Duke slowed for a pair of bony horses caught in the beam of his headlights as they meandered across the road. Palmer stared out the windshield beyond them into unbroken velvet night.
“Do the people who live out here have electricity?”
“Not a bit, except a few who got generators. Mother gets by with her heating stove, kerosene lamps, and candles. She has water now, so I don’t have to lug it out for her no more. She usually goes beddie-bye by now, but she said she’d stay up till we got there.” They stopped in front of a house, and the truck lights illuminated gray cinder block. Palmer noticed a butterscotch glow seeping through a gap in the curtains.
Duke turned off the engine, then reached over to the passenger side and opened the glove box. Palmer saw a thin beam of light and heard the rustling of paper as Duke grasped a small black flashlight. He clicked it on. The beam flicked along the bench seat and then moved to the floor where it illuminated dirt and a cracked floor mat. “I don’t see your phone, sir. You wanna try?”
Duke handed him the light. Palmer opened the door and shone the beam along the side between the seat and the door and along the floor and under the seat. No phone, but he found a small silver earring and handed it to Duke along with the flashlight. The Paiute had the rifle in his right hand, barrel pointed to the ground.
“Mother’s been missin’ that. She’s waiting to meet you, sir. Let’s go on in. I’m sure sorry about that telephone, but it don’t work good out here anyways.”
Duke was shorter and a bit younger than Palmer had assumed. He moved fluidly, the strands of red yarn tied to the end of each gray braid swaying. As they walked toward the house, Palmer noticed a trailer, or maybe it was an RV, parked away from the dwelling. Stepping into the house was a journey back in time. Even in the dim light, Palmer noticed that the little home swelled with handcrafted touches, from the stone floors to the wooden furniture to the baskets, weavings, and pottery. A large drum, its hide top well used, sat in a corner beneath a curtained window. He inhaled the subtle spice of cedar drifting up from the fire in the large black stove that stood in the middle of the room.
The house reminded him of other Indian homes, modest on the outside, rich with tradition, family, and memories inside.
An elderly woman, a smaller, rounder, more stooped version of Duke, acknowledged his presence with a sober nod and wordlessly offered him a place at the wooden table. Spread out before him, Palmer saw a yellowed map, hand-drawn and elegantly illustrated, like no map he had ever seen before.
“This is what we needed you to come look at.” Duke leaned the gun against the wall and joined Palmer at the table. “Mother wanted you to see this now so you will understand why nothing can be built here.” He moved his hand to cast a shadow over a section of the map where, Palmer speculated, the Colorado River and the Little Colorado came together. The spot sat at the map’s center.
Palmer stood for a better look and studied the map for a long time, admiring the depiction of mountains, rivers, canyon walls, bears, elk, deer, and mountain lions. “It’s beautiful. Can you help me understand what I’m seeing?”
The old woman spoke for the first time. “You are Navajo?”
“I am.”
She settled into the stuffed armchair and arranged the pink blanket over her lap. “I will tell you.” Palmer knew a story awaited him.
Her English, even more than her son’s, had a slow, lilting, songlike rhythm. She started with a story of the love of a Paiute leader for his wife, a woman who died too soon. The profound depth of the leader’s grief stirred the heart of the God Taavotz. Taavotz promised to show the leader that his wife was happy in the world of spirits, but only if he could put his grief aside during their journey.
The old woman stopped speaking and looked at Palmer. Then she held her hand over a place on the map, a spot near the center marked with a graceful golden swirl. “This is where they came. Does your heart want to hear more?”
Palmer had listened to stories like this before, elaborate tales of sites so sacred that their existence benefited not only the people who knew their history, but everyone on the planet. He had never seen a map like the one on the table, which made the story more concrete. The map looked as though several Holy People had created it over a long span of time. “Please go on. I am honored that you would tell me this story.”
“Because Taavotz is a strong, strong god, he forged a trail in solid rock, a deep path through the holy mountain that guarded the spirit world. The leader followed this long, rough road. Then, where the trail met the river, he beheld his wife. She couldn’t see him, but he realized that she lived happily now, free from pain, free from sorrow, free from worry. The leader’s heart lightened and he followed the trail back to his homeland. Then Taavotz poured water into the path as a blessing to the earth and its people. See here?”
The woman moved her hand over the map, along the course of the Little Colorado River, southeast to northwest, stopping at the junction of the Colorado. “Taavotz told the leader to warn the people that the river would swallow them if they tried to visit the spirit world before their time. And so it is.” Palmer heard the tone of her voice darken. “It is wrong to disturb the spirits. Anyone who does this will bring great suffering to the world. The ancestors deserve a happy rest. That way they can send prayers to keep the world safe, prayers for all their children, even for you Navajos. Prayers for everyone. What would happen if they are disturbed? What tragedy will come to us?”
Palmer noticed the tears on her cheeks reflected like gems in the candlelight.
After a while, the woman said, “Our ancestors speak through us now. They ask us to tell you that there are many things, important things, that can’t be measured by reports and computers, by people from Washington or Phoenix. They remind us that there is more to being human than making money. I know you are not Báyóodzin’, not one of our people, but you are an Indian. I hope you understand this in your heart of hearts. In the end, we are all relatives.”
