After a few minutes, Palmer said, “Let’s go for a ride. I’ve been inside all day with Chee staring at me.”
“Chee’s just doing his job.”
Palmer said, “Yeah, he thinks everyone is out to get me. But I’m alive. Ricky is gone. Why him?”
“That’s what I want to talk you to about.”
Palmer clicked his seat belt back on. “It’s not that far to the Grand Canyon. We could make it to the first overlook while we still have some daylight. We can talk in the car.”
“I don’t think so. Someone wanted to blow you up. Chee asked me to keep you safe.”
“If Chee were here, I’d ask him to take me. You don’t want me to hitchhike. Who knows who might pick me up? Another bomber. Come on, Manuelito. It’s been a tough day. Play nice. A little fresh air, the world’s best view. You might find some inspiration there, too.” Palmer sighed. “I need some time, some space to process all this. It’s depressing to think of being back in that little motel room. The canyon is why we’re all here, you know? The mediation isn’t just theoretical. Something real and, well, precious is at stake. Maybe Rick’s death did have something to do with the meeting.”
She heard a vulnerability in Palmer’s voice she hadn’t noticed before.
He said, “If we leave now, we can catch the sunset from the deck at the Watchtower. I’m sure you’ve got your gun in case you need it.”
She restarted the engine. “OK. I’ll call Chee and tell him the plan.”
“Does he know about my nephew?”
“He knows the name of the victim, but not the link to you.”
Bernie dialed Chee’s number and heard it go straight to voice mail. “Palmer and I are taking a road trip out to the canyon. Catch you later.”
Bernie drove southwest on US 160, the highway also known as the Navajo Trail. She and Palmer sat in silence. She cruised past the small assortment of buildings that comprised the outskirts of Tuba City and on southwest into the open country. The sky was a moving collage of white and gray against deep blue, the upper atmospheric winds creating a dynamic pattern. Bernie felt her tension begin to disappear. She loved to drive, especially when the scenery took her breath away.
They passed a homemade sign on the side of the road that announced “Dinosaur Tracks.”
Palmer said, “Dinosaur tracks?”
“The Navajo Nation is full of surprises. This area is called Moenave.”
“Have you been out there?”
“When I was in high school.”
“Are they real?”
“They looked real to me. Dinosaurs used this area as a highway about two hundred million years ago. They say several different kinds of them walked in the mud on their way somewhere and back again. The guys who live around here take you on a little tour. They even show you what they say are dinosaur droppings.”
“Droppings? I get an image of littering. You know . . . dinosaurs leaving water bottles, gum wrappers, cigarette butts.”
Bernie laughed. “Not quite. It’s prehistoric poop. Coprolite.”
“Do you know the Diné word for dinosaur?” he asked. “I can’t remember it.”
“I’ve heard na’asho’ii?bahitso. Giant lizard. That’s not a word I use very often.” She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the car she had noticed before behind them again. The driver kept a respectable distance behind her Toyota, but he or she failed at being inconspicuous.
She turned right onto the road indicated by the dinosaur sign. The sedan continued on. After a few hundred yards, out of sight of the highway, she pulled into the improvised dirt parking lot across from a row of small open-air booths where families in the area sold dinosaur tours, jewelry, and souvenirs.
Perhaps because of the cold and the wind, only two of the booths had merchandise. A woman sat in one and a man in the other, both huddled as far out of the wind as they could manage, bundled in coats and hats. The woman had a blanket wrapped around her, too.
Palmer looked out the window. “Where are the tracks?”
“Oh, past the sales booths. The hike to see them takes about half an hour, depending on how much information the guide shares.”
“It makes me cold just looking at those people over there. I can pass on seeing the tracks for now. Let’s head on to the canyon.”
She drove back to the main highway, noticing that the blue sedan had parked at the dinosaur track entrance. She could see a young Navajo man behind the steering wheel. She didn’t spot a passenger. She continued beyond the junction for the one-runway Tuba City Airport to the intersection with US 89. Bernie turned south toward Cameron, and the blue sedan followed.
It had been a few years since she had been on this stretch of highway, but she remembered how she loved it. The hills looked like softly sculpted mounds in the afternoon light. The bands of ashy gray, warm tan, striking white, and a touch of iron red marked the northern end of what photographers and geologists called the Painted Desert. The landscape, barren of vegetation but rich in color, reminded her of the hues used in weavings from the Two Grey Hills area, Mama’s home territory. The erosion had created a web of shallow crevasses from top to bottom. Navajoland had to be the most beautiful country anywhere, she thought, stretching from the blue mountains of Colorado to this fine desert and beyond.
Palmer intruded on her day dream. “I still can’t wrap my brain around the news about my nephew getting killed.”
Bernie said, “Do you know why?”
“No idea. We hadn’t spoken in years. He was the son of my sister-in-law, who drank herself to death after her other son died as a little guy, from what we think was abuse by one of her boyfriends. No one could prove it.”
Traffic picked up on US 89, the route from Page and the cold blue water of Lake Powell to the Grand Canyon. Even in November, Grand Canyon National Park drew visitors from all over the planet, and US 89 led most efficiently to Desert View Drive, the paved road that accessed the rim of the canyon, and Technicolor views. She noticed that the blue sedan stayed behind them. She felt her instinct for danger crank up.
Palmer said, “Have you ever been in the gallery at the Cameron Trading Post? I’m talking about the one in that other building, not the big gift shop.”
“Yes. They have amazing things. Prizewinners from a lot of the big Indian shows. Someone told me she saw an old rug my mother made in there. I’d like to see it. Thanks for reminding me.”
A few minutes later, she turned into the parking lot outside Cameron Trading Post, noticing that the car did the same.
Palmer looked up from his phone screen. “Good thing we’re stopping. I could use something to eat. My blood sugar is low. Diabetes.” He started to take off his seat belt.