Cave of Bones

by Anne Hillerman

  When Bernie’s phone and the landline both went straight to voice mail, Chee called her mother’s house. In the old days, sons-in-law and mothers-in-law kept their distance. Times had changed, and it didn’t make sense to pretend Bernie’s mama wasn’t part of their lives. He treated the elderly woman with respect and reserve.

  He listened to six rings and then remembered that Mama and Mrs. Bigman, her weaving student, were planning to go to the Crownpoint rug auction. Mama was probably off somewhere, getting ready. When Bernie told him about the trip, he’d heard something unusual in her voice. Regret? His wife had started a rug but hadn’t made much progress. She had talked to Mama about teaching her again, but Mama said she should practice first to get her hands and her brain working to remember what she knew already.

  He picked up his book again but couldn’t focus on it, his mind wandering back to the scene at Tesuque Pueblo. From Caitlyn’s mother’s reaction to seeing him, he doubted that son-in-law George was at the old house. He imagined Mrs. Vigil made the man’s life miserable.

  And back in Navajoland, it sounded like Mrs. Curley took every opportunity she could find to irritate Caitlyn, her daughter-in-law. Both elderly ladies wasting precious energy on something that was not their business. It made him appreciate Bernie’s mama and, yes, even Darleen.

  Chee’s class notes were in his truck. It wouldn’t hurt to look them over before the next day’s session, and a little fresh air would calm his spirit. He took the stairs down to the lobby two at a time. The stairway door opened onto the hallway a few steps from the business center—the euphemism for a room just big enough to hold a desk with a computer, a printer, a chair, and a wastebasket. The hotel arranged the system for guests to conveniently print airline boarding passes, but Chee had figured out how to check his e-mail. The Lieutenant had already sent him something, an attachment with a terse note: Here’s what I have so far. Odd. Still checking.

  He opened the file and saw a state of New Mexico death certificate for Clayton Secody.

  6

  Bernadette Manuelito had had an interesting day.

  As Manzanares predicted, the search and rescue effort began to roll into place. The incident commander arrived, and volunteers followed. They set up a communication center in the parking lot with computers, supplies for the search teams, and more. The searchers included retirees and young folks, men and women. Some were “ground pounders” trained to work in the backcountry. They did the physical searching. Others were support and logistics crew. All volunteers taking time from their regular lives to help a stranger.

  Bernie gave the incident commander, a sturdy-looking fiftysomething woman named Beverly Katz, the detailed description Cooper had written.

  Katz read the note. “She even included the reflective trim on his jacket. But she doesn’t mention any relatives. We could use that information. I know this isn’t your problem, Officer, but since you’ve already been in contact with”—Katz looked at the note again—“with Rose Cooper, I’d appreciate it if you could give me a name or two. Just in case.”

  “I told Mrs. Cooper I’d call her when the search started, so I can ask about that.”

  “I’m hopeful that it won’t take long to find him.” Katz zipped her jacket against the afternoon breeze. “Can you show me where the base camp was before you leave?” She talked as Bernie led the way. “It sounds like Cruz is experienced in the out-of-doors and knows this particular landscape. If he is injured badly enough that he can’t get back here, he’ll stay put. He won’t panic. He knows that the people he was with would call for help.” Katz looked at the sky. “The weather seems to be cooperating for now, but I saw that a big storm is on the way.”

  The sandy path to the group gathering place on the mesa was easier than the hike with Mayfair. Like Mayfair, Katz moved quickly and stayed on Bernie’s heels. Bernie tossed out a question. “You mentioned one scenario where Cruz waits by a trail to be found. But what else could happen?”

  “Well, we keep in mind the possibility that he suffered an injury that could create some confusion. Lots of trails cross through the lava or lead from here into the sandstone cliffs. Even without an injury, anyone can get disoriented. Or maybe Mr. Cruz met someone who was hurt and is helping that person. This area is popular with hikers.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. The Wings and Roots van was the only vehicle in the lot when I got here.”

  “Sometimes hikers have friends drop them off and pick them up,” Katz said. “And there are several other trailheads. We haven’t had any other missing person reports, but it’s always a possibility, especially when people hike alone and forget to tell anyone where they’re headed.”

  The path widened, and Katz moved beside her and glanced across the mesa top and out to the highway and the lava beyond. “As a police officer, you’re probably aware of this already, but sometimes people go off by themselves to have some space to think, especially if they are feeling overwhelmed by life. Was that true of this man?”

  “I asked. His coworker mentioned that he was about to get a promotion, and also was the chief fund-raiser for the organization. That can’t be an easy job for any nonprofit. The director denies that he would ever consider suicide. Neither of them used the word depressed when speaking of him.”

  Katz nodded. “When we talk to the family of the missing person, we always ask them about state of mind and if they have any information that might be helpful for the search. Anything else I should know?”

  “Rose Cooper left Cruz’s sleeping bag here, in case you need a scent for dogs.”

  “Good.”

  When they got to the group assembly area, Katz showed Bernie the map the searchers worked with and how each area the teams had checked would be marked off as the search continued. The highest probability for finding a lost hiker like Cruz, she said, lay in about a four-mile radius of the last spot where he was seen. That was where the search focused.

