“I’m waiting for a lady who is part of that big meeting about the Grand Canyon. I’m giving her a ride.”
“Do you know why that young man died?”
“Not yet.”
“Remember this: it wasn’t your fault. Just like when your Lieutenant friend got shot. That wasn’t your fault either.”
Bernie helped herself to the hotel’s free coffee and pulled the novel from her backpack.
A light touch on the shoulder interrupted her reading. “Hi there.” Jessica Atwell wore a knee-length coat with a fur-trimmed hood and looked as though she’d been crying. “Thanks for being my driver. Sorry for the trouble. I’m ready to go. I’ve never ridden in a police car.”
As Bernie drove, Atwell tearfully volunteered the details about her mother-in-law’s illness. Bernie expressed her sympathy. “With that family situation to deal with, how did you make the time to be part of the mediation?”
“I care what happens at the canyon, and the Archaeology Conservancy board of directors had no one else with, well, how shall I say it? With the right temperament. It’s good in a way. Gives me something different to focus on.”
Bernie adjusted the rearview mirror. “How long do you think the mediation will take?”
“I don’t know. If Blankenship has his way, we will fire Palmer and disband, leave things as they are. He joined some us for dinner after the party last night. He believes Palmer sees the canyon as a place for people to admire from their car windows or buzz over in helicopters. He thinks Canyonmark will destroy what he calls the ‘wild soul of the Grand Canyon’ by making it easier for people to visit who can’t walk without help, who can’t breathe without oxygen tanks, who aren’t what he calls ‘normal.’ He said those old coots—that’s what he called them—gave up their right to visit the canyon by not taking care of themselves, by watching movies instead of running marathons.”
Atwell took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose.
“Mom is one of those old coots, I guess. She’s in a wheelchair now and on oxygen. She always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, but she can barely make it from her bed to the toilet. That guy is a first-rate horse’s—” She interrupted herself. “Bernie, did you see that?”
“What was it?”
“A big animal.”
Bernie looked in the rearview mirror and scanned the roadside. “Probably a deer. They’re common here, a problem actually.”
“No, it looked like a huge coyote or a muscular oversized fox, but the tail was different. I just caught a glimpse. I’m glad it wasn’t in the road.” Atwell stretched her hands toward the heater vent. “What’s going on with the weather? Is a storm coming? It feels cooler.”
Bernie said, “I hear there’s fog at the canyon. I bet it’s beautiful.”
She turned off the main highway at the designated spot and followed the dirt road over Navajo reservation land toward the potential construction site. After a few minutes of bouncing along, she saw the bus, a scattering of parked vehicles, and a red-and-black food truck. She noticed Duke and an ancient woman puttering outside, setting up menu signs and condiments. The delegates stood in clusters. “I think they’re waiting for you, Jessica.”
“I better get over there. Don’t worry about taking me back to Tuba; I can jump on the bus.”
Bernie grabbed her backpack and scanned the group for Chee and Palmer. She found them, as well as the FBI agents whom she’d seen at the reception, now wearing official logo jackets. She spotted Durango and a few other protesters. Fish Man must still be in jail, she thought, or he’d be here, too.
Palmer motioned toward them.
“This way, you two. We’re ready to go to the site. Delegates, stay together. If you have kids, keep an eye on them. We’re going to walk from here for about twenty minutes to give us a better idea of the scope of the proposal and some options. And you’ll see something splendid, too—the canyon filled with fog.”
Chee trotted up to her. “Thanks for being a chauffeur.” He told her Palmer would lead the short hike to an overlook where the delegates could imagine the resort. “He will point out where the development might be based on plans A, B, and C. Of course, no one will see a thing unless the fog lifts.”
“I’m eager to look at the fog,” she said. “I hear it’s like a lid of clouds, and if you hike down far enough, you’ll be free of it.”
“After the tour we get the lunch, more talking, and the bus back to Tuba City. You can leave after lunch if you want.”
Bernie said, “Atwell filled me in on Blankenship on the drive over. He sounds like a creep.”
“That’s how I see it,” Chee said, “but Palmer doesn’t take him seriously.”
“What are those cars doing here? I recognized Dashee’s unit, and I figure the black sedan is FBI. But the others?”
“Some protesters followed the bus. Some vehicles were parked when we arrived. Palmer believes they are probably hikers because several trails start from here, but I’m on the alert just in case.”
Bernie noticed the group beginning to assemble for the hike. “I’ll hang back here with the stragglers. You get to hike with the big guy.”
Chee said, “Don’t lose contact with the group. It would be easy to get lost in the stuff.”
Palmer asked the Navajo delegates to lead the way; he positioned himself in the middle of the pack with Chee behind him. The trail demanded that they walk single file. Wisps of fog rose over the canyon rim, but for the first minutes of the group’s hike descent, visibility was perfect.
Bernie flashed back to another hike she’d taken in this same area a few years ago with Chee and Dashee. That time, she had walked all the way to the river. She had touched the dark rock at the canyon bottom, the oldest thing on the planet. She’d tried to impress Chee with how tough she was. Today, she had nothing to prove, but Rick Horseman’s death and Blankenship’s possible role in it weighed on her. After negotiating several welcome sets of switchbacks that slowed the rate of descent, the trail widened to an overlook. Palmer and the Navajo delegates encouraged the group to cluster there. Below them, an ocean of white filled the immense space between the canyon’s rocky shoulders like cotton batting in a giant’s quilt.
She walked down the path a bit farther as the delegates assembled for Palmer’s talk, far enough that she could hear only the sound of her boots against the surface of the hard-packed trail. She stopped and inhaled the cool air, enjoying a few moments of solitude. Then, out of the edge of her vision, she saw something move. Something tan and large. A mountain lion? She tried to remember what, if anything, she’d read about the relationship between náshdóítsoh a guardian of the mountains, and people trespassing in a lion habitat. All cats were curious, but mountain lions had a deep and wise fear of humans.
She stared at the place where she’d noticed it and then looked up and down the slopes.
Whatever it was, it was gone.
27