Jim Chee walked from the motel to the Tuba City police station. He could have driven, but it was only a few miles and the early morning was crisp, cool, and bright with sun. The newscaster noted that a major winter storm could be on the way, but that was always the case in November. No use worrying. Enjoy today’s beauty.
The receptionist at the police station looked up when he entered.
“The meeting is down the hall.”
Chee knew the way. A pair of officers—a tall, thin sergeant and a shorter, younger, more muscled fellow with the posture of a Marine—stood in the hall.
“Hey, Chee, I heard you’d be up here,” the tall man said.
Chee nodded. “Yá’át’ééh.” He remembered Sergeant Art Redbone as a quick wit and a good cop. Redbone introduced the other man, Officer Billy Silversmith.
“I just found out from the sergeant that you worked with Lieutenant Leaphorn.” Silversmith looked serious. “He’s been consulting on a case up here. He was telling us about when he worked as a PI, helping a woman from Santa Fe find her granddaughter, and how your case dovetailed.”
“What else did Leaphorn say?”
Silversmith hesitated. Redbone grinned and picked up the conversation. “Nothin’ much, except that some dude named Chee nearly got him killed.”
Chee remembered the case. “That was quite a deal. Both of us nearly got killed by a crazed bilagaana researcher doing a study on bubonic plague. The guy had a special suit to keep the germs out, and he scared an old lady out there who thought he was a skinwalker.”
“I remember that,” Redbone said.
“If you have a chance, ask the Lieutenant to tell you about the case of the missing Navajo boy he worked at Ramah and Zuni Pueblo. That was before my time, but it was a classic piece of good investigating. Is he driving out here for the meetings?”
“No,” Silversmith said. “We do it all by computer, instant messages, texts, stuff like that.”
Redbone said, “Were you involved in the commotion at the high school?”
“No. My wife told me it was a real mess.”
“If that bomb had gone off with the lot full of people, it would have been terrible. Lucky that someone would go to all that trouble and screw up the timing.”
“Or set it off himself,” Silversmith said. “Bam. Maybe that guy who died was our mad bomber.”
Redbone said, “So your wife’s a cop, too. How do you like that?”
“It’s great. She’s great. She’s really good at what she does.”
Silversmith said, “I think it would be too much shop talk and not enough pillow talk. I’d have some trouble with that.”
Redbone chuckled. “You’re having trouble finding a wife in the first place. You need to figure out how to meet women someplace other than at crime scenes.”
Silversmith made a sound between a laugh and a snort.
Chee said, “Anything special at the meeting today?”
“I bet we’re going to get guidelines for handling hotheads,” Redbone said. “The captain expects a bunch of greenies to roll in from California. Some group famous for getting arrested and claiming police brutality. He’s giving us body cameras.”
Silversmith said, “The mediation hasn’t even started and we’re already working.”
Chee said, “If that group wants publicity, they’re coming to the wrong town. Tuba City doesn’t have a television station, a radio station, not even a newspaper unless the Navajo Times comes around. If we’re lucky, they’ll get bored and move on.”
“The Internet is everywhere,” Silversmith said. “Take a video with your phone, and bam, it’s viral even from downtown Tuba City. Of course, this place is kind of famous for combining things that normally don’t go together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, to start with, our Navajo Justice Center, where the meeting is, includes both a jail and space for those Peacemaking meetings so the bad boys get a scolding from their grandmother.”
Silversmith had greatly oversimplified Peacemaking, a concept society could use more of. Chee knew the program grew from the belief that families and friends were responsible for one another. If a person abused his wife, stole from a neighbor, or otherwise failed to follow the Navajo Way, his inner circle called him on it, challenged him to do better, and gave him a way to make amends and get back into harmony that did not involve jail time.
“And think about this.” Silversmith paused for effect. “Tuba City, one of the biggest towns on the Navajo Nation, is named for a Hopi who became a Mormon.”
Chee laughed. “You know we call it Tó Naneesdizí. Tuba City is only the English name. But I see your point. The mediator, the different delegates, and the protesters should be right at home here.”
