She didn’t know a Clayton Secody and had never heard Chee mention him.
“What’s the message?” She put her hand on her gun. She heard the rhythmic steps on the trail and the lighter clatter of small dislocated rocks. Then a young man rounded a corner. A lanky Diné with a Dallas Cowboys cap greeted her in Navajo. Why would Chee send a stranger to interrupt her hike? Why hadn’t he just called her?
“We haven’t met, but I’m a friend of your sister,” he said.
“Darleen. Where is she?”
“She’s up in her car, waiting for me. She said she couldn’t hike down because her shoes were too smooth for the rocks.”
Darleen had never been interested in physical activity. Bernie liked the “smooth shoes” excuse.
Clayton cleared his throat. “Sergeant Chee asked me to tell you that you went off with the keys to his unit.” Bernie remembered that she had planned to ask for a background check on this guy, CS, and wished she had already done it. He seemed normal, but that’s what the neighbors always said about mass murderers.
Bernie patted her pants pocket and felt Sandra’s rock and a tell-tale lump. She remembered borrowing Chee’s keys when she went for the map. “So, how did you find Chee?”
“Oh, we stopped at the meeting to see what was going on. It looked crazy. People arguing in the parking lot. Tons of signs. TV trucks. That’s where Darleen saw the sergeant, and he came over and gave her the message about the keys and told us where you were hiking.”
“Did it take long to find me?”
Clayton smiled. “No. I’m from the Bodaway Chapter. From around here.”
Bernie said, “If I give you the keys, can you take them back to Chee?”
Clayton said, “Sure, but not until tonight. We’re on our way to the Grand Canyon for that program they do about condors. I’m shooting a video of that and then the condor specialist agreed to let me tape an interview with her. I have to be there early to set up but we could drop them off later.”
“He’ll need his keys before tonight.” In fact, he needed them before now and he’s probably peeved about it, she thought. “I’ll hike up with you.”
As she’d expected, the climb back to the trailhead took more energy. Even though Clayton was years younger, Bernie noticed that he was breathing hard at the pace she set. They focused on the hike, not conversation, and she appreciated the cool November temperatures. They finally reached the overlook with its vendors and the parking area and saw Darleen waiting at a picnic table. “Hey, sis. I’m glad you met CS.”
“He gave me the message about the keys. So you ran into Chee at the Justice Center?”
Darleen nodded. “I felt bad for him. There was a guy being totally rude.”
“What did he look like?” Bernie wondered if the man was one of the protesters she’d seen on TV.
“Weird. His face was white below his eyes all the way to his neck.” Darleen moved a finger along her own face to demonstrate. “But his nose and his forehead were tan.”
CS said, “Make a picture of him. You’re brilliant that way.”
“I can try.” Darleen extended her hand toward Bernie. “Let me borrow that notebook you always haul around and a pencil or something.”
Darleen put the book on the tabletop and started to draw. After a few minutes, she showed them her sketch of a man with a bald head. She had shaded to illustrate his uneven tan.
CS examined the picture. “That’s him all right. I didn’t notice that he had an earring.”
Bernie looked at the face. She’d seen the man at the meeting yesterday. She wondered if he was on the FBI’s list.
Darleen said, “So what’s up with the Cheeseburger? He looked totally serious.”
“From what you said, the situation was tense. He’s in charge of keeping the mediator safe.”
“Oh, right.”
CS said, “We’ve got to go. I don’t want to miss the bird talk.”
Bernie walked with her sister and CS to Darleen’s car, a miracle on four tires. She noticed CS reached through the window to open the driver’s door for Darleen—the only way to do it
“Do you know much about cars?” Bernie said.
He shrugged. “She’s the expert on this one.”
Darleen said, “I know how to put in the gas, turn on the headlights, adjust the radio, and push the brake to stop.” She laughed. “I know how to check the oil, turn on the windshield wipers, fix a flat, and call somebody if we break down.”
“Would that somebody be me?”
CS said, “I’ve got relatives out this way, but if you want, we’ll call you or the sergeant if we need help.”
