Chee had been removing his boots as he sat on the bed, but he straightened up now. “You know, we’re going to have to work with Agent Johnson and make the best of it.”
“I know.”
“I talked to the Lieutenant today to thank him for helping me figure out CS’s death certificate and for the information on Clyde Herbert. He said Agent Johnson had reached out to him for background on Manzanares and the old search in the Malpais he’d been involved in.”
“The one where the bodies were found years later?”
“That’s right. He mentioned that she told him Manzanares had connections to international Internet fraud.”
Bernie brushed her hair from her face. “Wow. I don’t get it. People become cops because they want to help, not rip off their neighbors.”
“Every profession has a few failures. That goes back to what you said about Mayfair quitting and leaving Cooper with no support. Unprofessional, to say the least. And it sure makes her look guilty of something.” Chee went back to his boots. “One more detail and then let’s go to bed. The Lieutenant said Larry Hoffman, the guy from El Morro, tied into this because Manzanares got greedy. He asked Hoffman to sell some of the pots locally, always to foreigners who weren’t likely to understand the antiquities laws.”
Bernie smiled at him. “That reminds me. Wait a minute.”
She walked to the living room and came back with a paper bag and a white cardboard tube. She handed him the tube first. “I wanted to show you this. It’s a picture Domingo Cruz took out in the Malpais. I admired it, and Merilee gave me a copy. I think I’ll give it to the Lieutenant as a thank-you.”
He took the cap off the end of the cylinder, pulled out a sheet of paper, and unrolled it to discover the photo of the swirling petroglyph. “This is beautiful. No wonder Merilee wanted to do a book of his work.”
Bernie handed him the paper bag. “And this is for you. For believing in me enough to go to the Malpais and find what we found in that cave of bones.”
He pulled out a book, the stories about the formation of the southwestern landscape that she’d found at El Morro.
“This is fabulous.” He thumbed through it slowly while she watched the smile on his face grow larger.
“You mentioned that you learned something at the training you wanted to show me,” she said after a while.
He put his arms around her. “I learned how special you are, and how lucky—”
She put her finger on his lips. “Actions speak louder than words.”
29
They had finished dinner and were chatting in the Lieutenant’s living room, nursing cups of Louisa Bourbonette’s herbal tea. When he extended the invitation, Leaphorn had told Chee and Bernie that Louisa had fully recuperated. As usual, he was right. Louisa had done ninety percent of the talking, as though she had been starving for company.
Now, she started asking her guests questions. “We haven’t seen you two for ages. What have you been doing, Bernie?”
“Working as usual. I was out in the Malpais.” Bernie explained a little about the looting scam and how the information Chee had gathered in Santa Fe led to the discovery of a dead man.
“How sad for his mother.”
“At least she knows what happened to him,” said Chee. “A man we work with, Wilson Sam, has been checking on her, spending time with her. I think it’s been good for them both.”
Louisa shook her head. “I don’t know how you two, and Joe, too, manage to handle all this sadness and evil. It would get to me.”
Bernie paused, considering. “You know, despite all the human ugliness I’ve been dealing with, that country near Ramah makes my heart sing. It’s beautiful in the winter. Have you seen it?”
“Many times. When I was researching my comparative religion project, I came across one story that said Zuni fetishes were inspired by animals that had been trapped and turned to stone by the volcano.”
“Interesting.” Bernie listened with half an ear. As she saw it, religion was what the Franciscans, Presbyterians, Methodists, Mennonites, Latter-day Saints, Christian Reformed, and others offered.
Louisa passed Chee the plate of cookies. Some looked like oatmeal; other were probably chocolate chip. “I didn’t make them, but they’re pretty good.”
Chee helped himself without hesitation. “I spent a while in Santa Fe getting some training in the Amber and Silver Alert systems for missing kids and elderlies. It will be a boon to the Navajo Nation.”
Louisa passed the plate to Leaphorn. “Would it have helped with that youth worker who got lost?”
Leaphorn took one of each kind of cookie and then spoke. “No. He was in the wilderness. The state search and rescue teams are like the Silver and Amber Alerts on steroids.” He broke off a bite from each cookie, chewed, and smiled. “These are good, Louisa.”
“The bakery at Bashas’.”
Leaphorn passed the plate to Bernie, and she took one out of politeness. After spending so many hours considering poisoned cookies, she would have preferred pie, cake, Jell-O, canned peaches . . . anything else.
Louisa stood up. “I’m going to straighten up a little and call it a day. There’s more tea.”
Leaphorn put his hand on her arm. “Don’t bother about that. I’ll do it later. You go on to bed. I’m glad you felt well enough tonight to have company.”
“Oh, you worry too much.” She patted his hand and headed down the hall. Then Leaphorn turned to Bernie. “What did you think of the information on the anonymous donor and my report on Wings and Roots?”
