Spider Woman's Daughter (17 page)

He called, “Police. Welfare check. Eleanor, are you okay? Ellie, are you here?”

Bernie glanced up and down the empty concrete walkway, then followed him inside the apartment, stepping over the mail and quietly closing the door.

The hot air smelled stale at first; then a waft of aged garbage drifted toward them. The living room had a black couch, a matching chair, a poster of the Grand Canyon, and a big-screen TV. Except for the mail, the living room and adjoining dining room were relatively neat. Bernie noticed stacks of books on the floor and a drawer in the coffee table pulled open.

She walked down the hall, looked in the open doors. In the bedroom, contents from the oak dresser—lingerie, T-shirts, and other clothes—had been dumped on the double bed. A hardback thriller with a red-and-black cover sat on the nightstand. The closet door stood ajar, the hanging garments pushed to one side. No suitcase. Did Ellie have it with her, wherever she was? The yellow-walled bathroom was in similar disarray. Bernie saw a basket of cosmetics on the counter. A single towel on the rack.

She caught up with Chee in the kitchen.

“It’s been a while since Ellie was here,” he said. “I checked the utility room, too, and the closets. Found no body and nobody home.”

“Ditto,” she said. “The bedroom and the bath are a mess, just like her office. Seems like Ellie made a fast exit. Or she tore the room up looking for something.”

Bernie noticed the drooping plants on the windowsill. She touched the soil in their pots. Bone-dry. “Look at those limp African violets. Poor things. Wonder why she didn’t give them to a neighbor, or to Janelle, before she left?”

Bernie went back to the living room, crouched to go through the envelopes on the floor. “No one has picked up the mail since last Wednesday.”

“I’ll call Cordova, let him know we have another possible suspect in the Leaphorn shooting.”

“How would Ellie get access to the Benally car?” Bernie asked. “And why would she shoot the man who had saved her life?”

“Good questions,” Chee said. “All we need are answers.”

14

A
fter Cordova, Chee called Largo with the news of the missing Eleanor Friedman.

“Chee, be here in Window Rock tomorrow at noon to meet with the feds and the state police,” said Largo. “Talk about where to go from here.”

“Anything new?”

“Not much. The Arizona DPT found a Leonard Nez, brought him in for questioning. The wrong Leonard Nez, fortysomething. Benally’s still quiet about Nez’s whereabouts.” Largo made a little puffing noise into the receiver. “The feds sent somebody out here to ask Jackson some questions about Nez. Same ones we asked.”

Largo chuckled. “They think Louisa might have paid him, Nez, or maybe the two of them in a murder-for-hire scheme.”

He asked Chee to give Bernie a message. “Austin Lee’s ex-wife called. Said she doesn’t see Austin much, but if she does, she will give him the news about Leaphorn. She said to tell your wife that the lieutenant and Lee are clan brothers. Said she was sorry about the lieutenant getting shot.”

“I’ll let Bernie know. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Largo said. “Remind her she’s on leave. Not that it will do any good.”

C
hee drove south on I-25 to the outskirts of Santa Fe, past the quirky shed with the huge sculpted dinosaur and the junction for NM 14, the road to the state penitentiary. The towering cloud formations in the June sky had brought a bit of shade, but no rain. Now they hinted at the possibility of a Technicolor sunset.

Bernie watched the scenery change from the cottonwoods of the Cienega Valley to the volcanic cliffs of La Bajada, the steepest hill between Santa Fe and Albuquerque. Near the summit she glimpsed the ruts of the old road taken by horses and wagons and then by Model Ts in the days before the paved, divided highway stretched so smoothly between Albuquerque and Santa Fe.

“I read in
New Mexico Magazine
that some of those old cars had to chug up this hill backward to make it over the top,” she said. “It took most of the day to get from Santa Fe to Albuquerque. Now it’s an hour.”

“Less if you’re the one driving,” Chee said. He cruised past the turnoff for Cochiti Lake and onward toward Santo Domingo Pueblo. Bernie pulled out the envelope Davis had given her, taking new interest in the material she had just scanned before, searching for answers to the lieutenant’s questions about the EFB appraisal.

Chee’s phone rang in the car charger.

She answered it, switching to speaker.

“Ah . . . hmm. I’d like to talk to Officer Jim Chee.”

“He’s driving at the moment. This is Officer Manuelito. Is there something I can do for you?”

“You’re the one who almost got shot?”

“Who is this?”

“Jackson. You know, Jackson Benally. I thought of another place people might have got to the car.”

“I can hear you,” Chee said. “Hey, Jackson.”

