Rock with Wings Page 6

  Chee looked at the sand-cast silver. “That is beautiful.”

  “I’d like to get something like this for my daughter.”

  “If you don’t find what you like out here, I have a relative who’s a jeweler, lives in Gallup. He might be able to come up with a copy for you.”

  The woman pulled a wallet from her pocket and gave him a business card. “That would be wonderful. He can use this e-mail.”

  Out of habit, Chee made a note of the husband’s name and the license number of their truck on the back of her card.

  “I hope you find the woman,” Gisela said. “I wouldn’t want to be lost out here.”

  Chee headed the direction the woman had indicated. Unless Melissa had already returned to the movie camp, he felt confident that he’d find her, help her if she were hurt, give her a lecture if she wasn’t.

  He heard faint music long before he saw the red car. When he got closer, he recognized the sound as jazz, a saxophone playing something vaguely familiar. He followed the beat to a Chevy parked on the road at the top of the ridge and stopped in front of it. The music was full bore, loud enough to scare the coyotes. Getting out of his unit, he reached through the open window, pulled the key from the ignition, and put it in his pocket. The music died.

  “Melissa?” he called. “Melissa Goldfarb? I’m Navajo Police. Your friends are worried about you.” If she could hear the music, he figured she could hear him.

  Silence.

  He shone his light on the road, noticing other tire tracks and something white. He walked over to it. A poker chip, standing on end like a wheel. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.

  He went back to the red car and found footprints leading away from the driver’s side up a steep, sandy hill, and similar prints coming back to it and heading away again. The footprints were smaller than the ones he made and had a concentric circle design on the soles. He followed the tracks, calling out, “Melissa!” He listened, but there was no response.

  The moon was rising, and after about fifteen minutes of slogging through the sand, he saw a figure silhouetted in its light at the top of the rise. A person and a tripod.

  “Melissa!”

  The figure turned toward him, tensed. “Who’s there?”

  “Sergeant Jim Chee, Navajo Police.”

  “I have a gun,” the voice called back. “You have ID?”

  He knew from the voice he’d found a woman. “I’ll shine the flashlight on it, but you won’t be able to see it from way up there. Are you Melissa?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your boss called the police station, and they sent me to look for you. Are you OK?”

  She laughed. “So that’s what this is about. You scared me half to death. I’m better than OK. I’m fabulous. Come up here, Sergeant Jim Chee. Look at this view. Unbelievable.”

  He climbed up the sand slope, his smooth-soled boots slipping a little. He was breathing harder by the time he reached the ridge and had worked off some of his irritation at being ordered to do something by a civilian he’d come to help.

  “What do you think?”

  The vista across the valley, lit by the rising moon, was stunning. The moonglow subdued the colors, tamed them. The monuments looked ethereal, like enormous petrified creatures frozen in time on a landscape huge enough to accommodate them.

  “I’m safer here than in LA, don’t you agree?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “I’ve got great shots of the sunset, and now the moonrise with these formations.”

  “I think you’re lucky to have people concerned about you. You need to get back to them.” He sounded stricter and more official than he meant to.

  “Whatever. I’m done anyway. I can’t believe they actually called the police.” She removed the camera from the tripod, stowed it in the pack on the sand next to her, and took out a water bottle.

  “Want a sip?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Hey, what happened to my music?”

  “I turned it off.”

  He would have guessed that she was a few years under thirty. She looked more like a long-distance runner than an accountant. Maybe lugging around camera equipment kept her in shape.

  Melissa picked up a backpack and hoisted it onto her shoulders. She grabbed the water bottle and a walking stick, and then reached for the tripod.

  “I’ll take that,” Chee said.

  “Thanks.”

  He led the way back, a different, more direct, and steeper route. They were about halfway to their vehicles when he heard a grunt behind him and then some swearing. He turned. Melissa lay sprawled in the sand, facedown.

