Tony Hillerman - Leaphorn & Chee 17 - Skeleton Man

by Skeleton Man(lit)

  Joanna rose, dusted off her jeans, poured what was left in her own water bottle into Tuve's canteen, and resumed her descent. Not much hope, really. But she still had her little pistol if it was needed. And what else could she do? The opportunity she had prayed for ever since her mother's death had finally come. A chance to attain justice. And revenge. And maybe, finally, some peace and some happiness. She had to follow where this was leading her. Even if it killed her. As Tuve had told her when they started down the trail, the Hopis had a kachina spirit who once opened a door marked death and showed them a happy life beyond it.

  Thinking of that caused her to think of Sherman. Had she killed him? She'd intended to when she pulled the trigger. But maybe he'd lived. Now she found herself hoping he had. Not wanting to have been his executioner.

  Joanna produced what might be called a laugh. Whatever lay behind that door, it wouldn't have to be much to be better than the life she'd return to if she didn't complete this search. Whatever was down there in this dreadful canyon, it was her destiny to find it.

  18

  Bradford Chandler had come to a series of conclusions. The first one was that he was wasting his time waiting for Billy Tuve here at the bottom end of the Hopi Salt Trail. He had found the note signed by someone named "Bernie," which told him that others-at least Bernie and friends-were also expecting Tuve here. That offered interesting implications. Probably they had seen those posters offering the reward. But whatever it meant, he'd wait.

  He put the note back exactly where he'd found it, settled into a comfortable place screened by vegetation. He'd stay and see what would happen.

  Coming here to meet Tuve had seemed the only choice-despite the outrageous fee the copter pilot had charged to bring him. After all, he could charge that to Plymale, including the fine the pilot would have to pay for violating the National Park Service's no-fly zone. But now he suspected he might be just wasting his time and Plymale's money. He had landed himself in a complicated situation that he didn't understand.

  He'd checked around and confirmed that this place met the description Tuve had given him of the trail's terminus-precisely the site where Tuve claimed he'd traded his folding shovel for the diamond. Then Chandler had scanned the cliffs above and upriver, looking for places where he could see portions of the trail's route. His theory was that Tuve would be coming down either in the custody of whoever had shot Sherman or, if Tuve had himself shot Sherman, alone. He'd come because while Tuve was childlike, he was smart enough to know that if he found that cache of diamonds, it would clear him of the robbery/murder charge that confronted him.

  From this spot Chandler had located three places where anyone making their way down the trail would be visible through his binoculars. He saw no sign of movement at any of them, lowered the heavy binoculars, rubbed his eyes, and checked around him again. From what Tuve had told him, the diamond dispenser had walked downriver and returned in just a few minutes with the stone he gave to Tuve. Chandler picked up the glasses again and did some scanning downstream.

  He saw miles of cliffs, towering clouds now alternating with the dark blue sky in several places. He noticed five or six horses grazing in a small field across the river, more ragged cliffs on his side, and then, abruptly, a flash of light just as his vision moved past it. Chandler swung the binoculars back, saw the flash again, focused in. It came from the top of a relatively low ridge rimmed with brushy dry-country vegetation, with a much higher cliff soaring behind and beyond it.

  Amid that vegetation, someone was standing looking at him, or at least looking toward him, through their own set of binoculars. Sunlight reflecting from the lenses must have produced the flashes he'd seen. As much as he could tell at this range, this watcher was wearing a blue shirt and a gray hat. Then the watcher turned, stepped away, and down, and was abruptly out of sight. It was a woman, a small woman. Could it be the Bernie who had left the note?

  He stared at the site on the ridge, and the area around it, until his eyes ached, and saw nothing more.

  He spent a moment resting his eyes and considering what this must mean. Perhaps a tourist engaged in wandering around? That didn't seem likely in such an unlovely and inhospitable-looking site as that ridge. Why would anyone without a specific interest be making that climb?

  Could the woman be Joanna Craig? That ridge seemed to him to be just about where following Tuve's description would take him. And she, too, would have heard the same Tuve story, and perhaps much more. He considered that a moment, then he shifted his gaze to the opposite direction and began another study of the segments of the Salt Trail visible to him above and upriver.

  No movement on the highest segment. The second segment was also devoid of any sign of activity. At the lowest level he found what he had hoped to see. He focused on two figures-apparently male and female. An agile one, whom Chandler decided must be Billy Tuve, was leading the way for the fearful and very careful form whom Chandler presumed was none other than Joanna Craig, Plymale's enemy. Ah!

  But who, then, was the woman with the binoculars who had been watching him from the ridge down the river? And what was the connection between this Bernie and her friends and Tuve? Chandler considered that question, decided the only answer available to him was through guesswork, and decided it might have something to do with Park Service security. No way of knowing.

  He would operate on his original surmise-that Joanna Craig had shot Sherman in his car on the canyon rim at the head of the trail. She had taken custody of Tuve and Tuve was now guiding her on the Salt Trail's winding three thousand-foot plunge toward the Colorado River. Once there, Tuve would lead her to the lair of the diamond dispenser. Her goal was the same as his own. He would simply join the party, help her to use Tuve to lead them both to those diamonds.

