The next day the memory of the burned sedan, the stench of rubber and plastic, still bothered Bernie. She pictured the scene again. She wondered if it had to do with gangs, some sort of initiation. Another thing to mention to the Lieutenant. Talking to him always helped.
She steered her mind to happier thoughts. The Lieutenant using the computer. Wonderful news. Another step in his recovery.
As she drove into Window Rock, her cell phone vibrated. She was surprised to see that the caller was Officer Wheeler, a colleague stationed there. She put him on speaker.
“Hey, Manuelito. So the Captain has you tracking down a burned car?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been investigating incidents like that out here. I can give you some info, share my files. I heard you were coming out this way to see the Lieutenant. Meet me at the Navajo Inn, and I’ll pass all this off to you. I want to talk to you for a minute about that guy Miller, too. I’m almost at the parking lot now.”
“OK, thanks, but—” And before she could suggest an alternative place to meet, he hung up.
She would have suggested that they get together at the chain restaurant down the street or the Chinese place in the little mall. She had always enjoyed the Navajo Inn, but now the thought of going there felt like a cold wind on her neck.
She forced herself to park in the open spot by the door, the same place where the Lieutenant had parked his truck the day he was shot. Even looking at the building made her edgy. She climbed out of her Toyota, straightened up, took a breath. She knew she had to do this sometime, and now was as good a time as any. She walked through the big doors and into the dining room.
Wheeler sat at a booth by the back windows, looking at the oasis of shade and water the restaurant and adjoining hotel had created. Bernie slipped in across from him.
Bernie’s favorite waitress, Nellie Roanhorse, handled their section. Nellie came by for their orders and smiled at Bernie. “Good to see you again. I’ve missed you here. How’s your friend, the one who got shot?”
Surprisingly, it was a relief to talk about him. “He’s getting stronger, doing better. He’s able to use the computer now, working a little.”
“You want some fries today?”
“No, just a Coke.”
Nellie brought the Coke, and an iced tea for Wheeler. Bernie sipped, focusing on each sweet, cold swallow, forcing herself to drink slowly when she wanted to gulp it down and order six refills. Cokes weren’t the best thing for her, she knew. She usually limited herself to one a day. Nellie understood her weakness, however, and took her glass for a refill while she and Wheeler talked.
Bernie opened the discussion. “You mentioned that you’d learned something about Miller. I’m curious about that man. Do you know why the feds are so interested?”
Wheeler put down his glass. “When I heard the story about you and the dirt, I remembered him from a DWI road block this spring. He was suspicious then, too.”
Bernie wondered why, of the hundreds of motorists Wheeler had dealt with, Miller stood out. She waited for the story to unfold.
“I talked to him like you do to everybody, to see if I smelled beer or something. The man wasn’t drinking, and he was driving OK, but he sure was nervous. He’s telling me about how he moved from Las Vegas. I asked him about the casinos in Vegas, which ones have the best odds, and he clammed up, like I’d said something dirty to him. I checked his license, registration. All good, same as you found. When I told him he could be on his way, he asked me if I’d ever heard of something called the Red Rock Highway and how to get there. I told him yes and explained where it was.”
Bernie knew the Red Rock Highway—BIA Route 13, the scenic route over the Chuskas, which wound through forests and red cliffs. Off this route, someone had burned Miller’s car. “Did you ask him why he wanted to know?”
“He said he had some business out that way. Funny, huh? There’s not much there.”
“He told me he was a contractor. Is that what he said to you?”
Wheeler rubbed a thumb against his jaw. “I remember he mentioned that he did some landscaping. That might be what he planned for the dirt you found, a mini project on someone’s patio.”
“Do you know why the feds are interested in him?”
“Maybe they’re bored or something.”
She picked up the car fire folder. “I appreciate this. I’ll show it to the Lieutenant. Maybe he’ll have some insights.”
“Tell him hey for me. Let me know if any of these cases are related to yours, maybe gangster activity spreading out that way. You’ve made me curious.”
When Nellie came closer, Bernie asked for the bill.
“My treat today. You come back and bring the one who got shot.”
Louisa opened the door before Bernie could knock, and told her the Lieutenant was taking a nap. “He usually sleeps about half an hour, so he ought to be awake soon.”
In the kitchen, Louisa asked about Mama and Darleen. Bernie answered briefly, not going into detail. The cat came in, lapped some water from its bowl on the kitchen floor, and pranced away again.