Someone had propped open the door to the meeting room with a wooden wedge. The room looked as drab as Chee remembered. Beige walls, industrial gray carpet, florescent lights, no windows. The kind of space a person wanted to spend as little time in as possible. The brown metal folding chairs, some slightly bent at the seat or wobbling unevenly on three of the four legs, added to the sense that information would be disseminated quickly so life could resume.
Chee, Redbone, and Silversmith took the last seats in the prized back row. Officers from other jurisdictions: uniforms from the Havasupai people, a woman with Hualapai tribal law enforcement, Coconino County sheriff’s deputies, and even a couple of men from the Arizona Highway Patrol began to fill the room. Right before the captain stepped up to the podium, Chee saw Dashee enter by a side door and lean against the wall, followed by a blond man in the dark suit and perfect haircut that marked him as FBI.
Chee had met the officer in charge of the Tuba substation, Captain Bernard Ward, but didn’t know him well. Ward passed around a brief agenda.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to show you a video sent by the FBI about Save Wild America, one of the groups coming to protest. Agent Jerry Cordova, whom some of you know, had planned to attend, but he’s working on a fatal car bombing at Shiprock, which may be connected to the meeting here and the protest. We are joined today by two other FBI specialists from the domestic terrorism unit and representatives from the Arizona Department of Public Safety counterterrorism.”
Ward directed a round of introductions, then motioned to an officer to dim the lights. The video unfolded on the screen in the front of the room. It showed a protest in Yosemite, demonstrators going limp, taunting police, spitting, and several officers losing their cool. Except for the scenery in the background, it wasn’t pretty. It lasted about ten minutes and gave Chee an idea of what to expect.
“Cordova asked me to read you this.” The captain put on his glasses and looked at a sheet of paper on the podium. “‘The group that you will be dealing with has been in court many times on charges of ecoterrorism, destroying government property, arson, and other crimes. They’ve also brought numerous suits against law enforcement, federal, state, and local authorities. They don’t play nice. In response, we need to be careful and professional.’”
Captain Ward put the paper down, took off his glasses, and looked at the officers.
“From our perspective, the bad thing about this meeting is the timing. From the media perspective, it couldn’t be better because, except for basketball and Thanksgiving, nothing much happens in November. People who like to protest have time on their hands. Reporters in Phoenix and Flagstaff looking for news can trundle up here to make life interesting, even if most of them don’t know what the hell is going on.”
Chee thought about that. The idea that the Navajo Nation might allow development—some sort of tourist resort—on its land near the Grand Canyon had been brewing for years, through many elections for Navajo Nation president. If the project, or some facsimile, eventually managed to win approval of the Tribal Council and got the president’s OK, the decision would certainly end up in court. Before the tribal government could reject the idea in total or express some openness to modified alternatives, everything would be considered, debated, amended, and reconsidered. It had taken eons for the Grand Canyon to form, and in Chee’s opinion, any development or permanent end to the possibility of development that might be in the wind operated on that same timetable. But outsiders viewed the situation as urgent.
The captain said, “Maybe there won’t be any trouble, but plan for the worst, hope for the best, that’s my philosophy.”
Then a secretary passed around white cards with instructions on how to handle protesters and keep violence from accelerating. The title read “Planning and Managing Security for Major Special Events: Guidelines for Law Enforcement.” Chee skimmed the points.
He skimmed the rest of the list. Good ideas, but nothing he hadn’t heard before.
Captain Ward told them that the delegates would enter and leave the meeting from the rear of the building and that the audience would use the front door and be screened with the Justice Center’s metal detector and directed to the meeting room. Chee would do what Largo had already told him—keep a close eye on the mediator and provide security for the Navajo Nation president, who would officially welcome the delegates later in the week as his schedule allowed. In other words, he was a glorified bodyguard.
Chee and Dashee ordered an early lunch off the menu at the Tuuvi Cafe, a restaurant run by the Hopi tribe. The café occupied part of a gas station/convenience store complex that sold tourist hats and T-shirts, snack food, drinks, and DVDs. The business included video rentals and an attractive Hopi arts and crafts outlet in another part of the building. Dashee knew everyone who worked there.
Chee had met Dashee on one of his first assignments, a situation that started with sabotage to a windmill and ended up involving drug smuggling and murder. He couldn’t have done his job without Dashee’s help.
