The field trip had served its purpose, Palmer thought.
Although the fog blocked the view of the confluence and the possible construction sites, the delegates marveled at its beauty. He heard the little boy say it looked like whipped cream on a giant cup of chocolate.
The Navajo delegate who had led the hike explained to the others how rarely this weather came to the canyon and how blessed they were to encounter it. Some nodded in agreement. The Hopi and the Hualapai delegates volunteered impromptu stories about fog and their cultural viewpoints of it, and the Havasupai woman said she’d toss in a few tales after lunch or on the bus back to Tuba City. Even Chee had calmed down a bit out here. If Robert— No, he corrected his thinking. When Robert recovered, they’d come here together. The boy had offered him a second chance at being a dad, and he’d accept the invitation if he could arrange time off.
When the fog stories ended, Palmer opened his black bag and gave them each a map that showed where Canyonmark planned to develop, describing the construction sites that would be further evaluated if the resort were authorized. He restressed that the goal of the mediation was to help the Navajo Nation gather insights its leaders could use in making such an important decision.
The walk back to the spot where lunch awaited, an uphill hike, took longer than Palmer had expected, and he noticed the signs of low blood sugar. The stress of the past few days had upset his routine, and he knew he should monitor his diabetes more closely.
Despite his initial misgivings, the Paiute food truck worked as an excellent demonstration of the juxtaposition of commerce and nature, offering warm food especially welcome on a chilly day. As contentious as they were, none of the delegates complained about it, not even Blankenship. He wondered if Denny Duke and his aged mama could cook and serve quickly enough, but Duke had assured him he’d get a helper or two. As the group drew closer to the truck, the familiar smell of French fries made his mouth water.
The temperature, in the low fifties, allowed for eating outside if people kept their coats on. The delegates, some family members who had tagged along, and even the protesters who had followed the bus settled down to eat. Duke called them to the window to order, table by table. Mama Duke bellowed out the numbers when the food was ready.
Palmer found a place at a folding table across from a man named Crenshaw, the National Park Service delegate. Chee the ever-present sat next to him. Crenshaw must have jumped the line because he already had lunch, a barbecued beef sandwich, fries, and an apple.
“So, what happens when the session resumes tomorrow?” Crenshaw popped a fry into his mouth.
“Well, it might not be tomorrow. We have to check on the heating issue. But whenever we resume, I’ll wrap up the public comments. Then we’ll see if you delegates can agree on what issues to discuss.”
“I’m glad you arranged this trip.” Crenshaw picked up another fry. “I think it’s good for all of us to realize that our decisions aren’t just theoretical. They’ll have an impact that will last long after we’re gone.” He turned to Chee. “Isn’t that right?”
“Sure thing.”
Crenshaw mentioned the National Park Service’s detailed approach to planning, and how long it had taken them to release their latest draft to the public because of interagency disputes about the focus. “And those arguments were among guys who basically already agreed about everything. I think these sessions could take until hell freezes over to resolve anything.”
“I hope not.” Palmer began to experience that sagging, light-headed detachment that came when his body was off-kilter. “Excuse me. I need to use the facilities.” He picked up his leather bag and slung it over his shoulder.
Chee started to rise, too.
“Sit, for goodness’ sakes. I’ll be right back. I’ll yell loudly if I fall in.”
As Palmer left, he heard Crenshaw launch into another topic. “The police presence here, all this security? Well . . .”
The lecture faded as he neared the outhouses. The fog was rising, drifting up to the lunch area. Perhaps by the time they left, it would have vanished. They could go back to the overlook for a quick view of the canyon’s cloud-free magnificence. That would give Chee one more thing to worry about.
Even though having a bodyguard was a pain in neck, he liked Chee. The man had a sense of humor and a smart, attractive wife. Joking was one of the many things he had enjoyed about his marriage to Lona. Had he ever told her she was one of the few people who kept him from taking himself too seriously? Probably not. He could add that to his long list of regrets.
Palmer disliked outdoor toilets, but he needed a private place to check his A1C levels and inject the insulin before lunch. After years of experience, he did the test quickly. His blood sugar had dropped even lower than he’d expected. He pulled out the pouch where he kept his insulin pen. He would give himself another injection that kept him alive. Then food to offset the dose. Everything in balance. He smiled. The Navajo Way. Before he could give himself the medicine, the door burst open. “Just a minute,” he said, and then he saw the man and felt the gun pressed hard against his spine.
The voice was hard, too. “No noise or I’ll shoot. If you listen, you might live.”
Palmer nodded. He felt dizzy and his head ached. “I’ll listen, but I need my insulin.”
The man, a person he’d seen helping Duke and his mother at the food truck, ignored him. He’d noticed the fellow in the audience at the mediation, too, but he couldn’t conjure up the name.
Palmer tried again. “Say what you have to say, but let me take my insulin. I’ll listen to you. You don’t need to threaten me.”
Instead, the man grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. He picked up the insulin pen Palmer had dropped and put it in his pocket. He pushed the mediator forward, away from the outhouse, away from the delegates, toward the gaping hole of the fog-shrouded canyon.
Palmer swallowed his fear. He’d been in tough spots before, although never at gunpoint. “Talk to me. What’s this about? If you’ve got issues with the development, tell me what I need to hear and then let’s have some lunch. No need for a weapon. I won’t harm you.”
Palmer felt the gun push harder against his backbone. The man’s voice was an ugly snarl. “You’ve already done your damage. You cost me the woman I love and the son I always wanted.”
Chee waited fifteen minutes, then stood, leaving Crenshaw in midsentence. “Palmer should have been back by now. I need to find him.”
On his way to the toilets, he saw Bernie sitting with Atwell and the Hopis.
He told her that Palmer was gone. “I’ll check the outhouse. I’ll yell if he’s there.”