Cave of Bones

by Anne Hillerman

  “And she is correct about that. How is Mrs. Bigman doing with her weaving?”

  “She’s coming along. Are you using that loom?”

  “A little. I’ve been busy with my job.”

  She waited for Mama to scold her, but Mama changed the subject. “Daughter, I need groceries. We can go after your work.”

  “I am sorry, Mama, but I can’t help you today. We talked about this earlier, remember?”

  “I have a list of what I need. We will go to that City Market. I will go in, too, because I might see something else.”

  “I can’t help you tonight, Mama. Maybe Mrs. Darkwater can loan you what you need.”

  “I need to get coffee and paper for the bathroom and . . . Hold on.”

  She heard Mama set the phone on the counter. She waited a few moments, studying the ever-present memos Sandra had placed on her desk. Nothing earthshaking.

  Mama was back. “The lady is here to pick me up, and we have to go to the senior center now.” Mama sounded surprised by the turn of events. The senior center had a loom that Mama used to teach Mrs. Bigman. The staff left her weaving up, partly to encourage others to learn to weave and mostly because no one else needed the loom at the moment. Bernie had gone to the center once to watch Mama and Mrs. Bigman, and was surprised to see a crowd of other ladies watching, too. Mama had been patient with Mrs. Bigman’s mistakes, more patient than she had ever been with her own daughter.

  “Don’t worry about being too late. The store is open until ten.” Mama hung up.

  Bernie looked at her cell phone. She’d asked Darleen to make sure Mama had plenty of what she needed before she went to Santa Fe. Darleen had assured her everything was under control, that Mama had plenty of food to get by while she was taking the class. But had she asked about toilet paper or coffee?

  Bernie collected her thoughts, and picked up the office phone. She thought about calling Chee to complain about his lack of attention, but instead called Cooper and explained that she needed to talk to her about the program’s use of tribal appropriations.

  “Seriously? I admit that we’re not in the best financial shape,” Cooper said, “but we haven’t done anything illegal with the tribal grant or any other funding. How come you got stuck with this?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Can I come to the office and take a look at the paperwork?”

  “Sure, whenever you want. I’ll be happy to show you any files, bank records, whatever, but all this seems a distraction from finding Mr. Cruz.”

  “The searchers are out there doing their job.”

  “How come it took so long to get going?” Cooper’s voice flared with anger.

  Manzanares was a short-timer; maybe he’d done a few errands before coming to meet her and get the search going, Bernie thought. She kept her speculation private. “I don’t know, but they are working hard now.”

  “Come on over and I’ll give you some tea. Poor, poor Dom.”

  Before heading out to see Cooper, Bernie called Beverly Katz, the incident commander, for a progress report. Unfortunately, it was exactly what she’d expected.

  “No clues, no news, no sign that anyone named Domingo Cruz has ever been in or near the Malpais.” Katz sounded wired and worried. “We’ve exhausted most of the possibilities, and the weather’s changing. It looks like a front is coming in overnight. Our next step might be a thermal imaging device, one of those cool machines that can pick up a person’s heat signature. The colder it gets, the better that thing works. And then maybe the K9s. I’ll have to talk to the trainer about how well their feet will hold up to the sharp lava or how they can handle the snow.”

  “That’s tough.” Bernie remembered the challenges of hiking in the lava. “I really admire those volunteers.”

  “Did you send a guy named Michael Franklin out here?”

  “Well, I guess so. He’s a friend of Mr. Cruz and wanted to do something. I hope he didn’t cause a problem.”

  “Not at all. He’s a great help. Thanks for referring him.”

  Cooper worked near the Shiprock hospital, a neighborhood Bernie hadn’t visited very often in her role as a police officer, in a converted garage separate from the main house. She opened the door to Bernie’s knock, and offered her a seat in one of two padded rolling desk chairs.