Chee ordered the Tuuvi taco, a plate-sized piece of fry bread topped with juicy pinto beans, shredded cheese, chopped lettuce and tomato, and a whole roasted green chile. Dashee ate the Hopi stew, a bowl of soft hominy spiced with chopped green chile and a bit of meat. The food arrived quickly, served by a plumpish girl with a lopsided smile.
The taco tasted as good as it looked. Chee took several bites, then put his fork down. “So how has life been treating you?”
“Can’t complain ’cause nobody listens.” Dashee patted his lips with the napkin. “How about with you? I heard you almost got to be a movie star.”
“Not quite. I got sent to Monument Valley and wrapped up with a film company making a movie about zombies, and it turned out to be an interesting case, but nobody offered me a role. So what’s new in Moenkopi?”
Dashee looked puzzled. “New? Nothing, same as always. That’s how we like it.”
Chee said, “I heard the Mormons want to set up some kind of monument there in honor of Lot Smith.”
“Who?”
“You know, the soldier, the big man in the Mormon settlement, the Circle S Ranch guy with a houseful of wives and kids? The one Atsidí killed for shooting his sheep way back when.”
“Oh, that. Nothing decided there yet. But before we get into religion and politics, well, I need a favor.” Dashee cleared his throat. “I’ve got to tell a family to move some livestock.”
“A Diné family.” Chee said it as a statement, not a question. Many Navajos had been displaced when a court ruled that they had to leave land they had long considered theirs. Some observers believed the problem wasn’t the Navajo or the Hopi, but coal companies that wanted to mine Black Mesa, where the families lived. The US Congress had passed the relocation act, and, agree with it or not, it was an officer’s job to uphold the law.
Dashee rested his fingertips on the edge of the table. “They’re the Bitsois. Mainly the mother lives there, although the children and grandkids show up to help. She only speaks Navajo, or at least that’s what she claims when I try to talk to her. That’s why I need some help.”
Chee cut another bite of fry bread moist with beans and chile. Not the healthiest thing on the planet, but why argue with delicious and warm? The room was warm, too. He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, all the while pondering his answer.
“Don’t you guys have a cop who speaks Navajo?”
“He’s on leave.” Dashee took a spoonful of his stew. “I don’t wanna be the bad guy, but I have to do my job. You know how that goes.”
Chee did know. Sometimes, it really was a matter of someone not speaking English. Sometimes, it was a case where the person knew some, but not enough to serve in complicated conversations. Sometimes, the language issue bought time to figure out a complicated situation.
“We Navajos don’t have any jurisdiction there. That’s your turf.”
“If you could come with me, well, I think it would make it easier on the family. I don’t want to arrest anybody, and having you along to explain things would help.”
“Two cops show up at the place instead of one? Yeah, that always helps people relax.”
Dashee chuckled. “I figured you’d be out of uniform, sort of a translator, explaining the situation to Mrs. Bitsoi and whoever else of the family shows up.”
Chee let the conversation sit as he finished his meal. “When do you need to do this?”
“Soon. Maybe in a day or two. After the protesters get tired.” Dashee grabbed the bill. “I’ll get this.”
“Trying to bribe me?”
“Nah, if I wanted to sweeten the deal, I’d ask you to the Niman dances.” In June, Hopi people living away from their ancestral villages returned to help with the event and visit relatives and friends during the sixteen-day Niman ceremony.
Chee smiled. Dashee invited him every year, but either he or Bernie always, always had had to work. It had become a joke between them. Whatever the day, something happened in Navajoland that kept them from the Hopi mesas. The last time, Dashee said he’d surprise Chee with the date and hope for the best.
The dances, held at the summer solstice, celebrated the departure of the Katsinas, Holy People of the Hopi, for their summer home on the San Francisco Peaks. Chee knew the mountain as Dook’o’oslííd, one of the four sacred mountains that defined the Navajo world and home of Talking God.
Dashee pushed back his chair. “Think about it, will you? I’ve got to go to the Hotel Hopi to stay warm with our delegation until the session starts. You working out there in the cold?”
Chee nodded. “Only until the mediator arrives, then I’m inside as a bodyguard.”
“I thought you drove him to town last night.”
“I mean from the hotel. His clan sister is bringing his dress-up clothes and she’ll give him a lift to the Justice Center.”
