nebulous connection between Emma's character and that of a woman who probably was quite different. And so he would use the final days of his final leave to find that woman. That had brought him here. That, and boredom, and his old problem of curiosity, and the need for a reason to get away from their house in Window Rock and all its memories.
Whatever had moved him, he was here, on the very eastern fringe of the Navajo Reservation--more than a hundred miles from home.
When circumstances allowed, he would talk to a man whose very existence annoyed him. He would ask questions the man might not answer and which might mean nothing if he did. The alternative was sitting in their living room, the television on for background noise, trying to read. But Emma's absence always intruded. When he raised his eyes, he saw the R. C. Gorman print she'd hung over the fireplace. They'd argued about it. She liked it, he didn't. The words would sound in his ears again. And Emma's laughter. It was the same everywhere he looked. He should sell that house, or burn it. It was in the tradition of the Dineh. Abandon the house contaminated by the dead, lest the ghost sickness infect you, and you died. Wise were the elders of his people, and the Holy People who taught them the Navajo Way. But instead, he would play this pointless game. He would find a woman. If alive, she wouldn't want to be found. If dead, it wouldn't matter.
Abruptly, it became slightly more interesting. He had been leaning on the door of his pickup, studying the tent, listening to the sounds coming from it, examining the grounds (another matter of habit). He recognized a pickup, parked like his own behind the cluster of vehicles. It was the truck of another tribal policeman. Jim Chee's truck. Chee's private truck, which meant Chee was also here unofficially. Becoming a born-again Christian? That hardly seemed likely. As Leaphorn remembered it, Chee was the antithesis of Slick Nakai. Chee was a hatathali. A singer. Or would be one as soon as people started hiring him to conduct their curing ceremonials. Leaphorn looked at the pickup, curious. Was someone sitting in it? Hard to tell in the failing light. What would Chee be doing here?
The sound of music came from the tent. A surprising amount of music, as if a band were playing. Over that an amplified male voice leading a hymn. Time to go in.
The band proved to be two men. Slick Nakai, standing behind what seemed to be a black plastic keyboard, and a thin guitarist in a blue checked shirt and a gray felt hat. Nakai was singing, his mouth a quarter-inch from a stand-mounted microphone, his hands maintaining a heavy rhythm on the keyboard. The audience sang with him, with much swaying and clapping of hands.
'Jesus loves us,' Nakai sang. 'That we know. Jesus loves us. Everywhere.'
Nakai's eyes were on him, examining him, sorting him out. The guitarist was looking at him, too. The hat looked familiar. So did the man. Leaphorn had a good memory for faces, and for just about everything else.
'We didn't earn it,' Nakai sang. 'But He don't care. His love is with us. Everywhere.'
Nakai emphasized this with a flourish at the keyboard, shifting his attention now from Leaphorn to an elderly woman wearing wire-rimmed glasses who was sway-dancing, eyes closed, too caught up with emotion to be aware she had danced into the tangle of electrical cables linking Nakai's sound system to a generator outside the tent. A tall man with a thin mustache standing by the speaker's podium noticed Nakai's concern. He moved quickly, steering the woman clear of the cables. Third member of the team, Leaphorn guessed.
When the music stopped, Nakai introduced him as 'Reverend Tafoya.'
'He's Apache. I tell you that right out,' Nakai said. 'Jicarilla. But that's all right. God made the Apaches, and the belagana, and the blacks, and the Hopis, and us Dineh and everybody else just the same. And he inspired this Apache here to learn about Jesus. And he's going to tell you about that.'
Nakai surrendered the microphone to Tafoya. Then he poured water from a thermos into a Styrofoam cup and carried it back toward where Leaphorn was standing. He was a short man, sturdily built, neat and tidy, with small, round hands, small feet in neat cowboy boots, a round, intelligent face. He walked with the easy grace of a man who walks a lot.
'I haven't seen you here before,' Nakai said. 'If you came to hear about Jesus you're welcome. If you didn't come for that you're welcome anyway.' He laughed, showing teeth that conflicted with the symphony of neatness. Two were missing, one was broken, one was black and twisted. Poor people's teeth, Leaphorn thought. Navajo teeth.
'Because that's about all you hear around me anywaya?S Jesus talk,' Nakai said.
'I came to see if you can help me with something,' Leaphorn said. They exchanged the soft, barely touching handshake of the Navajo--the compromise of the Dineh between modern convention and the need to be careful with strangers who might, after all, be witches. 'But it can wait until you're through with your revival. I'd like to talk to you then.'
At the podium, Reverend Tafoya was talking about the Mountain Spirits of the Apaches. 'Something like your yei, like your Holy People. But some different, too. That's who my daddy worshiped, and my mother, and my grandparents. And I did too, until I got this cancer. I don't have to tell you people here about cancera?S'
'The Reverend will take care of it for a while,' Nakai said. 'What do you need to know? What can I tell you?'
'We have a woman missing,' Leaphorn said. He showed Nakai his identification and told him about Dr. Eleanor Friedman-Bernal. 'You know her?'
'Sure,' Nakai said. 'For maybe three years, or four.' He laughed again. 'But not very well. Never made a Christian out of her. It was just business.' The laugh went away. 'You mean seriously missing? Like foul play?'
'She went to Farmington for the weekend a couple of weeks ago and nobody's heard from her since,' Leaphorn said. 'What was the business you had with her?'
'She studied pots. That was her business. So once in a while she would buy one from me.' Nakai's small, round face was registering concern. 'You think something went wrong with her?'
'You never know about that with missing people,' Leaphorn said. 'Usually they come back after a while and sometimes they don't. So we try to look into it. You a pot dealer?'
Leaphorn noticed how the question sounded, but before he could change it to 'dealer in pots.' Nakai said, 'Just a preacher. But I found out you can sell pots. Pretty big money sometimes. Had a man I baptized over near Chinle give me one. Didn't have any money and he told me I could sell it in Gallup for thirty dollars. Told me where.' Nakai laughed again, enjoying the memory. 'Sure enough. Went to a place there on Railroad Avenue and the man gave me forty-six dollars for it.' He made a bowl of his hands, grinning at Leaphorn. 'The Lord provides,' he said. 'Not too well sometimes, but he provides.'
