The Fallen Man

by Tony Hillerman

  “Bernie,” Chee said. “If my ribs weren’t so sore, and it wasn’t going to get me charged with sexual harassment and cause us to run off the road, I would reach over there and give you a huge congratulatory hug.”

  Bernie looked both pleased and embarrassed.

  “You put a lot of work into this,” he said. “And a lot of thought, too. Way beyond the call of duty.”

  “Well, I’m trying to learn to be a detective. And it got sort of personal, too,” she said. “I don’t like that man.”

  “I don’t much either,” Chee said. “He’s arrogant.”

  “He sort of made a move on me,” she said. “Maybe not. Not exactly.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, he gives you that ‘doll’ and ‘cute’ stuff, you know. Then he said how would I like to get assigned to work with him. But of course he said ‘under’ him. He said I could be Tonto to his Lone Ranger.”

  “Tonto?” Chee said. “Well, now. Here’s what we do. We keep an eye on him. And when he’s on the road with a load, we nail him. And when we do, you’re the one who gets to put the handcuffs on him.”

  WHEN OFFICER BERNADETTE MANUELITO parked Chee’s patrol car at the Lazy B ranch Elisa Breedlove was standing in the doorway awaiting them—hugging herself against the cold wind. Or was it, Chee thought, against the news he might be bringing?

  “Four Corners weather,” she said. “Yesterday it was sunny, mild autumn. Today it’s winter.” She ushered them into the living room, exchanged introductions gracefully with Bernie, expressed the proper dismay at Chee’s condition, wished him a quick recovery, and invited them to be seated.

  “I saw the story about you being shot on television,” she said. “Bad as you look, they made it sound even worse.”

  “Just some cracked ribs,” Chee said.

  “And old Mr. Maryboy being killed. I only met him once, but he was very nice to us. He invited us in and offered to make coffee.”

  “When was that?”

  “Way back in the dark ages,” she said. “When Hal and George would come out for the summer and Eldon and I would go climbing with them.”

  “Is your brother here now?” Chee asked. “I was hoping to talk to you both.”

  “He was here earlier, but one of the mares got herself tangled up in a fence. He went out to see about her. There’s supposed to be a snowstorm moving in and he wanted to get her into the barn.”

  “Do you expect him back soon?”

  “She’s up in the north pasture,” Elisa said. “But he shouldn’t be long unless she’s cut so badly he had to go into Mancos and get the vet. Would you two care for something to drink? It’s a long drive up here from Shiprock.”

  She served them both coffee but poured none for herself. Chee sipped and watched her over the rim, twisting her hands. If she had been one of the three climbers that day, if she had reached the top, she should know what was coming now. He took out the folder of photographs and handed Elisa the one signed with her husband’s name.

  “Thanks,” she said, and looked at it. Officer Manuelito was watching her, sitting primly on the edge of her chair, cup in saucer, uncharacteristically quiet. It occurred to Chee that she looked like a pretty girl pretending to be a cop.

  Elisa was frowning at the photograph. “It’s a picture of the page from the climbers’ ledger,” she said slowly. “But where—”

  She dropped the picture on the coffee table, said, “Oh, God,” in a strangled voice, and covered her face with her hands.

  Officer Manuelito leaned forward, lips apart. Chee shook his head, signaled silence.

  Elisa picked up the picture again, stared at it, dropped it to the floor and sat rigid, her face white.

  “Mrs. Breedlove,” Chee said. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head. Shuddered. Composed herself, looked at Chee.

  “This photograph. That’s all there was on the page?”

  “Just what you saw.”

  She bent, picked up the print, looked at it again. “And the date. The date. That’s what was written?”

  “Just as you see it,” Chee said.

  “But of course it was.” She produced a laugh on the razor edge of hysteria. “A silly question. But it’s wrong, you know. It should have been—but why—” She put her hand over her mouth, dropped her head.

  The noise the wind was making—rattles, whistles, and howls—filtered through windows and walls and filled the dark room with the sounds of winter.