  The office was neat except for the desk, where papers in uneven piles covered the surface. Cooper noticed Bernie’s glance. “That’s my filing system,” she said. “Those farthest away are the bills. The smaller stacks are the donors I need to acknowledge. And the middle stuff is, well, miscellaneous.” She sat down in the chair next to Bernie and turned to face her. “So, have they found Dom? Is he dead? Is that why you’re really here?”

  “No, no, no. Like I told you, I’m here to talk about the financial reports.”

  “As long as they haven’t found his body, that means hope is out there, on the prowl.” She gave Bernie a weak smile. “That’s what we tell the kids, you know. That hope, grace, whatever you want to call it, waits for us all like a lifeline. We just have to believe in ourselves enough to reach for it.”

  Cooper got up, filled a mug with water, and put it in the microwave. “Do you want some tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Unless the person offering was a Navajo grandmother, she declined tea. Her experience with Louisa’s herbal blend had left her ever wary.

  “I’ve got some instant coffee, too.”

  “No, thanks. As I mentioned, Councilor Walker thinks there’s some malfeasance going on with the agency and its use of Navajo Nation funding. She thinks Cruz was involved in it, and that’s why he disappeared.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  Bernie watched Cooper take a box down from the cabinet above the microwave, open it, and take out a tea bag. “If we get a donation, Cruz records it and deposits it, and then I or Cruz or Mayfair draft a thank-you. All our audits have been clean except for some minor discrepancies.”

  “What were those about?” For the first time, Bernie wondered if Councilor Walker might be onto something.

  Cooper sat down again. “Oh, a balancing issue between our records and some new bookkeeping software the board talked us into. Somebody got the software as a donation.”

  “With some groups, the main job of the board is to raise money.”

  “You’re right, and that’s part of the problem here. The board is supposed to connect us with donors, make donations themselves. or come up with ideas for fund-raising that they take ownership of. But instead of that, sometimes board members really want to run the programs themselves, or meddle with them, or try to get their relatives hired.” The microwave beeped; Cooper removed the cup and added the tea bag. “When someone new comes on the board who actually cares about the kids and really wants to help, that person may try to change the culture, but often they get frustrated and resign, or stop speaking up.”

  The aroma from the tea drifted over to Bernie. It was some sort of mint. It might possibly taste as good as it smelled, she thought, but more likely it didn’t. “I’d like to see your records of grants from the Navajo Nation and how the money was used.”

  “Sure. The information about tribal funds and the way we use them is in the annual report. I have last year’s in the computer and paper copies of the more recent ones over there in the file. Bank deposits and expenditure statements are there, too. If you have any questions, I can answer them or find someone who can. I wish Walker had come by and asked us for an accounting instead of assuming things were out of balance here.”

  “What about this year’s donations?”

  Cooper put her mug down. “Dom is working on that. If he doesn’t come back, I guess I’ll have to have Mayfair do it. She knows the numbers, but she’s not much of a writer.”

  “I might need to look at those in the next few days.”

  “I’ll do my best. You may have to help me go through his stuff.” She glanced at a second desk on the other side of the room. The top was covered with shoe-box-size contain
ers that seemed to be filled with papers.

  Bernie looked at the papers on Cruz’s desk and then shifted her gaze to Cooper. “Why do you think Walker is after Wings and Roots?”

  Cooper sighed. “It’s a personnel matter. I can’t talk about it.”

  “You have to. If I understand her motivation, it will help resolve things.” Bernie paused. “Walker told my boss there’s collusion between you and me involving the program’s funding. I’d like to clear my name and be done with this as soon as I can, and I’m sure you would, too. The more I know, the better job I can do.”

  “This can’t get back to her, agreed?”

  Bernie nodded and watched Cooper consider what to say next. “Councilor Walker’s brother worked for the program a few years ago. I had to fire him. She and I have never met, but she’s been after me and Wings and Roots ever since.”

  “What did he do wrong?”

