This Glittering World (19 page)

B
en awoke with a neck so stiff he could barely turn it to either side. He rubbed his hand along the taut muscle and turned to the hospital bed where Sara lay curled up like a child. The blinds were closed, but he could see that it was still dark outside. The bright lights from the parking lot cast a strange haze.

He went to Sara and stroked her face with his hand. He leaned over and kissed her cheek, his neck screaming with the effort. She didn’t stir.

He opened and closed the door softly, his boots squeaking on the linoleum floor. He turned back to make sure they hadn’t woken her, and she remained in the same position. She was exhausted, he figured. Her body, the baby, needed to rest.

He’d spoken with Frank the night before, and Frank had offered to drive up from Phoenix in the morning. Ben told him they would be heading back down to the valley by Sunday night; it wasn’t necessary, but Frank had insisted. “We can drive her back home in the Range Rover. It’ll be a lot more comfortable than the Camry.”

Ben glanced at his watch when he reached the hallway. It was four thirty
A.M.
He suspected Frank and Jeanine were probably already on their way.

“Can you tell me how to get to the ICU from here?” he asked one of the nurses staffing the station.

“Ms. Harmon isn’t in the ICU,” she said. Confused.

“I know,” he said. “I have a friend I need to check in on.”

“If you tell me his name … her name?” the nurse asked, wriggling the mouse of the computer.

“It’s okay,” he said, realizing as he spoke that he didn’t even know Lucky’s real name, his last name. “I’ll find him.”

Hospitals during the day made Ben uneasy, but hospitals in the middle of the night were something else entirely. The pale light and green walls made him feel as though he were underwater, swimming through some murky netherworld.

He navigated the dim labyrinthine corridors of the hospital, arriving finally at the ICU waiting room where he’d first met Shadi. He almost expected she’d be waiting there in her paint-splattered overalls. But the room was empty except for a nurse who sat quietly reading in the half-light behind the desk.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I was wondering if you could tell me if there’s a patient here named Lucky?” he asked. “A young Navajo kid? I think he was admitted about a week ago.”

The nurse nodded. “Mr. Yellowhawk was only in ICU for a night, and I believe he was discharged this morning.”

“He’s okay?” Ben asked, feeling the pain in his neck lessen.

“Well enough to go home.” She smiled sadly. “His father took him back to Tuba City.”

Ben felt a sharp pang. He nodded. “Thank you,” he said and started to walk away. He stopped and turned around. The nurse had returned to her book. “Do you know if the police know who did this to him?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

Ben stretched his neck from side to side as he made his way back through the hospital to Sara’s room. He had really hoped he would be able to talk to Lucky. To hear his side of the story, to find out, if he could, who might have done this to him. From what Hippo had said, this didn’t sound like some stupid frat-boy prank. This sounded serious. Somebody really didn’t want him talking to the police. Now he was back on the rez, and chances were he wouldn’t be talking to anyone about what happened. Without Lucky, there was no witness, at least not one willing to talk, to what happened to Ricky.

By the time he got back to Sara’s room, Jeanine and Frank were already there. Jeanine was sitting next to the bed, holding Sara’s hand. Sara was awake, sitting up. Frank was standing at the foot of the bed doling out to-go cups of coffee.

“Honey,” he said, handing Jeanine a cup.

He checked the label. “Decaf vanilla latte for my girl. And regular coffee, black, for the doctor,” he said, handing Ben a cup.

“Thanks, Frank,” he said.

“What time are they setting you free?” Frank asked Sara.

“I think as soon as I’m ready to go,” Sara said. “Ben, we still have that appointment with the artist today. Can you just meet with her? I have the fabric swatches from the crib bedding. You know what I’m thinking about.”

The muscles in Ben’s neck throbbed. “Forget about that,” he said, and shook his head. “I’ll follow you guys home, make sure you’re okay.”

“It’s okay,” Sara said. “I’m
fine.
Mom and Dad can stay with me at the house until you get home.”

Ben rubbed his temples.

“We were supposed to meet her at La Bellavia at ten o’clock,” Sara said, reaching for her purse. She pulled out the magazine article and an envelope of paint and fabric samples. “This is what she looks like,” Sara said. “So you can find her.”

Ben nodded, rubbing and rubbing his neck.

“I’ll be
fine,”
she said and motioned for him to come to her.

He leaned over the bed and kissed her eyelids as she closed her eyes.