“Mom lets me drive to the ranch where I work on Saturdays and Sundays and when I’m not in school. We have to leave the keys in the ignition in case they have to move the cars when they bring in a big load of hay or livestock or something.” He spoke fast. Nervous. “What if somebody there made a copy of my key? Then they snuck up and stole the car later? Shot that officer.”

Chee shook his head, eyes on the road. “Let me sit with that idea awhile, Jackson. In the meantime, I’m still wondering what happened to Leonard Nez and thinking about that uncle and his ranch. The idea of somebody making a copy of your car key, figuring out the car is at Bashas’, that’s pretty far-fetched, don’t you—”

He stopped when he heard “Shhhh” and saw Bernie’s finger across her lips.

The phone fell silent, too, but Bernie noticed that it still had bars. Jackson must be thinking.

“What’s the name of this ranch where you work?” she asked.

“The Double X. Near Cortez,” the boy said. “You know where that is?”

“I know where it is. Give me the phone number.”

Jackson rattled off the number from memory, and Bernie jotted it down. A good sign. Maybe he was telling the truth.

“What about Nez?” she said.

“Gosh, I can barely hear you,” Jackson said. “Your signal is getting—” And then he hung up.

Bernie said, “I think we should give the ranch a call, see if Jackson’s story checks out.”

“Go ahead,” Chee said. “Why don’t you just take charge? I’ll keep looking through files, tracking down dead ends, spinning my wheels. Your new pal at the FBI would rather work with you anyway.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have shushed you. I thought Jackson might come up with something important if you pretended to be interested.”

“That ruffled my feathers.”

She stared out the window, watched the lava-formed landscape stretch to the blue rim of mountains to the west, thinking about Ellie who’d disappeared and her involvement in all this. Thinking about her promise to Leaphorn and how far she was from fulfilling it.

“You’re quiet,” Chee said.

“I’m frustrated. Wrapping up this appraisal stuff for the lieutenant should have been as easy as one phone call to EFB. Instead, we get another puzzle.”

Chee waited. “What else?”

Bernie sighed. “I don’t like the way the lieutenant looks in that hospital bed. He’s not getting any better. Seeing him that way also makes me realize I need to spend more time with Mama. And I’m worried about Darleen. I tried to call her a couple times today. No answer.”

She paused so long, it seemed she was done. Then she said, “Mostly, though, it’s the case. Our leads vanish or turn into complications when we examine them twice. It’s so disappointing. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t stop thinking about it, wondering what we’ve missed.”

She reached over and put her hand on his leg, felt the warmth of his body through the denim of his jeans. “And I’m wondering if whoever shot the lieutenant might try to kill you, or Largo, or someone else we work with next. What if the feds are wrong, and the shooter is a crazed cop hater?”

Chee took one hand off the steering wheel and put it around her shoulders. She scooted closer to him, glad that the truck had a bench seat. “You have to let it go, honey,” he said. “We’re doing the best we can.”

“Then there’s you,” she said. “There’s us. Not enough time for that, either. If we didn’t work together, we’d hardly see each other.”

“You’re right,” he said. “When we’re done with this, let’s take a little trip up to Monument Valley. We can stay with my relatives up there. Hike around. Not think about work for a day or two.”

They passed the gaudy lights of Casino Hollywood, another successful Indian attempt to even the score with Spanish and Anglo usurpers and their descendants. At Bernalillo, Chee turned northwest onto US 550 toward Zia Pueblo. After about twenty minutes, he put on the turn signal, slowed, and moved toward the shoulder.

“Something wrong?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Getting sleepy? Want me to drive?”

He shut off the engine. Clicked his seat belt free, then reached over to release hers, too. He climbed out and walked around to open her door. He reached for her hand.

“Mrs. Chee, would you stand here with me and savor the moment?”

The sky was majestic. The Sandia Mountains rose like a rugged blue monolith to the east, glowing in the reflected oranges, vivid reds, and brilliant sunflower hues of the sunset. He put his arm around her as they watched the light change from magenta to smoky rose and dissolve into the soft gray of summer predarkness. “I worry about you,” he said. “The happy girl I married has too much to do. Too many burdens.”

She snuggled in closer to him. “Sunday night, when you came home so late, I told myself everything was fine. But still. And after what happened to Leaphorn . . .”

“Life goes too fast,” he said. “We don’t want to live like crazy Santa Fe people.”

She laughed. “Yeah. We want to live like crazy Shiprock Navajos.”

As he held her, she noticed the gentle flirting light of evening’s first star. So’ Tsoh, “Big Star.” Venus, the goddess of love.

