The Wailing Wind Part 5

"Notice," said Nakai, "both talk, and talk loud, but neither hears the other. Remember what Changing Woman taught us. Once we could talk to the animals, but when we became fully humans the animals couldn't understand us anymore because now we had the words to talk to each other about the important things. But we have to learn to listen."

Even in the mood he was in now, Chee smiled, remembering that he had not a clue of the point Nakai was making. But as the evening became night, and more and more of their subjects stumbled out onto the street, Nakai made the point clear. The alcohol they had been drinking had wiped away that human intelligence-the link that had connected them with the Holy People-and now they had lost that human intelligence without the animal intelligence they had left behind.

It was while they sat watching an angry argument between a man and a woman that Nakai explained the Separation story. The people had lived beside a river in the Third World, Nakai said, with the men bringing in deer, antelope, rabbits, and turkey, and the women collecting nuts, roots, and berries for the meals. Both genders became unhappy, thinking they were doing more than their share. The women decided they could live better without the men, and the men said they didn't need the women. The women made their own camp across the river. But each gender soon discovered only unhappiness without the other, so they reunited.

Chee had provoked Nakai's story by asking how to handle a problem with a girl at school who switched between liking him a lot and wanting nothing to do with him. Nakai's story didn't seem helpful then. And now, years later, it didn't help him decide what to do about Bernadette Manuelito. And he had to decide soon.

Specifically, he had to call Bernie and ask her if she was coming back to work. First, he'd say, Officer Manuelito, you are about to be late for work. No, first he would apologize for being such a jerk, for losing his temper, for being rude. But where would that leave him? Where would that lead? He tried to calculate that, and found himself back at the beginning-remembering all too vividly her face. Bernie's very pretty smooth and oval face had been transformed by shock, anger, then what? Sorrow, perhaps. Or pain and disappointment. He didn't like to think about it.

"Just go home and keep your mouth shut," he'd said. Sort of shouted, really. And Bernie had looked as if he'd slapped her. Sort of stunned. Staring at him as if she didn't know him. And then she'd turned and gone to her desk and started collecting her stuff. And, of course, being a d.a.m.ned fool, instead of following her and apologizing, explaining that he had lost his temper, and asking her to help him to figure out something to do to solve the problem, he had just taken that d.a.m.ned Prince Albert tin and walked out with it. He'd thought he'd think of something en route to the FBI office, but all he could think of was going to see Leaphorn. Just let the Legendary Lieutenant solve it for him.

When he called Bernadette, and he would any minute now, he wasn't going to tell her about handing Leaphorn the can and the problem along with it. First, he was going to apologize. Second, he was going to tell her all he had been able to find out about their murder victim. And then he was going to tell her he thought he might know where the murder had been committed. Next, he would tell her he was expecting her back to work, remind her she'd been given only a couple of days off and that her next s.h.i.+ft started this afternoon.

He picked up the phone, punched in the first digits of her number, stopped, put the phone down. First, he would organize how he wanted to report his progress on the trail of homicide victim Doherty.

That had started with another telephone call he'd dreaded making. He'd called Jerry Osborne, the agent in charge of handling FBI duties in the s.h.i.+prock jurisdiction, and made an appointment to meet him in Gallup. Osborne was new-replacing Special Agent Reynald, who had been transferred to New Orleans. Chee had been blamed (or credited, depending on one's point of view) for the disposal of Reynald. Reynald had made intemperate remarks in a telephone conversation with Chee, and subsequently had been left with the impression that this conversation had been recorded without Reynald's knowledge or permission. That, presuming Chee had done it, would have been illegal. Had the case against Chee been pressed, it might have cost Chee his job for what he'd done, and Reynald his job for what he'd said. But it would also have left egg on the face of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Thus the time-tested federal "protect your b.u.t.t" solution was applied. Reynald was quietly moved out of harm's way, and Chee was put on the list of those to be ignored when possible. Osborne, however, hadn't shown the hostility Chee had expected-perhaps because Chee had started with an apology.

"Since we didn't follow the proper procedures when Doherty was found, I wanted to tell you we'll give you all the help we can now," Chee had said. "You know. Sort of making up for it."

It seemed to Chee that Osborne let that statement hang there a little longer than perfect courtesy prescribed, but maybe that was because Chee had come in expecting trouble, and not just because Osborne was pondering how much he could trust him-if at all.

"Like how?" Osborne said. "What did you have in mind?"

