It doesn’t make sense, Leaphorn said.
No, Mrs. Cigarette said. No one would do it.
Leaphorn opened his mouth and then closed it. It was not necessary to say the obvious.
There was no reason to say, Except a witch. In the metaphysics of the Navajo, these stylized reproductions of Holy People reliving moments from mythology were produced to restore harmony. But this same metaphysics provided that when not done properly, a sand painting would destroy harmony and cause death. The legends of the grisly happenings in witches dens were sprinkled with deliberately perverted sand paintings, as well as with murder and incest.
Mrs. Cigarette had turned her face toward the fire pit. Amid laughter and loud approval, the great brown cake was being raised from the pit carefully, to avoid breaking and the dust and ashes brushed away.
The cake is out, Leaphorn said. It looks perfect.
The ceremony has been perfect, Listening Woman said. Everything was done just right.
In the songs, everybody got the words right. And I heard your voice among the singers.
Yes, Leaphorn said.
Mrs. Cigarette was smiling now, but the smile was grim. And in a moment you will ask me if the man who was to die told me anything about skinwalkers, anything about a den of witches.
I might have asked you that, old mother, Leaphorn said. I was trying to remember if it is wrong to even ask about witches at a Kinaalda.
Its not a good thing to talk about, Mrs. Cigarette said. But in this case it is business, and we wont be talking much about witches, because the old man told me nothing about them.
Nothing?
Nothing. I asked him. I asked him because I, too, wondered about the sand paintings, Mrs. Cigarette said. She laughed. And all he did was get angry. He said he couldn’t talk about it because it was a secret. A big secret.
Did you ever think that the old man might himself be a skinwalker?
Mrs. Cigarette was silent. At the hogan door, Mrs. Endischee was cutting portions from the rim of the cake and handing them out to relatives.
I thought about it, Mrs. Cigarette said. She shook her head again. I don’t know, she said.
If he was, he doesn’t hurt anybody now.
Just beyond the Mexican Water chapter house, where Navajo Route 1 intersects with Navajo Route 12, Leaphorn pulled the carryall onto the shoulder, cut the ignition, and sat.
The Tuba City district office was 113 miles west, down Route 1. Chinle, and the onerous duty of helping provide Boy Scout security at Canyon De Chelly, lay 62 miles almost due south down Route 12. Desire pulled Leaphorn westward. But when he got to the Tuba City district office what could he tell Captain Largo? He had come up with absolutely nothing concrete to justify the time Largo had bought for him and damned little that could be described even as nebulous. He should radio Largo that he was calling it all off and then drive to Chinle and report for duty. Leaphorn picked up the Tso-Atcitty file, flipped rapidly through it, put it down again and picked up the thicker file about the search for the helicopter.
The recreated route of the copter still led erratically, but fairly directly, toward the vicinity of the Tso hogan. Leaphorn stared at the map, remembering that another line-drawn from an abandoned Mercedes to a water hole where two dogs had died would, if extended, pass near the same spot. He flipped to the next page and began reading rapidly the description of the copter, the details of its rental, the pertinent facts about the pilot.
Leaphorn stared at the name, Edward Haas. Haas had been stenciled in white on the red plastic of the battery lantern on the blanket in the Endischee hogan.
Well, now, Leaphorn said aloud. He thought of dates and places, trying to make connections, and failing that, thought of what Listening Woman had said when he’d asked if Tso might have been a witch. Then he reached down, picked up the radio mike and checked in with the Tuba City headquarters. Captain Largo wasn’t in.
Just tell him this, then, Leaphorn said. Tell him that a boy named Eddie Gorman was at the Endischee Kinaalda with one of those floating fishermen’s lanterns with the name Haas stenciled on it. He filled in the details of description, family, and where the boy might be found. Tell him I’m going to Window Rock and clear a trip to Albuquerque.
Albuquerque? the dispatcher asked. Largos going to ask me why you’re going to Albuquerque.
Leaphorn stared at the speaker a moment, thinking about it. Tell him I’m going to the FBI office. I want to read their file on that helicopter case.
» 11 «
Special Agent George Witover, who ushered Leaphorn into the interrogation room, had a bushy but neat mustache, shrewd light-blue eyes, and freckles. He took the chair behind the desk and smiled at Leaphorn. Well, Lieutenant He glanced down at the note the receptionist had given him. Lieutenant Leaphorn. We understand you found a flashlight from the Haas helicopter. The blue eyes held Leaphorns eyes expectantly. Have a seat.
He gestured to the chair beside the desk.
Leaphorn sat down. Yes.
Your Window Rock office called and told us a little about it, the man said. They said you particularly wanted to talk to me. Why was that?
I heard somewhere that the man to talk to about the case was Agent George Witover, Leaphorn said. I heard you were the one who was handling it.
Oh, Witover said. He eyed Leaphorn curiously, and seemed to be trying to read something in his face.
And I thought about the rule the FBI has about not letting anybody see case files, and I thought about how we have just exactly the same rule, and it occurred to me that sometimes rules like that get in the way of getting things done. So I thought that since were both interested in that copter, we could sort of exchange information informally.
You can see the report we made to the U.S. Attorney, Witover said.
If you’re like us, sometimes that report is fairly brief, and the file is fairly thick. Everything doesn’t go into the report, Leaphorn said.
What we heard from Window Rock was that you were at some sort of ceremonial, and saw the flashlight there with the name stenciled on it, but you didn’t get the flashlight or talk to the man who had it.
That’s about it, Leaphorn said. Except it was a battery lantern and a boy who had it.
And you didn’t find out where he’d gotten it?
Leaphorn found himself doing exactly what he’d decided not to do. He was allowing himself to be irritated by an FBI agent. And that made him irritated at himself. That’s right, he said. I didn’t.
Witover looked at him, the bright blue eyes asking Why not? Leaphorn ignored the question.
Could you tell me why not? Witover asked.
When I saw the lantern, I didn’t know the name of the helicopter pilot, Leaphorn said, his voice cold.
Witover said nothing. His expression changed from incredulous to something that said: Well, what can you expect? And now you want to read our file, he stated.
That’s right.
I wish you could tell us a bit more. Any sudden show of wealth among those people.
Anything interesting.
In that Short Mountain country, if anybody has three dollars its a show of wealth, Leaphorn said. There hasn’t been anything like that.
Witover shrugged and fiddled with something in the desk drawer. Through the interrogation rooms single window Leaphorn could see the sun reflecting off the windows of the post office annex across Albuquerque’s Gold Avenue. In the reception room behind him, a telephone rang once.
What made you think I was particularly interested in this case? Witover asked.
You know how it is, Leaphorn said. Small world. I just remember hearing somebody say that you’d asked to come out from Washington because you wanted to stay on that Santa Fe robbery.
Witover's expression said he knew that wasn’t exactly what Leaphorn had heard.
Probably just gossip, Leaphorn said.