Hillerman, Tony - [Leaphorn & Chee 03] (5 page)

Leaphorn knew Feeney and considered him substantially brighter than the run-of-the-mill FBI man. He knew one of the men Largo had assigned. Also bright. The investigation had been conducted as Leaphorn would have run it—a thorough hunt for a motive. The four-man team had presumed, as Leaphorn would have presumed, that the killer had come to the Tso hogan not knowing that the two women were there, that the Atcitty girl had been killed simply to eliminate a witness, and that Mrs. Cigaret had lived because she hadn’t been visible. And so the team had searched for someone with a reason to kill Hosteen Tso, interviewing, sifting rumors, learning everything about an old man except a motive for his death. With all Tso leads exhausted, the team reversed the theory and hunted for a motive for the murder of Anna Atcitty. They laid bare the life of a fairly typical reservation teen-ager, with a circle of friends at Tuba City High School, a circle of cousins, two and possibly three nonserious boyfriends. No hint of any relationship intense enough to inspire either love or hate, or motive for murder. The final report had included a rundown on witchcraft gossip. Three interviewees had speculated that Tso was the victim of a witch and there was a modest amount of speculation that the old man was himself a skinwalker.

Considering that this corner of the reservation was notoriously backward and witch-ridden, it was about the level of witchcraft gossip that Leaphorn had expected. Leaphorn closed the report and slipped it into xs folder, fitting it beside the tape cassette that held what Margaret Cigaret had told the police. He slumped down in his chair, rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, and sat— trying to recreate what had happened at the Tso hogan. Whoever had come there must have come to kill the old man—not the girl because it would have been simpler to kill her elsewhere. But what had caused the old man to be killed? There seemed to be no answer to that. Leaphorn decided that before he left for Short Mountain in the morning he would borrow a tape deck so that he could play back the Margaret Cigaret interview while he drove. Perhaps learning what Listening Woman thought had made Hosteen Tso sick might cast some light on what had made him die.

Listening Woman’s voice accompanied Joe Leaphorn eastward up Navajo Route1 from Tuba City to the Cow Springs turnoff and then, mile after jolting mile, up the road to Short Mountain. The voice emerged from the tape player on the seat beside him, hesitating, hurrying, sometimes stumbling, and sometimes repeating itself. Leaphorn listened, his eyes intent on the stony road but his thoughts focused on the words that came from the speaker. Now and then he slowed the carryall, stopped the tape, reversed it, and repeated a passage. One section he replayed three times -comhearing the bored voice of Feeney asking: “Did Tso tell you anything else? Did he say anything about anyone being mad at him, having a grudge? Anything like that?”

And then the voice of Listening Woman: “He thought maybe it could be the ghost of his great-grandfather. That’s because …” Mrs. Cigaret’s voice trailed off as she searched for English words to explain Navajo metaphysics. “That’s because Hosteen Tso, he made a promise …”

“Made a promise to his great-grandfather? That would have been a long time ago.” Feeney didn’t sound interested. “I think it was something they did with the oldest sons,” Mrs. Cigaret said.

“So Hosteen Tso would have made the promise to his own father, and Hosteen Tso’s father made it to his father, and—was

“Okay,” Feeney said. “What was the promise?”

“Taking care of some sort of secret,” Mrs. Cigaret said. “Keeping something safe.”

“Like what?”

“A secret, ” Mrs. Cigaret said. “He didn’t tell me the secret.” Her tone suggested that she wouldn’t have been improper enough to ask. “Did he say anything about getting any threats from anyone? Have any quarrels? Did he—was Leaphorn grimaced, and pushed the fast forward button. Why hadn’t Feeney pursued this line of questioning? Because, obviously, the FBI agent didn’t want to waste time on the talk of great-grandfather ghosts during a murder investigation. But it was equally obvious, at least to Leaphorn, that Mrs. Cigaret considered it worth talking about. The tape rushed squawking through ten minutes of questions and answers probing into what Mrs. Cigaret had been told about Tso’s relationship with neighbors and relatives.

Leaphorn stopped it again at a point near the end of the interview.

He pushed the play button. his … said it hurt him here in the chest a lot,” Mrs. Cigaret was saying. “And sometimes it hurt him in the side. And his eyes, they hurt him, too. Back in the head behind the eyes. It started hurting him right after he found out that somebody had walked across some sand paintings and they stepped right on Corn Beetle, and Talking God, and Gila Monster, and Water Monster. And that same day, he was climbing and he knocked a bunch of rocks down and they killed a frog. And the frog was why his eyes—was Feeney’s voice cut in. “But you’re sure he didn’t say anything about anybody doing anything to hurt him? You’re sure of that? He didn’t blame it on any witch out there?”