  Cooper hesitated. “I’ll only say it was a personnel matter. I offered him a chance to resign, but he told me to fire him so he could collect unemployment. His termination didn’t have anything to do with tribal money. The councilor called me and wanted the details. I told her I couldn’t talk about it. She was angry and still is.”

  “I heard that Dom is your choice to be the new director.”

  “It’s up to the board . . . but I’d be honored if he would be the one to replace me.” Cooper stood. “If you don’t have any more questions, I’ll get those reports for you.”

  Bernie looked more closely at the art on the wall behind Cooper’s desk. It was a photograph of a curving line, a representation of a snake or a lightning bolt, or maybe both, incised in the lava.

  “I really like this photo.”

  “Me, too. It’s a famous petroglyph. Vandals destroyed it a few years ago.”

  “Where did you get the picture?”

  “Dom gave it to me for my birthday. I was thrilled.”

  “It’s beautiful. Is it in New Mexico?”

  “Yes, actually somewhere out in the Malpais. He told me it was a challenge to get there, but worth every step.”

  “So Mr. Cruz took the picture?”

  “That’s another thing that makes it special to me.”

  Cooper opened the file drawer and extracted a three-ring binder. She handed it to Bernie. “You’ll find board minutes and staff reports for the past five years in here, and copies of bank records, too. I’d like this back when you’re done.”

  “No problem. I’ll copy whatever I need to hold on to.” Bernie pulled her notebook and a pen from the backpack, and jotted down a little receipt for the reports.

  Cooper looked at it. “You don’t need to give me that. I trust you.”

  “I trust you, too, but I need to keep everything official.”

  Bernie drove back to the office, with the binder on the front seat of her unit. One more step in this assignment and then, she thought, she could get back to police work in the field. She radioed to tell Sandra she was on her way in. “The captain wants to talk to you. He told me to tell you to stay off your cell.”

  Her phone buzzed a minute later. “Manuelito, we have received a report of a culturally sensitive discovery at the search site. The incident commander, Mrs. Katz, called the Cultural Preservation Office, and the director is on vacation. When she talked to the staff, they said they can’t get out there today. She mentioned that you’d alerted them to a cave with bones, and they referred her to the chief, who passed the ball to us. Since you’re already familiar with the players, I want you to get over there.”

  She waited for the important information.

  “The searchers think they saw human bones and, from their descriptions, what might be a jish.”

  A jish, Bernie knew, was the sacred bundle a hataali, a healer, used to help his patient get well.

  “Manuelito, you just need to make sure this is legitimate, and then it can be off limits until the Cultural Preservation folks get out there.”

  “Sir, is this the cave I mentioned to the searchers earlier?”

  “I don’t think so. But it sounds as though it has been looted, just like the one you saw.”

  “You know I’m not an expert in this.”

  “Anything else, Manuelito?”

  “What about Cruz?”

  “No word yet. Did you pick up anything from your interview with Cooper?”

  Bernie had been thinking about it ever since she’d left Cooper’s office. “Sir, she was almost too cooperative. It was as if she anticipated my questions. She seemed to have been expecting me to ask about the money. Nothing she said made me think there was any funny business going on. She seemed eager to give me the reports and have us check for problems.”

  “That Wings and Roots stuff is crucial to get Walker off our backs. Make it your priority as soon as you’re done in the Malpais.” Largo didn’t need to say more.

  “I will. I’m on my way. Anything else I should know about the old bones?”

  “Probably, but you already know as much as I do.”

  With that, she climbed back into her unit and headed to the Malpais, wishing Chee, the man who had trained to be a haatali and knew more about the world of the sacred, was with her.

  13

  Chee heard the knock at the studio building door again, only more insistent. “Who’s there?”

  “Who the hell do you think? I’m freezing my girls off out here. Quit messin’ with me, Clyde.”

