Talking God

a thin face with glasses, black hair pulled severely back.

“Yes,” she said.

“My name is Leaphorn,” he said. He held out the folder, letting it drop open to reveal his badge. “I am looking for the residence of Elogio Santillanes.”

The woman closed her eyes. Her head bent slightly forward. Her shoulders slumped. Behind her, from some part of the room beyond Leaphorn’s vision, came the sound of a sharp intake of breath.

“Are there relatives of Mr. Santillanes living here?” Leaphorn asked.

“Yo soy,” the woman said, her eyes still closed. And then, in English: “Yes.” She was pale. She reached out, felt for the door, clutched it.

Leaphorn thought, the news I am bringing her is not news. It is something she anticipated. Something her instincts told her was inevitable. He knew the feeling. He had lived with it for months, knowing that Emma was dying. It was a fate already faced. But that didn’t matter. There was still no humane way to tell her even though her heart had already given her the warning.

“Mrs. Santillanes?” he said. “Is there someone here with you? Some friend or relative?”

The woman opened her eyes. “What do you want?”

“I want to tell you about your husband.” He shook his head. “It’s bad news.”

A man wearing a loose blue sweater appeared beside the woman. He was as old as Leaphorn, gray and stocky. He stood rigidly erect and peered at Leaphorn through the thick lenses of dark-rimmed glasses. A soldier, Leaphorn thought. “Sir,” he said, in a loud, stern voice. “What can I do for you?”

The woman put her hand on the man’s arm. She spoke in Spanish. Leaphorn didn’t catch her words. The man said “Callate!” sharply, and then, more gently, something that Leaphorn didn’t understand. The woman looked at Leaphorn as if remembering his face would be terribly important to her. Then she nodded, bit her lip, bowed, and disappeared from the room.

“You asked about a man named Santillanes,” the man said. “He does not live here.”

“I came looking for his relatives,” Leaphorn said. “I’m afraid I bring bad news.”

“We do not know him,” the man said. “No one of that name lives here.”

“This was the address he gave,” Leaphorn said.

The man’s expression became totally blank—a poker player staring at his cards. “He gave an address to you?” he asked. “And when was that?”

Leaphorn didn’t hurry to answer that. The man was lying, of course. But why would he be lying?

“He gave this address to the pharmacist where he buys his medicine,” Leaphorn said.

“Ah,” the man said. He produced a slight smile. “Then he has been sick. I trust this man, this Santillanes, is feeling better now.”

“No,” Leaphorn said. They stood there in the doorway, both of them waiting. Leaphorn had sensed some motion behind him. He shifted his weight enough to see the entrance of apartment two. The door was almost closed now. But not quite. Through it he could see the shadow of the small man, listening.

“He is not better? Then he is worse?”

“I should not be wasting your time with this,” Leaphorn said. “Did Elogio Santillanes live here once and move away? Do you know where I might find any of his relatives? Or a friend?”

The gray man shook his head.

“I will go then,” Leaphorn said. “Thank you very much. Please tell the lady I am sorry I disturbed her.”

“Ah.” The man hesitated. “You have made me curious. What happened to this fellow, this Santillanes?”

“He’s dead,” Leaphorn said.

“Dead.” There was no surprise. “How?”

“He was stabbed,” Leaphorn said.

“When did this happen?” Still there was no surprise. But Leaphorn could see the muscle along his jaw tighten. “And where did it happen?”

“Out in New Mexico. About a month ago.”

Leaphorn put his hand on the man’s arm. “Listen,” he said. “Do you know why this man Santillanes would have gone to New Mexico? What interest did he have in going to see a woman named Agnes Tsosie?”

The man pulled his arm away. He swallowed, his eyes misty with grief. He looked away from Leaphorn, toward his feet. “I don’t know Elogio Santillanes,” he said. And he carefully shut the door.

Leaphorn stood for a moment staring at the wood, sorting this out. The puzzle that had brought him here was solved. Clearly solved. No doubt about it. Or only the shadow of a doubt. The man with the worn, pointed shoes was Elogio Santillanes, the husband (perhaps brother) of this dark-haired woman. The brother (perhaps friend) of this gray-haired man. No more question of the identity of Pointed Shoes. Now there was another puzzle, new and fresh.

He walked down the porch, noticing that the door to apartment two was now closed but the light still illuminated the drapery. A dark afternoon, the kind of weather Leaphorn rarely saw on the Arizona-New Mexico border, and which quickly affected his mood. His taxi was waiting at the curb. Miss Mackinnon sat with a book propped on the steering wheel, reading.

Leaphorn turned and walked back to apartment two. He pushed the doorbell button. This one buzzed. He waited, thinking that people in Washington are slow to come to their doors. The door opened and the small man stood in it, looking at him.