Spider Woman's Daughter (15 page)

“I’m going to the hospital to see the lieutenant after this. I’ll know more then.”

“I meant, how are you doing with the aftershock?”

“Aftershock? I keep thinking that there must have been something I could have done.”

“Those if-onlys will kill you,” he said. “Are you on leave?”

She nodded.

“You look good in civilian clothes,” he said.

“Thanks. My sister thinks my fashion sense is hopeless.”

“You’d look great in anything. I love those green sneakers.”

The door opened, and a fit black woman entered. Cordova introduced her, Michelle Abernathy. He put his hand lightly on Bernie’s arm. “I’ll be observing the session in the next room. It’s a pleasure to work with you.”

Abernathy sat behind the desk.

“Officer Manuelito, thank you for coming to Santa Fe today. You made my life so much easier.”

“Please call me Bernie.”

“Bernie, have you been hypnotized before?”

“No.”

Abernathy explained the procedure, stressing that the session would focus only on the shooting and the events immediately preceding it. She had reviewed the transcript of Bernie’s interview with Cordova, which she had on her laptop, and also listened to his recording of their session. The theory behind this kind of hypnotism, she explained, was that in a state of profound relaxation the brain could sometimes retrieve suppressed or forgotten memories with the help of a trained therapist to guide the process.

“Will you tell me if I say something different than what’s on the report?

“Yes,” Abernathy said. “I can give you a copy of my tape of the session if you’d like it. Any other questions?”

“I guess not,” Bernie said. “Let’s do this.”

Abernathy dimmed the lights. They started with simple relaxation cues. Abernethy was good—thorough, professional, unintimidating, likable. Bernie let herself unwind. After a while, Abernathy asked her to imagine that she was watching a movie of Leaphorn’s shooting running in slow motion, and that she could stop the action whenever she wanted, frame by frame. Abernathy moved the process forward with a series of questions.

Bernie described the person dressed in black leaving the blue sedan, walking straight toward the lieutenant. Walking quickly. She watched the hand with the pistol extended toward him.

“What does the lieutenant do?”

“He glances up. Looks at the person.”

“Does the lieutenant recognize the person?”

“I’m not sure.” Bernie exhaled. “He looks surprised, like he’s just about to say something.”

“What do you see next?”

Bernie described the black barrel of the pistol, the sound of the gunshot, a flash of sunlight against metal on the shooter’s wrist, the lieutenant sinking down onto the asphalt. Abernathy asked about the gun, but Bernie could see no more details.

“I’d like you to rewind. Please take a closer look now at the wrist. Can you see what caught your eye more clearly?”

“I see a wide metal band.”

“Do you notice anything else?

“I’m looking at the front, and I don’t see a watch face. I guess it’s a bracelet.”

“What color is it?

“Silver,” Bernie said.

“Can you see anything else about it?”

Bernie let the image wash over her brain. “It has hearts, linked hearts, as a design. Looks like a sand-cast bracelet.”

C
hee drove them both to the Flying Tortilla for lunch—her treat to settle their bet about the FBI. She ordered the stuffed sopaipilla with ground beef and green chile. He had the steak and chile relleno combination because the menu described the chilies as “Big Jim.” She told him about the session.

“The only thing that surprised me was the bracelet.”

“Too bad it wasn’t an ID bracelet with his name on it.”

“Still, it’s a new clue. Better than nothing,” she said.

“We just have to find somebody who drove the Benally car and also has a silver bracelet. That’s probably every Navajo who was in it. Men and women.”

Bernie said, “Maybe you need to talk to Mrs. Benally again. Ask to see her jewelry.” She took another forkful of her lunch.

“I guess hypnotism makes you hungry? It made me hungry, and I wasn’t even the subject,” Chee said.

“I was starved,” she said. “I was too nervous to eat breakfast.”

He used a tortilla to mop up the last of his green chile sauce. “How far is the hospital from here?”

“It’s halfway across town,” she said. “Maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Too many people die in those places.” Chee pushed his plate to the side. “And you never know if the person you’re visiting just wants to be left alone.”

Although he wouldn’t have said it, she knew Chee’s acquiescence to the hospital visit showed how much the lieutenant meant to him. She’d seen Leaphorn’s brisk way of dealing with Chee, pointing out overlooked clues, unquestioned assumptions, and gaps in logic. She knew the criticism left her smart, competent husband feeling like an unworthy apprentice. Still, Chee honored the man.

The nurse in CCU remembered Bernie from her earlier visit, recognizing her even without her police uniform. “Your uncle seems more alert today,” the nurse said.

“Can he talk?”

“No, he can’t speak because of the breathing tube. Dr. Moxsley will be here this afternoon, and he’ll do another assessment of the injury.”