  He went to help. “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.” She pushed herself onto her side and then sat up. “Something tripped me. I dropped my water bottle and my walking stick back there somewhere. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”

  He turned on his flashlight to look for the equipment and found why she had tripped. Out here in the empty middle of Monument Valley, somebody had carefully outlined a rectangular shape with a line of rocks, perfect for stumbling over in the dark.

  It looked remarkably like a gravesite.

  5

  After Chee left, Bernie realized that she hadn’t eaten dinner, and that her burger was headed back to Monument Valley. She coaxed Mama into sharing some canned soup. As usual under Darleen’s command, it looked as if a dust devil had roared through the kitchen.

  Finally she helped Mama to bed. Her mother seemed weaker than the last time she had visited. Bernie tried, with partial success, to convince herself that it was due to recent stress and Darleen’s irresponsibility.

  She thought about sleeping in Darleen’s bed, but its tangled sheets, the bedroom’s clutter, and the fragrance of unwashed clothes that assaulted her when she opened the door inspired a new plan. She found a clean sheet in the closet and appropriated the soft blue Pendleton blanket that lived on the back of Mama’s chair. She’d need it in the early morning, when the house would be cool.

  Bernie’s Navajo name meant Laughing Girl, but she didn’t see much to laugh about tonight. Chee had worked a minor miracle in persuading Mama to invite Bernie to stay, but Sister had spoiled what was left of their vacation.

  Mama was too thin . . . but she’d always been thin. And she was weak, really too unsteady to be here alone, and too stubborn to acknowledge that she could use a bit of help.

  Bernie had told Mama that Darleen had stayed in Farmington, that she was OK. It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth, and Mama knew it. Bernie had never been a good liar.

  “Did that girl get arrested?” Mama asked.

  Bernie simply said yes, and Mama didn’t pursue the subject. They hadn’t mentioned Darleen again.

  Bernie made a nest for herself on the couch. She took off her shoes and socks, noticing the gritty floor against her bare feet. How tough could it be for her sister to sweep once in a while? She added house cleaning to her mental list of tasks for tomorrow. She’d go to the grocery to restock the pantry and cook something Mama liked, with enough to freeze for later.

  Then it dawned on her that her Toyota was back in Shiprock.

  She’d seen Darleen’s car outside. If she were lucky, her sister had placed an extra key in the drawer in the kitchen, as Bernie had requested. She put her socks back on, got up, and rummaged in the drawer with no success.

  Bernie went back to the couch and took her socks off again and curled up in her snug little bed. She remembered that she hadn’t called Largo to inquire about the drug car, but her phone was in her backpack in the kitchen, and it was too late to reach him now anyway.

  Usually Bernie slept through the night without interruption, dozing on despite the racket of summer thunderstorms, nagging problems at work, or complications with her mother, her sister, or Chee. But tonight she lay awake, restless. She tried to focus on her breathing and the stress-reduction techniques she’d learned in police training. Instead of getting sleepy, however, her brain d
rifted to recent events, replaying them like unwanted stimulants.

  The Lieutenant, her mentor, healing from the bullet to his brain. She’d tell him about the oddly nervous man with the boxes of dirt when she saw him next. He liked interesting cases. She pictured the way he’d smiled at her, for the first time after his injury, when she’d seen him last week. That thought brought her peace.

  She must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes again, dim predawn light filled the room. She checked on Mama, who seemed not to have moved an inch. She considered a run, but didn’t want to leave her mother alone. Instead she went outside and stood quietly, welcoming the new day. Surely it would be easier than the one that had passed.

  When she pulled her phone from her backpack to check the time, she noticed two things. A text from her boss: Call re scheduling. And nothing from Chee.

  She called Largo at the office, figuring she’d leave a message. But he was in.

  “Manuelito, don’t you have anything better to do on your vacation? Ever hear of sleeping in?”