“What’s happening with your work?” Bernie asked. They had talked before about Louisa’s research for a book comparing the origin stories of southwestern tribes, a project she’d been involved with for years. Louisa also worked as a consultant in American studies with her colleagues at Northern Arizona University.
“I haven’t been doing any consulting lately. I miss interviewing for the book, but it will be there when the time comes.”
“Captain Largo asked me to invite you and the Lieutenant to join him and some of the top brass for breakfast at the Navajo Inn. It’s an open invitation. Whenever he’s up for it. I thought it might be better to ask you about the idea first.”
Louisa ran her hand through her cropped gray hair. “I’ll talk to Joe about that. Give him time to consider it. Would you be there, too?”
“Largo wants me to, yes. I stopped at the restaurant today to meet with another officer. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I did OK.”
“You’ve got a lot on your shoulders, between your mother and sister and the job and that handsome guy you’re married to. So, how is your mother’s health these days? How’s Darleen doing? And how are you holding up with Chee at Monument Valley?”
Bernie had noticed that white people often asked more than one question at the same time. She liked it; it meant she could answer whatever question she wanted.
“I’m fine. Missing my husband. How are you feeling?” She knew Louisa had some health issues, things she rarely talked about.
“I’m all right.”
Bernie heard a shuffle in the hallway and turned. Leaphorn walked slowly, using his cane, coming to join them. She remembered seeing him in the hospital, pale and near death, and how Louisa had stayed with him in that tiny room, cheered him up, brought him home. “The Lieutenant looks better every time I see him. Now he’s getting around without using the walker. Wonderful!”
“It is wonderful. You know, only ten percent of people who are shot in the head survive.” Louisa’s voice quavered. “I thank my lucky stars that Joe beat the odds. And that he’s recovering. I celebrate his being alive every day.”
“Remember that congresswoman from Arizona, the woman who was shot? She went skydiving to celebrate the third anniversary of her survival.”
Louisa laughed. “Can you imagine Joe jumping out of a plane?”
Bernie turned toward Leaphorn as he entered the kitchen. “Yá’át’ééh.”
He nodded to her. He looked sleepy, she thought.
Louisa pulled out a chair so Leaphorn could lower himself more easily, but didn’t offer to help him beyond that. “We’re going to Gallup for Joe’s physical therapy tomorrow. It was good that you could come today.” She rose. “Can I bring you something to drink?”
“No, thanks. I just had a Coke.” Bernie looked at the Lieutenant. “Do you like that therapy?”
He made a sound and then tapped twice, the signal for no. Then again once, for yes.
Bernie laughed. “I guess that means you’re not sure.”
“They make him work, and that’s exhausting. But he’s getting better because of it. The staff helps him with balance, standing, walking.”
Bernie thought about how hard it would be to have to relearn all of that. “Do they help you with talking?”
The Lieutenant made another sound, but Bernie couldn’t understand it. Louisa said, “That’s the speech therapist’s job.”
“What a lot of appointments. No wonder you haven’t had any time for your research.”
“This is my work now. My work and my joy. Whatever I can do to help Joe.”
Louisa looked exhausted, Bernie realized. What if Chee had been the shooter’s victim? Would Bernie be as open-hearted? What if she’d been shot? How would she feel about Chee putting his job on hold to help her regain some of what the bullet took away? She thought of people she knew who had come back from Iraq or Afghanistan with injuries, and how they and their families struggled. People did what they had to do, and she admired those like Louisa who kept their balance in a whirlwind of change.
Leaphorn tapped on the table, using all his fingers and both thumbs.
“Joe, the computer is in your office.” Louisa turned to Bernie. “I know you’ve got police business to discuss with him. You’ll be more comfortable in there, and you can talk Navajo without having to translate for me.”
The Lieutenant pushed himself to standing, using the table for leverage. He reached for his cane and, step by slow step, began to move toward his office. Bernie followed. With some effort—and a look that yelled leave-me-alone when she tried to help—the Lieutenant settled into his favorite reading chair. The cat tagged along, too. Leaphorn motioned for Bernie to put the computer on his lap.
“Do you remember I mentioned to you that I’d stopped that man with the dirt in his trunk?” Bernie asked in Diné Bizaad, the language where her best thinking lived.