  Finally, Bernie told Katz about the cave with the old bones and, using the map, gave her a rough idea of the location.

  The search commander thanked her. “I’ll ensure that’s undisturbed. We want to find a living man, not the ancient dead.”

  Bernie made her way off the mesa, walking more slowly, enjoying the view. Even though she had never meet Cruz, she felt like she would recognize him if she saw him hiking toward her. She agreed with Katz’s assessment that he could be injured and hoped the search would find him alive. If not, she hoped that at least his body would be recovered so his family would have some peace.

  The afternoon had grown cooler and a small herd of clouds gathered to the west. The year would be over in a few more weeks. What changes and possibilities would the new year hold?

  Bernie had parked her unit at the edge of the parking lot, facing the highway. But first things first. As she hiked to the outhouse, she nearly stepped on a cell phone on the ground. She picked it up. From the glittery pink case, it looked like something that might have belonged to one of the teenage girls. The screen was cracked but still usable. She pushed the on button. No power.

  She asked the members of the search crew about it, and none of them had lost a phone. They didn’t look the type for glitter, but you never know.

  Bernie left her card at search headquarters in case anyone asked about the phone and slipped the device into her backpack. Before she left, she checked the time. The program’s van and the campers should be in Grants. She called, and Cooper answered.

  “Bernie! Did Dom make it back?”

  “No. The search crew arrived, and they’re getting started.”

  “I’m waiting for the last few parents to arrive. I was hoping to give the girls some good news.” From the sound of her voice, Cooper could use some good news herself.

  “How was the drive? I was surprised you had to stop in Grants. Isn’t the program based in Shiprock?”

  “It is, but this was an excursion for teens in Cibola County, with a few Shiprock girls added to give us a full gr
oup.” She heard Cooper’s long exhalation. “The kids were quieter than usual, worried about Mr. Cruz. Annie kept to herself and didn’t say a word, a big change from her complaining the whole way. She got really sick, and I had to call an ambulance for her. It was here when we arrived.”

  “That sounds serious. What was wrong with her?”

  “She was hallucinating. That girl. I think she might have had some drugs stashed somewhere. Mayfair called her mother.”

  Bernie leaned against her SUV. “The incident commander asked me for a list of Mr. Cruz’s relatives to inform about the search. She doesn’t want them to see this first on TV or read about it. The state police officer who came out told me Cruz’s sister married his cousin. Does she still live out here?”

  “Yes, she’s in Grants. Merilee Cruz. I have her information at the office because she’s on the Wings and Roots board of directors. She works as a psychotherapist.”

  Bernie waited, but Cooper didn’t mention any other names. “Anyone else?”

  Cooper sighed. “Those of us who work with him are as much family as he has. Cruz isn’t married. He never talks much about his relatives, and I never ask. He lives with a roommate. Merilee will know more. I’ll text you her information as soon as the kids get picked up.”

  Bernie heard commotion in the background. Cooper said, “Anything else? I’ve got to go.”

  “Did one of the girls mention losing a pink phone?”

  Cooper laughed. “No way. Those girls are tied to their phones. If someone had lost it, you would have heard her wailing all the way to Grants.”

  After Cooper hung up, Bernie climbed into her unit and put on her seat belt. Should she call Mama, or should she talk to Chee first? As she was thinking, Largo came on the radio. He got right to the point.

  “Things are slow here, and you don’t hear me say that often. Finish whatever you need to do out there. You can check in at the office and handle the paperwork in the morning.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  “Any news on the lost guy?”

  “Not yet. They only started searching for him.”

  “He’s Navajo, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That means he’s tough. He’ll be OK. Did you tell them about the cave?”

  “Yes, sir. The incident commander is a veteran with search and rescue, and she’s from around here. She understood. They have a whole lot of ground to cover without bothering with that place.”

  “Since the search borders on the reservation, there’s a chance those bones could be Navajo. I’ll put a call in to the state police in Santa Fe, to the overall search and rescue director—I know him—and mention the cultural site issues to be on the safe side.” Largo ended the call.

  Bernie knew the captain didn’t like talking about old bones any more than she did. And the Pueblos felt as strongly about the right of their dead to be left in peace. She shifted her thoughts to something more pleasant. Chee. She smiled as she pictured him. He liked going to Santa Fe for the trainings more than she did and didn’t mind getting up in department meetings afterward to share what he had learned.

  She was glad she didn’t have to head back to the office. She decided to take the long way home and detoured off the freeway to NM 53, the road that skirted the other edge of the Malpais and headed toward the Zuni Mountains. Driving calmed her, especially driving beautiful empty roads like this one. It had been a good day, and she was encouraged by the incident commander’s optimism about finding Mr. Cruz. She’d give the number for Cruz’s sister to the incident commander when she got it.

  She called Chee from the car and left a message when he didn’t answer. Sometimes, she thought, a message from him, a quick reminder that she was loved, was enough.