"Like run errands. Talk to people you want talked to. See if we can find someone who saw that blue king-cab pickup enroute from the site of the killing to where we found it."

Osborne nodded. Produced an affirmative grunt.

"Maybe other ways," Chee said. "To tell the truth, I know d.a.m.n near nothing about the case so far. Have you found the place Doherty was shot? Maybe we could help with that."

"Well, that would help," said Osborne. "Your officer didn't leave us much to work on around the truck."

With that mild reminder of Navajo Tribal Police failure out of the way, Osborne gave Chee a brief and, Chee suspected, probably edited recitation of what was known so far.

Osborne was a slender young man, curly reddish hair, gray eyes, and a pale complexion sprinkled with those freckles that Chee had found strange when he moved into a dorm at the University of New Mexico and was immersed in a pale-skinned, freckled society. Osborne sat tilted a bit back in his chair with his chin down, looking up at Chee under eyebrows as red as his hair, and recounting, in carefully phrased sentences, what the Bureau wanted the Navajo Tribal Police to know about the life and death of Mr. Doherty.

Age thirty-one, divorced single male, employed by the U.S. Forest Service. Nephew of Sheriff Bart Hegarty, deceased. Flagstaff resident. Bachelor of science in geology, Arizona State U., then graduate student, also ASU. Worked summer seasons in Forest Service fire crew program, maintained checking account at Bank of America branch in Flag, no recent large deposits or withdrawals, held library cards for both ASU and Flag-city libraries where withdrawals showed interest in mineralogy, mining, lost gold mine legends. Reference librarian at Flag said he had asked her to help him locate microfiche files of Gallup, Farmington, and Flagstaff papers of the dates that reported the McKay homicide.

Osborne droned through more biographical details, raised his chin, and confronted Chee with a direct stare, inviting questions.

Chee shrugged.

Osborne dropped his chin again. "Slug not recovered," he continued. "Probably thirty-aught-six or thirty-thirty, rifle fired from undeterminable range, probably more than twenty yards, less than a hundred, bullet entering back between ribs four centimeters left of spinal column, exiting through sternum, causing lethal heart damage. Death almost instantaneous, and estimated twenty to thirty hours before body found. Abrasions on left side of face suggest he might have fallen against rocks." Osborne stopped again, made that hand motion suggesting end of account.

"Rocks," Chee said. "What kind?"

Osborne looked puzzled.

"Sandstone, shale, granite, schist," Chee said. "The coroner might have been able to tell from fragments in the abrasions."

Osborne shrugged. "The autopsy didn't say."

Chee grinned. "It's said the Inuits up on the Arctic Circle have nine words for snow. I guess, living in our stony world, we're that way with our rocks. I heard you're from Indiana. Not so rocky there."

"Indianapolis," Osborne said. "And you're right. You have us bested for rocks."

For the first time Osborne's expression had turned friendly and Chee found himself looking at the man as a fellow human instead of as an uncooperative compet.i.tor. Osborne had been sent down from Denver. Chee would have considered that a move in the right direction but he doubted if a young FBI agent could consider the Gallup office a promotion. In fact, he heard it was officially listed as a "hards.h.i.+p a.s.signment" with a guaranteed rea.s.signment after three years. And then, having no friends here, probably leaving his wife (if he had one) behind while he hunted housing, he'd have to be lonely. Chee felt sympathy. Osborne needed someone to talk to. He returned Osborne's smile.

"I think it'd be tough to learn a new territory," Chee said. "I'd be lost trying to work a city."

Osborne laughed. "My very first case here," he said, "involved a fatal stabbing. No billfold. No identification. But he was missing some molars so we checked all the dentists for dental charts." Osborne made a wry face. "When we finally got him identified, it turned out he'd never been to a dentist in his life. Pulled his own molars. Now how do you do that?"

"It's a different world," Chee said, deciding not to explain to Osborne how his grandmother had done it. It involved numbing the gum with a concoction made of boiled roots and berries and using a little wire noose, etc., and was too complicated to get into here. Instead he got the conversation back to Doherty.

What could Osborne tell him about how the theory of the crime was developing? What, for example, was the motive? And was it true, as the grapevine had it, that Doherty might have been trying to work a lost gold-mine scam on Wiley Denton?

Osborne considered that a moment, decided, said: "I hadn't heard that one yet."

