A Thief of Time Read online

  Chee stared. Why had that happened? He strolled over and looked down at them. One was broken, a small jaw with part of its left side missing. The other two were complete. Adult, Chee guessed. An expert would be able to tell the sex of their owners, the approximate ages at death, something about their diet. But why had someone lined them up like this? One of the pot hunters, Chee guessed. It didn’t seem the sort of thing one of the deputies would have done. Then Chee noticed another jawbone, and three more, and finally a total of seventeen within a few yards of the juniper where he was standing. He could see only three craniums. Someone—again surely the pot hunters—had sorted out the jaws. Why? Chee walked over to where Leaphorn was standing, studying something in the trench.

  “Find anything?” Leaphorn asked, without looking up.

  “Nothing much,” Chee said. “One of those plastic bags seems to be missing.”

  Leaphorn looked up at him.

  “The box said contents thirty. There were still twenty-seven folded in it. I saw two with pots in them.”

  “Interesting,” Leaphorn said. “We’ll ask about that at the sheriff’s office. Maybe they took one.”

  “Maybe,” Chee said.

  “You notice anything about the skeletons?” Leaphorn was squatting now in the shallow trench, examining bones.

  “Somebody seemed to be interested in the jawbones,” Chee said.

  “Yes,” Leaphorn said. “Now why would that be?” He stood up, holding in both hands a small skull. It was gray with the clay of the grave, and the jaw was missing. “Why in the world would that be?”

  Chee had not the slightest idea, and said so.

  Leaphorn bent into the grave again, poking at something with a stick. “I think this is what they call a Chaco outlier site,” he said. “Same people who lived in the great houses over in the canyon, or probably the same. I think there is some evidence, or at least a theory, that these outliers traded back and forth with the great-house people, maybe came into Chaco for their religious ceremonials. Nobody really knows. This was probably one of the sites being reserved for digging sometime in the future.” He sounded, Chee thought, like an anthropology lecturer.

  “You have anything pressing to do in Shiprock to night?” Chee denied it with a negative motion of his head.

  “How about stopping off at the Chaco Center on the way home then,” Leaphorn said. “Let’s see what we can find out about this.”

  TEN

  FROM THE DESPOILED OUTLIER SITE to the eastern boundary of the Chaco Culture National Historic Park would be less than twenty-five miles if a road existed across the dry hills and Chaco Mesa. None did. By the oil company roads that carried Leaphorn and Chee back to Highway 44, thence northwest to Nageezi, and then southwest over the bumpy dirt access route, it was at least sixty miles. They arrived at the visitors’ center just after sundown, found it closed for the day, and drove up to the foot of the bluff where employee housing was located.

  The Luna family was starting supper—the superintendent, his wife, a son of perhaps eleven, and a daughter a year or two younger. Supper centered on an entrée involving macaroni, cheese, tomatoes, and things that Leaphorn could not readily identify. That he and Chee would eat was a foregone conclusion. Good manners demanded the disclaimer of hunger from the wayfarer, but the geography of the Colorado Plateau made it an obvious lie. Out here there was literally no place to stop to eat. And so they dined, Leaphorn noticing that Chee’s appetite was huge and that his own had returned. Perhaps it was the smell of the home cooking—something he hadn’t enjoyed since Emma’s sickness reached the point where it was no longer prudent for her to be in the kitchen.

  Bob Luna’s wife, a handsome woman with a friendly, intelligent face, was full of questions about Eleanor Friedman-Bernal. After polite feelers established that questions were not out of order, she asked them. The Luna son, Allen, a blond, profusely freckled boy who looked like a small copy of his blond and freckled mother, put down his fork and listened. His sister listened without interrupting her supper.

  “We haven’t learned much,” Leaphorn said. “Maybe the county has done better. It is their jurisdiction. But I doubt it. No sheriff ever has enough officers. In San Juan County it’s worse than normal. You’re worried to death with everything from vandalism of summer cabins up on Navajo Lake to people tapping distillate out of the gas pipelines, or stealing oil field equipment, things like that. Too much territory. Too few people. So missing persons don’t get worked on.” He stopped, surprised at hearing himself deliver this defense of the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office. Usually he was complaining about it. “Anyway,” he added, lamely, “we haven’t learned anything very useful.”