L
a Bellavia was busy. Sunday morning brunch always meant a good twenty-minute wait, the line snaking outside. At least it was sunny today, the air frigid but the sky clear and bright. Ben could feel every single nerve ending as he stood on the sidewalk, waiting for Shadi.

He had considered telling Sara that Shadi had canceled, and just not showing up to meet her. He thought about taking a hike on Mount Elden with Maude, disappearing into the forest until it was time to go home. But Shadi would probably call Sara, would wonder why she hadn’t shown up. They could always reschedule, and then it would start all over again. On top of that, Lucky was gone. And someone had made sure that he wouldn’t be coming back. He needed to make sure Shadi was safe. He had to do this. He would meet her, and then he would go home. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.

He tied Maude’s leash to a bike rack and squatted down to pat her head. “If you’re good, I’ll give you my leftovers,” he said, rubbing the backs of her ears.

When he stood up again, he saw Shadi riding down the street on her bicycle toward him. Sunlight in her hair.

She stopped the bike just short of him.

“Hi,” he said.

She shook her head and glanced around as if Sara might be around the corner.

“She’s not here,” he said.

“What are you doing here? I thought you moved.”

“Sara is the one who called you about commissioning the rug. I tried to get her to stop. I was going to call you yesterday, but then she was in the hospital, and shit. I’m sorry.” He moved toward her, his body having a will of its own.

She stepped back. “Is everything okay? With the baby?”

The baby.
“Yes.” He nodded. “She’s okay. They’re okay.”

“That was
your
Sara?” she asked, sighing. “The answering machine didn’t say your names. I didn’t know. God.”

“I know,” Ben said. “I’m sorry.”

“Should we go inside?” she asked as the line crept forward.

“Yeah,” he said. “I really need to talk to you.”

They were seated at a small wooden table near the front door. Every time someone came into the restaurant, a blast of cold air engulfed them. They both kept their coats on. It was loud: dishes clanking, people talking, the pale din of music. After the waitress took their orders, Ben said, “Did you hear about Lucky?”

Shadi nodded and looked down. She was fiddling with a packet of sugar. “I went to the hospital to see him.”

“You did?” Ben asked. “Was he okay?”

She nodded. “They broke his collarbone, and his arm. He was only in the ICU for a night. For observation. He had a concussion. I saw him after they put him in a regular room.”

“Did he tell you who did this?” Ben asked.

She shook her head. “He said he couldn’t remember much. The guys had masks. There were three of them, and they had bats. He said they told him he’d better keep his mouth shut.”

“Was it Mark Fitch?” Ben whispered.

She shook her head again. “Lucky said they were older guys, big guys. It sounds crazy, but he thinks somebody must have hired them. He’s scared, Ben. He went back home to the rez. He said he didn’t want to wind up like Ricky.”

Ben watched Shadi’s hands; she was folding the corners of the sugar packet, tearing at the edges. She was trembling. “I’m scared too. I’m thinking of going home.”

“What?” he asked. “To Chinle?” He watched as his hands reached out and enclosed hers. “You can’t go.”

He let himself look at her face then; he’d been avoiding it since they sat down.

Shadi’s eyes darted nervously, as if she were trying to figure something out.

“You know, Ricky used to trust everyone. Someone would tell him something and he would believe them. He was gullible. The other children, when he was in school, could always play tricks on him. He always wanted to believe what they said was the truth, and they knew they could fool him. But me, I never believed anyone. I never trusted anyone. I know how cruel people can be.”

Ben waited.

“You’re not a bad man, Ben, but you’re doing bad things. Sara trusts you, believes you, and you keep betraying her.”

Ben started to shake his head. “You don’t understand. I just want to help you.”

“The only way you can help me now is to leave me,” Shadi said. “You don’t
get
it. You’re so selfish, you don’t even know you’re breaking
two
hearts.”

The waitress came then with their breakfast; both had ordered the Swedish oat pancakes. The smell was too sweet, too heady. Ben looked at his plate and then out the window.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you,” they both said.

They ate quietly, the heavy pancakes settling like stones in Ben’s stomach. He took a sip of his coffee, which was hot and bitter.

“When would you go?” he asked. “To Chinle?”

“I don’t know. Probably as soon as school gets out in May. But I’m really only working on my thesis now. I have two classes that meet once a week. I could commute if I had to, borrow my uncle’s car.”

“But you have the exhibit at the museum,” he said.

“I know.”

“What would you even do there?” he asked.