  Thinking about the possibilities this situation offered caused Chandler to smile-his first of the day.

  Forget the diamonds for now. Maybe his first step should be the elimination of Craig from the problem. He would take her identification to prove to Plymale that his task had been accomplished and collect the payment for that. That would simplify things. Then if Tuve actually guided him to the diamonds, he would have them as a bonus.

  Chandler sat on what he thought might be the same boulder that Tuve described sitting on when the diamond dispenser had appeared years ago. Better not shoot her, though. Why invite a murder investigation? Better a fatal blow to the head with a rock. Then stuff some rocks in her clothing to weigh her down? Or let her float away? Probably let her float. Make it seem she had fallen, banged her head, landed in the river. How about Tuve? He'd need him to find the diamonds. But why leave a witness? But Bernie and friends were also expecting Tuve. He'd have to wait and see what developed.

  Whereupon Bradford Chandler slipped his binoculars back into their case and set about finding the best place to confront Ms. Craig (and Tuve) when she reached the bottom.

  And decide exactly what to say to her.

  19

  Sergeant Jim Chee was standing on the rocky shelf overlooking the up-canyon trail, looking down upon Cowboy Dashee, trying to calculate what Dashee was doing. At first glance Cowboy seemed to be taking off his left boot. But at second glance, Cowboy seemed to have abandoned that project and was attempting to cut off the bottom of his left pant leg with his pocket knife. Chee gave up.

  "Cowboy!" he shouted. "What are you doing?"

  Dashee dropped the knife and looked up, scowling. "Where the hell have you been?" he said. "You gone deaf, or what? I was hollering until I just about lost my voice."

  "You're hurt," Chee said, and began scrambling down the slope. "I've been looking for you. What happened?"

  Dashee leaned back, released a huge sigh of relief. "Glad you finally found me," he said. He shook his head. "I slipped. Tried to stop the fall. Left foot caught. Did something to my ankle."

  Chee was squatting beside him now, inspecting the offending foot.

  "Sprained it?"

  "I hope that's it," Das
hee said.

  "Broke, you think?"

  "I guess," Dashee said. "It feels like it. Or maybe it pulled the tendon loose. I was trying to get the boot off before it got too swollen."

  Chee rescued Dashee's pocket knife. Gently as possible he cut the remaining strings, eased the boot off, and inspected the ankle.

  "Already swollen," he said. "When did it happen?"

  "About an hour ago, I guess," he said through gritted teeth. "I was checking on a little side canyon up there."

  "How far?" Chee asked.

  Dashee managed a strained-sounding laugh. "What difference does that make? But I'd say about an hour's downhill crawl, with a few stops to feel sorry for myself and yell for help."

  "Tell you what," Chee said. "I'll carry you down to that deep little pool by the Salt Shrine. That water's cold. You can soak it, and I'll see what I can do about finding some help."

  They discussed that suggestion, with Dashee expressing his doubts that Chee could carry him down the narrow and obstacle-rich trail without dropping him (or more likely, both of them) on the ragged boulders. He pressed for an alternate solution in which Dashee's already-slit pants leg would be converted into bandage material, the ankle would be securely bound, and the trip would be made with Dashee hopping along on his good leg and Chee supporting his damaged side.

  While the proposed bandaging was being done, they delivered their reports. Dashee had checked out two promising-looking connecting gulches, finding tracks and some interesting petroglyphs from Anasazi days, and was giving up on the second of these when he took his fall. Chee reported that he had taken looks at some undercuts which might have been cave sites-one with some signs it had been lived in long ago. He had made an extensive exploration of a fairly major drainage canyon, finding old tracks, both horse and human, but nothing very promising to suggest it was the home of the diamond dispenser. Then he returned to the place they had left Bernie to await Billy Tuve.

  "What did she have to say?"

  "She wasn't there," Chee said.

  Dashee quit grimacing long enough to look surprised. And then alarmed. "She wasn't? What happened?"

  "She left a note on that big flat rock there. She told Tuve she was going to walk up the river awhile, and if he showed up before she got back, then wait for her. And if we showed up, the same for us. Our turn to wait."

  Dashee managed a grin. "Sounds like Bernie," he said.

  "Yeah," Chee said, looking less happy about it. "Anyway, I waited awhile. Looked around. Found some other tracks there, too. Made by new men's hiking boots. About size eleven or twelve, I'd say. But no sign of anyone there. Then I thought maybe you'd found the diamond man's cave and come back to get her and she'd left with you for a look at it. So I headed up this way and heard you hollering."

  Dashee considered that, didn't like the sound of it.

  "Hey," he said. "I wonder what happened to her."

  "I thought she'd be here with you. Now I'm getting a little worried."

  "Maybe another broken ankle," Dashee said. "Hope it's nothing worse. Hope she wasn't hauled away by the size-twelve hiking boots."

  "I checked on that. They seemed to be a lot fresher than her tracks. And when her tracks went upriver, they didn't follow."

  "Still, it makes you uneasy," Dashee said.

