His tone changed. “OK, here’s Grand Canyon Mediation 101. So, the first thing to know is the background of the dispute, and to talk about that, we have to talk a little about the canyon’s history.”
A traditional storyteller would have started with the forces that created the ancient Vishnu Schist and Zoroaster Granite. Palmer began with the early mining expeditions, the creation of the national park, and the Fred Harvey Company’s expansion of tourism. He mentioned the controversy over sightseeing helicopter flights and the idea of building a tramway from the canyon rim to the river. He summarized the Hualapai’s Skywalk and its financial problems and pending plans for growth in Page and Tusayan. He explained Canyonmark’s proposal to work with the Navajo Nation to develop a resort at the eastern edge of the canyon on tribal land near the confluence of the Colorado and the Little Colorado. He condensed the findings of the environmental impact studies and talked on.
Bernie knew about the shifting viewpoints and differences of opinion about Grand Canyon development among Navajo tribal councilors, presidents, and those families closest to where a resort might be constructed. But she adjusted the heater vents and let Palmer speak.
“So, why the mediation now?”
“Canyonmark’s offer got the tribe’s attention. Jobs earmarked for the Diné, a percentage of revenue besides money from the land lease, and other benefits. Everyone knows the issue is deep and complicated—like the canyon itself. The Navajo want to hear from all sides before making even a preliminary decision. They want the full picture before deciding how to proceed or if they should. I think that’s smart.”
“What do you do as mediator?”
Palmer glanced at her. “That’s right, you missed the intro at the session when I explained that. I’m like a referee. My job is to make sure that everyone at the table has a chance to be heard and that disagreements remain respectful and opinions don’t get presented as fact. I try to keep the discussion on track.”
Bernie passed a minivan. Palmer kept talking.
“I expect the sessions will ignite some long-standing animosity between some of these groups, including Natives and the different environmental factions. The federal departments and state of Arizona agencies involved in regulations at the Grand Canyon all have their own priorities. And the private enterprises that make a living from the canyon’s visitors—raft trip and scenic flight operators, hotels and restaurants, gift shops—they have varied reactions to any new development. Everyone involved is asked to see into the future. That’s tough.”
He fell silent and she thought about what he’d said. If all these folks had agreed to discuss the Grand Canyon’s future, why would one of them want to kill the mediator? But what about those who had been excluded?
“What does this have to do with your nephew’s death?”
“Nothing I can think of.”
The landscape looked totally different in the fading light, approached from the opposite direction. She savored its raw beauty all the more because of the humans she encountered behaving badly.
“Amazing country, isn’t it?”
Palmer said, “What? Sorry, I was checking my phone messages.”
She turned into the motel parking lot.
“It’s none of my business, but I think Robert would like to make peace with you.”
“You’re right. It’s none of your business.” Palmer opened the car door.
“Wait a minute. I’ll walk in with you.” Bernie reached behind the seat for her backpack and the box with the burger.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere except to my room.”
Bernie grabbed her belongings and locked the car. By the time she reached the lobby, Palmer had disappeared.
She found the room that Chee had been assigned with no trouble, but Chee wasn’t there. She washed her hands, turned up the thermostat, slipped off her shoes. She noticed a text from Darleen: CS & me coming to GC maybe? Stay w u? She texted back: Call me.
She checked for a message from Leaphorn and found nothing.
Disappointed, she stretched out on the bed with the book she always kept in her backpack. But her attention kept drifting back to Palmer and Robert.
What had happened to make that young man so angry? In some divorces, one parent’s bitterness toward the former partner infected the children. But Lona seemed to like Palmer. Robert had complained about being neglected, but most children, even if their parents aren’t divorced, would like more time with their moms and dads. As she started to read, she noticed her body melting into the bed, the softness folding around her like a cocoon of warmth and peace. She put the book down and closed her eyes.
15
After Bernie left with Palmer, Chee helped Silversmith deal with the chaos in the parking lot. He knew the federal agents were in the mix somewhere, making videos and keeping an eye on things. Meanwhile, the consultants and experts explored the guts of the Justice Center, helping the electrician determine what had created the power outage.
The protesters calmed down after the last delegates came through the gauntlet, packed up, and headed off. No doubt, Chee thought, to prepare for tomorrow’s demonstrations. Before he left, Captain Ward informed them that vandalism caused the blackout. Foul play, but not a bomb.
He climbed into his unit and, when he reached for his seat belt, felt the envelope Mrs. Nez had given him. Palmer had explained that all the delegates had rooms at the Hotel Hopi. Chee figured he’d drop it off, then head back to his own room and, he hoped, get there around the time Bernie and Palmer arrived.
But, as often happened in Jim Chee’s life, things didn’t go exactly as planned.
The Hotel Hopi was beautiful, no doubt about it. From the outside, it looked something like a pueblo village. Light from the interior filtered out to the street through the glass doors at the entrance and the huge circular window on the second story.
In the lobby, three or four times the size of the trailer where he and Bernie lived, his attention focused on the fire blazing in a fireplace built from stone, careful work that reminded him of the artisans at Chaco Canyon. The flames cast a glow onto the plush couches arranged in a semicircle. Chee noticed the pottery bowls, the elegantly carved katsinas, and the selection of oil and watercolor paintings in the classic Hopi style. He walked past the gift shop and a large room with tables, probably for breakfast.
At the registration area, a Hopi man about Chee’s age stood behind a graceful swooping counter. He glanced up as Chee approached.
Chee rested his forearms on the desktop. “Hello there. I need to see one of your guests, a Mr. Blankenship. Can you tell me how to find his room?”
“Do you have his room number?”
“No.”
“Well, I can’t release that information. Hotel policy.” The clerk turned back to whatever he was doing, or pretending to be doing, on his computer.
“Would you call and tell him I’m here?”
“You can tell him.”