Darleen said, “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. We made it this far. Hey, the Cheeseburger said to tell you Lieutenant Leaphorn called. I almost forgot.”
After they left, Bernie pulled out her phone and looked at it. She had two bars for the strength of signal; not great but worth a try.
She dialed Leaphorn’s number, and he—or maybe it was Louisa—answered on the third ring. The voice broke with static.
“It’s Bernie. I’m having trouble understanding you. I’ll call from the road when I get—” She heard the dreaded five tones of a lost call. She put the phone on the seat next to her, along with Chee’s purloined keys.
She started the Toyota, happy that the sun had warmed it. She could kick herself for walking off with Chee’s keys and knew she’d get some ribbing about it, especially after her computer brain speech last night. On the positive side, she’d done some hiking and had a chance to look CS in the eye. She pulled out of the parking lot and headed northeast toward Tuba City.
After a few minutes, she heard the rumble of her phone vibrating. Sure that it was Leaphorn, she pushed the button to answer and put it on speaker without looking to see who was calling.
“Did you hear about Robert?” A distressed female voice joined her in the front seat.
“Who is this?”
“Lona.”
It took her a minute to line things up. Robert was Palmer’s son; Lona was Palmer’s ex. Lona was Robert mother. “I heard. I’m so sorry. How is he doing?”
“What I meant was, did you find out what happened to the car? What caused the wreck?” Lona sounded exhausted.
“The police said it was a rollover, a one-car accident.”
“I think there’s more to it. You know someone wants to get at Aza. What if he thought this was a way to do it. Poor Robert. I told him to stay here in Phoenix, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Lona? Did I lose you?”
“I’m here. Just thinking. First my boyfriend and I split up and then poor Ricky. Robert couldn’t even talk about that, it upset him so much. And now this.”
Bernie said, “I admire Robert for wanting to see his dad. That took—”
Lona interrupted. “That’s not the only reason he’s out there. My boyfriend, I mean my ex-boyfriend, does a lot of business in the Four Corners and he offered Robert a job. Those two have a lovefest going on. By acts more like a dad than Aza ever did.”
“Guy?”
“No, By. Byrum, my former boyfriend. If it hadn’t been for Robert I would have kicked him out of my life sooner.” Bernie heard a stifled sob. “Robert drives better than I do, better than Aza. I don’t think this was an accident. Will you let me know if you hear anything?”
“Yes. And will you let me know how Robert is doing?”
“Sure. I’m at the hospital now, but they won’t let me see him.”
Bernie shook off the gloom left in Lona’s wake and focused on driving. Cameron lay a few minutes ahead and a longer delay wouldn’t add much to Chee’s irritation with her. She’d stop and go into the gallery for a minute to see if they still had that rug of Mama’s. If so, she’d take a picture. Mama enjoyed seeing where her rugs had gone. She said it must be like learning how the grandchildren were doing; grandchildren of whom she had none.
Bernie parked and called Leaphorn again. The case was weighing on h
er. Too many loose ends, too many disconnects. She listened to the phone ring and wondered what the Lieutenant had come up with about Rick. She wondered why Robert was so fond of By. Probably something as simple as an adult male paying attention to him, something, according to Robert anyway, that Palmer never did.
She left a message on his home machine. Then she called his cell and could tell by how quickly it went to voice mail that he’d turned it off. She left the same message, with a touch of worry in her voice. She decided the rug would wait for another day and headed on to Tuba City.
21
Joe Leaphorn felt better than he had in months.
He had gotten up early, dressed, and headed right to his office. He reviewed notes he’d made the night before and added some new ideas. After a while he smelled the distinctive and wonderful aroma of fresh coffee, closed his computer, took his cane, and walked to the kitchen.
“You’re up early,” Louisa said. “Like old times.”
He opened the cabinet door, took down his favorite cup, put it on the counter, and carefully poured it half full of coffee, as he’d done for years. Even if it was bitter, old, too strong, or otherwise vile, he wanted his coffee hot. And since his injury, the shaking in his hands would have created problems with a full cup.
