her lead and opened the other back door. The weak afternoon sunlight reflected off the clock, an old-fashioned kind with hands stalled at 2:20.

  Palmer went to the podium. His microphone was dead, but his lawyer’s voice filled the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you’ve noticed, we’re having some technical difficulties. I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I find out myself. I hope to resume public comment in a few moments.

  Most of the audience stayed put. A few made their way toward the exit.

  A figure stepped onto the darkened stage from the side entrance. Bernie felt her instinct for danger kick in. She watched Chee step between Palmer and the man, briefly blocking his passage, then allowing the person to proceed to the podium. He looked at Palmer’s microphone, checked the connections. Then he fiddled with the light switches on the stage wall. Now that her eyes were accustomed to the dim light, Bernie could tell from the way the technician hunched his shoulders that he didn’t know what to do next.

  Rightman, the TV reporter, thumped the malfunctioning microphone in the back of the room. “No power here either.” His voice resonated in the darkened hall.

  The space slowly filled with the rumble of conversation. Power outages were common in the summer, often caused by lightning strikes. In the winter, more rarely, the weight of snow or wind toppling trees against the power lines took out the electricity. November incidents were ususual.

  Captain Ward walked into the room toward Palmer and Chee. The people quieted. After a brief conversation, Palmer headed back to the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the entire building has lost power. Building maintenance is at work on the situation, but the captain is unsure of how long the situation will take to resolve. Rather than continuing in the dark—some would say this issue has already been in the dark too long—we will reconvene at nine a.m. tomorrow. If the power is still off here at the courthouse, the meeting will shift to a different location, perhaps the Tuba City Library, and a notice with a map will be posted outside. Thank you.”

  Rightman focused on Palmer, the light from the camera serving as a mini spotlight.

  Since she was already at the back door, Bernie walked toward the exit rather than struggle against the flow of the audience to reach Chee. She nodded to Officer Silversmith. “I’m a cop from the Shiprock station. Need any help?”

  “No thanks. Everyone seems pretty mellow and Chee will pitch in if we need him. You’re his wife?”

  “That’s me. Bernie Manuelito.” She introduced herself properly with her clans.

  Silversmith did the same as he kept an eye on the crowd. “Chee said you were smart, but he forgot to say that you’re pretty, too.”

  She observed the crowd move down the hall and out toward the parking lot. When the room had mostly cleared, she stepped back inside. The stage was empty and she figured that Chee, Palmer, and the delegates had left through the back door. She’d wait in the parking lot, she decided, and she noticed that the idea raised her level of anxiety. First she had watched the Lieutenant get gunned down in a Window Rock parking lot, and then she had seen the aftermath of the car bomb. She swallowed her nervousness and reminded herself she was a cop.

  Outside, a group of protesters in Save Wild America T-shirts with the Grand Canyon smokestack design had gathered. She also noticed a well-built but otherwise nondescript man watching her watching them. She made him for FBI. Then she saw a red-haired woman in jeans that hadn’t come from Walm
art. His partner? The Arizona Highway Patrol officers also were on alert.

  The TV reporter stood by his white van, also studying the crowd, in no hurry to leave. She noticed two men in dark suits and ties chatting as they walked. Lawyers or bankers, perhaps, who’d come to speak at the meeting. But they didn’t seem quite old enough, and out here even lawyers and bankers wore boots and bolos. Maybe they were Mormon spokesmen who’d come to share their viewpoints on the possibility of alcohol or gambling at the resort. They were dressed for TV, she thought. But they headed to a gray jeep-like vehicle without being accosted.

  She had no such luck. Rightman glanced her way, then picked up his equipment bag and walked toward her. “Hello, again. How about a comment now for the news tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, come on. You look like a person who has some great opinions. It’s easy, I’ll just ask you a question or two, and we’re done.”

  “No thanks.” She heard a vehicle honking around the back of the building. “Besides, you don’t want that irritating sound in your footage.”

