When he thought he had a grasp on what had been stolen, he called Largo and updated him on the way a case about a bolo tie had morphed into attempted murder. He expected to find Largo annoyed with the way Black had poached him from his Shiprock duties; the information was a peace offering.
“Yeah, I know. Black filled me in when he asked if you could work with him to follow up.” He heard Largo sigh. “Why is it that whenever you go out on a simple case, it turns complicated?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Chee hoped it was a rhetorical question. “Lieutenant Leaphorn used to ask me the same thing.”
“Speaking of Leaphorn, the rookie can breathe through his nose again and see with both eyes. I told him about Leaphorn coming to meet with him this afternoon, and he thinks it’s a reward or something.”
Chee understood the rookie’s assumption. Personal attention from the legendary Lieutenant came with bragging rights.
Later that afternoon, Chee called the hospital and learned that Mr. Natachi had survived the operation and was in the surgical recovery area. He left some notes, thanked Adakai for his help, and drove back to the hospital, hoping to catch Ryana.
Mr. Natachi had been moved to a regular patient room. He seemed to be sleeping. Ryana sat in a chair by her grandfather’s side, holding his hand. She looked up when Chee entered.
“I got your calls, but I couldn’t talk. I had to get things settled at work and find a substitute so I could be with him.” She gave Mr. Natachi’s hand a squeeze and released it.
“How is he?”
“They say the bullet shattered some ribs. He’s stable for now and not in pain. But who knows what might happen.”
“Have you spoken with him?”
She nodded. “A little. He opened his eyes a few times, but he hasn’t talked back.”
Chee walked to the bed and leaned in toward Mr. Natachi. “Hello, sir. Can you hear me?”
The old man nodded, his chin barely moving. Chee noticed that the oxygen tube had pulled free of one nostril and gently replaced it.
“I’m a policeman.” He switched to Navajo and introduced himself formally, adding that he was the son-in-law of Bernie’s mama. “I want to find out why this bad thing happened to you.”
The old man opened his eyes and motioned to Ryana to come closer. He spoke softly in Navajo. “This is nothing. Promise you will keep that one safe.” He moved his lips to indicate his granddaughter.
“Yes, I promise. Sir, who hurt you?”
Instead of an answer, Mr. Natachi closed his eyes.
Chee turned to Ryana. “Did you understand what we said?”
She nodded and wiped her nose with a tissue.
“I promised to protect you. The only way I can is if you give me the truth about what happened.”
She looked at the floor. “I told you all I could.”
“Your grandfather would have died if the man in the car had aimed better and if we hadn’t brought him here. Don’t you care?”
A silent tear escaped and made a glistening line down her cheek.
“Ryana, you know who shot him. This happened because of something you did or didn’t do, or something you saw. I will try to protect you, but I need your help.”
He took a breath. Exhaled. He could see that she was listening.
“If you love your grandfather, you’ll tell me why he got shot so I can find the person who did it. And don’t lie again about Arthur Green Yazzie. I called the prison.”
“My poor shicheii. I never wanted any of this.” He heard anger in her voice as well as grief. “Leave me alone. Go back to Shiprock.”
“I can’t. You heard your grandfather.”
Ryana took the old man’s hand again. “All right then. If you want to help, give me two thousand dollars.”
Chee took a breath. “Why? What do you need all that money for?”
One of the machines connected to Mr. Natachi began to beep, and at the same time the chime of an old-fashioned doorbell filled the room. Ryana glanced at the phone in her lap and shut off the doorbell with a quick swipe of a finger.
She stood. “It takes the nurses a while to get here. I’ll let them know about the beeping. Will you stay with him while I do that and go to the restroom?”
The machine kept beeping.
“Two thousand, huh?”
“Sit here, closer to him, while I’m gone. Hold his hand.”
She leaned over the old man, whispered into his ear, and kissed his cheek before she left.
Chee took the vacant chair. “Sir, who did this to you?”
Mr. Natachi said nothing.
“The attack on you, was it meant to scare her?”
Mr. Natachi’s eyes stayed closed, but his chin moved subtly toward his chest and back up again. He looked gray and tired, but Chee pressed on. He repeated a version of the who-did-it question, this time in Navajo.
The machine’s noise had increased to the point where, Chee deduced, someone in the parking lot could probably hear it. He spoke louder to be heard over the commotion. “Your granddaughter is involved in something that worries you. Something not part of the way the Holy People told us to follow. Something dangerous. I need to understand what this is to protect her.”
Just when he concluded that the old man had gone to sleep despite the racket, Mr. Natachi opened his eyes.
“Yes.” He spoke with a vigor that surprised Chee. “Dangerous and evil.”
Having Ryana out of the room made it easier to say what came next.
“Your granddaughter asked me for a lot of money. If she had it, would that make her safe?”
Mr. Natachi didn’t hesitate this time. He moved his head right to left and left to right twice and whispered, “No” and then, in Navajo, “Ndaga’.”
