He found: “Harris is severely underweight and small for his age, failing to thrive. Richard’s growth continues in the normal range.”
And then in the next report: “Harris has missed developmental milestones and shows signs of FAS and possible abuse. Richard is gentle with and concerned about the younger child.”
Leaphorn knew FAS, fetal alcohol syndrome, cursed the child of the mother who drank—usually these women were alcoholics—with a variety of conditions, including retardation, hyperactivity, heart problems, tremors, and seizures. These babies were vulnerable to abuse, too, because they were hard to parent, hard to love. He read about Harris’s scheduled evaluations and missed appointments. Then he read: “On a visit to mother’s house, a friend found Harris unconscious. He was taken to hospital by ambulance and died the following afternoon.”
Leaphorn looked up from the computer and rubbed his eyes. He thought about Emma, sweet Emma, and how she’d sent cards to little Harris not knowing the youngster had died. He barely remembered the baby, a little crying person in a house of despair and sadness. Even though it happened years ago, the child’s death—and especially the thought that an adult who should have cared for the baby might have contributed to it—troubled him. Now, both boys, two lives that could have made a difference, were gone.
He sent an e-mail to Largo, knowing the captain sometimes worked late, asking if the FBI had come up with anything else on the bombing and Horseman’s involvement. He missed the days when it was easy for him to walk down the hall and ask for what he needed to know, or when he could pick up the phone and assume the person he called would understand him.
Leaphorn stood, noticing the stiffness in his back, took his cane, and went to the kitchen. He would have enjoyed a cup of coffee, but since there was none and he didn’t feel like making some himself, he opted for water. Louisa had left the puzzle on the table and was reading in the living room. Or, rather, dozing in her favorite chair, a book on her lap. A good woman, he thought. A good woman, indeed. He didn’t understand what she saw in him, but he didn’t understand women anyway. He would ask her advice on this, he decided. Before his injury, he’d enjoyed talking to her about cases he worked. She had good insights. It was time to talk to her again.
When he limped back to the office, Largo had already responded. The FBI had identified the kind of bomb it was, the sort detonated with a cell phone–not with the vehicle’s ignition. Other than that, they weren’t saying anything, except that the investigation continued and that Rick Horseman “was not a suspect at this time.”
20
Bernadette Manuelito liked routine. She cultivated habits to keep herself from wasting time on what she considered minor issues—when to go for a run, what to have for breakfast, where to buy gas for her car, what day to do the laundry. Her theory was that this saved space in her brain for more important items. She pictured the brain as a living computer with only so much room on the hard drive. When it got too full, it started to delete things. She was explaining her idea to Chee, who supported the “take life as it comes” approach. They’d started the discussion because she said being away from home and her regular schedule made her a little antsy. He muted the sound of the football game on the big-screen TV in their motel room. “The way I see it, the brain resembles a balloon with ideas floating around inside. Most of us keep it barely inflated and have room for more than we imagine. When I was studying to be a hataalii, I realized that I could learn the songs, learn the paintings, learn the correct ways to do complicated things I thought I’d never understand. The more I learned, the more I could learn. My balloon brain grew. I visualized the colors and the shapes of the sand paintings. I heard the rhythms of the chants in my dreams. I would remember one part, and then the next part and the next came to me.”
“Breath, the wind of life, that’s what makes a balloon grow and that’s what supports our spirits. You can keep your computer brain.”
“If your brain is like a balloon, at some point it might get too full. Pop.” She clapped her hands to illustrate the point. “But I can get a new hard drive.”
Chee said, “Yeah, and with a computer, a lightning strike kills the power and you’re out of business.” He smiled at her. “The Lieutenant’s brain seems more like a computer, supporting your theory, but my happy balloon brain is not convinced.”
The next morning she awoke early, as always. She dressed quietly and went outside to watch the sun rise. She sang her morning song and blessed the day with white cornmeal, thankful for it. Thankful for her relatives, for Chee, for good health, for a career that meant something.