“No,” Mrs. Cigaret said. Was there a hesitation? Leaphorn ran it past again. Yes. A hesitation. “Okay,” Feeney said. “Now, did he say anything just before you left him and went over by the cliff?”

“I don’t remember much,” Mrs. Cigaret said.

“I told him he ought to get somebody to take him to Gallup and get his chest it-rayed because maybe he had one of those sicknesses that white people cure. And he said he’d get somebody to write to his grandson to take care of everything, and then I said I’d go and listen and find out what was making his eyes hurt and what else was wrong with him and—was Here the voice of Feeney cut in again, its tone tinged slightly with impatience. “Did he say anything about anyone stealing anything from him? Anything about fighting with relatives or—was Leaphorn punched the off button, and guided the carryall around an outcrop of stone and over the edge of the steep switchback that dropped into Manki Canyon. He wished, as he had wished before, that Feeney hadn’t been so quick to interrupt Mrs. Cigaret. What promise had Hosteen Tso made to his father? Taking care of a secret, Mrs. Cigaret had said. Keeping something safe. Tso hadn’t told her the secret, but he might have told her much more than Feeney had let her report. And the sand paintings. Plural? More than one? Leaphorn had played that part over and over and she had clearly said “somebody had walked across some sand paintings.” But there would be only a single sand painting existing at any one time at any curing ceremonial. The singer prepared the hogan floor with a background of fine sand, then produced his sacred painting with colored sands, and placed the patient properly upon it, conducted the chants and rituals, and then destroyed the painting, erased it, wiped away the magic. Yet she had said “some sand paintings.” And the list of Holy People desecrated had been strange. Sand paintings recreated incidents from the mythic history of the Navajo People.

Leaphorn could conceive of no incident which would have included both Gila Monster and Water Monster in its action. Water Monster had figured only once in the mythology of the Dinee—causing the flood that destroyed the Third World after his babies had been stolen by Coyote. Neither Gila Monster nor Talking God had a role in that episode. Leaphorn shook his head, wishing he had been there for the interrogation. But even as he thought it, he recognized he was being unfair to the FBI man. There would be no reason at all to connect incongruity in a curing sing with cold-blooded killing. And when he had talked to Listening Woman, Feeney had no way of knowing that all the more logical approaches to the case would dead-end. By the time Leaphorn pulled the carryall onto the bare packed earth that served as the yard of the Short Mountain Trading Post, he had decided that his own fascination with the oddities in Mrs. Cigaret’s story was based more on his obsession with explaining the unexplained than with the murder investigation. Still, he would find Mrs. Cigaret and ask the questions Feeney hadn’t asked. He would find out what curing ceremonial Hosteen Tso had attended before his death, and who had desecrated its sand paintings, and what else had happened there. He parked beside a rusty GMC stake truck and sat for a moment, looking.

The FOR SALE sign which had been a permanent part of the front porch was still there. A midnight-blue Stingray, looking out of place, sat beside the sheep barn, its front end jacked up. Two pickups and an aging Plymouth sedan were parked in front. In the shade of the porch a white-haired matriarch was perched on a bale of sheep pelts, talking to a fat middle-aged man who sat, legs folded, on the stone floor beside her. Leaphorn knew exactly who they were talking about.

They were talking about the Navajo policeman who had driven up, speculating on who Leaphorn was and what he was doing at Short Mountain. The old woman said something to the man, who laughed—a flash of white teeth in a dark shadowed face. A joke had just been made about Leaphorn. He smiled, and completed his quick survey. All was as he remembered it. The late-afternoon sun baked a collection of tired buildings clustered on a shadeless expanse of worn earth on the rim of Short Mountain Wash. Leaphorn wondered why this inhospitable spot had been chosen for a trading center. Legend had it that the Moab Mormon who founded the store about 1910 had picked the place because it was a long way from competition. It was also a long way from customers. Short Mountain Wash drained one of the most barren and empty landscapes in the Western Hemisphere. Legend also had it that after more than twenty hard years the Mormon became involved in a theological dispute concerning plural wives. He had picked up his own two and emigrated to a dissident colony in Mexico.

