Stephen laughed. “You know him, huh?”
Wakara, a friend of Leaphorn’s, had been head of security at the park for as long as Chee could remember.
Chee mentioned the conversation about the quarreling hikers.
“We haven’t had any reports of anyone missing,” Stephen said. “I’ll ask our guy who makes the rounds to hike up that trail a ways this afternoon. Just in case.”
“Where is Pueblo Alto, anyway?” Bernie asked.
Stephen showed her on the map.
“I haven’t been to Chaco for a while,” Chee said. “Isn’t this a new visitor center?”
“It opened a few years ago. The old building you remember had to be razed.”
“Old? Wasn’t it built in the late nineteen-fifties?”
“Ironic, isn’t it. Modern America couldn’t build a visitor center to last seventy years,” Stephen said. “These Pueblo buildings still stand after more than a thousand. But this time we did it right. We brought in an Indian to bless the site.”
He smiled at Chee. “Policeman, huh? You’re the one I call if someone gets nervous about livestock on the Navajo Nation part of the road?”
“Depends on if the cows want to file a complaint about the traffic harassing them. You worked here long?”
“Fifteen years,” Stephen said. “I love it. Except for the road.”
“Did you know a woman named Eleanor Friedman-Bernal who used to do research here?” Bernie asked.
“Ellie? A bit. I got hired on a few months before she nearly got killed. She called here last month, all excited. Said she’d left her college job and was moving back to New Mexico. Said she’d come see the ruins and that she’d stop in and say hi.”
Bernie said, “I’m doing some work for the AIRC. I’d love to talk to her about some Chaco pots.”
“She knows a lot about them,” Stephen said. “That’s her specialty. Absolutely passionate about it. Do you know her?”
“I met her,” Chee said. “I worked on that case where she nearly died. So she has been back here?”
“Not yet. Not that I know of. I guess her plans changed. They say she always was a little flaky. I heard she planned to start up that appraisal business again, now that she’s not teaching anymore. That must be keeping her busy.”
Stephen smiled at Bernie. “If you’re interested in pottery, we’ve got some books on it over there. Some hard-to-find reference stuff that focuses mostly on pots from here.”
They wandered over to a section of the room that served as the bookstore, then spent a few minutes with the exhibits. Since most of the material found at Chaco Canyon had been shipped elsewhere a long time ago, the exhibit items were on loan. The Maxwell Museum at the University of New Mexico had provided the artifacts, examples of jewelry, animal carvings, bits of worked turquoise, stone tools, black-and-white potshards, part of a long and close association between the two institutions.
A group of Navajo kids, six- and seven-year-olds, swarmed into the visitor center. In addition to two women, obviously teachers, Bernie noticed a tall young man with the little people. Stoop Boy. She watched him intervene with two boys who had been pushing each other, put a hand on each one’s arm and squat down to talk to them at eye level. Interesting, she thought. She’d assumed he didn’t have a job.
Stoop Boy noticed Bernie and smiled. She never saw him smile when he was with Darleen. He walked over to her, bringing the kids along.
“Yá’át’ééh,” he said.
She couldn’t remember his name, and he seemed to sense that and let her off the hook. He looked at Chee, said, “I’m Charley Zah,” and introduced himself Navajo style. “I’m a friend of Officer Manuelito’s sister.”
Chee reciprocated with his own introduction. The urchins in Zah’s grasp squirmed. “You’ve got your hands full.”
“Literally.” Zah laughed. “We bring the kids here a couple times with the summer program. We tell Chaco stories on the bus, talk about the ones who lived here. Then we let them see the ruins, get some sunlight, watch the ravens soar.
“Are you here on business?” Zah asked. “I understand they found a few bodies out there. And then there’s the question of what happened to all the other bodies they didn’t find here. Alien abductions?”
Chee laughed. “We don’t get to handle those cold cases. We leave that to the archaeologists. They are puzzling over how a place so big would have so few burials.”
