"That was the morning of July eighth," Leaphorn said.
"July eighth," Chee said, frowning. "I was out there that morning."
"I was thinking that you were," Leaphorn said. "Look, I'm headed to Window Rock now and all I know now is from some preliminary checking a lawyer did for Pollard's aunt. I couldn't reach Pollard's boss on the telephone and soon as I do, I'll go to Tuba and talk to him. If I learn anything useful, I'll let you know."
"I'd appreciate that," Chee said. "I'd like to know some more about this."
"Probably absolutely no connection with the Kinsman case," Leaphorn said. "I don't see how there could be. Unless you know some reason to feel otherwise. I just thought—"
A loud voice from the doorway interrupted him.
"Chee!" The speaker was a beefy young man with reddish-blond hair and a complexion that suffered from too many hours of dry air and high-altitude sun. The coat of his dark blue suit was unbuttoned, his necktie was slightly loose, his white shirt was rumpled and his expression was irritated. "Mickey wants to get this damned thing over with," he said. "He wants you in there."
He was pointing at Chee, a violation of the Dine rules of courtesy. Now he beckoned to Chee with his finger—rude in a multitude of other cultures.
Chee rose, his face darkened a shade.
"Mr. Leaphorn," Chee said, motioning toward the man, "this gentleman is Agent Edgar Evans of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was assigned out here just a couple of months ago."
Leaphorn acknowledged that with a nod toward Evans.
"Chee," Agent Evans said, "Mickey is in a hell of a—"
"Tell Mr. Mickey I'll be there in a minute or so," Chee said. And to Leaphorn: "I'll call you from the office when I know what we have."
Leaphorn smiled at Evans and turned back to Chee.
"I am particularly interested in that Jeep," Leaphorn said. "People don't just walk away from good trucks. It's odd. Someone sees it, mentions it to someone else, the word gets around."
Chee chuckled. (More, Leaphorn suspected, for Evans's benefit than his own.) "It does," Chee said. "And pretty soon people begin deciding no one wants it anymore, and parts of it begin showing up on other people's trucks."
"I'd like to spread the word that there's a reward for locating that Jeep," Leaphorn said.
Evans cleared his throat loudly.
"How much?" Chee asked.
"How does a thousand dollars sound?"
"About right," Chee said, turning toward the door. He Motioned to Agent Evans. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."
Officer Benjamin Kinsman's room was lit by the sun pouring through its two windows and a battery of ceiling fluorescent lights. Entering involved slipping past a burly male nurse and two young women in the sort of pale blue smocks doctors wear. Acting Assistant U.S. Attorney J. D. Mickey stood by the windows. The shape of Officer Kinsman lay at rigid attention in the center of the bed, covered with a sheet. One of the vital signs monitors on the wall above the bed registered a horizontal white line. The other screen was blank.
Mickey looked at his watch, then at Chee, glanced at the doors and nodded.
"You're the arresting officer?"
"That's correct," Chee said.
"What I want you to do is ask the victim here if he can tell you anything about who killed him. What happened. All that. We just want to get it on the record in case the defense tries something fancy."
Chee licked his lips, cleared his throat, looked at the body.
"Ben," he said. "Can you tell me who killed you? Can you hear me? Can you tell me anything?"
"Pull the sheet down," Mickey said. "Off of his face."
Chee shook his head. "Ben," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't get there quicker. Be happy on your journey."
Agent Evans was pulling at the sheet, drawing it down to reveal Benjamin Kinsman's waxen face.
Chee gripped his wrist. Hard. "No," he said. "Don't do that." He pulled the sheet back in place.
"Let it go," Mickey said, looking at his watch again. "I guess we're done here." He turned toward the door.
Standing there, looking in at Chee, at all of them, was Janet Pete.
"Better late than never," Mickey said. "I hope you got here early enough to know all your client's legal rights were satisfied."
Janet Pete, looking very pale, nodded. She stood aside to let them pass.
Behind Chee the medical crew was working fast, disconnecting wires and tubes—starting the bed rolling toward the side exit. There, Chee guessed, Officer Benjamin Kinsman's kidneys would be salvaged, perhaps also his heart, perhaps whatever else some other person could use. But Ben was far, far away now. Only his chindi would remain here. Or would it follow the corpse into other rooms? Into other bodies? Navajo theology did not cover such contingencies. Corpses were dangerous, excepting only those of infants who die before their first laugh, and people who die naturally of old age. The good of Benjamin Kinsman would go with his spirit. The part of his personality that was out of harmony would linger as a chindi, causing sickness. Chee turned away from the body.
Janet was still standing at the door. He stopped. "Hello, Jim."
"Hello, Janet." He took a deep breath. "It's good to see you."
"Even like this?" She made a weak gesture at the room and tried to smile.
He didn't answer that. He felt dizzy, sick, and depleted. "I tried to call you, but you're never home. I'm Robert Jano's counsel," she said. "I guess you knew that?"
"I didn't know it," Chee said. "Not until I heard what Mr. Mickey said."
"You're the arresting officer, as I heard? Is that right? So I need to talk to you."
"Fine," Chee said. "But I can't do it now. And not here. Somewhere away from here." He swallowed down the bile. "How about dinner?"
"I can't tonight. Mr. Mickey has us all conferring about the case. And, Jim, you look exhausted. I think you must be working too hard."
"I'm not," he said. "And you look great. Will you be here tomorrow?"
"I have to drive down to Phoenix."
"How about breakfast then? At the hotel."
"Good," she said, and they set the time.
Mickey was standing down the hallway. "Ms. Pete," he called.
"Got to go," she said, and turned, then turned back again. "Jim," she said, "tired or not, you look fine."
"You, too," Chee said. She did. The classic, perfect beauty you see on the cover of Vogue, or on any of the fashion magazines.
Chee leaned against the wall and watched her walk down the hall, around the corner and out of sight, wishing he had thought of something more romantic to say than "You, too." Wishing he knew what to do about her. About them. Wishing he knew whether he could trust her. Wishing life wasn't so damned complicated.
Chapter Six
IT SEEMED OBVIOUS TO LEAPHORN that the person most likely to tell him something useful about Catherine Anne Pollard was Richard Krause, her boss and the biologist in charge of rooting out the cause of the reservation's most recent plague outbreak. A lifetime spent looking for People in the big emptiness of the Four Corners and several futile telephone calls had taught Leaphorn that Krause would probably be off somewhere unreachable. He had tried to call him as soon as he returned to Window Rock from Santa Fe. He'd tried again yesterday before driving back from Flagstaff. By now he had the number memorized as well as on the redial button. He picked up the telephone and punched it.
"Public Health," a male voice said. "Krause." Leaphorn identified himself. "Mrs. Vanders has asked me—"
"I know," Krause said. "She called me. Maybe she's right. To start getting worried, I mean."
"Miss Pollard's not back yet, then?"
"No," Krause said. "Miss Pollard still hasn't shown up for work. Nor has she bothered to call in or communicate in any way. But I have to tell that's what you learn to expect from Miss Pollard. Rules were made for other people."