Cave of Bones

by Anne Hillerman

  “Ms. Cruz, take a breath. Your brother is missing, and New Mexico Search and Rescue has volunteers out now looking for him. They are good at what they do. Domingo is your brother, correct?”

  “Yes, my twin. What happened?”

  “He was working with a Wings and Roots group in El Malpais. He went out to find a young woman who hadn’t returned from her solo, and he never came back to base camp.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Bernie eased forward on the couch to place her feet firmly on the floor. “Do you know about his work?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m on the program’s board of directors. I mean, I don’t understand how this happened. Dom loved—I mean, loves—that part of New Mexico, and he knows it well. He wouldn’t get lost. What happened to the girl? Is she lost too?”

  “Luckily, the girl made her way back to camp. She’s fine.”

  Merilee leaned forward toward Bernie, elbows on her knees. “I’m shocked. Dom is so good outdoors.”

  “The incident commander was wondering if you had any information about your brother that might help them find him.”

  “Have they talked to that Cooper woman, the program coordinator? She usually goes with the groups.”

  Bernie nodded. “Mrs. Cooper mentioned that your brother seemed preoccupied on this trip, worried about something. I decided I should talk to you in person rather than try to discuss this over the phone.”

  Merilee settled back into her chair. “How can I help?”

  “Was your brother depressed?”

  “You mean suicidal? You’ve got to be kidding! If Dom had something on his mind, so what? It hasn’t been easy for him the last few years. He’s totally committed to the program, and Wings and Roots has shown marvelous results. That man has changed lives.” She studied her hands for a moment and then looked back at Bernie. “He’s also our main fund-raiser, and that’s taking up more of his time. After their initial enthusiasm, many of our funders seem to have moved on. Begging for money is hard, and Dom told me he was ready to do something else. But he’d never kill himself.”

  “I have to ask because the search protocol for finding a person at risk of taking his own life is different. Can you think of anything else that could relate to Mr. Cruz’s disappearance?” Bernie heard an electronic sound that resembled a bird call. Merilee glanced at her phone and silenced it.

  “Well, he likes to take photographs out there, but he never does it on company time. Did Cooper mention whether he had his camera with him?”

  “I’d have to check my notes.” Bernie remembered Councilor Walker’s rant. “Tell me more about the fund-raising.”

  “The board is finding a contractor to do an audit in preparation for Cooper’s pending retirement.” Bernie heard the bird call again. Merilee paused, pulled her phone from her pocket, and switched it off. “Sorry. Did Mrs. Cooper mention that she planned to retire?”

  “Not directly, but I heard that she recommended your brother for the job.”

  “That’s right. That was on his mind. In addition to the audit, another agency will conduct a comprehensive follow-up study to see what’s become of the students we worked with in terms of completing high school and further education, their living situation, contacts with the criminal justice system, employment, and other criteria. We have a lot of anecdotal evidence that the program helps participants with decision making and resisting peer pressure, but the empirical study will help juice up our fund-raising.” Talking about the study seemed to animate the woman more than discussing the search for her brother.

  Merilee stood. “I need a glass of water and an aspirin. I’ll be right back. There are some cookies on the counter in the kitchen and some bottled water there, too. Please help yourself.”

  She disappeared down the hall.

  Like the rest of the house, the immaculate kitchen looked like something out of a design magazine. It had a sparkling stainless steel stove with a built-in grill in the center, a refrigerator taller than Bernie, countertops that looked like pale green marble with veins of mica or something shiny, and a smooth wooden block with slots for knives. Pans of all sizes and functions were neatly arranged on an overhead rack. A bright red ceramic jug filled with big spoons, spatulas, and utensils Bernie didn’t recognize sat on the counter. She examined the little pots of fresh herbs—chives, thyme, tarragon, oregano, parsley, and even sage—arranged on a decorative stand.

