With that Tommy resumed his study of the windshield, lost in his memories.
Leaphorn waited, as unwilling to interrupt such thoughts as he was to break into a conversation, and just studied Tommy Vang. Very slender, Leaphorn noted. Very neat. Trimmed. Buttoned. Clean shaven. Shirt cuffs correct. Trousers somehow still properly creased. Vang raised a hand, and wiped the back of it across his cheek. Wiping away a tear, perhaps. The wind rattled dust against the truck door. Two women hurried past, one carrying a blanket. Tommy sighed, shifted in his seat.
“We were living in a sort of a cave shelter up there in the high ridges after that. The American planes, they came over, very loud, very low, and they bombed our village with napalm. I guess they’d got the word that the Cong had moved in.” He laughed. “I always wondered if Mr. Delos told them. Anyway, we went back down later to pick up what was left.”
With that Tommy lapsed into silence, looking straight ahead.
Overcome with memories, Leaphorn guessed.
“Not much left,” Tommy Vang said. “Even the pigs. The napalm fire had flooded right over all their pens so they couldn’t get away.” He sighed. “All burned up. I still remember. It smelled like a huge roast feast like we’d have for a wedding banquet. That is sort of special with the Hmong elders.” He glanced at Leaphorn, looking doubtful. “I think the way we are supposed to be taught God gave us multiple souls, or maybe I should say duplicate souls, and the duplicate souls live on in our animals.”
“I read about that when I studied anthropology. In an article about Hmong funeral rituals.”
“I don’t know enough about it,” Vang said. “I was too young. The elders were busy with fighting the Vietcong and the others. And hiding. Too busy to teach the children. You understand?”
“I do,” Leaphorn said. “It happened in a different way to some of us. We were hauled away to boarding schools. But I’d like to know when you finally got reconnected with Mr. Delos?”
“That was later. My mother died and I got put in a refugee camp. Mr. Delos found me there and started paying me a fee to get him information on anyone in the camp who was—” Tommy paused, trying to decide how to explain. “People who were what he called ‘Cong-connected.’ I did that, and then, it was the next summer I think, he came and got me and took me Saigon. I worked for him there. We stayed at a big hotel and he went to work down at the U.S. embassy until the North Vietnamese came in, and the helicopters came in and the Americans got on them and went home. I told him I could find my way back to Klin Vat. I would help rebuild our village and get back with my relatives in the Vang family. Not a good idea, Mr. Delos said to me.”
Tommy held up an open hand to demonstrate how Mr. Delos had made his case.
“In the first place, Mr. Delos said, he had done some checking and he had learned that between the Pathet Lao and the North Vietnamese army getting their revenge, there didn’t seem to be any Hmong people left from that village.” With that Tommy pulled down one of his fingers. “In the second place, there wasn’t anything left of the village.” A second finger came down. “It had been hit with that napalm again. And in the third place, Mr. Delos said there didn’t seem to be anyone left in that part of our mountains. He thought the Vangs, and the Chengs, and the Thaos must have all scattered elsewhere to escape the Pathet Lao and the Vietcong.”
Tommy Vang closed his hand, looked down at it. Expression sad.
“But you still want to go back?”
Tommy Vang turned in the seat, and stared at Leaphorn, his expression incredulous. “Of course. Of course. I am all alone here. Alone. Nobody at all here. And there, I know I could find some of my people. Not many maybe. But there would be somebody there. I think so. I am pretty sure of that.”
He turned away, stared out the side window, silent. Then he raised his hands, a gesture that encompassed all he was seeing. The dusty wind, the desiccated landscape of high country desert with winter coming on. “It is cold here,” said Vang, talking to the glass. “And there is the green, the warmth, the ferns, the moss, the high grasses, and the waving bamboo. There is the sense of everything being alive. Here all I see is dead. Dead rock, cliffs with snow on them. And the sand.”
A tumbleweed bounced off the windshield. “And that,” Tommy added. “Those damned weeds that are nothing but brittle stems and sharp stickers.”
