Song of the Lion Page 4

  Palmer shook his head. “You’re overreacting.”

  Largo leaned toward him. “I don’t care what you think. This isn’t subject to argument. You came to us for protection, remember? That’s what I’m offering. Katie stopped here because she was worried about you after those incidents tonight. If you don’t want our help, get out. We’re not running a taxi service.”

  Chee registered the look Palmer gave the captain, an expression of someone who issued orders and wasn’t used to getting them. Palmer stood. “It’s late. Let’s go to Tuba City.”

  Chee had spent more nights than he cared to remember driving the back roads of the reservation, responding to calls about family fights, meth kitchens, runaway children, or stolen cattle. That went with the “serve and protect” oath he’d sworn as a member of the Navajo Nation police force. But this assignment grew from politics as much as Palmer’s safety. It bugged him.

  Chee liked to drive in silence, using the time on the road to think. Tonight, as he moved his duffel bag from the passenger seat of his truck to the trunk of his Navajo Police unit, he realized he’d probably have to make conversation with a stranger. Perhaps Palmer would fall asleep. But the guy was a lawyer, and Chee assumed he’d want to talk. The drive would take about three hours. The anticipation made him grumpier still.

  Palmer climbed in, put his fancy leather bag on the floor, and fastened the seat belt. They rode in silence for a while through the night, the rhythm of the tires on asphalt, the darkness that surrounded them taking hold. Normally, Chee’s evening shift involved late-night driving in search of miscreants, witnesses, or people with complaints who wanted him to sympathize. They might mention a stack of discarded tires as a landmark to help him find the turnoff for their place. Navigating to Tuba City was easier. Boring, but easier.

  The quiet minutes became a half hour. The heater kicked in. Chee kept the unit a few degrees colder than comfortable to make sure he stayed alert. Even so, his eyelids began to feel heavy. He considered pulling over, getting out into the cold to revive his brain. He glanced at his passenger.

  Palmer stared out the window. Now that the car had warmed, Chee noticed the smell of the man’s sweat. Palmer glanced away from the darkness outside and patted his jacket pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Yeah, I do. Not in the unit. That’s not good for you anyway, man.”

  Palmer said, “Let’s get this straight. Your job is to try to make sure no one does anything to me that interferes with the mediation. It’s not to meddle in my personal life. Clear?”

  “Clear. I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  Palmer said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “OK.” Conversation might wake up my brain, Chee thought. Maybe Palmer would say something interesting.

  “Do you know the Navajo officer who was there at the school tonight? The woman? She wore jeans, so I guess she works undercover.”

  Chee smiled. “Bernadette Manuelito?”

  “That’s the one. I remember her from high school. A sweet girl, smart as they come, kind of shy. I never pictured her growing up to be a cop. She did a good job.” Palmer chuckled. “I could tell she was frustrated when the FBI agent came in, pushed her aside, and took charge.”

  Chee thought about telling Palmer Bernie was his wife. Decided to save that information and changed the subject. “Do you come back here, I mean to Navajoland, very often?”

  “No.”

  “So, it took the game to bring you home?”

  “A coincidence actually. The schedule to start the mediation coincided with the game, so I figured, why not? It gave me a reason to get in shape.”

  Chee watched headlights ahead coming toward them considerably faster than the speed limit but not swerving. He turned on his light bar. The truck slowed. Then the empty highway rolled on, the darkness outside the patrol unit’s windows unbroken.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t in that car when it blew.”

  “I loved that car. I dreamed about owning a car like that when I was in high school and most of the boys wanted pickups. When I got my first job out of college and finally could afford to buy an old clunker, I kept visualizing a sleek BMW, the car of my fantasies. I finally bought it last year. Why would somebody blow it up?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I have no idea.” And Palmer fell silent.

