“Go ahead,” Huff said. He wrote on his note pad. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like to see them all.” He hung up and sat for a moment looking silently at what he had written. “Well,” he said.

“Another one?” Mary asked.

“Rudolph Becenti,” Dr. Huff said. “Another form of leukemia.”

“That’s four out of six,” Mary Landon said.

“That sure is,” Dr. Huff said. “That’s a hell of a high percentage.”

“How about the other two?” Chee asked. “Tsossie and Joseph Sam?”

“Neither name showed up,” Huff said. He was frowning. “Four out of six,” he said. “What in the world could account for that? What were they doing?”

“In 1948 they were the members of a roustabout crew on an oil well out near Grants,” Chee said. “The common labor. Beyond that they were all members of the same little cult in the Native American Church.”

“They ever work in the uranium mines out there? We think we had a little increase from that. But that was lung cancer.”

“Not as far as we know. And the mining was just getting well started in Ambrosia Lakes when these guys were dying,” Chee said.

“How about asbestos? Were they installing insulation?” He shook his head. “No. Inhaled asbestos fiber is a carcinogen, but nothing like this. Nothing like four out of six. And not that quickly. And it’s the wrong kind of cancer. You know anything else about them?”

“Damn little,” Chee said.

“Did they ever work up at the Nevada test site? Did they work up there when we were doing that atmospheric testing of the bombs?”

“I don’t know,” Chee said. “It’s not likely.”

“That could explain it,” Huff said. “We just found out this fall that we had a whole rash of leukemia fatalities downwind from the test site in the middle of the 1950s. We’ve pinned down twelve cases in one tiny little community. Blood cell formation is particularly sensitive to some forms of radiation.”

“I know Dillon Charley didn’t work anywhere near Nevada,” Chee said. “He was working at Mount Taylor until just before he died.”

“As for Emerson Charley,” Mary said, “they stopped atmospheric testing years ago, and he just died.”

Huff looked disappointed. “Yes,” he said, “but sometimes it takes years to develop. And the cases might not all be connected.” He produced a wry smile. “And also, of course, maybe none of them have been within a thousand miles of the test site. Do you think you could find the other two of the six?”

“We can keep trying on Tsossie,” Chee said. “But Joseph Sam’s dead. He won’t do you any good.”

“Actually, he might do us some good,” Huff said. “Some kinds of cancers affect bone tissue. Some other kinds leave their traces in bone when they metastasize. You can often find the damage in ribs, or vertebrae, or sometimes large marrow bones. Do you know where he’s buried?”

“We can try to find out,” Chee said.

“And we’ll try to find some sort of common denominator among them,” Huff said. “How about this church they all belong to?”

“Native American Church,” Chee said. “The peyote church.”

Huff grinned through his beard. “If we suspected peyote of being carcinogenic, we’d have our mystery solved. But it isn’t. Anything else? Anything that ties them all together?”

Chee told him of Dillon Charley’s peyote vision, which had saved them all from the oil well explosion, and of the survivors being joined, or so it seemed, in their own cult – the People of Darkness.

“With a mole as their amulet figure? Isn’t the fetish usually a predator? A mountain lion, or a bear, or something like that?” Huff asked.

“The mole’s the predator of darkness,” Chee said. “But it is unusual to use him for an amulet.”

“So why did they pick the mole?” Huff asked.

“I’ve wondered,” Chee said. And as he said it, he had a thought. “Whoever took Emerson Charley’s body left his personal effects. Could we take a look at them?”

“Why not?” Huff said. “If we haven’t lost them, too.”

26

THE RED PLASTIC BAG was in a storage room on the second floor among scores of identical plastic bags, all arranged in alphabetical order.

“Bracken,” the attendant said. “Caldwell. Charley. Here it is. Emerson Charley. You can take a look at it there on that table.”

Chee removed a crushed black felt hat, a pair of cowboy boots which needed half soles, a denim jacket, a Timex watch with a steel band, a plaid cotton shirt, a T-shirt, a pair of jockey shorts, a pair of worn denim jeans, socks, a set of car keys, a pocket knife, a small leather pouch attached to a long leather thong, two blue shoestrings, a package of paper matches, and a billfold. He put the leather pouch and the billfold aside and quickly explored all the pockets. They were empty. Then he inspected the billfold. It contained a five, two ones, a driver’s license, a social security card, and a card identifying the agent who had written the liability policy on Charley’s pickup truck.

Then he picked up the leather pouch.

“What’s that?” Mary asked. “What are you looking for?”

“It’s where you carry your ceremonial stuff,” Chee said. “Supposed to be made of the hide of a deer killed in the ritual fashion. It holds your gall medicine. What you use against witchcraft. A little pollen. Maybe a little ceremonial corn meal…” He pulled open the draw cord and fished into the pouch with his fingers. “And it’s where you carry your amulet, if you carry one.”

The amulet he extracted was black, and dull, and shaped into the eyeless, sharp-nosed form of a mole. He held it up for Mary’s inspection. It was heavy, formed from a soft stone. Some sort of shale, Chee guessed. “Here we have Dine’etse-tle,” Chee said. “The predator of the nadir. The hunting spirit of the underworld. One of the People of Darkness.”

He stared at it, heavy on his palm, hoping for some information. It was well formed – better than most amulets. Chee remembered the amateur sculpture in B. J. Vines’ huge office. Had Vines made this? Was this formed from one of those fragments of black rock Emerson Charley had found in Vines’ keepsake box? Perhaps. But what did that mean? He slipped the mole back into the pouch.

“Did it tell you anything?”

Chee recited two lines of Navajo. “That’s from one of the blessing chants,” he said.

The mole, his hunting place is darkness.

The mole, his hunting song is silence.

27

THE SECRETARY from Dr. Huff’s office met them as they left the storage room. The message was from Chee’s Crownpoint office. It told him to call Martin at Albuquerque FBI headquarters.

“I thought nobody knew where we are,” Mary said. She was frowning. “Wasn’t that how we were going to stay safe?”

“Nobody but my office,” Chee said.

“But if your office knows, can’t somebody else…?”

“How?” Chee asked.

Mary thought about it, still frowning. She shrugged. “I guess you’re right,” she said. “But you know how people are.”

Martin wanted to remind Chee that he was supposed to come in and look at photographs.

“Maybe in a day or two,” Chee said. “To tell the truth, I’m going to stay away from places where this guy might be waiting around for me.”

“I think you can relax a little now. He’s gone.”

“How do you know?”

“We made a clean sweep,” Martin said. “Checked every motel, every hotel, every place he could be staying. We even checked new apartment rentals.”

“Lot of work,” Chee said.

“He’s no place around here,” Martin said. “And we found the green-and-white Plymouth. It was in a little garage in Gallup. The son of a bitch drove it in and told the mechanic it needed a valve job and he was in no hurry for it. That’s why we didn’t find it abandoned anywhere.”

“That was smart,” Chee said. “You know how he got out of Albuquerque this time?”