“Are you close to the hotel?”
“A few miles out. Why?”
“We have to leave for the reception in a few minutes.”
“What reception?”
“For the mediation.” She heard a touch of frustration in his voice. “Did you forget?”
“Do I have to go?”
“Palmer asked me twice if you were coming and I told him yes.”
Before she could object Chee said, “I might need your help. The Arizona officers won’t be there tonight.”
“I hate stuff like this.”
“There will be food. Once the crowd starts to thin out, you can leave.”
“Any news about the Shiprock investigation?”
“Yeah. The group from California—Save Wild America—looks clean in this case. The feds are offering a reward for information.”
“Any more threats to Palmer?” She turned on the car’s heater. The warm air felt wonderful on her frozen toes.
“No. But the heat is out in the building, and it could be sabotage. Palmer canceled tomorrow’s session, but the delegates are going to take a bus out to see the potential hotel site. What happened to Robert spooked him. He must have smoked a pack of cigarettes already today. I’ve called the hospital so much I have them on speed dial.”
“How is Robert?”
“Still in intensive care.”
Bernie remembered the young man’s agitation when he left Cameron after their conversation. “Did I tell you that Robert said Rick’s death was his fault?”
“Why did he say that?”
“He wouldn’t talk about it.” And, she thought, she hadn’t pushed.
Chee said, “Oh, Leaphorn asked us if Palmer was diabetic. I told him yes, so you can ignore it.”
“Odd.”
“I’ll asked him about that when I get a chance. I have to leave for the event in about twenty minutes. Do you want to go with me or meet there?”
“I just pulled into the parking lot. Let’s go together.”
Bernadette Manuelito wasn’t one for fancy clothes, so she was glad she could attend the reception in jeans. She wished she’d brought her special-occasion boots, but wearing the trainers would be more comfortable. Luckily, she had her heart-shaped earrings, the ones Chee’s cousin had crafted. They always made her feel special.
They met Palmer in the lobby. He wore a different white shirt, this one with silver buttons and blue edging around the collar.
“I finally heard from the hospital,” Palmer said. “Robert is still unconscious.”
“I hope he comes out of this OK,” Chee said.
“Me, too.” Bernie decided not to mention the call from Lona.
At the reception, Chee found a seat where he could observe Palmer as he chatted with the delegates and other guests. Bernie surveyed the room, already half filled with attendees.
The food looked delicious, beginning with fry bread, each plate-sized piece separated with paper towels. The hotel staff had filled the shallow aluminum bins on the steam table with other things Bernie liked: pinto beans, ground beef, and corn chips—the makings for Frito pie. She noticed little hot dogs on toothpicks, the sliced tortilla rolls, some with peanut butter and jelly inside and some with what looked like dried beef and cream cheese. She saw barbecue sauce for the hot dogs and chopped onions, red chili sauce, and grated cheese—the toppings to join the beef on the fry bread for a Navajo taco or on the corn chips for Frito pie. Then came the expected bowl of salad greens, virtually untouched. Too bad CS wasn’t here.
At the end of the food parade sat plates of perfectly round cookies, oatmeal on one side and chocolate chip on the other, a platter with grapes and wedges of oranges, and bowls of red Jell-O topped with dollops of whipped cream. A bin of canned soft drinks and a large coffeepot stood at the end.
It looked like too much food for the delegates, but among the people in the room she saw clusters of faces she hadn’t spotted onstage. The Navajo tradition of hospitality reigned. The staff wouldn’t challenge anyone who came for food and a soda unless Palmer gave the order. When she’d gone to receptions at the university in Albuquerque, for instance, she thought it odd that people hadn’t brought their children along. Now she understood that mainstream culture preferred “adult only” events. But she didn’t like it. Children added joy to anything.
A man came up to her as she was contemplating the food. He was clean-shaven and wore a knit cap. There was something vaguely familiar about him.
“Hi. I didn’t see you at the session. Are you representing one of the tribes?”
“No. I’m here with my husband, Sergeant Chee.” She knew to discourage flirting early.
