“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.