Chapter Six
For no reason except habit born of childhood in a crowded hogan, Joe Leaphorn awoke with the first light of dawn. The bedroom he and Emma had shared for three happy decades faced both the sunrise and the noisy street. When Leaphorn had noted the noise disadvantage to Emma she had pointed out that the quieter bedroom had no windows facing the dawn. No further explanation was needed.
Emma was a true Navajo traditional with the traditional’s need to greet the new day. That was one of the countless reasons Leaphorn loved her. Besides, while Leaphorn was no longer truly a traditional, no longer offered a pinch of pollen to the rising sun, he still treasured the old ways of his people.
This morning, however, he had a good reason for sleeping late. Professor Louisa Bourebonette was sleeping in the quieter bedroom, and Leaphorn didn’t want to awaken her. So he lay under the sheet, watched the eastern horizon turn flame red, listened to the automatic coffeemaker go to work in the kitchen, and considered what the devil to do with the names Gershwin had given him. The three had stolen themselves an airplane and flown away, which took some of the pressure off. Still, if Gershwin was right, having their identities would certainly be useful to those trying to catch them.
Leaphorn yawned, stretched, smelled coffee, wondered if he could get to the kitchen and pour a cup quietly enough not to disturb Louisa. Wondered, too, what solution she would offer for his dilemma if he presented it to her. Emma would have told him to forget it. Locking robbers in prison helped no one, she’d say. They should be cured of the disharmony that was causing this bad behavior. Prison didn’t accomplish that. A Mountain Way ceremony, with all their friends and relatives gathered to support them, would drive the dark wind out of them and restore them to hozho.
A clatter in the kitchen interrupted that thought. Leaphorn jumped out of bed and put on his bathrobe. He found Louisa standing at the stove, fully dressed and cooking pancakes.
“I’m using your mix,” she said. “They’d be a lot better if you had some buttermilk.”
Leaphorn rescued his mug from the sink, rinsed it, poured himself a cup, and sat by the table watching Louisa, remembering the ten thousand mornings he had watched Emma from the same chair. Emma was shorter, slimmer, and always wore skirts. Louisa had on jeans and a flannel shirt. Her hair was short and gray. Emma’s was long and a luminous black. That hair was her only source of vanity. Emma had hated to have it cut even for the brain surgery that killed her.
“You’re up early,” Leaphorn said.
“Blame it on your culture,” Louisa said. “These old-timers I need to talk to have been up an hour already. They’ll be in bed by sundown.”
“How about your translator? Did you ever manage to get hold of him?”
“I’ll try again after breakfast,” Louisa said. “Young people have more normal sleeping habits.”
They ate pancakes.
“Something’s on your mind,” Louisa said. “Right?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s true,” Louisa said. “I could tell last night when we were having dinner down at the Inn. Couple of times you started to say something, but you didn’t.”
True enough. And why hadn’t he? Because it would have taken him too close to his relationship with Emma—this hashing over of something he was working on. But now in the light of morning he saw nothing wrong with it. He told Louisa about Gershwin, the three names and his promise — ambiguous and vague.
“Did you shake hands on it? Any of that male-chivalry stuff?”
Leaphorn grinned. Louisa’s way of striking right to the heart of matters was something he liked about her.
“Well, we shook hands, but it was sort of a 'goodbye, glad to see you again,' handshake. No cutting our wrists and mixing blood,” he said. “He had the identification information written on a piece of paper, and he just left that on the table. With sort of an unspoken understanding that if I took it, I could do whatever I wanted with it. But promising him confidentiality was implied no matter what I did.”
“And you took the paper?”
“Not exactly. I read it, then wadded it up and dropped it in the wastebasket.”
She was smiling at him, shaking her head.
“You’re right,” he said. “Throwing it away didn’t work. I’m still stuck with the promise.”
She nodded, cleared her throat, sat very straight. “Mr Leaphorn,” she said, “I remind you that you are under oath to tell this grand jury the truth and the whole truth. How did you obtain this information?” Louisa stared over her glasses at him, her stern look. “Then you say you read it off a piece of paper left on a restaurant table, and the lawyer asks if you know who left the paper, and…"
Leaphorn raised his hand. “I know,” he said.
“Two choices, really. After all, that Gershwin jerk was just trying to use you. You could just forget it. Or you could figure out some sneaky way to get the names to the FBI. How about an anonymous letter? In fact, don’t you wonder why he didn’t write one himself?”
“I guess it was timing. A couple of days pass before the letter gets delivered. Then if it’s anonymous, it goes right to the bottom of the pile,” Leaphorn said. “I guess he knew that. I think he’s afraid these days. That the bandits know that he knows, and they don’t trust him, and if they aren’t caught, they’ll be coming after him.”
Louisa laughed. “I’d say they have pretty good reason not to trust him. You shouldn’t either.”
“I thought about faxing it in from some commercial place where nobody knows me, or sending an e-mail. But just about everything is traceable these days. And now there’s a reward out, so they’ll be getting dozens of tips by now. Probably hundreds.”
“I guess so,” Louisa said. “Why don’t you call one of your old FBI buddies? Do the same thing to them Gershwin’s doing to you?”
Leaphorn laughed. “I tried that. I called Jay Kennedy. You remember me telling you about him? Used to be Agent in Charge at Gallup, and we worked on several things together. Anyway, he’s retired over in Durango. So I tried it on him. No luck.”
“What did he say?”
“Same thing you just told me. If he passes it along to the Bureau, they ask him where he got it. He tells ‘em me. They ask me where I got it.”
“So what’s your solution? How about disguising your voice and giving them a telephone call?”
“I might try that. The FBI has them flying away. I could tell them one of the guys is a pilot. That would be easy for them to check, and if one of them happens to be a flier, then they’d be interested. But that’s just half of the problem."He paused to take another bite of pancake.
She watched him chew, waited, sighed. Said, “OK, what’s the other half?”
“Maybe these three guys had nothing to do with it. Maybe Gershwin just wants them hassled for some personal reason, and if the robbers aren’t caught, this would damn sure do that sooner or later.”
She nodded. “I’ll take it under advisement, then,” she said, and left the kitchen to call her interpreter.
By the time Leaphorn had the dishes washed she was back, looking disheartened.
“Not only is he sick, he has laryngitis. He can hardly talk. I guess I’ll head back to Flagstaff and try it later.”
“Too bad,” Leaphorn said.
“Another thing. He’d told them we were coming today. And no telephone, of course, to tell them we’re not.”
“Where do these guys live?”
Louisa’s expression brightened. “Are you about to volunteer to interpret? The Navajo’s a fellow named Dalton Cayodito and the address I have is Red Mesa Chapter House. The other one’s a Ute. Lives at Towaoc on the Ute Mountain Reservation. How’s your Ute?”
“Maybe fifty words or so,” Leaphorn said. “But I could help you with Cayodito.”