“I thought you were smart to pass the information along to Mrs. Cooper,” Bernie said. “I should have been more suspicious when Mayfair told me she’d changed her name, and that her family was glad to see her go.”
“You’re still young. Be glad that you’re more trusting. How did you and Councilor Walker get along?”
“It worked out. She came around once Cooper explained the books to her. She was still prickly, but she listened. Now she’s working with the council to get more funding for the program. Something seemed to have softened her attitude.”
Leaphorn grinned. “She wants to buy me a cup of coffee. For a dasani, she’s not—”
Bernie’s ringing phone interrupted him. She looked at the number—the FBI office in Farmington. “Sorry, it’s work. I better take this.”
Leaphorn nodded, and Chee reached for another cookie.
“Manuelito, Agent Johnson,” said the voice on the phone. “I wanted to let you know that the bureau will follow up on Mayfair.”
“That’s great.” But, Bernie thought, news that didn’t need to interrupt her off-duty time. “I need to talk to you again about the Manzanares case.”
“I’m in the middle of something now, but go ahead.” Chee passed her the cookies, and she waved them away.
“That Saint Christopher medal the girl found looks like more evidence that Manzanares murdered Mr. Curley. Good work on that.”
“Thank you.”
“I was thinking . . .” Johnson’s speech slowed. “Maybe we could have coffee tomorrow?”
“I’m working the early shift. If this is an official request, it should go through Captain Largo.” And, Bernie thought, you know that.
Johnson said, “It’s not official. We got off on the wrong foot. I’d like to start over.”
Epilogue
Domingo Cruz had located Annie Rainsong quickly. Now she was on the trail back to camp, not injured, not in danger, and still a disagreeable spoiled girl with an ugly skull tattoo. He followed, moving quietly, until he knew she could see the tents of camp headquarters. It was better for her to come in on her own, without him, so she would at least get the credit for finding her way to offset some of the trouble she’d be in for leaving her solo site. Cooper would deliver a sterner-than-usual version of the standard be-responsible lecture. The fact that she’d found her way back by herself might give Annie’s confidence a little boost.
He was glad to see the
last of Annie Rainsong. That girl was a pain in the neck. He smiled. Yes, and she was also the very sort of kid Rose Cooper had envisioned when she designed the program. He’d watched as she bounced along the trail in front of him. When the terrain allowed, he stepped behind a large rock, removed the bell from his pack, and slipped it silently into his pocket. Then he made a sound, his best imitation of an injured animal. She didn’t turn back. Good girl. She remembered what he had said about testing her.
As he watched her head toward base camp, he had an idea. Rather than return to camp immediately, he’d hike to the parking lot. The Lobos, his favorite team from his days at the University of New Mexico, were playing their in-state rivals, New Mexico State University, the basketball game of the season. Maybe he could quickly get the score from the strong AM station in Albuquerque before he went back to work.
He breathed in the cold air, tinged with a hint of sage and the possibility of snow. He still felt exceedingly strange. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Worried about Franklin’s growing emotional distance, worried about the challenge of becoming the Wings and Roots director, and worried about Mayfair and the likelihood he’d have to fire her because of her snarly attitude toward him. But mostly he worried about Merilee. His big sister—she was three minutes older and never let him forget it—was involved in something bad, something wrong, something that she wouldn’t talk about. She’d always been the impulsive one, the stronger of the two of them, although she didn’t look it. She’d bounced back from the death of her terrible husband, even though his cousin, that state cop, blamed her for the accident.
When he reached in his pocket for the key to the group van, he felt Annie’s phone. He had picked it up at the cave where she dropped it, where she never should have had it. Cooper had told all the girls to leave their electronics in the van as directed. He’d give it back to her at the campsite with another lecture about following the rules.
He unlocked the door and climbed inside, noticing that he had trouble getting the key in the lock. Low blood sugar, he thought. Those cookies he’d eaten a while ago ought to begin to help with that. Mayfair was usually a good baker, but that batch was terrible. If he hadn’t been so hungry, he would have thrown them away.
He couldn’t focus on the game because he couldn’t adjust the volume: it was either too loud or not loud enough, and the knobs moved away from him as he reached for them. His mouth felt dry. He remembered the extra water bottles in the back of the van. He’d grab one before he hiked back to . . . where was he going?
His stomach churned now, and the world was spinning. Something was wrong. Cruz looked at the gray asphalt that stretched away from the parking area. The road was undulating. He looked at the phone that was somehow back in his hand. It had started to move in his grip like a living thing. He tossed it down onto the asphalt and ran back toward the lava. Something was happening inside him, fascinating and terrifying and totally unexpected.
He thought of the spirals he loved, the swirls he’d photographed on the lava. It was more than an image—it was a force inside him now, pulling him back toward the beautiful blackness. He had no choice but to follow.