"It seemed pretty unlikely to me," Chee said. "His uncle being the sheriff who arrested Denton, he'd know what happened to McKay."

Osborne grinned. "Nephew or not, I think anybody curious could have known anything they wanted to about that case. The sheriff's department doesn't seem too careful about its files."

"So we hear," Chee said, also grinning. "What was it this time?"

"Well, he had a bunch of stuff copied out of that McKay homicide in the car with him."

"Sensitive stuff?"

"I guess there wasn't anything very sensitive about that one," Osborne said. "My files show it was open and shut. Denton shot McKay, admitted it, claimed self-defense in a scam that turned into an attempted robbery, pleaded, and did his time." Osborne shrugged. "Closed case."

"We need more like that," Chee said. "What in the world would Doherty want to make copies of?"

"Some of the stuff from McKay's briefcase. Maps, sketches, notes on gold a.s.says, copies of stuff from the records out at Fort Wingate." He laughed. "He even made a copy of a State Farm Insurance business card, front and back. That seemed odd, right? So we checked out the agent. A local guy, and all we found out was that McKay didn't buy a policy. And some numbers were jotted on the back."

"Telephone numbers? An address?"

"No idea. Started with a 'D' and then three or four numbers. I guess they must have meant something to McKay."

Chee nodded. "I guess there's nothing wrong with that. Not if he just made copies." He waited a moment, and added: "Be a different matter if they let him walk off with the original stuff."

"Yes, indeed," said Osborne.

"Ah, well," Chee said. "I guess the property clerk would be a family friend. And what would it matter? Closed case, after all." Chee laughed. "What did he get off with? Anything valuable?"

"Not very," Osborne said. "Unless somebody collects old Prince Albert pipe tobacco cans. You remember those?"

"Just barely," Chee said. "I never smoked a pipe. Why would he take something like that?"

"The theory is that maybe he wanted the sand in it, for the same reason McKay had it."

Osborne was grinning, enjoying this. Chee rewarded him with a quizzical look and wasted a few moments pondering.

"Like maybe McKay was pretending it was placer gold sand," Chee said. "Using it to persuade Denton he'd found the gold mine he was trying to sell him? Is that it?"

"All I know is the can had some sand in it and according to the case records, a little of what they called 'placer gold dust' mixed in," said Osborne, "and Doherty had it with him in his truck. We found it out on the ground. As you know the ambulance crew got there before the crime scene people. Things got knocked around." Osborne's expression said that was all he intended to say about this subject.

"One more thing that might help me. Could you tell anything from the stuff in his truck, on his boots, clothes. Anything that would give you a hint at where he'd been between leaving Gallup and getting shot?"

"Not much," Osborne said. He looked at his watch, frowned, and glanced at Chee. "You're going to ask me what kind of rocks he was walking on, and I can't help you about that." He pushed back from the table. "I can tell you he walked through somebody's camp fire, or ash heap, or something. He had soot all over his shoes. And there's something I'd like to ask you about."

Chee nodded.

Osborne studied him. About to tell Chee something. Or ask him something. Then he picked up his notebook and paged through it. "Maybe those numbers will mean something to you," he said.

"Numbers?"

"On that insurance card of McKay's that Doherty copied. I remembered I copied them down. D D2187. That ring any bells with you? It didn't with us, and it didn't with the insurance agent."

"The 'D' might stand for Denton, of course. Are those the last four numbers of his unlisted telephone?"

"No. We thought of that. Funny thing to copy. Made us wonder if Doherty knew something about McKay that we don't. It had to mean something or he wouldn't have made a copy. Seems funny."

It seemed funny to Chee, too, and he jotted the numbers into his own notebook. He'd try D D2187 on Leaphorn. The Legendary Lieutenant would probably recognize them as map coordinates.

With the number and the sooty shoes in mind, Chee had driven directly from Osborne's office to the pay telephone outside the Pancake House, called the U.S. Forest Service office, asked for Denny Pacheco, and told him his problem. He needed Pacheco to check his records for the past big burn season, find out which fires the late Thomas Doherty had worked, and call Chee at his office in s.h.i.+prock.

"Just drop whatever unimportant stuff I might be working on and do it, huh?" said Pacheco. "Why am I going to do something like that?"

"Because I'm your good buddy, is why," Chee said. "And we're trying to find out where this guy was when somebody shot him. It would need to be a fire within, say, fifty or sixty miles of where he was found."

"And where was that?"

Chee explained it.