  "Let's get you down to the river," Chee said. "I think we can get a call out from there for the National Park rescue people to come and get you. I want to go find her."

  20

  Successful skip tracers develop through endless practice the craft of concealment. One does not capture the wanted man nor repossess the overdue auto if the culprit sees you first. Almost anywhere in its meandering official 277 miles, the Grand Canyon offers a fine assortment of hiding places. The bottom end of the Hopi Salt Trail was no exception. Bradford Chandler selected a niche in the nearby cliff. It offered shade, a comfortable place to sit, the cover of a growth of tamarisk bushes, and a good view of the final hundred yards of the trail down which Joanna Craig would be coming. While he sat there waiting, he developed and refined his tactics for dealing with the woman.

  Since she probably had shot Sherman, she probably had a pistol, and seemed to have no hesitation about shooting it. If she was carrying it in her hand, which he thought unlikely, he would simply shoot her. Why take the risk? More likely it would be tucked away. Perhaps even disposed of, since she would logically expect the police to be looking for her. Anyway, if the pistol was not displayed, he would assume the role of a businessman proposing a deal, which should, if his lies were well told, seem persuasive.

  He stretched his legs, took another drink from his water bottle, and went over it again. He'd hardly started that when she appeared, alone, trudging wearily down the final rough segment of the trail, looking dusty, disheveled, and exhausted.

  He stood. She stopped at the trail end, studied the area for a minute, then walked past him, not more than a dozen yards beyond the bush he was behind. Then Chandler stepped out behind her.

  "Ms. Craig," he said, in a voice just loud enough for her to hear. "I'd like to introduce myself and talk to you for a few minutes."

  Joanna Craig issued a sort of semi-shriek and spun around staring at Chandler, face white, eyes wide, looking terrified.

  "Oh," she said. "Oh. Who-" She took a deep breath. "You startled me."

  "I'm sorry," Chandler said. "I beg your pardon. You look tired. And it's so hot down here. You should sit down for a moment. Get a little rest. Could I offer you a drink of water?"

  "But who are you? How did you know my-" She cut off that question, which told Chandler that she might already know the answer.

  "I'm Jim Belshaw," he said. "A sort of private investigator by trade. And I think we have something in common. I'd like to explain myself to you and see if we can work out some sort of partnership."

  "Oh," Joanna said. She wiped her hand across her forehead. Studied him.

  Chandler pulled back a limb of the bush and pointed to the shady shelf where he'd been sitting.

  "No cushions. But it's comfortable." He extracted his water bottle from its pocket and handed it her. "It's warm and I'm afraid I can't offer you a glass."

  Joanna held up a hand, rejecting it, studying him. "What are you doing down here? And.and.who did you say you were?"

  "I'm Jim Belshaw. I work for Corporate Investigations in Los Angeles." He smiled at her, then chuckled. Awaited a response, and added, "But here in the Grand Canyon today, I'm on my own time. And I'll bet you can guess what I'm doing here."

  "Well," Joanna said. She sat on the shelf, closed her eyes, and sighed. "Why don't you just tell me."

  "Actually, I was here waiting for a Hopi named Billy Tuve to show up. I watched the two of you coming down the Salt Trail, or whatever they call it. Now you're here but I'm still waiting for Tuve. Is he coming along?"

  "Why? What do you want?"

  "Why? Because I am looking for a bunch of diamonds," Chandler said. "I think you are, too."

  Joanna took a moment to respond to that. The only reason this big, athletic-looking man would know her name, would know about the diamonds connected with it, would be that he was working for Plymale. And if he was working for Plymale, there was a good chance he could accomplish the job the lawyer must have given him by killing her. He was big enough to do it barehanded. And her little pistol was tucked away in her backpack. She looked up at him, trying to read something in the face smiling down at her.

  "What makes you think that I'm looking for diamonds?"

  "Because they used to belong to your father," Chandler said.

  "Oh," Joanna said. No doubt now he was working for Plymale, but then why were they having this conversation? She rubbed her hands down her legs, so tired the muscles were cramping. She looked up again, saw this big young man still staring down at her, awaiting an answer. Let him wait. She needed time to think about this.

  "And also because if justice was done, they would be your diamonds now."

 
He waited again.

  "That's correct, isn't it?"

  "I think it is," Joanna said. "And I also think you're working for the man who cheated my mother. Took everything away from her. How else could you know all this about me? About my business?"

  "I don't know it for sure. It's what Old Man Plymale told me. What do you think? Should I trust him? He seemed to me to be a pretty slippery fellow. And I'm in a profession that has to learn how to spot the unreliable types."

  "I think he's a thief. A crook. A totally unscrupulous man," Joanna said. "So why are you working for him? And what is he paying you to do?"

  Chandler chuckled. "I think you already know that. He wants me to make sure you don't get the evidence you need to prove you are the direct descendant of Old Man Clarke, thereby recovering for you the estate your father would have inherited, and thereby depriving Mr. Plymale of his ill-gotten charity scam and, much, much worse, thereby subjecting him to a court-ordered audit of what he's done with all that tax-exempt cash. That would probably land him in a federal prison."