“Yeah?”
“Both clean, as far as we can tell,” Largo said. “Still working on Davis. Evidently Maxie is a nickname. You don’t know her real first name, do you?”
“Never heard it.”
“Never mind,” Largo said. “You need to get back to the Shiprock office. Mrs. Benally wants to talk to you about Leonard Nez.”
“She’s coming to Shiprock?”
“Yeah,” Largo said. “You’re in luck. She has a sister who lives there.” Largo told him the time Mrs. Benally expected to arrive. “Good luck with that.”
As he got close to home, Chee remembered the cat. He’d stop at the house quickly since it was on the way to the station and leave it some food, make sure it had water. When he climbed out of his unit, he noticed the dirt on the floor mat. He had a little time before Mrs. Benally was due, so he looked unsuccessfully in the logical places for the vacuum. It had been a wedding gift from some of his relatives, presented with much joking about how he would be the one to use it.
He called Bernie on her cell. From the TV in the background, he knew she was at her mother’s house.
“You’re vacuuming?”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “I was out at Chaco again today. Now my unit is full of sand.”
She told him where to find it. “While you’re at it, the house could use some attention, too. Cat hair. What were you doing back at Chaco?”
“I got called to help Cordova.” He told about the bracelet.
“If that woman is the one who shot Leaphorn, why is she dead? How did she get the Benally car? And who is she?”
“Good questions,” Chee said. ‘I’m going to check with Cordova when I get to the office, see how the feds are doing on the answers.”
17
Bernie hung up the phone and tried to push away her frustration. She ought to be helping Chee. Not with the vacuuming. With the case.
Mama had smiled when she drove up. “Oldest daughter, I was not expecting to see you today. You are a blessing.” Then Mama went back to work sweeping the porch slowly, systematically. The paint had faded on her old broom, the straw worn down to six inches from the base.
Bernie said, “Is Sister here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“She went somewhere in the car,” Mama said. “Don’t worry about her so much. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
Bernie moved a couple of kitchen chairs out to the porch, and she and Mama sat in the shade. She talked about meeting Slim Jacobs that morning and about her visit to Chaco Canyon.
“I have never been to that place,” Mama said. “But I remember it from the old stories.”
Bernie knew the stories, too. The story of the Great Gambler who enslaved the Pueblo people who lived there by winning their possessions, wives, children, and finally the men themselves. A Navajo man, with the help of the Holy People, beat the Gambler at his own games and freed the Pueblos. Bernie also remembered the story of how the fifth Diné clan joined with the four original clans at Chaco Canyon, moving with the People to the banks of the San Juan River.
They heard the car before they saw it, music blaring from the speakers through the open windows. Darleen pulled into the driveway, hit the brake, generated a cloud of dust.
“Hey, Sister,” Darleen yelled at her. “You come around? Good fa you.”
Bernie said, “I finished an interview and figured I’d stop by. You were driving pretty fast there, like one of those NASCAR guys.”
Darleen stumbled as she climbed out of the car, leaving the door open, engine running. She leaned against the roof.
“I like fast,” Darleen said.
Bernie jogged to the car, reached past Darleen, close enough to smell the alcohol, and turned off the ignition. She saw three crushed beer cans on the passenger floor.
“You shouldn’t drive when you’ve been drinking. You could die. Die or kill somebody.”
Darleen laughed. “I’m gonna die anyway. What sa difference? You’re a cop. Arrest me.” She moved away from the car, swaying, nearly losing her balance.
Bernie put her arms out to catch her if she fell. Darleen lurched away.
“Lee me alone,” Darleen said. “Doan touch me. I’m none a your bidness.”
Mama said, “Youngest daughter, are you sick?”
“Yeah.” Darleen wiped at her mouth. “Sick a bein’ trapped here wid you. Sick of Miz Law n Order who knows every single goddamn thing pickin’ on me for everythin’ I do.”
Mama said something in Navajo, something harsh concerning Darleen’s swearing.
Another car pulled up, a dust-colored Chevy. Bernie recognized the driver: Stoop Boy, Charley Zah. He yelled out the window at Darleen. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’re late. Get in.” Darleen had started toward his car even before it stopped.
“She can’t go anywhere with you,” Bernie said. “She’s drunk.”
“What’s new?” he said.
Darleen trotted over with a lopsided gait. Stoop Boy pushed open the passenger door, and she lurched in.
“I’ll take care of her,” Sloop Boy said. “Don’t worry.”
“Where are you going? When will you be back? It’s not safe for her to be out like that.” Bernie’s words disappeared in the sound of tires crunching on the gravel, the rumble of the engine.
Mama made the clicking sound she did when things weren’t right. “You should have made her stay here.”
“How? She’s a grown woman.”
“You are her big sister,” Mama said. “You have to take care of her. That is why we have families, relatives. We have to take care of each other.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” Bernie said.
Mama shook her head. “It’s not enough. Your sister needs you. She is too young to be so angry.”
Bernie felt grief settle in with the same precise efficiency as her mother’s work with the broom on the porch. She had seen too much of the evil that alcohol brought. She didn’t need to experience it again with her baby sister.