“So you’re going back?” Leaphorn said. “You’re planning that? Have you made your plans? Arranged it?”
Tommy Vang sighed. “Mr. Delos has told me he will make the arrangements. When the proper time comes, he will send me home.”
“Has he made any plans for that?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about it. But he said that when he is finished with everything here, he will send me back. Or maybe he will go back with me.”
Finished with what? Leaphorn thought. But that question too would wait. Anyway, he thought he knew the answer.
“Would you be going back to Vietnam? Or Laos? I don’t imagine the Hmong have any sort of passport, or entry visas, or that sort of paperwork.”
“If they ever did, they probably wouldn’t by now,” Tommy said. “I guess our mountains are not ours anymore. We fought for the Americans, and the Americans went home.”
“Yes,” Leaphorn said. “We sometimes do things without really knowing what we are doing. Then we say we’re sorry about that. But I guess that doesn’t help much.”
Tommy Vang opened his door. “Would you give me back my piece of fruitcake? I must be going now. I have more things to do.”
“It’s still early,” Leaphorn said. “You said you had come here to talk to me. We haven’t talked much. Did you find out what you wanted to know?”
Vang settled himself into the seat. “I guess I don’t know. I think I found things I didn’t expect.”
“Like what?”
Vang smiled at Leaphorn. “Like you are a nice man. I didn’t expect that.”
“You didn’t like me?”
“No. Because you are a policeman. I didn’t think I would like a policeman.”
“Why not?”
“I have sometimes heard bad things about them,” Vang said. “Probably not true. Maybe some policeman are bad and some are good.” He smiled, shrugged. “But now I have to go. I have to find a place out here—” he waved both hands in a widespread gesture. “I know its name, but its name is not on my map.”
“Maybe I can help you with that.” He patted Vang’s shoulder. “Maybe that would prove to you that I’m one of the good policemen. What’s the name of the place?”
Vang extracted a folded postcard from his shirt pocket. Unfolded it, read from it.
Leaphorn understood “chapter house,” but the rest was lost in Vang’s Hmong interpretation of the message.
“Let me see it,” Leaphorn said, and took the card.
On it was written:
Tomas Delonie. Torreon. Chapter house. Use 371 north, then Navajo 9 east to Whitehorse Lake, then 12 miles northeast to Pueblo Pintado, the 9 southeast about 40 miles, then 197 short distance northeast. Look for Torreon Navajo Mission signs. Ask directions.
“I think you will have troubles finding that place,” Leaphorn said. “I think I should help you.”
“Yes,” Vang said. “This place. Torreon. I not find on my map. Nor some of these roads. They’re not included. Not marked.” He showed Leaphorn his map. It was an old Chevron Service Station version.
“An old map,” Leaphorn said. “I have a better one.” Tomas Delonie, he was thinking. Why was Tommy Vang making this trip?
“Mr. Delos gave you these directions, I guess,” Leaphorn said. “He didn’t have a new map. And I would doubt that he knows this eastern side of the Navajo Reservation very well.”
“I guess he wouldn’t,” Vang said.
“But he wrote these directions for you?”
“Oh, yes,” Vang said.
Leaphorn opened his mouth intending to ask why. To learn if Vang would tell him if Delos had ex
plained the reason for this trip and just what he wanted Vang to learn about Delonie. But he wanted to approach that carefully with Vang.
“I guess he wanted to be sure he knew just where Mr. Delonie lives, and where he works, and things like that. Things he’d need to know if he wanted to come and visit him. He didn’t explain it, but it was about like that, I think. He told me just to sort of act like I was a tourist. You know. Asking about things, looking all around. But then he wanted me to be able to tell him what sort of vehicle Mr. Delonie drove—car or truck, what kind, what color. If he lived alone. Things like that. When he went to work. When he came home. If he had a woman, or anybody else, living with him.”
Vang paused, reached into his jacket pocket. “And he gave me this.”
Vang extracted a very small camera and showed it to Leaphorn.
