“Don’t count on it,” Chee said.
“Or the perps see us coming and shoot us, and the feds watch for the buzzards, and when they find our bodies, they get their forensic teams in here, and do the match to decide where the shots came from, and then they find the bad guys.”
“That makes me feel a little better,” Chee said. “Nice to be working with an optimist.”
Nez was sitting on a shaded sandstone slab with his body armor serving as a seat cushion while he was saying this. He was grinning, enjoying his own humor. Chee was standing on the sandy bottom of Gothic Creek, body armor on, tinkering with the location finder. Here, away from the cliffs, it was supposed to be in direct contact with the satellite and its exact longitude/latitude numbers would appear on its tiny screen.
Sometimes, including now, they did. Chee pushed the send switch, read the numbers into the built-in mike, shut the gadget off and looked at his watch.
“Let’s go home,” he said. “Unless you enjoy piling on a lot more overtime.”
“I could use the money,” Nez said.
Chee laughed. “Maybe they’ll add it to your retirement check. We’re still trying to collect our overtime for the Great Canyon Climbing Marathon of ‘98. Let’s get out of here before it gets dark.”
They managed that, but by the time Chee reached Bluff and his room at the Recapture Lodge, the stars were out. He was tired and dirty. He took off his boots, socks, shirt and trousers, flopped onto the bed, and unwrapped the ham-and-cheese sandwich he’d bought at the filling station across the highway. He’d rest a little, he’d take a shower, he’d hit the sack and sleep, sleep, sleep. He would not think about this manhunt, nor about Janet Pete, nor about anything else. He wouldn’t think about Bernie Manuelito, either. He would set the alarm clock for 6 A.M. and sleep. He took a bite of the sandwich. Delicious. He had another sandwich in the sack. Should have bought a couple more for breakfast. He finished chewing, swallowed, yawned hugely, prepared for a second bite.
From the door the sound:
Chee lay still, sandwich raised, staring at the door.
The voice of the Legendary Lieutenant.
Chee rewrapped the sandwich, put it on the bedside table, sighed, limped over and opened the door.
Leaphorn stood there, looking apologetic, and beside him was the Woman Professor. She was smiling at him.
“Oops,” Chee said, stepping out of her line of vision and reaching for his pants. “Sorry. Let me get some clothes on.”
While he was doing that, Leaphorn was apologizing, saying they’d only be a minute. Chee waved them toward the room’s two chairs, and sat on the bed.
“You look exhausted,” the professor said. “The policewoman at your roadblock said you’d probably been searching in one of the canyons all day. But Joe learned something he felt you needed to know.' She gave Chee a wry smile. “I told him you probably already knew it.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Chee said, and looked at Leaphorn, who was sitting uneasily on the edge of his chair.
“Just a couple of things about this George Ironhand,” Leaphorn said. “I guess you knew he was a Vietnam veteran, but we heard today he was a Green Beret. Heard he was a sniper, won a Silver Star. Supposed to have shot fifty-three North Viet soldiers over in Cambodia.”
Leaphorn stopped.
Chee thought about that for a moment.
“Fifty-three,” he said finally. “I appreciate your telling me. I think if the FBI had let us in on that little secret, Officer Nez would have kept his body armor on in the canyon.”
“I imagine the FBI would know this man was a veteran,” Leaphorn said. “They’re pretty thorough in checking records. But they might not know about the rest of it. To know that, they’d have to turn up the business about him getting decorated.”
“Or pass it along if they did,” Chee said, his voice now sounding more angry than tired. “We might leak it to the press; the feds wouldn’t want the public to know we’re chasing a certified official war hero.”