  She noticed a young Navajo man hurrying toward the cluster of protesters. She watched him pull the hood of his sweatshirt over his close-cropped dark hair and sprint toward the back of the building, where the honking originated, the area where the delegates parked.

  When she first went into police work she gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Now, after a few years on the job, civilian naïveté had been replaced with what she considered a more realistic view of humanity. She ran after the runner.

  Bernie found the beginnings of chaos.

  A man in a parka the color of desert sand and a hat that made his head look like it came to a point stood directly in front of a large black limousine. From the stoop of his shoulders, Bernie estimated that he was in his sixties or perhaps older. He pounded the car’s well-polished hood with his “Stop Development Now” sign. In addition to the car beater, a small group of people milled around, some with signs they’d made on their own, some with the slick-looking Save Wild America logo enlarged, printed, and stapled to a stick. The crowd provided an encouraging audience and blocked the other delegate cars from moving forward. The honking only encouraged them.

  The driver’s-side door of the black limo opened and the driver got out. Bernie had never seen anyone wear a cap like his except chauffeurs on television. He approached the angry man.

  “Sir, I don’t give a hoot about your politics, but get the hell away from my car. You don’t have the right to damage it.”

  The man with the sign shouted back at him, “You’re part of the problem.”

  “I’m trying to make a living.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  A man in a green jacket stepped forward. “Come on, Bebe. Get out of the way before you get run over.” Instead of cooperating, Bebe swung the sign. She heard the thunk of impact as Green Jacket’s body hit the asphalt. By the time she reached him, the victim was upright and gripped Bebe by the forearm. Bebe struggled free and hoisted his sign again.

  The driver stood stiffly, his hands clenched into fists. “Get him out of here before I punch him.”

  Bernie felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as she stepped forward. “I’m a police officer. You all need to move back so these cars can pass.”

  “You look like a nosy Indian to me.” Bebe attempted to give the car another dent, but he was too far away. The vehicles behind the limo continued honking.

  Bernie put muscle in her voice. “Put the sign down. Step away from the car now, sir. Quit what you’re doing before you or someone else gets hurt.”

  Bebe stopped bashing the hood, turned, and swung his sign at Bernie. She took a step back in surprise, avoiding the blow. Green Jacket grabbed Bebe’s wrist. The sign dropped as he twisted Bebe’s arm behind his back and pushed him out of the line of traffic. Bernie expected Bebe to continue to resist, but Green Jacket seemed to have subdued him.

  Officer Silversmith, slightly out of breath, ran up next to her. “Want me to arrest that guy for assault on an officer?”

  “No. You’ve got enough to deal with and his buddies have him under control. But keep an eye on that man.”

  Silversmith spoke to the driver. “Move your car so the folks behind you can get out of the parking lot, and I’ll take your statement and photos of the damage.”

  The driver turned away. “Forget it. I’ll deal with this later. Mr. Gardner is already running late for his meeting in Page.”

  Some of the protesters had their cell phones out. Bernie hadn’t noticed anyone filming the attack on the car, but probably someone had. Silversmith turned to her. “You sure know how to have fun on your day off. Thanks for your help.”

  The protesters who had been distracted by the car beating came to life as Chee and Aza Palmer left the building. Chee looked grim as he and Palmer walked toward his unit. About the same time she noticed them, Bebe did, too.

  “Aza Palmer, this power outage is a hoax to cut off public input. You should be ashamed. Shame. Shame. You’re in the back pocket of Canyonmark. Shame. Shame.” He kept it up, and the chant of “Shame, shame” spread through the protesters. In addition to Save Wild America, Bernie saw signs that said “Swim Free,” “Let the Colorado Flow,” “Save the Canyon,” and “No to Canyonmark” flashing in a flurry of organized energy. Someone shouted, “There’s a Canyonmark flunky,” and the group turned its attention to the approaching vehicle, and the line of traffic slowed to a crawl.