Bernie led the way to the lieutenant’s bedside. The room was dark and cool. Leaphorn lay unmoving and looked smaller than before. His head was still swathed in bandages and the tubes and monitors still in place.

“Yá’át’ééh.” Chee spoke softly and walked toward the bed.

The lieutenant’s eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, seemed to search in the direction of the voice. Then closed again.

Chee spoke in Navajo. “My wife and I are here, making sure you are behaving yourself,” he said. “We wanted you to know we are thinking of you.”

Bernie said, “I hope you’re feeling better today. We miss you.”

Leaphorn had a little more color in his face, and the swelling seemed to have gone down. It gave her hope to see him like this.

She switched to English. “We talked to Louisa on the phone, and she said to tell you she wishes she could be here. That she loves you.”

Leaphorn inched his hand in her direction. She reached for it.

“I’m finishing up the AIRC job for you,” Bernie said. “I met Dr. Collingsworth and Dr. Davis, and I saw some of the collection. Beautiful pots. And they showed me the Hosteen Klah rug. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.”

Chee said, “Now I’ll fill you in about the progress of the investigation into your shooting. In a word, nothing. Only dead ends.”

Chee told the story of his encounters with Mrs. Benally and her enterprising son, of the cake and Garrison Tsosie. Just when Bernie had begun to worry that Chee was talking too long, he said, “We need you to get better so you can help us work this case. Then we won’t have to try so hard.”

Leaphorn’s eyes fluttered open again. He looked toward Chee and moved his lips. The ventilator kept him from speaking.

“Do you know who shot you?” Chee asked. Leaphorn moved his head up and down ever so slightly.

Bernie found a notebook and a pen in her backpack. She offered him the pen, and his hand moved weakly toward it, then sank back onto the bed.

“Next time,” Bernie said. “Rest now. Get stronger.”

Chee said, “I’ve been wondering if you might like a singer to pray over you for healing. Just lift up a finger or something if that’s right. If you don’t want this, just stay still.”

Leaphorn lifted the index finger of his right hand, pulsing it over the bedsheet, and moved his head almost imperceptibly. He seemed to point at Chee with his chin. The effort exhausted him. He closed his eyes, and Bernie felt his grip relax.

In the hallway she said, “He wants you to do a sing. Let’s talk to the chaplain here about that.”

“Me?”

“He pointed at you.”

“Why talk to the chaplain? What would he know about it?”

Bernie said, “You might have to bend the rules a little to do a ceremony in the hospital, but the lieutenant can’t be the first Navajo they’ve had here. And it’s good to have Jesus and the White God on our side, too.”

“I thought I could arrange something for him when he was well enough to travel,” Chee said. “But I see how weak he is. We should do it soon.”

13

T
he chaplain’s office was closed. They found a plastic container fastened to the door with a slot for messages. Chee left his card with a cell number and a note.

They walked to the truck, noticing the clouds piling atop the Sangre de Cristos like a layer of soft gauze. “Leaphorn can see the mountains from his room,” Chee said. “That’s about the only good thing I can think of.”

Bernie remembered Dr. Moxsley’s concern that the bullet might have damaged the lieutenant’s vision, but she didn’t mention that. She said, “The staff is nice, too.”

“It surprised me to see him so frail,” Chee said.

Bernie nodded. “I’m worried about him.”

When they climbed into the truck, she picked up the report she’d printed for the AIRC and told Chee how to get there.

They took Old Pecos Trail toward the Plaza, then Santa Fe Trail, a narrow road that followed the old wagon route of Anglo settlers who came to Santa Fe in the nineteenth century to trade with local merchants.

As he drove, Chee thought about the sing for Leaphorn. He needed to consult a
hataalii
who had experience with this kind of exceptional situation, ask if he would be willing to come to Santa Fe, and then help make the arrangements. It would take a few days and some persuasion. Perhaps the lieutenant would be well enough to come home and the ceremony could be done properly in Dinetah, the land between the sacred mountains. But according to the doctor, that was highly unlikely in the near future.

“Turn here,” Bernie ordered, and they drove onto a curving road with beautiful, historic homes that resembled haciendas set behind hedges, adobe walls, and garden gates. The narrow paved street was framed with tall trees. Low ridges of brick-covered asphalt, called speed humps because they were smaller than speed bumps, slowed the traffic.

Chee parked in the dirt lot in front of the American Indian Resource Center reception building. As they headed down the path to Collingsworth’s office, she pointed out the way to the museum.

Chee said, “Leaphorn upgraded when he went to work here. The Window Rock headquarters look pretty darn shabby compared to this. They even have a garden. Nice!”

Bernie stopped to look at a plant along the walk. “These are just about to bloom. This ought to be a beautiful peony.”

“Peony?”

She ran her fingers along the round top of the bud. “These flowers just last a few days, but they are huge and gorgeous. I saw them for the first time on one of my botany class field trips.”