Bernie drove through the twilight into Cuba, a speck of a town known for its restaurant, El Bruno’s, which served some of the best New Mexican food in Sandoval County. They both ordered enchiladas, Bernie’s cheese with green chile and Chee’s with roast beef and Christmas chile—red and green. They had stopped here a few times with the lieutenant after a long day of meetings in Albuquerque. Leaphorn always had a burger, Bernie remembered, with no cheese or onion, and followed up with a piece of pie topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

They walked back to the truck, a nearly full rising moon lighting their way.

“How far is it from here to Chaco Canyon?” Bernie asked. “I’d like to see the place where those darn pots came from. And since you don’t have to be at work early . . .” She let the sentence hang.

“It’s a quick fifty miles to the turnoff, then another slow twenty to the ruins.”

“Do you have camping gear in here?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Two sleeping bags. Even a sack of trail mix we can have for breakfast.”

“Let’s spend the night at Chaco. Get up early, see some of the park before we have to go to work.”

Bernie drove the paved highway to Nageezi. Driving NM 550 after dark used to scare her, with its deadly combination of big trucks, long distances, and occasional random crossroads. The alcoholism that plagues Indian country added to the lethal mix, along with sleepy, inattentive drivers. Then the New Mexico Highway Department widened the road and added rumble ridges to startle drivers who drifted onto the shoulder. Bernie passed trucks hauling cattle, semis on their way west, and a scattering of pickups, station wagons, and SUVs. She made a left when she saw the sign for Chaco Canyon National Historic Site, driving first on pavement and, when it ended, on hard-packed dirt that became washboard and sand. Not another car in sight.

Chee said, “I haven’t been here since the lieutenant and I handled that case where Ellie disappeared the first time. She worked here.”

Bernie nodded. “That the time you rented a helicopter? Did you just put it on your credit card?”

Chee laughed. “That’s a long story. Actually, there were two helicopters. The guy who hurt Ellie was a pilot as well as an archaeologist. He had been digging in the graves of the old ones, and Ellie found out. It was a fascinating case. Leaphorn never talked to me about how he solved it. Except to say he didn’t understand the white culture’s fixation on revenge, getting even.”

“Wasn’t that right after Emma died?” Bernie always wished she’d had a chance to meet Leaphorn’s wife.

“Yes,” Chee said. “He put in for retirement after that, but changed his mind. I think finding Ellie gave him a reason to stay with police work for a few more years.”

“Are you surprised he and Louisa haven’t gotten married?”

“I asked him about that once.” Chee chuckled. “He told me he’d proposed to her and she turned him down. She said she’d already been married and it didn’t agree with her.”

Bernie leaned toward the windshield. “I think I saw something big out there.”

“Yeah,” Chee said. “I got a glimpse of it, too.”

“Makes me edgy,” Bernie said. She had grown up with stories of skinwalkers, the legendary Navajo shape shifters who assumed various animal forms and roamed in the darkness looking for and causing trouble. She vividly recalled the hair-raising tales her grandmother told of the evil they created. The unexpected motion on this still, moon-filled night made her feel like a nervous five-year-old.

“Elk have come back to this area,” Chee said. “Maybe some cougar or even a Mexican gray wolf is following them.”

“I just hope all critters stay out of the road.”

“Oh, no,” Chee said. “What about the cat? We won’t be home to feed her.”

“You fed her this morning,” she said. “She had a full bowl of water, too. You can feed her first thing when we get home.”

“Yeah, I know. But still. Poor little thing.”

Bernie kept the truck at a brisk forty-five miles an hour to smooth out the washboards. Around the next curve the headlights bounced off the red coats of three lean Herefords, a small herd in the center of the road. She took her foot off the gas and with both hands on the wheel tapped the brake. She steered to the right, and the lights hit a fourth cow, this one walking toward its companions, sauntering toward the spot the truck would have hit if Bernie had not corrected again, moving farther to the right. She felt a front tire against the soft sand at the edge of the road. The cows looked up and took an interest in the approaching truck.

Bernie thought: Truck, don’t roll. Cow, stand still, be calm. All cows, be calm.

She steered farther off the clay washboard, the tires sinking into the deep ridge of sand at the edge of the hard pack. The truck jolted and slowed, and then the back tires found the solid surface below. She gave it a bit of gas and brought it back to the road.

She heard Chee exhale. The headlights flashed on a road sign, a yellow triangle with a black drawing of a cow.

“Thank goodness that sign is there,” he said. “Good driving. Let me take it awhile.”

She stopped the truck, and they both climbed out. Even though the temperature had probably reached the nineties here during the day, the night air felt cool, pleasant, perfect against her sweaty back. Overhead, despite the brightness of the moon, she could see hundreds of stars. Thousands
.
Argo Navis, Coyote Star in the southern sky, glittering with a whisper of red and orange. The North Star, or Central Fire, Nahookos Baka’. The music of crickets and other creatures, sounds she didn’t recognize, animated the evening.