At Ease with the Dead (20 page)

He nodded. “I got a nephew on the Navajo police. I could call him from Thoreau and ask him to have someone go over to the trading post.”

It was a good idea, and I said so, but as things turned out, we didn't have to wait until Thoreau to find the Navajo police. They found us. While we were roaring down the Crownpoint-Thoreau road at ninety miles an hour.

I heard the siren, looked in the rearview mirror, and saw the patrol car. I pulled the Subaru off the road and put it in park.

The cop took his time getting out of the cruiser. Waiting, probably, for the radio report on the Subaru's tag. Finally he opened the door, stepped out, and began to walk toward us with that slow, rolling gait they learn at police academies everywhere. Swagger 101.

Daniel Begay was twisted round in his seat to look out the rear window. “It's okay,” he said. “I know him.”

Unsmiling, big for a Navajo, the cop came to the window and looked down at me through a pair of mirrored sunglasses. They learn how to wear those at the academy, too. “License and registration,” he said.

“Boyd?” said Daniel Begay.

The cop lowered his head, took off the sunglasses, and peered into the interior. I leaned back against the seat. The cop said, “Mr. Begay?” And then said something guttural in Navajo.

Daniel Begay returned the greeting, if that's what it was, and then said in English, “Boyd, we're in kind of a hurry. This is an emergency.”

Boyd glanced at me, his face expressionless.

“This is my friend Joshua,” said Daniel Begay. “He's helping me out.”

Asking him to clarify this didn't seem like a good idea just then.

Boyd nodded, tapped the brim of his hat with his index finger. I nodded back. He turned to Daniel Begay, put his large brown hand on the door of the Subaru. “What's the trouble, Mr. Begay?”

“We can't get through to the Ardmore Trading Post. Something's wrong with the phone out there.”

Boyd shook his head. “Not the phone. The lines. Someone used a chainsaw on the poles. Three of them.” He shrugged his square shoulders. “Kids, I guess.”

I said, “When did it happen?”

He glanced at Daniel Begay, then back at me. He said, “This morning sometime.”

“Is everything all right at the trading post?”

“Far as I know.” He started to say something, then frowned. Remembering that he was talking cop business with a civilian.

Daniel Begay had seen the hesitation. He said, “It's pretty important, Boyd.”

Boyd shrugged again. Ignoring me, he told Daniel, “Yesterday they sent somebody out there from Window Rock.” The headquarters of the Navajo Tribal Police was in Window Rock.

“Why?” Daniel Begay asked.

“Some homicide investigation down in Texas. El Paso cops wanted to know if the victim made a phone call to the trading post on Thursday night.”

“Did she?” I asked.

He glanced at me and frowned again. He was clearly not enjoying this. “Yeah,” he told Daniel. “She was trying to locate some old guy here on the Reservation.”

“Peter Yazzie,” I said.

Boyd looked at me again and blinked. He turned to Daniel Begay. Sadly he said, “Mr. Begay, I hope sometime you're gonna tell me what's going on here.”

“I promise, Boyd. Who answered the call at the trading post?”

“The son.” I thought I heard something in his voice—disapproval, maybe, or distaste.

Daniel Begay said, “He tell the woman where Peter Yazzie lives?”

“Yes, sir. He did.”

Daniel Begay nodded. He turned to me. “We should go straight through to Hollister. To Peter Yazzie's house.”

I frowned. “I thought you had to be in Gallup.”

He shook his head. “Not important now. Boyd? Could you ask Window Rock to send someone over to the trading post again? To make sure everyone's okay?”

Boyd nodded. “When do I find out what's happening here, Mr. Begay?”

“Soon, I think. I'll call you on the phone. And whoever goes over there, could they find out if anyone else been asking about Peter Yazzie?

“Could be two men,” I said. “Hispanic. Pablo Arguelles and Ramon Gonzalez. Arguelles is a big guy with a mustache.” The mustache, barely visible under the stocking mask back at my motel, was the only distinguishing feature I could give him.