Leaphorn tapped once: yes.
Bernie told him about Miller’s car being burned near Ship Rock.
Leaphorn typed in Navajo: Who?
“That’s what I want to know. Who did it? Wheeler has been investigating stuff like this here in Window Rock. Those cars were burned as revenge or gang initiations. He gave me a folder about all that. Oh, and he said to tell you hello.” Bernie sat down in the desk chair and rolled it next to the Lieutenant. She opened the folder and showed him the photos, but he didn’t seem interested in them or in the printouts Wheeler had included.
“So, who could have burned the car? Hosteen Tso, the old one who lives out there and saw the fire, thinks it was a skinwalker. Wheeler told me the gang activity he’s tracking might be spreading. Mr. Tso has a grandson who sounded kind of rough on the phone. Maybe he did it. That might take us back to the gang angle.”
Leaphorn moved his right hand over the keyboard, picking out each letter: why? Bernie wondered if the injury had affected his hand-eye coordination or his ability to remember where the letters were. Maybe he had always been a hunt-and-peck typist.
“Why? Good question.”
She felt her cell phone vibrate and looked at it. Captain Largo was on the line.
“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s the boss.”
“Manuelito,” Largo said, “I just got a call from Agent Cordova I thought you’d be interested in.”
“Yes, sir?”
“He told me Miller reported that his car was stolen from outside a bar in Farmington the night before it burned.”
“Interesting.”
“The report is on your desk. You’ll probably want to talk to the deputy who interviewed him about it.”
“Thanks. What do you think?”
The line was silent for a moment. Then Largo chuckled. “It could have happened. It has the same probability as the Navajo Rangers capturing Bigfoot. Are you with Lieutenant Leaphorn now?”
“Yes, sir. He’s sitting right across from me.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“You know he—”
“I know.”
She handed the phone to the Lieutenant. He put it to his ear and, after a moment, turned away from her. When he turned back, his eyes were glistening. He handed her the phone; Largo had disconnected.
She told Leaphorn about the stolen car report and Largo’s skepticism. “That adds a new wrinkle. If it was some random guys who decided to take it, why bother to steal something and not sell it? Or keep it?”
Leaphorn kept his hands still.
“What if whoever took it had been tracking Miller from Flagstaff or Albuquerque because he wanted whatever contraband the guy had? Maybe Miller had reneged on a deal, and this guy thought he was smarter than the feds, or he didn’t realize the feds had already searched the car. When he couldn’t get what he wanted, he got angry and torched the car.”
Leaphorn tapped twice and typed: Not there.
“You mean I’m not there yet with the answer? Or the drugs weren’t out there in the car?”
Why burned there?
Bernie thought for a while. “What about this? Imagine some lowlifes have Miller on their watch list because of the drugs. They carjack him and force him to drive out there to get him to tell them where the drugs are, or the weapons or explosives or whatever he’s involved in. They threaten to hurt him if he doesn’t talk. He tells them where to look, and then they burn the car to scare him. He escapes and makes up the stolen car story because he’s embarrassed to tell the truth. And so his insurance company will pay.”
Leaphorn typed a Navajo word that meant something like “complicated.”
Bernie smiled. “You always did encourage us to go for the obvious solution first. Now all I have to do is think it up. But, if not, at least I have the complex one.”
Leaphorn looked better than when she’d arrived. He was sitting straighter now as he typed again.
Why feds involved?
“That’s my question too, but no one will tell me. I don’t know enough about Miller to figure it out but I could tell by the way he reacted when I stopped him that he’s not squeaky clean. I’m guessing it’s white-collar crime—not sex trafficking or terrorism. Maybe he’s involved in a mortgage scam or Internet fraud.”
Leaphorn didn’t respond. Was he getting tired, or processing the information? The cat stretched out on his lap.
Another idea came to her. “Largo doubts the stolen car story. Maybe Miller drove it out there himself and burned it to destroy whatever evidence the feds and I missed, and then claimed it was stolen. Since the original traffic stop was part of a drug interdiction, I expected the DEA to be involved, but instead I talked to an agent named Jerry Cordova. He asked some questions, but wouldn’t tell me why.”
Leaphorn started typing: What ?s.
