leaving, and he only got about twenty miles down the road before he ran off into the canyon. Now, given the fact he was a retired cop, and a very experienced moun-THE SHAPE SHIFTER
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tain driver, I’d say it would be a matter of a very few minutes.”
“Well, I’d say that fits very well,” Saunders said. “And when you catch the man who doctored up the cherry, I want to hear about it.”
16
While this conversation was winding down, Leaphorn had been keeping a casual eye on various auction attendees milling in the parking lot, hoping to see someone he recognized from his distant past, and failing at that. But as he slid the cell phone back into his jacket pocket he noticed that a young-looking man seemed to have taken an interest in his pickup truck. He was standing right beside it now, peering into the truck bed.
Leaphorn crossed the lot at something close to a trot, passed the hulking Ford 250 King Cab parked at the end of the row, an equally bulky Dodge Ram, and an SUV whose heritage he didn’t identify. Beyond was his pickup, with a slender man leaning way into its bed, and then coming out of it looking at something in his hand.
The man was Tommy Vang, and Tommy Vang was holding a paper sack, carefully unfolding its top, preparing to open it.
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“Ah, Mr. Vang,” Leaphorn said, “Professor Bourbonette told me you might be coming here to see me.” Tommy Vang had spun with remarkable agility. He stood, feet spread, facing Leaphorn; his eyes were wide as he sucked in a breath.
“And what have you found there?” Leaphorn asked.
“That looks like that lunch sack you so kindly prepared for me at your place.” Leaphorn was talking slowly, intent on Vang’s expression. It had varied from stunned to an unreadable blank.
“That was very polite of you,” Leaphorn added. “I’m sorry to say I’ve been too busy to enjoy it.” Vang nodded, holding the sack against his chest, looking like a little boy caught stealing.
“What caused you to think of making me a lunch?” Leaphorn reached for the sack, lifted it from Vang’s un- resisting hand. “Professor Bourbonette told me you had come to see me in Shiprock. She said you might come here looking for me. Is that correct?” Vang had regained his composure. He swallowed.
Nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I came out to here hoping I could talk to you.”
“Why?”
Vang swallowed again. “To tell you that your friend—
that Mr. Bork who came to see us just before you came.
To tell you he was killed in a car accident. I thought you should know about that.”
Leaphorn waited, eyes on Vang. “Oh?” he said.
“Yes,” Vang said, producing a smile. “You had come to our house looking for him. Remember?”
“Did Mr. Delos send you?”
Vang hesitated. Thought. “Yes,” he said. Grimaced.
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Shook his head. “No,” he said. “He has gone to hunt for another elk. But I thought I should come when I heard on the radio how Mr. Bork died.”
Leaphorn unfolded the sack, looked in, saw a neatly made white bread sandwich wrapped in waxed paper and a Ziploc kitchen bag containing what seemed to be a V-shaped slice of something that must be fruitcake.
“This cake of yours looks very good,” he said. “But remember what I told you and Mr. Delos, I never eat it very much because—” he smiled at Vang, and rubbed his stomach “—because for some reason it makes me sick.
Ever since I was a boy. We Navajos never did eat much fruitcake. I guess we’re not used to it.” Vang nodded, looking less tense, suddenly looking pleased. He held out his hand. “Then I am glad you didn’t eat it,” he said. “I will take it back now. It will be stale pretty soon.” He shook his head, frowned disapprovingly.
“Not so good anymore anyway, so I will take it away and get rid of it.”
Leaphorn opened the Ziploc bag, slipped out the slice, and inspected it. It was stiff, firm, multicolored from the fruits mixed into it. He noticed a bit of yellow, probably pineapple, and what might be a bit of apple, and a chunk of peach, and lots and lots of dark red spots. Cherry red, Leaphorn thought. And another cherry, a great big one, sat atop the slice.
“I must say it does look delicious,” Leaphorn said. “I think if I had taken it out and looked at it, I would have loved it.” Leaphorn spent a moment admiring the cake, smiling at Tommy Vang. “Where did you learn how to cook like this, like this wonderful cake? Mr. Delos told me that all of your cooking is excellent.”
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Vang shrugged, produced a sort of shy, half-embarrassed smile.
“Mr. Delos, he sent me to cooking schools. At first when we stopped in Hawaii, and then again in San Francisco.” The smile broadened, became enthusiastic. “It was a great school there. We baked pies. All kind of pies. And muffins and biscuits. Learned how to bake fish, and make kinds of chowder, and stews with vegetables. Learned just about everything. Even pancakes. Even jackflaps.”
“And this fruitcake.” Leaphorn displayed the slice. “Is this your production?”
“Oh, yes,” Vang said.