“I think she’s beginning to hate me,” Bernie said. “Every time I try to help, try to tell her what to do, she just gets mad.”
“I know.” Mama patted her hand. “You do what you can. These things take time.”
It’s not fair, Bernie thought. Why did she have to be the dependable one and Darleen always the problem child? “I wish Sister would live up to her responsibilities.”
“Don’t concern yourself about that today.” Mama wrapped her bony fingers around Bernie’s forearm. “Be happy. You and I can spend the day together, my daughter. I am hoping that you will find the book again with the picture of the rug about the Holy People.”
“I’d like to see that again, too,” Bernie said.
She helped Mama over the threshold and into the house and then to the bathroom. She went into the kitchen and poured them each a glass of water. Even though she seldom drank alcohol, a cold Bud would taste great. She smiled at the thought. Darleen’s problem with alcohol inspiring her to want a beer?
Bernie found the book, and Mama sat with her at the kitchen table, carefully studying the photograph of Hosteen Klah and his rug. She would enjoy her mother, Bernie decided, and not let Darleen’s craziness spoil that.
Bernie noticed some magazines and catalogs from an auction of Native American art and artifacts on the table. “These are interesting. Where did they come from?”
“Stella got them at the library, on that free shelf,” Mama said. “She saw one of my old rugs in the catalog with the blue cover. Look how much they have for the starting bid.” Bernie thumbed through to find the page. The full-color photograph showed the rug to good advantage.
“I remember watching you make that rug when I was a little girl. Then we drove it over
to the Crownpoint auction.”
Mama laughed. “Only rich people could buy it now. They could buy a refrigerator for that money. They could get a refrigerator, and have enough left for one of those rugs that look like Navajo. You know, the ones that they make in Mexico.”
Bernie chuckled. “You did beautiful work, Mama. The world doesn’t have many women who know how to make something so fine. That rug is worth more than twenty refrigerators. It’s priceless.”
Mama glanced at her gnarled hands. “Are you weaving now?”
“Not yet,” Bernie said.
“You have to practice,” Mama said. “Every day, like you used to.”
Bernie leafed through the catalog. “These pots remind me of the ones my friend was researching.” Showing the pictures to Mama, she noticed that the starting bids for the cylinders were twice as high as those for the rounder bowls, even though the bowls were larger. Interesting, she thought.
“Your friend was the one who got shot?” Mama asked.
Bernie nodded. She handed the catalog, open to the pots, to Mama, who looked at the pictures closely. “Made by the old ones,” she said. “Touched by their hands.”
When Mama went into the bedroom for a nap, Bernie sat on the edge of the bed. Mama said, “I am thinking about Darleen. When she comes back, I will tell her she is not welcome in my house when she’s drinking.” And then, for the first time Bernie could remember since her father died, Mama started to cry.
After Mama fell asleep, Bernie thought about how to handle things if Mama actually did tell Darleen to stop drinking or leave—and Darleen left. She reviewed the mental list of relatives who might help, with no immediate candidates, then pushed the potential problem aside. Maybe Mama’s threat would get Darleen to shape up—but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it.
She found her old textbooks again, and after twenty minutes, she discovered the information she wanted. The cylindrical pots the AIRC was about to acquire, if they had been made at Pueblo Bonito or one of the other Great Houses rather than at an outlier, were very rare. The Pueblo ancestors made little pottery in the great stone settlements. Most of the pottery uncovered in the Chaco ruins had been created outside the canyon and hauled in over those mysterious ancient roadways. The rarity of the design, the scarcity of Chaco-made pots in general, and the fact that the pots would have survived intact for a thousand years meant that they were close to priceless. Why had the EFB appraisal valued them so low?
An idea flashed in her brain. What if the pots were not Chacoan, like the Navajo rugs made in Mexico that Mama mentioned? What if the low appraisal was actually correct?
The buzz of her cell phone broke her concentration. Chee, she thought. But the voice on the other end of the line belonged to Captain Largo. He got right to business.
“I’d like you back on Monday,” he said. “Bigman’s got vacation scheduled, so we’ll be a little short otherwise at Shiprock. That work?”
That gave her four days to clear up the appraisal for the AIRC, find Ellie Friedman, find out who shot Leaphorn. And arrange a caregiver for Mama if Darleen got mad and left or kept drinking.
“That works for me,” Bernie said.
“You doin’ okay?”
Bernie said, “I’ll be a whole lot better when we figure out who shot the lieutenant.”
“Me too,” Largo said. “By the way, Mrs. Benally seems to have tracked down Leonard Nez.”
“That’s good news. What did he say?”
“I don’t know yet. Chee’s on it. You’ll probably hear before I do.”
18
Chee had just pulled into the Shiprock substation parking lot when his cell phone vibrated. He looked at the number. Mrs. Benally. As usual, she got right to the point.
“I can’t come to Shiprock today because my sister is sick,” she said. “Remember I told you I’d bring in Lizard?”
“I remember. Captain Largo told me you wanted to talk to me about that.”
