“I guess I always knew that,” he said. “I was just being jealous. I had the wrong idea about that.”
“I did tell him you’d found Breedlove’s body. He invited Claire and me to the concert. Claire and I go all the way back to high school. And we were remembering old times and, you know, it just came out. It was just something interesting to tell him.”
“Sure,” Chee said. “I understand.”
“I have to go now,” she said. “Before you guys close the highway. But I wanted you to know that. Breedlove had been his project when the widow filed to get the death certified. It looked so peculiar. And finally, now, I guess it’s all over.” Her tone made that a question.
She was zipping up her jacket, glancing at him.
“Lieutenant Leaphorn gave Mr. Shaw that photograph of the climber’s ledger,” she said.
“Yeah,” Chee said. The wind buffeted the trailer, made its stormy sounds, moved a cold draft against his neck.
“She must have thought that terribly odd—for him to just leave her at the canyon, and then abandon their car, and go back to Ship Rock to climb it like that.”
Chee nodded.
“Surely she must have had some sort of theory. I know I would have had if you’d done something crazy like that to me.”
“She cried a lot,” Chee said. “She could hardly believe it.”
And in a minute Janet was gone. The goodbye kiss, the promises to write, the invitation to come and join her. Then holding the car door open for her, commenting on how it always got colder when the snowing stopped, and watching the headlights vanish at the top of the slope.
He sat on the bunk again then, felt the bandages around his eye, and decided the soreness there was abating. He probed the padding over his ribs, flinched, and decided the healing there was slower. He noticed the coffeepot was still on, got up, and unplugged it. He switched on the radio, thinking he would get some weather news. Then switched it off again and sat on the bed.
The telephone rang. Chee stared at it. It rang again. And again. He picked it up.
“Guess what?” It was Officer Bernadette Manuelito.
“What?”
“Begayaye just told me,” she said. “He detoured past Ship Rock today. The cattle were crowded around our loose-fence-post place, eating some fresh hay.”
“Well,” Chee said, and gave himself a moment to make the mental transition from Janet Pete to the Lone Ranger competition. “I’d say this would be a perfect time for Mr. Finch to supplement his income. The cops all away working weather problems, and everybody staying home by the fire.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said.
“I’ll meet you there a little before daylight. When’s sunup these days?”
“About seven.”
“I’ll meet you at the office at five. Okay?”
“Hey,” Bernie said. “I like it.”
27
“I’M GOING TO SHOW YOU SOME PICTURES,” Leaphorn said to Amos Nez, and he dug a folder out of his briefcase.
“Pretty women in bikinis,” old man Nez said, grinning at his mother-in-law. Mrs. Benally, who didn’t much understand English, 80 of 102
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grinned back.
“Pictures which I should have showed you eleven years ago,” Leaphorn said, and put a photograph on the arm of the old sofa where Nez was sitting. The old iron stove that served for heating and cooking in the Nez hogan was glowing red from the wood fire within it. Cold was in the canyon outside; Leaphorn was sweating. But Nez had kept his sweater on and Mrs. Benally had her shawl draped over her shoulders.
Nez adjusted his glasses on his nose. Looked. He smiled at Leaphorn, handed him back the print. “That’s her,” he said. “Mrs.
Breedlove.”
“Who’s the man with her?”
Nez retrieved the print, studied it again. He shook his head. “I don’t know him.”
“That’s Harold Breedlove,” Leaphorn said. “You’re looking at a photograph the Breedloves had taken at a studio in Farmington on their wedding anniversary—the summer before they came out here and got you to guide them.” Nez stared at the photograph. “Well, now,” he said. “It sure is funny what white people will do. Who is that man she was here with?”
“You tell me,” Leaphorn said. He handed Nez two more photographs. One was a photocopy he’d obtained, by imposing on an old friend in the Indian Service’s Washington office, of George Shaw’s portrait from the Georgetown University School of Law alumni magazine. The others had been obtained from the photo files of the Mancos Weekly Citizen—mug shots of young Eldon Demott and Tommy Castro wearing Marine Corps hats.