  She saw the signs for El Morro, a national monument preserving historic graffiti, signatures of the Spanish and American explorers, soldiers, and settlers who had come this way. The visitors had carved their names into the sandstone face. An abandoned pueblo sat on top of the butte, also open to visitors as part of the monument. Maybe their little store had a book about plants of the area, something that fascinated her. She pulled into the parking lot, noticing one other vehicle—a dusty white Toyota 4Runner with an El Morro National Monument bumper sticker. She walked the trail to the visitor center.

  The ranger, a bright-eyed, gray-haired man, was alone.

  “What brings you out this way, Officer? I’m Larry Hoffman.”

  “Bernadette Manuelito. I was in the Malpais and I got curious about the plants there. Do you have any books about them?”

  “Not exactly, only some general guides to botany of the desert and the Southwest. On the top shelf over there by the window. Take a look and see what you think. You’d have better luck at the bookstore at the El Malpais visitor center, the big place off Highway 117.”

  The monument phone rang. “Excuse me.”

  She heard him answer as she walked toward the bookshelves. The plant books were interesting but not specific to this section of New Mexico or to species that thrived on lava. But she spotted something a few shelves down that caught her attention—a compilation of stories about the formation of the southwestern landscape. A large, beautiful volume with color photos, it included a version of the Diné story of the Monster Slayer and his brother, Born of Water, killing Ye’iitsoh.

  Unlike the version Bernie knew, in this variation the monster hid his heart and other vital organs in a cave, and when a lightning bolt from Monster Slayer killed him, the blood flowed from the cave entrance and finally solidified into the lava beds. The book had stories from other tribes and included the science of volcanoes and photos of volcanic eruptions and different types of lava from around the world.

  Chee had been less than excited when she’d given him a poetry collection for his birthday, even though the poems were by the first Navajo poet laureate. This might be more to his liking, but it was expensive. She put it back on the shelf for now.

  “That’s a lovely book, isn’t it?” Hoffman said. “I was surprised that the tribes around here have such similar stories about the lava.”

  “I wonder what the Spanish and the Americans who came through here thought about all the lava. Had they seen anything like it before?”

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to study up on that yet. Ask me next time you’re out this way, and you can see what a good student I am.”

  His attitude reminded Bernie of Leaphorn, the way the Lieutenant relished an interesting question. “Where were you before El Morro?”

  “The Grand Canyon. I was one of the people who got to answer visitor questions.” Hoffman changed the tone of his voice. “‘How old is the canyon?’ ‘Why is it here?’ ‘Can I bring my dog on the trails?’ ‘How hot is it at the bottom?’ ‘Is there an ATM?’ And my favorite, ‘Where is the restroom?’” He chuckled. “I was there five years until moving out here. The pace of this place is a lot easier on my bad back. I can keep my pain under better control. Are you working out of Ramah, Officer?”

  “Please call me Bernie. I was helping a friend, an officer at Ramah, with a special request and got involved in a search out in the Malpais.”

  “Somebody lost, huh? On Navajo land?”

  “Well, hard to say. Part of the lava flow extends onto the Ramah section of the reservation, but the person who is lost was last seen on the other side of the Malpais.”

  “There are some private ranches there, right?”

  “That’s right. It’s a mix of jurisdictions, and when you’re out that way you don’t see any demarcations. The lava has oases of vegetation, caves, stone tubes, cinder cones, lots of lichens you don’t find elsewhere. It’s really interesting.”

  “Interesting and complicated, like so much of New Mexico. I thought maybe you were out here looking into the vandalism.”

  “I hadn’t heard about that. Here at the visitor center?”

  “No. Several people who’ve stopped here said they had seen cars that someone had broke
n into, vehicles parked at the pullouts for the Malpais trails. I guess the sheriff or the state police investigate such things. Is that how it works?”

  “Yes, usually. Those kinds of incidents are hard to solve unless there are security cameras that capture the scene, and the folks responsible can be ID’d.”

  Hoffman nodded. “We have cameras in here, but we’re fortunate. This monument is relatively small, and people watch out for each other. And the only cars here overnight are in the campground. It seems pretty peaceful, as far as I’ve seen.”

  Bernie agreed. “What crime there is usually involves family violence and burglaries related to drug or alcohol problems. The car break-ins are something new.”

  He smiled at her. “So, you like that geology book. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “I think my husband would enjoy it. Is it available in paperback?”

  “I wish. I could sell one or two of those a day.” He took the book off the shelf and inspected it. “Tell you what, it’s kind of shopworn. You can have it for ten dollars.”

  “Wow. Thanks.” It didn’t look shopworn to her. “I’ll owe you a favor.”

  As she was paying for it, she discovered another twenty-dollar bill in the coin compartment of her wallet and offered it to Hoffman.

  “No. A deal’s a deal. You can do me that favor some time.”

  A young couple came in. Instead of looking at the exhibits, they went right to the ranger.

  The man said, “We have been thinking of that wonderful jug you showed us.”

  The woman said, “He means the olla, is that how you say it? The Zuni pot.”

  They both spoke with accents. Maybe French, Bernie thought.

  Hoffman seemed uncomfortable. “Wait a minute, please. I’ll be right with you. Why don’t you take a look at the movie?”

  The couple walked into the other room, where a film about El Morro was playing.

  Hoffman opened the cash drawer and handed Bernie her change and the book.