wide shelf. And above it, there’s the remains of what must have been a fairly large building. Most of the roof gone now, but a lot of the stone walls still standing. And the framework of what might have been some sort of a hoist sticking up.”
“Sounds like what you were hoping to find,” Leaphorn said.
“And the reason it fits the theory is you couldn’t see the mouth of the mine from the bottom. It’s maybe seventy feet up, and hidden by the shelf.”
“How’d you find it?”
Chee laughed. “The easy way. Hitched a ride in the EPA helicopter.”
Leaphorn still had the pen poised. “Where is it from the place they abandoned the truck?”
“About two miles north—maybe a little less than that.”
Leaphorn marked one of his small, precise X’s at the proper spot. He glanced at Gershwin.
“What’s all this about?” Gershwin asked.
Leaphorn made one of those ‘just a second’ gestures. “Have you notified the FBI?”
“I’m going to call Captain Largo right now,” Chee said. “Let him explain it to the federals.”
“That sounded interesting,” Gershwin said. “Did they find something useful?”
Leaphorn hesitated. “Maybe. Maybe not. They’ve been looking for an old, long-abandoned mine out there. One of a thousand places people might hide.”
“An old coal mine,” Gershwin said. “There’s lots of those around. You think it’s something I could count on? Sleep easy again?”
Leaphorn shrugged. “You mean, would I bet my life on it?”
“Yeah,” Gershwin said. “I guess that’s what I mean.' He stood, picked up his hat, looked down at the map. “Well, to hell with it. I think I owe you an apology, Joe, storming in here like I did. I’m just going to head on home, pack up my stuff, and move out to a motel until this business is over with.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Sergeant Jim Chee limped into Largo’s cluttered office feeling even more uneasy than he usually did when approaching the captain. And rightfully so. When he’d pulled into the Navajo Tribal Police parking lot he’d noticed two of the shiny black Ford Taurus FBI sedans. Chee’s law-enforcement rela-tionship with the world’s largest police force had often been beset with friction. And Captain Largo’s telephone call summoning him to this meeting had been even more terse than usual.
“Chee,” Largo had said, 'get your ass up here. Now!' Chee nodded to Special Agent Cabot and the other well-dressed fellow sitting across the desk from the captain and took the chair to which Largo motioned him. He put his cane across his lap and waited.
“You already know Agent Cabot,” Largo said. “And this gentleman is Special Agent Smythe.' Mutual mumbles and nods followed.
“I’ve been trying to explain to them why you think this old mine you’ve found might be the place to look for Ironhand and Baker,” Largo said. “They tell me they’ve already checked every mine deeper than a dog hole up on that mesa. If you’ve found one they missed, they want to know where it is.”
Chee told them, estimating as closely as he could the distance of the mine’s canyon mouth from the San Juan and the distance of the surface structure in from the canyon rim.
“You spotted this from a helicopter?” Cabot asked. “Is that correct?”
“That’s correct,” Chee said.
“Did you know we have prohibited private aircraft flights in that area?” Cabot said.
“I presumed you had,” Chee said. “That was a good idea. Otherwise, you’ll have those bounty hunters your reward offer is bringing in tying up the air-lanes.”
This caused a very brief pause while Cabot decided how to respond to this—a not very oblique reminder of the gales of laughter the Bureau had produced in its 1998 fiasco by offering a $250,000 reward one day, and promptly following that with an exhortation for swarms of bounty hunters the offer had attracted to please go away. They hadn’t.
Cabot decided to ignore the remark.
“I’ll need the name of the company that was operating this aircraft.”
“No company, actually,” Chee said. “This was a federal-government helicopter.”
