The Wailing Wind

by Tony Hillerman

  CONTENTS

  HarperCollins e-book exclusive extras:

  Leaphorn, Chee, and the Navajo Way

  The Novels, As Annotated by T.H.

  Tony Hillerman on. . .

  Skinwalkers Becomes a MYSTERY!

  Profile of the Navajo Nation

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  About the Author

  Also by Tony Hillerman

  Copyright

  Credits

  About the Publisher

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  While The Wailing Wind is fiction, the Fort Wingate Army Ordnance Depot is real. It sprawls over forty square miles east of Gallup adjoining transcontinental rail lines, old Highway 66 and Interstate 40, causing generations of passing tourists to wonder about the miles of immense bunkers. These once sheltered thousands of tons of bombs, rockets, and missiles, but now they are mostly empty. Antelope graze along abandoned railroad sidings—as do a few buffalo left over from a breeding experiment and the cattle of neighboring ranchers, some of whom are accused of cutting fences to facilitate this. TPL, Inc., is at work in some of the bunkers converting rocket fuel into plastic explosives, and Paul Bryan, Brenda Winter, and Jim Chee of that company earned my thanks by helping me with this project.

  The fort began in 1850, moved to its present site in 1862. It became a depot for immense amounts of military explosives at the end of World War I, grew with World War II and the Korean War, and became the principal depot for explosives used in Vietnam. Now decommissioned, it is occasionally used by the army to fire target missiles over its White Sands anti-aircraft base, and a few bunkers and other buildings are occupied by government offices.

  My old friend James Peshlakai, Navajo shaman, singer of important curing rituals, and director of the Peshlakai Cultural Foundation, has allowed me to use his name for the fictional shaman of Coyote Canyon, and my thanks also go to Lori Megan Gallagher and to Teresa Hicks for helping me research mining legends.

  1

  Officer Bernadette Manuelito had been having a busy day, enjoying most of it, and no longer feeling like the greenest rookie of the Navajo Tribal Police. She had served the warrant to Desmond Nakai at the Cudai Chapter House, following her policy of getting the most unpleasant jobs out of the way first. Nakai had actually been at the chapter house, obviating the hunt for him she’d expected, and—contrary to predictions of Captain Largo—he had been pleasant about it.

  She had dropped down to the Beclabito Day School to investigate a reported break-in there. That was nothing much. A temp maintenance employee had overdone his weekend drinking, couldn’t wait until Monday to get a jacket he’d left behind, broke a window, climbed in and retrieved it. He agreed to pay for the damages. The dispatcher then contacted her and canceled her long drive to the Sweetwater Chapter House. That made Red Valley next on her list of stops.

  “And Bernie,” the dispatcher said, “when you’re done at Red Valley, here’s another one for you. Fellow called in and said there’s a vehicle abandoned up a gulch off that dirt road that runs over to the Cove school. Pale-blue king-cab pickup truck. Check the plates. We’ll see if it’s stolen.”

  “Why didn’t you get the license number from the guy reporting it?”

  Because, the dispatcher explained, the report was from an El Paso Natural Gas pilot who had noticed it while flying yesterday afternoon and again this morning. Too high to read the plates.

  “But not too high to tell it was abandoned?”

  “Come on, Bernie,” the dispatcher said. “Who leaves a car parked in an arroyo overnight unless he stole it for a joyride?” With that he gave her a little better description of the probable location and said he was sorry to be loading her up.

  “Sure,” said Bernie, “and I’m sorry I sounded so grouchy.” The dispatcher was Rudolph Nez, an old-timer who had been the first to accept her, a female, as a fellow cop. A real friend, and she had a feeling he was parceling her out more work to show her he looked on her as a full-fledged officer. Besides, this new assignment gave her a reason to drive up to Roof Butte, about as close as you could drive to ten thousand feet on the Navajo Reservation. The abandoned truck could wait while she took her break there.

