Mary was looking at him now. “What do you think of all that?”
“And she said the witches made the oil well blow up,” Chee added. “And that Joseph Sam is dead, too.”
“Did she say why they wanted to do that?”
“No,” Chee said.
“Did she know? Did you ask her?”
“No,” Chee said. “You have to understand about our witches. They wouldn’t need a motive in the normal sense. Do you know about Navajo Wolves?”
“I thought I did,” Mary said. “Aren’t they like the white man’s witches, and witches in general, and our Laguna-Acoma witches?” She laughed. “Hyphenated witches,” she said. “Only with the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs would you get hyphenated witches.”
“The way it works with Navajos, witchcraft is the reversal of the Navajo Way. The way the Holy People taught us, the goal of life was yo’zho’. No word for it in English. Sort of a combination of beauty/harmony, being in tune, going with the flow, feeling peaceful, all wrapped up in a single concept. Witchcraft is the reverse of this concept, basically. There’s a mythology built up around it, of course. You get to be a witch by violating the basic taboos—killing a relative, incest, so forth. And you get certain powers. You can turn yourself into a dog or a wolf. You can fly. And you have power to make people sick. That’s the opposite of the good power the Holy People gave us—to cure people by getting them back into yo’zho’. Back into beauty. So, to make a long story short, a witch wouldn’t have a motive for blowing up an oil well. It’s a bad thing to do, blowing people up. That’s all the motive a skinwalker needs.”
“And she said Dillon Charley was a witch?”
“That’s what she said. The families had an Enemy Way and turned the witching spell around, and Dillon Charley died.”
“That proves he was the witch?”
“Well, sort of,” Chee said. “They’d have to already have him spotted as the witch. Then someone has to get something that belonged to a witch—hair, pair of socks, a hat, something personal. That represents the scalp in the Enemy Way ceremonial. On the last day of the ceremonial, the scalp is shot with an arrow. If everything has been properly done, and they have the right witch, this causes the witch to get sick and die from his own spell.”
“And the patient gets well?”
“That’s the way it works. But it didn’t work for our friend Woody. And it didn’t work for Roscoe Sam.”
The patrol car jolted into a shallow wash and out again. The cloud overhead had changed from pink to a deep glowing red. “Two more dead,” Mary Landon said. “Or three.”
“You predicted Woody,” Chee said.
“There were six of them to begin with,” she said. “Six People of Darkness. Six men who didn’t go to work at the oil well. Now Roscoe Sam is dead, and Joseph Sam and Begay, and Dillon Charley.”
“Leaves Windy Tsossie and Rudolph Becenti,” Chee said. “And so far nobody knows where to find them.”
“That’s too many dead,” Mary Landon said. “They wouldn’t be all that old. Probably late middle age if they were alive now. But they died a long, long time ago. When they were pretty young. Just a few years after the oil well. That’s too many to be dead.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “You think somebody poisoned them all? Something like that? Maybe revenge?”
“As far as we know, Begay died of leukemia,” Chee said. “Same thing with Roscoe Sam. Dillon Charley died in the hospital. Vines says he told him he had some sort of cancer. Anyway, in a hospital they’d have detected poison if it was that.”
“With an autopsy?” Mary asked.
Chee drove a little while. “I think you’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking about Emerson Charley.”
“Yes,” Mary said. “I’m thinking about how Emerson Charley didn’t have an autopsy.”
“Because somebody stole his body out of the cold room at BCMC,” Chee said.
“Which seems a funny thing to steal.”
“Right,” Chee said.
“Unless you don’t want an autopsy performed.”
“Right,” Chee said.
“Which is also what you’d get if you blow the guy into little pieces by bombing his truck. No autopsy. Right?”
“Yeah,” Chee said.
“Yeah,” Mary said. “Yeah, or maybe baloney. Why would anyone want to poison Emerson Charley? Or Dillon Charley? Or Woody Begay, or any of those guys?”
“No reason,” Chee said. “But you know what? Let’s go to Albuquerque and see what we can find out at the hospital.”