  “I know the date’s wrong,” Chee said. “The entry is dated September thirty. That’s a week after your husband disappeared from Canyon de Chelly. What should—” He stopped. Elisa wasn’t listening to him. She was lost in her own memory. And that, combined with what the picture had told her, was drawing her to some ghastly conclusion.

  “The handwriting,” she said. “Have you—” But she cut that off, too, pressed her lips together as if to keep them from completing the question.

  But not soon enough, of course. So she hadn’t known what had happened on the summit of Ship Rock. Not until moments ago when the forgery of her husband’s signature told her. Told her exactly what? That her husband had died before he’d had a chance to sign. That her husband’s death, therefore, must have been preplanned as well as postdated. The pattern Leaphorn had taught him to look for took its almost final dismal shape. And filled Jim Chee with pity.

  Officer Manuelito was on her feet.

  “Mrs. Breedlove, you need to lie down,” she said. “You’re sick. Let me get you something. Some water.”

  Elisa sagged forward, leaned her forehead against the table. Officer Manuelito hurried into the kitchen.

  “We haven’t checked the handwriting yet,” Chee said. “Can you tell us what that will show?”

  Elisa was sobbing now. Bernie emerged from the kitchen, glass of water in one hand, cloth in the other. She gave Chee a “How could you do this?” look and sat next to Elisa, patting her shoulder.

  “Take a sip of water,” Bernie said. “And you should lie down until you feel better. We can finish this later.”

  Ramona appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a padded coat, her face red with cold. She watched them anxiously. “What are you doing to her?” she said. “Go away now and let her rest.”

  “Oh, God,” Elisa said, her voice muffled by the table. “Why did he think he had to do it?”

  “Where can I find Eldon?” Chee asked.

  Elisa shook her head.

  “Does he have a rifle?” But of course he would have a rifle. Every male over about twelve in the Rocky Mountain West had a rifle. “Where does he keep it?”

  Elisa didn’t respond. Chee motioned to Bernie. She left in search of it.

  Elisa raised her head, wiped her eyes, looked at Chee. “It was an accident, you know. Hal was always reckless. He wanted to rappel down the cliff. I thought I had talked him out of it. But I guess I hadn’t.”

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “I didn’t get all the way to the top. I was below. Waiting for them to come down.”

  Chee hesitated. The next question would be crucial, but should he ask it now, with this woman overcome by shock and grief? Any lawyer would tell her not to talk about any of this. But she wouldn’t be the one on trial.

  Bernie reappeared at the doorway, Ramona behind her. “There’s a triple gun rack in the office,” she said. “A twelve-gauge pump shotgun in the bottom rack and the top two empty.”

  “Okay,” Chee said.

  “And in the wastebasket beside the desk, there’s a thirty-ought-six ammunition box. The top’s torn off and it’s empty.”

  Chee nodded and came to his decision.

  “Mrs. Breedlove. No one climbed the mountain on the date by your husband’s name. But on September eighteenth three people were seen climbing it. Hal was one of them. You were one. Who was the third?”

  “I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Elisa said. “I want you to go.”

  “You don�
��t have to tell us anything,” Chee said. “You have the right to remain silent, and to call your lawyer if you think you need one. I don’t think you’ve done anything you could be charged with, but you never really know what a prosecuting attorney will decide.”

  Officer Manuelito cleared her throat. “And anything you say can be used against you. Remember that.”

  “I don’t want to say any more.”

  “That’s okay,” Chee said. “But I should tell you this. Eldon isn’t here and neither is his rifle and it looks like he just reloaded it. If we have this figured out right, Eldon is going to know there is just one man left alive who could ruin this for him.”

  Chee paused, waiting for a response. It didn’t come. Elisa sat as if frozen, staring at him.

  “It’s a man named Amos Nez. Remember him? He was your guide in Canyon de Chelly. Right after Hal’s skeleton was found on Ship Rock last Halloween, Mr. Nez was riding his horse up the canyon. Someone up on the rim shot him. He wasn’t killed, just badly hurt.”

  Elisa sagged a little with that, looked down at her hands, and said, “I didn’t know that.”

  “With a thirty-ought-six rifle,” Chee added.

  “What day was it?”

  Chee told her.

  She thought a moment. Remembering. Slumped a little more.