At first, he watched for the piles of rocks to show him the way, and then he didn’t. He couldn’t see very well, but his feet had their own eyes. When he came to the crevice, he realized he could fly.
Acknowledgments
First of all, I would like to thank the many Navajo people who have made it a point to reach out to me—either in person, through e-mail or on social media—to thank me for continuing my father’s stories of Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee. Nothing delights me more at a book signing than to be asked to pose for a photo with a Dine’ grandmother, daughter, and granddaughter, and to hear how they love reading about Bernadette Manuelito solving crimes.
While writing is solitary work, research, editing, and brainstorming take a village. I am grateful to more people than I can name here, but special thanks to Rebecca Carrier for her brilliant insights into what makes Bernie tick. Her sharply focused critique of an early version of this book improved the story. Writer and editor Lucy Moore came up with some wonderful questions that deepened and broadened the novel and also saved me from embarrassment.
Big thanks to Kayt Peck for sharing her personal stories of working with search and rescue in New Mexico and to Robert Rodgers, New Mexico State Police search and rescue coordinator, for his time and good advice. New Mexico’s chief medical investigator, Kurt B. Nolte, MD, now also a Distinguished Professor at the University of New Mexico, answered my questions about dead bodies in language that made it easy for me and Bernie to understand the process involved in autopsies. David Greenberg helped me grasp the complications involved in state, tribal, and federal law enforcement interaction in a hostage situation. Gail Greenberg’s generosity and kindness as I weathered personal challenges in the course of this book helped keep me on target and on deadline (more or less).
Thanks to Scott Hicks for hiking the Malpais with me, and to the staff there for answering questions about critters and lost folks. The staff at Cottonwood Gulch and the Henio Family added to my understanding of Ramah and of programs that get kids outside. Tony Dixon and Misty Blakesley at the Santa Fe Mountain Center filled in the blanks about the links between wilderness adventures and teen behavior. My writer friends, the Literary Ladies, kindly listened to my complaining and bragging about this book as it took shape, and editing by Jim Wagner of Daddy Wags saved me from considerable embarrassment. I am in your debt.
Using her extensive knowledge of the material available at the Laboratory of Anthropology Library on Santa Fe’s Museum Hill, librarian Allison Colborne made it easier for me to discover origin stories of the Malpais lava flow from the Laguna, Acoma, and Zuni people. The staff at the Institute of American Indian Arts allowed me to tag along on a tour for incoming students. I invented the program Darleen joins and readjusted their architecture a bit, but I didn’t have to fictionalize the warm spirit at this wonderful arts college.
Huge thanks to my agent, Liz Trupin-Pulli, for her endless kindness and encouragement, and to all the folks at HarperCollins: my editor, Carolyn Marino; her trusty sidekicks, Hannah Robinson and Laura Brown; publicity director Rachel Elinsky; and Tom Hopke, marketing manager. And a warm shout-out to freelance copy editor Miranda Ottewell, whom I also had the honor of working with on Spiderwoman’s Daughter.
My husband, Don, and children, Brandon, Sean, Carrie, and Kevin, all deserve halos for putting up with me as I focused on writing. You guys mean the world to me.
And, last but not least, who would I have been, as a writer or a person, without Tony Hillerman?
About the Author
ANNE HILLERMAN is an award-winning reporter and the New York Times bestselling author of the novels Spider Woman’s Daughter, Rock with Wings, and Song of the Lion, as well as several nonfiction books. She is the daughter of New York Times bestselling author Tony Hillerman and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Anne Hillerman
Song of the Lion
Rock with Wings
Spider Woman’s Daughter
Tony Hillerman’s Landscape: On the Road with Chee and Leaphorn
Gardens of Santa Fe
Santa Fe Flavors: Best Restaurants and Recipes
Ride the Wind: USA to Africa
Copyright
cave of bones. Copyright © 2018 by Anne Hillerman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
&nbs
p; first edition
Cover design by Jarrod Taylor
Cover photographs © John A. Davis / Shuttershock (Cliffs)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hillerman, Anne, 1949– author.
Title: Cave of bones / Anne Hillerman.
Description: First edition. | New York : Harper, [2018] | Series: A Leaphorn, Chee & Manuelito novel ; book 3
Identifiers: LCCN 2017047928 (print) | LCCN 2017052454 (ebook) | ISBN 9780062391940 (E-book) | ISBN 9780062391926 (hardback) | ISBN 9780062821782 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780062391933 (mass market papeback)
Subjects: LCSH: Leaphorn, Joe, Lt. (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Chee, Jim (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Indian reservation police—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural. | FICTION / Cultural Heritage. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.I4384 (ebook) | LCC PS3608.I4384 C38 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017047928
Digital Edition APRIL 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-239194-0
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-239192-6
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Cave of Bones Page 30
