Cave of Bones Read online

  Dedication

  Cave of Bones is dedicated to the memory of Navajo Police Officer Houston James Largo, who was killed in the line of duty; and to my dear brother and supportive fan Steve Hillerman, who died of cancer August 23, 2017.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Anne Hillerman

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  1

  Annie Rainsong knew that today she would die.

  And that she deserved to.

  She never should have left her vision site, but she was cold, restless, bored, hungry, and ready to be done with this outdoor stuff. She wanted a beer and a cigarette, or at least a shower and a sandwich. No, two sandwiches. She knew she should have been back at base camp by now. Leaving her vision site had been a bad, bad idea.

  The stupid piles of rocks that marked the trail blended into the darkness now. Nothing looked familiar—or everything looked like something she had seen before. Nothing looked safe. Her head ached; her feet hurt from the ugly new hiking boots. She wanted to stop moving, be done with this. Her shimásání had always told her not to complain, only to be grateful. She pictured her grandmother’s face and remembered the warm smell of the blue corn cakes she fixed for breakfast. It made her feel like crying, so Annie swore out loud instead.

  She saw what looked like a cave up ahead and directed the weak beam of her flashlight into the lava. She would climb there, she decided, and hope there weren’t any dead bugs or bat poop to creep her out. The old ones had lived in caves, hadn’t they? Maybe she’d be lucky enough to fall asleep and die. She’d heard of that happening.

  She hiked toward it, relieved to have a destination even though the blister on the back of her left heel rubbed against the stiff boot every time she took a step. She felt less lost now. Maybe it would even be warmer in there. Mr. Cruz and Mrs. Cooper had told her to stay out of caves, because of hibernating bats and because the caves might have been used by the old ones and contain bones or gifts for the dead. She decided it didn’t matter now. This whole stinking program was a farce, and she was as good as dead anyway.

  When she got to the cave, she’d take the boots off. Who cared what Mr. Cruz said? He was a jerk. She never believed in this vision stuff anyway, but she played along. It was better than being on probation for a year and all the bull that went with that. At least, that’s what she’d thought when she let her mother talk her into participating.

  As she limped closer, she realized that there were big lava boulders around the mouth of the cave, making it hard to see at this angle. She was lucky she’d found it. Lucky? Cooper said the experience out here changed people, but if it actually gave her some luck, she’d be amazed. She started to climb, struggling against the angle of the hillside, slipping on patches of icy snow she hadn’t seen in the cloud-covered night. Before she reached the top she was practically crawling, using numb fingers to help pull herself to the cave.

  Annie made it to the crest of the slope and straightened up, catching her breath.

  She remembered the pack-rat nest she’d seen at Grandma’s place, out past the hogan, when life was better, before her shimásání died and her brother had his accident and everything changed. Would the cave be a good place for a pack rat? Or for shash, a bear snoozing off her fall fat and waiting to emerge in the spring, maybe with some cubs? She didn’t like the idea of disturbing a sleeping bear.

  The flashlight’s beam reflected off the black rocks at the cave’s mouth and illuminated wavy white lines and stick figures, before the beam disappeared into the darkness. The figures made her think of something a little kid would draw, simple light marks on the dark stone. Mrs. Cooper had mentioned that they might see something like this and told the girls not to touch them.

  Annie ran her finger over a spiral. The image captured the moon’s milky light. Cool, she thought. The pictures looked like something her brother might make. She could hear Mother telling him not to draw on the walls; maybe this little brat’s mom told him the same thing.

  To get the flashlight to shine inside the cave, she had to sink to her knees. The tremor in her hand made the faint beam dance against the blackness. She inched her way toward the entrance, the light preceding her like bad news. She saw nothing threatening. The light bounced off her wrist, and Annie Rainsong glanced at her forbidden tattoo, the skull her mother hated. She’d always thought it was cool, but now she looked away and used her light to search the cave, finding no rats or rat’s nests or anything that looked bearlike.