  She sat on a sandstone slab in a mixed growth of aspen and spruce, eating her sack lunch, thinking of Sergeant Jim Chee, and facing north to take advantage of the view. Pastora Peak and the Carrizo Mountains blocked off the Colorado Rockies, and the Lukachukai Forest around her closed off Utah’s peaks. But an infinity of New Mexico’s empty corner spread below her, and to the left lay the northern half of Arizona. This immensity, dappled with cloud shadows and punctuated with assorted mountain peaks, was enough to lift the human spirit. At least it did for Bernie. So did remembering the day when she was a brand-new rookie recruit in the Navajo Tribal Police and Jim Chee had stopped here to show her his favorite view of the Navajo Nation. That day a thunderstorm was building its cloud towers over Chaco Mesa miles to the northeast and another was taking shape near Tsoodzil, the Turquoise Mountain of the East. But the rolling grassland below them was bright under the afternoon sun. Chee had pointed to a little gray column of dirt and debris moving erratically over the fields across Highway 66. “Dust devil,” she had said, and it was then she had her first glimpse behind Chee’s police badge.

  “Dust devil,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “Yes. We have the same idea. I was taught to see in those nasty little twisters the Hard Flint Boys struggling with the Wind Children. The good yei bringing us cool breezes and pushing the rain over grazing land. The bad yei putting evil into the wind.”

  She finished her thermos of coffee, trying to decide what to do about Chee. If anything. She still hadn’t come to any conclusions, but her mother seemed to have deemed him acceptable. “This Mr. Chee,” she’d said. “I heard he’s born to the Slow Talking Dineh, and his daddy was a Bitter Water.” That remark had come apropos of absolutely nothing, and her mother hadn’t expanded on it. Nor did she need to. It meant her mother had been asking around, and had satisfied herself that since Bernie was born to the Ashjjhi Dineh, and for Bead People, none of the Navajo incest taboos were at risk if Bernie smiled at Chee. Smiling was as far as it had gone, and maybe as far as she wanted it to go. Jim Chee was proving hard to understand.

  But she was still thinking about him when she pulled her patrol car up the third little wash north of Cove and saw the sun glinting off the back window of a truck—pale blue as described and blocking the narrow track up the bottom of the dry wash.

  New Mexico plates. Bernie jotted down the numbers. She stepped out of her car, walked up the wash, noticing the vehicle’s windows were open. And stopped. A rifle was in the rack across the back window. Who would walk off and leave that to be stolen?

  “Hello,” Bernie shouted, and waited.

  “Hey. Anyone home?” And waited again.

  No answer. She unsnapped the flap on her holster, touched the butt of the pistol, and moved silently to the passenger-side door.

  A man
wearing jeans and a jean jacket was lying on his side on the front seat, head against the driver-side door, a red gimme cap covering most of his face, knees drawn up a little.

  Sleeping one off, thought Bernie, who’d been in police work now long enough to recognize that. But she didn’t detect the sick odor of whiskey sleep. No sign of motion. No sign of breathing, either.

  She sucked in a deep breath, moved a fraction closer to the door. “Ya eeh teh,” Bernie said, loudly. No answer. She could see no sign of blood or any hint of violence. Strands of the man’s long, curly blonde hair were visible around the cap. His jean jacket and shoes were dusty. It seemed to Officer Manuelito he was emphatically unconscious if not dead. She opened the door, grabbed the door post, pulled herself up on the running board. She pushed up the bottom of the jean-clad leg and reached for his ankle to check for a pulse. The ankle was cold. No pulse, and as cold as death.

  The feel of the lifeless ankle under her hand abruptly replaced in Bernie’s mind her awareness of herself as cop with an awareness of herself as Navajo. A thousand years before the Dineh were aware of bacteria or viruses, they were aware of the contagion spread by the newly dead and the dying. The elders called this danger chindi, the name of a ghost, and taught their people to avoid it for four days—longer if the death came inside a closed house where the chindi would linger. Bernie stepped off the running board and stood for a moment. What should she do now? First she would call this in. When she got home, she would ask her mother to recommend the right shaman to arrange the proper curing ceremony.