“I don’t know,” Mary Landon said. “When I go places with you, it’s no picnic.” She hesitated. “Do you think he’ll be there?” She didn’t have to say the blond man. Chee knew what she meant.
“I’ve thought about that,” Chee said. “If I was him, I wouldn’t go near that hospital. And if I was looking for you and me, that would be the last place I’d look.”
25
The doctor’s name was Edith Vassa. The midmorning sun slanted through the window behind her desk and flashed through her short reddish hair. She was a young woman with that pink complexion which made Jimmy Chee wonder why the white men called Indians redskins. Dr. Vassa was the physician who had treated Emerson Charley at the University of New Mexico Cancer Research and Treatment Center. Thus she had been stuck with the job of trying to find out what had happened to the Charley corpse. It had been a frustrating, embarrassing dead end. Edith Vassa was sick of it. Her expression showed it.
“I can tell you everything I know in a very few words. Emerson Charley’s vital signs ceased at approximately 5:13 P.M. The physician on duty made the usual examination and certified death. The body was tagged for autopsy and moved to the morgue cold room. The next morning, the morgue attendant noticed he had only one body instead of two. He guessed the body had gone to the morphology laboratory without being properly checked out.” Dr. Vassa made an impatient gesture with her hands. “To skip the unnecessary details, it was finally learned that the body had disappeared.”
“You presume it was stolen?”
“I presume his relatives collected him,” Dr. Vassa said. “The Albuquerque police thought we might have just misplaced it somewhere.” She laughed, but she didn’t think it was funny.
“All we actually know is that one of the morgue carts was found the next morning in the hallway near the loading dock. Presumably it was used to move the body. And we found that the bag of personal effects that belonged to a second body in the morgue was also missing. It seems safe to presume that someone got into the morgue, picked up the wrong bag of personal effects, put the bag on the cart with the body, rolled it down the hallway to the loading dock, and loaded everything into a car or something.”
“It was being held for an autopsy?”
“It was supposed to be held for an autopsy.”
“Why the autopsy?”
“It’s the routine. We’re studying cancer. How it affects cells. How treatment affects tumors. Effect of treatment on blood platelets. On bone marrow. Metastasis. So forth.”
“Metastasis?”
“Spreading. How cancer spreads from one part of the body to another.”
“You didn’t suspect foul play?” Chee asked.
Dr. Vassa smiled, very faintly. “You don’t get leukemia through foul play. It’s not like a poison. And it’s not like an infectious disease, which you could cause by inserting a bacteria. It’s caused by…” Dr. Vassa hesitated.
Jimmy Chee waited, curious. How would this woman describe the origins of leukemia to a Navajo?
“We don’t know exactly what causes it. Perhaps some sort of virus. Perhaps some malfunction in the bone marrow, where blood cells are produced.”
Fair enough, Chee thought. He couldn’t have done better himself.
“And it’s rare, especially among adults?”
“Relatively,” Dr. Vassa said. “I think the current case rate for all sorts of malignancies this
year is less than three per thousand. Leukemic diseases are about one percent of that. Say three in a hundred thousand.”
“Three per thousand?” Mary Landon said. “What would you think of a situation in which you had six men, friends, members of the same church, sort of distant relatives, and three of them die of cancer?”
“I’d be surprised,” Dr. Vassa said.
“How surprised?” Mary Landon asked. “Three out of six instead of three out of a thousand.”
“It would be quite a coincidence,” Dr. Vassa said, “but things like that can happen. Mathematical probabilities work in odd ways. Was Emerson one of the three?”
“He was the son of one of the three,” Chee said.
“His father died of cancer?”
“That’s what we’re told,” Mary said.
“But you don’t know for sure?” Dr. Vassa asked. “Did they all live in the same area? Work at the same jobs? I think if they really did all die of cancer our epidemiology people would be interested.” Dr. Vassa smiled. “Especially if it happened to be cancer of the gall bladder. They’re fascinated by that.” She reached for the phone. “I’ll make you an appointment with Sherman Huff.”