Palmer’s throat felt tight. “You and your son should come to the meeting tomorrow and tell the delegates how you feel.”
The woman shook her head. “We should not speak of such sacred things to outsiders, but we prayed and learned that we should bring you here. That’s why I decided to show you this map and to tell the story.”
Then the woman started to chant, softly at first and then with more power. Duke stood and used the drum to reinforce the rhythm she set. She closed her eyes, and Palmer saw how the Paiute words she sang erased the lines of worry and smoothed her forehead. When she finished, she looked toward Duke and he helped her to rise, then went to the woodpile and stoked the stove. She studied Palmer with her sharp dark eyes. “We, my son and I, are peaceful people; we know that isn’t true of everyone who honors this place and its story. You be brave and be careful.”
Duke said, “Can I help you with anything, Mother, before we go?”
The woman shook her head and then turned again to Palmer. “Do your best to save this sacred place.”
Palmer shoved his hands in his pockets and followed Duke to the truck. The chalky wisp of a moon and an abundance of icy stars shown in the deep black sky. He heard the music of a coyote in the still, frigid air. Ma’ii, the wise trickster, challenging him to make sense of what he’d just experienced.
Palmer said, “Where did that beautiful map come from?”
“No one alive today can remember that far back. It’s a treasure, and my mother is the one who tends to it. That’s about what I know.”
“How does your tribe honor that holy spot?”
“We don’t talk about that outside of our own people.” He put the rifle back in the gun rack and started the truck. The heater fan blew cold air onto Palmer’s legs. “Some of our folks are angry as hell about the development those Navajo big shots are talking about. They blame you, sir, because they think your meetings give the project life.”
Palmer thought about defending himself, arguing the point as they
headed away from the house into the darkness. Instead, he thought about the story, the map, and the message from Ma’ii.
18
“You’re making me nervous.” Bernie muted the game on TV—the Arizona Cardinals playing some team on the football field. “You told the clerk at the desk to call you when Palmer shows up. You left a message in his hotel room. We drove around looking for him. What else can you do? Stop beating yourself up. What happens next is up to Palmer.”
He saw her eyeing his untouched half of the burger.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”
“You sure?”
He marveled at Bernie. She could live on Cokes and burgers, with an occasional break for her mom’s mutton stew and fry bread. She’d eat corn, squash, and green beans when he cooked them, but left to her own devices, she’d live vegetable-free. She was slim, he decided, because she had the same metabolism as her mother. Mama and the hummingbirds.
She took a bite of his dinner. “Don’t worry about Palmer. You’ve done all you could.”
“I’m not sure about that.” I’m longing for the day when I never have to think of Palmer again. Did you hear anything from the Lieutenant about the dead guy?”
“No. I sent him an e-mail, but he hasn’t responded yet. I hope that means he’s busy working on the case.” Bernie moved closer to Chee. “What would the Lieutenant do in a situation like yours?”
“He would have told Largo to find somebody else for bodyguard duty. Unlike me—the guy who gets the chump assignments.”
“Stop it. You’re a first-class cop. People take advantage of your good nature sometimes, but you don’t come in second to anyone. Largo appreciates you.”
“Yeah, because I’m easy to manipulate.”
“No, because you’re a kind man and a great officer.” She put down the burger. “You’ve had a long day with lots of stress and you’ve hardly slept since you started this assignment. Give yourself a break.”
He stared at the silent television, then sat up and slipped off his boots and stretched out on the bed next to her again.
“You’re right. Palmer manages to push all my buttons. To rattle my cage.”
“He’s a burr under your saddle.”
He grinned. “Yeah. A fly in the ointment.”
“An itch that needs scratching.”
“A thorn in my side.”
“An ant at the picnic.”
“A weed in the corn patch.”
“A sandstorm at a powwow.”
“A coyote in the sheep pen.”
“A bug in your ear.”
“He bursts my bubble.”
She laughed. “I can’t think of any more. You win.”
“So, do I get a prize?” He snuggled closer to her.
“Hmmmm. We’ll have to see about that.”
They heard a noise. A chime. Then again. Palmer’s phone.
Chee padded over to the desk, disgruntled. The screen said the call was from “UNKNOWN.” If it had been his own phone, he would have turned it off.
“Hello?”
He heard Palmer’s voice. “Chee, why are you answering my phone?”
“You left it in my motel room. Where are you? Bernie and I drove all over looking for you. We’ve been worried sick.”
“Calm down. I’m out in the parking lot. I thought I must have dropped my phone out here.”
“Come inside and I’ll meet you in the lobby. I’ve got a message for you, too.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Palmer said. “I just have to give my companion back his phone.”
Chee put his boots back on. Then he slid Palmer’s phone into his pants pocket.
“Want me to go with you?”
“No. This jerk is my personal headache.”
Bernie turned the television sound on. “You might want your jacket. You never know what will happen.”
“Right.”
He grabbed his gun from the dresser as he left.