  Sage. The sage in the pot had the same name as the wild plant that grew prolifically in New Mexico, on the Navajo Nation and throughout the Southwest. She knew the culinary sage in the kitchen was cousin to peppermint, catnip, and oregano—all characterized by square stems and aromatic leaves. The sagebrush outside had daisies, asters, and ragweed in its close family ties. Same name, but different genetics. Then she thought of the new FBI person, Sage Johnson. Were her parents thinking of sagebrush or cooking when they named her? Or did they expect that she’d be a wise woman, a different sort of sage. The name made her curious.

  For a person who liked to cook, someone like Chee, this kitchen with its fresh herbs and fancy equipment would be paradise. Mama enjoyed fixing meals, too, but Bernie couldn’t imagine her in such fancy and complicated surroundings. Mama had her favorite pot, her special knifes, and a temperamental old stove that did the job just fine.

  Merilee’s cookies, shaped like hearts, sat on a plate with “Eat Up” scrolled in designer script around its edge. Bernie took one. It looked like a sugar cookie, but it had little purple bits inside. She tried a bite. The unusual taste reminded her of something her husband might take a fancy to. She needed a napkin, and opened a drawer beneath the counter. They were there, along with some coffee pods, those fancy little capsules that only made one cup of coffee at a time, and a small plastic bag filled with seeds. Bernie had little bags like that in her house, too. Waiting for spring so she could plant them and see if whatever wildflower had caught her fancy would grow in her yard along the river.

  The large photographs in the living room drew Bernie’s attention. As she walked toward them, she heard Merilee’s voice from the back of the house, raised in anger. “This isn’t the time to talk about that. Dom is missing.” A pause, and then, “Oh, for god’s sake, give it a rest.”

  The house fell silent.

  The photos captured an assortment of images carved or pecked into black rock that looked like lava. Bernie recognized Kokopelli, the water sprinkler and fertility symbol. She saw spirals in another photo, in perfect light to make them pop against the dark textured background. A misshapen tree in the background reminded her of the piñon Annie had used as a landmark.

  The dining-room table held a stack of books, illustrated nonfiction volumes on southwestern archaeology, Indian pottery from various tribes, and rock art of the desert, and an auction house catalog with a Plains Indian parfleche on the cover. Bernie picked up the catalog and was thumbing through it when Merilee returned.

  “Your brother is a wonderful photographer,” Bernie said. “He could be in a book.”

  “That’s what I think, too. A man I know offered to fund a book project in exchange for using Dom’s photos on his website. He always wanted to know exactly where the picture was taken, and Dom kept records so the places could be protected. We were moving along, and then after about a year, Dom told me he didn’t want his photos up there on the website. That funding fell through, but I’m committed to the project.”

  “Why didn’t Dom want to be part of it anymore?”

  Merilee studied her hands. “He went back to a spot he’d photographed earlier for more shots of the spiral in different light. He told me that someone had been digging near there, disturbing what might have been a burial cave. I tried to talk him out of being so angry, to explain that it might just be coincidence.”

  She motioned Bernie to the couch as before and sat back down in the chair. “I’m worried about Dom. He knows that country. I’m afraid something bad has happened to him. He may have fallen in the lava a
nd hurt himself and gotten trapped, or been attacked by an animal or had a heart attack. I thought of something else, too. I hope you won’t think I’m nutty.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I wonder if somebody was after him because they wanted the program to fail, and they ambushed him out there.”

  “Who would want the program to fail?”

  “There are the campers who got kicked out for breaking the rules. Staff who were fired, rejected job applicants. There’s a woman on the Navajo Nation Council who wants to shut us down.” She took a swallow of water from a glass she’d brought from the bedroom. “Maybe even other nonprofits who offer similar programs. If we go under, they get our clients and our funding. People think that way.”

  “Back up a little. You said fund-raising had become more of a challenge. Is the program in financial trouble?”

