People of Darkness jlajc-4 Page 8

  I could tell you, but only if you don’t mind complicated accounts of things that don’t amount to much, Chee said. Do you want to hear about it?

  She did. Chee told her about Vines, and Mrs. Vines, and the stolen keepsake box, and Sheriff Gordo Sena, and about the People of Darkness and the disappearing body, and finally about where Tomas Charley had left the box.

  And when you look at it all with a detached view, Chee said, you see a Navajo cop simply exercising his curiosity. A crime of no particular importance. A total lack of jurisdiction.

  But it is curious, she said. What do you think happened to Mr. Charley’s father? And what are you going to do next?

  I don’t know about the body. Probably lost by the bureaucracy somehow and nobody cared enough to find it. As for me, next I’ll go out in the malpais when I have some time and get the box and take a look at those rocks, and then I’ll get the box back to Vines. He says he doesn’t want his box back. But he must want those medals.

  What will you tell Vines?

  I won’t. I’ll call the sheriffs office at Grants and tell them I got an anonymous tip on where the box had been left, and went out and found it, and for them to tell the Vineses to come and get it if they want it back.

  Mary Landon raised her eyebrows and sipped her coffee.

  Okay, Chee said. It’s a lie. But how else does Vines get his box back without Charley getting in jail?

  I can’t think of a way, she said. Something else puzzles me. How did Charley know he could trust you?

  Chee shrugged. Because I look trustworthy? he asked.

  She laughed. As a matter of fact, you don’t, she said. Could I go along when you go hunting the box?

  Sure, Chee said. We’ll go tomorrow.

  The apartments the Crownpoint school district provided for its teachers were a quarter mile beyond the school. The school was dark now, and the parking lot empty except for a single pickup truck. The pickup was a blue Ford 150. Charley’s. Chee slowed his carryall, staring at it.

  Not here, Mary Landon said. It’s those apartments up ahead.

  I know, Chee said. I’ll get you home in just a minute.

  He pulled into the parking lot, beside the pickup. This is Charley’s truck, he said. Why would he leave it?

  The truck was locked. Frost was turning the windshield opaque. Chee walked around it, shone his flashlight into the cab, looking for anything that would answer that question. He didn’t find it. Chapter Thirteen

  Malpais, translated literally> from the Spanish, means bad country. In New Mexico, it signifies specifically those great expanses of lava flow which make black patches on the map of the state. The malpais of the Checkerboard country lies just below Mount Taylor, having been produced by the same volcanic fault that, a millennium earlier, had thrust the mountain fifteen thousand feet into the sky. Now the mountain has worn down to a less spectacular eleven thousand feet and relatively modern eruptions from cracks at its base have sent successive floods of melted basalt flowing southward for forty miles to fill the long valley between Cebolleta Mesa and the Zuni Mountains. Some of this malpais was ancient, long since softened by algae, moss, rain, wind, and durable desert grasses. Elsewhere it was only a few thousand years old, still raw, black, and relatively lifeless. The track Chee was following zigzagged its way across a smoother, more ancient flow. Nonetheless, it was rough going.

  I’ve never been out here before, Mary Landon said. Not out in it. It’s like someone was boiling a whole oceanful of black ink, and all of a sudden it froze solid.

  Even the rodents out here tend to be black, Chee said. Protective coloration, I guess.

  It doesn’t look like there’d be anything alive.

  Lots of reptiles, Chee said. All kinds of snakes and lizards. And quite a few mammals. Rabbits, mice, kangaroo rats, so forth. . ;…

  What do they drink? Mary asked.

  Some of them don’t. They get their water from the plants they eat. But rain and snow melt and collect in potholes, Chee said. And now and then there’s a spring. That’s where we’re going. Charley has a spring out here. He collects herbs, datura, stuff like that. For his ceremonials. That’s where he left the box.

  How do you find it?

  Either by the powers of deduction, Chee said, or by asking Charley. I asked Charley and he told me to follow this track until I came to the place where the new lava flow crosses the old. Chee pointed ahead. Like right there. And then I’d see a place where the track forks. See? Right there ahead. And the spring was maybe a hundred yards down the right fork of the track. He said there was a bunch of tamarisk sticking up out of the lava flow to mark it. See? Over there.

  So why aren’t you taking the right turn? Mary asked.

  I want to show you that new lava up close, Chee said. We’ll park there and we can walk over.