  “I saw your text. We had a situation with Mama, and I had to come back.” Before he could ask, she added, “I think she’s OK. She had a restful night.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “What’s new with Miller? Do you know where he hid the drugs?”

  “Before I get to that, would you like an update on your sister?”

  Bad news travels fast, she thought. “I guess. Sure.”

  “She’ll be released sometime today.”

  “Do you know what she did?”

  “Not exactly. She got drunk and got rowdy.” Largo gave her the name of the arresting San Juan County sheriff’s deputy. “He can tell you.”

  “And what about Miller?”

  “No news so far.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I wasn’t wrong about him. Why would an innocent guy offer me five hundred to give him a speeding ticket?”

  “The dogs didn’t find any drugs. The feds are going over the car tomorrow. Chill out, Manuelito. I need to talk to you about something else.”

  Bernie fought back her disappointment and listened as Largo went on about the challenges of scheduling. He stopped without making the ask.

  “If Sister gets home tonight, I could take a shift tomorrow.”

  “I’ll plan on that, unless you say otherwise.”

  She put the unwashed dishes Sister had left in the sink, added soapy water, and told herself to cheer up. As she started breakfast, she heard Mama calling for her.

  Her mother was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Bring me the walking machine.”

  Bernie pushed the walker to her. “May I help you up?”

  “That’s what this thing is for.” Mama hoisted herself to standing, took a moment to find her balance, and then moved slowly toward the bathroom. Bernie walked beside her.

  “There are things we need to speak of. But first, we have our coffee.”

  Bernie knew the code. Her mother had advice for her, probably another lecture on her role in keeping Darleen out of trouble. But if Mama was still angry with her, she couldn’t read the signs. Perhaps her irritation had switched to Darleen.

  Bernie wiped off the table so they would have a clean place to eat. She poured Mama her coffee and found some raisins to add to the oatmeal, along with sugar and cinnamon. No milk, so they did without. Somehow, the oatmeal with the raisins made her think of the boxes of dirt sprinkled with rocks. At least she had Miller on tape. The recording proved that something was up with him and justified her traffic stop.

  Mama complimented Bernie on her cooking, but only ate a few bites. “Save the rest for me for lunch.”

  “No, ma’am. If I can find the key to Darleen’s car, we’ll get some groceries and I’ll treat you to lunch in Shiprock.”

  Mama nodded, and then reached across the table and put her hand on top of Bernie’s.

  “My daughter, I have been thinking about your friend, the one who got shot.”

  Bernie knew she meant Leaphorn. The statement caught her off guard.

  Mama put her hand on her chest, over her heart. “When a bad thing happens, it leaves a bruise here.”

  Bernie set her spoon down. The incident had emblazoned itself in her mind. She had pulled her weapon for the first time since she’d been an officer. She would have killed the perpetrator if she could have. And if she had acted more quickly, she might have intervened before the shooter hurt her mentor. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “I understand. I am happy you are here, my daughter. We will laugh together. We will cook today.”

  Bernie felt relief roll along her spine like a warm breeze. Mama didn’t have a lecture for her this morning. “What shall we make?”

  “Atoo’. The meat came already from Mrs. Darkwater’s nephew. Potatoes, onions in the drawer there.”

  Mutton stew, and no one made it like Mama. It took time, but it was worth it. And, Bernie thought, cooking would keep her from dark thoughts and obsessing about Miller.

  “We need corn, maybe some squash.” Mama said. “In the old days, I had it from the garden. Now we have to go to the store.”

  “We might have to make do with what we have here. I looked where I asked Darleen to put the extra car key, and I couldn’t find it. She might have one of those magnetic key cases on her car, I don’t know.”

  A cloth pouch hung like a saddlebag from Mama’s walker. She reached into it and pulled out a pink, sparkling heart—Sister’s key ring.

  “She gives me these in case she’s drinking. She’s a good girl.”