Sherman Huff’s office was in the basement. Dr. Huff asked questions and took notes, and picked up the telephone. “Three out of six is unusual,” he said. “So first we try to find out if the tumor registry has them.” He spoke into the telephone, identifying himself and reading the names of Dillon Charley, Roscoe Sam, and Woody Begay off his notes. He kept the receiver pinned to his ear with a raised shoulder and turned back to Chee and Mary Landon.
“Just be a minute or two,” he said. “It’s a matter of checking the names with the computer. The registry tries to keep a file on every cancer case diagnosed in the state, but these were way back when they were first setting it up. And it could be they were out on the reservation, where they weren’t diagnosed.”
“In other words, if you don’t have the names registered, it won’t necessarily mean they didn’t have cancer?”
“Not from the early 1950s it won’t,” Huff said. “And not from the Navajo reservation. However, even in those days, they were getting most of them. They had a pretty good…”
The telephone said something into Huff’s ear. “Just a second,” he said.
He made a note. “Okay,” he said. He wrote again. “Thanks. Pull the folders for me. I’ll want to look at them.” He hung up and glanced at Chee.
“Dillon Charley, leukemia. Roscoe Sam, malignancy affecting liver and other vital organs. Woody Begay, leukemia.” Huff’s face was thoughtful. “That’s a hell of a lot of cancer,” he said. “And a lot of leukemia for men their ages.”
“And Emerson Charley,” Mary Landon added. “He also died of leukemia.”
“That’s what Vassa told me,” Huff said. “Let’s make sure. Let’s get that folder, too.” He dialed the phone again.
“While you have them, give them some more names,” Chee said. “Give them Rudolph Becenti, Joseph Sam, and Windy Tsossie.”
“Those the other three of the six? You hear they had cancer, too?”
“All we know is that Joseph Sam probably died back in the 1950s, and we couldn’t find Becenti or Tsossie,” Chee said.
“Tumor registry data is confidential,” Huff said. “I can confirm a cancer death for law enforcement. I’m not sure I can just go on a fishing expedition for you.”
“I’m only trying to confirm that their cause of death was cancer. It saves me time. Otherwise, I’d have to go hunting for death certificates in county courthouses.”
Huff talked into the telephone again. He asked for the Emerson Charley file and a check on Tsossie, Becenti, and Joseph Sam. Then he waited, phone to ear. He was a burly man, with a gray mustache merging into a bushy gray beard, sun-weathered skin, and bright blue eyes. Behind him, the wall was covered with posters: “Smoke Can Make Your Doctor Rich.” “Little Orphan Annie’s Parents Smoked.” “Stamp Out Old Age: Smoke!” “To Kill a Mocking-bird: Blow Smoke on It.” In the silence, Chee became conscious of a tapping. Mary’s little finger was drumming against the arm of her chair. The telephone receiver made a sound.
“Go ahead,” Huff said. He wrote on his note pad. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like to see them all.” He hung up and sat for a moment looking silently at what he had written. “Well,” he said.
“Another one?” Mary asked.
“Rudolph Becenti,” Dr. Huff said. “Another form of leukemia.”
“That’s four out of six,” Mary Landon said.
“That sure is,” Dr. Huff said. “That’s a hell of a high percentage.”
“How about the other two?” Chee asked. “Tsossie and Joseph Sam?”
“Neither name showed up,” Huff said. He was frowning. “Four out of six,” he said. “What in the world could account for that? What were they doing?”
“In 1948 they were the members of a roustabout crew on an oil well out near Grants,” Chee said. “The common labor. Beyond that they were all members of the same little cult in the Native American Church.”
“They ever work in the uranium mines out there? We think we had a little increase from that. But that was lung cancer.”
“Not as far as we know. And the mining was just getting well started in Ambrosia Lakes when these guys were dying,” Chee said.
“How about asbestos? Were they installing insulation?” He shook his head. “No. Inhaled asbestos fiber is a carcinogen, but nothing like this. Nothing like four out of six. And not that quickly. And it’s the wrong kind of cancer. You know anything else about them?”