Louisa mainly drank tea, but she always had coffee in the morning. Like many tea drinkers, she made the coffee weak, but he didn’t mind. It was still coffee.
The weekly Navajo Times arrived that morning, and Louisa had placed the newspaper by his bowl and spoon. He wasn’t crazy about oatmeal, but he knew it was better for him than the fried eggs he loved and ordered at the Navajo Inn. There it sat, the same meal that greeted him every morning except for when he went to the inn for those breakfast brainstorming sessions with the police honchos. Louisa served it up grayish white, bland but abundant. She offered a pitcher of skim milk, honey, and little bowls of walnuts and chewy raisins that made it palatable, but far from delicious.
“Can I have some of the paper?” She stirred the nuts and raisins into her bowl. “I’ll let you know what’s going on this weekend.”
It was a recurring joke between them. She’d say something like, “Look, the Rolling Stones are playing at the Flowing Water Casino. Let’s go.”
And he’d say, “Who? Never heard of them,” and then, “Not tonight, dear.”
He handed her everything except the front section. Reading the paper challenged him. Not counting some letters to the editor and an occasional column by the reigning Miss Navajo—part of whose job was to promote the use of the Native language—the paper was written in English. He used it to exercise his brain, translating the headlines, looking at the pictures, and then, if the story seemed interesting or unusual, laboring to understand it.
The first page’s big news concerned the ongoing scandal with the Environmental Protection Agency over wastewater from abandoned mines that had contaminated the Navajo Nation’s precious water. He glanced at it, and then at the story about a grant for schools in Crownpoint and another about the resignation of a tribal department head after some political squabbling.
At the bottom of the page he saw a color photograph of a group of mostly white people with a few Indians, all waving protest signs. The article concerned the Grand Canyon development mediation. The people looked cold. In the background he noticed a round-faced Hopi officer whom he knew he had met. Ah yes, Cowboy Dashee.
A smaller picture showed a man in a white shirt and Pendleton jacket. He focused on reading the caption, which named the man, Aza Palmer, and mentioned that a trip to visit the proposed development site near the confluence of the Colorado and Little Colorado Rivers would be part of the mediation experience.
Leaphorn stirred the honey, walnuts, and raisins into the oatmeal, added milk, and took a bite. Same as always. Unfortunately. When Emma shared this table, they ate whatever she found in the refrigerator for breakfast—leftover beans warmed up in the skillet with a tortilla, fruit her relatives had given them, toast, lunch meat—always with coffee. On special days Emma made blue corn mush and fried it for a special treat. She’d laugh if she burned it and serve it anyway because they’d both grown up wasting nothing. He ate what she offered, burned or otherwise, with gratitude for her smile. Would he ever get over missing her?
He tried another spoonful of oatmeal. Something about the smaller picture tickled his brain. He stared at it again.
Louisa glanced over to see what had captured his interest. “Good article?”
“Ya.”
“I thought that Grand Canyon development idea died long ago.”
He tapped the story with his index finger. “No.”
He wondered what memory, what connection that he couldn’t quite access, the image of Aza Palmer in the photograph triggered.
She said, “I’ve been reading about blood sugar and how adding a bit more protein helps keep things regulated, like the way we put nuts in the oatmeal. You’re lucky not to have diabetes, you know. So many Diné suffer from that. We bilagaanas, too.”
“Ya.” He straightened up in his chair. Another piece of the Horseman puzzle slipped into place. He finished the last of the oatmeal and reached for his cane. “Die-bees,” he said. “Tanks.”
“Diabetes?” She raised an eyebrow. “Did that help you figure out what you’ve been worrying over?”
He nodded. Then he offered her a thumbs-up. Emma had never cared about the details of his work, only worried that he might get hurt. Louisa liked puzzles.
“You’re working on something intriguing, I can tell by the look on your face.” She smiled at him. “Good luck.”