  “Where could she have gone?” Mrs. Luna said. Obviously it was something she had often thought about. “So early in the morning. She told us she was going to Farmington, and got the mail we had going out, and our shopping lists, and then just vanished.” She glanced from Chee to Leaphorn and back. “I’m afraid it isn’t going to have a happy ending. I’m afraid Ellie got in over her head with a man we don’t know about.” She attempted a smile. “I guess that sounds odd—to say that about a woman her age—but at this place, it’s so small—so few of us live here, I mean—that everybody tells everybody everything. It’s the only thing we have to be interested in. One another.”

  Luna laughed. “It’s pretty hard to have secrets here,” he said. “You have experienced our telephone. You don’t get any secret calls. And you don’t get any secret mail—unless it happens to show up at Blanco the day you happen to pick it up.” He laughed again. “And it would be pretty hard to have any secret visitors.”

  But not impossible, Leaphorn thought. No more impossible than driving out to make your calls away from here, or setting up a post office box in Farmington.

  “You just get to know everything by accident even if people don’t mention it,” Mrs. Luna said. “For example, going places. I hadn’t thought to tell anybody when I was going to Phoenix over the Fourth to visit my mother. But everybody knew because I got a postcard that mentioned it, and Maxie or somebody picked up the mail that day.” If Mrs. Luna resented Maxie or somebody reading her postcard, it didn’t show. Her expression was totally pleasant—someone explaining a peculiar, but perfectly natural, situation. “And when Ellie made that trip to New York, and when Elliot went to Washington. Even if they don’t mention it, you just get to know.” Mrs. Luna paused to sip her coffee. “But usually they tell you,” she added. “Something new to talk about.” At that she looked slightly abashed. She laughed. “That’s about all we have to do, you know. Speculate about one another. TV reception is so bad out here we have to be our own soap operas.”

  “When was the trip to New York?” Leaphorn asked.

  “Last month,” Mrs. Luna said. “Ellie’s travel agent in Farmington called and said the flight schedule had been changed. Somebody takes the message, so everybody knows about it.”

  “Does anyone know why she went?” Leaphorn asked.

  Mrs. Luna made a wry face. “You win,” she said. “I guess there are some secrets.”

  “How about why Elliot went to Washington?” Leaphorn added. “When was that?”

  “No secret there,” Luna said. “It was last month. A couple of days before Ellie left. He got a call from Washington, from his project director I think it was. Left a message. There was a meeting of people working on archaic migration patterns. He was supposed to attend.”

  “Do you know if Ellie’s going to New York had anything to do with her pots? Is that logical?”

  “Just about everything she did had something to do with her pots,” Luna said. “She was sort of obsessive about it.”

  Mrs. Luna’s expression turned defensive. “Well now,” she said, “Ellie was about ready to make a really important report. As least she thought so. And so do I. She pretty well had the proof that would connect a lot of those St. John Polychromes from the Chetro Ketl site with Wijiji and Kin Nahasbas. And more important t
han all that, she was finding that this woman must have moved away from Chaco and was making pots somewhere else.”

  “This woman?” Luna said, eyebrows raised. “She tell you her potter was a woman?”

  “Who else would do all that work?” Mrs. Luna got up, got the coffeepot, and offered all hands, including the children, a refill.

  “She was excited, then?” Leaphorn asked. “About something she’d found recently? Did she talk to you about it?”

  “She was excited,” Mrs. Luna said. She looked at Luna with an expression Leaphorn read as reproach. “I really do believe that she’d found something important. To everybody else those people are just a name. Anasazi. Not even their real name, of course. Just a Navajo word that means…” She glanced at Chee. “Old Ones. Ancestors of our enemies. Something like that?”

  “Close enough,” Chee said.

  “But Ellie has identified a single human being in what has always just been statistics. An artist. Did you know that she’d arranged her pots chronologically…showing how her technique developed?”

  The question was aimed at Luna. He shook his head.

  “And it’s very logical. You can see it. Even if you don’t know much about pots, or glazing, or inscribing, or any of those decorative techniques.”