“I bet he was nervous as a one-eyed cat after the explosion.”
“You’d lose. He was calm and collected. Bernie said he was upset about his car, but not especially worried about some jerk trying to kill him.”
He watched Dashee make his way across the street, Highway 264, the route to the Hopi Mesas. The other road at this intersection, US Highway 160, marked an informal boundary between the Hopi reservation and the Navajo Nation that surrounded it. Highway 160 stretched up to Colorado and east to Missouri, but in Chee’s mind, this was its most interesting corner.
He called Palmer to check on him and learned everything was fine. Katie had arrived without incident and would drive him to the session in about half an hour. Chee noticed a missed call from Bernie and listened to her voice mail. She had a couple days off and might come to Tuba City. He called her, but her phone went right to message. “Great,” he told the electronic voice. “Can’t wait to see you.”
He walked back to the Justice Center. A few people had gathered outside the building, some bundled up in hats and coats and others less warmly dressed. He noticed a handful of Indians in the mix but didn’t see anyone he recognized. They all had assembled by the main entrance and piled their professional-looking signs on the sidewalk near the front doors: “Save the Confluence,” “Love the Grand Canyon,” “Ban the Resort,” and “Developers = Exploiters.” He wondered if they were from Save Wild America. He assessed the group, looking for a leader. No one stood out.
“You have to step back, folks, and put your signs somewhere else. You can’t block the entrance.”
A potbellied man came up to Chee. “We have a right to protest.”
“You do. But you have to move back so people can safely get into the room for the meeting. We don’t want anyone tripping over one of these sticks. That doesn’t do any good.”
“Did you make up that rule about the sidewalk?” The man wore a short-sleeved shirt. His nose and the tops of his ears had reddened from the icy wind.
Chee memorized the face. “It’s a safety issue and common courtesy.” Looking at the protester made Chee happy he had his jacket. “Where are you from, sir?”
The man looked surprised at the question. “That’s none of your business.”
Wherever the man lived, Chee thought, it fell short on good manners. “Well, welcome to Navajoland.”
“Why do you care where I live?”
“I figured you could be from someplace where it doesn’t get very cold. You might want to put on a hat to protect your ears from frostbite.” It was too warm for frostbite, really, but Chee wanted to make a point.
The man said nothing.
“Those signs need to be off the sidewalk so someone won’t fall over them.” Chee was tempted to add, And lighten up while you’re at it.
The man nudged the pile of signs with his foot, moving them barely to the edge of the sidewalk.
About ten minutes later, an Arizona Highway Patrol car pulled up with a couple of men Chee had seen at the meeting. As discussed, they would take charge of the building’s front entrance and help the Navajo cops with parking lot security.
The taller man, Officer Albert Anderson, turned his back to the civilians and spoke in a low voice. “Are these the activists the captain was talking about?”
“I don’t know.” Chee nodded in the direction of the man standing by the signs. “That guy in the short sleeves has an attitude problem.”
Anderson exhaled. “So, we’re off to a good start.”
His partner, Dan Rivera, said, “At least it’s not snowing.”
“Not snowing yet, anyway.” Anderson zipped up his coat and turned to Chee. “Any bigwigs here yet?”
“I don’t know. They’re parking by the back doors and assembling in a room there. Palmer wants them to come into the hall all together.”
“A grand entrance,” Anderson said. “I can hardly wait. How come this meeting is here instead of Phoenix, where it’s warmer?”
“The Navajo Nation thought you guys needed a road trip. The site for the potential resort is only half an hour from here, and Palmer plans a field trip at some point.”
More vehicles began to trickle in. Mostly Navajo and Hopi people now, he noticed, along with a few non-Natives and Indians whom he couldn’t pigeonhole. A handful of new faces joined the protesters. Most of the folks headed inside, and Chee considered that himself. He could stand in the atrium and watch for Palmer without freezing his toes off. But he’d be inside for hours once the meeting started. Best stay here and soak in some sunlight. He’d give Palmer another few minutes and then call him again.
He heard the rumble of a vintage Volkswagen engine. The pumpkin-colored camper van he had visited in the hotel parking lot last night found a spot along the side fence. After some minutes, a man emerged wearing sunglasses, a parka, and a brown knit hat pulled over his ears. He walked to the pile of signs and stopped, talking to the men there. He was carrying something. Something white. Not a gun, Chee thought. At least not a gun like any he’d ever seen.