  Bernie hadn’t driven Darleen’s car for so long that she’d forgotten its idiosyncrasies. First, she figured out how to unhook the wire that kept the trunk closed so she could lift Mama’s walker inside and then refasten it to keep the lid from bouncing open as she drove. She helped Mama with her seat belt, then realized she couldn’t open the driver’s door.

  “Put your arm through the window. You have to do it from the inside.” That explained why the car was so dusty. If Darleen rolled up the window, she had to climb in the passenger door and scoot over to drive.

  Then the car wouldn’t start.

  “Push on the floor.” Mama demonstrated.

  Yes, Bernie remembered, pump the accelerator a few times to get the gas moving so the ignition could catch.

  She looked at the fuel gauge. Full? Then she remembered that it didn’t work.

  She drove holding her breath, hoping there was enough gasoline to make it the ten miles to the gas station and convenience store at the intersection of the Toadlena road and the four-lane highway, NM 491.

  “What’s that up there?” Mama said.

  A tan creature was moving from the road into the empty field beside it. “I think it’s a dog.” Stray dogs were a long-standing problem on the reservation.

  “Glad it’s not a coyote.” Coyotes in your path meant bad luck. If a person couldn’t turn around or go a different route, a special prayer helped keep evil away.

  The dog loped along the road’s shoulder, then back onto the asphalt, then off again. Not exactly trotting—more like staggering. The canine version of a drunk.

  Bernie slowed down, watching it. One summer when she was a girl, she’d encountered a pack of dogs, and one of them had bitten her before her uncle scared them off. Ever since, most dogs, especially big ones, made her nervous. The animal trotted away from the highway lopsidedly and lay down in the weeds. Maybe distemper, she thought. Or maybe a car had hit it, and that was why it walked funny.

  Parking beneath the overhang at the gas pumps, she pulled out her cell phone to call about the dog, but the battery was dead. “I’ll be right back. Would you like something?”

  “Too expensive.”

  Inside the store, Cathleen stood at the cash register. Bernie gave her $20 for gas and asked if she could use the phone.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t the radio in your car work?”

/>   “I’m off today. I need to tell animal control about that dog.”

  “There’s more than a few of ’em around here.”

  “The tan one. He’s walking funny. I think he’s sick.”

  Cathleen turned serious. “We found two dead ones out there.” She pointed to the back of the store. “Not shot or nothin’. Must be a dog flu.”

  Sandra, the Shiprock station’s dispatcher, receptionist, and go-to girl, answered the phone. “I heard you were spending the day with your mom. What’s up?”

  Bernie explained about the dog.

  “I’ll let the guys know.” Animal control had an overwhelming job. Lack of money and access to clinics for spaying and neutering, combined with the practice of leaving unwanted animals along the highway to fend for themselves, had created a bad and long-standing problem for people with livestock.

  After filling the tank and making a note of the odometer reading for Darleen, Bernie put air in the tires. Darleen didn’t have a tire gauge in the car—if she had one at all—so Bernie estimated the pressure, hoping she got it right. Heat and overinflated old tires led to blowouts.

  It was a typical June morning on the Colorado Plateau: clear, warm, with a few clouds beginning to form in the brilliant sky. This time of year—Ya’iishjaatsoh, according to the Navajo way of calculating the seasons—brought the hottest weather, broken only by the longed-for arrival of summer rains.

  The trip to the grocery took longer than expected. Mama insisted on pushing her walker down every row at the store, examining the merchandise and declaring most of it too pricey.

  “Does Sister bring you to the market with her?”

  “No. She goes after her class.”

  “What class?”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Bernie had encouraged Darleen to get her GED. Maybe Sister had listened to something she said after all. If, in fact, Darleen actually had enrolled in something. Bernie pushed the critical thought away and focused on filling the cart.

  After shopping, they drove to Bernie’s trailer for her stew pan, and for her mother’s bathroom break. Mama paused outside to study the loom Chee had built. “Cheeseburger did a good job.”