  She sat on the rock ledge at the entrance of the cave, put down her flashlight, pulled up the collar on her jacket, and shoved her hands in the pockets. She wasn’t even hungry or thirsty anymore. Only bone-cold and scared and ready to die. Maybe there was a bear in the very back of the cave, where her light didn’t go. Maybe the bear would find her and eat her or feed her to the cubs. That would be all right, she thought. Better than having her own mom yell at her for being a screwup. Better than having Mrs. Cooper tell her she’d messed up the whole trip for the group by not following the rules. Everyone cared about the rules. Nobody cared about her.

  The cave would be a hard place for Mr. Cruz to find her, but it would be a safe place to die. She was glad those big rocks blocked most of the entrance. They would keep animals out, unless something was already inside; the cave smelled funny. She didn’t like the thought of a coyote finding her. It was bad enough when she heard them howling, and she remembered that time when she was little and she and Grandmother had come across the sheep—or what was left of it—that the coyotes had just killed.

  Annie started to relax. The cave was safer than that stupid flimsy tent they gave her. She was OK here, she told herself. She heard the sound of her own breathing and the beat of her heart pushing blood up to her ears. She leaned back, feeling the cold stone wall through her coat, staying close to the entrance. It bothered her that she couldn’t see what was beyond the beam of her flashlight, but being outside bothered her even more. She would wait for the sunrise and as soon as it got light she’d start to yell for Mr. Cruz or go back to hiking, watching for those stupid towers of rocks, the Karens or something, to find the dumb campsite.

  Annie Rainsong took pride in her toughness. Nobody in school, when she went to school, messed with her. Teachers left her alone except for some bilagáana do-gooders. If any adults looked at her with pity because of her brother, she gave them a hard glare that said Hands off! She’d sit in the cave and wait for a vision, or wait to die. Who cared about a stupid vision, anyway? She could make that up if she had to.

  She readjusted her back against the sharp lava. It wouldn’t be so bad to die out here, she thought. Kind of peaceful. She stretched her legs into the darkness. She had seen on TV that the cold made people sleepy, and then they died. Hydrophobia or something. She wouldn’t mind that. Her mom would start to cry and beg forgiveness. Too late. Her chindi would hang about and bug her. Maybe they would leave her in the cave, wall up her body until it became a pile of bones. Or not fin
d her at all. Then Mom would be really teed off.

  Annie stretched a little more. Her right foot encountered something hard, probably a rock. She adjusted her position, wishing she’d brought her sleeping bag instead of leaving it in the tent. Even with the cold, she felt better here, out of the wind, without the noise of the tent straps and fabric flapping. She saw the sliver of a moon as it rose over a river of darkness separating the clouds. It was hai, winter, and the month of níłch’itsoh, a time when some creatures would rest and others would die. Either way, she thought, it’s how my story plays out.

  She must have closed her eyes, because when she opened them again the sky wore a tinge of pink. She remembered where she was and why in the next millisecond. On the next breath, she realized that her back and hips hurt, her stomach ached, and December’s cold had seeped up through the little bones of her smallest toes all the way to her knees, her spine, and the very top of her head. Ever her hair was freezing cold. She shifted and wiggled her feet, glad that she had left her boots on because her stiff fingers would not have been able to deal with shoelaces.

  She pushed herself to sitting and glanced down to see what she had pressed against in the dark.

  Her screams echoed off the lava.

  2

  The trouble started simply enough, as many things do. Several weeks earlier, Captain Howard Largo had asked Officer Bernadette Manuelito if she would help the Ramah Navajo district with a little volunteer project. Officer Cheryl Jasper had signed up to do it, but then Jasper’s daughter qualified for the finals in something at school and the family had an opportunity to go to Albuquerque to cheer her on.

