Cave of Bones

by Anne Hillerman

  Franklin headed off. Bernie took her stew bowl to the washstand and walked to her unit, thinking about what Franklin had said. If Dom had met with foul play, those closest to him would be the obvious suspects. He’d wanted to say something else about their relationship, and then he’d pulled back.

  She slid across the icy seat of her unit, started the engine, and as soon as the temperature gauge moved a micron off the C, switched on the heater. She’d seen enough old bones these past few days to last a lifetime.

  She thought again about Franklin. Maybe he was worth another conversation if Dom wasn’t found soon.

  16

  Jim Chee considered himself a patient man. But even his patience had its limits, and the women in his life seemed to know exactly how far to stretch those boundaries.

  Take his sweet Bernie, too busy to answer his calls. At least she sent an I love you text. But he wanted more.

  Or Darleen, not usually the silent type, adamantly refusing to tell him how she got that large ugly bruise on her arm.

  And now he was growing frustrated because of four other women: George Curley’s mother Deborah and his wife Caitlyn, who seemed nice but not very assertive; Mrs. Vigil, who was more worried about the new truck than her wandering son-in-law; and the mysterious Juanita, who was sitting in the studio in stony silence.

  Dealing with a flat tire, an ex-con, a husband on the lam, and a suspicious character who should be dead was easier by far.

  After their discussion about his birth certificate and the bona fides of his associate, Chee had more questions for CS but decided to hold them; several might be better answered with Darleen there, too. So he sat, first listening to CS explain, at considerable length, why the music from the band Herbert’s nephew played in would not be right for the video, how music provides texture for a video but should not dominate unless the subject is the music itself. Or something like that. Herbert countered with “But he’s family, man. . . . He needs a break. He can use the money.”

  Chee texted Darleen twice and got a thumbs-up and a smiley face in response. He enjoyed the lazy warmth of the studio building and the cozy chair. A nap wouldn’t be bad. A little snooze. He closed his eyes and tuned out CS’s lecture, but his brain began to churn up what he had to do before he could really call it a day.

  After he dealt with CS and Darleen, he needed to walk back to the dorm, change the tire on his truck, drive to the motel, and pack up so he could head home to Shiprock and his—no, their—trailer.

  He’d ask if the Cibola County deputy in the class knew anything about George Curley, an unlikely possibility, or about a rancher out there hiring workers in November. Then he’d call Caitlyn once more to see if she’d heard from George or had any other ideas about where he could be. It would be wonderful to listen to the song of the San Juan River. And to hear Bernie’s gentle breathing in place of rap music.

  He had almost given in to grogginess when his phone buzzed with a call. He looked at the number and turned to CS. “I have to take this. It’s Bernie.” He stood up and walked to the far end of the room.

  “We’ll be in the studio.”

  Juanita stood, too, but Herbert blocked her. “You’re not welcome here. Go home. You know it’s over between us.”

  “You found someone else? You stinkin’ . . .”

  Chee turned away from the rant. “Sweetheart?”

  “Hi. Glad I found you.”

  “It’s great to hear your voice. But you sound tired.”

  “Oh, it’s work.”

  “What’s happening with the search in the Malpais?”

  “Cruz is still out there somewhere. The weather is predicted to change for the worse.” She told him about the second cave. “I want to hear about Santa Fe and the training.” Her tone of voice changed. “But first, have you seen my sister tonight?”

  “I have. We had dinner with her roommate, and I took them both back to the dorm, and she gave me a tour. I’m waiting for her now at CS’s studio.” He didn’t bother Bernie with the beer cans and the bruise. “Want me to ask her to call you?”

  “No, but would you call me and then hand the phone to her?”

  “You sound aggravated.”

  “You must be psychic.” The sound of her laughter lit up his day for a moment. “I have some loose ends to tie up here, but I can’t wait to head home. Don’t forget to call when Sister gets there. Use my cell number.”

  “Sure thing. It’s good to hear your voice. I thought you were mad at me or something.”

  “Only too busy. I miss you.” And she ended the call.

