"Possibly," Leaphorn said. He was thinking, I like this young woman. I like the way she works for her client, and maybe I will be needing a lawyer myself if they decide to charge me with concealing evidence of an illegal wiretap. And he was thinking that he could see now why she appealed to his assistant.
"Do you know where I can find Jim Chee?"
Miss Pete looked surprised. "No."
"Or how to get a message to him?"
"No."
Leaphorn allowed himself to look disappointed, which was easy, because he was.
"I thought you might," he said. "I have gotten the impression that Jim counts his time wasted when you are not nearby."
It seemed to Leaphorn that Miss Pete looked sad to hear this.
"We've been friends a long time," she said. "He tells me his troubles. I tell him mine." She dismissed all this with a shrug, but her expression canceled that.
"It's good to have someone you can talk to like that," Leaphorn said. "I apologize. I must be sounding like an overaged cupid. I guess I read Jim all wrong. We have an old hit-and-run case—totally hopeless—but the chief wants it solved and there's probably a promotion there for whoever can nail the guy. I think Chee's working on it hard because he thinks with sergeant stripes he would look to you more like a worthy marriage prospect."
Miss Pete's expression, if Leaphorn read it right, went from irritation, to surprise, to sorrow.
She exhaled, picked up the purse again, and put it down.
"I don't normally behave like this," Leaphorn said. "Normally I'm pretty good at minding my own business. 'Herd your own sheep,' as my mother used to teach us. I'm Jim's boss and I like him, and I worry about him sometimes."
"I worry about him too," she said. "But I think you have sort of misinterpreted things." She produced a weak smile. "So did I. I was thinking in terms of Romeo and Juliet. The wrong families and all that."
It took Leaphorn a moment to understand. "Clans," he said, and made a wry face.
"Well, actually I think the clan business is all very ambiguous. Only my father was a Navajo. And it's hazy on his side, too. But Jim, you know, I think maybe he's not the marrying kind. So, even a hazy, ambiguous clan taboo can be useful."
"Ummm," Leaphorn said. What in the world was he doing, he thought, behaving just as Emma would behave, trying to be a matchmaker? This was absolutely none of his business. But he had found that he liked Janet Pete. He hadn't expected to like her. And when you looked past his various flaws, you had to like Jim Chee, too. So, to hell with it, he would continue interfering. Emma wouldn't believe he was doing this, but she would certainly approve.
"There's something hard for normal people to understand about Jim Chee," he said. "He's an odd sort of idealist. He wants to become a practicing hataalii. He wants to be a bona fide traditionalist. To be a singer of the curing ceremonials. Not just to be a shaman, but to be a really effective one." Leaphorn paused, looking for some general statement to sum this up, and his own attitude toward it. "It makes any sort of taboo more powerful than it would be to me— and probably to you. Officer Chee wants to save his people from the future."
Janet Pete had listened to all this intently, without fiddling with her purse. Now she picked it up, and got up, and said, "I have to go."
Leaphorn escorted her to the door. "Well," he said, "I guess Officer Chee will show up again someday."
"I guess so," she said, and turned to look at him. "Were you serious about calling Mr.
Streib?"
Leaphorn looked at his watch. "Right now," he said.
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24
JIM CHEE, born to the Slow Talking Dinee', born for the Bitter Water Clan, whose real, ceremonial, and secret name was actually Long Thinker, awoke on the floor of Gracie Cayodito's Hogan just when dawn was invading the extreme eastern edge of the night. He was awakened by the voice of his uncle, who was standing outside the east-facing door of the Hogan, singing his blessing song to the new day. As Chee lay there, stiff from a night on this unyielding bed and still only half-awake, a second voice joined the husky baritone of Frank Sam Nakai. This one was older, cracked and scratchy—the sound of Hosteen Barbone shouting his greeting to the great yei Dawn Boy.
Normally, Chee sang his own dawn prayer a bit later, after he'd started the coffee perking and the eastern sky was red with morning. He groaned, pushed himself upright, tucked in his shirt, and fished out from under it the buckskin medicine pouch, which contained his corn pollen. When in Rome, he thought, one does as the Romans do. He didn't want to worsen the bad impression he had already made on these old men.
But later, with the sun up and the town of Window Rock in view through his windshield, he was pretty sure the perfect knowledge he'd displayed of the morning blessing hadn't made any difference. The problem was the generation gap. The problem was theological. The problem was how one denned the concept of hozho, that idea of harmony which was the very root and foundation of the Navajo religion. This kind of problem wasn't what he wanted when he'd gone back up the mountain to find his uncle again. He'd been in a crazy mood. Having that hit-and-run case turn out the way it did had been the last straw. Too much ambiguity, uncertainty, indecision. He wanted no more of that. He would go to the 't mountains and get a ruling on whether he could marry Janet Pete and still be a Navajo in the traditional sense. That took him through Farmington, right past the Quikprint shop. He slammed on the brakes, backed, pulled into a parking place. He had three different bumper stickers made, timing the process. It took almost thirteen minutes and, yes, it was expensive. Then he drove faster than the law allowed, making up for the lost time.