The restless youngsters pulled on Stoop Boy’s hands. “We’re starting our tour at Pueblo Bonito, in case you want to tag along, or avoid us. But the first stop is out there.” He pointed toward the restroom with his chin and let the boys lead him away. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Chee, and, “Nice to see you again,” to Bernie.
“So that’s the guy leading Darleen into trouble?”
“I may have pegged him wrong,” Bernie said. “He sure seems different here.”
“It must be what they call the Chaco Phenomenon.”
“You know everything?”
Chee grinned. “And what I don’t know, I make up.”
They left the visitor center for the trail to Una Vida, a structure archaeologists call a great house, a towering ruin of hand-carved stone partly buried beneath eons of blowing sand and a thin layer of tough vegetation. The trail through what was left of the rooms took them to petroglyphs, ancient artists’ depictions of animals, spirals, lightning, and perhaps divine beings.
Bernie paused near a section of wall that differed from the rest of the stone masonry. “This could have been an old sheep camp.”
Chee trotted up with the tour pamphlet. “That’s right. Evidently Navajo sheep corrals were here around eighteen hundred.”
“With a touch of water this would be good sheep country,” Bernie said.
They walked back toward the visitor center and the truck, aware of the growing heat.
“In a couple of weeks, this place will be full of people who come for the solstice,” Chee said.
“All those spiritual seekers and wannabe Indians make my head spin,” she said.
“I can’t blame them for wanting to be here. There’s no place in the world quite like this. And to think that the ones who lived here were so wise that we can still use their solar markers ten centuries later. That’s impressive.”
“I love the way the architecture blends into the landscape,” Bernie said. “I wonder what brought the people here?”
Chee walked ahead to open the truck. “They came on foot, honey. The pickup hadn’t been invented yet.”
They didn’t have time for more hiking, but they explored the paved loop trail with views of the remains of more massive ruins of a culture that rose and fell over the course of three centuries. Then they headed out of the park, driving past the Fajada Butte overlook and the junction for the Wijiji ruins. Bernie said, “Seeing this place makes me more curious about the pottery that came from here, the things the lieutenant was working on. And about Ellie.”
Chee slowed as they left the pavement for the dirt road. “Interesting that the ranger said Ellie planned to come back to visit.”
“That’s probably why she had Pueblo Alto on her calendar,” Bernie said. “Maybe she decided to shoot the lieutenant and go into hiding first.”
“We’ll ask her when we find her. Or when the feds bring her in.”
Bernie said, “She sounds like a cool character. Focused on her job. I guess spending all that time with old pots would tend to make you, well, detached.”
“Or not liking people much in the first place gives you the perfect personality for that.”
“Sounds like Dr. Davis, too. Maybe pot people are all introverts.”
They bounced along in silence for a while. The washboards they encountered on the way out had a pattern that denied the truck a comfortable ride at any speed. Fast or slow,
the road threatened to shake the bolts loose. Bernie saw a lean coyote, its tan coat the same color as the sandy earth, a contrast to the gray of the sage. She watched a trio of turkey vultures soar against the vivid blue sky. No clouds yet.
Chee said, “Davis lied about not remembering me. I could tell by the way she looked at me that she knew who I was. I thought she seemed familiar. But when I met her she had long, curly red hair.”
“When did you meet her?”
“Years ago. It was here at Chaco, working the missing Ellie case with the lieutenant. We interviewed her as part of the investigation. Most folks don’t have that many encounters with the police. They remember them.”
“Maybe she’s trying to forget that whole phase of her life,” Bernie said.
“Maybe. But she and Ellie lived in employee housing. It seems odd that she wouldn’t have recognized EFB either.”
“She might not have known what Ellie called her business,” Bernie said. “You saw her check the database.”
Bernie noticed a car approaching them, bouncing along the washboard barely under control. “You know, the other thing that’s wrong here is this Leonard Nez. Jackson being so closemouthed about him and about what they were doing that day, if they didn’t shoot the lieutenant. The Nez guy must have some pull with Jackson, holding something over him, threatening him.”