  Traffic was light, the night clear and still. In homes all across Navajoland, it had been a fine evening for stories, Chee thought. These long, cold November nights when the snakes slept made him miss the man mainstream society called his uncle but whom he knew as shidá’í, his Little Father. He longed for the wonderful way the old man had of bringing stories alive, retelling tradition with enriching details as he helped Chee grow from a boy to a man. His uncle built a world with words the same way other men could create beauty from the raw materials of silver, stone, or wood. He missed his shidá’í always, but especially this time of year.

  Chee remembered Bernie’s kindness toward Hosteen Nakai and his wife, now gone, too. Before he realized that Bernie would become his partner for life, she helped him kidnap his uncle out of the hospital against doctor’s orders so the old healer could die as he wished beneath the open sky and his chindi could float free.

  Chee said, “So what’s it been like for you to go away and then come home?”

  “It’s sad. Strange and sad.”

  Most lawyers he’d been around were talkers, Chee thought, but a conversation with Palmer was closer to an interview. The effort made him more alert.

  “Sad how?”

  “Well, the landscape speaks to me, brings back memories. My mother and my grandmothers are gone, and most of their generation, too. I visited with my aunt, but she didn’t recognize me. A lot of friends I went to school with moved away like I did.” He laughed. “I met my wife when we were still in high school and that cut back on the time I spent with the guys.”

  The comment made Chee curious. “Did your wife come with you back to Shiprock?”

  “Oh, we split a long time ago.”

  Chee steered into the darkness. One hundred seventy-two miles, more or less from Shiprock to Tuba City, a trip that usually required about three hours. With the light traffic he hoped to arrive a little sooner, tuck his passenger in for the night, text Bernie, and go to bed.

  “So what does a mediator do? I’ve heard about mediation, but I’ve never been involved with a session.”

  Palmer exhaled. “We help people with disagreements resolve them. Usually, the meetings are private, confidential, limited to people directly involved in the conflict. But because the Grand Canyon belongs to America, as they say, the resort development issue is complicated. I will devote the first session or two in Tuba City, in advance of the delegates getting down to work, to public comment.”

  “How did you get picked for this job?” Fully awake now, Chee turned up the heat.

  “I worked with the Forest Service on another Grand Canyon case and also with the Navajo Nation on a couple other major issues and with the state of Arizona. That might have helped. The Tribal Council recommended me along with some others. When I applied, I didn’t know if being Navajo might work in my favor or go the other way.”

  Palmer had not bragged, and Chee gave the man credit.

  “Have you been following the issue?” Palmer asked.

  “Not lately. It seems like the conflict has been going on forever.” It was, Chee noticed, one of the few questions Palmer had asked him in their many minutes together.

  “It has been simmering a long, long time.” Palmer adjusted the heater vent. “Business interests, economic development on one side; Native groups, environmentalists on the other, but not necessarily in agreement about what they’d like to see done or left alone. Lots of people in between. Nobody would dare say they advocate desecrating a sacred place. But what’s sacred and what’s just nice to look at? What does ‘appropriate development’ mean, and is there any room for such a thing at the
canyon? Should the Navajo Nation have the right to do what it wants with its land? It is a huge, divisive issue, a grand canyon of disagreements.”

  They drove awhile without conversation, the hum of the tires on the asphalt puncturing the dark silence. Chee watched the markings on the highway sail by in the bright ribbon created by the headlights. He understood the road and drove at a speed that exceeded the numbers noted on the black-and-white signs.

  Palmer said, “What happens next with the investigation into who destroyed my car?”

  “Federal agencies handle the big crimes: murder, car bombs, kidnapping, bank robbery, stuff like that. They’ll work on it. Our tribal police jurisdiction is mostly Navajo-on-Navajo crime. Missing elders, traffic laws, meth labs in the outback, domestic violence.”

  “That sounds major to me. Especially domestic violence. That shapes a kid’s life forever.”