He'd wanted a favorable ruling. He had imagined the scene—an old, old man recounting the history of the Hunger People from the clan's day one, proving that these people had never joined with his own ancestors, never made common cause, never did any of those things that would make them linked in blood. Then he would tell Janet. And what would she say? So what? You think you can tell me I'm taboo. Like maybe I had AIDS. And I don't meet your high Navajo standards. And then you can come back and say I passed your test. Well, screw you, old friend. Or maybe the ruling would be negative. Even a negative ruling was better than this ambiguity. With that he could at least make a clear-cut decision.
But the great conference at the Cayodito Hogan had drifted away from anything specific into the misty world of Changing Woman, First Man and First Woman, Talking God, and the great galaxy of other yeis.
Frank Sam Nakai had heard Chee's truck coming up the muddy road and was standing in the doorway of his Hogan.
"I have been asking and I have found the man who will know about the Hunger People and your own clans," his uncle had said. "He lives over by Crystal. We will go and listen to what he will tell us."
The man who would know was named Barbone. Like Nakai he was a hataalii, and like Nakai he was called "Hosteen" in respect for his years and his wisdom. But, of course, when they turned off the pavement of Navajo Route 32 and jolted down the road past the old Crystal trading post and up the crooked tracks into the aspen grove where Barbone had built his Hogan, they discovered that Hosteen Barbone was not at home. His daughter, who seemed to Chee to be about seventy-five, said he had gone to the place of Gracie Cayodito to decide what sort of ceremonial was needed to cure a Cayodito grandchild of an illness.
On the road again, eastward out of the Chuskas to Route 666, north to the Two Grey Hills turnoff, then back into the Chuskas on the road which led—when and if weather permitted— to the Toh-Ni Tsa forest fire lookout tower. A badly used Chevy Blazer and a pickup truck were parked at the Cayodito place. Gracie was there. So was Hosteen Barbone, looking old enough to have a daughter over seventy. Beside Barbone, against the south wall of the Hogan, sat a woman who looked even older than Barbone. Old Woman Mustache. Chee had heard of her somewhere—had heard that she was the wise person of the Streams Come Together Clan.
&
nbsp; About an hour into the ensuing discussion, Chee decided that Old Woman Mustache either was mute or had fallen asleep. Hosteen Barbone covered the genesis of the Hunger People, how the clan had formed and gotten its name during Naahondzibd, the "Fearing Time" when the American army had joined the Mexicans and Utes in the war against the Dineh, and the men were afraid to leave on a hunt because they might return to find their Hogan’s burned, their wives slaughtered, and their children taken by the soldiers, to be sold in the slave market at Santa Fe.
"They say that's when the Hunger People began. They say that Kit Carson came through there, came through about where Many Farms is now, with horse soldiers and some Utes.
They killed the people they caught there, and took the horses, and burned up all the corn and piñon nuts and blankets, and gathered up the children to sell them in Santa Fe. My grandmother said they got a hundred and fifty dollars for her. A rancher way down the Rio Grande bought her and had her baptized but she ran away and got back to the Jemez Pueblo and they sent her back to where her family was but her family was all gone. They say that only one man in that camp had a gun and when he tried to fight the soldiers with it, it wouldn't shoot. The soldiers killed that one and just a few people got away up into the mountains.
And they found other people hiding there, mostly women and children. They say they were from all over. From other camps where the soldiers had come through and cut down the orchards and burned the food and stolen the horses. A lot of them starved or froze to death during that winter, but Carson never did capture them so they didn't go on the Long Walk to Bosque Redondo. They say that when the Americans released the Dineh from that prison and they came back to Dine' Bike'yah, these people had their own clan. They say that since they came from all over they couldn't name them with the place they came from, so everybody called them the Hunger People."
Hosteen Barbone had given them the beginnings of the Hunger People, as he had heard it. Now he would give them the rest of that clan's history. And when that was finished, they would hear from Gracie Cayodito, and perhaps from Old Woman Mustache if she wasn't asleep.
Chee had been raised among the traditionals, among the sheep camp and Hogan people.
He knew how to sit comfortably and be patient. If he was lucky, Barbone's account would never, in any way, link the Hunger People with the clans of his own mother or father. And so he listened, trying to keep track of contacts and relationships between maternal clans, paternal clans, offshoot fragments of clans. The only bad news he heard seemed vague and ambiguous.
Barbone fell silent. The silence extended long enough to signal that his account was finished. He had talked about an hour, Chee thought, but he resisted the impulse to confirm this with a glance at his watch. Into the silence Old Woman Mustache spoke.
"Too much talk about those father's clans," she said in a voice that was very old but surprisingly clear. "Remember in the Fourth World when the women got tired of the men and went across the river and pleasured themselves. Remember what the Holy People taught us then. That men have their things to do, and women have their things to do, and one of the woman's things is the family. Remember what they taught us then. The mother's clan, the clan you're born for, that's the one that is important."
