The Sinister Pig jlajc-16

by Tony Hillerman

  “Part of this I haven’t been able to work out yet,” Leaphorn said, pointing to the larger of the maps. “But the southern end works out beautifully.”

  “Meaning what?” Chee said, pulling his chair closer and leaning in for a look.

  “Here we have the location of that abandoned Mexican copper smelter,” Leaphorn said, tapping the map with his pencil. “San Pedro de los Corralles on this old map, and this symbol is—I should say was—the Anaconda Copper Corporation’s San Pedro smelter when this map was drawn. The newer maps”—he indicated the maps on the chair beside him—“they don’t show either the village or the smelter. Nor the pipe that brought the smelter its fuel from the San Juan Basin fields. However, look at the old map. And remember, abandoned pipelines are normally just left where they were buried. Digging them up costs more than they’re worth.”

  Leaphorn glanced up at Chee as he said this, and put the pencil tip on a line of dashes that ran northward from the smokestack symbol of the smelter. The line was labeled “EPNG,” the acronym for El Paso Natural Gas Company. It followed a narrow valley east of the Guadalupe Mountain range in Mexico’s state of Sonora and crossed the U.S. border into the Playas Valley of New Mexico. Leaphorn ran the pencil tip along the route, following it through the Hatchet Gap, which separated the Big Hatchet Mountains from the Little Hatchets. In the Hatchita Valley east of the gap he marked a tiny “X” and looked up at Chee.

  “Does that just about mark the place on the Tuttle Ranch where Bernie took those pictures?”

  Chee nodded. “I’d think that would be awfully close to where Bernie saw them working.”

  “Anyway,” Leaphorn said, “if this old map is accurate and if the folks in the county courthouses in Luna and Hidalgo Counties gave me the correct legal description of the Tuttle Ranch property, then the old pipeline runs right through that ranch.”

  “This is getting very interesting,” Chee said. “Do you know anything about the Tuttle family background?”

  “The county clerk at Deming said the ownership changed three years ago. Now the owner of record is a Delaware Corporation. Some sort of holding company, I guess. A.G.H. Industries. Ever hear of it?”

  “Never,” Chee said. “So you’re thinking the folks Bernie saw working there were digging down to the old pipeline. Making some sort of connection. It would be empty, now, wouldn’t it? What would be the purpose?”

  “Before I give you my guess at that let’s shift over to my new and updated copy of that Triple A Indian Country map.” Leaphorn pulled it over on top of the USGS map. Chee noticed he’d already marked an “X” on the Tuttle Ranch and another “X” up at the edge of the Jicarilla Reservation about where the body of the so-called Carl Mankin had been found.

  “I see you’ve made the connection,” Chee said. “From a junked copper smelter down in Sonora all the way up to our Four Corners homicide. Aren’t we stretching that old pipeline too far?”

  “I don’t know,” Leaphorn said. “Maybe we are. Anyway, it probably stretched that far once. Anaconda was using San Juan Basin gas to fire that smelter.”

  “I’m guessing you’ve already done some checking on that historic end of it.”

  “Some,” Leaphorn said. “I called an old Anaconda man down in Silver City. He said that before he retired they were getting their gas from EPNG out of the San Juan field. And now I’m told some construction is going on there, but not involving smelting copper.”

  “So you’ve used the old pipeline to get the Mankin killing connected to whatever goes on at Tuttle Ranch and whatever’s happening down in Sonora.” Chee shook his head. “I’m way behind you on that connection.”

  Louisa had poured their coffee, a mug for herself, joined them at the table, but had politely refrained from getting into this discussion. Now she cleared her throat.

  “Of course he’s behind, Joe. Who wouldn’t be? Tell him about your pig theory.” She smiled at Chee. “As Joe sees this situation these are very sinister pigs.”

  Leaphorn looked slightly embarrassed.