  Chee felt warm embarrassment rise to his face and appreciated the car’s darkness. “I didn’t mean it that way. No one likes to respond to those calls. Usually at least one of the people is drunk or high, maybe both. The children are crying, hiding, traumatized. It’s a dangerous situation for everyone, including the officer who gets the call.” He knew several officers who had been attacked and hurt on those assignments “Domestic violence, child abuse, is that the kind of law you do?”

  “I used to when I started my practice. I worked pro bono child custody and restraining orders and some criminal defense. Environmental law and mediation hold my interest now.”

  Chee dimmed his headlights for an approaching car, then flashed them back to high. “What do you think about the idea of a resort near the confluence of the two rivers?”

  “It’s a complex subject. As the mediator, I have to keep my opinions to myself or, better yet, not have any.” Palmer looked out the side window, then turned back to face the empty highway unfolding in the unit’s headlights. “How much longer before we get to the hotel?”

  “Another hour or so.”

  Chee heard a shuffle and glanced over. Palmer had pulled something out of the leather bag at his feet. In the glow of the light from the big dial on Palmer’s watch, he could see that it was a bag of hard candy. The translucent ones that came in fruit flavors. Jolly Somethings. Palmer extended the bag toward him.

  “No thanks. I’m not big on sweets.”

  “I’m not either, but I’ve got some blood sugar issues. Diabetes.”

  “That a nice briefcase, or whatever you call it.”

  “I like it. My ex-wife gave it to me when I graduated from law school.”

  Then Chee heard Palmer zipping his jacket and watched the passenger lean his head against the headrest. They drove past the intersection for Kayenta, historic hometown of the Wetherill family of traders and explorers, through the little settlement of Tsegi, and over the rest of the route in silence. If Palmer fell asleep, Chee didn’t hear him snoring.

  They got to the Rest Well Diné Lodge in Tuba City about one a.m. Palmer stood at the entrance with a cigarette while Chee went in to start the registration process.

  The round-faced girl at the hotel desk wore her smooth hair cut to fall at her jawline. She had the puffy eyes of the sleep-deprived. Chee told her his name and she checked the computer.

  “Are you here for the Grand Canyon meeting, Sergeant?”

  “That’s right.” He didn’t feel like making small talk. “You should also have a room for Aza Palmer starting tomorrow night.”

  “I don’t see anything for Palmer. We’re nearly full—very unusual for this time of year. A lot of people are interested in what’s going to happen at the canyon.”

  A chime sounded as Palmer came in. He walked up to Chee. The girl said, “I have two rooms for you for tonight and one for an additional four nights under your name, Sergeant.”

  “I hope I won’t be here that long.”

  Palmer said, “Could you put one of those rooms for tonight under a different name?”

  The girl looked up at Chee from the screen. “I guess so, if it’s OK with the sergeant.”

  “Book it under Zoom Harris.”

  She went to the computer.

  “Mr. Harris, you have a reservation starting tomorrow. Do you want me to add tonight to that bill?”

  “Please.”

  Chee looked at the man. “Zoom Harris?”

  “It’s a long story.” Palmer smiled. “Sad, and not very interesting.”

  Chee turned to the girl. “Are these adjoining rooms?”

  “No, sorry. When the person called for the reservation, I told him those were all booked. These two are across the hall from each other. That’s the best we could do.” The girl took plastic cards from a desk drawer. “How many keys do you want?”

  Before Palmer could interject Chee said, “Two for his room. One mine.”

  The girl slipped the white key cards into small sleeves and wrote the room numbers on the outside of each one before she handed them out. She smiled at Chee. “Since you’re a cop, could I ask you a favor?”

  “What can I help you with?”

  “There’s a vehicle in the back lot with a dog that’s been barking all night. Some customers complained. I went out there and the dog is in an old camper van or bus, whatever they call it, parked along the fence. One of those funny old Volkswagens. I checked the books, and whoever owns it isn’t registered here. I’m not sure what to do next.”

  Palmer said, “This must be the night for trouble in parking lots. At least the dog isn’t blowing up anything.”