Having said that, with long pauses for breathing between sentences, Old Woman Mustache closed her eyes and rested. Gracie Cayodito spoke next.
She began with the self-effacing "They say," by which traditional Navajos pass along information without making any personal claim to it. In the case of Gracie Cayodito the form did not represent any self-doubts. She took them through the histories of Chee's two clans. Since her sources of data considered the Bitter Water Dinee' one of the original four formed by Changing Woman herself, she took them back to the mythic days when the spirits called Holy People still walked the Earth surface world with the humans they had formed. Gracie Cayodito covered this history with relative speed, but digressed often into the heresies being committed by the contemporary shamans who violated the old rules of ritualism, and, with hard looks at Jim Chee, related the horrors produced by violations of the incest taboo.
"People who have sex with their sisters," she said, looking at Chee. "That causes craziness. That causes people to jump into the fire."
But, alas, when she had finally finished, whether Janet Pete was indeed his sister remained unclear in Chee's mind. What was crystal-clear was that Cayodito felt even more strongly than Hosteen Barbone did about adapting ceremonials as old as the dawn of time to the terminal years of the twentieth century.
Then Hosteen Frank Sam Nakai spoke—not long, but long enough to underline the important points.
First, nobody could tell for sure whether or not this daughter of the man from the Hunger People was a clan sister of this son of the Slow Talking People and the Bitter Water Dinee', and second, the Beauty Way of the Navajo people was being undermined by young shamans who were too lazy to learn the rules the Holy People had taught, or too willing to do ceremonies the wrong way and thus adapt them to the world of the bilagaani.
Chee parked his muddy pickup in the POLICE CARS ONLY area at the office and waited for the place to officially open at 8 A.M. He would check in with Leaphorn and then… But no. He'd forgotten. Leaphorn would be gone. Off on his great China trip. Gone for a month. Chee felt a twinge of guilt. He should have checked in with the lieutenant yesterday. Should have told him good-bye and gotten his final instructions. Leaphorn would probably want him to do something about the Jimmy Chester-Ed Zeck telephone call. He'd probably want to talk about how they could get some evidence against Chester that could be used in court. Probably want to bring in Dilly Streib. Maybe help set up an FBI sting operation.
He glanced at his watch. Couple of more minutes and Virginia would be there. If he'd guessed right about the lieutenant, there'd be an envelope awaiting him, full of instructions on what to do and how to do it. He allowed himself a final review of what last night's session meant to him. Whether Janet was his clan sister, even vaguely, remained in doubt. But, but, but… There was no doubt at all that for Hosteen Barbone and Gracie Cayodito and, much worse, Frank Sam Nakai, his own Little Father, mere absence of proof was not good enough.
And how about Old Woman Mustache? When Frank Sam Nakai had finished his summation they had all sat in silence for a while, watching the fire burn down under the smoke hole. And then the old woman had spoken:
"You have wasted words," she said. "Too much talk of men and the man's clan. Nothing matters but the mother's clan."
But what the devil did that mean to him? Janet's mother was a white. There was no mother's clan. He climbed out of the truck, and slammed the door behind him.
Virginia looked no happier than he felt.
"Where have you been?" she demanded. "Lieutenant Leaphorn was looking everywhere for you."
"Took my days off," Chee said. "Did he leave anything for me?"
"Not with me," she said, and glared at him.
Nor, to Chee's surprise, was there a fat envelope in his in-basket. There was absolutely nothing in it. Leaphorn's office door was closed, which wasn't unusual. It was locked.
Unusual, but understandable under the circumstances. He wouldn't want to leave it open for a month.
Chee trotted downstairs, past Virginia's now-vacant desk, and out to his car. This felt odd.
With Leaphorn in China for a month he was totally on his own. Well, not quite. He probably should report to the chief, as the lieutenant did. But that could wait until he had a little time to think. To do that he'd go home. Maybe he'd even get a little sleep.
He pulled his truck out of the lot, stopping to let the northbound traffic pass. The third car looked like Leaphorn's. And Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn was driving it.
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25
WHEN JOE LEAPHORN realized that the dirty pickup truck tagging behind him belonged to Jim Chee and saw, through the mud-speckled windsh
ield, that Chee was driving it, his instinctive reaction was to pull off on the shoulder and start asking questions immediately.
But he resisted that impulse. He wanted more privacy. He turned down his own street, pulled into his driveway, and turned off the ignition. By the time Chee had parked on the street, Leaphorn was standing beside his truck.
"Where have you been?" Leaphorn asked, pleased that he'd kept the emotion out of his voice.
"I thought you'd gone to China," Chee said.
It was the wrong thing to say. Chee realized that instantly from Leaphorn's expression. "I had some days off," he added.
"You've been out of communication for two days," Leaphorn said. "You know the rule about that."
"Yes sir," Chee said.
Leaphorn stared at him. "Are you telling me that since I was supposed to be in China you could take off without going through the procedure?"
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