A nurse came in, and the old man shifted his attention to her. She was a bilagáana but greeted them both with “Yá’át’ééh.” She walked to the machine and stopped the noise with the push of several buttons and then spoke to the patient. “I’m going to check your vital signs, and George will be in to x-ray your chest. He can do it right here in the room. Do you understand?”
Mr. Natachi nodded.
She focused on Chee. “I’m Lucinda. I’ll be his nurse for the rest of the day and again tomorrow. Are you his son?”
“Sort of.” He read the question in her eyes. “I’m responsible for Ryana, his granddaughter.”
“What a beautiful young woman. I saw her with him when I started my shift.” She noticed that the ID badge on her strap had flipped backwards and turned it.
Chee saw her name and photograph. “How is he doing?”
“Better than the doctors expected. The next twelve hours are crucial. By the way, Ryana’s blood type matches his, and she agreed to be a donor if necessary. He’s doing OK for now without a transfusion.”
Chee said, “I know he’ll be happier if he doesn’t need blood from anyone. Can I check in with you for an update on his condition?”
“Of course. My hospital cell number is on the information board.” She pointed to it. “Or just call the nurses’ station and they’ll connect us. It’s nice that Mr. Natachi has family here. Having someone who cares helps people recover.”
Chee nodded. That was one of the many reasons Navajo traditional healing ceremonies worked. The realization that dozens of friends and relatives would come to support you, bringing food, firewood, and their songs and prayers gave powerful energy to the patient.
After the nurse left, Chee asked again about the shooting, but Mr. Natachi either was asleep or pretending to be. He waited with the old man until the X-ray technician arrived and he knew without question that Ryana wasn’t coming back. He wondered what she had whispered to her shicheii.
On his way to the car, Chee dialed her phone, then texted: Call me asap about your grandfather. He viewed his promise to Mr. Natachi with regret. But he’d given his word to an elder, and so it was.
Back at the Chinle station, Adakai showed him the information he
’d compiled as requested on Ryana’s time in Phoenix. The file included her Arizona driver’s license, a car registration for a BMW, and one paid speeding ticket. No references to any involvement with Arthur Green Yazzie or other criminal activity. It looked as though Yazzie’s intersection with the law had all been in Lieutenant Leaphorn’s era and mostly on Leaphorn’s part of the vast Navajo Nation.
He saw Adakai at his work station by the window and waved the man over to him.
“Thanks for the file on Ryana. I’m curious about something. You said she did some acting for the movies in Phoenix. I wonder if she had a screen name, you know, like Marilyn Monroe was really Norma Jeane something.”
Adakai rubbed his left hand with his right, stroking a tasteful, small star tattoo. “I gave you everything I found. Maybe Ryana made up the movie story to look more important, more accomplished than she is. She’s stuck on herself. I think I said that already. I wouldn’t put it past her to lie. You already mentioned that she lied about the bolo.” Adakai took a breath. “Did you have any luck on the burglaries?”
“No, nothing yet. I’m working on that unless somebody else gets shot while I’m here.”
The old man looked peaceful when Chee returned to the hospital. Ryana was not in the room with him. Chee knew that, when his time at the hospital was done, Mr. Natachi would also ask for the type of healing that involved songs, herbs, and sandpaintings in a ceremony to return him to hozho, to a state of peace, balance, and harmony.
Nurse Lucinda told him, without being asked, that the X-rays showed that Mr. Natachi’s lungs were clear. “And, so far at least, there’s no sign of infection. Considering what he’s been through, that’s quite something.” She readjusted the IV. “When Ryana came to check on him, she asked me to tell you not to be mad about Walter. That she just mentioned him because she’d seen something about him on television.”
“Could you run that by me again?”
Lucinda reached into her uniform pocket. “I knew I’d have trouble remembering the name.” She pulled out a yellow slip of paper and read from it. “Arthur Green Yazzie. Sorry about that. You want this?”
“No. I know who it is. When did Ryana leave?”
“About half an hour ago. Before she left, she donated some blood. She told me she had a lot to take care of, and she might not be back for a while. She specifically asked me to tell you not to worry about her. Wasn’t that sweet?”
No, Chee thought, it wasn’t sweet. It meant she didn’t want him on her trail.
10
Before heading to Shiprock to meet with Wilson Sam, Joe Leaphorn had driven to the Big Rocks area, and with a few well-worded questions, neighbors helped him to track down the modest home of Lee Benally. A boy, around twelve or thirteen, came to the door and said his grandfather wasn’t home. Leaphorn introduced himself and showed the young man his Apache County deputy card. The boy, who said his name was Andrews, suddenly looked interested. Leaphorn asked if he spoke Navajo. “I don’t, but I understand some of it because my grandfather talks to me that way.”
Leaphorn explained his errand as concisely as possible.
The boy smiled. “He brought some of my shimayazhi’s things here from her office in a box. I think that could be what you’re talking about.” Shimayazhi, or Little Mother, was the Navajo version of maternal aunt but, as the translation implied, spoke to a closer connection.
“Would it be all right if I came in to take a look?”