  Chee thought about suggesting that the complaining customers put pillows over their heads. The hotel could give them earplugs. Or she could call a tow company to remove the vehicle and its critter while he slept. He said, “I’ll check on it for you. Does the hotel take dogs?”

  “Yes, and I’ve got one dog room open.”

  He walked with Palmer to their rooms, down the long, carpeted corridor. The hotel was quiet, not even the blare of late-night television penetrating beyond the guest room doors. A few room service trays sat neglected in the hallway.

  When they found the right rooms, Palmer ran his card through the reader and the green light blinked on. Chee stopped him as he reached for the door. “Let me.” He pushed, and the door opened into stuffy darkness. He felt along the smooth wall for the light switch and flicked it on. He checked the bedroom, bathroom, and closet, found nothing suspicious, and motioned Palmer in.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call Katie in the morning to bring my stuff. Otherwise, I’m going to phone room service and stay here and work until about an hour before the meeting.”

  Chee handed him a business card with his cell phone number and jotted down his room number. “Call me if anything seems odd, threatening, out of the ordinary. Or just come to my room. I’d like the other key to your room, just in case. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Palmer handed him the key card. Chee walked out the side door to his unit to get his overnight bag. He heard the barking and saw the camper. If the girl at the desk hadn’t been so polite, he could have said no, he thought. But now he was committed, so he’d deal with the canine troublemaker next.

  4

  The barking originated in a vintage orange Volkswagen camper van parked sideways at the edge of the fenced hotel lot. The vehicle had California plates, a rusty dent behind the driver’s door, and a Save Wild America bumper sticker. Another read “Earth Day—Love Your Mother” and looked as though it might have come from the first Earth Day. Perhaps tourists, he thought, or protesters in Tuba for the meeting. He hadn’t expected out-of-staters.

  He noticed light escaping through the drawn curtains. The high-pitched barking grew more ferocious as he walked toward the camper door. He knocked. “Officer Jim Chee, Navajo Police.”

  A man’s voice called out. “Go away. Do you know what time it is?”

  “There are some complaints about the dog barking.”

  “What barking?” The dog
continued to bark. “Stop with the harassment already. Find some real crime.” And then the man swore at him.

  Chee had dealt with rude people for most of his career but never got used to it. He felt a flare of anger. One of the basic principles of the Navajo Way was to treat your fellow creatures with respect, and he knew the world would certainly move more smoothly if everyone followed that.

  “Sir, do you have a room at the hotel?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you don’t.” Chee kept his voice level. “The hotel has a vacancy and you can bring the dog in. Otherwise, you need to keep your dog quiet and move the van. This lot is only for hotel guests.”

  “He’ll stop barking once you leave. If you’re really a cop and not just a security goon, go find some bad guys. Like those developers who want to rape the Grand Canyon.”

  Chee was tired. The November cold moved up from the asphalt parking lot through the soles of his boots, through his socks and into his skin.

  “The motel will have your vehicle towed. You’d be smart to move it yourself.”

  The man swore at him again through the closed door.

  The dog kept barking. Chee trotted back into the lobby. “I talked to the dog’s owner, told him he could be towed. He’s difficult.”

  “Thanks anyway.” The girl reached below the counter, opened a drawer, and took out some foil bags. “Here, have some extra coffee. You look like you might need it in the morning.”

  Chee’s room, a copy of Palmer’s, sat on the other side of the hall with a window toward the parking lot. He put the room key cards and the coffee packs on the desk along with his wallet and car keys. He missed Bernie already. He sent her a text: Tuba 2 a.m. Wish you were here.

  He adjusted the thermostat to warm the room, hung his shirts in the little closet, quickly brushed his teeth, and, finally, climbed between the smooth, fresh sheets of the king-sized bed. It seemed like he had just dozed off when a sound awakened him. He reached to the bedside table for his ringing phone. It was seven a.m.