  Back at her patrol car she gave the dispatcher her report.

  “Natural, you think?” he asked. “No decapitation. No blood. No bullet holes. No smell of gunpowder. Nothing interesting?”

  “It looked like he just died,” Bernie said. “One bottle too many.”

  “Then I’ve got an ambulance over at Toadlena, if it’s still there. Hold on a minute and I’ll let you know.”

  Bernie held on. The hand holding the mike was dirty, smeared with what looked like soot. From the dead man’s shoe, she guessed, or his pant leg. She grimaced, switched the mike to her left hand, and wiped the dirt away on the leg of her uniform trousers.

  “Okay, Bernie. Got him. He should be there in less than an hour.”

  That proved to be overly optimistic. An hour and almost twenty-two minutes had plodded past before the ambulance and its crew arrived, and to Bernie it seemed a lot longer. She sat in her car thinking of the corpse and who he might have been. Then got out and scouted around the pickup to reassure herself she hadn’t overlooked anything—such as a row of bullet holes through the windshield, or a pool of dried blood on the floor around the brake pedal, or bloodstains on the steering wheel, or maybe on the rifle in the window rack, or a suicide note clutched in the victim’s hand.

  She found nothing like that, but she noticed that the victim’s jeans had collected lots of those troublesome chamisa seeds in their travels, and so had the sock on the ankle she had tested—chamisa seeds, sandburs, and other of those stickery, clinging seeds by which dry-country plants spread their species. The rubber sole of the sneaker on the foot she’d touched had also accumulated five goathead stickers—the curse of bike riders. She sat in her car, considering that, and climbed out again to inspect the local flora. Here it was above nine thousand feet, not the climate for chamisa. She found none now, nor any sandburs or goatheads. She collected the seedpods from a cluster of asters, gone to seed early at this high, cold altitude, and which just possibly might grow in the hotter climate of her Shiprock flower bed. She added the seeds from two growths of columbine and from a vine she couldn’t identify. And being tidy, she went back to the columbines and salvaged the little Prince Albert pipe tobacco tin she’d noticed among the weeds. It was dirty, but it was better that trying to carry her seed collection loose in her pocket.

  2

  Joe Leaphorn had been slow to learn how to cope with retirement, but he had learned. And one of the lessons had been to prepare himself when he tagged along with Professor Louisa Bourbonette on one of her excursions. These tended to be out to the less acculturated districts of the Navajo reservations to collect memories of elders on her “oral history” tapes. That usually left him sitting in an oven-hot hogan or lolling in her car and had caused him to buy himself a comfortable folding chair to relax upon in the shade of hogan brush arbors.

  He was relaxing in it now under a tree beside the hay barn of the Two Grey Hills Trading Post. The breeze was blowing out of cumulus clouds forming a towering line over the ridge of the Lukachukai and producing an occasional promising rumble of thunder. Louisa was selecting a rug from the famous stock of the Two Grey Hills store—a wedding gift for one of Louisa’s various nieces. Since the professor took even grocery shopping seriously, and this was a very special gift, Leaphorn knew he had plenty of quiet thinking time. He had been thinking of Louisa’s quest for perfection amid the Two Grey Hills rug stock as sort of a race with the thunderhead climbing over the mountain. Would the rain come before the purchase? Would both purchase and cloud fizzle without success—the cloud drifting away to disappointing dissipation in dry air over the buffalo plains and Louisa emerging from the T.P. without a rug? Or would the cloud climb higher, higher, higher, its bottom turning blue-black and its top glittering with ice crystals, and the blessed rain begin speckling the packed dirt of the Two Grey Hills parking lot, and Louisa, happily holding the perfect collectors’ quality rug, signaling him to drive over to the porch to keep the raindrops from hitting it.