  A loud knock distracted him, and he turned toward the sound. “I’ll get it.”

  Darleen rushed in, her cheeks red with cold. Chee spoke softly. “Wait here a minute. I need to tell you something.”

  Darleen kept her voice low too. “What now?”

  “Bernie is upset about something. She asked me to call her and then put you on the line.”

  “Fine. Don’t stress over it. Give me a minute.” Darleen unbuttoned her coat. “Who’s Herbert arguing with?”

  “A woman named Juanita.”

  “Juanita?”

  “You know her? Thirtysomething, on the hefty side.”

  “I haven’t met her but he’s been talking about her like she’s seriously evil. Holy smokes. Juanita came looking for him!” Darleen sighed. “I’m ready. Go ahead and call Sister.”

  Bernie picked up on the first ring this time. “She’s there?”

  “Hi, sweetheart. I’m with Darleen.”

  “You’re special, Jim Chee. Let me talk to her.”

  He handed the phone to Darleen, who rolled her eyes. “Hello. What’s up?” After that, she seemed to be listening.

  Chee left the sisters to figure out whatever they needed to figure out.

  The signature aroma of marijuana drifted toward him as he walked to the studio, and he heard a racket from the open door. Juanita’s voice dominated: “. . . that little creep . . . made you God?”

  “I don’t make the rules,” CS said, “but you can’t smoke in the building, and you especially can’t smoke weed in here.”

  “I’ve got a medical card. Wanna hit?”

  Well, Chee thought, I need to step in and be the bad guy. But then he heard Herbert’s voice.

  “Baby, put that joint out and pay attention. We’re done, you and me. You bully me, you don’t listen, you’ve got an attitude, and you won’t help me stay straight. That guy, the tall Navajo? Well, he’s a real cop, not an actor in the movie.”

  Juanita laughed. “Is that right?”

  “Right.” Chee walked into the room as he spoke and grabbed the joint from her hand. He extinguished it with a pinch before she could protest and dropped it on the floor. “Leave now before I detain you, call security, and you end up in jail.”

  The woman put her hands on her broad hips. She gave CS a dark look, Chee a darker one, and stared at Herbert a long moment. Then she bent down, picked up the smashed joint, pulled a plastic bag out of her pocket, and stowed it there. “You ain’t done with me, Clyde Herbert. You’ll see.” She turned and stomped toward the door.

  CS said, “As soon as Darleen gets here, we’ll start. I’ll make sure—”

  “I’m here.” Darleen approached from the hall, her voice strained, and handed Chee his phone.

  Chee noticed that she’d been crying, and that she noticed him noticing. She reached into her purse for a tissue, wiped her eyes, and put the tissue in her pocket.

  “CS, he wants to hear about my arm. I’d like to tell him now, and then Chee can leave, and we can work.”

  CS nodded. “Do you want to talk in private?”

  “No, you and Herbert are part of the story.” She turned to Chee. “Let’s sit over there.” She twisted a lock of her hair. “After I tell you, will you tell Mama?”

  “It depends.”

  “How about Sister? Will you tell her?”

  Chee nodded yes. “I don’t think secrets are good for a
relationship. Do you?”

  “It depends. Sometimes a secret keeps somebody from a broken heart.”

  He thought about that, remembering Leaphorn’s advice. “If the person finds out later, and they usually do, the heartbreak is twice as bad. Keeping a secret means you don’t trust or love somebody enough to tell them the truth.”

  He saw her blinking back the tears and felt a wave of sympathy for her. “Just tell me, and I’ll decide after that.”

  Darleen rolled up her sleeve. The bruise had turned dull yellow at the edges, but still resembled nothing more closely than the grip of a hand.

  “CS did grab me, just like you guessed. But he had to. He and me and London and Herbert went to a party, and there was beer, the high-octane kind, in the cooler. CS brought me a Sprite or something in one of those sleeve things. I poured it out and helped myself to a beer and then two or three more using that sleeve thing, you know, so no one would be on my case about it. It was only beer, bro.”

