The Shape Shifter jlajc-18

by Tony Hillerman

  From their own location, they would be looking down on a hunter returning to the cabin from the blind with his approaches pretty well covered. Pretty well, Leaphorn thought, but not perfect. If the man they were awaiting knew they were here, he would probably be smart enough to find a way to avoid them.

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  His resting place gave Leaphorn a clear view of the cabin itself, and covered most of the open space the blind–to–cabin trail would cross. Delonie, ten or so yards to his left, had a slightly different angle. He sat now, rifle supported atop the slab he was positioned behind, scanning the landscape below through the scope. Looking fairly comfortable.

  Leaphorn was not comfortable, not physically nor mentally. He was leaning against the granite behind him, his bottom resting on a bed of matted leaves mixed with chunks of rock. His mind had been going over and over and over the various scenarios that were about to unfold.

  Finally he’d concluded that this was sheer guesswork and drifted off into even murkier territory. If a man did appear below, walking toward the cabin, carrying a rifle, which name could be applied to him? Mr. Delos, of course, was obvious. And Delonie would, perhaps, be seeing Mr.

  Shewnack. But how about Mr. Totter, whose obituary had already been written, or how about the Special Operations CIA agent whose name was . . . ? Leaphorn couldn’t recall the name the FBI gossip had given the man. It didn’t matter anyway, because before that he’d probably had yet another name, yet another persona.

  Leaphorn rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, shook his head. Too tired, too sleepy. But he didn’t want to doze. He wanted to remain alert. He was remembering shape-shifter stories he’d heard down the years.

  His maternal grandmother telling them about a night when she was a little girl, out on the mountain watching the sheep, and about the man with the wolf’s head cape over his shoulders coming across the grass toward her, and about how, when her father came riding up, the man THE SHAPE SHIFTER

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  had changed into a woman, and was running away, and how as she ran, she changed into a big brown bird and flew into the woods.

  That was when he was too young for the school bus trip into the classrooms, but through the years he’d heard scores of other such tales of encounters with the ye-na-l’o-si, and the an’t-i-zi people who practiced other forms of witchcraft. The last really impressive story he’d heard came from the driver of a Kerr-McGee drilling rig. A Texan who’d never heard of skinwalkers or shape shifters or anything about Navajo witchcraft problems. Leaphorn remembered the young man, standing beside his truck, telling him about it. The driver said he’d had his truck in third gear, making the long climb on U.S. 163 from Kay-enta toward Mexican Hat. His load had been heavy and the engine was straining. Then he noticed this man running along beside the truck, waving at him to stop. He’d described the runner just as the skinwalkers are usually described—wearing something that looked like a wolf’s head. He’d checked his odometer and saw he was doing twenty-three miles an hour. Too damn fast for a normal human, he’d said, so when he got over the ridge he stepped on the gas.

  Leaphorn could still see the driver, standing beside his truck at the Mexican Hat service station, looking puzzled and a little scared, telling his story, saying that it wasn’t until he got the truck up to almost fifty on the down slope that the man fell behind. “When I looked in the rearview mirror, there was nothing there but a big gray animal sitting beside the road. Looked like an oversized dog, to me. Now you’re an Indian policeman. How do you explain that?”

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  And, of course, Leaphorn had to say he couldn’t.

  Beside him Delonie stirred.

  “Getting plenty light enough now for the elk to be out,” he said. “Our man should be getting—” Then came the sound of a shot, a sort of slapping sound, carried a long, long way on the still, cool morning air. Then came a second echo, followed by an even fainter one. A moment later, the clap sound of second shot, and a second series of echoes.

  They sat in silence. The echoes died away. No third shot followed.

  “What do you think?” Delonie asked. “He hit his elk and then finished him off. Or he missed him once. Or maybe he missed him twice?”

  Leaphorn was seeing the row of trophy heads on the Delos wall.

  “I’d say he shot his big bull elk twice,” he said.

