“You didn’t ask him what was in it?” Blizzard’s tone made it clear that he was sure she had asked him.
“No,” she said. Her expression made it clear to Chee that she was surprised Blizzard would even think such a thing.
“Where’s the package?”
“He took it with him. I didn’t see it no more.”
“Took it when he went to see Sayesva?”
She nodded.
“And he didn’t bring it back?”
Another nod.
And that was about it. There were a few details that Chee gingerly collected to keep Lieutenant Leaphorn happy. For example, the object was wrapped in a newspaper, but Mrs. Kanitewa didn’t notice which one. For example, she had no idea where her son might be staying because he’d never done this before. For example, she asked them to promise to let her know as soon as they found the boy. She didn’t have a telephone but they could call the Senas just three houses down.
Blizzard drove directly back to the access road and headed the patrol car back toward the highway.
“You think we ought to go to Sayesva’s place?” Chee suggested. “See if we can find whatever it was the kid brought for him?”
Blizzard steered around the worst of the bumps. “Tell me how that helps you find the kid,” he said, staring straight ahead. “It won’t, so I’ll take care of finding the package.”
Chee considered that answer. “But not now?”
“Later,” Blizzard said.
“When I’m not around?”
“Like you explained to me. Sayesva’s not Navajo Police business. It wouldn’t be nice to get you in trouble with your lieutenant.”
Chee let it ride. Leaphorn would ask him what was in the package and he would tell the lieutenant why he didn’t know, and about Blizzard. Maybe that would spare him working with Blizzard in the future.
“Wonder why the lady wouldn’t tell us what the kid brought home?” Blizzard asked. The tone, for Blizzard, was friendly. “Did that strike you as funny?”
“No,” Chee said. “She didn’t tell us because she didn’t know.”
Blizzard gave him a sideways glance. “Man, what are you talking about? You don’t know women, if you say that. Or you don’t know mamas.”
Chee said, “Well…” and then dropped it. Why try to instruct this knucklehead in the Pueblo culture? The patrol car rattled off the gravel road, onto the asphalt toward Albuquerque. Chee let his imagination wander. He saw himself scouting for the Seventh Cavalry, shooting Cheyennes. The satisfaction in that fantasy lasted a few miles. He rehearsed his report to Leaphorn. He thought about Janet Pete. He thought about how the tip of her short-cut hair curled against her neck. He thought about the funny way she had of letting a smile start, letting him get a glimpse of it, and then suppressing it – pretending she hadn’t appreciated his humor. He thought about her legs and hips in those tight jeans on the ladder above him at the Tano ceremonial. He thought about her kissing him, enthusiastically, and then catching his hand when…
“Why do you say she didn’t know?” Blizzard asked, frowning at the windshield. “You know these people better than I do. I’m a city boy. My daddy worked for the post office in Chicago. I don’t know a damn thing about this kind of Indians.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know, too,” Chee said. “Haven’t been around Tanos much.”
“Come on.” Blizzard was grinning at him. “I been here just two months. I need help.”
So do I, Chee thought, and you’ve been a pain in the butt. But, brother cop, brother Indian.
“Well,” Chee said. “In most pueblos Delmar would be old enough to be initiated. He’d belong to one of the religious fraternities and he’d have religious duties. The way I understand it, you keep the secrets of your fraternity – your kiva – because only the people who have to know these secrets to perform their duties are supposed to know them. If uninitiated people know them, it dilutes the power. Waters it down. So I guess Delmar was probably a member of Sayesva’s kiva. And whatever he brought his uncle was in some way religious. His mother wouldn’t ask about it because you just don’t ask about such things. And he wouldn’t tell her if she did ask. And if he had told her, she damn sure wouldn’t tell us.”
“Interesting,” Blizzard said. “Is it that way with you Navajos?”
“No,” Chee said. “Our religion is family business. Traditionally, the more who show up at a curing ceremonial and take part the better. Except for some of the clans that live next to Pueblo tribes. Some of them picked up the Pueblo idea.”
But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t totally true. The hataalii kept their secrets. He had been a student of Frank Sam Nakai since his middle teens, but he knew that Nakai – his uncle, his Little Father – still withheld something from him. That, too, was traditional. The hataalii didn’t reveal the final secret of the ceremonial he was teaching until… until when? Chee had never been quite sure of that. Probably until the hataalii knew the student was worthy.
“Interesting,” Blizzard said, and starting telling Chee something about the Cheyenne religion. It was something to do with how, a long, long time ago, a delegation of Comanches had come north and brought a string of horses with them as gifts to the Cheyennes. But the Comanches had told the Cheyennes that if they accepted the horses, they would have to change their religion because the horses would totally change their lives. Blizzard was saying something about following the migrating buffaloes. But Chee had stopped listening. It occurred to him just then that he was going to marry Janet Pete. Or try to marry her. And he was thinking about that.
Chapter 4
LEAPHORN AND David W. Streib took the short way from Window Rock to Crownpoint and a conference with Lieutenant Ed Toddy, in whose reservation precinct Eric Dorsey had died. They followed old Navajo Route 9 past the Nazhoni Trading Post, Coyote Wash, and Standing Rock, and crossed that invisible line that separated the Big Rez from the Checkerboard. Special Agent Streib worked out of the Farmington office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Since the wrongful death of Eric Dorsey was clearly a felony committed on a federal reservation and therefore a federal offense, he was responsible for the investigation. But that didn’t make it particularly interesting to him. Streib could be described as a Bureau old-timer. He should have been in an assignment much loftier than a tiny office in northwestern New Mexico from which he dealt mostly with Indian reservation business. But the whimsical sense of humor that had earned Streib his nickname of Dilly had not earned him the confidence of those selected by J. Edgar Hoover to run his FBI. And while Hoover was now long gone, Hoover’s reign had lasted longer than Streib’s ambitions. Special Agent Streib had evolved into a laid-back, contented man with lots of friends in Indian Country.
One of them was Joe Leaphorn, which was fortunate on this day because even the short way from Window Rock to Crownpoint involved some seventy miles of mostly empty road. Plenty of time for conversation. They covered Streib’s plans for building a greenhouse behind his home when he retired from the Bureau. They rehashed cases they had worked together, skirted around the sensitive subject of what Leaphorn intended to do with his accumulated leave time, and covered an assortment of gossip about the small world of Indian Country law enforcement. Just as they passed the turnoff to the Nahodshosh Chapter House, they got to the question of why anyone would want to kill a Saint Bonaventure Mission School shop teacher. Theft was clearly the number one choice, since some silver ingot and other materials seemed to be missing from Dorsey’s shop. Trouble over a girlfriend made number two as the motive. Trouble with a student made number three. No number four suggested itself.