  Largo reminded Bernie that Officer Jasper had filled in at the Shiprock district three years before, when Bernie and Sergeant Jim Chee wanted time off together for their honeymoon. The Ramah Navajo were known for their independence, and if it hadn’t been for clan ties traced back to Bernie’s mother’s mother, Cheryl Jasper might not have been as gracious about spending some of her precious vacation working in Shiprock. Bernie knew she owed her colleague a favor, and payback time had arrived.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Oh, nothing much, and it will get you outside. Hiking is involved, and Officer Jasper especially asked for you.” Largo’s voice had a touch of the trickster in it. “I’m not making you do this, Manuelito, but I’m telling you it would be a darn good idea.”

  “Don’t say it will build my character.”

  “You’re already enough of a character.”

  That Largo hadn’t volunteered the details seemed suspicious. “Sir, can you tell me more about what doing ‘nothing much’ means?”

  “Don’t worry, Manuelito. You like being out of the office. Officer Jasper will fill you in. Thanks.”

  He picked up his phone, indicating the conversation was done.

  Chee planned to be away in Santa Fe for a few days, for intensive training at the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy. Bernie’s sister, Darleen, had been invited to attend a program for prospective students at the Institute of American Indian Arts, a college in Santa Fe. Even Mama would be gone. Her mother felt so well she planned to go to the Crownpoint rug auction with her weaving student, Mrs. Bigman.

  So Bernie had agreed before she called Officer Jasper, and that was her first mistake.

  The Ramah Navajo in many ways considered themselves and their schools, police force, and jail separate from the larger Navajo Nation. They were physically separated, too. Their territory, which didn’t adjoin the rest of the Navajo Nation, encompassed some two hundred square miles of land interspersed with private holdings, creating what was known as the Checkerboard because of the pattern it made on a map. Some of this land not owned by the Navajo had been deeded to the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway for a route to Needles, California, but it was never used. It was opened to anyone who could develop it under the Homestead Act of 1862—but somehow the government forgot to notify the Navajo families living in the area.

  After Bernie told Largo yes, she phoned Officer Jasper. They talked about Jasper’s daughter’s award, about Chee, about Bernie’s mother, and about Darleen. Then Jasper laid out the bad news. Before she learned her daughter had won the trip, she had agreed to go out to talk to a group of Navajo girls participating in an outdoor program.

  “You mean, make a speech?” Bernie felt her heart beat faster.

  “No. Nothing as serious as that. It’s not a big deal.” Jasper’s voice sounded calmly reassuring. “You could do it in your sleep.”

  “Where will the group be?”

  “In the Malpais. They’re camping at the Narrows. You’ll like them, and the location is wonderful.”

  “When?”

  Jasper gave her the time she was expected to speak—a few weeks in the future—and the phone number for the program’s contact. “Can you call them and tell them I can’t make it, but that you’ll be substituting? They’ll want to know a little about you so they can tell the girls. Thanks, Bernie. You’re the best.”

  Bernie would rather face a rampaging three-hundred-pound drunk than gaze out at an audience. Every time she had to speak in public, become the center of attention, her mouth went dry, her palms started to sweat, and her stomach tied itself in a knot. Her heartbeat accelerated faster than when she was chasing a meth head. She could see Mama frowning at her, hear her chiding—in Navajo, of course. It isn’t good to puff yourself up. It isn’t the Navajo way.

  Bernie immediately called the woman in charge of the program, a bilagáana named Rose Cooper, to tell her that Officer Jasper had been called away on family business and wouldn’t be able to talk to the girls. She did not volunteer to take her place.