  “I was hoping he missed. The elk would have run away, and he’d be coming right back to get something to eat.”

  “It doesn’t work that way here,” Leaphorn said. “The way Tommy described it to me, Mr. Delos doesn’t have to go out there and bleed what he shoots, and then get the carcass back to his truck like us common people. He gets on his cell phone, calls the ranch office, tells them he got his elk. And they know where, of course, because they set up the blind for him. Then they drive out and do the work for him.”

  “Oh,” Delonie said. “I didn’t know they go that far.”

  “Even farther,” Leaphorn said. “Vang told me they fly into the Flagstaff airport in their little Piper something or other, fly him back to the landing strip at the ranch, THE SHAPE SHIFTER

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  and deliver him to that house down there. If Vang hadn’t brought that pickup truck in for him, he’d call them from here and they’d come and pick him up and then they’d fly him back to Flagstaff again. It all goes on the credit card, I guess.”

  “So we wait for the bastard,” Delonie said.

  They did. Minutes ticked by. The sky became brighter and brighter, with the fog banks rimming the mountains glowing, then turning a dazzling red, reflecting light from the cabin windows.

  “Mr. Vang still out there in the pickup, I see,” Delonie said, breaking a long silence. “Looks like he might be asleep.”

  “I’m close to that myself,” Leaphorn said. He rubbed his eyes again, took another hard look at the cabin, suddenly felt Delonie’s harsh whisper.

  “There he is,” Delonie said. Pointing. “Down beyond the truck, coming out of the brush there by the creek.

  Creeping along.”

  “I see him now,” Leaphorn said. In the dim dawn light the figure seemed to be a tall man wearing a hat with floppy brims and what looked like the mixed gray-tan-green camouflage uniform modern hunters seem to favor, with a heavy-looking rifle hanging from its carrying strap over his left shoulder. Leaphorn glanced at Delonie, who was motionless, staring through the scope.

  “Recognize him?”

  “It could be Shewnack,” Delonie said. “Wish he’d take that damned hat off. I need better light to tell anything.” The figure was moving very slowly toward the rear of the pickup, as if the man was stalking it. He stopped behind the truck, motionless. Trying, Leaphorn guessed, 244

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  to determine if he could see anything helpful through the rear window.

  “He’s big and tall like Shewnack,” Delonie said, still staring through the scope. “I’d guess it could be him. But that hat covers too much of his face from this angle.”

  “I think we better get closer. Maybe just go right on down.”

  “Go down and knock that silly hat off of him,” Delonie said. “See what he’s got to say for himself.”

  “Sooner the better,” Leaphorn said, pushing himself stiffly erect, feeling the reminder his leg muscles were sending him that he was getting older and was, techni-cally at least, in retirement. The groaning sound Delonie was making suggested he was feeling the same symptoms of elderliness.

  They moved cautiously away from the granite outcrop and the brushy growth that had hidden them, Leaphorn feeling for the pistol in his jacket pocket, using thumb and forefinger to assure himself that the safety would slide off easily. Below them, the man in hunting garb was at the side of the truck now, opening the door, holding it open, Tommy Vang was climbing out, standing to face him. No handshake offered, Leaphorn noticed. Just talking. A big man to a little man. The b
ig man making a gesture, which Leaphorn interpreted as angry. The big man taking Tommy by the arm, perhaps shaking him, although Leaphorn wasn’t sure of that. Then the two were walking toward the house, big man in front, Tommy following. And then the two disappeared onto the porch, out of sight.

  Probably indoors.

  “Let’s get down there,” Leaphorn said. “Find out THE SHAPE SHIFTER

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  what’s happening.” Delonie must have felt the same way.

  He had already broken into a trot.

  They stopped at the windowless north wall of the house to get their breath and to listen, Leaphorn enjoying the reassuring feel of the pistol in his jacket, and Delonie tensely holding his rifle against his chest. They moved slowly around the corner to the porch.

