Spider Woman's Daughter by Anne Hillerman

their home, its extensive grounds, and their collection to the AIRC. Bernie had always wanted to see the place.
    “Anything else?”
    She shook her head. “Thank you.”
    “Are you ready to see your uncle now?”
    “Absolutely.”
    Moxsley held the door. Bernie felt cold, nervous, as she walked past the CCU desk and into the medical area. In some rooms a curtain concealed the patient and whoever else was in the tiny cubicle. In others, she could see a prone figure, tubes connecting arms and body parts beneath the sheet to machines. In one room, two people sat in hard-backed chairs by the bed. Medical staff quietly went back and forth.
    They stopped at the fourth room. “Here he is. Good luck finding the creep who did this.”
    Bernie went in alone. Leaphorn lay on his back beneath a white sheet that came to his chin. A tube ran into his left arm from a metal stand; another tube emerged from the sheets into a bag that hung lower on the bed, and another protruded from his mouth. His eyes were closed, his head swathed in bandages. His chest moved up and down shallowly, and the lights on the machines flickered.
    He looked, she thought, like a man whose spirit was deciding if it should stay or if it could go. So very different from the person she had shared breakfast with slightly more than twenty-four hours ago.
    She quietly walked to the bed and put her hand on his arm that didn’t have the tubes. He felt warm. When the time was right, she spoke to him in Navajo. She spoke slowly, softly, but loud enough to be heard over the machines, saying what needed to be said about how she was sorry to have disappointed him, reminding him of her promise. When she was done, she noticed his eyes moving beneath the closed lids. Then the motion stopped.
    Bernie stopped at the nurse’s station to ask about Leaphorn’s notebook.
    “I imagine it’s with the rest of the belongings he arrived with. Check with security.”
    “Where?”
    “Go back down the hall, past the ER. It’s on your left. Watch for the signs.”
    She found a sleepy-looking guard in the office, his feet propped up on the desk.
    “Excuse me,” she said. “I need to collect the possessions of one of the patients here.”
    The guard looked up.
    “Are you family?”
    “I’m Officer Bernadette Manuelito, Navajo Department of Public Safety. The person involved is the victim of a shooting we are investigating in conjunction with the FBI.”
    The man came to life, noticed her uniform for the first time.
    “Sure thing.” He moved his feet and brushed dirt off the desktop. He opened a drawer and pulled out a form. Handed it to her with a pen.
    “You’re a long way from home, Officer. What do you think of Santa Fe?”
    “All I’ve seen this trip is the hospital. I’d rather not be here. You know how it is.”
    The guard returned with a clear heavy-duty plastic bag. He gave it to her in exchange for the paperwork.
    Inside, Bernie found the clothes and shoes the lieutenant had worn when he’d been shot. The smaller items in his pockets had been bagged separately. She picked out his notebook and put it in the front pocket of her backpack.
    It was warm outside, but not as hot as in Window Rock. The sun felt good after the chilly hospital rooms. She walked to her car, admiring the view of the Sangre de Cristo range to the east and the blue sprawl of the Jemez Mountains to the west. Whoever built the hospital, she thought, had done visitors a favor by placing the parking lot in this spot. Bernie opened the back hatch, put the lieutenant’s possessions inside. As she put on her seat belt, she noticed the envelope for the AIRC.
    Next stop lunch, then a post office and home.
    She followed directions the security guard had given her to the College Plaza shopping center, passing up fast food restaurants and a couple franchised places in favor of the little café he’d recommended for an inexpensive lunch. It had a cute name, Jambo, and smelled like a rainbow of spices and