Rock with Wings

In memory of my mother, Marie. She gave me the title for this book . . .
And in memory of Cindy Bellinger. She gave me simple, sage advice
on how to finish ROCK WITH WINGS: Keep writing!

Officer Bernadette Manuelito had been sitting in her unit by the side of the road for an hour, watching the last of the twilight fade and the pinpoints of stars appear in the blue-gray sky. In that time she had seen two vehicles, both with the classic yellow-and-red New Mexico plates with the Zia symbol in the center. The gray Subaru advanced at close to the speed limit, with no signs of driver impairment. The old green Buick cruised along more leisurely, with the windows rolled down and country music flowing into the night air. She knew the car and the driver and knew he was headed home after a long shift at the Four Corners Power Plant. If he’d had a beer or two, his driving didn’t show it.

After that burst of activity, things slowed down.

Bernie climbed out of her unit to stretch her legs, enjoying the scents of summer in the cooling air. This sort of assignment, if she was lucky, involved hours of monotony punctuated by a bit of routine traffic work. If she wasn’t lucky, violence or the threat of it shattered the boredom. The challenge, and the secret to survival, was to stay alert without getting paranoid.

Over the police radio she learned that sheriff’s deputies, New
Mexico State Police, and BIA officers also assigned to help with this drug intercept operation were snacking, gazing at the moon, and shooting the breeze. Those fortunate enough to be waiting where their cell phones worked might be chatting with friends or sending texts.

The drug bust was a bust so far, but the night was still young.

Bernie climbed back into her Ford SUV and was listening to an audiobook with her purple earbuds when she saw headlights approaching. The big silver car with a white Arizona plate flashed toward her, speeding past her through the junction. Pulling onto the pavement behind it, she clocked the car at fifteen miles over the speed limit—a lot for this twisting, narrow road. She radioed dispatch with her location and the plate number, then switched on her light bar. After about two minutes, she saw the flash of brake lights in front of her.

Good.

Traffic stops made her nervous, especially at night. After a certain hour, she knew the odds that the driver was drunk or on drugs increased. This driver didn’t seem intoxicated, though. At least, nothing she’d seen so far made her suspect it.

The car ahead—a Chevy Malibu, she could see now—slowed and pulled over at a wide spot on the shoulder. Bernie slipped in behind it, leaving her light bar and headlights on to warn oncoming motorists. She radioed in again with her location. Before she got out to talk to the driver, she turned on the dash cam switch. The feds stressed that every possible arrest had to be recorded.

The machine stayed dormant. Bernie turned it off, and then clicked it again. This time, thankfully, the green record light blinked. She clipped on the microphone and reached for her flashlight.

As she walked toward the Chevy, she could see one shape in the front seat, illuminated by her headlights. There was no one in
the back. The driver lowered the window, and she felt a wave of chilled air flow past her from inside the car. Bernie shone the flashlight onto his face. His eyes looked normal. His hands were on the steering wheel. Not a Navajo, he was in his thirties, clean-shaven, wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a black baseball cap with a wolf logo. She moved the light past him for a quick scan of the front seat. No visible weapons, only work gloves, sunglasses, and a dark leather case that looked like it might hold a camera or binoculars. Nothing suspicious.

“Sir, please turn off the engine. No reason to waste the gas. May I have your license, registration, and proof of insurance?”

He killed the engine, squirmed a bit to reach into his back pocket, and pulled out a brown leather wallet. He handed her an Arizona driver’s license with a photo that matched his appearance. His hand stayed steady. So far, so good.

She waited for him to reach for the glove box, the place most people kept the other documents she needed, but he sat staring straight ahead. She read the name on the license.

“Mr. Miller, would you show me the car’s registration and proof of insurance?”

Miller didn’t respond. Beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the veins on the back of his hands stood out. Both her training and her intuition told Bernie to proceed with care.

She spoke louder. “Mr. Miller, my camera here is recording our conversation. We do that for our mutual protection. Have you consumed any alcohol or drugs today?”

“No. No, ma’am.”

“Sir, I need to see the car’s registration and proof of insurance.”

