Now the man had taken an object small and white and held it up to the light, staring at it.
He held it in the fingers of both hands, as if it were heavy, or extremely fragile. Through the binoculars it appeared to be a broken piece of bread. The man was pouring the red liquid into a cup, adding a few drops of the clear, raising the cup in both hands to above eye level. His face was rapt and his lips moved slightly, as if he spoke to the cup. Abruptly Leaphorns memory served him something he had witnessed years ago and which had then dominated his thoughts for weeks. Leaphorn knew what the man was doing and even the words he was speaking: . . . this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all men so that sins may be forgiven
. . .
Leaphorn lowered the binoculars. The man at the Tso hogan was a Roman Catholic priest. As the rules of his priesthood required of him each day, he was celebrating the Mass.
Back at the carryall, Leaphorn found the girl asleep. She lay curled on the front seat, her head cushioned on her purse, her mouth slightly open. Leaphorn examined her a moment, then unlocked the driver-side door, moved her bare feet and slid under the steering wheel.
You were gone long enough, Theodora Adams said. She sat up, pushed the hair away from her face. Did you find the place?
Were going to make this simple and easy to understand, Leaphorn said. He started the engine. If you’ll answer my questions about this man, Ill take you there. If you start lying, Ill take you back to. Short Mountain. And I know enough to tell when the lying starts.
He was there, then, she said. It wasn’t really a question. The girl hadn’t doubted he’d be there. But there was a new expectancy in her face something avid.
He was there, Leaphorn said. About six foot, black hair. That sound like the man you expected?
Yes, she said.
Who is he?
I’m going to raise hell about this, the girl said. You don’t have any right.
Okay, Leaphorn said. Do that. Who is he?
I told you who he is. Benjamin Tso.
What does he do?
Do? She laughed. You mean for a living? I don’t know.
You’re lying, Leaphorn said. Tell me, or we go back to Short Mountain.
He’s a priest, the girl said. A member of the Order of Friars Minor . . . a Franciscan. Her voice was resentful, perhaps at the information, perhaps at having been forced to reveal it.
Whats he doing here?
Resting. He was tired. He had a long trip.
From where?
From Rome.
Italy?
Italy. She laughed. That’s where Rome is.
Leaphorn turned off the ignition. We stop playing these games, he said. If you want to see this man, you’re going to tell me about it.
Oh, well, she said. What the hell? And having decided to talk, she talked freely, enjoying the narration.
She had met Tso in Rome. He had been sent there to complete his studies at the Vatican’s American College and at the Franciscan seminary outside the city. She had gone with her father and had met Tso through the brother of her college roommate, who was also about to be ordained. Having met him, she stayed behind when her father returned to Washington.
The bottom line is were going to get married. To skip a little, he came out here to see about his grandfather and I came out to join him.
You’ve skipped a lot, Leaphorn thought. You’ve skipped the part about seeing something you cant have, and wanting it, and going after it. And the Navajo, a product of the hogan life, of the mission boarding school, and then of the seminary, seeing something he had never seen before, and not knowing how to handle it. It would have been strictly no contest, Leaphorn guessed. He remembered Tsos rapt face staring up at the elevated bread, and felt unreasonably angry. He wanted to ask the girl how she had let Tso struggle this far off the hook.
Instead he said, He giving up being a priest?
Yes, she said. Priests cant marry.
What brought him here?
Oh, he got a letter from his grandfather, and then, as you know, his grandfather got killed.
So he said he had to come and see about it.
And what brings you here?
She glanced at him, eyes hostile. He said to join him here.
Like hell he did, Leaphorn thought. He ran and you tracked him down. He started the carryall again and concentrated for a moment on steering. He doubted if he would learn anything more from Theodora Adams. Probably she and Tso were simply what they seemed to be. Rabbit and coyote. Probably Tso was simply a priest who had been inspired to escape from this woman by some instinct for self-preservation. To save what?
Himself? His honor? His soul? And probably Theodora Adams was the woman who has everything pursuing the man made desirable because he is taboo.
Or perhaps Father Tso was Goldrims. If he was, Theodora Adams’s role would be something more complex than sexual infatuation. But whatever her role, Leaphorn felt she was too tough and too shrewd to reveal more than she wanted to reveal.
The carryall jolted and groaned over the sloping track beneath the mesa and rolled across the expanse of packed earth that served as the yard of Hosteen Tso. 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 its 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 Id 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?
Its with my stuff, Tso said. Ill get it. He disappeared into the hogan.
Leaphorn looked at Theodora Adams. She stared back.
Congratulations, Leaphorn said.
Screw you, she said. You 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.