“I’ll keep making my blankets and rugs,” she said. “I could teach at the high school.”

Shadi looked out the window. Her eyes looked tired.

“You can’t let them make you leave,” he said.

“What?”

“You can’t let these assholes force you out of your home. You can’t let them win.” He reached for her hand and held on tight.

The front door of the restaurant opened, letting in another cold blast of air.

“Hey,” the kid said, smirking. “Professor Bailey.”

Any other time, the kid’s name would have escaped him. It would have been lost in the deep folds of Ben’s memory. But not today.

“Joe,” he said, nodding, quickly letting go of Shadi’s hand.

Joe Bello came over to the table and pulled off his baseball cap. His mop of blond hair had grown since Ben had last seen him.

“What’s up?” Joe said, extending his hand to Ben.

Ben reluctantly shook it.

“And this is?” he asked, cocking his head and extending his hand to Shadi.

“Shadi Begay,” she said before Ben could stop her.

Joe shook her hand really slowly, studying her face. If Ben didn’t know better, he’d think he was just appraising her, just flirting. Ben could almost hear the gears clicking inside his brain.
Begay. Begay.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said to her.

Turning to Ben, he said, “Hey, I wanted to say I was sorry for what happened last semester. My dad can get a little crazy.” That sly smile never left his face. “I heard they let you go.”

Ben shook his head. “I got a job in the valley.”

Joe nodded. “That’s cool.”

A rush of cold air came in as the door opened again.

“Hey, dude!” Mark Fitch slapped Joe on the back.

“Fitch,” Joe said. “I want to introduce you to somebody. This is my old prof, Ben Bailey. He’s the guy with that red mint ‘52 Chevy pickup.” He nodded at Fitch and then said, “Hey, where’s your truck? I didn’t see it outside.”

Fitch held out his hand to shake Ben’s; Ben felt the cold all the way into the hollows of his bones. He imagined Mark Fitch digging his key into the side of his truck. He imagined him smashing his fist into Ricky’s face, his boots into Ricky’s ribs.

Shadi kicked Ben hard under the table, and the pain radiated up his shin like an electric current.

“And this,” Joe said, his smirk spreading into a sinister smile, “is Shadi. Shadi
Begay.”

A
t work the next morning, Ben closed the door to his office and turned on his computer. It took forever for it to come on, and he paced back and forth, listless and listening to the hums and clicks as it came to life.

He’d been reeling since breakfast at La Bellavia. After Joe Bello and Mark Fitch got a table, the color had left Shadi’s face.

“Can we please go?” she’d asked.

He’d pulled a twenty from his wallet and put it on the table, not even bothering to wait for the check. Outside, he’d walked with her to her bicycle, but her fingers had been shaking too hard to unlock it.

“Damn it,” she said.

“Here, let me. What’s the combination?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

“Ben, go
home.
Just forget about this. About me. About Ricky,” she said. Her eyes pleaded with him. “Can’t you see it’s just getting worse?”

She leaned into him then as if to give him a quick hug, but when their bodies touched, Ben couldn’t let go. He buried his face in the sweet darkness of her hair, could feel the heat of her skin on his nose. And the longer he held on, the less she resisted. He felt her body yield, felt her beginning to return the embrace. His lips grazed the leather choker on her neck, and she trembled. She pulled away and got on her bike.

Her eyes were wet, but her face was stern. “Promise you’ll stop.”

Ben closed his eyes and nodded. “I will. But you have to promise me you won’t leave. That you won’t let them win. This is your home. They can’t take that from you.”

Shadi laughed and shook her head sadly. “For a history professor, you certainly don’t know your history very well, do you?”

Ben felt like he’d been punched.

“Good-bye,”
she said, more an order than a farewell.

And then she was riding away on the bicycle, becoming smaller and smaller, until she turned the corner and was gone.

It took every ounce of strength that he had not to follow her. He got in the Camry and revved the engine against the cold. Now he barely remembered the drive down to Phoenix. He was on autopilot, his body remembering how to shift and brake and steer while his mind was otherwise engaged.

He didn’t remember parking the car in the driveway, or the conversation with Jeanine, who was cleaning their kitchen while Sara slept. He barely remembered whispering, “Good night,” into Sara’s ear before he lay down next to her to sleep.

Now he was wide awake, his mind ticking off what he knew.