  She stopped. Chee watched her fidget.

  “Tell me the rest.”

  “Well, I was acting real cool, talking to some other kids in the program, and then CS came over and said he had to get back to work. He smelled the beer on me and got all bent out of shape. He told me . . .” She swallowed, and Chee saw her struggle to control her emotions.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He said I was immature, that I’d never be a real artist because I didn’t have any discipline. I told him he was a stupid, controlling jackass. And then . . .” He saw the corners of her mouth slope down, and her bottom lip begin to tremble.

  “And then CS hurt you?”

  “No. Not at all. Then Herbert came over and put his arm around CS and took him into the other room. I was crying, and then I decided that I hated both those jerks, and I was going to just get out of there.” She stopped talking.

  Darleen twisted a different lock of hair.

  “Well, instead of leaving, I thought I’d have another beer to calm myself down. After that, I was acting crazy like, dancing around. Maybe half an hour went by, and CS found me again and wanted to get me out of there. There were some steps, and I was yelling at him to leave me alone and I missed a step, or maybe two or . . . I don’t exactly remember. He caught my arm right before I fell. He had to grab hard.”

  Darleen looked down at her shoes. “Herbert helped me get into the car. He told me to behave myself.”

  Chee let her story sit for a moment. “What do you think about all that?”

  “I drank too much, and then I acted like a jerk. CS and Herbert were good to me.”

  Chee thought he should say something wise, give her some advice about turning her life around, but he’d already said it, already told her. As she repeatedly reminded him, she was old enough to make her own choices and deal with the consequences.

  Darleen looked at him. “You know I like drinking because it makes me feel free, not like a dumb girl. But then I act like a dumb girl.” Chee saw the tears now. “I only want to be happy and do my art. And for people to trust me. But when they do, when they give me a chance, like Mama and Sister did, I screw up.”

  Herbert had been sitting next to the studio door, listening and, Chee knew, observing him and Darleen. Now he stood and walked toward them. He looked at Chee. “Mind if I give this lady some advice?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Herbert squatted next to her. “Honey, you don’t want to end up like Juanita. You’ve got a lot of talent. Don’t let booze get in the way. You know that drawing you gave me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every time I look at it, I’m gonna think of you as an artist. You’ll go far if you put your energy there. Don’t get sidetracked with partying, or you won’t be able to be an artist.”

  Chee said, “Thanks for telling me the truth. I won’t lie to Bernie, but I won’t mention this to her unless she asks or unless you want me to tell her.”

  “Really?” Darleen was crying now. “But tell her I fixed your flat, OK? I could do that because of what she taught me about cars.”

  “You fixed it? For real?”

  “Exactly. That’s why I was so late.”

  17

  Officer Bernadette Manuelito drove out of the search and rescue base camp parking area, headed back to NM 117 and then to the interstate and, ultimately, home to Shiprock. She enjoyed this highway, with the acres of dark lava on one side and the wind-carved sandstone cliffs on the other. A respite before she hit the truck traffic on the interstate. She needed time to think about Cruz, the spirals, and how this all fit with Councilor Walker’s suspicions.

  As she slowed for three does bounding across the highway, she spotted a vehicle that had run off the road and into a fence post or guardrail. The rear end rose from the incline of the shoulder, and exhaust from the running engine created a cloud of gray. Because of the angle of the embankment, she couldn’t see the front of the car.

  Pulling to the side of the road behind the vehicle, she parked and turned on her light bar, took her first aid kit out of the trunk, and zipped her jacket. She jogged to the car, passing several miniature liquor bottles strewn along the shoulder. Another drunk-driving crash? Or were they older debris from passing motorists?

  As she got closer, she recognized the El Morro bumper sticker. This car belonged to Larry Hoffman, the ranger she’d spoken to about the lava stories. Peering in the back, she saw a figure slouched over the steering wheel. She scrambled down the rock slope and rapped on the driver’s-side window. The bloodied man behind the steering wheel opened his eyes and looked up at her without recognition. The airbag had deployed, probably on impact with the guardrail. Hoffman was wearing his seat belt. He was the only person in the car.

