The Sinister Pig

“My only excuse is ignorance.”

“Ignorance! I heard that you provided the tip that something funny was going on with that old pipeline.”

“Not exactly,” Leaphorn said.

“Well, no use yelling at you. What can you tell me now?”

“All I know is what I’ve been reading in the Farmington Times,” Leaphorn said. “Nobody cares about that Stein killing anymore. Maybe the next time we have a big story out here I can make it up to you.”

“Big story out there? Fat chance.”

Leaphorn should have said almost nobody cared about the Stein case. Sergeant Jim Chee still cared. He was now sitting at his desk staring at the computer screen in his crowded trailer home on the banks of the San Juan River. Stein had been murdered right in the territory he was responsible for. Even though the FBI had taken over and declared it a hunting accident he had to write a report on it. He was down to the concluding paragraph, and what could he say in conclusion?

He typed: “Evidence developed in a subsequent drug investigation strongly suggested”—someone was tapping at this screen door—“that Mexican interests in a drug-smuggling venture ordered Stein killed, believing he might reveal their plan.”

It was Bernie, a neat bandage protecting the stitches on her face and the remains of her bruises still visible.

He ushered her in, noticed she was eyeing the interior of his trailer with an unusually intent interest. He hugged her.

“Bernie,” he said, “you are absolutely beautiful, and if you’ll marry me, I will never let anyone hit you with a rifle again.”

Bernie returned the hug. “In that case, I’ll marry you, providing you help me push this trailer down into the river so we can build a real house here.”

About the e-Book

(JULY, 2003)—Scanned, proofed and formatted by Bibliophile.