  Chee didn’t recognize the voice, but he knew what trouble sounded like. He thought about it for a split second and opened the door. A hefty woman rushed in, stomping her feet against the cold, then raising her gaze.

  She took a step back from Chee and grinned at him, revealing a missing bottom front tooth. “S’up, man? What you doin’ here? Who called the cops on me?”

  “I had a flat tire, and I came to talk to CS about it. Why are you here?”

  “It’s not your business, but I came to check on my man, Clyde Herbert. You seen him?”

  Chee stayed silent.

  “A big cop like you needs help changing a tire?” When the woman chortled, she smelled of beer. “You think my man or CS did it on purpose, right? You cops are paranoid, dude. At least nobody stole your ride.”

  Chee felt his temper rising. “I’m Jim Chee. What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Juanita’s good enough.”

  Chee heard steps behind him, and turned to see Clyde Herbert, who was frowning at Juanita. “What you doing here?”

  “I tracked you down like a coyote on a rabbit.” Her laugh was a cackle. “You been avoiding me. Are you seeing somebody else?”

  “Like I told you, I’m working. CS and I are making a movie.”

  “Oh right. You an expert on that?” She laughed again.

  “I’m clean now, and I’m staying that way. You can’t be here. I’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ll just watch. Then we can play.”

  Herbert rubbed his thumb and middle finger together nervously. “CS doesn’t like an audience.”

  “Well, who put that stick up his rear end? He doesn’t own this building.” Juanita grabbed the big man’s arm. “He’s down here, right?” She shoved Herbert down the hall. “He can deal with me.”

  The leather heels of their boots echoed off the hard floor. Chee followed. “He can deal with me now, too.”

  Herbert stopped and stared at Chee. “I don’t know what’s eating you, man, but this is not the night to mess with CS.”

  “What’s so special about tonight?”

  “It’s the last night he has the studio, and he’s got three nights of work to do.”

  The three stopped outside the studio door. The light was off. Herbert rapped his knuckles against the door frame. His hands looked like they’d done some work, Chee thought.

  CS opened the door and took a step back in surprise. “Jim Chee! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Hard to travel with a bad tire. I thought you might know something about
that.”

  “A flat, huh?” CS shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the three stood in silence. “Juanita. Wow.”

  Chee nodded. “She was outside doing something, like letting the air out of my tire.”

  Juanita’s eyes lit with anger, and she took a step toward Chee. “You son of a—”

  Herbert touched her arm. “Stop it. You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

  CS turned to Herbert. “Wait out in the lobby a minute. Sergeant Chee and I have something private to discuss.” He pointed to Juanita with his lips. “You need to be out of here by the time I come back.”

  He motioned Chee into the studio and closed the door. Chee took in the scene: a green notebook, an open laptop computer, headphones, and a six-pack of beer bottles. He saw a baggie of white powder, a college catalog, a stack of unopened bills, a pistol, and the distinctive bottles of miniature liquor, some full and some empty.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Props. I’m expanding the video to talk a little about the disruptions to families when they are forced off their ancestral land. Have a seat.” CS picked up the gun on the table.

  Chee instinctively reached for his weapon, but CS set the gun down on top of the pile of bills and shoved the catalogs toward the middle of the desk. He perched on the edge of the desk, waving Chee to the chair.

  Chee didn’t move.

  “I know you’re leaving tomorrow,” CS said. “I wanted to clear up whatever’s going on with you and me.”

  “Good idea.” Chee worked to keep the anger out of his voice. “Your death certificate. Tell me the story. That’s a reasonable place to start. And then you can move on to why you gave me a flat tire.”

  “That death certificate.” CS rested his back against the wall. “My mother had a baby before I was born, a little boy. He passed away when he was about a week old. She gave me the same name.”

  Chee felt his eyes widen with shock. In the world in which he had grown up, the names of the dead were buried with them. In the bilagáana society, children might be named for dead relatives, but traditional Navajo families didn’t operate that way. He waited for CS to explain.