Hillerman, Tony - [Leaphorn & Chee 03] (9 page)

The girl was out of the vehicle before it stopped rolling, running toward the hogan shouting, “Bennie, Bennie.” She pulled open the plank door and disappeared inside. Leaphorn waited a moment, watching for the dog. There was no trace of it. He stepped out of the carryall as the girl emerged from the hogan. “You said he was here,” she said. She looked angry and disappointed. “He was,” Leaphorn said. “In fact, he is.” Tso had emerged from the screen of junipers west of the hogan and was walking slowly toward them, looking puzzled. The morning sun was in his eyes and he had not yet identified the girl. Then he did. He stopped, stunned. Theodora Adams noticed it, too. “Bennie,” she said. “I tried to stay away.”

Her voice broke. “I just couldn’t.”

“I see,” Tso said. His eyes were on her face. “Was it a good trip?” Theodora Adams laughed a shaky laugh. “Of course not,” she said. She took his hand. “It was awful.

But it’s all right now.” Tso glanced over her shoulder at Leaphorn.

“The policeman brought you,” he said. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to come,” she said. “Of course I’d come. You knew that.”

Leaphorn was suddenly acutely embarrassed. “Father Tso,” he said.

“I’m sorry. But I need to ask some questions. About your grandfather.”

“Sure,” Tso said. “Not that I know much. I hadn’t seen him for years.”

“I understand you got a letter from him. What did he say?”

“Not much,” Tso said. “He just said he was sick. And wanted me to come and arrange a sing and take care of things when he died.” Tso frowned. “Why would anyone want to kill an old man like that?”

“That’s the problem,” Leaphorn said. “We don’t know. Did he say anything that would help? Do you have the letter?”

“It’s with my stuff,” Tso said. “I’ll get it.” He disappeared into the hogan.

Leaphorn looked at Theodora Adams. She stared back. “Congratulations, ” Leaphorn said. “Screw you,” she said. “You—was She stopped. Tso was coming through the hogan doorway. “It really doesn’t say much, but you can read it,” he said. The letter was handwritten in black ink on inexpensive typing paper. “My Grandson,” it began. “I have the ghost sickness. There is no one here to talk to the singer and do all the things that have to be done so that I can go again in beauty. I want you to come and get the right singer and see about the sing. If you don’t come I will die very soon. Come. There are valuable things I must give you before I die.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t help much,” Tso said. “Your grandfather couldn’t write, could he? Do you know who he would get to write it for him?”

“I don’t know,” Tso said. “Some friend, probably.”

“How did he get your address?”

“It was just addressed care of the Franciscan abbot at the American College. I guess they asked the Franciscans over at St. Anthony’s how to send it.”

“When was it mailed?”

“I got it about the middle of April. So I guess it was mailed just before he got killed.

” Tso glanced down at his hands. He had obviously thought a lot about this. “I was busy with a lot of things then,” he said. He glanced up at Leaphorn, looking for some sort of understanding of this failure. “And it was already too late, anyway.”

“Bennie thought it could wait a little while,” Theodora Adams said. “I suppose I operated on Navajo time,” Tso said. But he didn’t smile at the old joke. “I hadn’t seen the old man since I was eleven or twelve. I guess I thought it could wait.” Leaphorn said nothing. He was remembering Mrs. Cigaret’s voice on the tape recording, recalling for Feeney what Hosteen Tso had told her. his … And he said he’d get somebody to write to his grandson.” That’s what Mrs. Cigaret had said. Get somebody to write. Hosteen Tso hadn’t lived more than an hour after that. And yet the letter had been written. Who the hell could have done it? Leaphorn decided he’d go back to Short Mountain and talk to Mcginnis again. “You have any idea what those “valuable things” he wanted to give you could be?” Leaphorn asked. “No,” Tso said. “I have no idea. Everything I found in the hogan wouldn’t be worth a hundred dollars.” Tso looked thoughtful. “But maybe he didn’t mean money value.”

“Maybe not,” Leaphorn said. He was still thinking of the letter. If Mcginnis hadn’t written it, who the hell had?