“It is one of those new ones with the computer chips,” Vang said, smiling proudly. “Very modern. You look through the finder, and see what you are photographing, and click it. Then if you don’t like it, you can erase it, and shoot again until you get good pictures. What you think? Pretty nice?”
“He wanted you to photograph Delonie?” That thought surprised Leaphorn.
“No. No. Not like taking his portrait, not anything like that. He said just take casual pictures. Of his house, his truck, things like that. But he didn’t want Mr. Delonie to see me taking pictures. He told me that lots of people don’t like having their pictures taken.”
“Did he want you to question Mr. Delonie about anything?”
“Oh no,” Vang said. “I was just to be acting like a tourist. Just curious. Just looking around. It would be best, Mr. Delos said, if Mr. Delonie didn’t even notice me.”
“Did he tell you anything about Delonie? About whether he was an old friend? Anything like that?”
“No,” Vang said, “but I don’t think he was a friend.”
Leaphorn studied Vang. “What causes you to think that?”
Vang shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just the way he looked when he talked about him. It make me think that Mr. Delonie made Mr. Delos feel nervous. Or something like that, I think.”
Exactly, Leaphorn thought. Mr. Vang is short on information but well armed with an astute intelligence. Smart enough to try to look beyond the bright and shiny surface of external appearances.
“You know, Tommy, I think the only sensible thing for us to do is for me to take you there,” Leaphorn said. “We can leave your car here in Crownpoint. Lock it up. We’ll tell whoever’s at the Tribal Police office. They’ll take care of it.”
Vang looked doubtful.
“Otherwise, you’ll probably get lost,” Leaphorn said.
“I think I have to take the truck I came in,” Vang said. “Have to have it.”
Leaphorn noticed Vang was looking tense, frightened.
“Why not just ride with me?”
Vang looked at Leaphorn, looked away, then down. “After I go where Mr. Delonie lives, ah—. After I do what Mr. Delos told me to do, then I have to drive over to that place where he will be shooting the elk, and wait for him there, and he will be looking for this truck, and if I am riding in another truck, I think then he would think that I have been disobeying him.”
“Oh,” Leaphorn said. And waited.
“Yes,” Vang said. “I think I had better be there in that truck I drive for him.”
“Are you sort of afraid of him?”
“Afraid?” Vang asked, and thought about it. Nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Very afraid.”
Leaphorn considered that for a moment. Of course he would be afraid. Everything in Tommy’s life depended on Jason Delos. Going home to his Hmong mountains, most of all.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we will turn the arrangement around. We’ll leave my truck at the Tribal Police office and we’ll take this one.”
And so they did. Vang pulled his King Cab pickup into the Tribal Police parking lot behind Leaphorn, then turned off the ignition and waited while Leaphorn went into the office.
Inside, Leaphorn shook hands with Corporal Desmond Shirley and explained what he was doing. Then he returned to his pickup and removed his cell phone and his police issue .38 pistol from the glove box. He dropped both into his jacket pocket, locked the door, and walked over to where Vang was sitting in his vehicle, watching.
“I think I should drive,” Leaphorn said.
Vang looked surprised.
“Because while you know the truck better, I know the roads, and all these pickups are pretty much alike.”
Vang scooted over.
He took them north past the Crownpoint airport, then eastward across twenty-five miles of absolutely empty country toward Whitehorse. For the first half hour they drove in a sort of nervous silence, with Vang keeping his eye on his own road map—apparently making sure Leaphorn was taking them where his instructions told him to go. At the little settlement of Whitehorse, the pavement of Navajo 9 swerves northward to climb Chaco Mesa en route to the ancient ruins of Pueblo Pintado before swerving back southward toward Torreon. Leaphorn turned off the pavement onto the twenty-three miles of dirt road that goes directly to Torreon without the wide detour.
“Ah, Mr. Leaphorn,” Vang said, sounding uneasy. “You are leaving Highway 9. But my map says Nine takes us to Torreon. Takes us to find Mr. Delonie.”
“It does,” Leaphorn said. “But this dirt road takes us there directly, without going way up on Chaco Mesa. This way we get there quicker, and right to the Torreon Chapter House. We should stop there and ask where we can find Delonie.”