Dr. Collingsworth had left campus for a meeting with a board member, but Marjorie, the secretary, told Bernie he was due back shortly. “May I get you anything while you wait? A bottle of water? A soda? How about for your companion?”

Bernie introduced Chee.

“I found that report Dr. Collingsworth wanted on the lieutenant’s computer, and since I was in Santa Fe, I figured I’d drop it off. I looked through it to make sure it was the right one. I noticed that the lieutenant only had one major concern.” She handed Marjorie the envelope.

“I’m sorry you went to all that trouble,” Marjorie said. “I found it this morning. I haven’t had a chance to show Dr. Collingsworth, but I called and told him.” She indicated a manila envelope on her desk with Leaphorn’s characteristic handwriting.

“I’m glad it’s here,” Bernie said. “I guess the mail finally came through. Now you’ll have two copies.”

“It wasn’t in the mail,” Marjorie said. “Evidently it arrived earlier and had been misdelivered to someone else’s office. I looked everywhere for it after you left. Came in this morning, unlocked the office, went down the hall to start the coffee, and when I came back, I discovered it here on my desk. Somebody must have found it and dropped it off. It’s funny whoever it was didn’t want the credit.”

“That is odd,” Bernie said. “Who knew the report was missing?”

“Dr. Collingsworth sent around an e-mail to everyone. Some folks let their mail pile up. Mostly junk these days. Anyway, I’m sorry you two made the trip for nothing.”

“Oh, not for nothing,” Chee said. “I’d never been in this part of Santa Fe. Pretty fancy. And I’d never heard of the AIRC until Bernie got involved and starting talking about the rug you showed her the last time.”

“The Hosteen Klah? Would you like to see it?”

“I would. If it’s no trouble,” Chee said.

Marjorie said, “No problem. The museum isn’t open to the public, just to researchers and private tours, but I’ll call and tell them you’ll be over. That rug is one of our masterpieces.” She smiled at him. “I’m sorry I can’t go with you. Bernie knows we have a lovely collection of Native American pottery and baskets over there, too. Take your time. Enjoy it.”

Thick adobe walls kept the AIRC’s administrative offices relatively cool, but even at Santa Fe’s 7,000-foot elevation, it was warm outside. They strolled to the museum, a newer building, cleverly constructed to blend in with the historic campus. As Bernie expected, Chee stopped to admire the huge black pot with its flecks of mica sitting under the spotlight in the entry corridor. They signed in at the front desk as requested. “Cold in here,” Chee said.

“Climate control to protect our collections.” The receptionist spoke in a voice just above a whisper. She gave them both plastic badges that read
GUEST
. “Don’t touch anything, but enjoy looking at the collection. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“May we see the big Navajo weaving, the one in the back room?”

“Of course,” she said. She clicked a button on the console. “I’ve disabled the lock so you won’t need the code to get out. The door is open for you.”

Bernie marveled again at the wealth of artifacts on display, things she hadn’t even noticed on her first visit. The museum housed some of the best ancient Indian art available to researchers anywhere, and a nice gallery of modern pieces inspired by these traditions.

“Wow,” Chee said. “I don’t see how they even have room for that new donation you told me about. This place is packed tight. Look at all this great stuff.”

“Collingsworth said when the new collection comes, it arrives with enough money to build a wing to house and display it. That’s a pretty nice gift.”

She opened the door to the rug room, and the rheostat brought the light up slowly, automatically.

The Klah rug looked even more beautiful than she remembered, remarkable both for the way it gave form to the sacred Navajo Holy People and for the skill of its weaving. It took her breath away all over again. Standing here, she thought, is standing in the presence of greatness. This must be how white people felt when they went to the Sistine Chapel. As she absorbed its grandeur, her concern about the lieutenant dissolved like salt in warm water. She felt gratitude in the presence of such creative genius, gratitude that she lived in such an amazing world and that her mother had taught her the joy of weaving. Gratitude that she knew the lieutenant. Gratitude that she had found and married such a fine man. She looked at Chee. He seemed lost in reverie. His eyes pooled with tears.

When he noticed her gaze, he whispered, “This was the perfect time to be here. Thank you.”

Bernie smiled. They stood in silence.

When they walked out of the room and down the hall to the main part of the museum, she felt lighter, as though a boulder had been lifted away from her heart.

“I wish my uncle Hosteen Nakai could have seen that rug,” Chee said. “It ought to be in Dinetah, not in a museum in Santa Fe.”

“I agree. But if it wasn’t here, it might be hanging in some collector’s living room, and we would never have been able to see it. And if it hadn’t been for the lieutenant, we would never have known it was here.”

Before they left, Chee stopped at the museum entrance desk.

“Wonderful collection,” he said. “I imagine you have a lot of security around here.”