“The papers are, um, in the glove box. But so you’ll know, I have a gun in there too.”

His breath didn’t carry the smell of beer or liquor. He shifted
away from her, leaning toward the glove box and reaching with his right hand.

“Don’t.” Bernie raised her voice. Telling, not asking. “Sir, roll down the window on the passenger side.”

He pushed a button, and the window lowered.

“Do you have any weapons on you? Another gun, a knife, anything like that?”

“No.”

“Please get out of the car and walk around with me so we can get the gun and the papers I asked for.”

She heard the click of his seat belt releasing. The interior light came on when he opened the car door. He was about five foot six, with a slight build, though a bit heavier than the 150 pounds stated on his license. He wore a tan long-sleeved shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots.

The man walked ahead of her around the front of the car to the passenger side, the light from her headlights helping them negotiate the rough dirt on the shoulder. He moved without any swaying or wobbling. No obvious signs of impairment.

“Is the glove box locked?”

“No.”

“I’m going to open it and remove the gun.” She looked at him. “Is it loaded?”

“Of course. Why else—” He didn’t finish the sentence.

She reached in and felt the catch, clicked the box open. A light flickered on, and she saw a dark green plastic case, the kind that might have an owner’s manual packed inside. The gun lay next to it. She removed it and left the compartment door open.

“Mr. Miller, it is illegal to have a loaded gun in a vehicle on the Navajo reservation.”

He shrugged and said nothing.

“Now I need you to get the papers I asked for.”

He reached for the case, opened it, and handed her the insurance card and registration.

“Please sit back in the car for a moment.”

She could see well enough in the headlights to tell that Miller’s name was on the documents, and his insurance was valid. She went to her unit and called in the updated information. Because of the drug bust party, the system was operating at maximum efficiency. She waited only briefly to discover Miller had no outstanding warrants. The Chevy was registered to him, too. Good, she thought. Just a guy speeding on a usually empty road on a night when a cop happened to spot him.

But his silence and his nervousness bothered her.

Bernie walked back to the sedan. If things went as she expected, she would return the gun with a stern warning about speeding. Or, maybe, a speeding ticket. Depended on his attitude.

She handed him the car papers and his license.

“What business are you in, Mr. Miller?”

“Construction.” He was chewing his lower lip, and perspiration glistened on his pale skin. The night was warm, but not hot. Unless he had a medical problem, something other than the ambient temperature was making him sweat.

“What do you build?”

“Oh, whatever.”

“You have a job out here?” Bernie wanted to hear him talk a bit more, make sure he wasn’t impaired.

“Yeah.” The fingers of his right hand tapped on the steering wheel.

When he didn’t elaborate, she tried something different. “Where is it that you live?”

“Oh, outside of Flagstaff.”

“Flag, huh? Do you like it?” Flagstaff was high, almost seven thousand feet, a railroad town on the edge of the Colorado Plateau,
cold in the winter. The best thing about the town was its views of the San Francisco Peaks, Dook’o’oslííd, home of some of the Holy People: Talking God, White Corn Boy, and Yellow Corn Girl. The Hopi held the peaks sacred too, as the dwelling place of their kachinas from July until the winter solstice.

“It’s quiet, you know? They have NAU there—that’s Northern Arizona University—lots of bike trails, and Lowell Observatory. The Grand Canyon is practically next door. Some nice bars. A good brew pub. My dog and I walk about anywhere without getting hassled.”

He kept talking now, telling her about his dog, referring to it with the fondness of someone discussing his child. He spoke too fast, even for a white man. Was his nervousness a normal reaction to being stopped at night? Or was he high on something?

When he finally fell silent, she asked, “Why are you in such a hurry tonight?”

“Ah, no reason in particular, I guess. No, ma’am. I wasn’t paying attention. You know how that is? You look down at the speedometer, and you surprise yourself.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Oh, to Gallup to spend the night. Then home tomorrow.”

Gallup was at the south end of 491 in New Mexico. Shiprock anchored it on the north. “You have friends out that way?”

“Um, no. I like the Comfort Suites, you know, on the east side of town. They take dogs when my pooch is with me.” He started tapping the steering wheel again.