Diabetes. He thought about that as he walked back to his office. The disease plagued the Navajo Nation in ways the early Diné could never have envisioned. Indian Health Service doctors attributed the problem to poor diet, obesity, lack of exercise, and perhaps a genetic propensity. As in mainstream America, it often led to amputations, kidney failure, blindness, heart problems, and more. Leaphorn sat at his desk and closed his eyes. He took himself back to little Ricky’s home, before the boy came to live with his grandmother. He smelled the hot rancid air inside the filthy trailer; the stench of unwashed clothes, soiled diapers, and unemptied garbage. He heard the whimpering baby and the woman’s drunken snoring. He remembered the clammy feel of her skin when he tried to wake her.
He recalled how the little boy picked up the baby and attempted to soothe him. He could still hear Ricky saying, “Maybe there’s a bottle,” and see him opening the ice chest, empty except for cloudy water in which floated two oversized cans of high-octane beer. He pictured Ricky standing next to the gurney and his mother, semiconscious, swatting him away. He remembered the boy cringing and moving away to stand next to him, staring at the ground. He could still feel the boy’s little hand as it reached for his.
Leaphorn recalled saying something like, “Get your other shoe and we’ll go to your shimásani’s place.” But his memory found nothing about diabetes.
He stood, stared out the window for a moment, and sat down again. He began to recall the scene at the grandmother’s house. He heard the grandmother’s puzzled yáʼátʼééh as she stood outside near the ramada, and saw her look of surprise and concern as she studied the police car. He could still see Ricky running to her, grabbing her long skirt. She had asked about the baby. Not, he recalled, about the mother.
He took his mind’s eye around the ramada, the shelter where the family cooked and slept when the weather was warm and it reminded him of the familiar smells of his own summers away from what people call civilization. He remembered the order and stability of Mrs. Nez’s place, the sound of insects and a horse in the distance, the whine of a dog. He felt the welcome cool of her shade and the smoothness of the plastic cup in which she’d given him water. When he was done, she filled it again and offered some to the little boy. He reexperienced his relief at knowing Ricky was safe.
There was something else about that day, that place. He was sure of it.
He rewound the memory to when he had driven up to the house. He saw a newish pickup with Arizona plates, and he remembered thinking that it was odd for a woman living by her wits and well-honed habits of frugality to have a truck. He remembered asking the grandmother if he could do anything for her before he left. She said, “No. That man cutting wood will be coming in soon. He has to check his sugar.” Leaphorn recalled the racket of the chainsaw.
Then he remembered the second child who was there. A slightly older dark-haired boy wearing glasses and a watch with a green dial similar to Ricky’s.
Leaphorn opened his eyes, aware that Louisa had spoken to him. He felt her warm hand on his shoulder.
“Did you doze off? Would you like more coffee? There’s a little left.”
He nodded yes to the second question.
“I’ll bring it to you.”
On a hunch, he e-mailed Chee and Bernie with a question. He settled in to wait, but to his surprise, Chee responded a few minutes later.
“Strange question, But yes, Palmer has diabetes.”
The man working with Mrs. Nez that day little Ricky Horseman arrived in Leaphorn’s police car was diabetic. The man was Palmer. But the more he learned, the less he seemed to know.
His visit to Mrs. Nez had been almost twenty years ago. It was time for a road trip.
When Louisa came back with the coffee, he showed her his plan for the rest of the day, typed in English so she would understand. He smiled when she volunteered to go with him, just as he’d hoped she would.
22
Never again, Jim Chee told himself. Next time anyone one asked him to be a bodyguard, he was saying no. Even if the person asking was the chief of police himself and even if the person who needed protection was the Navajo president. No way. No how. Hey, even if the Navajo president himself asked him, he’d say no.
He rolled his head from one side to the other to jar his brain awake. Never again. Period.
After typing out a quick response to Leaphorn’s question, he had moved to the back of the room in an effort to watch both Palmer and the characters who’d come to share their views about the development. He thought of Bernie, embarrassed when Darleen told her that she’d run off with the keys to the police unit. He and Palmer caught a ride to the meeting with Dashee. His sweet wife was in for some serious ribbing when he saw her again.
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