He nodded. “Thomas Blankenship.”
He extended his hand. She took it and told him her name. “Chee has something for you.”
“Yeah, he told me. He wanted to give me an envelope from an old Navajo woman. I thought he was joking.”
Bernie summarized the details. “How do you know Rick Horseman?”
“I don’t. Never heard of him. Chee can return whatever it is back to Granny.” Blankenship took a sip from his water bottle. “So do you live around here, Bernie?”
“Depends on how you look at it, I guess. I’m from Shiprock. How about you?” She wasn’t good at small talk, but she had learned something about it, dealing with so many white people. She learned to answer a question and then ask one.
“Oh, I’m from Page. I’m the delegate for the Association of Outdoor Recreation Professionals. Actually, ‘delegate’ sounds too formal. I’m just a die-hard river rat.”
She knew a question was on its way.
“Have you taken a trip down the Colorado?”
“No.” The idea of spending so much time on or in water made her uncomfortable.
“You have to do that. You’ve been to the Grand Canyon at least?”
“Yes. What do you think about the Canyonmark plan?”
He frowned. “Canyonmark wants to give the lazy jerks, too fat and out of shape to even get out of their cars at the overlooks, a cushy place to stay. The resort will destroy the environment, including the river. Guys like me, river contractors who want to live free and make a buck, will be out of business because of the mess their construction makes. Don’t believe what they say about environmental protection. All that’s just bull . . .”
She followed his glance, and it settled on Palmer, who was at a table with the Hopi delegate, Mr. Keevama, his wife, a little girl in a pink dress, and a smaller boy in black pants with a can of orange soda.
Blankenship said, “After something like the Shiprock bomb, people always wonder if there will be another explosion, don’t they? But those sodas in the buffet over there, they’re more likely to do people harm. I saw Chee come into the session with a soda and candy and give them to Palmer. No wonder Palmer’s thinking is so off base.”
Bernie badly wanted a Coke. “Palmer’s diabetic. Maybe he was having a blood sugar issue.”
Blankenship raised his eyebrows again. She noticed that his nose and forehead were as brown as a pecan shell, but his cheeks looked chalky white. Bernie realized why he seemed familiar: Darleen had sketched his face as the man who had treated Chee rudely.
Blankenship took a sip from his fancy bottle. “What do you do?”
“I’m a cop.”
“You’re in such good shape, I thought you might be a physical trainer or something. Do you work out a lot?”
Too personal. Time to change the subject.
“Mr. Palmer’s son told me you wanted to hire him to do some work for you, spying or something. How do you know Robert?”
“Oh, I ran into him somewhere. Spying? That’s a hoot. I asked him to do some research but he declined. He sure doesn’t like his dad.” Blankenship laughed. “He’s in good company there. This whole meeting thing is a sham, a way for Palmer to add another star to his résumé. You know, he encourages the wackos—self-righteous defenders of little fish and abandoned pueblos and
Indian groups who could put their whole tribe in a minivan—to think they’re legitimate. But no one cares about the hardworking people who love the river and the canyon and make our livelihood there. Our clients have invested a big chunk of change and a lot of energy getting ready for the trip of a lifetime, their dream adventure on a magnificent river. And the resort would threaten that.”
“It’s a complicated situation.” Bernie stood a little straighter. “I’m going to get something to eat.”
“Be careful. Nothing healthy on that buffet except the fruit and salad.”
Bernie walked toward the food. A woman wearing a turquoise-and-coral choker moved the same direction, and Bernie let her in the line first. “What a gorgeous necklace. Do you know who made it?”
The woman put her hand to her neck. “I don’t know. My mother got it for me in Fruitland at the Hatch Brothers Trading Post when she and my dad made their first trip out west.”
“Hi. I’m Bernie Manuelito.” She saw the question in the woman’s eyes. “My husband is the sergeant providing security for Mr. Palmer and I’m backup. I’m a cop, too.”
“Jessica Atwell. I’m not good at parties like this.”
“Me neither. Are you a delegate?”