“What Miller had been doing at that meeting in Albuquerque, where he said he’d been, whether I’d seen anything else suspicious in the car besides the dirt. I told him I didn’t know, and no. Later, after I found Miller’s phone, he asked me where he’d been calling. If the guy really worked in Flagstaff, I thought it was interesting that he didn’t have many Flagstaff numbers in his phone. I mean, it’s summer. The time for building out there in the mountains before the ground freezes again.”
dirt?
“Cordova didn’t ask me about the dirt. But I keep coming back to it.”
Who is M?
The cat leaped to the floor by Leaphorn’s feet and then onto the windowsill, where it sat, watching an assembly of hummingbirds at the feeder. They looked like airborne jewels, iridescent green-blue, their wings moving so fast Bernie could only see a blur. The cat’s tail twitched.
“I don’t know, and I can’t seem to find out, either. I feel like my logic is going in circles, using lots of energy to stay in one place, like those little birds.” She looked to Leaphorn for a response and discovered that he had closed his eyes.
“I’m tiring you out with so much talking.”
He looked up at her and typed: thinking.
“Me, too. It’s making my brain hurt.”
Leaphorn typed something else.
“Chee? Oh, right, I haven’t given you the update.”
She filled him in on the discovery of Samuel’s body, the man hiding in the bathroom, and Paul’s adventures setting up the tour company. She remembered what Chee had wanted her to ask. “Hold on a second. I left my backpack in the living room, and I need to show you something.”
She located the backpack on the coffee table, then remembered her phone was in her pocket. She called up the photo Chee had sent her of the necklace.
“Chee said he e-mailed this to you, but he wasn’t sure it came through. He asked me to get your opinion. Does it look familiar?”
Leaphorn studied the photo, then tapped three times, his code for maybe.
Why.
“You know Chee. He doesn’t like loose ends.” She told Leaphorn the story of the bloody towels. “He’s been wondering why someone would abandon something so beautiful. It doesn’t sit right with him. Like me and those darn boxes of dirt.”
She watched the hummingbirds for a few minutes more while Leaphorn typed. Not a message this time; he was calling up his e-mail. Chee had managed to send the Lieutenant the same photo.
Leaphorn switched out of e-mail and typed. Will get back to Chee.
“Have some tea first,” Louisa said when Bernie went to say goodbye. “It’s herbal. Good for you. Better than all that coffee you and Joe drink. I won’t keep you long, but you have to try this.”
Louisa poured a cup for Bernie, one for the Lieutenant, and one for herself. “You know, when Chee gets back from Monument Valley, you both should come over. That would be fun. Joe and I will rent some of those old John Ford movies that were filmed out that way.”
Bernie took a sip, then added some of the honey Louisa offered. It didn’t seem to help. If she drank half a cup, that would be polite enough, Bernie decided. Then she could be on her way.
She glanced at Leaphorn, sitting in his familiar place. His eyes were closed, his tea untouched.
On the drive to the office, Bernie puzzled over Miller without coming up with any ideas, then turned her thoughts to the Rotary speech. She’d finished a mental list of the major talking points when her phone rang. She put it on speaker.
“Mr. Tso’s daughter called,” Largo said. “She says her dad asked her to call you. Says he remembered something else and wants to talk to you.”
“About the car?”
“I asked her that. She said he wouldn’t tell her. He said he could only talk to the police about it. He said it was important.”
“OK. I’m near that turnoff, so I’ll stop and see him now.”
“The daughter said to tell you that his grandson will be there, too.”
Bernie hoped surprise would work in her favor with Aaron Torino.
When she got there, the young man’s posture told her he hadn’t expected his grandfather to have company. She started over, introducing herself with her clans. Some young people reciprocated. Some looked puzzled. Some saw this link to tradition as old fashioned. She watched Aaron’s attitude shift from surprise to impatience. He gave her a hard look but didn’t speak. The man could use a refresher course in manners, she thought.
Mr. Tso said, “Officer Manuelito is curious about the car out there. I told her you might know something.”
Aaron was older than Bernie expected, probably mid-twenties, but he acted like a teenager. She wondered if he’d been arrested. He had the sort of arrogance she’d observed in ex-cons.
“My grandson was bringing us some beans,” Mr. Tso said. “You have some, too.”
“Only a small serving.” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings by refusing. And they couldn’t be as bad as Louisa’s tea or Mr. Tso’s ultra-sweet coffee, could they?
Aaron disappeared into the house. She heard some noise, and then he came back to the doorway. “Gramps, you got any salt?”