  Luna seemed to have decided about then that his self-interest dictated a change in posture on this issue.

  “She’s done some really original work, Ellie has,” he said. “Pretty well pinned down where this potter worked, up Chaco Wash at a little ruins we call Kin Nahasbas. She did that by establishing that a lot of pots made with this potter’s technique had been broken there before they were fully baked in the kiln fire. Then she tied a bunch of pots dug up at Chetro Ketl and Wijiji to the identical personal techniques. Trade pots, you know. One kind swapped to people at Chetro Ketl and another sort to Wijiji. Both with this man’s—this potter’s peculiar decorating strokes. Hasn’t been published yet, but I think she has it pinned.”

  It gave Leaphorn a sense of déjà vu, as if he remembered a graduate student over some supper in a dormitory at Tempe saying exactly these same words. The human animal’s urge to know. To leave no mysteries. Here, to look through the dirt of a thousand years into the buried privacy of an Anasazi woman. “To understand the human species,” his thesis chairman liked to say. “To understand how we came to behave the way we do.” But finally it had seemed to Leaphorn he could understand this better among the living. It was the spring he’d met Emma. When the semester ended in May he’d left Arizona State and his graduate fellowship and his intentions of becoming Dr. Leaphorn, and joined the recruit class of the Navajo Tribal Police. And he and Emma…

  Leaphorn noticed Chee watching him. He cleared his throat. Sipped coffee.

  “Did you have any clear idea of what she was excited about?” Leaphorn asked. “I mean just before she disappeared. We know she drove over to Bluff and talked to a man over there named Houk. Man who sometimes deals in pots. She asked him about a pot she’d seen advertised in an auction catalog. Wanted to know where it came from. Houk told us she was very intense about it. He told her how to get the documentation letter. Did she say why she was going to New York?”

  “Not to me, she didn’t,” Mrs. Luna said.

  “Or why she was excited?”

  “I know some more of those polychrome pots had turned up. Several, I think. Same potter. Some identical and some with a more mature style. Later work. And it turned out they came from somewhere else—away from the Chaco. She thought she could prove her potter had migrated.”

  “Did you know Ellie had a pistol?”

  Luna and his wife spoke simultaneously. “I didn’t,” she said. Luna said: “It doesn’t surprise me. I’d guess Maxie has one, too. For snakes,” he added, and laughed. “Actually it’s for safety.”

  “Do you know if she ever hired Jimmy Etcitty to find pots for her?”

  “Boy, that was a shock,” Luna said. “He hadn’t worked here long. Less than a year. But he was a good hand. And a good man.”

  “And he didn’t mind digging around graves.”

  “He was a Christian,” Luna said. “A fundamentalist born-again Christian. No more chindi. But no, I doubt if he worked for Ellie. Hadn’t heard of it.”

  “Had you ever heard he might be a Navajo Wolf?” Leaphorn asked. “Into any kind of witchcraft. Being a skinwalker?”

  Luna looked surprised. And so, Leaphorn noticed, did Jim Chee. Not at the question, Leaphorn guessed. That fooling around with the bones they’d found at the ruins would suggest witchcraft to anyone who knew the Navajo tradition of skinwalkers robbing graves for bones to grind into corpse powder. But Chee would be surprised at Leaphorn’s thinking. Leaphorn was aware that his contempt for the Navajo witchcraft business was widely known throughout the department. Chee, certainly, was aware of it. They had worked together in the past.

  “Well,” Luna said. “Not exactly. But the other men who worked here didn’t have much to do with him. Maybe that was because he was willing to dig around the burials. Had given up the traditional ways. But they gossiped about him. Not to me but among themselves. And I sort of sensed they were wary of him.”

  “Davis told me Lehman came. The man she had the appointment with.”

  “Her project supervisor? Yeah.”

  “Did he say what the meeting was about?”

  “She’d told him she had one more piece of evidence to get and then she’d be ready to publish. And she wanted to show it all to him and talk it over. He stuck around the next day and then drove back to Albuquerque.”

  “I’ll get his address from you,” Leaphorn said. “Did he have any idea what that one piece of evidence was?”