“Damn little,” Chee said.
“Did they ever work up at the Nevada test site? Did they work up there when we were doing that atmospheric testing of the bombs?”
“I don’t know,” Chee said. “It’s not likely.”
“That could explain it,” Huff said. “We just found out this fall that we had a whole rash of leukemia fatalities downwind from the test site in the middle of the 1950s. We’ve pinned down twelve cases in one tiny little community. Blood cell formation is particularly sensitive to some forms of radiation.”
“I know Dillon Charley didn’t work anywhere near Nevada,” Chee said. “He was working at Mount Taylor until just before he died.”
“As for Emerson Charley,” Mary said, “they stopped atmospheric testing years ago, and he just died.”
Huff looked disappointed. “Yes,” he said, “but sometimes it takes years to develop. And the cases might not all be connected.” He produced a wry smile. “And also, of course, maybe none of them have been within a thousand miles of the test site. Do you think you could find the other two of the six?”
“We can keep trying on Tsossie,” Chee said. “But Joseph Sam’s dead. He won’t do you any good.”
“Actually, he might do us some good,” Huff said. “Some kinds of cancers affect bone tissue. Some other kinds leave their traces in bone when they metastasize. You can often find the damage in ribs, or vertebrae, or sometimes large marrow bones. Do you know where he’s buried?”
“We can try to find out,” Chee said.
“And we’ll try to find some sort of common denominator among them,” Huff said. “How about this church they all belong to?”
“Native American Church,” Chee said. “The peyote church.”
Huff grinned through his beard. “If we suspected peyote of being carcinogenic, we’d have our mystery solved. But it isn’t. Anything else? Anything that ties them all together?”
Chee told him of Dillon Charley’s peyote vision, which had saved them all from the oil well explosion, and of the survivors being joined, or so it seemed, in their own cult—the People of Darkness.
“With a mole as their amulet figure? Isn’t the fetish usually a predator? A mountain lion, or a bear, or something like that?” Huff asked.
“The mole’s the predator of darkness,” Chee said. “But it is unusual to use him for an amulet.”
&n
bsp; “So why did they pick the mole?” Huff asked.
“I’ve wondered,” Chee said. And as he said it, he had a thought. “Whoever took Emerson Charley’s body left his personal effects. Could we take a look at them?”
“Why not?” Huff said. “If we haven’t lost them, too.”
26
The red plastic bag was in a storage room on the second floor among scores of identical plastic bags, all arranged in alphabetical order.
“Bracken,” the attendant said. “Caldwell. Charley. Here it is. Emerson Charley. You can take a look at it there on that table.”
Chee removed a crushed black felt hat, a pair of cowboy boots which needed half soles, a denim jacket, a Timex watch with a steel band, a plaid cotton shirt, a T-shirt, a pair of jockey shorts, a pair of worn denim jeans, socks, a set of car keys, a pocket knife, a small leather pouch attached to a long leather thong, two blue shoestrings, a package of paper matches, and a billfold. He put the leather pouch and the billfold aside and quickly explored all the pockets. They were empty. Then he inspected the billfold. It contained a five, two ones, a driver’s license, a social security card, and a card identifying the agent who had written the liability policy on Charley’s pickup truck.
Then he picked up the leather pouch.
“What’s that?” Mary asked. “What are you looking for?”
“It’s where you carry your ceremonial stuff,” Chee said. “Supposed to be made of the hide of a deer killed in the ritual fashion. It holds your gall medicine. What you use against witchcraft. A little pollen. Maybe a little ceremonial corn meal….” He pulled open the draw cord and fished into the pouch with his fingers. “And it’s where you carry your amulet, if you carry one.”
The amulet he extracted was black, and dull, and shaped into the eyeless, sharp-nosed form of a mole. He held it up for Mary’s inspection. It was heavy, formed from a soft stone. Some sort of shale, Chee guessed. “Here we have Dine’etse-tle,” Chee said. “The predator of the nadir. The hunting spirit of the underworld. One of the People of Darkness.”
People of Darkness Page 14