  “If anyone kills Mr. Nez the charge will be the premeditated murder of a witness. That carries the death penalty.”

  “He’s my brother,” Elisa said. “Hal’s death was an accident. Sometimes he acted almost like he wanted to die. No thrills, he said, if you didn’t take a chance. He fell. When Eldon climbed down to where I was waiting, he looked like he was almost dead himself. He was devastated. He was so shaken he could hardly tell me about it.” She stopped, looking at Chee, at Bernie, back at Chee.

  Waiting for our reaction, Chee thought. Waiting for us to give her absolution? No, waiting for us to say we believe what she is telling us, so that she can believe it again herself.

  “I think you were driving that Land-Rover,” Chee said. “When police found it abandoned up an arroyo north of Many Farms they said there was a telephone in it.”

  “But what good would it have done to call for help?” Elisa asked, her voice rising. “Hal was dead. He was all broken to pieces on that little ledge. Nobody could bring him back to life again. He was dead!”

  “Was he?”

  “Yes,” she shouted. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  And now Chee understood why Elisa had been so shocked when she learned the skeleton was intact—with not a bone broken. She didn’t want to believe it. Refused to believe it still. That made the next question harder to ask. What had Eldon told her of the scene at the top? Had he explained why Hal had started his descent before he signed the book? Why he falsified the register? Had he—

  Ramona rushed into the room, sat beside Elisa, hugged the woman to her. She glared at Chee. “I said go away now,” she said. “Get out. No more. No more. She has suffered too much.”

  “It’s all right,” Elisa said. “Ramona, when you came in did you see the Land-Rover in the garage?”

  “No,” Ramona said. “Just Eldon’s pickup truck.”

  Elisa looked at Chee, sighed, and said, “Then I guess he didn’t go up to see about the mare. He would have taken his truck.”

  Chee picked up his hat and the photographs. He thanked Mrs. Breedlove for the cooperation, apologized for bringing her bad news, and hurried out, with Bernie trotting along behind him. The wind was bitter now, and carrying those dry-as-dust first snowflakes that were the forerunners of a storm.

  “I want to get Leaphorn on the radio,” he said, as Bernie started the engine, “and maybe we’ll have to make a fast trip to Canyon de Chelly.”

  Bernie was looking back at the house. “Do you think she will be all right?”

  “I think so,” Chee said. “Ramona will take good care of her.”

  “Ramona’s pretty shaken up, too,” Bernie said. “She was crying when she helped me look for the rifle. She said it was always the wrong men with Elisa—always having to take care of them. That Hal was a spoiled baby and Eldon was a bully. She said if it wasn’t for Eldon she’d be married to a good man who wanted to take care of her.”

  “She say who?”

  “I think it was Tommy Castro. Or maybe Kaster. Something like that. She was crying.” Bernie was staring back at the house, looking worried.

  “Bernie,” Chee said. “It’s starting to snow. It’s probably going to be a bad one. Start the car. Go. Go. Go.”

  “You’re worried about Amos Nez,” Bernie said, starting the engine. “We can just call the station at Chinle and have them stop any Land-Rover driving in. Bet Mr. Leaphorn already did that.”

  “He said he would,” Chee said. “But I want to get a message to him about Demott taking off with his thirty-ought-six loaded. Maybe Eldon won’t be driving in. If you can climb seventeen hundred feet up Ship Rock, maybe you can climb down a six-hundred-foot cliff.”

  THEY DROVE INTO THE FULL BRUNT of the storm halfway between Mancos and Cortez, the wind buffeting the car and driving a blinding sheet of tiny dry snowflakes horizontally past their windshield.

  “At least it’s sweeping the pavement clear,” Bernie said, sounding cheerful.

  Chee glanced at her. She seemed to be enjoying the adventure. He wasn’t. His ribs hurt, so did the abrasions around his eye, and he was not in the mood for cheer.

  “That won’t last long,” he said.