“Oh,” Vang said. “Would he maybe be at the chapter house? Is that like a government office? For the Navajos who live around there?”
“It is,” Leaphorn said. “But Delonie isn’t a Navajo. I know he’s part Indian—Pottawatomie and Seminole—because the name sounds French.”
“French?” Vang’s tone suggested he would like an explanation.
“Both of those tribes once lived in the part of America where a lot of French people settled. Like Louisiana and that southern coastal country. Then the Pottawatomies helped General Jackson defeat the British in the War of 1812. The fight for New Orleans. And when Jackson was elected president, he granted citizenship to the Pottawatomies who helped him. Made them the ‘Citizen Band.’ Then when the white people wanted the land they were living on, he had the army round them up and moved them to Kansas.”
Leaphorn glanced at Vang, noticed that Vang was not following his explanation and decided to hurry through it.
“Anyway, then the railroad built a transcontinental line through there, and the land in Kansas got valuable and the white people wanted it. So the Pottawatomies were rounded up again and moved down to Oklahoma. They called it Indian Territory then. A lot of Seminoles got there, too, but I don’t remember how that happened.”
Vang considered this.
“I think this is something like what happened to our people, too. My parents said our ancestors started way up north, in China, and kept being pushed south, and finally got chased up into the mountains. But if Mr. Delonie is not a Navajo, why then would those at the Navajo Chapter House be likely know where to find him?”
“Because when there aren’t many people around, everybody gets noticed. I guess you’ve seen that very few people live out here.” He glanced at the odometer. “In the thirty-one miles since we left Whitehorse we have not passed even one residential place. And just about forty people live at Whitehorse. Where there are very few people, the people who are there all seem to know one another, no matter their tribe or their race.”
“It was that way in our mountains, too. But just in the mountains. Out of the mountains where there were more people nobody liked the Hmongs.”
“Look to the south,” Leaphorn said, gesturing to the mountain dominating that horizon with enough early winter snowpack to provide a glittering reflection of afternoon sunlight. “The map you have calls it Mount Taylor; it’s fifty miles from here, and there is absolutely nob
ody between us and that mountain.”
Vang considered that. “It looks so close.”
“It’s an old volcano,” Leaphorn said, finding himself lapsing into his habit of becoming a tour director anytime he was driving with anyone unfamiliar with his territory. “Biggest mountain in this part of the reservation. Eleven thousand three hundred and something feet high. It has a lot of historical and religious significance for us. In our people’s origin story, it was built by First Man when the Navajos first got here. It’s one of our four sacred mountains. Four mountains that mark the boundaries of our land. We have several names for that one. The Navajo ceremonial name is tsoodzil, and the formal title is dootl’izhiidzii, which translates to ‘Turquoise Mountain.’ And then on the map it’s named after General Zachary Taylor, and we also call it ‘Mother of Rains’ because the west winds pile clouds on top of it and then drive out over the prairie.”
Leaphorn noticed Vang had been trying to suppress a grin. Recognized what might be an opportunity to get closer to this man. To understand him. To be understood.
“You’re smiling,” Leaphorn said. “What?”
“The way you say those two Navajo names,” he said, grinning again. “Our Hmong language has words like that. You have to make funny sounds when you say them.”
“Some of our words don’t fit well with the white man’s alphabet,” Leaphorn said. “And since your people originated in China—well, at least a lot of anthropologists believe you did, and there’s pretty good evidence that was your point of origin, too. So it wouldn’t surprise me if we had some connections way back in time. How about your tribe’s stories of how it originated?”
Vang looked surprised. Raised his eyebrows. Said, “I don’t anything know about that. About what you mean.”
“I mean like what we call ‘origin stories.’ For example, in the Judeo-Christian culture—the Europe-based white culture—in that one God created the universe in a series of six days, and then said we should rest on the seventh one.” Leaphorn summarized the rest and mentioned the Garden of Eden.
The Shape Shifter Page 14