  “Turn off the engine, Larry!” she yelled,

  He fumbled with the switches and eventually lowered the passenger’s-side window. She walked around the rear of the car, down the slope, and reached in to turn off the engine. Except for a nose bleed, she didn’t see any other injuries, and he seemed to be breathing without difficulty.

  “Hey. I know you. You’re that Navajo cop. Bernalito Manuel, right?”

  She didn’t hear the telltale slur that came with too much to drink, but something was wrong. “Cop is right. I’m Bernadette Manuelito.”

  “Burn-a-debt. Hey. That’s it.” When he chuckled, she sniffed for the sweet, chemical smell of alcohol. There was none. No marijuana aroma either. “Help me out of the car, OK, honey? There are too many ants in here.”

  She called 911 from her cell phone and gave the dispatcher the closest mile marker sign to the accident. “My unit is on the shoulder with the lights on. The car is to the right of that. The driver is the only injury. He’s conscious and not complaining of pain, but he has a nosebleed and is hallucinating.”

  She leaned in closer to Larry. She didn’t see any liquor bottles or drugs. No ants, either. “Sit tight. An ambulance is on the way. I’ll stay here with you until it gets here.”

  “Where’d all this blood come from?”

  “The airbag whacked you in the face when it went off.”

  “Wow. It felt like a frozen cloud. Debbie, be careful leaning on the car. You don’t want the ants to get on you. They’ve been friendly so far. Some of them are singing to me. The ones that are by my ear. Don’t let them crawl in, OK?” He attempted a grin, but it transformed into a grimace.

  She looked at both his ears. No ants. Not that she had expected to see any in December. Had he taken some sort of hallucinogenic drug? “Try to stay still, sir,” she said. “Have you had a beer or something else alcoholic to drink?”

  “Only a little. I’ve always been a little trippy. But not on purpose, Debalito.” His laugh ended in a wince. “My back was giving me fits. A swig or two makes the painkillers work better. But now I can’t see very well.”

  “Your glasses broke, that’s part of the trouble.” The impact had smashed Larry’s glasses and, from the looks of it, fractured his nose. “Why did you c
rash down here?”

  “Craaaashed?” He roared out the word, then stopped and looked at her as if he’d completed the sentence. “The phone figured out who called when the road swerved. Can you get me outta here?”

  Far down the highway, Bernie could see the lights of the approaching ambulance. “I can’t, so just try to relax. The medics will be here soon, and they’ll help you. They can do it without making anything hurt worse.”

  “My right arm doesn’t wanna go anywhere.”

  She glanced at his right shoulder, which sat at the odd angle that usually meant a dislocation. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not unless I try to move it.” He demonstrated, grimacing with pain. “You’re nice to stop to help me. Ms. Officer, could you do me a favor?”

  “What is it?” She hoped it didn’t involve the imaginary ants.

  He swiveled his upper body, trying to look toward the back seat. “Youch. My wings are crushed.”

  “Your wings?”

  “Yeah. Can you see if anything broke in the back seat?”

  A brown box sealed with tape lay on the floor behind the front seat. “The carton slipped off onto the floor, but it doesn’t look damaged. What’s in it?”

  “A beautiful pot.” He motioned toward the floor of the passenger seat with his left hand. “Could you use that? I called her when I left the office, so push that little wart, and there you have it.”

  She walked around the car again and opened the passenger’s-side door, looking for a phone. By lifting the floor mat, she finally found it, wedged between the mat and the door frame. She replaced the mat smoothly on the clean floor beneath it and then checked the last call. “Merilee Cruz?”

  “Good-looking woman, huh? I told her I’d bring back her pot, but I can’t leave the ants. Could you tell her what happened?”

  “I’ll dial, and then you can talk.”

  Bernie punched the green button to place the call, put the phone on speaker, and held it near Hoffman’s mouth.

  Merilee didn’t even say hello. “Where are you? I’ve got a million things to do besides wait around for your lazy carcass.”