  “Pig is the name pipeline maintenance people use for a device they push through the pipes to clean them out. First they were simply a cylinder that fit the dimensions of the pipeline and was short enough, or flexible enough, to make it around corners and ups and downs in the line. They were covered with pig bristle to brush away rust and deposits. These days they’ve gotten much more high-tech. Computer chips in them, sensing devices and transmitters so they can measure wear, find cracks, let management know where repairs need be made, so forth.”

  Chee was considering this, surveying what he knew about pipelines, which was virtually nothing. He’d heard that the major lines sometimes were moving several products at the same time, like miles of crude oil, followed by refined gasoline, followed by methane gas, or something else. He presumed some sort of barrier was used to separate the products. But how? And how were these products moved along, and taken out? If it wasn’t gravity-driven, it must require some sort of pumping. Putting pressure in the line to push whatever was in it along. But he’d never really given it any thought.

  “So,” he said, “are you thinking they’re using the old pipeline to smuggle something in. Like dope, perhaps. Or nuclear devices for Al Qaeda’s terrorism campaign, to slip radioactive stuff past radiation detectors. Or maybe to smuggle something out of the country.”

  “Take your pick,” Leaphorn said. “Whichever it is, I think something illegal must be involved. And it’s pretty clear some very big money is operating here. Buying the ranch, paying for that construction, making some investments here and there to make sure the Mexican police aren’t interfering.”

  “And big money makes it dangerous,” Chee said. “I mean for anyone who interferes. Like Bernie. You remember how she tended to get involved in things without being told to.”

  Leaphorn nodded. “And apparently someone believes our Miss Manuelito may be doing that now.”

  Louisa exhaled abruptly, producing a sound that signaled frustrated impatience.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said. “You two sitting here, perfectly calm, discussing the mechanics of pipelines, and convincing yourselves that Bernadette Manuelito is in danger of being killed.”

  Leaphorn stared at her. So did Chee.

  “Instead of doing what?” Leaphorn asked. “You want us to kidnap her and bring her home?”

  Louisa’s expression was disapproving. “Well, you should do something. If you have it figured correctly, you think they—whoever they are—have already killed that man ... that homicide up by the Jicarilla Reservation.”

  “Yes,” Chee said.

  “Let’s see what we have,” Leaphorn said. “No evidence a crime is being committed. We have no jurisdiction if there is a crime. We have no—”

  “No common sense either,” she said. “Sergeant Chee knows very well that if he went down there he could get Bernie out of that mess. Bring her home.”

  Chee put down his coffee cup, leaned forward.

  “Jurisdiction,” he said. “Isn’t most of that land down in the New Mexico boot heel public domain land? Government owned and just leased out to the ranchers?”

  “Ah,” Leaphorn said. “I see what you’re thinking. I’ll call the county clerk at Deming. She’ll know how much of that ranch is under lease.”

  “I don’t see what Jim’s thinking,” said Louisa. “Let me in on this.”

  “He’s thinking that if that construction site Bernie photographed on the Tuttle Ranch is on public domain land, even a Bureau of Land Management enforcement officer would have a perfectly valid legal right to go in there and make an inspection. Right?”

  “Right,” Chee said. “At least I think so.”

  “If you can find one to do it for you,” Leaphorn said.

  “You remember Cowboy Dashee, don’t you, Lieutenant. That Hopi friend of mine who was an Apache County deputy. Well, he’s now an officer with the BLM enforcement division.”

  Leaphorn got out o
f his chair.

  “I’ll call Deming,” he said. “You see if you can find Officer Dashee. And we’ll want to get Officer Bernadette Manuelito in on this, too.”

  “If she’s already in on it, I want to get her out of it,” Chee said. “I’m going to find Cowboy. Get him involved in this business.”

  20

  Bureau of Land Management Enforcement Officer Cowboy Dashee’s schedule of duties for the next few days included investigating a controversy about overgrazing on the fringe of the Carson National Forest, reports of an unauthorized fence on another grazing lease, and illegal diversion of snowmelt runoff from a stream into a stock pond. All of these involved leased federal land along the New Mexico-Colorado border. As Cowboy was telling Jim Chee, that’s a hell of a long way from the Tuttle Ranch.