“It’s here on the porch.”
Mr. Tso motioned Bernie to the wooden chair again. There was room on the bench next to him for Aaron, but the young man squatted on the porch step, balancing the plate on his lap. Bernie studied the pinto beans he’d given her on a plate with a chip in the rim. Then she tasted them, lukewarm and old. “I’m the officer who talked to you on the phone. I’m investigating the car fire, trying to find out if anyone out here saw anything. Your mother and your grandfather both suggested that I talk to you.”
He tossed his head toward Mr. Tso. “Talk to him. He has nothing to do but pay attention to what happens out here.”
“Your grandfather tells me he wasn’t feeling good that day. That he was in bed resting, and then he smelled something, and when he got up he saw the fire. Is that right, sir?”
Mr. Tso gave a quick nod.
Aaron took a bite of beans. Chewed. Swallowed. “You know a dude, a cop named Wheeler?”
“Officer Wheeler. Yes.”
“He’s been riding one of my friends pretty hard. If he lets up, I might remember something.”
“I don’t have any control over what Officer Wheeler does. He told me there have been a bunch of car fires lately in Window Rock, too.”
Aaron laughed. “That guy stays up with the news.”
“He’s wondering if this one might be tied to those. He mentioned the idea of gang involvement.”
Aaron took another bite of beans, added salt.
Bernie heard Mr. Tso’s bench creak as he shifted his weight. Then he spoke. “I have been thinking about the questions you asked me about that fire.” He pressed his palms together. “Some young people might go out to where that car is. They drink, play loud music. My grandson, I tell him not to go there. I tell him to make those boys go somewhere else.”
“That party was nothing,” Aaron said. “You make it sound like a big deal.”
“Come up here and sit with me. Don’t make the lady talk to you down there on that step.”
To her surprise, Aaron rose and joined Mr. Tso on the bench. “Grandfather, you didn’t tell me you’d been sick.”
“It was because of what I saw up there on the ridge.” Mr. Tso continued. “It was in the late afternoon, after you brought food for the sheep. Sometimes it looked like a man. Then it was low, like a coyote. Then a man. I saw it before the car caught on fire, my grandson. That’s what I needed to tell the officer, too.” Mr. Tso turned his attention to the west, where a few high clouds caught the beginnings of the sunset color show. The day had started to cool a bit. “No more talk of that.”
Aaron looked at his grandfather’s empty plate. “Would you like more food?”
“No.” He handed the plate to Aaron. “Bring me some water.”
Aaron headed inside, and Bernie followed. He turned to her. “You’re bothering an old man. I left before the fire, OK? I don’t know anything about it.”
“Your grandfather invited me here, and he was glad for my company. I think he gets lonely.”
“Lonely, so then he makes up stories. Do you think he is crazy?”
“I think Hosteen Tso is a fine old gentleman. A warrior. What do you think?”
Aaron looked at his empty plate. “I think he imagines things, maybe because he’s mostly here by himself. Sometimes he can’t sort out what happened last week from what happened a long time ago.”
“Has he talked about a creature prowling on the ridge before?”
“Yeah, he mentioned it the first time a few months ago. He said he’d seen something out there walking. He was shook up about it, too. He called it human and then said it could have been a big dog or a wolf. Or something else. He told me to be careful, and to be sure to leave before dark. He worries about me the same as he did when I was a kid.”
The same way Bernie’s mother worried about her and her little sister, she thought. It didn’t matter how old she got, how good a cop she was, Mama would always envision her as a child whom she needed to protect. She pulled her attention back to Aaron’s story.
“A few days ago I brought him some groceries, wire to fix the fence, gasoline for his chain saw, other things he asked for. I hung here longer than usual to help because his hip and back hurt. He said he thought the pain came because of what he’d seen on the ridge.” Aaron didn’t use the word for the evil creatures either in English or, more descriptively, in Navajo, Bernie noticed.
He walked to the stove and turned off the propane burner beneath the pot of beans. “It was the same story that he told out there on the porch. He tells those stories over and over, and I can’t tell if the same thing happened again. He comes up with stories he heard as a boy to make sense of things.”
“The old stories are part of what makes us Navajo. They give us a framework. They’ve helped me when I have to do a job I’d rather not face.” Bernie put her plate on the counter next to the other two. “You asked me about his story, if I believe it. I’ve seen some things at night when I’ve been working alone that I don’t talk about. A lot of what happens leaves me puzzled, makes me wonder.”