It wouldn’t take much for these guys to put it all together, if they hadn’t already. Ben Bailey,
Detective Bailey—Jesus—
, who’d called Fitch about the truck. Shadi Begay, Ricky Begay’s big sister. Even the girlfriend, Jenny, might put two and two together about their conversation in the bar that night. One call to daddy
(sorry, my dad can get a little crazy),
and who knew what might happen?

He was in danger. And now so was Shadi.

The computer prompted Ben for his password, but he was typing too quickly and made a mistake. He willed his fingers to slow down. The computer came to life, and he opened up a browser, went to Google, and entered slowly:
Martin Bello Arizona.

It didn’t take long to find him. He was all over the Web. The Arizona State House of Reps. The charity 10Ks and even the Bello family home page with pictures of the whole clan. The image search yielded a number of photos, and in all of them he looked almost exactly the same. Tan skin, white hair. A wide, square face with small, deep-set brown eyes. Thin lips. The same smugness he’d seen in Joe’s face.

He kept searching.
NAU alumnus and major donor. MBA from ASU.

Ben returned to the state site. There he was again, an older version of his son, red tie, black suit. From what Ben could gather as his eyes darted through the paragraphs, and his mouse scrolled down through the pages, Martin Bello was an Arizona native, born and raised in Prescott. After business school, he’d stayed in Phoenix and became a real estate developer. He was responsible for the development of more than one hundred condominium and town house complexes in the Scottsdale and Paradise Valley area. He was a Republican, serving his third term in the Arizona State House of Representatives. Three years ago he had put in a bid for state senate but had lost. His ambitions now were of the gubernatorial sort.

Frank hadn’t been dicking around. He
was
running for governor. Christ.

Ben left the site and Googled Bello’s name again. More political stuff, including a campaign site. Some real estate pages. And then here, a transcript of a public meeting regarding the development of a condominium complex near the Snowbowl in Flagstaff. Ben vaguely remembered this from years ago. It was back when the Snowbowl had first started talking about using reclaimed water to make snow. The Native Americans had been fighting it ever since, arguing that the San Francisco Peaks are sacred to their religion and that the use of reclaimed water was a desecration. He remembered someone comparing it to asking Catholics to use toilet water as holy water. The opponents argued that without snowmaking, the tourism industry in Flagstaff would die.

Ben knew how a bad snow season could affect the economy in Flagstaff. There had been several barren winters in a row when Jack’s was virtually empty every night. Just the locals buying their cheap beer and well drinks. Without snow, there were no skiers. Without skiers, there was no tourism. Without tourism, there was no money coming through town. And without tourism, there would certainly be no need for a bunch of brand-new condos. From what Ben could glean from the transcript, Martin Bello had a huge interest in snowmaking at the Snowbowl.

He Googled the words
snowmaking snowbowl flagstaff
and found a zillion sites discussing the controversy: article after article after article.

The Snowbowl, though privately owned, is on national forest land, making this anyone,
everyone’s
game. The Navajo and Hopi, who performed religious ceremonies on the Peaks, claimed that the use of reclaimed water to make snow disregarded their rights as defined by the Religious Freedom Restoration Act. The environmentalists were worried about the safety and environmental impact of using treated sewage water to make snow. But for the business owners, people like Martin Bello, it all came down to money.

Ben searched for
Bello
on this page and sure enough, there he was: “As my voting record shows, I have the utmost respect for the Native population in Arizona. I have consistently voted in favor of the rights of indigenous people. However, it seems to me that the decision of the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals to overturn its original denial of the Snowbowl’s right to make snow is for the greater good of this city. And an appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court seems inappropriate.”

Bello had a hell of a lot more to worry about than selling condos. It certainly wouldn’t help his campaign for governor if his son were arrested in the beating death of one such
indigenous
person.

Despite the cool blast of air from the AC vent, Ben was sweating. He closed down his browser and went to get a cup of water from the cooler. Bello was clearly a powerful guy, well connected, with a lot at stake. Ben had no idea how far he was willing to go to keep all of this quiet, but if what happened to Lucky was any indication, then Ben knew that Shadi was probably wise to return home to Chinle, and, if he was smart too, he’d just pretend this had never happened.

But Ben’s stomach roiled at the thought of letting go. Acid rose in his throat, and he swallowed more water to make it go back down. He needed to do something, but he had no idea what. This wasn’t about Shadi anymore, no matter what she thought or said. This was about corruption and greed.
Murder.

Ben felt his chest swell with purpose. He would make everything right again. Even if it meant breaking his promise to Shadi. To Sara.