Shaw hadn't had much luck.
"Typical," he said. "Farmer's long gone. He quit the Justice Department and went to work with some law firm up in San Francisco. The man who has the case now apparently hasn't even read the file on it."
The noise Chee made must have sounded incredulous.
"What's the hurry?" Shaw said, sounding a little bitter. "McNair doesn't come to trial for a couple of months, and then there'll probably be an extension. So I sit there in his office cooling my heels while he reads through the file, and then he looks up and says, 'Okay, now, what was it you want?' Like I was asking him some damn favor."
Chee made a sympathetic sound.
"So I tell him all about the business with Margaret Sosi, and so forth, and he listens politely and gets rid of me."
"Did you tell him about the Leroy Gorman angle, and Grayson, and the trailer?"
"I mentioned it," Shaw said. "Yes."
"What'd he say."
"He opened the file again, and looked through it, and then he changed the subject."
"What'd ya think?"
"Well," Shaw said, slowly, "I think that Grayson showed up in his file as one of his protected witnesses. Namely, Leroy Gorman."
"Yeah," Chee said. "I don't see how it could be any other way."
"Wasted time," Shaw said. "Wasted time. We could already guess that." There was silence on the telephone while Shaw considered this. He sighed. "Ah, well," he said. "I don't guess that lawyer was as dumb as he acted. At least he's alerted now that they're after Gorman. Either he'll move him someplace safer or watch him."
Chee didn't comment on that. He hadn't had enough experience with Assistant U.S. District Attorneys to judge.
"What I think I'll do now is try to get a line on this Vaggan. I'd like to find out where he lives and pick him up on something. I'll get you to sign a complaint. Pick him up and see if I can learn something. What are you going to do?"
"I guess I'm going to keep trying to find Margaret Sosi. Unless you found her?"
"No," Shaw said. "She'd got back to that place on Jacaranda and got her stuff and took off. At least that's what the old woman out there said. And she wasn't around." Shaw paused. "Where you going to look for her now?"
Chee's head was aching again.
"It takes too long to explain," he said.
Chapter 21
He called mary landon that afternoon and told her what had happened to him, and that he'd come home as soon as they'd let him out of the hospital, which would probably be tomorrow. And when he'd finished the conversation he felt much better. Mary had been suitably upset: alarmed at first, then angry that he'd let it happen, then concerned. She'd take time off from school and come right out. No, he'd told her. By the time she got to Los Angeles, he'd probably be on his way back to Shiprock. She'd come anyway. Don't, he told her. Far too much hassle and there'd be nothing she could do. And then they'd talked of other things, never allowing the talk to drift anywhere near the central core of their problem. It was like their old warm, happy times, and when the nurse came in and Chee said he had to hang up, Mary Landon said, "I love you, Jim," and Chee, conscious of the nurse watching him and listening, said, "I love you, Mary."
He really did. More important, he sometimes thought, he liked her, too. Admired her. Enjoyed her company, her voice, her laugh, the way she touched him, the way she understood him. He was right, this decision he was making. And he'd made it without even being conscious of it. He would be wrong to lose her. Having made his decision, he set about confirming it—thinking of all the things that were wrong with his job, with the reservation, with the Navajo culture. Making comparisons: This hospital room and the cold discomfort of his grandmother's hogan; the security of life with a regular paycheck and the sheep rancher's endless nerve-wracking dependence on rain that wouldn't fall, comparing the comforts of white society with the unemployment and poverty of the People. Perversely, these thoughts led him to the Silver Threads, and Mr. Berger, and the woman whose son was coming to see her, and to the old women who lived on Jacaranda Street, Bentwoman Tsossie and Bentwoman's Daughter.
In fact, it was three days before he could get out of the hospital. The next day the headache returned, fierce and persistent. That provoked another round of X-rays and a renewed verdict that he was suffering from concussion. Mary called in the afternoon and had to be persuaded again not to drop everything and visit him. The following day he felt fine, but the doctors weren't finished with some test or other. Shaw dropped in and reported he had nothing to report. Vaggan had proved surprisingly invisible. He was suspected of being involved in a bizarre assault case involving one of Southern California's television personalities; the description fit and it seemed to involve a welshed bet, which was the sort of work Vaggan did. But there was no hard proof. A witness hadn't gotten a look at him, and the victim and his girlfriend reported he was wearing a stocking mask. He dropped a copy of the Los Angeles Times on Chee's bed so he could read about it. Shaw looked tired and defeated.
Driving home the next day, Chee felt the same way. He also felt depressed, nervous, frustrated, irritated, and generally miles from that condition for which the Navajo word is hozro. It means a sort of blend of being in harmony with one's environment, at peace with one's circumstances, content with the day, devoid of anger, and free from anxieties. Chee thought of his neglected studies to become a yataalii, a shaman whose work it would be to restore his fellow Navajos to hozro. Physician, heal thyself, he thought. He drove eastward on Interstate 40 faster than he should, glum and disgruntled. Mary Landon hung in his mind—a problem he had solved but which refused to stay solved. And when he turned away from that, it was to the frustration of the postcard, which seemed to have come from no one to Albert Gorman, and on to Ashie Begay, and then to disappear—unless Margaret Sosi had it.
Chee stopped at a Flagstaff motel. The weathercast at the close of the ten o'clock news was on, the map showing a high-pressure area centered over northern Utah that promised to hold winter at bay for at least another day. Chee fell into bed, tired but not sleepy, and found himself reviewing it again.
Simple enough on the Los Angeles end. A car-theft operation broken, some indicted, some persuaded to be witnesses. One was Leroy Gorman. That much seemed sure. Leroy Gorman tucked away under the Witness Protection Program under the name of Grayson, and denying he was Gorman because the Federals had told him to deny it. If Shaw's information was correct, Albert Gorman had refused to cooperate. Upchurch had nothing to scare him with. But something—apparently that photograph/postcard of the trailer—had caused Albert to decide to come to Shiprock to find his brother. He'd been pursued. Why? Presumably because his employers wanted him to lead them to Leroy so that Leroy could be eliminated as a witness. Albert Gorman had resisted. Albert Gorman had been shot.
Chee lay listening to the truck traffic rumble on the Interstate, thinking of that. One odd hole in the Los Angeles end. Albert Gorman hadn't been followed to Shiprock. They'd known he was going there. Lerner had flown directly to Farmington and driven directly to Shiprock. And if what Berger had told him was true, Vaggan had come to Gorman's apartment to keep him from going to Shiprock. So much for that. So much for the reasonable, logical explanation. But at least he knew now why Lerner had gone to do the dirty work instead of Vaggan. Vaggan was having a splint put on a finger broken when Albert slammed the car door on it. Fat lot that helped.