“I don’t know this fella here,” Nez said, and handed Leaphorn the Shaw photo.
“I didn’t think you would,” Leaphorn said. “I was just making sure.” Nez studied the other photo. “Well, now,” he said. “Here’s my friend Hal Breedlove.” He handed Leaphorn the picture of Eldon Demott.
“Not your friend now,” Leaphorn said, and tapped Nez’s leg cast. “He’s the guy that tried to kill you.” Nez retrieved the photo, looked at it, and shook his head. “Why did he do—” he began, and stopped, thinking about it.
Leaphorn explained about ownership of the ranch depending on the date of Breedlove’s death, and now depending upon continuing the deception. “There were just two people who knew something that could screw this up. One of them knew the date Hal Breedlove and Demott climbed Ship Rock—a man named Maryboy who gave them permission to climb. Demott shot him the other day. That leaves you.”
“Well, now,” Nez said, and made a wry face.
“A policeman who is looking into all this sent me a message that Demott loaded up his rifle this morning and headed out. I guess he’d be coming out here to see if he could get another shot at you.”
“Why don’t they arrest him?”
“They have to catch him first,” Leaphorn said, not wanting to get into the complicated explanation of legalities—and the total lack of any concrete evidence that there was any reason to arrest Demott. “My idea was to take you and Mrs. Benally into Chinle and check you into the motel there. The police can keep an eye on you until they get Demott locked up.” Nez gave himself some time to think this over. “No,” he said. “I’ll just stay here.” He pointed to the shotgun in the rack on the opposite wall. “You just take old lady Benally there. Look after her.” Mrs. Benally may not have been able to translate “bikini” into Navajo, but she had no trouble with “motel.”
“I’m not going into any motel,” she said.
For practical purposes, that ended the argument. Nobody was moving.
Leaphorn wasn’t unprepared for that. Before he’d parked at the Nez hogan, he had scouted up Canyon del Muerto, examining the south-side cliff walls below the place where the ranger had reported seeing the man with the rifle. Sergeant Deke had said it was just five or six hundred yards up-canyon from the Nez place. Leaphorn had seen no location within rifle range where the top of the south cliff offered a fair shot at the Nez hogan. But about a quarter mile up-canyon a huge slab of sandstone had given way to the erosion undercutting it.
The cliff had split here. The slab had separated from the wall. He’d studied it. Someone who knew rock climbing, had the equipment, and didn’t mind risking falling off a forty-story building could get down here. This must have been what Demott had been doing here—if it was Demott. He was looking for a way in and out that avoided the bottleneck entrance.
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It was certainly conveniently close for a climber. Or a bird. Being neither meant Leaphorn would have to drive about fifteen miles down Canyon del Muerto to its junction with Canyon de Chelly, then another five or six to the canyon mouth to reach the
pavement of Navajo Route 64. Then he’d have to reverse directions and drive twenty-four miles northeastward along the north rim of del Muerto, turn southwestward maybe four miles toward Tsaile, then complete the circle down the brushy dirt-and-boulder track that took those foolhardy enough to use it down that finger of mesa separating the canyons. The last six or seven miles on that circuit would take about as long as the first fifty.
Leaphorn hurried. He wanted enough daylight left to check the place carefully—to either confirm or refute his suspicions. More important, if Demott was coming Leaphorn wanted to be there waiting for him.
He seemed to have managed that. He stopped across the cattle guard where the unmarked track connected with the highway, climbed out, and made a careful inspection. The last vehicle to leave its tracks here had been coming out, and that had been shortly after the snowfall began. Eight or nine jolting miles later, he pulled his car off the track and left it concealed behind a cluster of junipers. The wind was bitter now, but the snow had diminished to occasional dry flakes.