  “What’s that?” Delonie whispered. He was pointing at a heap of fresh dirt, the dark humus formed by centuries of fallen leaves and pine needles rotting every summer.

  The humus seemed to have been dug from a hole under a sloping formation of broken sandstone. A shovel, with damp-looking humus still on its blade, leaned against the stone.

  Leaphorn stepped over beside it. About three feet deep, he estimated. Between four and five feet long, a bit more than two feet wide, and a careless, irregular digging job. “Now what do you think is going to be buried there?” Delonie whispered. “Nothing very big.”

  “No,” Leaphorn agreed. “But look how quick you could get something hidden in it. Just push that humus over it, and topple that sandstone slab over that, scatter a few handfuls of dead leaves and trash around. After the first rain there wouldn’t be much sign anybody had ever dug there.”

  “Makes you wonder,” Delonie whispered, as they slipped cautiously around the corner by the porch.

  The hunter was standing at the front door, watching them.

  “Well, now,” Delos said, “what has brought the legendary Lieutenant Leaphorn all the way out here to my hunting camp.”

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  Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn, retired, would sometimes wish that he had looked at his watch and noted the exact moment when he and Delonie had stepped in front of that porch and saw the man in the hunting camouflage smiling down at them. At that moment began an episode which seemed to last an awfully long time, but in reality must have been over in just a few minutes.

  It was Jason Delos standing above them on the porch, looking even taller and more formidable than Leaphorn had remembered him. He was smiling, clean shaven, his hair tidy, both his hands deep in the pockets of an oversized hunting coat. The right-hand pocket, Leaphorn noticed, was bulging, with the bulge pointing toward him.

  But his eyes had seemed friendly. Then their focus shifted to Delonie. The smile remained on his lips but was gone from his eyes.

  “And my old friend Tomas Delonie,” Delos said. “I 248

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  haven’t seen you in many, many years. But you shouldn’t be holding that rifle, Tomas,” he said. “They tell me you’re out on parole. Having that rifle makes you a violator, and Lieutenant Leaphorn would have to take you right back to prison. Drop that piece of yours on the ground there.” The tone was no longer friendly. The bulge in his pocket moved forward. “I mean drop the rifle right now.” Leaphorn’s eyes were focused on the bulge in the right-hand pocket of Delos’s jacket. Delos was almost certainly aiming a pistol right past Leaphorn’s head at Delonie, who now was letting his 30-30 dangle, muzzle downward.

  “I drop it, it gets all dirty,” Delonie said. “I don’t want to do that.”

  Delos shrugged. “Ah, well,” he said. His hand flashed out of the jacket pocket, pistol in it.

  Delos fired. Delonie spun, rifle clattering to the ground. Delos fired again. Delonie dropped on his side, rifle beside him.

  Delos had his pistol aimed at Leaphorn now, eyes intent. He shook his head.

  “What do you think, Lieutenant?” he asked. “Would you rate that the proper decision, under the circumstances? About what you would have done if our positions were reversed?”

  “I’m not sure what your position is,” Leaphorn said.

  He was thinking that his own position was even worse than he’d anticipated. This man, whoever he was, was very fast with a pistol. And a very good shot. Leaphorn tightened his grip on the pistol in his own jacket pocket.

  “Don’t do that,” Delos said. “Don’t be fondling that gun. That’s dangerous. Not polite either. Better you take your hand out of that pocket.”

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  “Maybe so,” Leaphorn said.

  “Without the pistol in it.”

  “All right,” Leaphorn said. And eased out his hand.

  Delos nodded, and shifted his gaze back to Delonie, now sprawled on his side and absolutely motionless. Then studying Vang, looking thoughtful.

  “Tommy, first I think we should get that rifle out of Mr. Delonie’s reach. Just in case he wasn’t hit as hard as it seems.” He held his hand out.

  Vang grabbed the rifle by its barrel, slid it on the ground toward the porch, and looked up, awaiting further instructions.

  That was not what Delos wanted, Leaphorn thought.

  Now how would he react to Tommy not handing him the rifle?

