Leaphorn’s brain expanded the speculation. A fancy BMW might have offered more temptation than Horseman could resist. Perhaps he stole cars on assignment. The FBI, using their fancy equipment and extensive bureaucracy, had ruled out the possibility that Horseman was a bomb maker and found no link between him and any terrorist group. Maybe while he stood there, contemplating the heist, he discovered that the car was unlocked or jimmied his way in, never suspecting that there would be a bomb there. Maybe someone hired Horseman to put the bomb in the car and he’d accidentally made a deadly mistake. He leaned back in his chair and noticed the newspaper Louisa had picked up. The Shiprock bombing was on page three. He glanced at the photograph of the bomb scene, studying it closely. It captured emergency responders at work. In the background he saw an officer in a Navajo Police uniform talking to a man in a red shirt. He didn’t recognize the officer, but he figured it must be the rookie Bernie had mentioned. He looked for her in the photo but didn’t spot her. He’d have to tease Bernie about that, accuse her of hiding from the camera.
Leaphorn went back to work with Butterfly’s files. This time, he read more closely, noting the progression of incidents involving either overt neglect or profound maternal ignorance. He read about male friends of Rick and Harris’s mother who showed up briefly in the reports, most of whom shared her problem with drugs and alcohol. None of them seemed interested in the boys. One social worker commented that a son-in-law of Mrs. Nez was a “positive influence” on Rick and paid some medical bills for baby Harris. Another outlined the grandmother’s efforts to get social services more involved in helping the boys’ mother. Each caseworker added more observations and theories. Meanwhile, the home situation grew worse for the boys.
He found: “Harris is severely underweight and small for his age, failing to thrive. Richard’s growth continues in the normal range.”
And then in the next report: “Harris has missed developmental milestones and shows signs of FAS and possible abuse. Richard is gentle with and concerned about the younger child.”
Leaphorn knew FAS, fetal alcohol syndrome, cursed the child of the mother who drank—usually these women were alcoholics—with a variety of conditions, including retardation, hyperactivity, heart problems, tremors, and seizures. These babies were vulnerable to abuse, too, because they were hard to parent, hard to love. He read about Harris’s scheduled evaluations and missed appointments. Then he read: “On a visit to mother’s house, a friend found Harris unconscious. He was taken to hospital by ambulance and died the following afternoon.”
Leaphorn looked up from the computer and rubbed his eyes. He thought about Emma, sweet Emma, and how she’d sent cards to little Harris not knowing the youngster had died. He barely remembered the baby, a little crying person in a house of despair and sadness. Even though it happened years ago, the child’s death—and especially the thought that an adult who should have cared for the baby might have contributed to it—troubled him. Now, both boys, two lives that could have made a difference, were gone.
He sent an e-mail to Largo, knowing the captain sometimes worked late, asking if the FBI had come up with anything else on the bombing and Horseman’s involvement. He missed the days when it was easy for him to walk down the hall and ask for what he needed to know, or when he could pick up the phone and assume the person he called would understand him.
Leaphorn stood, noticing the stiffness in his back, took his cane, and went to the kitchen. He would have enjoyed a cup of coffee, but since there was none and he didn’t feel like making some himself, he opted for water. Louisa had left the puzzle on the table and was reading in the living room. Or, rather, dozing in her favorite chair, a book on her lap. A good woman, he thought. A good woman, indeed. He didn’t understand what she saw in him, but he didn’t understand women anyway. He would ask her advice on this, he decided. Before his injury, he’d enjoyed talking to her about cases he worked. She had good insights. It was time to talk to her again.
When he limped back to the office, Largo had already responded. The FBI had identified the kind of bomb it was, the sort detonated with a cell phone–not with the vehicle’s ignition. Other than that, they weren’t saying anything, except that the investigation continued and that Rick Horseman “was not a suspect at this time.”
20
Bernadette Manuelito liked routine. She cultivated habits to keep herself from wasting time on what she considered minor issues—when to go for a run, what to have for breakfast, where to buy gas for her car, what day to do the laundry. Her theory was that this saved space in her brain for more important items. She pictured the brain as a living computer with only so much room on the hard drive. When it got too full, it started to delete things. She was explaining her idea to Chee, who supported the “take life as it comes” approach. They’d started the discussion because she said being away from home and her regular schedule made her a little antsy. He muted the sound of the football game on the big-screen TV in their motel room. “The way I see it, the brain resembles a balloon with ideas floating around inside. Most of us keep it barely inflated and have room for more than we imagine. When I was studying to be a hataalii, I realized that I could learn the songs, learn the paintings, learn the correct ways to do complicated things I thought I’d never understand. The more I learned, the more I could learn. My balloon brain grew. I visualized the colors and the shapes of the sand paintings. I heard the rhythms of the chants in my dreams. I would remember one part, and then the next part and the next came to me.”
“Breath, the wind of life, that’s what makes a balloon grow and that’s what supports our spirits. You can keep your computer brain.”
“If your brain is like a balloon, at some point it might get too full. Pop.” She clapped her hands to illustrate the point. “But I can get a new hard drive.”
Chee said, “Yeah, and with a computer, a lightning strike kills the power and you’re out of business.” He smiled at her. “The Lieutenant’s brain seems more like a computer, supporting your theory, but my happy balloon brain is not convinced.”
The next morning she awoke early, as always. She dressed quietly and went outside to watch the sun rise. She sang her morning song and blessed the day with white cornmeal, thankful for it. Thankful for her relatives, for Chee, for good health, for a career that meant something.