  The new lava was at least a thousand years old. It looked as if it had hardened yesterday. It was as black as coal, raw and rough, still marked with the froth of its white-hot bubbling as it boiled across the landscape. They climbed from the ancient lava onto the final wave of the new and stood looking across ten miles of tumbled, ragged blackness at the blue shape of Cebolleta Mesa.

  I’m impressed, Mary said finally. It’s like looking backward a hundred million years.

  Do you know any of our legends? Chee asked.

  I know a few, Mary said. A Laguna girl I know told me one about the Laguna migrations. And the Corn Maidens.

  Those are Pueblo, Chee said. If you were Navajo you’d know that you are looking at the blood of the Horned Monster.

  Oh. Black blood. Mary grinned at Chee. You Navajos have black-hearted monsters.

  Yes, indeed. A historic spot. Right around here is where the Hero Twins started making Dinetah safe for the Dinee to live in. The Horned Monster was the first one they bagged. Born of Water distracted him, and Monster Slayer shot him with an arrow.

  He certainly bled a lot, Mary said.

  And then they cleaned the rest of them out, Chee said. He helped her down from the lava crest. The Winged Monster, and the Water Monster. We even had one they called One Who Kicks People Over the Cliff.

  How’d they do him in?

  His hair grew out of the cliff, keeping him from falling, Chee said. Monster Slayer gave him a haircut.

  The ancient lava flow made fairly easy walking. Eons of time had rubbed away its roughness and turned its blackness gray. It was coated with lichens, and grass grew wherever dust had accumulated in its cracks. Chee talked of Navajo mythology. Mary Landon listened. He was carrying a grocery sack which contained a thermos of coffee, two apples, and two king-sized Lottaburgers picked up in Grants. Chee hadn’t been on a picnic since school days. He was happy. To their right, the morning sun reflected off the snow on the high slopes of Mount Taylor, making it glitter against the dark-blue sky.

  We call it Turquoise Mountain, Chee said. First Man built it out of earth he brought up from the Third World, and he pinned it to the world with a magic knife to keep it from flying away. He put Turquoise Girl on top of it, to keep the Navajos safe from monsters, and he assigned Big Snake to live on the mountain for eternity, to keep Turquoise Girl safe from whatever bothers Turquoise Girls.

  Speaking of big snakes, Mary Landon said. Am I right in remembering that they hibernate in the winter, and I therefore have absolutely nothing to worry about? Or is that hibernation business just another of your myths?

  She was climbing a great hump of lava. Just beyond it were the tamarisks and the spring. When are you going to tell me your war name?

  It’s a good rule to stay off those humps when you’re walking on lava, Chee said. They’re the tops of old bubbles, and about one in twenty thousand is thin enough so that you can fall through and

  Chee’s voice trailed away. Mary had stopped atop the hump and stood frozen, looking down.

  Jim, she said. There’s someone

  Chee scrambled up beside her.

  Just beyond the hump was a sinkhole, a circle of
clear, dark water rimmed by cattails and a species of green reed. This was surrounded, in turn, by a small expanse of buffalo grass. The man wore a red-and-black mackinaw and his black hat lay beside his head. His hands were together behind his back, secured by what seemed to be an electric cord.

  I think he’s dead, Mary Landon said in a very small voice.

  I’ll see, Chee said. The left hand looked distorted, and coated with something dark. I think you should wait in the truck.

  All right, Mary said.

  The kneeling man was Tomas Charley. The black on his hand was blood, long dried. But when Chee placed his fingers on Charley’s neck to confirm the certainty that he was dead, he found the flesh resilient and warm. He stepped quickly back from the body and studied the area around him. Tomas Charley had been dead only a matter of minutes. Chee became intensely aware that his pistol, inappropriate for a picnic with a girl, was locked in the glove box of the patrol car. Perhaps Tomas Charley had been left here hours ago and had been a long time dying. And perhaps he had been killed only moments ago, which would mean his killer must be nearby. Chee glanced at the body again. There was no sign of what had killed him. The only blood visible was from the hand. Chee grimaced. The hand had been methodically mutilated. He examined the mackinaw, looking in vain for a bullet hole. Then he noticed a place where the black hair on the back of Charley’s head had been scorched. He knelt beside the body and gently parted the hair. Beneath it, the skin over the skull had been punctured, leaving a small round hole. A bullet hole, probably no larger than a .22. Turquoise Girl had not kept this half-Navajo safe from the monsters.

