“Too late.” Bernie put steel into her voice. “Open the trunk now, sir.”
Miller looked like he might throw up. He pushed a button. She heard the catch unlock and saw a line of light appear between the trunk lid and the car’s body as the lid sprang upward a quarter inch. She walked to the back of the sedan and pushed the lid up. The gleam of the trunk light caught the shaft of a rifle he’d lied about, a shovel, and two shallow cardboard boxes filled with dirt. She aimed her flashlight inside the trunk and then on the boxes. She played the beam around but discovered nothing more, at least on the surface. No obvious contraband. But smugglers were getting smarter. Maybe the car had a hidden compartment. Something in the trunk, in or under those boxes, or hidden in the sedan must be worth a lot more than $500.
Miller turned his head out of the window toward her. “How did you know about this?”
She was tempted to say, Know about what? But instead she waited to see what Miller would do next.
“You can have the rifle, too. It’s a good weapon. I’ve got the five bills in my wallet. I can be off the rez, out of New Mexico. Gone, and you’ll never see me again. No paperwork for you. We keep this between us.”
“Sir, please step out of the car.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do it now.”
She waited for him to comply, aware of the gun at her side.
“I am arresting you for attempting to bribe a police officer. I am going to handcuff you now for my safety.” She sucked in a deep breath of relief when he didn’t resist.
Miller stood hunched and silent as she read him his rights. He looked frighteningly pale now, even for a white guy in the dark. A word she seldom used popped into her head: flabbergasted. He could be the poster boy for the definition.
Bernie stowed him in the back of her SUV, called in to dispatch, updated the situation, and made arrangements for the car to be towed in. She was lucky. It was a slow night, and the tow truck driver would be there soon. Miller’s car would first be secured in Shiprock until the federal drug agents could come for it and find the contraband.
Grabbing her cell phone, she took pictures of the interior of the trunk from several angles, since the dash cam couldn’t capture that. She focused on each box and the rifle. “You seem like a decent guy,” she said to Miller as she climbed into the front seat. “Why don’t you give me the whole story now, while we’re waiting here?”
“I’ve said too much already.”
“I’m a good listener. What’s in those boxes?”
“I need you to call someone for me. His card is in my wallet.”
“The phone service is spotty out here. You can make your call when we get to Shiprock.”
“You’d save us both some trouble if you’d make the call now. It’s complicated.”
Bernie looked in the rearview mirror, noticing that Miller kept his eyes on his car. “Everything is complicated these days. We’re going to wait here until the tow truck comes. You might as well tell me what’s in the car. Why it’s complicated.”
Miller said nothing.
The tow truck arrived, and she drove Miller to the Shiprock station to be held until he was transported to the big new jail in Tuba City. The officer on duty at Shiprock, Wilson Sam, was a rookie, of course. All the more experienced officers were working on the drug net.
“Tell me what you learn about those boxes of dirt,” she asked Sam. “I’m curious. I’ve never seen drugs smuggled that way.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” Sam chuckled. “I’m not exactly at the heart center of information.”
“What’s happening with the rest of the drug operation?”
“Nothing much yet. State police picked up a few small-timers who happened to be in the wrong place with a burned-out headlight or who forgot to use a turn signal. The San Juan County deputies found a stolen car and a couple of folks with outstanding warrants. But no big shots with a backseat full of cocaine or a suitcase of meth. Either the feds had it wrong, or word leaked out.”
“Did any of our team get anyone?” she asked.
“Only you so far. Congratulations.”
At home, Bernie was happy to see Chee’s truck in the driveway. He’d avoided the drug stakeout because he’d put in his request for vacation a day before she got around to submitting hers. He teased her about his knack for planning. Because he had the day off, he got to pack and get everything set for their little trip. And then, when he went back to work a day ahead of her, she’d handle the harder job, the cleanup.
She decided not to take a shower; she didn’t want to wake him. Looking in the refrigerator, she found half a sandwich and some lemonade Chee had saved for her and ate at the kitchen table. She could hear the rhythmic chuckling of the San Juan River and a symphony of crickets through the open windows. The air felt good, finally cool after the hot summer day.
Vacation. Bernie had never actually taken a vacation, except for her honeymoon in Hawaii two years ago. And this trip would be different. No surf, no beach, but plenty of sand.
2
Jim Chee said his morning prayer, then grabbed a cup of the good coffee Bernie had made. He cooked Spam and potatoes for the burritos and wrapped them in flour tortillas. They smelled so good, they tempted him, but he reminded himself that they were road food. He and Bernie could eat them in the truck without too much of a mess.
He was loading the sleeping bags when Bernie came back from her run.
“Sleeping bags? I thought we were staying at Paul’s house.”
“We are, but I know Paul. I never can tell exactly what the situation will be.”
Chee’s cousin and clan brother Paul had telephoned two weeks ago on a Saturday morning—too early, of course—and invited them to check out his new Monument Valley guest hogan.
“I need somebody to take my tour,” he’d said, “and tell me how I can make everything better. I figured you two would be perfect.”
“What tour?”
“Oh. I’m starting a photo tour business. ‘Sunrise, sunset, and everything in between,’ that’s my slogan. I’m calling it Hozhoni Tours. Or maybe Picture Perfect Tours.”
Hozhoni, the word that described a beautiful, peaceful place and that same state of mind. Chee approved. But the other name? “So you’ve become a photographer now?”
“Even better—a photography coach. I told you I got some work as a substitute driver with some of the tours? I watched those guys with the big cameras take pictures of arches, buttes, spires, rocks, and other guys with big cameras. I listened to people complain about not being somewhere at the right time for the right light. After a while, I started to realize what camera people want. They don’t care much about geology, the history, or what made the ruins. They want photo opportunities.” Paul chuckled. “I got my tribal license, and my first group is booked. This would be a great time for you to visit.”