"So I plow through all that paper for you, and call you at your office with it?" Pacheco asked. "And you remember this when I need a ticket fixed. Right?"

"Anything short of a felony," Chee had said, and he found Pacheco's message waiting on his answering machine when he got back to his office. Pacheco had listed three fires where Doherty's name was on the crew payroll. One was the huge Mesa Verde burn, one was a smaller fire south in the White Mountains, and one was a little nipped-in-the-bud lightning-caused blaze in the Coyote Canyon drainage. The bigger ones were too distant to interest Chee. The lightning burn was in a narrow canyon draining the north slope of Mesa de los Lobos. "This one is well within your mileage limits," Pacheco said. "Bad hot spots due to acc.u.mulation of dead timber, trash, etc., but we got to it fast with fire-suppression planes, and then it rained to dampen it down. We let the hot spots burn out the fuel trash and just sent a man in to make sure it didn't take off again. That was your Doherty."

Chee listened to that again. Probably their canyon. He'd heard that this fire, like the one that roared through the Mesa Verde National Monument area, had uncovered interesting rock art. Perhaps it had also uncovered signs of the legendary Golden Calf dig. Perhaps Doherty had seen them.

The phone buzzed. He picked it up. Officer Bernadette Manuelito calling. Take line three.

12.

Chee sucked in his breath, picked up the telephone, punched b.u.t.ton three, and said: "Bernie. I was just going to-"

"Sergeant Chee," said the strained-sounding voice in his ear, "this is Bernadette Manuelito. Are you still looking for where that man was shot?"

"Well, yes," Chee said. "But I think we have a pretty good idea now. It looks like-"

"He was shot in a canyon draining off of Mesa de los Lobos," Officer Manuelito said. "About two miles up a little drainage that runs into Coyote Canyon. There's an old placer mining sluice there-"

"Wait a minute," Chee said. "What-"

But Bernie wasn't being interrupted. "And that's the place it looks like he dug up the sand with the placer gold in it."

"Bernie," Chee said. "Slow down."

"I found what looked like his tracks there, and the same sort of seeds that were in his shoes and socks, but I didn't stake off the scene because somebody shot at me."

With that, Officer Manuelito inhaled deeply. A moment of silence ensued.

"Shot at you!" Chee said.

"I think so," Bernie said. "He missed. That's why I called in, really. I didn't see him and maybe he wasn't shooting at me, but I thought I should report it. And find out whether I'm still suspended."

"Somebody shot at you!" Chee shouted. "Are you all right? Where are you? Where are you calling from?"

"I'm home," Bernie said. "But you didn't answer me. Am I still suspended?"

"You never were suspended," Chee said. From there the conversation settled into a relatively normal pace, with Chee shutting up and letting Officer Manuelito give an uninterrupted account of her afternoon. It wasn't until it had ended and Chee was leaning back in his chair, shocked, feeling stunned, digesting the fact that Bernie Manuelito might well have been killed, that he remembered that he had forgotten to apologize.

He'd need to report all this to Captain Largo, but Largo wasn't in his office today. Chee picked up the telephone again. He'd call Osborne, tell him the probable site of the Doherty homicide had been found, tell him an officer had been shot at there, and give him the details. He'd enjoy doing that. But halfway through punching in the numbers, he hung up. Officer Bernadette Manuelito wacoming in. Officer Manuelito deserved to make her own report.

13.

The car rolling to a stop in the parking lot of the McDonald's where Joe Leaphorn was eating a hamburger was a s.h.i.+ny black latest version of Jaguar's Vanden Plas sedan-which Leaphorn guessed was the only one of its vintage in Gallup. The man climbing out of it seemed totally out of character for the car. He wore rumpled jeans, a plaid work s.h.i.+rt, and a gimme cap decorated with a trucking company's decal. It shaded a slightly lopsided and weather-beaten face with a mouth that was too large for it.

Wiley Denton. He'd said he'd meet Leaphorn at the McDonald's at 12:15 P.M. P.M. and came through the entrance twenty-three seconds early. and came through the entrance twenty-three seconds early.

Leaphorn stood and motioned Denton over to his booth. They shook hands, and sat.

"I guess I owe you an apology," Denton said.

"How's that?"

"Last time I talked to you, I mean, before calling you down at Window Rock this morning, I hung up on you. Called you a son of a b.i.t.c.h. I shouldn't have said that. Sorry about that."