  The sound of the car starting was close. It came from beyond the tamarisks. Chee trotted around the pool toward it, conscious that the driver was probably armed. The car, he saw when he reached the screen of brush, was a green-and-white Plymouththe one that had been parked beside Charley’s car. It was moving away from him down the track. He couldn’t see the driver. Chee turned and scrambled up the lava formation. When the Plymouth reached the place where the tracks forked, it would angle left, back toward the highway and Grants. Then Chee could see the driver. And he would need only a glimpse to confirm what he already knew. It would be the blond man in the yellow jacket.

  But the Plymouth didn’t angle left. It turned right and jolted slowly toward Chee’s patrol car.

  He could see Mary at the passenger-side window, looking at the approaching car and then at him.

  He cupped his hands and shouted: Run. Mary. Run.

  She emerged from the driver’s-side door, running toward the new lava flow. She was carrying his 30-30 carbine. Chee raced toward the patrol car, doing what he could to keep out of sight behind the humps and hillocks of old lava. The Plymouth stopped and the driver got out. He was a blond man wearing a yellow jacket, and he raised his right arm and aimed the pistol he held at Mary Landon. It seemed to Chee to have a remarkably long and heavy barrel. The barrel smoked, or seemed to, but Chee heard nothing. Mary was in the new lava and out of sight. Chee’s plan took no thought at all. He would circle around the patrol car, find Mary in the new lava, and get the rifle. The blond man would think he was armed and wouldn’t come after him. The risks were relatively light. In the first place, the chances of being hit at one hundred yards by a pistol were small, unless the man was a hell of a lot better shot than most. And in the second place, a .22 bullet at that range wouldn’t be lethal. Chee ran.

  The pain was sudden and intense. Chee stumbled, lost his footing, and fell to his hands and knees. The pain was in his left chest. A heart attack, he thought for one illogical moment. And then he felt blood running down his side and made a quick inspection. A bullet seemed to have struck a rib. He inspected the place with cautious fingers and grimaced with the pain. The bullet had apparently broken the bone. But he didn’t seem to be hurt in any critical way. No reason to change his plans, except for a more realistic view of the blond man’s marksmanship. He raised himself cautiously. He’d locate his adversary exactly, and then he’d resume his run toward the new lava, on a wider, safer circle.

  The blond man was trotting directly toward him across the worn waves of gray stone, the long-barreled pistol held in front of him. Chee ducked. The blond either didn’t care if the Navajo policeman was armed, or knew that he wasn’t. Perhaps he had seen that Chee wasn’t wearing his holster. And now he came to finish the job, as he had finished it with Tomas Charley. Chee felt panic, choked it off, and started a scrambling zigzag run. He’d worry about reaching Mary Landon and his rifle later. Now the problem was to stay alive, to put some distance between himself and the blond, to find a place to hide. He vaulted over a ridge of stone and heard the sharp snap of a bullet whipping past him. He heard no gunshot. Behind the ridge, the lava had hardened into a wide trough perhaps five feet deep. Chee sprinted down it, the rib feeling like a knife in his chest. Then he heard the booming crack of a shot, and the whine of a ricocheting bullet. And then another, and another. Those were not the blond’s silent .22. It was the muzzle blast of his 30-30. The trough ended at a grassy pothole catch basin. He was back at Emerson Charley’s spring. Chee stopped and looked over the rim. The blond man was moving back toward his car, keeping low in a dodging run. From the escarpment of new lava, Chee saw a puff of blue smoke and heard again the cracking boom of the 30-30. Then the blond was behind Chee’s patrol car. For a moment Chee lost sight of him. Then he was visible again, getting into the Plymouth. The Plymouth backed around the patrol car with a squeal of tires on rock and then was jolting down the track, far faster than was safe for tires or springs.

  About then Chee realized that his patrol car was burning. The flames came from under the rear of it, apparently fed by fuel leaking out of the gas tank. The fire mushroomed abruptly, engulfing the rear half of the vehicle. Chee watched it grimly. The tank was about half full as he remembered itperhaps twelve gallons. There was another twenty in the auxiliary tank. When that heated up, it would go off like a bomb.

  What had been Tomas Charley still knelt, forehead to grass. Chee walked past the body and picked up the sack containing the thermos of coffee and the picnic lunch. They had a long walk ahead of them. He spent another few minutes making a methodical search of the spring area for the box. Charley had said he’d left it in plain view on the rock just beside the water. There was no box now. Behind him, he heard the muffled boom of the gas tank exploding.

  Boy, Mary Landon said when he walked up. You Navajos give exciting picnics. She laughed, but it was a shaky laugh. The fire flared up again with a whoosh of flame as a front tire exploded, and she raised her hand to shade her face from the heat. Her sleeve was torn and her wrist was smeared with blood from a long scratch on her forearm.