  It didn’t. In Cortez, snow was driving over the curbs and the pavement was beginning to pack, and the broadcasts on the emergency channel didn’t sound promising. A last gasp of the Pacific hurricane system was pushing across Baja California into Arizona. There it met the first blast of Arctic air, pressing down the east slope of the Rockies from Canada. Interstate 40 at Flagstaff, where the two fronts had collided, was already closed by snow. So were highways through the Wasatch Range in Utah. Autumn was emphatically over on the Colorado Plateau.

  They turned onto U.S. 666 to make the forty-mile run almost due south to Shiprock. With the icy wind pursuing them, the highway emptied of traffic by storm warnings, and speed limits ignored, Bernie outran the Canadian contribution to the storm. The sky lightened now. Far ahead, they could see where the Pacific half of the blizzard had reached the Chuska range. Its cold, wet air met the dry, warmer air on the New Mexico side at the ridgeline. The collision produced a towering wall of white fog, which poured down the slopes like a silent slow-motion Niagara.

  “Wow,” Bernie said. “I never saw anything quite like that before.”

  “The heavy cold air forces itself under the warmer stuff,” said Chee, unable to avoid a little showing off. “I’ll bet it’s twenty degrees colder at Lukachukai than it is at Red Rock—and they’re less than twenty miles apart.”

  They crossed the western corner of the Ute reservation, then roared into New Mexico and across the mesa high above Malpais Arroyo.

  “Wow,” Bernie said again. “Look at that.”

  Instead Chee glanced at the speedometer and flinched.

  “You drive,” he said. “I’ll check the scenery for both of us.” It was worth checking. They looked down into the vast San Juan River basin—dark with storm to the right, dappled with sunlight to the left. Ship Rock stood just at the edge of the shadow line, a grotesque sunlit thumb thrust into the sky, but through some quirk of wind and air pressure, the long bulge of the Hogback formation was already mostly dark with cloud shadow.

  “I think we’re going to get home before the snow,” Bernie said.

  They almost did. It caught them when Bernie pulled into the parking lot at the station—but the flakes blowing against Chee as he hurried into the building were still small and dry. The Canadian cold front was still dominating the Pacific storm.

  “You look terrible,” Jenifer said. “How do you feel?”

  “I’d say well below average,” Chee said. “Did Leaphorn call?”

  “In
directly,” Jenifer said, and handed Chee three message slips and an envelope.

  It was on top—a call from Sergeant Deke at the Chinle station confirming that Leaphorn had received Chee’s message about Demott leaving his ranch with his rifle. Leaphorn had gone up the canyon to the Nez place and would either bring Nez out with him or stay, depending on the weather, which was terrible.

  Chee glanced at the other messages. Routine business. The envelope bore the word “Jim” in Janet’s hand. He tapped it against the back of his hand. Put it down. Called Deke.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Deke said. “But it’s a bad one for this time of year. Still above zero but it won’t be for long. Blowing snow. We have Navajo 12 closed at Upper Wheatfields, and 191 between here and Ganado, and 59 north of Red Rock, and—well, hell of a night to be driving. How about there?”

  “I think we’re just getting the edge of it,” Chee said. “Did Leaphorn get my message?”

  “Yep. He said not to worry.”

  “What do you think? Demott’s a rock climber. Is Nez going to be safe enough?”

  “Except for maybe frostbite,” Deke said. “Nobody’s going to be climbing those cliffs tonight.”

  And so Chee opened the envelope and extracted the note.

  “Jim. Sorry I missed you. Going to get a bite to eat and will come by your place—Janet.”

  Her car wasn’t there when he drove up, which was just as well, he thought. It would give him a little time to get the place a little warmer. He fired up the propane heater, put on the coffee, and gave the place a critical inspection. He rarely did. His trailer was simply where he lived. Sometimes it was hot, sometimes it was cold. But otherwise it was not something he gave any thought to. It looked cramped, crowded, slightly dirty, and altogether dismal. Ah, well, nothing to do about it now. He checked the refrigerator for something to offer her. Nothing much there in the snack line, but he extracted a slab of cheese and pulled a box of crackers and a bowl with a few Oreos in it off the shelf over the stove. Then he sat on the edge of the bunk, slumped, listening to the icy wind buffeting the trailer, too tired to think about what might be about to happen.