  Delos seemed unsure himself for a moment. But he nodded.

  “Now go over and help Lieutenant Leaphorn take off his jacket. Get behind him, slip it off his shoulders, make sure that pistol of his stays in the pocket, and then bring it here and hand it to me.”

  Maybe Delos will be careless, Leaphorn was thinking.

  Maybe Tommy will deliberately give me a chance. Maybe there’ll be a moment when he blocks the man’s view.

  When I can get my pistol out and use it.

  “Hands high,” Delos said. “And Tommy, you make certain you are always behind him. Remember, from now on, I’m grading you on how well you can follow instructions. And remember, this lieutenant here is a highly regarded lawman. He is very much one of the predator class. He can be very dangerous if you give him the least little opportunity.”

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  Tommy seemed to be trying for a passing grade. He felt the jacket pockets to make sure he knew where the pistol hid, then slid the jacket down over Leaphorn’s shoulders as he lowered his arms. He folded the jacket neatly, took it to the edge of the porch, and handed it up to Delos.

  “Very good,” Delos said. “Now go over to Mr. Delonie and check on the condition of his health. Take your hand and check the artery on the side of his neck. Under the jaw. You will have to use a little pressure probably. Then tell me what you feel.”

  Tommy knelt beside Delonie, looked at the arm that had been holding the rifle when Delos shot him.

  “Bleeding some, the arm is,” Tommy said. “And the bone has been broken.”

  “Check that neck artery,” Delos said. “Then get close to his face. See if you can detect any breathing.” Tommy felt Delonie’s neck, looked thoughtful. Tried again. “Feel nothing here,” he said. Then he bent over Delonie’s face, close, then closer. Sat up, shook his head.

  “Feel no air coming out. Don’t hear anything either.”

  “All right,” Delos said. “Now pull back his jacket and his shirt and take a look at where that second shot got him.”

  Tommy did as told. He looked back at Delos, held up one hand to display blood on it, and then stood, faced Delos, and put his other hand high on his right-side rib cage. “It hit him right about here,” he said. “Bleeding right there. And I think broken rib bone. Maybe two.”

  “Good,” Delos said. “Now you sit there and watch Mr.

  Delonie. Carefully, I mean, because sometimes people aren’t quite as dead as they seem to be. Now I’m going THE SHAPE SHIFTER

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  to ask the lieutenant some questions, and I want you to listen. You let me know if he’s not being honest with me.” Tommy nodded and sank into a yoga-like position, legs folded under him.

  Leaphorn, aw
are of how his own tired legs were aching, was thinking how comfortable Tommy looked.

  He felt totally exhausted. Hard day yesterday, almost no sleep, then the long drive, and now this. And he was supposed to be retired. Instead he was standing here like a fool, dizzy with fatigue. Making it worse, he had nothing to blame but his own foolishness.

  Delos waved his pistol.

  “Lieutenant Leaphorn, I want you now to sit down on the ground and then stretch your legs out in front of you.

  I want to interview you, and I don’t want either of us to be distracted by your deciding you want to try to get the jump on me. Understand that?”

  “Clear enough,” Leaphorn said. He eased himself down on the thickest patch of grass and weeds available, leaned back, and stretched out his legs. It felt good, but as Delos intended, it left him with no chance of getting up in a rush. Overhead he noticed the sunrise had turned the strips of fog clouds over the mountain ridges a brilliant scarlet. Almost morning. And the birds knew it. He could hear robins chirping and the odd sound mountain grouse make when seasons are changing.

  “First, I’ll explain the rules. Very simply. If I see any hint you’re just killing time, stalling, playing a game with me, or if I see any hint you’re about to do something reckless, then I will shoot you in the leg. You understand?”

  “Yes,” Leaphorn said, “clear enough.”

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  Delos was grinning at him. “I will let you pick the leg.

  Which one would you prefer?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “Good,” Delos said. “I’ll shoot the left one first. Above the knee.”