“Oddly, yes.” Atwell smiled. “I represent the Archaeology Conservancy.”
“Why is that odd?”
“When I retired from Crow Canyon and moved to Santa Fe, I started volunteering with the conservancy and one thing led to another. My dad was an archaeologist who worked at Chaco Canyon in the summers, and Mom and we kids tagged along. That’s where my interest in archaeology began. More than you wanted to know, right?”
“No, it’s interesting.” Bernie took a plate and followed Atwell down the buffet line.
Atwell took some of the tortilla rolls. “I saw there was a threat on Palmer’s life. Is that why your husband is here?”
Bernie nodded. “Mr. Palmer’s car blew up. The FBI is trying to figure out why.”
“That might be a big job.” She lowered her voice. “I heard the tribe that runs the other resort was behind the attack. Some people think he favors environmentalists because of the way a couple of his other mediations in Indian Country turned out. A lot of people aren’t fond of Palmer.”
A man with his gray hair in braids came to stand in line behind them.
“Jessica?”
As soon as he spoke, Bernie recognized the gravelly voice as the man who had called Palmer and driven off with him. Atwell introduced her to Denny Duke and then said, “I’m surprised you’re here, Denny. Last I heard, you Paiutes didn’t have a seat at the table.”
“Palmer invited me. I guess he feels guilty. I heard that he’s in the pocket of the developers.”
Duke turned to Bernie. “You’re not from around here. Are you part of the Diné delegation?”
“I’m from Shiprock. Not a delegate.”
“I understand that some Indians are so riled up that they are workin’ behind the scenes. You know about that, miss?”
“No.”
Duke said, “Who’s paying for this shindig?”
“I heard Canyonmark was,” Atwell said.
“I just got hungrier.” Duke patted his belly. “Nothing like letting the opposition buy you dinner.” He winked at Bernie, and she remembered where she had seen him before. In the lobby of the Pit after the explosion.
Bernie glanced in Chee’s direction. He motioned, Come on over. She filled her plate, grabbed a Coke, and headed toward his table. The seat he’d saved for her provided a clear view of Palmer and the Hopi family. She settled in. “What’s up?”
“I got a call from Largo. The FBI analyzed their surveillance photos from the demonstration and the session here yesterday. One of the people they saw resembles a man arrested several times on various charges, including stalking a lawyer who represented a resort developer. They think they saw him in the photos you took at the Shiprock bomb scene, too.”
She took a bite of the burrito she’d built. “That’s interesting. You see that tall guy, the one in the white hat?”
“Yes.”
“He’s the medic I mentioned who helped me at the blast site when the rookie freaked out.”
“Why is he here?”
Bernie took a sip of her Coke. “He told me he’s a contractor who might be taking a job with Canyonmark. Nice man.”
“Have you seen Blankenship here yet?”
“He was by the wall talking to the woman with the turquoise choker. I mentioned the envelope to him. He said he doesn’t want it.”
“Too bad. He’s getting it anyway.” Chee took the last bite of the Fritos with onions, chili, and cheese. “Did you try this? Tasty.”
“As good as at Chat and Chew?” She loved Shiprock’s little carryout-only place near the pawnshop.
“It might depend on how hungry—”
Chee rose from his chair in a single quick motion and left the table. Bernie followed him with her eyes.
The man in a yellow jacket had entered the reception room with a galvanized bucket in his right hand and headed directly toward Palmer and the Keevama family. Chee moved to intercept him.
Palmer stood up. “Hey there, what’s—”
The man lunged toward Palmer just as Chee grabbed for him. The contents of the bucket flew out as Yellow Jacket screamed obscenities. Chee felt the shock of cold water through his clothes and a thunk of something solid as it hit his torso. Palmer’s white shirt clung to his skin, but the Hopis, farther from the incident, looked mostly dry.
The bucket clanged against the tile floor and bounced, a sound track for the man’s rant. “You sellout. You jerk. You don’t give a rat’s ass . . .” Yellow Jacket struggled against Chee’s grip, trying to swing at Palmer. His voice was an angry yell. “You want to turn the water into a death trap for fish. The whole river will die unless you protect it. You and all of your phony delegates.”