She made coffee for them both in the little pot on the dresser while Chee was in the shower. When she heard him turn off the water, she hollered in, “Did I tell you Dashee is joining us this morning? I’ll go for a run later.”
“You’re cooking eggs in that microwave for us?”
“Wish I’d thought of that. No, we’re meeting at the restaurant next door.”
Chee emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. “I noticed a softer side to Palmer last night. He thanked me.”
“Really?”
“His son’s accident might have shifted things inside him. I’m going to check with Officer Skeen this morning, see if there’s any news on the wreck.”
“I hear the Lieutenant’s voice in my head.” She spoke more deeply. “‘There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Manuelito.’”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yes, especially when it comes to crime. You know how people believe that God has a plan for the universe and that we’re a tiny bit of it, but because our part is so small, we can’t see how it connects?”
Chee nodded.
“Well, I think that’s how coincidence works. Part of the complicated web of life.”
They walked to the adjoining building that held the restaurant. Dashee sat at a table with a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him. They scooted in on the other side and quickly ordered breakfast.
Dashee said, “I hope you guys have that electricity problem figured out for the session today.”
“You bet,” Chee said. “I drove to Bashas’ yesterday and got a box of Hopi flashlights.”
“What?”
“You know, those wax things that start up with a match.”
“Oh, you mean Navajo flashlights. Good thinking, bro.”
Chee sipped his coffee. “Seriously, Ward texted me last night that the session is a go. We’ll have power today as far as I know.” He had alerted the captain to Bebe Durango’s warning.
Bernie said, “Chee mentioned that grazing problem. It sounds like a mess.”
Dashee put his cup down. “Mrs. Bitsoi is one stubborn lady. Reminds me of my aunt. Nothing I say gets through to her.”
“That’s because she doesn’t speak Hopi,” Chee said.
The waitress took their orders: ham and eggs for Bernie, pancakes for Chee, and more coffee for Dashee. Chee moistened a wedge of pancake in a puddle of syrup. “Hey, I heard you gave your delegates good advice yesterday: ‘Be careful and don’t get blown up.’”
Dashee turned to Bernie. “How do you live with this guy?”
Bernie shrugged. “I’m used to lame jokes. And he’s a pretty good cook.”
Dashee said, “I haven’t heard you complain about Darleen. Did she go to that art school in Santa Fe?”
“She hasn’t decided yet. She’s taking classes in Shiprock for her diploma.”
Dashee nodded. “Is she staying out of trouble?”
“As far as I know. She and a friend might be on their way here to watch the session. He wants to make a video of it.”
“So what brought you here?”
Bernie said, “You mean besides Chee? The mystery of the dead man at Shiprock. And the more I learn, the more confused I get.”
Dashee chuckled. “You think too much, that’s your problem. Why don’t you give it rest, go for a hike today while the weather is good. The old on
es’ bones are telling them that winter is close. I know a good trail for you, and you don’t even have to drive into the park itself.”
Chee said, “That’s a good idea. I have a map in my unit. That might be helpful.”
Bernie said, “Are you sure you won’t need my help today with security or something?”
“I would love to give you the bodyguard duty, but I’m stuck with it. You can help me at the reception tonight.” He handed her the keys to his unit. “The map is on the passenger seat.”
She was out and back in no time. She stacked the dishes to one side and spread the map out on the table. Dashee studied it.
“I don’t see it on here.” He took a pen from the pocket of his uniform shirt and made a sketch on a napkin.
Chee smiled at Dashee’s drawing. “This looks like the way to find buried treasure or something. What’s this X?”
“X marks the spot where the trail splits. Bernie, you have to go right.” He moved the paper closer to her. “Just follow this dotted line.”
She looked at the napkin and tapped the X. “What if I go left here?”
