Rock with Wings (4 page)

“My wife would like to figure out how to best help her sister. She would enjoy your company. Seeing how strong you are would lighten her heart, help her return to
hozho
.”
Hozho
, harmony, contentment with the inevitable—a central tenet of the Navajo way. “I believe if you asked her to spend some time here at your house, she would say yes.”

He studied Mama’s face for a reaction. Discerned none. Continued.

“Some people say that it is a good thing for daughters to be with their mothers so they can learn from them. They say it doesn’t matter if the daughter thinks she is already a grown woman, she can still benefit from her mother’s wisdom.”

The wisp of a cloud drifted away, and the moonlight brightened. The fragrance of coffee wafted out onto the porch.

Chee stood. “May I bring you some coffee?”

Mama reached to the walker for support and rose gingerly from the chair. “My daughter knows how to make good coffee. I want to go in to sit with her. And you come in, too.”

Chee held the door as Mama moved inside and pushed into the kitchen with measured steps. She eased herself into her regular chair. Bernie poured coffee for her and brought it to the table, along with the sugar bowl and a spoon. She poured a second cup and handed it to Chee.

He took the mug by the handle. “I’m going back out to the porch to make some calls about my sister-in-law. I’ll tell you what I find out.”

After he left, Bernie took her regular seat and waited. Mama looked at the coffee in her cup, tried a sip, and added more sugar. She put the cup down and pulled herself a little taller in the chair. “Elder daughter, I have been thinking things over. I would like you to stay so we can decide how to help your sister. It would make my heart happy to be with you.”

Bernie was glad that her mother considered it rude to look someone in the eye. She quickly brushed away her tears. “I will be happy to do that, Mama. We will figure things out together.”

Suddenly, the night seemed sweeter.

Chee had good connections and a bit of luck. After a few calls he discovered that Darleen was in the San Juan County Detention Center, arrested for disorderly conduct and placed under protective custody because she was drunk. He was glad he’d found her, glad that she wasn’t in the hospital or dead, glad that she hadn’t been arrested for DWI. After decades of highway tragedies, New Mexico’s legislature had made the state one of the nation’s toughest places for drunken driving. He told Bernie privately, stressing the good news—Darleen was safe. His wife would decide when and what to tell Mama.

After that, he called Paul and told him Bernie had to help Mama, but he would be back tonight to do whatever needed doing. Chee appreciated the fact that his clan brother didn’t ask why Chee hadn’t been invited to stay, or when Bernie would return.

“If we can’t make the People Mover start,” Paul said, “we could use your truck and my truck. You could follow me. Maybe a couple of them won’t mind sitting in the back, you know? You and I used to do it when you came to visit.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get your baby going.” Chee figured that even
if they didn’t know it was illegal, tourist passengers would balk at riding in an open truck bed.

“I’ve been nervous about this, brother. It means a lot to me.” Chee heard the relief in his cousin’s voice. “I’ve been making some notes for tomorrow for the
bilagaanas
. I can brew a thermos of coffee, and I’ve got a can of milk, some sugar cubes. Would you stop and get some of those little doughnuts? I’ll pay you for them. You know, the white ones with the powdered sugar outside?” Paul made a soft clicking sound with his tongue. “I wish we had some of those breakfast burritos like the ones you used to make. That would be perfect.”

Chee stopped at the grocery in Shiprock, amazed to find it still open. The mini doughnuts looked shopworn, so he bought what he needed for burritos along with a case of bottled water. The customers would probably want it. It would be warm, but it was the best he could do. Then he went by the trailer along the San Juan that he and Bernie called home and picked up his police uniform and weapon. He’d need them for his vacation-interrupting assignment.

Chee’s drive back to Monument Valley was long and solitary. He told himself to stop feeling grumpy, to remember how lucky he was to have a wife who cared for her relatives and who expanded the circle to include his relatives, like Paul. He already missed Bernie.

When he got there, he fixed the People Mover by flashlight. The repair didn’t take long—it was just a matter of reconnecting loose battery cables. He was thankful that old engines didn’t require computer analysis.

Chee wasn’t usually an early riser, but before sunrise he and Paul went to work making burritos. Chee cooked the filling, and Paul wrapped the tortillas, sealed the burritos in foil, rolled them in towels, and put them in an insulated bag. Chee set up the coffeepot and placed it over the fire in the fire pit. Paul had found six cups, the
old-fashioned kind their grandmother had used. Because this was Paul’s first time guiding a tour, Chee agreed to come along as an observer. He could suggest improvements for the next time.