  “I know,” Chee said. “But think of the glory you get if you break up some sort of smuggling scheme. Like diversion of our crude oil—or maybe natural gas—out of the country without taxes or royalties paid. Or smuggling in nuclear devices where radiation detectors can’t sense them. Or heroin. Or cocaine. Any of that stuff.”

  “You think about that. I’ll think about the trouble I’ll have lying out of it if this just turns out to be a Navajo pipe dream. And here I am, marginal jurisdiction at best, no evidence, no clues, just this funny story about piping dope into the country through an abandoned gas line.”

  “Tell ’em we had a tip that the Islamic terrorists were going to start sending nuclear bombs through the pipe to blow up the J. Edgar Hoover building in Washington,” Chee said. “They’d like that.”

  “In a rusty old pipeline?” Dashee said. “I don’t think those bombs would go off. And if they’re sending pot through, I don’t think I’d want to smoke it.” He laughed. “They couldn’t call the coke they shipped that way nose candy.”

  “Those pipes don’t rust much,” Chee said. “Not in dry country they don’t. Built to last forever.”

  Dashee considered this. They were standing beside his official federal vehicle—a Dodge Ram pickup wearing the BLM insignia—at his little stone house at the outskirts of Walpi on the Hopi Second Mesa. He was staring south as if, Chee thought, Cowboy could see two hundred or so miles south and east into New Mexico’s boot heel desert country to where he hoped Dashee would soon be taking them. Chee gave him some time to think, uneasy, but enjoying the view.

  Walpi was on the high edge of the mesa, maybe seven thousand feet above sea level and a couple of thousand feet above the immensity of empty country below them. A truck was rolling down U.S. 264 far below their feet, ant-sized, and the thunderheads of the late-summer monsoon season were beginning to build over Tovar Mesa, and the Hopi Buttes, and the ragged spire of Montezuma’s Chair miles to the south. No lightning yet, and only one of the clouds was dragging a mist of vigara below it. As the cloud towers rose higher later in the morning some of them would make rain. Now they only produced a pattern of cloud shadows dappling the landscape dark blue as they drifted eastward.

  Dashee sighed. “You’re sure about this photo of Bernie?” he asked. “It was taken by her boss, and it was handed around to some druggies in Sonora. I mean, right away after it was taken? And the word from there was that they think Bernie is dangerous?” He stared at Chee. “Is that true? Not just speculation?”

  Chee nodded.

  “You’re a hell of a lot of trouble. My folks always warned me about associating with you Head Breakers.”

  “No more head breaking,” Chee said. “Now we Navajos kill folks with our kindness.”

  “Head Breakers” was a pejorative Hopi term for Navajos, the traditional enemies of the Hopi since about the sixteenth century. It suggested Dashee’s tribe considered them too unsophisticated to invent bows and arrows.

  “You’re telling me Lieutenant Leaphorn believes all this nonsense too,” Dashee said. “The Legendary Lieutenant is endorsing this.”

  “He’s the one who figured it out. Found the pipeline on one of his maps.”

  “Oh, well,” Dashee said. “We better take my truck then. If we’re going to be busting in on these people, we want to make it look official.”

  “I’d say head east over to Gallup, then south through the Zuñi Reservation to Fence Lake, then State Road 36 through Quemado, and then down to Lordsburg. Get a motel there, be up early and ...”

  Dashee was glowering at him.

  “I see you already have my route all planned. You took ole Cowboy for granted again.” Dashee shifted into his copy of Chee’s voice: “ ‘Just go on over to Second Mesa and get Cowboy. He’s easy. He’ll believe whatever you tell him.’ ”

  “Ah, come on Cowboy. You know—”

  “Just kidding,” Cowboy said. “Let’s go.”

  “I owe you one,” Chee said.

  “One?” Cowboy said. “You already owe me about six.”

  21

  Budge got Winsor’s Falcon 10 jet ready to fly and reassured himself that arrangements had been properly made to clear this journey into Mexico. Then he found a comfortable chair in the transient flights waiting room and sat trying to decide what to do. Progress on that was slow. Memories of Chrissy kept intruding.