“Wonder what?” Aaron was giving her his full attention now.
“Wonder what was going on, and if I’d seen something or just imagined it.”
“I thought he was trying to scare me into staying out here with him when he told me what he saw before the car burned. I told him I couldn’t. I’ve got to get a job, and this place doesn’t even have a telephone.”
“So we’re back to the car. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing. I told you already. But let Wheeler know it’s not connected to the vehicles that burned near Window Rock, and to give those dudes a break. And tell him that my friend, the one he’s hassling, he’s not hanging with them anymore.”
“What is your friend’s name?”
“Vernon Vigil.”
“I’ll mention it.”
Aaron took a mug to the big red thermos that sat on the kitchen counter and pushed in the button to start the flow of water. “You’re a cop. You stay up with stuff. I need to ask you something. Do you know anything about a new solar project out here?”
“It sounds great to me. A way to provide power for people like your grandfather, and the extra power would help other people. They’ve been experimenting with it a long time and the new technology seems dependable and safe.”
“They want to put some of those collector things by this house. Someone has been talking to me and Mom about it, and we think it sounds like a good deal. Grandfather could get electricity as well as some money, but he won’t do it. He says the panels would spoil the view, and he wants to see Ship Rock as it was meant to be seen. He would rather live in the dark out here alone than change his mind.” Aaron sipped the water. “What do you think?”
“I think solar power is great, but people have a right to say no.”
“You sound like him. Mom and I are trying to persuade him to come and live with her in Gallup. That way he wouldn’t have to see the panels. Or he could stay here with lights and a refrigerator. Have shows on TV instead of just looking at the scenery and watching the dust settle.”
Aaron poured a second cup of water. “Want some?”
“No, I have to go.” She stood a little straighter. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me anything about that car?”
“Nothing to say.”
She went back to the porch and said good night to Mr. Tso.
“Come back,” the old man said. “I have stories for you.”
Aaron walked to the car with Bernie. “If you’re really a cop, how come you aren’t driving a police car instead of that thing?”
Bernie gave her Toyota a pat on the hood. “No patrol unit because I’m off duty, on my way home. Any shortcuts back to Shiprock?”
He looked at her vehicle again. “You’ve got enough clearance to make it.” He gave her directions that sounded simple. Straight, a right at the big fork, then a hard left before the old windmill. Watch for ruts.
She found the big fork—at least, she assumed it was the right junction—easily enough, thinking about Aaron and how he stood to benefit if the burned car scared his grandfather into moving. She considered the connection between Roberta Tso and Miller. Decided that the stolen car report on her desk would have Miller’s contact information, and that he needed to answer some questions.
It was getting dark, the last rays of the long-lasting June sunset bathing the landscape in dusty pink. She drove on, savoring the fading light and the cooling air. She avoided most of the teeth-shaking holes in the road as she searched for the windmill without luck. She prided herself on her sense of direction. How could she miss a windmill? Maybe Aaron had given her wrong directions. She switched on the headlights and decided to turn around if she didn’t find the windmill at the top of the next rise.
Then, instead of the windmill, she saw an animal standing in the road, its eyes reflecting greenish gold in the fading light. In her years of cruising back roads on the reservation, beginning long before she was a legal driver, she’d encountered scores of coyotes. This one was huge, unlike any coyote she’d ever seen. She slowed down to let it move aside, but it held its ground. Goose bumps rose on her skin.
Her logical mind tried to make sense of it. Maybe it was a hybrid, an animal born of a large coyote and an even larger dog. Maybe a wolf hybrid had escaped from that refuge near Ramah and trotted out this way.
She slowed some more. The animal watched, challenging her to proceed. When she honked, it began to lope toward the car.
Without hesitation, Bernie made a U-turn back to Mr. Tso’s place, glad that the dirt was hard-packed here and, for once, happy that there had been no rain to soften the soil. She glanced in her rearview mirror, wondering if it would chase her, but the animal had disappeared.
She drove faster now that she knew the road, her brain repeating the soothing words of the old prayers. When she passed the house, Aaron’s truck was gone, the porch empty, the place dark.
At the burned car, Bernie slowed down to study the ridge above. Its rocky profile cut into the blue-black of the early evening sky.