“I know where he is,” she said.
“Where?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “First I get my car back, and Jackson comes home.”
Jackson was still in jail as a “person of interest.” Unless they came up with charges against him, which seemed unlikely, he would be freed in the morning.
“You know, sometimes people get arrested for withholding information the police need,” Chee said.
“You got no reason to put an old lady in jail. If you do, who will take you to Lizard?”
Chee told her he would check on the car, do what he could for Jackson, and call her back.
Luck was on his side. The crime lab had finished. Mrs. Benally’s sedan could be released at 8:00 a.m. the next day. He called her back.
She said, “You give me a ride over there. We get the car. We get Jackson. Then we talk to Lizard.” Before he could say anything, she hung up.
Inside the substation, he had a premonition of bad news. He felt sadness in the air.
The receptionist didn’t wait for him to ask. “The hospital chaplain, a Reverend Rodriguez, called for you.” She handed Chee a slip of paper. “He asked me to have you get in touch as soon as you could. He thinks you’re Lieutenant Leaphorn’s nephew or something.”
She looked up, and he saw her tears. “I asked how he was coming along. At first he didn’t say anything. Then he said now would be good to remember him in our prayers.”
Chee went into his cubicle of an office, closed the door, and dialed.
Rodriguez got right to the point. “You mentioned your friend wanting a healing ceremony?”
“He does.”
“I saw your note, and I was checking into my connections with the native community here in Santa Fe to see if someone could help you. Then I ran into Dr. Moxsley. He said he thinks it might be good to do it soon. He asked me to tell you and your wife that Mr. Leaphorn has developed pneumonia.”
Chee realized he’d been holding his breath. Exhaled. Waited for Rodriguez to say something more. He knew about pneumonia in hospitals. That was what had killed his uncle. He remembered Bernie telling him that the lieutenant wanted him, Jim Chee himself, to do the praying.
The chaplain kept talking. “Because Mr. Leaphorn is in our critical care unit, there are more rules to follow than if he were on a regular floor, but I’ll help you as much as I can.” Rodriguez recited the litany: No smoke, fire, or smudge sticks, because most of the CCU patients were on oxygen. No drums. All chanting had to be quiet. The list went on.
“Fine,” Chee said. “I can’t get a singer on such short notice, but I’ve had some training, enough so I can improvise. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”
“I know you have a long drive,” Rodriguez said. “Let me know when you get to Santa Fe, and I’ll meet you at the hospital. I want to make sure you don’t run into trouble with anybody in CCU. Call me. Don’t worry about how late it is.”
Chee contacted Largo, asked for the rest of the day off. Got it when he mentioned pneumonia. Then he called Bernie and told her what Rodriguez had said.
“I’m going home to do a sweat, get my thoughts together. And then we can head out.” He paused. “That is, I’m hoping you’ll go with me. It would mean a lot to have you there.”
“I want to go. I have to take care of a few things here. I’ll call you when I leave Mama.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I love you.”
Because of his long apprenticeship with his uncle, Chee knew better than most the danger that could result from performing sacred rituals in a manner that was less than perfect. It was impossible and dangerous to do a traditional healing ceremony outside the embrace of Dinetah, trapped in a city hospital. Impossible to do the ceremony indoors, without contact with the earth and sky, without the person to be healed seated on the ground so the sacred sand painting would encircle him. Some hospitals on the reser
vation had hogans for the singers and their ceremonies. Santa Fe was far away from Dinetah, and the one who got shot depended on machines to keep him alive.
Chee made a call to the daughter of a singer who lived near Tsalie. The woman, a clan sister, had heard about Leaphorn’s shooting. “He would like some prayers and he has asked me to help with this. I need to speak to your mother’s brother to ask his advice,” Chee said. “They say that the one in the hospital may die soon.”
“I think the one who got shot is a good man,” the woman said. “And I remember when my Angela got in trouble with that boy from Chinle. You gave her a talking-to. It helped.” The singer lived without a telephone, so she would drive to the old man’s home and then call him back.
He waited half an hour for her call.
“I found him tinkering with the tractor. I told him what you wanted. The hataalii is with me now. I’m handing him the phone.”
Chee listened to the gravelly old voice speaking Navajo. The instructions ran long.
Then, with a sense of somber purpose, Chee prepared a sweat bath in his special spot along the river. He thought of Hosteen Nakai, much-missed uncle and teacher, as he sang the songs of purification he had learned. Healing concerned more than the body. Death had its place. That’s why the Hero Twins had saved Sa, the monster who brought death to the world. Without Sa, the old ones who were tired of life would get no relief. He’d learned about death, not only from his wise uncle, who welcomed it with a peaceful heart, but from his experience as a policeman. Death deserved respect, but Chee had seen many things more frightening.
Mama glanced up from the book with the photographs of Hosteen Klah’s weavings.
“Was that the Cheeseburger?”
“Yes. He’s going to say some prayers in the hospital for the one who got shot. He wants to do it tonight, and he asked me to go with him.”
“That is good,” Mama said. “He is a good man.”
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