Then a black limousine pulled into the lot and slowly rolled up to where Chee stood. The driver lowered the window and stopped. “Where is the entrance for the delegates?”
Chee walked toward him. “Head on around the back and use the door there. You’ll see another Navajo cop like me. You can park there, too.”
“I’m just dropping off my clients, but thanks.” The man wore a cap like chauffeurs in the movies. Chee noticed two men in suits in the backseat. One of them leaned toward him.
“Does the session still begin at two?”
“That’s what the schedule says.” Chee knew from experience that Indian Country meetings started when they started, when the time was right regardless of what the agenda suggested. He wondered how Palmer would handle the inevitable discussion over that.
Then he heard an amplified voice. “This is Bebe Durango. Save Wild America to the front. Hustle up now.”
Chee turned toward the noise. The device the man in the brown hat had with him was a bullhorn. People sitting in the cars climbed out and headed toward the front of the building and the limo.
The passenger in the limo who had asked Chee the question said, “Let’s get out of here,” and rolled up the window. Before the big car could move, Durango appeared, blocking the way. He put the bullhorn to his face and started to yell.
“Shame, shame, shame on Canyonmark.” He bellowed it out. The chant became a mantra. Other protesters joined, surrounding the car, waving their signs. The driver inched along, the crowd swarming around the car.
Just as Chee began to think he should do something, the Arizona Highway Patrol officers moved in. Anderson and Rivera stayed calm and professional, and most of the protesters moved back so the car could pass. Chee radioed Redbone, whom the captain had posted at the delegate entrance. “A black limo, a man with a bullhorn, and a bunch of protesters headed your way. Everyone seems calm enough now.”
“I hear them. A few protesters are back here, waiting for the car.”
Bebe continued yelling at the limo. He and the sign people followed the car out of Chee’s sight.
As Chee headed to the front doors of the Justice Center, a young Navajo man, short and slim in jeans and boots, walked up to him.
“Yá’át’ééh, Officer.”
“Yá’át’ééh.”
“Do you know if Mr. Palmer is here?”
“I haven’t seen him yet.”
“But he’s supposed to be here, right?”
“You bet. He’s the guy running the sessions. What do you want with him?”
“Oh, we know each other from way back. I’m hoping to talk to him for a minute or two before the meeting begins. Thanks.” The young man pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his ears and walked past him through the big doors and into the building.
Chee stood in the sun, enjoying its faint warmth on his face. He liked the contrast to the frigid November air. The man with the bullhorn must have put it down, because he didn’t hear the shouting anymore.
People continued to arrive. Some greeted him with a nod and looked slightly familiar from his time working at the local substation. Most of the people he remembered vividly wouldn’t be at the meeting, he thought. They were in prison.
A pickup truck pulled into the lot and drove close to the front doors. He noticed an attractive Navajo woman sitting tall behind the steering wheel, her hair pulled into a ponytail. The passenger door opened, and Aza Palmer climbed out wearing new jeans, black boots with a shine to them, a Pendleton jacket, and a cream-colored cowboy hat. He looked more like a rancher than a lawyer, Chee thought, and the look was probably the perfect persona for the people gathered inside. He carried the black leather briefcase he’d had in Chee’s unit over his shoulder with a strap.
“Hey there. Good afternoon,” Chee said.
“Yá’át’ééh.” Palmer waved at the truck as it left. “My clan sister, Katie. I’ll introduce you next time.” He looked around the parking lot. “Not many protesters.”
Chee said, “Most of them are around back, chasing a limo.”
“A limo?”
“One of them recognized the developers inside.”
“You’d think those people would try to blend in with the common folks a little better to limit the antagonism, wouldn’t you?” Palmer turned toward the building. “Let’s go in. I want to check the setup of the space and see if I can tell what the climate of the room is.”
“All the heating is centrally controlled. So are the lights. State-of-the-art.”
“I meant, is the audience curious, angry, restless, worried? Who wants to make a scene? I know some of these people have come a long way, given up their weekend because what happens with the resort, with the Grand Canyon, matters to them. The delegates and I get to practice listening. That’s a great skill to hone for the sessions to come.”