“Yeah,” Chee said. “I don’t buy the story of an unnamed uncle who lives down a road Zuni way. Whatever it is, it’s big enough that Jackson was willing to spend a night in jail rather than share it.”
Chee pulled out to pass a king cab truck hauling a camping trailer, moving away from the cloud of dust it generated and into the clear air. “You know the ranch where Jackson said he works?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Bernie said. “The Jacobs family has been out there for generations.”
“I think the number Jackson gave you is the same number Ellie jotted down on her desk pad next to ‘SJ,’ ” he said. “I remembered the Colorado area code.”
Bernie checked her notes from the visit to EFB and took out her cell phone. When she finally had reception, she called. No answer, but the recording told her she’d reached the Double X Ranch.
“You were right,” she said. “That ties Ellie and Jackson and the car.”
She opened the glove box, extracted a map, and spread it across her lap.
“I think I’ve got this down,” Chee said. “I stay on the highway until we reach Farmington. Or until I pull over for you to drive. Correct me if I’m wrong. But I guess I don’t even need to say that anymore, do I, sweetheart?”
She punched him in the arm. Not hard, but hard enough.
“I’m looking for the shortest way to get from Shiprock to the Double X Ranch,” she said.
“You could use the GPS in your phone.”
“Right,” Bernie said. “I love the way that computer voice twists up Navajo place names. Can I use the truck?”
“Sorry. While you’re finding SJ this afternoon, I’ve got to get to Window Rock. I wonder what new torture Largo has dreamed up for me?”
15
While Chee showered, Bernie called the Double X Ranch again. Owner/manager Slim Jacobs answered, and she identified herself as a Navajo cop. Yes, he said, he’d talk to her about EFB, even though his ranch was not on Navajo land, and, he said, he didn’t think she had any jurisdiction. And yes, he knew Jackson Benally. It was a slow day. Come on over. He gave her better directions than she’d been able to get from the map.
Bernie made a couple of peanut butter sandwiches and a pot of coffee and got out her traveling cup.
Chee looked at the counter. “So you’re outa here?”
She noticed that he smelled like soap and sunshine. “If Slim Jacobs can help us track down Ellie, that’s well worth the trip. I can finish the appraisal work and you can follow up with her, find out about that meeting she set up with the lieutenant,” she said. “And who knows, maybe Slim can tell us something about Lizard Nez, too.”
“Why didn’t you just ask him about Nez over the phone?” Chee said.
“He doesn’t know me, and he sounded prickly. Face-to-face is better. By the way, Largo called while you were cleaning up. Mrs. Benally is waiting for you. She has info about Nez, but she’ll only talk to you.”
“I was right about torture.”
Bernie poured coffee into her travel cup and handed it to him along with a sandwich. “I couldn’t find your mug. Take this.”
He kissed her. “What about you?”
“I’ll drink my coffee here, take a Coke along instead.”
“See you tonight,” he said. “Don’t forget to call Darleen.”
The drive to the Double X Ranch took her an hour. Usually driving relaxed her, but not today. Odd, she thought. Alone in the Toyota, she remembered the percussion of the gunshot and the startled look on Leaphorn’s face as he slipped to the ground. The roar of the sedan speeding off. The warm blood growing sticky on her hands. The dark eyes staring blankly from a face growing paler. The smell of the hot asphalt. The wail of the ambulance.
She lifted a hand from the steering wheel to wipe away the tears. Pay attention to the traffic, she told herself. You have a job to finish. You don’t have anything to cry about.
She passed the sign that marked the boundary of the Navajo Reservation. Sleeping Ute Mountain, a special place to the Ute bands, rose to the northwest. To some, the bulky blue shape resembled a reclining man in a feather headdress; others saw a busty woman. The Ute Mountain Casino sat in its shadow, complete with blinking lights, neon signs, and a packed parking lot.
