Bernie knew that geologists described Ship Rock as the core of an ancient volcano. The dikes, or stone walls, that radiated from it had once been lines of liquid glowing lava that spewed up through the earth rather than pouring from the volcano’s mouth. One Diné story, also violent, told of Ship Rock as the home of vicious birds that swooped up the People and fed them to their fledglings. Geologists disagreed about the age and force of the volcanic field that created Ship Rock and the dikes, just as her people’s stories of the rock’s origin and purpose varied depending on the storyteller. As Bernie saw it, the diversity of stories reinforced the idea that there are many valid ways to see the world and live in harmony, in hozho, with nature and your fellow humans.
She looked around the ridgetop again, seeing some indentations, possibly what the scouring wind had left of footprints in the soil. She followed them for a few minutes until she came to a place where the earth had obviously been disturbed. A piece of wood, thin and painted, had been shoved into the soil. At first she thought it might be a prayer stick of some sort, but it wasn’t. It reminded her of the little stakes used at construction sites. Something had been removed from this spot, and if she had to guess, she’d say it was dirt. The same kind of dirt she’d seen in the trunk of the car that so closely resembled the burned vehicle at the bottom of the ridge. She took some photos of the stake with her phone. She took out the plastic Ziploc bag she always had with her in case she found some interesting seeds, or something else worth collecting, and used her hands to scoop in some dirt. Hiking down, she walked around the burned car again, taking more photos.
On the drive back to the Shiprock station Bernie thought about Miller. Why had he come to the reservation instead of going home to Flagstaff? And where was he now, the man who loved the desert? Why had his car burned? Who would destroy something so useful? She’d have plenty of questions for the Lieutenant to ponder.
As soon as she had service again, she radioed in the charred vehicle’s VIN. The check could take a while, and the business day was nearly done. But by the time she arrived at the office, Sandra had a message: “Arizona Motor Vehicles confirmed Michael Miller as the burned car’s registered owner.”
Bernie checked her e-mail and found a message from the soil sample lab, with a report attached. She opened it eagerly. “No organic or chemical contamination discovered. Soil resembles that found near Ship Rock, more gravelly than loamy, with traces of pulverulent clay.”
Disappointed, she read on to discover highly detailed information about soil structure. Unfortunately, none of the details offered obvious clues to Miller’s motivation. At least now she knew that the dirt was just dirt, and where it came from. It wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for, but it led to a new series of questions.
“Do you have a phone number for the daughter of Mr. Tso, the woman who reported the burned car?” she asked Sandra.
“Here it is. Roberta Tso.” Sandra gave her a slip of paper. Before she called, she checked it against the number for the Roberta she’d noticed on Miller’s phone. Bingo. But why?
Roberta Tso remembered the burned car very well.
“By the time I got there to pick up Dad—he was spending the night with me because his appointment at the clinic was early—the fire was nearly out. I’d never seen a car burned like that. It was amazing. Scary. I had to wait until we got back toward Gallup to call it in.” The voice on the phone stopped. Bernie heard Roberta sigh. “I worried about my father living out there by himself even before this happened. I’d like it if he’d move in with me in Gallup, but he’s a strong-willed man. It will take even more than a fire-starting maniac to make him change his mind.”
“When I spoke with him, he didn’t have much to say about the fire.”
Bernie heard Roberta chuckle. “He’s not a big talker unless it’s war stories. He knows all those details, but the rest of his memory seems to be fading. Sometimes he can’t tell the difference between what happened to him and what he dreamed or imagined. My father mentioned that he saw something strange a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to talk about it, but I could tell it made him nervous. Now he thinks whatever he saw was tied to the fire. I don’t like the idea of Dad out there alone, with something like that going on.”
Bernie noticed the anxiety in the woman’s voice. “Do you have an idea of what frightened him?”
“No. He just changes the subject when I ask, so I stopped asking. He might have just imagined something.”
“Does your father have any other relatives or neighbors who check on him? Anyone you know of who might have seen something suspicious?”
“My boy, his grandson, goes by now and then. Aaron. Aaron Torino.”
“Would you give me his number? I’d like to touch base with him.”
There was silence for a moment. “I’ll give you his phone number if you want, but I don’t know how helpful he’ll be.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, he’s our problem child.”
Bernie changed the subject. “How do you know Michael Miller?”
“He’s been talking to me and Aaron about some solar panels he would like to install out by Dad’s house. I think he’s a nice guy, but Dad doesn’t like him, and he says the panels are ugly.”
“Do you know how Miller’s car ended up out there?”
“Oh, no. That was his car, the one that burned?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he was looking for an alternative site, since Dad was so adamant about not wanting the solar stuff. Was he hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
Bernie told Roberta she might have some follow-up questions, and hung up.
She called Aaron Torino. Her efforts to build rapport by telling him how much she had enjoyed talking to his grandfather fell flat. Torino asserted that he hadn’t seen anything and didn’t know anything. From the noise in the background, she suspected there were others in the room with him. The nervousness in his voice was palpable.
“My granddad says the skinwalkers hang out there. He has some crazy scary stories about that stuff. Ask the old dude.”
She spoke before she could stop herself. “Shicheii. That’s what we call our mother’s father, our grandfather. We speak of them with respect.”
After he hung up, she decided she needed to talk to Aaron Torino face-to-face. Preferably at Mr. Tso’s house.
14
The hotel elevator doors opened and Bahe stepped out, looking more serious than Chee had ever seen him. A tall, thin man, obviously FBI from the tailored cut of his clothes and his demeanor, stood next to Bahe. He introduced himself as Agent Burke, not volunteering his first name.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Chee. I thought you were based in Shiprock. I heard about you from Agent Cordova.”
“I’m on loan to Bahe while some of his folks are in training. I had an appointment with Delahart here, and—”
Burke cut him off. “Bahe filled me in. Are you sure no one else has been in the suite? No cleaning people or food service? I see you here and the crime scene down the hall.”
“No one has been in there since I left.” Chee kept his voice level.
“I saw that security gal out there instructing some kid in a T-shirt to keep everyone away from the back of the building. I hope it’s not too late.”
“She did her job well. She gave me a lot of help.”