“How many people will you let talk?”
“All of them who’d like to, but I might have to impose a time limit.” Palmer moved the briefcase higher on his shoulder and started for the building.
Chee said, “There was a young man here who wanted to see you.”
“That’s interesting. He didn’t have a suicide vest, did he?” Palmer grinned.
“Not that I noticed. He went inside.”
They walked together through the big doors and down a tiled hallway, the heels of Palmer’s boots clicking against the hard floor. He was slightly taller than Chee, but they fell into an easy cadence. Palmer moved like a man with a mission, as though he looked forward to serious work ahead.
Chee ushered him to the head of the line of people waiting to go through the metal detector. “Excuse us, folks.”
Palmer gave his bag to the guard, took off his smooth black leather belt with the sand-cast silver buckle. He put his hand to his bolo tie, a piece of turquoise framed with a thin band of silver at his throat. “Do I need to take off my bolo and the jacket?”
The guard looked at the string tie with its silver tips. “It will be fine. Any keys or metal in the jacket pockets?”
“No.”
“No gun or knife?”
“Nothing.” Palmer walked through the metal detector without setting off the alarm. The guard inspected the bag and belt, handed them back, and turned to the next person in line to repeat the process.
The building was new, part of the big judicial complex the tribe had constructed over the last few years. Chee had been inside before for hearings, and he liked it, a place to be proud of.
Mediation, as Palmer had explained it last night, was similar in some ways to the Navajo’s long-established Peacemaking process. But in Peacemaking there was no neutrality. A family matriarch might be the facilitator, and she had an interest in the outcome: getting her clan members to shape up. Unlike a mediator, she would offer suggestions for solving the problem.
Chee led him to the meeting room, a large, bright space filled with conversation. The door to the hallway had been propped open to make it easier for people to come in. The audience section, already half full, contained an interesting assembly, Chee thought. Men in cowboy hats and shirts with pearl buttons, women in tailored suits, Hopi people looking serious in their best outfits. A scattering of Navajo men in their best jeans and matriarchs wearing velvet blouses and silver necklaces, perhaps including a classic squash blossom and armfuls of turquoise bracelets. Weathered bilagaana men in hiking boots, probably Forest Service, National Park, or Bureau of Land Management retirees, he thought. He noticed Indians who didn’t look Diné or Hopi, maybe Havasupai or Hualapai, two other tribes with a direct and compelling interest in Grand Canyon issues. Behind the audience seats and off to one side, a uniformed Coconino County deputy had positioned himself against the wall near a microphone installed for audience comments.
After surveying the room, Palmer walked onto the stage, put his bag on the table, and studied the delegate seating arrangement, a set of narrow tables covered with white cloths and positioned in a semicircle, facing the audience. A podium with a microphone stood to the left.
He turned to Chee. “This will do for now.”
“I can get someone on the staff to rearrange it if you want a different setup.”
“It will work for introductions and audience statements. When we reach the time for the delegates to talk and listen to each other privately, we’ll create a circle.”
Chee looked at the folding chairs onstage. “Who will be here? I wasn’t expecting such a large group.”
Palmer counted them off on his fingers. “We’ve got Native delegates from five tribes. The Forest Service, the Park Service, the developer, the Grand Canyon Protectors, representatives from the EPA, and the Arizona Department of Environmental Quality.” He listed a few more groups Chee had never heard of, then opened his black leather bag and extracted a folder. Chee watched him take from it a couple of sheets of white letter-size paper, which he placed on the podium. Then Palmer pulled out some tent-shaped signs made of heavy white paper with each person’s name and agency.
“Want me to put those on the table?”
“No, I’ll do it. I’m considering where people will be sitting today. Relax, Sergeant. I’ll let you know if I think someone else wants to blow me up again.” Palmer walked to the podium. “I’m going to stand here, read over my notes before we start, and collect my thoughts for a few minutes.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“How about a bottle of water?”
“Sure.”
Chee had never been a bodyguard before. The closest he’d come was escorting prisoners to jail or to court. He’d never liked that much either, but it was more exciting than watching people come into an auditorium while Palmer silently read notes. He looked into the audience for the young man who’d wanted a word with Palmer but didn’t see him.