  “He thought she’d probably found some more pots. Ones that fit. He said she was supposed to have them when they met.”

  Leaphorn thought about that. He noticed Chee had marked it, too. It seemed to mean that when Ellie left Chaco it was to pick up those final pots.

  “Would Maxie Davis or Elliot be likely to know any more about all this?”

  Mrs. Luna answered that one. “Maxie, maybe. She and Ellie were friends.” She considered that statement, found it too strong. “Sort of friends. At least they’d known each other for years. I don’t think they’d ever worked together—as Maxie and Elliot sometimes do. Teamed.”

  “Teamed,” Leaphorn said.

  Mrs. Luna looked embarrassed. “Sue,” she said. “Allen. Don’t you two have any homework? Tomorrow is a school day.”

  “Not me,” Allen said. “I did mine on the bus.”

  “Me either,” Sue said. “This is interesting.”

  “They’re friends,” Mrs. Luna said, looking at Sue, but meaning Maxie and Elliot.

  “When Mr. Thatcher and I talked to them it seemed pretty obvious that Elliot wanted it that way,” Leaphorn said. “I wasn’t so sure about Miss Davis.”

  “Elliot wants to get married,” Mrs. Luna said. “Maxie doesn’t.”

  She glanced at her children again, and at Luna.

  “Kids,” Luna said. “Sue, you better see about your horse. And Allen, find something to do.”

  They pushed back their chairs. “Nice to have met you,” Allen said, nodding to Leaphorn and to Chee.

  “Great children,” Leaphorn said, as they disappeared down the hallway. “They ride the bus? To where?”

  “Crownpoint,” Mrs. Luna said.

  “Wow!” Chee said. “I used to ride a school bus about twenty-five miles and that seemed forever.”

  “About sixty miles or so, each way,” Luna said. “Makes an awful long day for ’em. But that’s the nearest school.”

  “We could teach them out here,” Mrs. Luna said. “I have a teacher’s certificate. But they need to see other children. Nothing but grownups at Chaco.”

  “Two young women and one young man,” Leaphorn said. “Was there any friction between the women over that? Any sort of jealousy?”

  Luna chuckled.

  Mrs.
Luna smiled. “Eleanor wouldn’t be much competition in that race,” she said. “Unless the man wants an intellectual, and then it’s about even. Besides, I think in Randall Elliot you have one of those one-woman men. He left a job in Washington and worked his way into a project out here. Just following her. I think he’s sort of obsessive about it.”

  “Delete the ‘sort of,’” Luna said. “Make it downright obsessive. And sad, too.” He shook his head. “Elliot’s a sort of macho guy most ways. Played football at Princeton. Flew a navy helicopter in Vietnam. Won a Navy Cross and some other decorations. And he’s made himself a good name in physical anthropology for a man his age. Got stuff published about genetics in archaic populations. That sort of stuff. And Maxie refuses to take anything he does seriously. It’s the game she plays.”

  From down the hall came the high, sweet sound of a harmonica—and then the urgent nasal whine of Bob Dylan. Almost instantly the volume was muted.

  “Not a game,” Mrs. Luna said, thoughtfully. “It’s the way Maxie is.”

  “Reverse snob, you mean?” Luna asked.

  “More to it than that. Kind of a sense of justice. Or injustice, maybe.”

  Luna looked at Leaphorn and Chee. “To explain what we’re talking about, and maybe why we’re doing this gossiping, there’s no way Maxie would be jealous of Dr. Friedman. Or anybody else, I think. Maxie is the ultimate self-made woman from what I’ve heard about her. Off of some worn-out farm in Nebraska. Her father was a widower, so she had to help raise the little kids. Went to a dinky rural high school. Scholarship to University of Nebraska, working her way through as a housekeeper in a sorority. Graduate scholarship to Madison, working her way through again. Trying to send money home to help Papa and the kids. Never any help for her. So she meets this man from old money, Exeter Academy, where the tuition would have fed her family for two years. Where you have tutors helping you if you need it. And then Princeton, and graduate school at Harvard, all that.” Luna sipped his coffee. “Opposite ends of the economic scale. Anyway, nothing Elliot can do impresses Maxie. It was all given to him.”