  Merilee shifted in the chair. “I can’t talk about that. None of this may be relevant to why Dom is missing. And getting back to your earlier question, even if the program were bankrupt, he wouldn’t kill himself. He never took the easy way out.”

  “Do you know Elsbeth Walker?”

  “Only by reputation. She’s making some unfounded accusations against us.”

  Bernie hoped Merilee would elaborate, but she didn’t. “You mentioned some financial issues,” she said after a few moments. “Are they what Councilor Walker is asking about?”

  Merilee focused on the spotless white carpet. “It’s complicated. Our lawyer or the board treasurer would be the people to talk to about that.”

  She rose and strode into the kitchen with long steps. Bernie followed. Merilee opened a drawer, extracted paper and a pen, and jotted something down. “You can ask Mayfair for the phone numbers.” She handed the list to Bernie.

  “I noticed your little bag of seeds. I do that, too, with wildflowers.”

  “Those are brugs.”

  “Brugs?”

  “Brugmansias.”

  Bernie tried to remember. “Big flowers, right?”

  “That’s right. They bloom in a lot of great colors, and they love the warmth and humidity of the greenhouse. I’ll give you some seeds if you’d like to try growing some. Do you want to see them?”

  “Not today. I’d love to take a look at your plants sometime, but I have another piece of business to discuss. Are there other relatives I should notify about Dom?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Most Navajos had a directory full of relatives.

  “Dom and I were adopted, raised off the reservation. I think because we were twins. You’ve heard some of those old stories?”

  “I have.” One popular belief among the People was that twins bring good luck—after all, the Hero Twins born to Changing Woman made the world safe for people. However, Bernie had also heard that twins were shameful, caused by a woman having intercourse with two men. And, apart from any traditional views, having two babies to care for certainly added to a family’s stress.

  Merilee picked up a photo in a silver frame of two preteen Navajo children and showed it to Bernie. “We went separate ways after high school, like a lot of kids do. Our adoptive parents died a couple of years ago, and Dom and I started rebuilding our relationship. I took the lead, partly because I went through a program similar to Wings and Roots but for adults, you know. It helped me get my head on straight after my husband died. That was why I wanted to help Wings and Roots when Dom told me about it.”

  She put the photo back on the table. “You asked about people to notify that he’s missing? There’s Michael Franklin, the guy he lives with in Shiprock. Franklin has a little house outside Grants in San Rafael, but I don’t think he’s there much. I’m sure he already knows, but I’ll give you his number.” She jotted it down on a slip of paper as she spoke. “The kids in the program are Dom’s real family. Before my husband Roger died, Dom was always after me to make him an uncle.”

  She handed Bernie the number. “How long will they continue to search?”

  “I can’t answer that. They look until they decide there are no more places to search.”

  “And then what?”

  Bernie sighed. “Then there’s nothing much to do except wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “For the person to show up, for some new information, or for the body to be found.”

  “Do you think my brother is alive out there?”

  “They say he knows the area better than anyone. He has wilderness training. Someone on the search will call you when they find him.”

  “Even if he doesn’t survive?”

  Bernie nodded. “Even if it’s bad news. At least you’ll know.”

  Merilee rose from the couch. “I have a client in fifteen minutes. Thanks for stopping by to tell me about Dom in person.”

  Bernie stood too. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a psychologist. I started my practice after Roger died, so it’s still in its infancy. I also sell art on the Internet, mostly Dom’s photos.”

  “Could I take a picture of that photo of the spiral petroglyph?” Bernie removed her cell phone from her pack. “It’s beautiful, and I’d like to show my husband.”

  “That’s one of my favorites, too. I have an extra print. You can have it. My gift. What’s your address?”

  “You can send it to the station. That would be great.” Bernie took a business card from her backpack, jotted something on the back, and gave it to the woman. “I wrote my cell number on there, and the number for the search team. Please call if you hear from your brother or if you think of something that would help with finding him. And thanks again for the photograph—and the cookie.”