Someone had marked the turnoff to the Double X with an old tire hung on a fence post. She left the pavement of US 491, clumped over a cattle guard and onto the dirt. A horse picked through the scant vegetation. From the bony looks of it, a feral pony. Picturesque, the tourists called them. A nuisance for ranchers. She tapped the brakes as a lean brown dog trotted in front of her car, moving right to left. It stopped on the top of an earthen berm to watch her bounce past.
Double X Ranch was a first-rate operation with a reputation for respecting the land and treating workers well. Lots of room out here, Bernie thought. A maze of shallow arroyos, dirt tracks heading out into the mesas, stone outcroppings. Colorado plateau country, where coyotes and ravens ruled. It reminded her of the landscape that had been part of a huge manhunt for fugitives who robbed a casino years ago. Despite the best efforts of combined law enforcement, those bad guys evaporated into the dry landscape.
After about a mile, she noticed a line of pickup trucks and battered sedans—classic rez cars—parked along the road. She drove past them to encounter a backhoe partly obstructing the way around the next curve.
“I’ll be working on and off all day,” the driver said. “Best to leave your car back there so you don’t get blocked in.”
She made a U-turn, parked at the head of the line facing toward the blacktop, and walked toward the ranch house with the low growl of the backhoe’s engine as background music. Most of the vehicles had their windows open, keys in the ignition, as Jackson had said.
A shaggy, oversize dog barked at her from the shade of the porch. It rose stiffly and didn’t bother to move closer. The front door stood ajar, but the screen was shut.
“Hello in there,” she called. The dog kept barking. “I’m here to see Mr. Jacobs.”
The screen door opened, and a paunchy man in a gray checked shirt and jeans stepped onto the porch. “Princess, enough. Quiet down now.” The dog hushed, keeping an eye on Bernie. “Just doing her job,” the man said.
He smiled, a flash of crooked teeth. “Come on in. I’m Slim Jacobs. You must be Officer Manuelito.”
“That’s me,” Bernie said. She wiped the soles of her Nikes on the doormat, which read “Howdy Pardner.”
“Can I get you some water, Officer? I
might have a soda somewheres.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Water would be great. Call me Bernie.”
“Call me Slim,” he said. “Or whatever you want. Just don’t call me late for supper.” He motioned her to a seat at a large wooden table covered with piles of bills, catalogs, correspondence. She saw a well-used Stetson on the hat rack.
“I heard about the old policeman who got shot in Window Rock,” he said. “Terrible thing. Any idea who did it?”
“We’re working on it,” Bernie said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you about Ms. Friedman. She had an appointment with the policeman before he was shot. I’ve been looking for her to talk about that, and an old appraisal she did.”
“I’m afraid you drove all the way out here for nothing, missy,” he said. “I never got to see Ms. Friedman last week. That Ellie stood me up. No call to say she wasn’t comin’. No call afterwards to explain about it. Of course, she always was a little scatterbrained. I tried callin’ her to reschedule and tell her now she owed me a lunch. Left messages. Never heard back.”
“It’s odd,” Bernie said.
“Especially for someone startin’ up a business again. She came right out the first time I called, a couple weeks ago. She seemed real interested in the work, so we set the date. I got everything ready, even fixed us some lunch.”
“I’m working for a museum in Santa Fe,” Bernie said. “I’d like to track her down so I can finish an assignment. Sounds like you know her pretty well.”
Slim grinned. “Oh, we had a thing goin’ back when she worked at Chaco, before that jerk tried to kill her and she started teaching at ASU. She told me she got laid off there and decided to come back to New Mexico. Cooler here. Nice gal.”
He stopped and seemed to be waiting for a question.
“How did you meet her?”
Slim said, “I hired her on to do an appraisal back when she was still wet behind the ears. I saw her little card on the bulletin board at the Laundromat in Cuba. She was just appraising part-time then, squeezin’ in some evaluations along with studying old pots for her research. And I was workin’ on a ranch near Cuba, takin’ a break from this place and my old man.”
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