The west rim of Canyon del Muerto was less than fifty yards away over mostly bare sandstone. If he had calculated properly, he was just about above the Nez home site. In fact, he was perhaps a hundred yards below it. He stood a foot or two back from the edge looking down, confirming that the Nez hogan was too protected by the overhang to offer a shot from here. He could see the track where Nez drove in his truck, but the hogan itself and all of its outbuildings except a goat pen were hidden below the wall. But he could see from here the great split-off sandstone slab, and he walked along the rim toward it. He was almost there when he heard an engine whining in low gear.
Along the cliff here finding concealment was no problem. Leaphorn moved behind a great block of sandstone surrounded by piñons.
He checked his pistol and waited.
The vehicle approaching was a dirty, battered, dark green Land-Rover. It came almost directly toward him. Stopped not fifty feet away. The engine died. The door opened. Eldon Demott stepped out. He reached behind him into the vehicle and took out a rifle, which he laid across the hood. Then he extracted a roll of thin, pale yellow rope and a cardboard box. These two also went onto the hood. From the box he took a web belt and harness, a helmet, and a pair of small black shoes. He leaned against the fender, removed a boot, replaced it with a shoe, and repeated the process. Then he put on the belt and the climbing harness. He looked at his watch, glanced at the sky, stretched, and looked around him.
He looked directly at Joe Leaphorn, sighed, and reached for the rifle.
“Leave it where it is,” Leaphorn said, and showed Demott his .38 revolver.
Demott took his hand away from the rifle, dropped it to his side.
“I might want to shoot something,” he said.
“Hunting season is over,” Leaphorn said.
Demott sighed and leaned against the fender. “It looks like it is.”
“No doubt about it. Even if I get careless and you shoot me, you can’t get out of here anyway. Two police cars are on their way in after you. And if you climb down, well, that’s hopeless.”
“You going to arrest me? How do you do that? You’re retired. Or is it a citizen’s arrest?”
“Regular arrest,” Leaphorn said. “I’m still deputized by the sheriff in this county. I didn’t get around to turning in the commission.”
“What do you charge me with—trespass?”
“Well, I think more likely it will start out being attempted homicide of Amos Nez, and then after the FBI gets its work done, the murder of Hosteen Maryboy.”
Demott was staring at him, frowning. “That’s it?”
“I think that would do it,” Leaphorn said.
“Nothing about Hal.”
“Nothing so far. Except that Amos Nez thinks you’re him.”
Demott considered that. “I’m getting cold,” he said, and reopened the car door. “Going to get out of the wind.”
“No,” Leaphorn said, and shifted the pistol barrel before him.
Demott stopped, shut the door. He smiled at Leaphorn, shook his head. “Another weapon in there, you think?” Leaphorn returned the smile. “Why take chances?” he said.
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“Nothing about Hal,” he said. “Well, I’m glad of that.”
“Why?”
Demott shrugged. “Because of Elisa,” he said. “The other cop, Jim Chee I think it was, he was coming up to see us. He said you had looked at the climber register. What did Elisa say about that?”
“I wasn’t there. Chee showed her the page with Hal’s name on it, and the date. He said she sort of went to pieces. Cried.” Leaphorn shrugged. “About what you’d expect, I guess.”
Demott slumped against the fender. “Ah, hell,” he said, and slammed his fist against the hood. “Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!”
“It made it look premeditated, of course,” Leaphorn said.
“Of course,” Demott said. “And it wasn’t.”
“An accident. If it wasn’t, it may be hard to keep her out of it.”
“She was still in love with the bastard. Didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.”
“I’m not surprised,” Leaphorn said. “But considering what’s involved, the Breedloves will probably hire a special prosecutor and they’ll be aimed at getting the ranch back. Voiding the inheritance.”
“Voiding the inheritance? What do you mean? Wouldn’t that sort of be automatic? I mean, with what you said about Nez knowing
. . . You know, Hal didn’t inherit until he was thirty. The way the proviso read, if he didn’t reach that birthday, everything was voided.”