He had no idea where to get a bottle of water, but he figured he could find someone who could help with that. In the hallway he saw a county sheriff’s deputy talking to a group of people in Save Wild America T-shirts. Everyone looked peaceful; he didn’t interrupt.
He walked toward the entrance, checking the alcoves for vending machines along the way without success. He asked the security guard about it.
“There’s a machine down the hall to the right,” he said. “But I don’t think there’s water in it. Just sodas.”
The guard was wrong. Ever since the Navajo Nation had increased the tax on soda and junk food, vendors made an effort to stock machines with healthier choices. Bottled water took its place alongside the colas, diet drinks, and root beer.
Chee found change in his pocket, just enough for a bottle. As he was heading back to the meeting room, he felt his phone vibrate.
Bernie said, “Hi. How’s Tuba City?”
“Quiet and cold,” he said. “What’s new in Shiprock? Anything on the bombing?”
“Yes, actually. The man in the parking lot died and the feds already ID’d the body.”
“Anyone we knew?”
“No.” She saw no reason to say the name of the dead man and Chee didn’t ask. “A witness I talked to saw another person hanging out, looking suspicious. That guy—or maybe it was a female, too dark to tell—didn’t match the description of the victim but might have something to do with that bomb.”
“Ah, a homegrown conspiracy,” Chee said. “I bet Cordova loves that.”
“Shiprock is buzzing with agents and investigators. Acronyms I never heard before.”
“Same here in Tó Naneesdizí.”
“Have you talked to Dashee?”
“He bought me lunch. He wants me to help him with a job involving some trespassing livestock.” Chee summarized the details. “I told him I’d think about it. I’m not sure how involved this bodyguard stuff will be.”
“Guess what? I got a call from Palmer’s ex-wife.”
“Did she call to confess?”
“You’re funny. She said she was worried about him. I went to high school with her.”
“Were you friends?”
“Not exactly. Lona liked boys, and I liked basketball.”
“I’m glad you like this boy now. Did she say anything relevant to the bombing?”
He could tell by the silence that the question caught her off guard.
“I’m not sure,” she said finally. “I figure the bomber targeted Palmer, but the feds won’t say for sure yet that it even was a bomb. Maybe the bomber wanted to damage the school or make a statement against basketball and picked the BMW because of where it was parked.”
Chee laughed. “Clever, Manuelito. Evading the question by challenging my assumption. I guess that means you forgot to ask her. Did she have murderous tendencies in high school?”
“I don’t think so. But she and Palmer fought a lot, breaking up, getting back together.”
“Sounds like high school. Speaking of Palmer, I need to return to my babysitting job. Catch you later.”
In the minutes he’d been looking for water, people who had arrived too late to get a seat had gathered in the hall outside the meeting room. Officer Rivera stood straight, shoulders back and legs apart, talking and stressing his points with his hands, unsmiling. Chee knew the pose, designed to forestall arguments. Closer, he caught the last of what Rivera was saying: “. . . can’t sit on the floor or the steps. All the seats are filled, and the fire marshal set the limit for occupancy. When and if someone leaves, someone can come in.”
The man in a red T-shirt with a Save Wild America logo scowled. “That’s not fair. This is supposed to be the session for public comment. You guys should have found a bigger room, but hey, these sessions are always rigged anyway.”
The officer said nothing.
Red Shirt said, “We’ll stay here in the hall until that guy Palmer agrees to let us talk.”
The officer said, “You can stay as long as the noise out here doesn’t disrupt the meeting and as long as your people don’t block the flow of the traffic.”
Red Shirt turned to Chee. “I saw you talkin’ to him. Tell him he needs to come out here and listen to what the real people have to say about the development.”
As he entered the room this time, Chee noticed a second person onstage. He stood facing Palmer, who sat at the long table for the delegates. He was of average height, made taller by his hiking boots. Chee couldn’t see his face, but noticed that he wore a vest over his fleece jacket and a cap. He moved closer to Palmer, pointing at him with an extended index finger, a rude gesture in the Navajo world. Chee noticed the startled expression on Palmer’s face and sensed the man’s anger even before he caught the end of what he was shouting: “. . . good-for-nothing jerks.” Then he saw the man reach toward his vest pocket.
