“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.
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“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?”