Mcginnis poured the bourbon carefully, stopping exactly at the copyright symbol under the Coca-Cola trademark on the glass. That done, he glanced up at Leaphorn. “Had a doctor tell me I ought to quit this stuff because it was affecting my eardrums and I told him I liked what I was drinking better’n what I was hearing.” He held the glass to the light, enjoying the amber as a wine-lover enjoys the red. “Two things I can’t even guess at,” Mcginnis said. “The first is who he got to write that letter for him, and the other is how come he didn’t come back to me to write it for him after he found out the address.” Mcginnis considered this, his expression sour. “You might think it’s because I’m a man who’s known for knowing everybody’s business. A gossip. But then all those people out here know I don’t talk what I write in their letters for them.

They’ve had many a year to learn that.”

“I’m going to tell you exactly what was in that letter,” Leaphorn said. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes intent on Mcginnis’s face. “I want you to listen.

It said, “My Grandson. I have ghost sickness. Nobody is here to get me a singer and do the things necessary so I can go again in beauty.

I need you to come here and hire the right singer and see about things. If you don’t come I will die soon. Come. There are valuable things I must give you before I die.”” Mcginnis stared into the bourbon, full of thought. “Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.”

“That’s it,” Leaphorn said. “I memorized it.”

“Funny,” Mcginnis said. “I’m going to ask you if that’s about the same as the letter he was telling you he wanted written.”

“I figured that’s what you were going to ask,” Mcginnis said. “Let me see the letter.”

“I don’t have it,” Leaphorn said. “This Benjamin Tso let me read it.”

“You got a hell of a memory, then,” Mcginnis said. “Nothing much wrong with it, ” Leaphorn said. “How about yours? You remember what he wanted you to write?” Mcginnis pursed his lips. “Well, now,” he said. “It’s kind of like I told you. I got a reputation around here for not gossiping about what people want put in their letters.”

“I want you to hear something else, then,” Leaphorn said. “This is a tape of an FBI agent named Feeney talking to Margaret Cigaret about what Hosteen Tso told her that afternoon just before he got killed.”

Leaphorn picked up the recorder and pushed the play button. his … say anything just before you left him and went over by the cliff?”

the voice of Feeney asked. And then the voice of the Listening Woman.

“I don’t remember much. 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—was Leaphorn stopped the tape, his eyes still on Mcginnis’s. “Well, well,” Mcginnis said. He started the rocking chair in motion. “Well, now,” he said. “If I heard what I think I heard …” He paused. “That was her talking about just before old Tso got hit on the head?”

“Right,” Leaphorn said. “And he was saying he still hadn’t got the letter written. So nobody could have written it—except Anna Atcitty, and that’s damned unlikely.

And even if she wrote it, which I bet my ass she didn’t, the guy that hit ‘ on the head would’ve had to gone and mailed it.” He glanced at Leaphorn. “You believe that?”

“No,” Leaphorn said.

Mcginnis abruptly stopped the rocking chair. In the Coca-Cola glass the oscillation of the bourbon turned abruptly into splashing waves.

“By God,” Mcginnis said, his voice enthusiastic. “This gets mysterious.”

“Yeah,” Leaphorn said. “That was a short letter,” Mcginnis said. “What he told me would make a long one. Maybe a page and a half. And I write small.” Mcginnis pushed himself out of the rocker and reached for the bourbon. “You know,” he said, uncapping the bottle, “I’m known for keeping secrets as well as for talking.

And I’m known as an Indian trader. By profession, in fact, that’s what I am. And you’re an Indian. So let’s trade.”

“For what?”

Leaphorn asked. “Tit for tat,” Mcginnis said. “I tell you what I know. You tell me what you know.”

“Fair enough,” Leaphorn said.

“Except right now there’s damned little I know.”

“Then you’ll owe me, ” Mcginnis said. “When you get this thing figured out you tell me.

That means I gotta trust you. Got any problems with that?”

“No,” Leaphorn said. “Well, then,” Mcginnis said. “You know anything about somebody named Jimmy?” Leaphorn shook his head. “Old Man Tso come in here and he sat down over there.” Mcginnis waved the glass in the direction of an overstuffed chair. “He said to write a letter telling his grandson that he was sick, and to tell the grandson to come right away and get a singer to cure him. And to tell him that Jimmy was acting bad, acting like he didn’t have any relatives.”

