“Go down and knock that silly hat off of him,” Delonie said. “See what he’s got to say for himself.”
“Sooner the better,” Leaphorn said, pushing himself stiffly erect, feeling the reminder his leg muscles were sending him that he was getting older and was, techni-cally at least, in retirement. The groaning sound Delonie was making suggested he was feeling the same symptoms of elderliness.
They moved cautiously away from the granite outcrop and the brushy growth that had hidden them, Leaphorn feeling for the pistol in his jacket pocket, using thumb and forefinger to assure himself that the safety would slide off easily. Below them, the man in hunting garb was at the side of the truck now, opening the door, holding it open, Tommy Vang was climbing out, standing to face him. No handshake offered, Leaphorn noticed. Just talking. A big man to a little man. The big man making a gesture, which Leaphorn interpreted as angry. The big man taking Tommy by the arm, perhaps shaking him, although Leaphorn wasn’t sure of that. Then the two were walking toward the house, big man in front, Tommy following. And then the two disappeared onto the porch, out of sight.
Probably indoors.
“Let’s get down there,” Leaphorn said. “Find out THE SHAPE SHIFTER
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what’s happening.” Delonie must have felt the same way.
He had already broken into a trot.
They stopped at the windowless north wall of the house to get their breath and to listen, Leaphorn enjoying the reassuring feel of the pistol in his jacket, and Delonie tensely holding his rifle against his chest. They moved slowly around the corner to the porch.
“What’s that?” Delonie whispered. He was pointing at a heap of fresh dirt, the dark humus formed by centuries of fallen leaves and pine needles rotting every summer.
The humus seemed to have been dug from a hole under a sloping formation of broken sandstone. A shovel, with damp-looking humus still on its blade, leaned against the stone.
Leaphorn stepped over beside it. About three feet deep, he estimated. Between four and five feet long, a bit more than two feet wide, and a careless, irregular digging job. “Now what do you think is going to be buried there?” Delonie whispered. “Nothing very big.”
“No,” Leaphorn agreed. “But look how quick you could get something hidden in it. Just push that humus over it, and topple that sandstone slab over that, scatter a few handfuls of dead leaves and trash around. After the first rain there wouldn’t be much sign anybody had ever dug there.”
“Makes you wonder,” Delonie whispered, as they slipped cautiously around the corner by the porch.
The hunter was standing at the front door, watching them.
“Well, now,” Delos said, “what has brought the legendary Lieutenant Leaphorn all the way out here to my hunting camp.”
21
Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn, retired, would sometimes wish that he had looked at his watch and noted the exact moment when he and Delonie had stepped in front of that porch and saw the man in the hunting camouflage smiling down at them. At that moment began an episode which seemed to last an awfully long time, but in reality must have been over in just a few minutes.
It was Jason Delos standing above them on the porch, looking even taller and more formidable than Leaphorn had remembered him. He was smiling, clean shaven, his hair tidy, both his hands deep in the pockets of an oversized hunting coat. The right-hand pocket, Leaphorn noticed, was bulging, with the bulge pointing toward him.
But his eyes had seemed friendly. Then their focus shifted to Delonie. The smile remained on his lips but was gone from his eyes.
“And my old friend Tomas Delonie,” Delos said. “I 248
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haven’t seen you in many, many years. But you shouldn’t be holding that rifle, Tomas,” he said. “They tell me you’re out on parole. Having that rifle makes you a violator, and Lieutenant Leaphorn would have to take you right back to prison. Drop that piece of yours on the ground there.” The tone was no longer friendly. The bulge in his pocket moved forward. “I mean drop the rifle right now.” Leaphorn’s eyes were focused on the bulge in the right-hand pocket of Delos’s jacket. Delos was almost certainly aiming a pistol right past Leaphorn’s head at Delonie, who now was letting his 30-30 dangle, muzzle downward.
“I drop it, it gets all dirty,” Delonie said. “I don’t want to do that.”
Delos shrugged. “Ah, well,” he said. His hand flashed out of the jacket pocket, pistol in it.
Delos fired. Delonie spun, rifle clattering to the ground. Delos fired again. Delonie dropped on his side, rifle beside him.
Delos had his pistol aimed at Leaphorn now, eyes intent. He shook his head.
“What do you think, Lieutenant?” he asked. “Would you rate that the proper decision, under the circumstances? About what you would have done if our positions were reversed?”
“I’m not sure what your position is,” Leaphorn said.
He was thinking that his own position was even worse than he’d anticipated. This man, whoever he was, was very fast with a pistol. And a very good shot. Leaphorn tightened his grip on the pistol in his own jacket pocket.
“Don’t do that,” Delos said. “Don’t be fondling that gun. That’s dangerous. Not polite either. Better you take your hand out of that pocket.”
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“Maybe so,” Leaphorn said.
“Without the pistol in it.”
“All right,” Leaphorn said. And eased out his hand.
Delos nodded, and shifted his gaze back to Delonie, now sprawled on his side and absolutely motionless. Then studying Vang, looking thoughtful.
“Tommy, first I think we should get that rifle out of Mr. Delonie’s reach. Just in case he wasn’t hit as hard as it seems.” He held his hand out.
Vang grabbed the rifle by its barrel, slid it on the ground toward the porch, and looked up, awaiting further instructions.
That was not what Delos wanted, Leaphorn thought.
Now how would he react to Tommy not handing him the rifle?
Delos seemed unsure himself for a moment. But he nodded.
“Now go over and help Lieutenant Leaphorn take off his jacket. Get behind him, slip it off his shoulders, make sure that pistol of his stays in the pocket, and then bring it here and hand it to me.”
Maybe Delos will be careless, Leaphorn was thinking.
Maybe Tommy will deliberately give me a chance. Maybe there’ll be a moment when he blocks the man’s view.
When I can get my pistol out and use it.
“Hands high,” Delos said. “And Tommy, you make certain you are always behind him. Remember, from now on, I’m grading you on how well you can follow instructions. And remember, this lieutenant here is a highly regarded lawman. He is very much one of the predator class. He can be very dangerous if you give him the least little opportunity.”
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Tommy seemed to be trying for a passing grade. He felt the jacket pockets to make sure he knew where the pistol hid, then slid the jacket down over Leaphorn’s shoulders as he lowered his arms. He folded the jacket neatly, took it to the edge of the porch, and handed it up to Delos.
“Very good,” Delos said. “Now go over to Mr. Delonie and check on the condition of his health. Take your hand and check the artery on the side of his neck. Under the jaw. You will have to use a little pressure probably. Then tell me what you feel.”
Tommy knelt beside Delonie, looked at the arm that had been holding the rifle when Delos shot him.
“Bleeding some, the arm is,” Tommy said. “And the bone has been broken.”
“Check that neck artery,” Delos said. “Then get close to his face. See if you can detect any breathing.” Tommy felt Delonie’s neck, looked thoughtful. Tried again. “Feel nothing here,” he said. Then he bent over Delonie’s face, close, then closer. Sat up, shook his head.