The guests—two couples from Norway—were ready at the visitor center at 6:00 a.m., bright-eyed and excited. They seemed amazed and a bit intimidated to find themselves in the big, open, nearly waterless landscape with a real Indian as a guide. Paul further wowed them when he told them that Chee, his assistant for the day, was a genuine Navajo Nation policeman.

The visitors nodded and introduced themselves: Filip, Emma, Emil, and Nora. They spoke rusty high school English.

“You came here on holiday like us?” Emma, a woman in a long-sleeved hiking shirt, asked.

“Yes, but I’m going to be working here, too, helping with a movie.”

The woman looked at him with more interest. “You are in this movie?”

“No, ma’am.” He tried to explained the situation, which led to more questions about the Navajo Nation police and how they operated. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut; he knew from experience that talking more than necessary only led to trouble.

He helped the visitors into the People Mover and they bounced along to Paul’s place, where they toured the hogan, admired the ramada, and praised the coffee. They gobbled up the burritos once Paul showed them how to scrape off most of the green chile and explained that they could do so without hurting his feelings.

After breakfast, Paul pulled the People Mover keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Chee. “You drive so I can concentrate on giving out the information. I’ll tell you where to turn for the photo vistas.”

The tour went remarkably well. To Chee’s amazement, Paul knew quite a bit about photography and had a jovial way of sharing
advice without being pushy. He told Chee to stop at all the right places for pictures. Paul also explained the geology of the park and talked about its plants and animals without going overboard. The customers knew enough English to understand the essence of the narration and ask questions. They took dozens of photos of horses on the sand dunes.

Chee enjoyed driving the big vehicle and revisiting places he’d loved years before. When Paul discussed the area’s human history—ancient Pueblo people, Spanish and Anglo miners, and the Navajo families who lived in the park today—he thought about Bernie’s theory, that the dirt from her traffic stop might be tied to archaeology. He reached no conclusion.

Chee steered them out of Mystery Valley and onto the main Monument Valley road, a rough dirt track that looped back to the Visitor Center. The sun warmed the midmorning air, which blew in through his open window and buffeted the guests on the People Mover’s bench seats. Ahead a sightseeing van, fully packed with customers, churned up a red cloud of dirt. The suffocating dust left him two alternatives. The first was to slow down to a crawl for the long miles back to the visitor center to stay well behind the van, while the passengers in the back baked, got sunburned, and grew bored.

The second, more manly option? Ignore the painful speed limit, pass the van, and let them decelerate or eat his dust.

He sailed by the vehicle smoothly, but a giant pothole lay just beyond it. He avoided the crater only to encounter a barricade the road crew had created to keep the trail from flooding. The People Mover plowed directly onto a hill of rocks and sand that took up half the roadway. Chee winced at the scraping noise and then felt a
thunk
as something big and hard made contact with the underside of the vehicle. The People Mover continued forward just fine, but the realist in Chee didn’t trust it. He had no choice, of course, but to drive on.

As Paul helped the guests unload at the hotel, Chee noticed oil dripping onto the asphalt of the parking lot. After the customers left, he showed his cousin the dark puddle. “I think that’s from whatever I clobbered back there.”

Paul shrugged. “It had a leak already. They have oil at the store behind Goulding’s. We’ll add some when we need it, take some with us. No problem.”

Chee’s phone rang. “Just a second.” He hoped it was Bernie.

Instead, he heard a different woman’s voice. “Sergeant Chee? It’s Monica, the administrative assistant at the Monument Valley substation. The captain asked me to call you. He’s hoping you can start work early. Something’s come up.”

“What do you mean by early?”

She hesitated. “The captain can give you the details, but we’re really short around here. He asked me to see if you could meet with him this afternoon, so he can brief you on your assignment.”

“Let me make a couple calls, and I’ll get back to you, Monica.” If the situation with Bernie’s mother was going to take time to resolve, he might as well make himself useful. And whatever trouble he’d created for the People Mover would have a price tag. Why not meet with the captain and get the lay of the land?

“Where’s the office?” he asked, and she gave him directions.

There was no answer on Bernie’s cell number. He didn’t leave a message, instead calling her mother’s house and their home number in Shiprock. No Bernie anywhere. He called Monica back, and told her he’d be there.

Paul gave him a questioning look, and Chee explained.

“I thought you were on vacation for a few more days.”

“If Bernie can’t get back, I might as well go in early.”

“Stay with me as long as you want, bro. I was thinking we could fix up that old corral while you’re here. I might start some horseback tours.”

Chee had noticed the corral. Fixing it was not an option; Paul needed to rebuild the whole thing, to make it safe for tourists who’d probably never been within smelling distance of a horse.

Paul kept talking. “We can work on that when you’re done with the police stuff. We could do it the old way with junipers. Remember how Uncle would bring in a bunch of trees, and we would trim off the branches to make the posts?”