  “Lacy Mayfair, one of the people Dom works with, made them. She’s interested in herbs and I showed her some plants I’m cultivating in the greenhouse. She added some lavender to these as an experiment. Dom adored them. Last time he was here, he gobbled them up. That man loves homemade cookies.”

  Bernie felt the cool air on her skin as she walked to her unit, wondering why people had to experiment with something already good, like cookies. Before she climbed into the car she took the cookie out of her pocket and crumbled it onto the frozen ground for the birds. Then she radioed into the station to let Sandra know she was on her way back.

  “Councilor Walker has called twice for you. And the captain wants you to talk to this guy Michael Franklin ASAP. The search coordinator referred Franklin to us because he was so upset when he called them. He started talking to those bilagáanas in Navajo, and then he started crying over the phone.”

  Bernie called Franklin from her car. “Mr. Franklin, this is Officer Bernadette Manuelito.”

  “Oh thank the Lord. They found him.”

  “No, sir. But the search is continuing.”

  “I’ve been worried sick when he didn’t come home, didn’t call. I remembered those folks who just disappeared out there, and then years later their bodies . . .” He trailed off. “Dom sees snakes, coyotes, bears. I told him a million times that he worked too hard, didn’t take care of himself. But did he listen? No, he thinks he’s indispensable, indestructible, some kind of superman. This time, he scared me so badly I called his boss, and she told me he was lost. Lost. Out there somewhere in the lava.”

  “He went out to find a girl who he thought might be in trouble. I’m sure he didn’t mean to do anything to upset you.”

  She heard a long exhale over the phone line and then Franklin’s voice, softer this time. “I know. I’m scared for him. Can I do something to help? I could answer the phone, bring food. Anything?”

  “Well, sir, why don’t you contact the incident commander? Maybe she needs a volunteer. They’re set up at the Narrows campground, the place where the Wings and Roots crew had camped.”

  “The Narrows? Where is that?”

  “Just off NM 117 on the edge of the Malpais, southeast of Grants. Sir, do you know if Mr. Cruz was depressed or upset about anything when he left on this trip?”

  A pause and then, “N
o more than usual these days. Poor Dom. The program is having money problems and the board wants him to become the director. That sister of his is always asking for just one more photo for the book. He’s hard on himself—such a perfectionist. That one more photo becomes a huge production. And he stays in touch with some of the kids in the program. If they fail, he feels like he has failed, too. He used to love that job, but I think he was ready for a change.” Franklin gasped. “I mean, he is ready.”

  As Bernie crossed the McKinley County line, she thought about what Michael Franklin had said about Cruz’s sister. Merilee must share her brother’s fondness for the wild black landscape of the Malpais. In a house kept simple, his photos had a place of honor. Thinking of sisters brought her own sister to mind.

  Darleen answered after five rings. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Hey there, glad I caught you.”

  “Sorry I haven’t called . . . it’s been crazy busy.”

  “How’s the program going?”

  “It’s fun, but it’s kind of hard.” Darleen sounded distracted.

  “Mama has been trying to reach you.”

  “You said that in your text. She called me at six a.m., for goodness’ sakes, and acted hurt that I didn’t have much to say to her when I was barely awake. I’ve talked to her every day I’ve been here. What’s up with her?”

  “Are you sure?”

  Darleen laughed. “She says the same thing every conversation. ‘Do you have enough to eat there?’ and ‘When are you coming home?’ She never wants to talk long, but she’s always been like that on the phone. I wonder why she doesn’t remember?”

  Bernie looked at the long train headed west on the tracks to the right and the stair steps of red mesas behind them.

  “How are your teachers?”

  “One of them is great. One is good. And the last one, well, she talks too much, but she’s OK. Better than anybody I had in high school.”

  “How’s CS?”

  “He’s fine, except he’s always working.” Darleen sounded as if she were going to say something else, but instead she asked, “How are you?”