at the Navajo Inn, didn’t interrupt him. But they didn’t seem impressed.
“I’ll admit the half-century gap between the day all those people were killed here and Billy Tuve trying to pawn that diamond for twenty dollars is a problem,” Leaphorn said. “But when you really think about it, trace it all back, you see how one thing kept leading to another. The chain’s there.”
Captain Pinto, who now occupied Joe Leaphorn’s preretirement office in the Navajo Tribal Police Headquarters, put down his cup. He signaled a refill to the waitress who was listening to this conversation, and waited a polite moment for Leaphorn to explain this if he wished. Leaphorn had nothing to add. He just nodded, sort of agreeing with himself.
“Come on, Joe,” Pinto said. “I know how that theory works and I buy it. Hard, hot wind blowing gets the birds tired of flying. One too many birds lands on a limb. Limb breaks off, falls into a stream, diverts water flow, undercuts the stream bank, causes a landslide, blocks the stream, floods the valley, changes the flora and that changes the fauna, and the folks who were living off of hunting the deer have to migrate. When you think back you could blame it all on that wind.”
Pinto stopped, got polite, attentive silence from his fellow coffee drinkers, and decided to add a footnote.
“However, you have to do a lot of complicated thinking to work in that Joanna Craig woman. Coming all the way out from New York just because a brain-damaged Hopi tries to pawn a valuable diamond for twenty bucks.”
Captain Largo, who had driven down from his Shiprock office to attend a conference on the drunk-driving problem, entered the discussion. “Trouble is, Joe, the time gap is just too big to make you a good case. You say it started when the young man with the camera on the United Airlines plane was sort of like the last bird on Pinto’s fictional tree limb, so to speak. He mentioned to the stewardess he’d like to get some shots down into the Grand Canyon when they were flying over it. Isn’t that the theory? The stewardess mentions that to the pilot, and so he does a little turn out of the cloud they’re flying through, and cuts right through the TWA airplane. That was June 30, 1956. All right. I’ll buy that much of it. Passenger asks a favor, pilot grants it. Boom. Everybody dead. End of incident. Then this spring, about five decades later, this Hopi fella, Billy Tuve, shows up in a Gallup pawnshop and tries to pawn a twenty-thousand-dollar diamond for twenty bucks. That touches off another series of events, sort of a whole different business. I say it’s not just another chapter, it’s like a whole new book. Hell, Tuve hadn’t even been born yet when that collision happened. Right? And neither had the Craig woman.”
“Right,” said Pinto. “You have a huge gap in that cause-and-effect chain, Joe. And we’re just guessing the kid with the camera asked the pilot to turn. Nobody knows why the pilot did that.”
Leaphorn sighed. “You’re thinking about the gap you see in one single connecting chain. I’m thinking of a bunch of different chains which all seem to get drawn together.”
Largo looked skeptical, shook his head, grinned at Leaphorn. “If you had one of your famous maps here, could you chart that out for us?”
“It would look like a spiderweb,” Pinto said.
Leaphorn ignored that. “Take Joanna Craig’s role in this. The fact she wasn’t born yet is part of the connection. The crash killed her daddy. From what Craig said, that caused her mama to become a bitter woman and that caused Craig to be bitter, too. Jim Chee told me she wasn’t really after those damned diamonds when she came to the canyon. She just wanted to find them so she could get revenge.”
That produced no comment.
“You see how that works,” Leaphorn said. “And that’s what drew that Bradford Chandler fellow into the case. The skip tracer. He may have been purely after money, but his job was blocking Craig from getting what she was after. That’s what sent him down into the canyon. And Cowboy Dashee was down there doing family duty. For Chee, the pull was friendship. And—” Leaphorn stopped, sentence unfinished.
Pinto chuckled. “Go on, Joe,” he said. “How about Bernie Manuelito? What pulled little Bernie into it?”
“It was fun for Bernie,” Leaphorn said. “Or love.”
“You know,” said Largo. “I can’t get over our little Bernie. I mean, how she managed to get herself out of that mess without getting killed. And another thing that’s hard to figure is how you managed to butt in. You’re supposed to be retired.”
“Pinto gets the blame for that,” Leaphorn said. “Telling me old Shorty McGinnis had died. See? That’s another of the chain I was talking about.”
“I was just doing you a favor, Joe,” Pinto said. “I knew you were getting bored with retirement. Just wanted to give you an excuse to try your hand at detecting again.”
“Saved your budget some travel money, too,” Leaphorn said, grinning. He was remembering that day, remembering how totally out-it-all he’d felt, how happy he’d been driving north in search of the McGinnis diamond —which he’d never thought had actually existed. Now he was thinking about how a disaster buried under a lifetime of dust had risen again and the divergent emotions it had stirred. Greed, obviously, and hatred, plus family duty, a debt owed to a friend. And perhaps, in Bernie Manuelito’s case, even love.
Captain Pinto pushed back his chair, got up.
“Stick around,” Leaphorn said. “I want to tell you how this all came out with Bernie and Jim Chee.”
“Going to get some doughnuts,” Pinto said. “I’ll be right back. I want to hear that.”
2
As Leaphorn remembered it, the August day he’d been pulled into the Skeleton Man affair had been a total downer moodwise. He’d never felt more absolutely retired in the years he’d been practicing it. The young man across the desk from him, Captain Samuel Pinto, had interrupted jotting something into a notebook when Leaphorn tapped at his door. He’d glanced up with that irritated look interruptions produce, gestured Leaphorn into a chair, put aside the notebook, fished through a stack of folders, pulled two out, and looked at them.
“Ah, yes,” said Captain Pinto, “here we are.”