“You can’t unless you’re a Hopi.” Dashee sketched in a rainbow in the margin. “The X is a good place to start back up, too. I’ve seen tracks of a mountain lion on the trail a couple of times in the summer, never this late in the year. Just to be safe, make some noise as you go down that way. Sing or something. Don’t surprise it.”
Chee said, “You’re sending my wife on a trail frequented by a mountain lion? Náshdóítsoh?”
“No, tocho. It’s a Hopi lion, one of us peaceful people. He hasn’t eaten anyone yet.” He turned to her. “You’re more likely to see snowflakes than tocho out here. And if you meet him, well, you can talk your way out of anything. You know, more people die from bee stings and mosquito bites.”
“Or car accidents. I’m not worried about it.” Bernie finished her coffee and picked up Dashee’s map as she scooted her chair away from the table. “I need to call Mama and check to see what’s new on the bombing case before I leave for the canyon.”
Dashee said, “Your mama must be like mine. One of those ladies who know everything before it happens. Ask her what Mrs. Bitsoi is up to while you’re at it.”
Bernie laughed. “I left out the part where I call Cordova at the FBI, or Largo to find out about the bombing.”
“I heard that FBI guy is leaving. Transferred to San Diego.”
“Really?”
Dashee shrugged. “That’s what I heard.”
Chee nodded toward Bernie. “She had more contact with him than I did, but I thought he was a decent guy, easy to work with. How come we get this news from the Hopi express?”
Dashee said, “You’re just giving me another reason to brag, you know.”
Bernie said, “Actually, Cordova told me he’s going to Michigan.”
Chee looked at her, surprised.
“He mentioned it when we drove out to talk to the dead man’s grandmother. Guess I forgot to tell you.”
“So much for your computer brain theory, honey.”
She called Mama from the hotel lobby. Mrs. Darkwater, Mama’s neighbor, answered the phone. Ever since Mama had been sick, Mrs. Darkwater had taken Mama into her flock, checking on her at least once a day.
“Your mother is fine. She’s going with me to Farmington today to get some presents for my grandson. His birthday comes next week.”
Mrs. Darkwater wanted to talk about the Shiprock bomb. “Terrible. Who would do something like that?”
“That’s what the investigators are trying to find out.”
“Too bad that young man who got hurt out there died. No way for him to make restitution for that mess.”
“We don’t know yet if he was connected to the explosion or if he was just in the wrong place when it happened.”
“Who stands in the parking lot when the game is on?”
Mrs. Darkwater’s appraisal matched her own. No basketball fan who had driven to the Shiprock would miss the game.
After Mrs. Darkwater shared a few more opinions, she handed the phone to Mama.
Her mother sounded strong and happy. “That lady who wants to weave, well, she’s doing pretty good. She makes mistakes, but she knows how to laugh at herself.”
“I’m glad.” She wished she had time to work with Mama. She knew how to weave, beginner-style, but Mama had more to teach her.
“Daughter, you sound sad. Are you still thinking about that bomb and the one who died?”
“Yes, but the Lieutenant is helping me figure things out. I’m in Tuba City with my husband and I’m going for a hike when we finish talking.”
“Is it snowing there?” Then Mama said, “Hold on.”
Bernie heard Mrs. Darkwater’s voice in the background but couldn’t pick out the words.
Then Mama spoke again. “We’re leaving. You be careful.”
Bernie went back to the hotel room, noticing that the sun was out and the morning light shone clear and sharp. She saw her laptop, still in its case, on the desk and checked her e-mail for a note from the Lieutenant, a follow-up from Cordova, or something from the office. Nothing.
It was the FBI’s case, wasn’t it?
She loaded her backpack with water and a jacket and made sure she had something to snack on. She had the cornmeal she brought for a prayer at the confluence of the two rivers if she managed to hike that far. She put the holster with her gun on her hip.