Mcginnis paused, sipped, and thought. “Let’s see now,” he said. “He said to tell the grandson that Jimmy was acting like a damned white man. That maybe Jimmy had become a witch. Jimmy had stirred up the ghost. He said to tell his grandson to hurry up and come right away because there was something that he had to tell him. He said he couldn’t die until he told him.” Mcginnis had been staring into the glass as he spoke. Now he looked up at Leaphorn, his shrunken old face expressionless but his eyes searching for an answer. “Hosteen Tso told me he wanted to put that down twice. That he couldn’t die until he told that grandson something. And that after he told him, then it would be time to die. Looks like somebody hurried it up.” He was motionless in the chair a long moment. “I’d like to know who did that,” he said. “I’d like to know who Jimmy is,” Leaphorn said. “I don’t know,” Mcginnis said. “I asked the old fart, and all he’d say was that Jimmy was a son-of-a-bitch, and maybe a skinwalking witch.

But he wouldn’t say who he was. Sounds like he figured the grandson would know.”

“He say anything about wanting to give the grandson something valuable?” Mcginnis shook his head. “Hell,” he said.

“What’d he have? A few sheep. Forty, fifty dollars’ worth of jewelry in pawn here. Change of clothes. He didn’t have nothing valuable.”

Mcginnis pondered this, the only sound in the room the slow, rhythmic creaking of his rocker. “That girl,” he said finally. “Let me see if I guessed right about the way that is. She’s after that priest. He’s running and she’s chasing and now she’s got him.” He glanced at Leaphorn for confirmation. “That about it? You left her out there with him?”

“Yeah,” Leaphorn said. “You got it figured right.” They thought about it awhile. The old mantel clock on the shelf behind Leaphorn’s chair became suddenly noisy in the silence.

Mcginnis smiled faintly over his Coca-Cola glass. But Mcginnis hadn’t seen it happen, hadn’t seen the defeat of Father Benjamin Tso as Leaphorn had. Leaphorn had asked the priest a few more questions about the letter, and had established that Father Tso had seen nothing of Goldrims, and no sign of the dog. And then Theodora Adams had opened the back door of the carryall, and taken out her small duffel bag, and put it on the ground beside the vehicle. Benjamin Tso had looked at it, and at her, and had taken a long, deep breath and said, “Theodora, you can’t stay.” And Theodora had stood silently, looking first at him and then down at her hands, and her shoulders had slumped just a fraction, and Leaphorn had become aware from the tortured expression on the face of Father Tso that Theodora Adams must be crying, and Leaphorn had said he would “look around a little” and had walked away from this struggle of two souls, which was, as Miss. Adams had told him, not the business of the Navajo Tribal Police. The struggle had been brief. When Leaphorn had completed his idle, fruitless examination of the ground behind the hogan, Father Tso was holding the girl against him, saying something into her hair. “That’s some woman,” Mcginnis said, mostly to himself.

His watery old eyes were almost closed. Leaphorn had nothing to add to that. He was thinking of the expression on Father Tso’s face when Tso had told him to leave the girl. The God Tso had worshipped was no more than a distant abstraction then. The girl stood against his side, warm and alive, though at this stage of the Fall of Father Tso lust hadn’t been the enemy. Tso’s enemy, Leaphorn thought, would be a complicated mixture. It would include pity, however sadly misplaced, and affection, and loneliness and vanity. Lust would come later, when Theodora Adams wanted it to come—and Tso would learn then how he had overestimated himself. “Certain kind of woman likes what she can’t have,” Mcginnis said. “They hate to see a man keep a promise. Some of ‘ go after married men. But you take a real tiger like that Adams— she goes gets herself a priest.” He sipped the bourbon, glanced sidewise at Leaphorn. “You know how that works with a Catholic priest?” he asked. “Before they’re ordained, they get some time to think about the promises they’re going to make— giving up the world, and women, and all that. And then when the time comes, they go up to the altar, and they stretch out on the floor, flat on their face, and they make the promise in front of the bishop.

Psychologically it makes it mean as hell to change your mind. Just one step short of getting your balls cut off if you break a promise like that.” Mcginnis sipped again. “Makes it a hell of a challenge for a woman,” he added. Leaphorn was thinking of another challenge.

It was obsessing him. Somewhere in this jumble of contradictions, oddities, coincidences and unlikely events there must be a pattern, a reason, something that linked a cause and an effect, which the laws of natural harmony and reason would dictate. It had to be there.

“Mcginnis,” he said. He tried to keep his voice from sounding plaintive. “Is there anything you’re not telling me that would help make sense out of this? This secret the old man was keeping—whichat could it have been? Could it have been worth killing for?” Mcginnis snorted. “There ain’t nothing around here worth killing for,” he said. “Put it all together and this whole Short Mountain country ain’t worth hitting a man with a stick for.”