Palmer wasn’t in the lobby, of course, so Chee went outside to look for him. The clouds, which could have kept the temperature at the frigid average for November in northern Arizona, were gone. What little heat the day had stored had disappeared into the pool of blackness. He zipped his jacket. The stars shone with exceptional brilliance and the cold air invigorated him.
Chee spotted Palmer standing against the building. He seemed to be studying the orange camper van.
Palmer glanced up. “I didn’t think you’d be so quick. Want one?”
He noticed Palmer’s half-consumed cigarette. “No.”
Palmer breathed out a cloud of smoke. “So you had a message for me?”
“Yeah. Your son called. He said it was urgent, and that was a while ago.”
“He ignores me for years and now everything is urgent. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I’ve got another message for you. Grow up. Get over yourself. No more of this cat-and-mouse stuff. I’m doing my best to do my job, which is to keep you alive for the mediation.”
Palmer took a long drag and stared at his cigarette. “I’ve quit dozens of times, but the old habit comes back. These things are more dangerous than anybody out there.” He stared out into the parking lot. “Chee, I know this started when Katie dropped me off at the station, but it should end now. The police presence at the mediation sends the wrong message—not just you but the whole posse. I’m calling the captain first thing in the morning to get him to call off the dogs. What’s his name?”
Chee told him. “You should call the chief, too. This was his idea.”
“I will.”
“Where did you go, anyway, without a car?”
Palmer took another drag on the cigarette. “A headman of the San Juan Paiutes picked me up. He came by in his pickup, said he had to show me something important. So I went with him. I explained that you had the bodyguard assignment, but he said you weren’t welcome.”
“Was he the one who called you?”
Palmer affirmed it with a nod. “Denny Duke. He took me to his mother’s house, and they showed me something beautiful they thought was relevant to the mediation. Then he brought me back here, no harm done. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Did you really think it was a good idea to go off in secret with some guy who has something at stake in the outcome of the meeting?”
Before Palmer could respond, Chee heard a noise across the parking lot. He noticed the lights blazing inside the VW camper and Bebe Durango standing by the open door.
Durango noticed him noticing.
“Hey, Sarge, come here for a second.”
Chee didn’t like being shouted at. He waved at him, meaning, When I’m done here. He turned back to Palmer. “So you disappear with the guy who threatens you over the phone. Did Mr. Duke make any more threats?”
Palmer ground what was left of his cigarette into the asphalt. “He warned me that some of the other Paiutes think I’m stirring up trouble because I’m the mediator. That’s the extent of it.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “The only business we have left is for you to give me my phone.”
Chee extracted Palmer’s phone and handed it to him.
“I’ll call my son now about his urgent need to speak to me, and I’ll call your bosses in the morning. The signal is better out here.”
“It works fine in the lobby, too.” Chee said. “Go inside and I’ll be there in a minute.”
Palmer started to argue, then thought better of it, turned, and walked toward the motel’s entrance. Chee waited until he disappeared, then trotted to the camper van.
Durango opened the door before Chee could knock and started talking.
“I heard a rumor that the power will go out again tomorrow and every day of the mediation. A power failure, get it? It’s a symbolic statement about the failure of the power of the people to stop the development. You watch for this.” He rudely pointed a finger at Chee. “I’m giving you a heads-up so you can plan a little. You seem like a n
ice guy for a cop.”
“Anything else I should know?”
Durango eyed him cautiously. “You should know that this Palmer guy isn’t the straight shooter, goody two-shoes he says he is. He did a mediation in Redondo Beach that is still being sorted out. If you need something to do, check that out. And check out the Mormon Mafia around here, too. I heard they plan a lawsuit to keep alcohol and gambling out of the canyon.”
“Mormon Mafia?”
“If you don’t know what that is, well, you ought to. Good night.”
Chee walked back to the motel, wondering if Durango had inside information about the electricity and if some LDS representative would show up to speak tomorrow.
Palmer stood in the center of the lobby. He looked pale, stricken.
“What’s wrong?”
“I called my son—no answer, of course. Then, just as I was planning to go inside, a cop called me. He said Robert had been in a car wreck. An ambulance took him to the hospital in Flagstaff.”
Dramatic disaster clung to Palmer like a bad stench, Chee thought.
“The officer gave me the number of the hospital. I’m going to call and see if they can tell me how he’s doing. Rocket was alive when the ambulance got to him.”
“Rocket?
“Rocket—that’s what his mother and I used to call Robert. A nickname because he was such an active little kid. I haven’t used that name for him in years. We had our differences, but . . .”
Palmer raised his hand and spread his fingers, as if to signal defeat. Chee had a lot of questions, but he waited to see if the man wanted to tell him anything else first. The lights in the room seemed too bright, Chee thought, the space too big and public for this conversation.
Palmer said, “Robert’s mom always bragged about his driving. He’s never had a car accident as far as I know, not even a scraped fender. What happened out there?”
“Do you recall the name of the officer you talked to?”
“Breen, Green, Dean, something like that.” Palmer shrugged. “I was more focused on the message than the officer’s name.”
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