The Hopi children hid behind their mother. Chee had seldom heard a Hopi man shout, but Keevama raised his voice. “Stop it. Behave yourself. Show some respect.”
The room fell quiet, as though the man’s explosion of energy had sucked the air out of the space. All eyes were on Yellow Jacket and the Hopi. Chee noticed that Palmer remained remarkably calm. A non-Native man in a polo shirt and a woman in a snug sweater, both of whom Chee labeled as FBI, had moved closer.
Yellow Jacket turned his outrage toward Keevama. “You Indians stink as bad as the developers. You talk a good line, but in the end you just want the money. You don’t care about your fellow creatures if they get in the way of your pla—” Yellow Jacket looked at Chee as if noticing him for the first time. “Let go of me.”
“You’re under arrest.” Chee kept his grip on the man’s damp arm, pulling him toward the exit. He saw something shiny on the floor. Fish. Dozens of them, small, silvery, and still. Dead. The impact he’d felt, he realized, came from some of these poor things striking his chest when the crazy man tossed out the water.
“Did you kill those fish?”
“They were already dead, man. I got them at the grocery. Got your attention, huh?” Yellow Jacket raised his voice again. “Thousands of these will die if the project is approved. Hear that, Palmer?”
Chee shivered at the jarring sight. He never ate fish and never went fishing. He shared the ancient Navajo belief that fish served as messengers between the Holy People and the five-fingered beings. He felt Yellow Jacket try to twist away.
“First Amendment rights, brother,” he yelled. “You Indians know what it’s like to be ignored, discriminated against. But now you’re working for the Man.”
Chee felt his anger build and fought the impulse to squeeze the man’s arm more tightly. He noticed a person next to him, pointing his cell phone at them, no doubt recording the whole affair. He saw Bernie next to Palmer, professional and alert for other signs of trouble.
He ushered Yellow Jacket to the door, the FBI agents right behind them.
Outside,
he felt the chill of night air on his wet skin. The polo shirt man and the woman in the sweater showed him their credentials, explained that they were from Phoenix, assigned to the bombing case. “We’ll take it from here. This guy has been on our radar.”
Yellow Jacket uttered a string of obscenities that concerned the agents’ parentage. “You know you don’t have anything on me. Federal Bureau of Ineptitude.”
The man in the polo shirt said, “Let’s start with assault and resisting arrest?”
Yellow Jacket swore some more as the agent reached for his handcuffs.
“We’ve got this, Sergeant. You might want to find some dry clothes.”
“Is either of you the agent who’s replacing Cordova?”
The woman said, “I know it’s not me and it’s not my partner here. You probably have more information than we do.”
Chee jogged to his motel room. When he took off his damp jacket, he realized the envelope for Blankenship was soaked, too. He set it on the bathroom counter.
By the time Chee returned to the party, the restaurant staff had arranged yellow plastic signs around the wet places and the bucket was gone. A young Diné woman about Darleen’s age worked on the mess with the same disgust Bernie’s sister would have shown if she’d been asked to clean up dead fish.
Palmer, still in his damp shirt, was chatting with Atwell. He had a plate of food on the table in front of him now. Bernie sat next to the Hopi elder, Palmer within easy reach. Chee joined them.
Keevama said, “Your wife was telling me that she went out to talk to the Bitsois. Officer Dashee has been very patient with them.”
Bernie said, “Mrs. Bitsoi was the only one at home. I got the idea that she’s in charge and does most of the work. She spent a long time telling me about her sheep.”
“I think those sheep are the only ones she doesn’t argue with,” Keevama said.
Chee said, “Is everyone here OK?”
Palmer said, “I’m fine.”
Keevama shook his head. “What a crazy man. My wife and the children left. She felt uncomfortable after what happened. I’m asking Officer Dashee to go with the delegates to the site tomorrow. It would be good to have those federal agents, the ones who went outside with you, inspect the bus before it leaves. We don’t want another explosion.”
Song of the Lion Page 23