Boyd was frowning, balancing his loyalty to the Navajo police against whatever loyalty he owed Daniel Begay.

Daniel Begay said, “And could someone check on Peter Yazzie in Hollister?”

Boyd shook his head. “Hollister is state cops. Or the Duke County Sheriff.”

“You could call someone at the state cops and ask 'em to check.”

“What do I tell them for a reason?”

“Tell 'em the murder in Texas. Peter Yazzie could be a witness, maybe. And he could maybe be in big trouble.”

Boyd nodded sadly. “Okay, Mr. Begay. You're gonna get back to me, right?”

“I will. We got to go now, Boyd. The road clear up ahead?”

Boyd nodded. “No more Navajo patrols. State cops on the interstate.”

“Thanks, Boyd.” He turned to me. “Let's go.”

Boyd frowned again and stepped away from the car. I shifted into drive and put the Subaru back on the highway. As the wagon picked up speed, I turned to Daniel Begay and asked him, “Daniel, do you have a secret identity? Are you really Batman?”

He smiled his small smile, and he shrugged. “Boyd just likes me, I guess.”

Hollister, Arizona, and Peter Yazzie were at least a hundred and thirty miles away. If that was where they were going, Pablo and Ramon had a big head start on us.

I was worried now, and the worry made me feel that the Subaru was only loafing along, despite the ninety I could read on the speedometer. The barren, unrelenting sameness of the landscape only increased the sense of sluggish, and probably futile, progress. It was as though we were driving in slow endless circles around the same empty arroyos, the same ragged hills.

I tried bringing the car up to ninety-five, but the tires needed aligning and the station wagon began to shiver as though it had malaria. If I kept that up, we'd fall apart before we hit the interstate. I eased back to ninety.

Daniel Begay turned and asked me, “You think it was the two Mexicans who cut down the telephone poles?”

“Could be,” I said. “They're in Arizona somewhere. They may be trying to stop everyone from finding out about Peter Yazzie. They didn't realize that the El Paso cops have already gotten through to the trading post.”

“They must've brought those chainsaws with 'em. From Texas.”

I nodded. “If they bought them around here, or rented them, they would've drawn attention to themselves.” I smiled at him. “You want a job as a private detective?”

“Don't they know we got cars up here? Cutting off the phone, that's not gonna stop people from knowing things.”

“No, but it'll slow the process down. That may be all they want—to get to Peter Yazzie before anyone else does.”

“How do they know about Peter Yazzie?”

“Alice Wright knew something, something about Yazzie, and I think that was what got her killed. She must've talked to Yazzie on Thursday night, after she called the trading post. And maybe she made the mistake of telling the killer what she knew.”

“But the other Mexican, the one in the Chevy, he said they weren't in El Paso when she was killed.”

“Maybe they weren't. Those three are hired meat. They're following orders. Whoever's giving the orders is the one who killed Alice Wright.”

“And now he wants them to kill Peter Yazzie.”

I nodded. “Maybe,” I said. “I hope not, but maybe.”

He sat there quietly for a moment. Then he said, “Maybe the state cops, maybe they'll get to Peter Yazzie in time.”

“Maybe,” I said. But I knew that if Pablo and Ramon had cut the Ardmore phone lines early this morning, they could have been in Winslow before noon.

Daniel Begay said, “This could be all wrong, too. Maybe it was only kids who cut down the poles.”

I nodded. “Could've been.”

But I don't think either of us believed that.

I didn't want to stop at Thoreau, but the Subaru needed fuel. I whipped into the gas station, handed a twenty to Daniel Begay, asked him to get the tank filled, then trotted over to the pay phone with my notebook. I dialed the Ardmore Trading Post. Busy. Dialed Peter Yazzie. No answer. I flipped through the notebook, found Grober's home number in El Paso, and dialed that.

When he answered, his voice was jolly: “Hello
hello.
” I heard a woman giggling in the background.

“Phil, this is Joshua, listen to me—”

“Hey, Josh, how ya doin', buddy? Connie's over here, we're having ourselves a Crisco party.”

