"I guess you could ask him. He's out here again and said he was coming in to get copies of some of our mortality statistics."
"Mortality?"
"In fact, he's late," Krause said, looking at his watch. "Yeah, mortality. Die-offs among mammal communities in plague outbreaks, rabbit fever, hantavirus, that sort of thing. How many kangaroo rats survive compared with ground squirrels, pack rats, prairie dogs, so forth. But my point is, it's the data that brings him out, not Cathy. Take today, for example. He knows Cathy's not here, but he's coming anyway."
"He knew she was missing?"
"He called a couple of days after she didn't show up. Wanted to talk to her."
Leaphorn considered this.
"How well do you remember that conversation?"
Krause looked surprised, frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You know: 'he said,' and 'I said,' and 'he said.' That sort of thing. How did he react?"
Krause laughed. "You're hard to convince, aren't you?"
"Just curious."
"Well, first he asked whether we'd wrapped up the work on the plague cases. I said no, we still didn't know where the last one got it. I told him Cathy was still working on that one. Then he asked if we'd found any live kangaroo rats up around the Disbah place. That's one of the places where a hantavirus case had turned up. I told him we hadn't."
Krause tore off a sheet from a roll of paper towels and swabbed the sheen of perspiration from his forehead. "Let's see now. Then he said he had some time and thought he'd come out and maybe go along with Cathy if she was still chasing down prairie dogs and plague fleas. He wanted to ask her if she'd mind. I said she wasn't here. He said when'll she be back. So I told him about her not coming to work. Couple of days I guess it was by then." Leaphorn waited. Krause shook his head. Went back to sorting through his bags. Now the chemical smell reminded Leaphorn of the Indian Health Service Hospital at Gallup, of the gurney rolling down the hallway carrying Emma away from him. Of the doctor explaining-He drew a deep breath, wanting to finish this. Wanting out of this laboratory.
"She didn't tell you she was taking off?"
"Just left a note. Said she was going back up to Yells Back to collect some fleas."
"Nothing else?"
Krause shook his head.
"Could I see the note?"
"If I can find it. It probably went in the wastebasket but I'll look for it."
"How did Hammar react to what you told him?"
"I don't know. I think he said something like, whaddaya mean? Where did she go? What did she tell you? Where'd she leave the truck? That sort of thing. Then he seemed worried. What did the police say? Was anybody looking for her? So forth."
Leaphorn considered. That response seemed normal. Or well rehearsed.
There was the sound of tires crunching over gravel, a car door slamming.
"That's probably Hammar," Krause said. "Ask him yourself."
Chapter Nine
ABOUT A MONTH INTO his first semester at Arizona State, Leaphorn had overcome the tendency of young Navajos to think that all white people look alike. But the fact was that Victor Hammar looked a lot like a bigger, less sun-baked weightlifter version of Richard Krause. At second glance Leaphorn noticed Hammar was also several years younger, his eyes a paler shade of blue, his ears a bit flatter to his skull, and—since cops are conditioned to look for "identifying marks"—a tiny scar beside his chin had defied sunburning and remained white.
Hammar showed less interest in Leaphorn. He shook hands, displayed irregular teeth with a perfunctory smile, and got down to business.
"Is she back yet?" he asked Krause. "Have you heard anything from her?"
"Neither one," Krause said.
Hammar issued a violent non-English epithet. A German curse, Leaphorn guessed. He sat on a stool across from Leaphorn, shook his head, and swore again—this time in English.
"Yeah," Krause said. "It's worrying me, too."
"And the police," Hammar said. "What are they doing? Nothing, I think. What do they tell you?"
"Nothing," Krause said. "I think they put the Jeep on the list to be watched for and—"
"Nothing!" Hammar said. "How could that be?"
"She's a full-grown woman," Krause said. "There's no evidence of any crime, except maybe for getting off with our vehicle. I guess—"
"Nonsense! Nonsense! Of course something has happened to her. She's been gone too long. Something happened to her."
Leaphorn cleared his throat. "Do you have any theories about that?"
Hammar stared at Leaphorn. "What?"
Krause said, "Mr. Leaphorn here is a retired policeman. He's trying to find Catherine."
Hammar was still staring. "Retired policeman?"
Leaphorn nodded, thinking Hammar would have no idea of what he knew and what he didn't and trying to decide how he would lead into this.
"Do you remember where you were July eighth? Were you here in Tuba then?"
"No," Hammar said, still staring.
Leaphorn waited.
"I'd already gone back. Back to the university."
"You're on a faculty somewhere?"
"I am just a graduate assistant. At Arizona State. I had lectures that day. Introduction to the laboratory for freshmen." Hammar grimaced. "Introduction to Biology. Awful course. Stupid students. And why are you asking me these questions? Do you—"
"Because I was asked to help find the woman," Leaphorn said, thereby violating his rule and Navajo courtesy by interrupting a speaker. But he wanted to cut off any questions from Hammar. "I will just collect a little more information and be out of here so you gentlemen can get back to your work. I wonder if Miss Pollard might have left any papers in the office here. If she did, they might be helpful."
"Papers?" Krause said. "Well, she had sort of a ledger and she kept her field notes in that. Is that what you mean?"
"Probably," Leaphorn said.
"Her aunt called me from Santa Fe yesterday and told me you'd come by," Krause said, shuffling through material stacked on a desk in the corner of the room. "I think her name is Vanders. Something like that. Cathy was planning to visit her last weekend. I thought maybe that's where she'd gone."
"You're working for old Mrs. Vanders," Hammar said, still staring at Leaphorn. "Here's the sort of stuff that might be useful," Krause said, handing Leaphorn an accordion file containing a jumble of papers. "She's going to need it if she comes back."
"When she gets back," Hammar said. "When."
Leaphorn flipped through the papers, noticing that most of the entries Catherine had made were in a small irregular scribble, hard to read and even harder for a layman to interpret. Like his own notes, they were a shorthand that communicated only to her.
"Fort C," Leaphorn said. "What's that?"
"Centers for Disease Control," Krause said. "The feds who run the lab at Fort Collins."
"IHS. That's Indian Health Service?"
"Right," Krause said. "Actually, that's who we're working for here, but technically for the Arizona health people. Part of the big, complicated team."
Leaphorn had skipped to the back.
"Lots of references to A. Nez," he said.
"Anderson Nez. One of the three fatalities in the last outbreak. Mr. Nez was the last one, and the only one we haven't found the source for," Krause said.
"And who's this Woody?"
"Ah," said Hammar. "That jerk!"
"That's Albert Woody," Krause said. "Al. He's into cell biology, but I guess you'd call him an immunologist. Or a pharmacologist. Microbiologist. Or maybe a—I don't know." Krause chuckled. "What's his title, Hammar? He's closer to your field than mine."
"He's a damned jerk," Hammar said. "He has a grant from the Institute of Allergy and Immunology, but they say
I he also works for Merck, or Squibb, or one of the other pharmaceutical firms. Or maybe for all of them."
"Hammar doesn't like him," Krause said. "Hammar was trapping rodents somewhere or other this summer and Woody accused him of interfering with one of his own projects. He yelled at you, didn't he?"