  Cooper’s disappointment resonated over the phone. “That’s too bad. The girls look forward to her presentation each year. Do you know anything about our program?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, we’re based in Shiprock, and we do sessions all over the Four Corners. We work mostly with young people referred by the court system or schools and sometimes parents at their wits’ end. All of them are facing transitions and need some breathing room to figure out what comes next.” Cooper segued to the group of Navajo girls Officer Jasper had promised to speak to. “Some of them have had a brush with the law—shoplifting, drinking, marijuana, fighting. Others were enrolled because their parents thought being outside, learning new skills, and testing themselves against nature would help them gain confidence. They are fine kids, full of ideas and energy. The program gives them a new way to view themselves and the world. We have a leader who talks to them extensively about k’é—you know, the importance of kinship, and about traditional Diné values as a way to find a path through the world.”

  Bernie had heard of such programs. She’d even suggested one to Mama for Darleen, as an antidote to beer and partying.

  “I could go on talking, but the best way to learn what we do is to come up and see for yourself. You’d be doing yourself a favor, and these girls need to see the police as the good guys, right?” Cooper didn’t wait for her response. “Some of them might even want to go into law enforcement, and they have to stay out of trouble to do that. And besides, the place where we set up the base camp is lovely. Do you know the area very well?”

  “No. I’m from Shiprock, too.” Bernie remembered Cooper saying that was the program’s headquarters. She waited to see what Cooper would come up with next.

  “When you get to the Wings and Roots campsite, you can take a trail to the top of a gorgeous sandstone mesa and look down on all that lava. The view is spectacular, no kidding.”

  “I can’t make it. I like to hike, and I’m all for helping girls grow into strong women. But speaking to groups isn’t my strong suit.”

  Cooper chuckled. “So that’s what it is. No problem. We’re more like family than an audience. Just talk about what you do and how you got to be a cop, and then let the girls ask questions. Pretend they are your little relatives. That’s what Cheryl, Officer Jasp
er . . . that’s what she did last year. We’re very casual here. No microphones or stuff like that.”

  “Well. Ah . . .” Bernie searched her mental library for another excuse. “It’s hard to make plans weeks ahead like this in police work. You never know when something might happen that you’ll have to take care of as an officer.”

  Cooper injected her final argument. “We always grill hamburgers for lunch that last day of the course. Just come and eat with us. You don’t have to say a word if we don’t make you feel welcome. I imagine it will do you good to get out of that dang car. I know you officers are always driving around. You’ll need to eat anyway.”

  “I’m not sure what my schedule will be.” That sounded weak even to Bernie.

  “Of course you aren’t. But we’ll count on you arriving late morning and figure out the details when you get here. See you soon.” And with that, Cooper ended the call.

  The woman reminded Bernie of a non-Navajo version of Mama, with the same will-of-iron attitude toward getting what she wanted. But the place sounded beautiful, and burgers on the grill were one of her favorite foods. And how hard could it be to talk to girls about why and how she became a cop? She’d already had the conversation with Mama, Darleen, and Mama’s neighbor, Mrs. Darkwater.

  Now, as she drove her green-and-white Navajo Police SUV from Grants toward the Narrows campground where Cooper told her the program had set up base camp, she was having second thoughts. She stopped at the visitor center, a sunlit building perched at the edge of the park, for a map and some brochures. She scanned the information, stalling as she read and hoping that some malfeasance—nothing serious, just any incident demanding her presence—might result in a call on her radio. But it remained frustratingly silent.

  She drove southwest on New Mexico 117, one of two paved highways that skirted the acres of lava flow. NM 117 formed the border between El Malpais National Monument and the El Malpais National Conservation Area, threading its way between the lava and towering sandstone cliffs shaped by the forces of time. The conservation area abutted Acoma Indian Reservation land and, like ancient trails across the lava, was dotted with prayer sticks, shrines, and the sacred, unmentioned burials of Pueblo ancestors. This public land, administered by the Bureau of Land Management, also bordered the Ramah reservation and pockets of private land holdings. Most people driving through or stopping to hike simply called this whole area El Malpais—“the Badlands” in Spanish—leaving the changing jurisdictions as a matter of discussion for those who created the maps. But the checkerboard of state, federal, and tribal jurisdictions made law enforcement here complicated.