“Phil—”

“'Cept we're not usin' Crisco. Nasty stuff. Fattening, too. Connie brought some coconut oil. We both smell like macaroons.” I heard the woman giggle again, and then Grober say, “
Whoops.
” The phone clunked against something.

“Phil?”

Laughter in the background, Grober's and the woman's.

“Phil?”

“Hey, Josh.” A bit breathless. “Phone got away from me there. Slippery little sucker. What's up? Whoa! Connie!”

“Phil, goddammit, listen to me. You have a pen there?”

“Sure, you betcha. No need to get your bowels in an uproar. Connie, hand me the pen, honey. Right.
Yeeoww
!” Laughter from Grober, wild feminine giggles off to the side. “
Hand
it to me, I said. Geeze, no respect at all. Gimme that. 'Kay, Josh, whatta you got? I think this thing'll still write.” More giggles.

“Take this down.” I gave him Pablo Arguelles's number. “I'm in Arizona. There's a guy up here using his answering machine in El Paso as a cut-out. The machine's at that number. The name is Pablo Arguelles.”

“Arguelles. 'Kay. You got an address?”

“Somewhere near Fort Bliss.”

“'Kay, I'll find him. Hold
on
, honey. So whatta we talkin' here, Josh? You want a tap?”

Driving along the highway, I had in fact considered having him tap Pablo's phone. It might be useful to know who left Pablo his messages, and what was said. A tap would mean a break-and-enter for Grober, but he was good at those. And when he learned what kind of answering machine Pablo was using, he'd know what codes it required. He could erase any messages off the machine, from his own phone, before Pablo had a chance to retrieve them.

But getting into the house might take time—nearby neighbors, maybe a wife or a girlfriend living inside. And I didn't want Pablo and Ramon, in front of me, to link up with Luis, behind me.

“No,” I told him. “Just cut the line.”

“Will do, Josh. Handle it first thing in the morning.”

“Phil, there's some serious hurry-up involved in this. You've got to do it now.”

“Holy
shit
, Connie, that's
cold
!” A delighted feminine squeal. “C'mon now, honey, cut it out.” Laughter from both of them. “Josh?”

“Phil, this is important.”

“'Kay, okay. I'll do it now. But I got to charge you double-time. Nothing personal, Josh, but it's the weekend.”

“Fine, Phil, whatever. One other thing.”

“What?
Whoa
!”

“Two more names. Ramon Gonzalez, Luis Salamanca. See if you can find out anything about them.”

“'Kay. Arguelles, Gonzalez, Salamanca. Sounds like the Dodger lineup. Listen, I got those police reports for you. Mailed 'em up yesterday. Express. You should of got 'em today.”

“Thanks, Phil. I've got to go. I'll be in touch.”

“Yeah,” he said, “so will Connie.” He laughed.

I hung up and ran back to the Subaru. Daniel Begay was already in the car.

Back on the interstate, I glanced at my watch. Six o'clock. An hour and a half to Hollister, if I pushed it. And if I managed to avoid the state police.

We were heading into a spectacular Southwest sunset, one of those accidents of windblown dust and billowing cloud and brilliant angled light that sweep across the entire horizon and look like a film director's gaudy notion of the Dawn of Creation.

To me, just then, the streaks and smears of carmine and crimson made the clouds look as though they'd been stained with blood.

20

B
y a quarter to eight, when we reached Hollister, the sun had long since set. The stars were out and the desert air was chill.

Daniel Begay knew the street where Peter Yazzie lived—he seemed to know every inch of land between here and Santa Fe—and he gave me directions as I drove. Probably I would've been able to find the house on my own. In a town the size of Hollister, there weren't a lot of wrong turns.

The house was a small square building, cinderblock plastered to masquerade as adobe. It was unlighted and it looked abandoned. There were no cars in the street in front, and none in the driveway. We left the Subaru, walked up the steps. Outside the car, the cold in the air reached all the way to the bone. Daniel was wearing his gray wool coat; I'd gotten a turtleneck out of the suitcase and put it on beneath my windbreaker.