  The first time he’d met her, almost the first moment in fact, she had made him aware that she was not the usual type of young woman Winsor sent him to collect. He’d been following his standard limo driver pattern, arriving about fifteen minutes early, waiting about ten minutes, and then ringing the bell and announcing that he was early but available at her convenience. But this time Chrissy had spoken first.

  “Oh, my,” she had said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m late. I’ll hurry. I’ll be right down.”

  The young women Winsor had previously collected had without any exceptions actually been late, had never apologized, had never hurried, and had never shown any interest in whether he minded waiting out in the frosty darkness. They were so far away on the upper side of the class barrier that limo drivers were invisible to them. They showed no more interest in who was driving the car than they would for the spare tire in the trunk. The first few times he’d done this chore, he had ventured a friendly welcome, or one of those “nice evening” remarks. The responses, if any, had been cool and terse, letting him know that it was pushy and intrusive of him to dare to speak to a debutante from whichever expensive and exclusive finishing school had finished them.

  Chrissy had been different. She had hurried out of the apartment house entry and reached the car in such a rush that she’d had her hand on the door handle before he could get there to open it for her.

  “Golly,” she said. “I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. My dad taught us that being late is really rude. It tells the other person you think you’re more important than they are.”

  “Actually, I was a little early,” Budge had said. And when they were en route he ventured a “nice evening” remark. This time it had touched off a conversation. Chrissy actually introduced herself to him. And so it had gone. During the dozens of times he’d been her driver since that day, they’d become friends in a strange sort of way, answering one another’s biographical questions, exchanging opinions of current Washingtonian uproars and controversies, agreeing that this city was interesting but had more than its share of people way, way too driven by greed and ambition. And gradually it became more and more personal.

  “I guess I’m one of those greedy ones, too,” Chrissy had said one day. “I came here to try to get into law school at George Washington University, and I did, so now I’m in it, and making good grades, and I’m surrounded by lawyers. And by law students. And all they seem to think about is either getting money or getting power. And I’m not sure anymore I want to be one.”

  “Yeah,” Budge had said. “I used to be a political activist. ‘Power to the People,’ you know. Or, as we used to shout over in Catalonia when I was a kid, ‘A la pared por los ricos’—‘Firing squad for the rich folks.’ Dreamed of being the czar of the universe. I was going to reform everything, start with
the soccer rules, work up to the United Nations, and then see what I could do with human nature.”

  “But no more?” she asked. “Did you give up on all that?” Her voice sounded sad, but maybe that was just to play along with his joke.

  “It was just a dream,” he said. “My family was always on the wrong side, from the fight against Franco and the fascists to running to South America and getting with the losing side down there.”

  “Well, now you’re a success. You’re making a lot of money,” she said. “I know you’re not just getting paid to drive the limo. You’re sort of an aide to Mr. Winsor. I’ve heard him talking about you.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Well, once I heard him tell Mr. Haret, the man who works with Congress for him, he told him that you were the only one he had he could absolutely count on. And on the telephone once, he was telling someone that when things get out of control he turns it over to Budge, and he knows Budge will fix it.”

  “Did he mention why he can depend on me?”

  “No,” she said, then hesitated. “Unless he said you owed him a great big favor. Maybe that was it.”

  “It was.”

  “So what was the favor?”

  “Let’s see,” Budge said. “How can I explain it. It gets very complicated. But I guess the bottom line is he keeps me from being deported, and that keeps me out of jail.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “How does he do that?”

  He sighed. “Here’s where the complexity comes in. In Guatemala, and other places like that, the Central Intelligence Agency uses people like me, sort of off the record, and when things go wrong they get some of them out, somewhere safe, or maybe even into the United States. Arrange papers for them so they can get lost in the crowd. All quietly, no papers signed, nobody admitting anything. So if I started telling my story—not that it’s very interesting—to the newspapers, or if someone else did and some committee called me to testify about what happened down there, the CIA would swear they never heard of me, and nobody could prove otherwise.”