Chee nodded. The work had been hot and dirty, but they enjoyed it because Uncle told them stories of his army days in Vietnam.

They added oil to replace what had leaked out and bought more to take with them in case of an emergency. Back at Paul’s house, Chee scooted under the vehicle. He spotted the problem easily: a steady drip that led his eye to a hole in the oil pan. Fixing it would require draining the oil—or letting it simply drip out—welding the hole closed, adding more oil, and making sure the weld held.

Chee maneuvered himself back out, dusted off his clothes, and explained the situation. “Since I did the damage, I’ll take care of it for you.”

Paul said, “I told you, it had a leak before. I’ll pay for half with some of that money I get from the tourists. I’m glad you can fix it.”

“I hope I can fix it. Do you know where we can find a welding torch, a rod, and a socket wrench that will fit these old bolts?”

“I’ll find somebody who can loan us that stuff.”

In the late afternoon Chee took a shower, put on his uniform, and tried unsuccessfully to reach Bernie again. Then he drove his truck to the Monument Valley Visitor Center.

The temporary police substation occupied two offices on the expansive Visitor Center’s lower level. Chee introduced himself to Monica, dispatcher/receptionist/answerer of questions, a fortysomething Navajo woman. Monica reciprocated with her clans. They weren’t related, but of course she knew Paul.

The captain was expecting him.

Leroy Bahe rose from his cluttered desk. “Jim Chee. I haven’t seen you since we worked together in Tuba City. How long has it been? Back when you were a bachelor.” If large-and-in-charge was a requirement for police work, Bahe qualified, hands down.

After they’d talked about their mutual friend, Hopi officer Cowboy Dashee, Bahe’s sister’s graduation from truck-driving school, and his son’s success in the marines, Bahe asked about Lieutenant Leaphorn. “I heard about him getting shot. I hope he’s doing OK.”

“The Lieutenant’s getting better. My wife and I spend time with him when we can. He can’t talk much yet, but the doctors think he might regain that. His friend Louisa is helping him.”

Bahe nodded. “Glad to hear it. I understand you almost got barbecued in a storage locker.”

Chee chuckled. “Yeah. Gave me a whole new respect for gasoline.”

“So you’re willing to work here an extra day or two?”

“Largo mentioned something about babysitting some movie folks.”

“You bet. You get the Hollywood assignment.” The movie, Bahe explained, was a horror film with permission from the Tribal Council to shoot in the park. “Mostly what you’ll do is make sure their equipment doesn’t block the roads. You might have to handle a trespassing call every once in a while that their paid security can’t or won’t deal with.”

“Monica said something about starting sooner than I’d planned.”

Bahe nodded. “I’d really appreciate it if you could start today. I just got a call that somebody out in movieland went for a drive and didn’t come back. I could use you now.”

Chee waited for what Bahe would say next. In the Navajo tradition, if something was important, you mentioned it four times.

Bahe scanned his computer screen. “Melissa Goldfarb, thirty-five.
Blond, five foot five, one-twenty pounds. Her boss says she drove off in a red Chevy Cruze. You could do some nosing around about her first before you actually have to go searching. Maybe she decided to head back to California because she got bored or overworked or angry about something.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Only twelve hours. These movies folks already sent their own security man, but he couldn’t find her. Evidently she’s not the type to go psycho, so her boss is worried she’s lost or hurt or something out there.”

Usually the police waited forty-eight hours before looking for a missing adult. Bahe read Chee’s expression. “The Tribal Council delegate from around here worked hard to get the movie. Nobody wants any bad publicity out of this. And the guy who called, a producer named Delahart, vaguely threatened to go to those entertainment news shows and tell America what a dangerous place the valley is unless we help them with the search.”

Chee said. “Wouldn’t it be better to send someone else if she’s really lost out there? I mean, someone who knows the area?”

“Darn right. But I don’t have anybody else, so you’re my guy.” Bahe grinned. “What do you say?”

“Sure thing.” He’d figure out how to tell Bernie. “If I start today, you think I could leave a few days early?”

“You never know.” He stood and handed Chee a set of keys. “I’m thinking this is a publicity stunt they’ll spin to have something to do with zombies. But Delahart was a good enough actor to convince me to check it out. The unit’s out back. Be careful. I remember your driving from Tuba and the problem with that lawyer’s car. What was that gal’s name?”

“Janet Peet. That accident could have happened to anybody. Her little dream ride had a lot of problems.”

“And a few more when you finished with it.”

“How do I find this Delahart guy?”

“Easy. Take the loop road into the park, and right before Ford Point you’ll see some yellow and black signs that read ‘TUR.’ ”