When she reached for her phone, she noticed that she’d missed a call from Lona. Swallowing her hesitation, she punched in the number. After five rings, a mechanical voice came on and Bernie left a message. “Sorry I didn’t catch you. I will be away from the phone most of the day, but I’ll try you again later.”
Then she climbed into her well-used Toyota and headed south toward Cameron.
The drive worked its magic. The morning sun brought the landscape to life—iron reds, subtle grays, warm browns. She passed the country she’d seen with Palmer, the dinosaur walkway, and rolled across the bridge over the Little Colorado River, the place where, after miles of meandering, the river begins to make its rock-rimmed descent to the canyon’s ancient floor. She cruised by the Cameron Trading Post oasis and took the traffic circle onto Highway 64, Desert View Drive, the route into the park.
There were two main ways to approach the Grand Canyon by vehicle. The southern route went through the village of Tusayan. With a collection of motels, restaurants, gas stations, and various tourist-focused businesses, Tusayan accommodated hundreds of thousands of visitors who came to enjoy the South Rim’s attraction each year. Beyond the settlement lay forest and, after a few miles, the more popular entrance to one of the nation’s most popular parks.
She preferred the eastern route through the Navajo Nation, arid and open, with miles of views unblocked by trees. As directed by Dashee’s map, she stopped at the turnoff for the Little Colorado River Tribal Park. The viewpoint area sat far above the sacred confluence of the two rivers. She saw some open-air booths, similar to the ones at the dinosaur tracks. She looked at the map again before putting it back in her pack. It showed the trail but, she realized, not where it started in relation to the parking lot. She could probably poke around and find it, but better to ask.
The first vendor she talked to shrugged her off politely. The next person she asked, a woman seller of cedar-bead necklaces with a toddler-sized daughter, offered to show her the trailhead. She told a young man in the booth to watch the child.
The women walked together, past a sign that warned of snakes, scorpions, and other possible threats to hikers. The critters slept now because of the weather. They crossed flat sandstone the color of coffee with milk. As they approached the canyon’s edge, Bernie remembered hiking down another trail in the canyon, and how she had imagined plunging to her death with a false step. She hoped Dashee’s trail wouldn’t be as treacherous.
After about ten minutes, the woman stopped and indicated with a swoop of her chin a
place where the path angled off the plateau, heading downward. She looked at the sky. “You’ll be fine. It gets slick down there when the rain or snow comes, but it’s nice today.”
“How long would it take to me get to the river?”
“Depends on how fast you go. My brother back there, he makes it to the Little C in three hours.”
“He’s the one with your girl?”
The woman nodded once. Bernie figured, based on age and experience, it might take her an extra thirty minutes down and more than that coming back up. Seven hours? Because of November’s short days it would be dark before she reached the rim again, and she didn’t want that. But she’d hike awhile to get a sense of the place. Maybe she’d make it to where Dashee had drawn his big X.
The gray and brown stone walls that frame the Little Colorado’s narrow gorge lack the Grand Canyon’s panorama of color. The buff-colored limestone at the start of the trail—the same stone that paved the dinosaur walkway—is evidence of a shallow sea that covered this spot some 250 million years ago.
Bernie’s muscles gradually warmed as she moved down into the canyon. She breathed the fresh, cool air, listened to the wind, and appreciated the lack of highway sounds and human-made noise. If she was wrong and the attack on Palmer was tied to the mediation, then perhaps being in this land itself might help her puzzle out why young Horseman was dead.
She reached a switchback and surrendered to the meditative rhythm of the descent.
She had climbed too far away from the parking area to hear the vehicle pull in or to realize that the driver didn’t have to ask where the trail started. He went right to it and began to hike toward her.
She froze when she heard the voice calling her name.
The second time he yelled, she responded, “Who’s up there?”
The voice called out a name she didn’t recognize.
“I didn’t catch that.”
“I’m Clayton Secody. Sergeant Chee sent me. I have a message for you.”
Song of the Lion Page 20