“And where did you come from this morning?”

“I had a, um, a meeting in Albuquerque.”

“Since you’re in a hurry, why are you here on 491 instead of the Interstate?” Avoiding the state police, FBI, and a drug arrest was the obvious reason, even though he wasn’t the stereotype to be arrested for drugs. He didn’t have enough bling. Not enough bluster in his attitude.

She waited. Miller didn’t let the silence hang for long.

“Oh, I love the desert. It’s not against the law to drive around at night. It was a free country, last I heard.” He wiped the sweat off his face with his palm, took off his cap, ran his fingers through his hair. Put it on again.

“You seem nervous.” She kept her voice neutral. “Why is that? Drugs, sir? Maybe a prescription you’re taking or something?”

Miller removed his glasses, looked at them, rubbed the bridge of his nose. Pursed his lips and exhaled. “Too much coffee, maybe. Maybe that and I’m just, well, excited about being out here, I guess. And getting stopped by the police? That’s enough to make anyone sweat a little.”

“Mr. Miller, do you have something in this car that you shouldn’t have? Something like amphetamines, cocaine. Counterfeit money. Fake IDs, stolen credit cards, illegal weapons, explosives. Liquor? You know that’s illegal on the Navajo Nation.” She smiled at him. “If you do, you should tell me about it now, before I find something that will get you in a huge amount of trouble.”

He was thinking about it, she could tell.

“I mentioned the gun.” Miller’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Right, you did. That was smart.”

“I didn’t realize it was illegal out here.” He took his hands off the steering wheel and wiped them on his shorts, then put them back.

“Yes, that’s what you said. I am asking you if you have anything else in the car that is making you nervous. Something you want to tell me about now before I find it.”

He wrinkled his brow. “Don’t you need a search warrant to look in the car?”

“I’m only asking, sir. Based on your behavior, I have reasonable cause to search the car for contraband. I can get a warrant. If I do that, we will have to wait here for the judge to be woken up and to fax it to my office in Shiprock, and then they will radio me. That
process takes time, and you said you were in a hurry. If you don’t have any contraband, it would be easier on both of us if you opened the trunk for me to take a look. Does it have a release down there under the dashboard?”

“Can’t we work this out between the two of us? You seem to be a reasonable gal—uh, person. Like you said, arresting me would be a big hassle for both of us.”

She hadn’t said that, but she let his comment linger on the summer air. The increasing light from the rising moon made it easier to observe him. His left eye was twitching.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you let me drive out of here. Give me a speeding ticket if you need to. You’ll never see me again, and this can stay between us.”

“A hundred?” Now she had him for speeding, and for attempting to bribe a police officer.

“Five, five hundred. That’s all I have on me. I don’t want any more trouble.”

“Too late.” Bernie put steel into her voice. “Open the trunk now, sir.”

Miller looked like he might throw up. He pushed a button. She heard the catch unlock and saw a line of light appear between the trunk lid and the car’s body as the lid sprang upward a quarter inch. She walked to the back of the sedan and pushed the lid up. The gleam of the trunk light caught the shaft of a rifle he’d lied about, a shovel, and two shallow cardboard boxes filled with dirt. She aimed her flashlight inside the trunk and then on the boxes. She played the beam around but discovered nothing more, at least on the surface. No obvious contraband. But smugglers were getting smarter. Maybe the car had a hidden compartment. Something in the trunk, in or under those boxes, or hidden in the sedan must be worth a lot more than $500.

Miller turned his head out of the window toward her. “How did you know about this?”

She was tempted to say,
Know about what?
But instead she waited to see what Miller would do next.

“You can have the rifle, too. It’s a good weapon. I’ve got the five bills in my wallet. I can be off the rez, out of New Mexico. Gone, and you’ll never see me again. No paperwork for you. We keep this between us.”

“Sir, please step out of the car.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do it now.”

She waited for him to comply, aware of the gun at her side.

“I am arresting you for attempting to bribe a police officer. I am going to handcuff you now for my safety.” She sucked in a deep breath of relief when he didn’t resist.