  You all right? he asked. Thank God you took the rifle with you.

  I knew you’d say that. Suddenly Mary Landon was furious. Why wouldn’t I take it? Because I was stupid, that would be why. I’d just seen a tied-up dead body, and the man who must have killed him coming right toward me, and you yelling at me to run, and the rifle right there in the scabbard. Why wouldn’t I take it? Her voice was fierce. Because I’m a half-wit woman? I wouldn’t have said that if you’d taken the rifle. I’d take it for granted. But no. I’m a woman, so I’m stupid.

  Sorry, Chee said.

  What’s wrong with this damned rifle anyway? Mary said. She handed it to him, which reminded Chee that his spare ammunition was in the glove box and would be exploding any minute.

  Let’s back away a little, he said. As he said it, the 30-30 rounds began exploding, no louder than firecrackers.

  I’m a pretty good shot, I thought, Mary said. I was missing him a mile.

  Sorry about that, too, Chee said. When I’m not using it I let the rear sight down. He showed her, pushing the leaf sight up with his thumb and sliding the calibrated wedge forward to the 200-yard mark.

  Mary looked from Chee’s thumb to Chee’s face, her glance asking: Is this man for real? She shook her head. Why? Why would you do that?
<
br />   Takes the strain off the spring, Chee said lamely.

  Suddenly she leaned against him. He felt her shaking. Sorry I’ve been so bitchy, she said, talking into his coat. I’m not used to this.

  Me either, Chee said.

  That man back there. Was that Mr. Charley? The one you were looking for? He was dead, wasn’t he? Did that blond man kill him? Do you know what’s going on?

  Yes, Chee said. And no. It was Charley. He was dead. And I don’t have any idea what the hell is going on.

  While he was saying it, Mary became aware of the blood on his shirt. Childish as he knew it was, being wounded made him feel a little less foolish. If the rib hadn’t hurt so much, and if he hadn’t had a five-mile walk back to the highway ahead of him, it would have been almost worthwhile. Chapter Fourteen

  Colton wolf had left tracks. Two witnesses had seen him. Close and clearly. They could identify him. They could connect him with murder and with a rented car. The car-rental connection would provide other witnesses and uncover the false identity. He gunned the Plymouth down the access acceleration lane and onto Interstate 40 west. There was no time wasted deciding what to do. He’d decided that before he’d left his trailer. This was Plan B. Plan B was what he did if the operation created the sort of disturbance that made the routine withdrawal in some way risky. There had been a Plan B and variations of Plan B for each of his previous operations. But he’d never used one before because there had never been a disturbance. Previously, the targets had died unobserved, quietly and unobtrusively. The only exception had been the old cpa in Reno. The man had suspected something. Perhaps it had been the product of a guilty conscience, perhaps the product of age and wisdom. At any rate, part of the information provided to Colton had been the detail that the target would be alert and wary. And he had been. Colton had spent an extra day scouting because of that. And the set-up had seemed perfect. The accountant’s office had been on the fifth floor of a downtown bank building. At midmorning for three consecutive days the old man had emerged from his office, crossed the corridor to the men’s rest room, and relieved himself. Rest rooms were ideal. And this had been the best kind. A single-stall men’s room. The jimmy blade flicking the latch open. The victim startled, embarrassed, refusing to credit what his eyes were telling himthat the intruder upon his privacy was pointing a pistol at his forehead. The victim starting to blurt some banality like This booth is occupied. The voice being stopped by the thud of the silenced .22. The bullet fired into the hair, where it would go undetected for a time. The body propped on the stool. The unhurried departure. But this time it had been different. The old man had sensed something when Colton had come into the room. Through the gap beside the booth door, Colton had seen a single eye peering out at him, and the screaming had started the moment the jimmy touched the latch. The man was up from the stool, pants around ankles, trying to resist. It had taken three bullets and a little more time, and then, as he was propping up the body, the door had swung open and the old man’s secretary had burst in. He had shot her twice, and wedged her body in with the old man’s, and walked away. It had been tense for a moment, but when he emerged from the elevator, there had been absolutely no tracks left behind. He had dumped the pistol by opening the emergency hatch and putting it on top of the elevator car. When he stepped through the doors into the bank lobby, there was no chance of connecting him with the bodies in the men’s room. He had hated to lose the pistol, but it couldn’t be traced. There had been absolutely no tracks.