“I’ve got the report you gave to the state police here,” Hunt said. “Sounds like you got a pretty good look at him.”

“Yeah,” Chee said. “Close enough.” He tried to remember what he had told the state policeman. It was all hazy. They had started to walk back to the highway. Mary Landon and he. It had quickly become slow and painful. Each step produced a stabbing pain in his chest. Soon he had been dizzy. He had sat beside the track. Mary had spread her coat on the ground and made him lie down, and she had gone, running, intending to flag down some driver and get help. He had dozed and awakened and dozed again. Finally, when the sun was almost directly overhead, he had awakened to see a man in the black uniform of the New Mexico State Police bending over him. He remembered talking to the policeman, and Mary’s worried face, and driving to the interstate, and being transferred to an ambulance. He remembered Mary riding with him. But that was about all he remembered. Where was Mary now?

“We’d like to get another description,” Hunt said. “Have you go over it again.”

“Medium-sized,” Chee said. “About thirty. Probably weighed about 150. Five ten, probably less. Looked to be in good shape. Hair was very blond, medium short. Sort of prominent bone structure, as I remember. Strong chin, blue eyes, tight eyebrows. No mustache. No beard. Light complexion. Pale. Ears fairly large and laid close to his skull.”

Hunt had been making notes. Chee closed his eyes, seeing the face again as he had seen it at the auction, the light-blue eyes watching him. “I can’t think of any more details. He looked smart, if you know what I mean by that.”

Hunt had opened a manila folder. “He look anything like this?’ he asked. He handed Chee a sketch done in pencil on thin white cardboard. It looked like a sketch made by a police artist. It also looked a lot like the blond man.

Chee handed it back. “Could be him,” he said. “Probably is. Who is he?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Hunt said.

Chee’s rib throbbed. He felt a sudden wave of sickness. His ears were ringing. He was not in the mood for coyness. “God damn it,” he said. “Let’s not play games. Who was the sketch supposed to took like? And how come it’s APD business? It’s a hundred miles out of your territory.”

“That takes a minute to explain,” Hunt said. “We have a file on old unsolved homicides in the detective division, and I’m the one who keeps track of it. You know, review it every six months on so to see if anything new fits in. Anyway, last summer we had a funny double killing. Two guys on a wrecker were going to tow an old pickup out of a reserved parking zone, and the thing blew up and killed ’ em both. We got lucky and found a witness who’d been sitting at a window watching the world go by. She had seen somebody who looked like this” – Hunt tapped the sketch – “put a package in the back of the pickup before it went boom.”

“Ah,” Chee said. He was no longer conscious of the ache in his left side, or of the nausea. Part of the pattern that had been trying to form in his mind for hours took firm, clean shape. Hunt was looking at him expectantly, waiting for a comment. “That’s interesting,” Chee said.

“It is,” Hunt agreed. “We never could figure it out. Obviously the bomb wasn’t intended for the wrecker crew – although we finally even checked on that. You’d figure if a guy puts a bomb in a pickup, he wants to waste the pickup driven. But the driver was a poor-boy Navajo who was already on his last legs with cancer. Already dying. No motive to hurry it along. Then we checked on the guy who had the parking space reserved. Big shot doctor. Money. Wife trouble. Maybe she wanted an instant divorce. No evidence, but we figured the doctor was the target. Now it looks like we got our bomber killing another Navajo, and he’s got the same last name.”

“They’re father and son,” Chee said.

Hunt slapped his leg. “That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say. That, or maybe brothers. You know for sure?”

“I know it for sure,” Chee said.

“Well, now,” Hunt said. “That tells us a couple of things.”

Yes, Chee was thinking. It should tell us a lot. But he couldn’t think of what.

“Like what?’ he asked.

“Like that bomb wasn’t intended for the doctor. If that hit man was aiming for Charley Junior, he must have been aiming for Charley Senior.”

“Yes,” Chee said. His head ached. Who would hire a professional killer to murder a man who was already dying? Why would anyone want to hurry the death of Emerson Charley? There were no apparent answers. Hunt was watching Chee, waiting for more response.

“Did Emerson Charley’s body even turn up?”

Hunt frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Tomas Charley told me that the hospital lost his daddy’s body. Emerson died one night, and Tomas came to get the body the next morning, and it was gone out of the morgue.”

Hunt opened his mouth; and closed it again. “I didn’t know that,” he said. “Be damned. Why wasn’t it reported?”

“Tomas reported it to APD,” Chee said.

Hunt’s embarrassment showed. “You know how that’d be,” he said. “Probably told some clerk at the front desk, and filled in a form, and somebody did a little calling around, and that was about it. Nobody pushing it. By then the bombing case wasn’t active. And nobody up front would have a way to know the detective division was interested in a sick Navajo.”

“Guess not,” Chee said.

“I’ll check on it. Right away.” He frowned again. “How can a hospital lose a body?”

“Tomas thinks it was stolen.”

“Stolen? Why? Who’d steal it? This guy?” He tapped the drawing.

Chee didn’t feel like talking about the Vineses. “Tomas thinks a witch stole it,” he said. “Why? Who knows?” But a reason was forming in his mind.

And, apparently, in the mind of Hunt.

“What did he die of?” Hunt asked. “They told us he had cancer.”

“But maybe the guy who tried to hurry him along with the bomb found another way to hurry him along. That’s what you’re thinking?” Chee found himself respecting the way Hunt’s mind worked, and liking the man.

“Exactly,” Hunt said. “And if the body’s gone, there’s no autopsy. I’ll check into that.”

“Good,” Chee said.

“I’ll let you know,” Hunt said. “And there’s one other thing.” He fished the sketch out of the folder again and looked at it. “If our man here is the same as your man, I think he’s a biggie. I think the FBI’s going to be very interested.”

“They were here this morning,” Chee said. “The nurse wouldn’t let ’ em in. What do they want?”

“Past several years they’ve had a run of professional killings done a lot the same. People shot in the head with a.22. Nobody hears a shot. And then there was a couple of cases where they had one person hit with a.22 and one bombed. A couple of hoods in the construction union in Houston and witnesses in an extortion case in Philadelphia. Anyway, mostly the little silenced pistol and a couple of times with the bomb. And both times the bombs seem to have been the kind that get set off by tilting the package. That’s the kind of bomb he used here.”

“Tilting the package?”

“Clever as hell,” Hunt said. “It uses mercury to make the electrical connection. You just set the damn thing down and take off the safety gadget, and the next time the thing moves, or tilts, or shakes, the mercury slides and it goes off. No timer to screw you up, no wiring it up to the ignition. No fuss. No muss. If the driver doesn’t see it, it goes off when the car moves. If he does see it, it goes off when he picks it up.”

“Then what went wrong here?” Chee asked.

“Luck. Wrecker crew was going to haul off the truck,” Hunt said. “They started to hoist the rear end. Tilt. Boom. But that was sheer bad luck. It’s quite a gadget. Understand the CIA developed it.”

The FBI arrived as Hunt was leaving. His name was Martin. He was young. He wore a brown suit with a vest. His mustache was trim, and his haircut would not have offended the late J. Edgar Hoover. Being second to an Albuquerque policeman did not please him.