Mcginnis, then young and relatively foolish, had become the new owner. He had promptly realized his mistake. According to the legend, about thirty days after the purchase, he had hung out the THIS ESTABLISHMENT FOR SALE INQUIRE WITHIN sign that decorated his front porch for more than forty years. If anyone else had outsmarted John Mcginnis, the event had not been recorded by reservation folklore.

Leaphorn climbed from the carryall, sorting out the questions he would ask Mcginnis. The trader would know not only where Margaret Cigaret lived, but where she could be found this week—an important difference among people who follow sheep herds. And Mcginnis would know if anything new had been heard about the mission helicopter, or about the reliability of those who brought in old reports, and everything about the lives and fortunes of the impoverished clans that occupied this empty end of the Rainbow Plateau. He would know why the Adams woman was here. Most important of all, he would know if a strange man wearing gold-rimmed glasses had been seen in the canyon country. At this moment the screen door opened and John Mcginnis emerged. He stood for a moment, blinking at Leaphorn through the fierce outside light, a stumpy, stooped, white-haired man swallowed up in new, and oversized, blue overalls. Then he squatted on the floor between the old woman and the man. Whatever he said produced a cackle of laughter from the woman and a chuckle from the man. Once again, Leaphorn guessed, he had been the subject of humor. He didn’t mind. Mcginnis would save him a lot of effort.

“I remember you,” Mcginnis said. “You’re that Slow Talking Dinee boy who used to pa-trol out of Tuba City. Six, seven years ago.” He had invited Leaphorn into his room at the rear of the store and gestured him to a chair. Now he poured a Coca-Cola glass half full from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, sloshed it around, and eyed Leaphorn. “The Dinee say you won’t drink whiskey, so I ain’t going to offer you any.

“

“That’s right,” Leaphorn said. “Let me see, now. If I remember correct, your mama was Anna Gorman—ain’t that right?—from way the hell over at Two Gray Hills? And you’re a grandson of Hosteen Klee-Thlumie.” Leaphorn nodded. Mcginnis scowled at him. “I don’t mean a goddam clan grandson,” he said. “I mean a real grandson. He was the father of your mother? That right?” Leaphorn nodded again. “I knowed your granddaddy, then,” Mcginnis said. He toasted this fact with a long sip at the warm bourbon and then thought about it, his pale old man’s eyes staring past Leaphorn at the wall. “Knowed him before he was Hosteen anything. Just a young buck Indian trying to learn how to be a singer. They called him Horse Kicker then.”

“When I knew him he was called Hosteen Klee,” Leaphorn said. “We helped each other out, a time or two,” Mcginnis said, talking to his memories. “Can’t say that about too many.” He took another sip of bourbon and looked across the glass at Leaphorn—solidly back in the present. “You want to find that old Cigaret woman,” he said. “Now, the only reason you’d want to do that is something must have come up on the Tso killing. That right?”

“Nothing much new,” Leaphorn said. “But you know how it is. Time passes. Maybe somebody says something. Or sees something that helps us out.” Mcginnis grinned. “And if anybody heard anything, it’d get to old John Mcginnis. That right?” The grin vanished with a new thought. “Say, now, you know anything about a feller named Noni? Claims to be a Seminole Indian?” The tone of the question suggested that he doubted all claims made by Noni. “Don’t think so,” Leaphorn said. “What about him?”

“He came in here a while back and looked the store over,” Mcginnis said. “Said he and a bunch of other goddam Indians had some sort of government loan and was interested in buying this hell hole. I figured to do that they’d have to deal with the Tribal Council for a license.”

“They would,” Leaphorn said. “But that wouldn’t have anything to do with the police. They really going to buy it?” The idea of Mcginnis actually selling the Short Mountain Post wasn’t believable. It would be like the Tribal Council bricking up the hole in Window Rock, or Arizona selling the Grand Canyon. “Probably didn’t really have the money,” Mcginnis said. “Probably just come around looking to see if breaking in and stealing would be easy. I didn’t like his looks.” Mcginnis scowled at his drink and at the memory. He put his rocking chair in motion, holding his elbow rigid on the chair arm and the glass rigid in his hand. In it, a brown tide of bourbon ebbed and flowed with the motion. “This Tso killing, now. You know what I hear about that?” He waited for Leaphorn to fill in the blank. “What?” Leaphorn asked. “Not a goddam thing,” Mcginnis said. “Funny,” Leaphorn said.