Sherman Huff’s office was in the basement. Dr. Huff asked questions and took notes, and picked up the telephone. “Three out of six is unusual,” he said. “So first we try to find out if the tumor registry has them.” He spoke into the telephone, identifying himself and reading the names of Dillon Charley, Roscoe Sam, and Woody Begay off his notes. He kept the receiver pinned to his ear with a raised shoulder and turned back to Chee and Mary Landon.
“Just be a minute or two,” he said. “It’s a matter of checking the names with the computer. The registry tries to keep a file on every cancer case diagnosed in the state, but these were way back when they were first setting it up. And it could be they were out on the reservation, where they weren’t diagnosed.”
“In other words, if you don’t have the names registered, it won’t necessarily mean they didn’t have cancer?”
“Not from the early 1950s it won’t,” Huff said. “And not from the Navajo reservation. However, even in those days, they were getting most of them. They had a pretty good…”
The telephone said something into Huff’s ear. “Just a second,” he said.
He made a note. “Okay,” he said. He wrote again. “Thanks. Pull the folders for me. I’ll want to look at them.” He hung up and glanced at Chee.
“Dillon Charley, leukemia. Roscoe Sam, malignancy affecting liver and other vital organs. Woody Begay, leukemia.” Huff’s face was thoughtful. “That’s a hell of a lot of cancer,” he said. “And a lot of leukemia for men their ages.”
“And Emerson Charley,” Mary Landon added. “He also died of leukemia.”
“That’s what Vassa told me,” Huff said. “Let’s make sure. Let’s get that folder, too.” He dialed the phone again.
“While you have them, give them some more names,” Chee said. “Give them Rudolph Becenti, Joseph Sam, and Windy Tsossie.”
“Those the other three of the six? You hear they had cancer, too?”
“All we know is that Joseph Sam probably died back in the 1950s, and we couldn’t find Becenti or Tsossie,” Chee said.
“Tumor registry data is confidential,” Huff said. “I can confirm a cancer death for law enforcement. I’m not sure I can just go on a fishing expedition for you.”
“I’m only trying to confirm that their cause of death was cancer. It saves me time. Otherwise, I’d have to go hunting for death certificates in county courthouses.”
Huff talked into the telephone again. He asked for the Emerson Charley file and a check on Tsossie, Becenti, and Joseph Sam. Then he waited, phone to ear. He was a burly man, with a gray mustache merging into a bushy gray beard, sun-weathered skin, and bright blue eyes. Behind him, the wall was covered with posters: “Smoke Can Make Your Doctor Rich.” “Little Orphan Annie’s Parents Smoked.” “Stamp Out Old Age: Smoke!” “To Kill a Mockingbird: Blow Smoke on It.” In the silence, Chee became conscious of a tapping. Mary’s little finger was drumming against the arm of her chair. The telephone receiver made a sound.
“Go ahead,” Huff said. He wrote on his note pad. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like to see them all.” He hung up and sat for a moment looking silently at what he had written. “Well,” he said.
“Another one?” Mary asked.
“Rudolph Becenti,” Dr. Huff said. “Another form of leukemia.”
“That’s four out of six,” Mary Landon said.
“That sure is,” Dr. Huff said. “That’s a hell of a high percentage.”
“How about the other two?” Chee asked. “Tsossie and Joseph Sam?”
“Neither name showed up,” Huff said. He was frowning. “Four out of six,” he said. “What in the world could account for that? What were they doing?”
“In 1948 they were the members of a roustabout crew on an oil well out near Grants,” Chee said. “The common labor. Beyond that they were all members of the same little cult in the Native American Church.”
“They ever work in the uranium mines out there? We think we had a little increase from that. But that was lung cancer.”
“Not as far as we know. And the mining was just getting well started in Ambrosia Lakes when these guys were dying,” Chee said.
“How about asbestos? Were they installing insulation?” He shook his head. “No. Inhaled asbestos fiber is a carcinogen, but nothing like this. Nothing like four out of six. And not that quickly. And it’s the wrong kind of cancer. You know anything else about them?”
“Damn little,” Chee said.
“Did they ever work up at the Nevada test site? Did they work up there when we were doing that atmospheric testing of the bombs?”
“I don’t know,” Chee said. “It’s not likely.”
“That could explain it,” Huff said. “We just found out this fall that we had a whole rash of leukemia fatalities downwind from the test site in the middle of the 1950s. We’ve pinned down twelve cases in one tiny little community. Blood cell formation is particularly sensitive to some forms of radiation.”
“I know Dillon Charley didn’t work anywhere near Nevada,” Chee said. “He was working at Mount Taylor until just before he died.”
“As for Emerson Charley,” Mary said, “they stopped atmospheric testing years ago, and he just died.”
Huff looked disappointed. “Yes,” he said, “but sometimes it takes years to develop. And the cases might not all be connected.” He produced a wry smile. “And also, of course, maybe none of them have been within a thousand miles of the test site. Do you think you could find the other two of the six?”
“We can keep trying on Tsossie,” Chee said. “But Joseph Sam’s dead. He won’t do you any good.”
“Actually, he might do us some good,” Huff said. “Some kinds of cancers affect bone tissue. Some other kinds leave their traces in bone when they metastasize. You can often find the damage in ribs, or vertebrae, or sometimes large marrow bones. Do you know where he’s buried?”
“We can try to find out,” Chee said.
“And we’ll try to find some sort of common denominator among them,” Huff said. “How about this church they all belong to?”
“Native American Church,” Chee said. “The peyote church.”
Huff grinned through his beard. “If we suspected peyote of being carcinogenic, we’d have our mystery solved. But it isn’t. Anything else? Anything that ties them all together?”
Chee told him of Dillon Charley’s peyote vision, which had saved them all from the oil well explosion, and of the survivors being joined, or so it seemed, in their own cult – the People of Darkness.
“With a mole as their amulet figure? Isn’t the fetish usually a predator? A mountain lion, or a bear, or something like that?” Huff asked.
“The mole’s the predator of darkness,” Chee said. “But it is unusual to use him for an amulet.”
“So why did they pick the mole?” Huff asked.
“I’ve wondered,” Chee said. And as he said it, he had a thought. “Whoever took Emerson Charley’s body left his personal effects. Could we take a look at them?”
“Why not?” Huff said. “If we haven’t lost them, too.”
26
THE RED PLASTIC BAG was in a storage room on the second floor among scores of identical plastic bags, all arranged in alphabetical order.
“Bracken,” the attendant said. “Caldwell. Charley. Here it is. Emerson Charley. You can take a look at it there on that table.”
Chee removed a crushed black felt hat, a pair of cowboy boots which needed half soles, a denim jacket, a Timex watch with a steel band, a plaid cotton shirt, a T-shirt, a pair of jockey shorts, a pair of worn denim jeans, socks, a set of car keys, a pocket knife, a small leather pouch attached to a long leather thong, two blue shoestrings, a package of paper matches, and a billfold. He put the leather pouch and the billfold aside and quickly explored all the pockets. They were empty. Then he inspected the billfold. It contained a five, two ones, a driver’s license, a social security card, and a card identifying the agent who had written the liability policy on Charley’s pickup truck.