  Rightman moved in front of Bernie to focus on the messages. The TV attention energized the crowd, and they followed Rightman to a car with a delegate. Bernie walked over to Chee’s unit, and he lowered his window.

  “Hey there,” he said. “I saw you in the meeting room. Glad you made it to Tuba. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to talk.”

  “You were busy. Can I help?”

  Before he could answer Palmer said, “I need to get back to the motel to see what I can find out about the power outage and arranging an alternative site before all the businesses close down today. I can’t think sitting here.” His voice was icy, formal. “With me gone, the situation might calm down.”

  “OK I’ll turn on the lights and siren and we’ll cruise on outta here.” She heard something she rarely noticed in Chee’s voice: irritation.

  Bernie said, “My car is on the other side of the building. What if I give Palmer a ride to the motel and keep an eye on him for you. We can cut through the building.”

  “Watching him is my job.”

  “Consider me your deputy for the moment. It will make everyone’s life easier.”

  Palmer said, “This is ridiculous. Just let me walk back to the hotel.”

  “Quiet.” Chee kept his attention on Bernie. “If you’d give him a ride, that would be great.”

  “On one condition.” She leaned in toward the unit’s open window. “I need a key to our room.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Chee reached in his jacket pocket and handed her the little envelope with the key and the room number.

  Bernie gave Palmer a steel-eyed look. “Come with me. I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.”

  Palmer climbed out of the police car, and he and Bernie made their way quickly through the darkened hallways of the Justice Center building and out a side door.

  She moved her water bottle from the Tercel’s seat, and he climbed in.

  She noticed that his knees were at his chin. “You can scoot the seat back with a bar underneath so you’ll have more room. My mother usually sits there, and she’s almost as short as I am.” As she drove toward the exit, she saw Rightman unlocking the white van with “KOAX” painted on the sides. He aimed the camera at them as she sped past.

  Bernie pulled onto the street and stopped at the stop sign. She noticed a blue sedan behind her.

  “How was the meeting?”

  “So far, so good, except for this power failure. Not nearly as hair-raising as what happened at the basketball game. Why are you here?�
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  “I’m squeezing in a little time with my husband and I have some questions about what happened at Shiprock. I think you know more about the situation than you told Cordova.”

  She waited for him to respond, but he stayed quiet while she drove to the motel. She pulled into a parking spot in front of the building and turned off the engine. The blue car that had been following them drove past the motel. Maybe it was nothing. The explosion at Shiprock had set her nerves on edge. Palmer took off his seat belt. “The FBI guy asked me a million questions, and I’m sure he told you what I said. I haven’t had any great insights since then. Why does it matter to you anyway?”

  “They identified the person who died in the explosion, a man from Shiprock with no links to domestic terrorism or, as far as I can tell, to the mediation. I had to give his grandmother the news. She said the young man never mentioned you, but I think she was lying about that.”

  “No one told me the body had been identified. Who was it? Maybe someone I dealt with as a lawyer.”

  She hated to say the name of the dead, but she had to. “Richard Horseman.”

  Palmer slumped back in the seat as if someone had punched him in the gut. “Ricky? Oh no. No. Are you sure?” He pursed his lips and blew out a long exhalation. “Dead? I loved him like a son. We hadn’t seen each other since I got divorced and started working too hard. But I never forgot him. I should have—”

  He buried his face in his hands. The chill of grief hung in the air.

  Bernie waited.

  After a few minutes, Palmer said, “Let’s go for a ride. I’ve been inside all day with Chee staring at me.”

  “Chee’s just doing his job.”

  Palmer said, “Yeah, he thinks everyone is out to get me. But I’m alive. Ricky is gone. Why him?”

  “That’s what I want to talk you to about.”

  Palmer clicked his seat belt back on. “It’s not that far to the Grand Canyon. We could make it to the first overlook while we still have some daylight. We can talk in the car.”