The woman nodded. “State-of-the-art. That’s right. Some of these pieces are priceless and irreplaceable.”

Bernie said, “The camera in the hallway isn’t working. You might check it.”

The woman looked puzzled. Studied her monitor.

“Why do you say that?”

“I noticed that the light that blinks when those cameras record wasn’t blinking. It was a solid green,” Bernie said. “I doubt what’s on your monitor is being recorded.”

The woman looked skeptical. “I’ll check with the company that takes care of the system. We’ve never had any trouble. The people who visit us are like you two. Respectful and interested.”

“But you never know,” Bernie countered. “And why pay for a security system that doesn’t do its job?”

The woman said, “You’re the police officer who was here with Dr. Collingsworth. That’s why you know so much about this.”

Chee said, “That, and she’s just naturally nosy. That’s another reason I love her.”

Bernie laughed. “Curious. Say I’m naturally curious. That sounds better.”

They ran into Collingsworth on the sidewalk as they headed to the parking lot, and Bernie made the introductions.

“I’m glad I caught up with you,” Collingsworth said. “Sorry you had to make a trip for nothing. Marjorie told me you went to a lot of trouble to find that report. She should have called you to let you know it turned up here.”

“It gave me a chance to see the museum,” Chee said. “Great collection.”

Collingsworth turned to Bernie. “I apologize again for acting like such a lout. I should have known that Mr. Leaphorn would do the job. I’m sure the board will support his recommendation that we add twenty percent on the insurance to cover the new pieces. Other than that, I was relieved to see that he didn’t raise any major issues about potential sacredness or the valuations.”

Bernie said, “I was tired when I read through it last night, but I thought his questions about those oldest pots, the cylinders from Chaco that he mentioned in that exceptions section, were interesting. I’m not an expert on this, but those concerns seemed worth following up.”

“What exceptions?”

Bernie said, “I’m talking about the first and last pages, where he talked about those pieces that the McManus Foundation may have undervalued.”

She saw the puzzled look on Collingsworth’s face.

“You remember, the pages where he copied those blurry photos for you of the pots he had questions about. The tall, thin ones?”

Collingsworth stopped walking. “I never saw any of that. It wasn’t in the envelope he mailed us.”

Bernie said, “It was part of the report we found on the lieutenant’s computer, and it’s in the copy I left for you. Maybe he forgot—” She stopped herself. The lieutenant seldom forgot anything. He would never neglect to send something so crucial to his findings, material he wanted Collingsworth to notice.

“Forgot to send them to me?” Collingsworth asked. “He certainly seemed competent, but even the best of us can make a mistake. I’ll take a look at what you so nicely delivered. But undervalued? That’s as rare in this business as a gold-plated dinosaur tooth. Unscrupulous collectors have been known to inflate valuations . . .”

Collingsworth’s voice trailed off, and he took a few steps back so he could stand in the shade. “If he were able to follow up on this, I’d give Mr. Leaphorn an extra day or two to solve that little puzzle. But as I understand it, that’s not possible.”

Bernie said, “Let me look into it, see if I can find out something about those pots.”

“I’m confident those questions will prove to be nothing more than nitpicking. The references I checked said Mr. Leaphorn was an absolute stickler for details.” Collingsworth took a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped the sweat from his forehead. “Why do these old pots matter to you?”

“It’s not about the pots for me,” she said. “This might be our friend’s last job, or at least his last job for a long time. He’d want to make sure it was finished correctly. Since he can’t follow up on it himself, I’d be willing to tie things up.”

Collingsworth hesitated. Replaced his handkerchief. “I don’t see how this can do any good, but it won’t do any harm. I’m sure Leaphorn’s questions are just technicalities, but we can’t be too careful with a collection like this. If I don’t hear from you in a couple of days, I’ll assume you reached a dead end. Keep track of your hours, and I’ll pay you what I would have paid him to follow up on this.”

“That won’t be—”

“I insist,” Collingsworth said. “But I expect to hear from you in forty-eight hours or sooner. Don’t pull a Leaphorn on me.”

He indicated a row of low adobe buildings on the north side of the parking lot.

“Dr. Davis has the envelope of research material you returned earlier. It might come in handy. She’s in her office across the way there.”

Collingsworth walked toward his office, and they headed to the northern complex. Chee pointed out the shiny gray Lexus SUV with a magnetic American Indian Resource Center logo as big as a basketball on the side. “Salaries must be good here, if that’s the company car.”

They knocked on the door with the sign that read “Associate Director.”

“Come in.” Bernie introduced Chee and explained the reason for their visit. In contrast to Collingsworth’s imposing space, Davis’s office had an invitingly homey look, with a fireplace, bookshelves, and a couple of stuffed chairs with reading lamps and low tables. Pots sat among the books. Framed photographs hung on the walls, gallery style, one above the next.