  A dazzling lightning bolt connected the slope of the mountain with the cloud, producing an explosive crack of thunder and suggesting the cloud might be winning. Just then a Chevy sedan rolled into the parking lot, with SHERIFF painted on its side. The driver slowed to park near the porch, then aborted that move and rolled his car over to Leaphorn’s tree.

  “Lieutenant Leaphorn,” said the driver, “you oughtn’t be sitting under a tree in a lightning storm.”

  A face from the past. Deputy Sheriff Delo Bellman.

  Leaphorn raised his hand in greeting, considered saying: “Hello, Delo,” but said: “Delo, ya eeh teh.”

  “You been listening to the news?” Delo asked.

  “Some of it,” Leaphorn said. Bellman didn’t need a radio to collect the news. He was widely known as the premier gossip of the Four Corners Country law enforcement fraternity.

  “Hear about the killing?” Bellman said. “That man your guys found dead near Cove the other day. It turns out he was old Bart Hegarty’s nephew. Fellow named Thomas Doherty.”

  Leaphorn produced the facial expression appropriate for such sad news. His experiences with Bart Hegarty had been neither frequent nor particularly pleasant. He hadn’t been among the mourners when the sheriff hadn’t survived sliding his car into an icy bridge’s abutment a few winters back. “Died of what?” Leaphorn asked. “If he was the sheriff’s nephew he must have been fairly young.”

  “Late twenties, I guess. Bullet in the back,” said Bellman, with the somber pleasure gossips feel when passing along the unpleasant. “Rifle bullet.”

  That surprised Leaphorn, pretty well saying the Doherty boy hadn’t been shot in the car. But he didn’t ask for details. He nodded, trying not to give Bellman an interested audience. Maybe he would go about his business. Leaphorn had heard on the TV news last night that neither cause of death nor identity of the victim had been released by the FBI. But the mere fact the Federals had taken the case away from the NTP had told Leaphorn that either it was a homicide or the victim was a fugitive felon.

  Bellman chuckled. “Funny, don’t you think? A woman named Hegarty would marry a man named Doherty.” He glanced at Leaphorn, awaiting a response. Getting none, he said: “You know, an ‘arty marrying an ‘erty.”

  “Yeah,” Leaphorn said.

  “Probably a hunting rifle,” Bellman added, and waited for a comment from Leaphorn. “Looked like whoever done it was quite a ways behind Doherty. Just took
a bead on him and went bang.” Leaphorn nodded. So the crime scene crew had concluded the victim had been shot, and then put in the vehicle where he was found. Interesting.

  “That’s probably why your officer had it pegged as natural causes, no sign of violence.”

  “Did he?”

  “She,” Bellman said. “It was the Manuelito girl.”

  Bernadette Manuelito, Leaphorn was thinking. Smart young woman, from the impression he’d had of her last year when he’d gotten involved with Jim Chee in investigating that casino robbery business. Smart, but she’d still be a greenhorn. “Well,” he said. “Things like that are hard to see sometimes, and I think she’s new at patrolling. I can understand how she could miss it.”

  Easy to understand, he thought. Bernie was the daughter of a traditional Navajo family, taught to respect the dead and to fear death’s contamination—the chindi spirit that would have lingered with the body. She wouldn’t have wanted to handle it. Or even be around it more than she could help. Just turn the body over to the ambulance crew and keep her distance.

  “I hear the Feds aren’t so understanding. Heard they bitched to Captain Largo about the way she handled it.” Bellman chuckled. “Or didn’t handle it.”

  “What brings you to Two Grey Hills?” Leaphorn asked, wanting to change the subject and maybe get Bellman moving. It didn’t work.

  “Just touching bases,” Bellman said. “Finding out what’s going on.” He restarted his engine, then leaned out the window again.