house, a loading pen on one side of it, horse stalls on the other. From the barn, Houk would have heard a car coming. He might have seen it, watched its driver open the gate. He must have recognized death coming for him. McGee said he'd started preparing a hiding place--stacking bales with a gap behind them, to form a hidey-hole probably. And then he'd stopped to write the unfinished note. And put it in his shorts. Leaphorn imagined that. Houk, desperate, out of time, sticking the calling card under his belt line. The only possible reason would be to keep his killer from finding it. And that meant the killer would not have left it. And what did that mean? That the killer was Eleanor Friedman-Bernal, who would not want people to know she was alive? Or, certainly, that Houk knew she was alive.
'You have any theories yet?' he asked McGee.
'One or two,' he said.
'Involving pot hunting?'
'Well, we know about Etcitty and Nails. They were hunting pots. Houk's been dealing with `em for years and not particular where what he buys comes from,' McGee said. 'So, maybe somebody he cheated got tough about it. Houk screwed one person too many. He had a reputation for that. Or maybe it was this woman he was selling to.' McGee got up stiffly, adjusted his hat. 'Why else the note? He saw her coming. Back from the dead, so to speak. Knew she was after him. Figured she'd already bagged Nails and Etcitty. Started leaving you the note. Put it where she wouldn't find it and get off with it. I'd like you to tell me what you know about that woman.'
'All right,' Leaphorn said. 'Couple of things I have to do and then I'll get with you.'
He'd stayed away from his office since Emma's death and now it smelled of the dust that seeps gradually into everything in a desert climate. He sat in his chair, picked up the phone, and called Shiprock. Chee was in.
'This Watersprinkler Canyon,' he asked. 'Which side of the river?'
'South,' Chee said. 'Reservation side.'
'No question of that?'
'None,' Chee said. 'Not if this Amos Whistler knew what he was talking about. Or where he was pointing.'
`There isn't any Watersprinkler Canyon on my map. What do you think it is?'
'Probably Many Ruins,' Chee said.
It was exactly what Leaphorn would have guessed. And getting into the north end of it was damn near impossible. It ran for its last forty miles through a roadless, jumbled stony wilderness.
'You knew Harrison Houk was shot?'
'Yes sir.'
'You want to keep working on this?'
Hesitation. 'Yes sir.'
'Get on the telephone then. Call the police at Madison, Wisconsin. Find out if handguns are licensed there. They probably are. If they are, find out who does it and then find out exactly what kind of pistol was licensed to Eleanor Friedman-Bernal. It would have beena?S' He squeezed his eyes shut, recalling what Maxie Davis had told him about the woman's career. 'Probably 1985 or `86.'
'Okay.'
'If she didn't license her gun in Madison, you're going to have to keep checking.' He gave Chee other places he knew of where the woman had studied or taught, relying on his memory of his talk with Davis and guessing at the dates. 'You may be spending all day on the phone,' Leaphorn warned. 'Tell `em three homicides are involved. And then stay close to the phone where I can get you.'
'Right.'
That done, he sat a moment, thinking. He would go to Bluff and take a look at the barn where Harrison Houk had done the remarkable -- written him a note while waiting for his killer. He wanted to see that place. The action jarred on him. Why would Houk care that much about a woman who was merely a customer? 'Shes still alive up,' the note had said. Up? Up to today? Up what? Up where? Up Watersprinkler Canyon? She had taken her sleeping bag. The boy had seen her loading a saddle. But back to Houk. Starting the note. At that point, almost certainly, Houk had been interrupted by the killer. Had run out of time. Had presumed the killer would destroy the note. Would not want the police to know that 'she' was alive. So was 'she' Eleanor hyphenated? Who else would care about the note? And yet Leaphorn had trouble putting into the picture the woman who marinated the beef and prepared the dinner so lovingly. He could not see her in that barn, firing her little pistol into the skull of an old man lying facedown in the hay. He shook his head. But that was sentiment, not logic.
Major Nez stood in his door, watching him. 'Interesting case,' Nez said.
'Yeah. Hard one to figure.' Leaphorn motioned him in.
Nez simply leaned against the wall, holding a folded paper in his hand. He was getting fat, Leaphorn noticed. Nez had always been built like a barrel, but now his stomach sagged over his broad uniform belt.
'Doesn't sound like something you can get sorted out in less than a week,' Nez said. He tapped the paper against the back of his hand, and it occurred to Leaphorn that it was his letter of resignation.
'Probably not,' Leaphorn said.
Nez held out the letter. 'You want this back? For now? You can always send it in again.'
'I'm tired, Ron. Have been a long time, I guess. Just didn't know it.'
'Tired of living,' Nez said, nodding. 'I get that way now and then. But it's hard to quit.'
'Anyway, thanks,' Leaphorn said. 'You know where McGee went?'
Leaphorn found Detective McGee eating a late breakfast at the Navajo Nation Inn and told him everything he knew about Eleanor Friedman-Bernal that seemed remotely pertinent. Then he drove back to his house, dug his pistol belt out of the bottom drawer of his dresser, took out the weapon, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. That done, he drove out of Window Rock, heading north.
Chapter Fifteen