Chee leapt over the top steps onto the stage. “Police. Put your hands where I can see them. Step away from Mr. Palmer.” The man glared at him, then stepped to the side with a string of obscenities.
Palmer rose and took a step toward the man in the cap. “It’s OK. Easy on him. Easy there.”
Chee wasn’t sure if Palmer meant the “easy” for him or Cap Man.
Cap Man spit out the words, “It’s a sad state of events when a person can’t express an opinion without police harassment.”
Palmer turned to Chee. “I know Mr. Blankenship. He’s one of the delegates. I met him on an earlier mediation for another resort. You can back off, Sergeant. It was just a discussion.”
Knowing someone didn’t guarantee the person wouldn’t harm you. In fact, Chee had seen the opposite too often “I was watching you. I could tell he was angry and I saw him reach for something.” Then he gave Blankenship his best “don’t mess with me” look.
The man scowled back. “I was going to show him something from my billfold. You got a problem with that?”
Blankenship extracted a smooth brown leather wallet, opened it, and pulled out a small photo. “I wanted him to look at this.”
Chee glimpsed at a photo of a group of people standing outside along a river. Blankenship held it close to Palmer’s face. “That’s what I’ve been talking about. You’ve got the power, man. Make a difference. Let the river live.”
Blankenship massaged his arm where Chee had gripped it. “What you just did, jumping to an assumption there, is why law enforcement has a black eye these days.”
Palmer said, “Let it go. The officer was just doing his job.”
“His job isn’t to terrorize people, last I heard.”
Chee said, “Go outside, sir. Calm down. Get that temper under control.”
“You’re the one who lost it. You’re just another empty-headed cop.” Blankenship stomped down the steps and out the back door.
Palmer sat down again. “Thanks for the water. I’m going to get things started here in a few minutes. It would be best if you left the stage.”
“Why?”
“I plan to open with a little talk about trust and the value of cooperation. Having a cop standing behind me contradicts that. It says either that I am afraid of something or that you guys, the police, are worried about me. Either way, it’s the wrong message.”
Chee said, “After what happened last night, Largo and the chief are worried that someone will try to hurt you and disrupt the meeting.”
“What did happen last night?” Palmer raised his shoulders toward his ears, lowered them. Exhaled. “Something exploded and destroyed a car that happened to be mine. That might have nothing to do with the reason I’m here today.”
Chee shook his head. “Until the captain tells me otherwise, I’ve got a job to do. I’ll stand over there against the wall at the edge of the stage where I can watch you and the audience.”
Palmer sighed. “We’ll try it for today.” The mediator walked to the podium, set down some papers, sipped the water, and adjusted the microphone. The noise in the room quieted with anticipation.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I know we’re running late and I will get started in a few minutes. The delegates are assembling in the next room. Thank you for your patience.” Then Palmer left the stage and Chee heard the sound of a door opening and the thud of it closing again. He knew Silversmith and Redbone were back there, keeping an eye on things, but Palmer’s absence made him nervous.
Chee stood against the wall, keeping track of how long the man was gone and studying the audience for signs of trouble.
The people seated in the room seemed mellow. Good. He allowed himself to unwind a fraction of a turn and the fatigue in his muscles and behind his eyes reminded him that he’d had a long day yesterday followed by an early morning.
Just about the time Chee began to worry, Palmer returned to the stage. Behind him came the delegates. Palmer shook hands with each of them, one by one. He had arranged the representatives alphabetically by their own names, not by the entities they represented. They entered in that order and sat at the table behind tent signs identifying them with who they represented in smaller print below their names.
Interesting, Chee thought, and clever. Was it a subtle reminder that they could think for themselves beyond the groups they represented? He recognized some of them. He knew the three Navajos: the tribe’s director of development, the head of the historical preservation division, and an elder from the Bodaway Chapter House, the closest local Navajo government unit to where the development might be. He also had met one of the Hopi delegates, a distinguished leader from the Bear Clan. He recognized the developer’s representatives from the earlier encounter with the black limousine in the parking lot, but most faces were new to him. It looked like a fine array of bigwigs. A great place, he thought, for a group with violence in its toolbox to make a statement.
In the background, Chee heard the pulse of a siren. An ambulance, he knew. And from the growing intensity of the wail, it was coming his way.