The young man opened the door. “He put the box on the kitchen table.” He showed Leaphorn the way and then returned to the couch and whatever form of electronic diversion had occupied him before the interruption.
Leaphorn carefully unloaded the contents—a traveling coffee mug, a small ceramic jar that held paper clips, a stuffed bear, a box of Navajo tea, some colorful pictures that looked as though a child had made them, a pink bag for makeup with “Tiffany” in glittering sequins on the side, and other things a young woman would have at the office to make her day more comfortable and remind her of life outside work. Leaphorn picked up the box, careful not to add his fingerprints to the label or the tape that had sealed it.
He spoke to Andrews. “I moved your aunt’s things to the tabletop. Everything is there. I’m leaving with only the box itself. Take a look.”
The boy glanced up from his game at the empty brown carton, then went back to his screen.
“Please tell your grandfather to call me if he has any questions. I left a card with my phone number on the table.”
“OK.”
“I see that she had your picture there on her desk.”
The boy looked up again. “I made the frame for her, too, with dogs dancing all around. She really liked it. She liked it so much that she asked me what I wanted back, and then she told me she would get me a dog someday. I don’t care if it’s a big one or not.” The boy paused. “Why did she have to die?”
Leaphorn shook his head.
“It’s scary. The medicine was supposed to make her better. Do you believe in witches?”
“No.” Leaphorn didn’t know what else to say. He noticed the boy holding a cell phone up to the television. “What are you doing there?”
Andrews grinned. “I’m trying to learn accents, you know? So I record them from shows like this and then I play them back and practice.” He gave Leaphorn an imitation of what might have been French. “I’m good at recording stuff. My teacher has me record when someone comes in to talk to our class. She didn’t even know you can use a phone for that and then transfer the sound to another file on the computer.”
“How are you doing on Navajo?”
“It’s hard. But there are websites and those two movies, you know about them?”
“I do. Star Wars and the one about the fish. What was that called?”
For the first time, the boy responded in Navajo. “Nemo Hádéést’į́į́. Finding Nemo. But I liked Star Wars better.” He gave Leaphorn a shy smile.
The brown cardboard container now sat next to him, heading to Shiprock in the seat Louisa often occupied. He photographed the postmark as Bean requested and sent it to him. The inspector texted him back: The photo is usable but don’t quit your day job. He knew Bean would let him know when he had news. Even if the news was bad.
Leaphorn had not taken his truck north on US 491 for a long time. It had been even longer since he had been alone in the vehicle for more than a quick trip. He appreciated driving again along with walking without help and, best of all, the ability to say what was on his mind as long as he did it in his native language. He regretted the complications that limited his English. Still, for a man who could well be dead, he told himself, he had nothing to complain about.
The road carried more traffic than he recalled. Or maybe the lack of Louisa chatting about the scenery, the events of her day, national politics, and plans for tomorrow allowed him to better focus on the highway. He headed toward the flat-topped Chuska Mountains, drove past Tohatchi, crossed Naschitti Wash, and headed north toward Sheep Springs.
He turned his brain to the strange case of Mrs. Pinto’s missing textile and the unexpected death of her assistant. He heard the voice of Tiffany’s father warning him about Mrs. Pinto, hinting at witchcraft, and recalled the note he suspected the man had left on his windshield. He added the story of Robert Peshlakai’s long-lost jewelry and the discovery of two of those pieces in the mystery box.
The utility van with Texas plates in front of him flashed its brake lights, and Leaphorn slowed, calling his full attention back to the road. He passed Newcomb, famous for its role in the development of Two Grey Hills weavings and named for trader Arthur Newcomb. Renowned hataali Hastiin Klah had lived near here years ago. His own mother had lived in the area, too, dying just a few years after she buried his umbilical cord beneath a resident piñon tree. He’d received a scholarship to study cultural anthropology at Arizona State. He’d loved his course work and planned to get a master’s degree and become a teacher and perhaps a cons
ultant. But money for teaching assistants was tight the year he graduated. While considering his budget, he received a letter from the tribal councilor who represented the chapter where he had grown up, mentioning that the Navajo Nation police were looking for recruits. He decided that some practical experience would improve his chances of getting into grad school and that the police job would help him pay for his degree.
His father wasn’t surprised when he told him he was planning to return to Navajoland. “You had to go back to your mother’s home. That’s why she buried your birth cord, to tie you to the land.”
He passed the entrance test without difficulty and discovered that real-life law enforcement held more challenge than the world of academia. He enjoyed working on the Navajo Nation, not being the only Indian in the room. He became a better detective with each successive case.
He’d lost his appetite for the work after Emma died. He retired at the top of his career, turning down more than one request to be considered as Navajo Nation chief of police.
His thoughts turned to Arthur Green Yazzie and Yazzie’s sister. He remembered the man. Maybe whatever crisis or daydream inspired the woman to seek him out had passed. Perhaps Yazzie was up for parole and his sister wanted to thank him for the work that sent the man to prison and tell him how incarceration had made her brother a better person. The family planned to welcome her brother back into their strong, supportive arms.
The Tale Teller Page 14