“Nez thinking you were Hal isn’t the only evidence that he lived past that birthday,” Leaphorn said. “There’s his signature in the climbers’ register. That’s dated September thirty. You know of any evidence that he died before that?” Demott was staring at Leaphorn, mouth partly open. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Wait. What are you saying?”
“I guess I’m saying that I think there’s sometimes a difference between the law and justice. If there’s justice here, you’re going to spend life in prison for the premeditated murder of Mr. Maryboy, with maybe an add-on twenty years or so for the attempted murder of Amos Nez. I think that would be about right. But it probably won’t work quite like that. Your sister’s probably going to be charged with accessory to murder—maybe as a conspirator and certainly as an accessory after the fact. And the Breedloves will get her ranch.”
Demott inhaled a deep breath. He looked down at his hands, rubbed at his thumb.
“And Cache Creek will be running water gray with cyanide and mining effluent.”
“Yeah,” Demott said. “I really screwed it up. Year after year you’re nervous about it. Sunny day you think you’re clear. Nothing to worry about. Then you wake up with a nightmare.”
“What happened up there?” Leaphorn said.
Demott gave him a questioning look. “You asking for a confession?”
“You’re not under arrest. If you were, I’d have to tell you about your rights not to say anything until you get your lawyer. Elisa told Chee she didn’t get all the way to the top. Is that right?”
“She didn’t,” Demott said. “She was getting scared.” He snorted. “I should say sensible.” Leaphorn nodded.
“This birthday was a big deal for Hal,” Demott said. “He’d say, Lord God Almighty, I’ll be free at last, and get all excited thinking about it. And he’d invited this guy he’d known at Dartmouth to bring his girlfriend to see Canyon de Chelly and Navajo National Monument, the Grand Canyon, all that. Meet him and Elisa at the canyon for a birthday party for starters. But first he wanted to climb Ship Rock before he was thirty. That proved something to him. So we climbed it. Or almost.” Demott looked away. Deciding how much of this he wants to tell me, Leaphorn thought. Or maybe just
remembering.
“We stopped in Rappel Gulch,” Demott said. “Elisa had dropped out about an hour before that. Said she would just wait for us. So Hal and I were resting for that last hard climb. He had been talking about how the route up involves so much climbing up and then climbing back down to get to another up-route. He said there surely had to be a better way with all the good rappelling equipment we had now. Anyway, he edged out on the cliff. He said he wanted to see if there was a faster way down.” Demott stopped. He sat on the fender, studying Leaphorn.
“I take it there was,” Leaphorn said.
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Demott nodded. “Partway.”
“Gust of wind caught him. Something like that?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I like your sister,” Leaphorn said. “A kind, caring woman. And besides, I don’t like strip miners ruining the mountains.” The wind was blowing a little harder now, and colder. It came out of the northwest, blowing the hair away from Demott’s face and dust around the tires of the Land-Rover.
“How does this come out?” Demott said. “I don’t know much about the law.”
“It will depend mostly on how you handle it,” Leaphorn said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Here’s where we are now. We have three felonies. The Maryboy homicide and the related shooting of a Navajo policeman. The FBI is handling that one. Then there is the assault upon Amos Nez, in which the FBI has no interest.”
“Hal?”
“Officially, formally, an accident. FBI’s not interested. Nobody else is, except the Breedlove Corporation.”
“Now what happens?”
“Depends on you,” Leaphorn said. “If I were still a Navajo Tribal Policeman and working this case, I’d take you in on suspicion of shooting Amos Nez. The police do a ballistics check on that rifle of yours and if the bullets match the one they got from Nez’s horse, then they charge you with attempted murder. That gets Nez on the witness stand, which makes Elisa an accessory after the fact but probably indicted as coconspirator. That leads the Breedloves to file legal papers to void the inheritance. And what Nez says wakes up the FBI and they make the Maryboy connection. The ballistics test on whatever you shot him with, which I suspect we’ll find either in your glove compartment or under the front seat, nails you on that one. I’d say you do life. Elisa? I don’t know. Much shorter.”
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