“Time to get moving again,” he said. “Mr. Delonie will be getting home from wherever he works about now. Time to get back on the road. Get down to Torreon and find out where he lives.”
Fastening his seat belt, Leaphorn noticed Tommy was staring at him. Tommy frowned, gestured toward the glove box.
“Your telephone,” he said. “I think I hear it ringing in there.”
Leaphorn got it out, flipped it open. Punched the wrong button. Punched the proper one. Listened.
“Hello?”
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TONY HILLERMAN
“Is this Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn?” a voice asked.
“Ted Rostic asked me to call you about an obituary. I’m Carter Bradley, and I guess I’ve got some bad news for you.” Bradley chuckled. “Or maybe it’s good news.”
“About Totter?” Leaphorn said.
“Yeah. Saint Anthony’s Hospital records said they hadn’t admitted anyone named Totter. Not that year anyway. Hope I got the date right.” He repeated it.
“That’s right,” Leaphorn said.
“Had a Tyler die a few weeks after that date,” Bradley said. “But that was a woman.”
“I wonder if whoever sent the obituary to the paper had the hospital right. Seems unlikely, but you—”
“Well, the obituary said this Totter was buried in the Veterans Administration cemetery. Turns out he wasn’t.
No record of it, and the VA keeps good records.”
“Well, I thank you,” Leaphorn said. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“I am,” Bradley said. “Why would anybody pull a stunt like that?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Leaphorn said. “Did you call Ted Rostic?”
“I did,” Bradley said. “He didn’t know either. But he didn’t sound surprised either.”
Leaphorn pulled back onto the highway, heading for Torreon, thinking how he’d have to handle this. Tommy Vang was watching him, looking curious.
Leaphorn sighed.
“Tommy,” he said. “I am going to tell you some very important things. Very serious for you and other people, too.
That call was about Mr. Totter, the man who had that famous rug hanging on Mr. Delos’s wall. You know about that?” THE SHAPE SHIFTER
197
“I heard something about it,” Tommy said. “About his gallery being burned, but somehow the carpet being saved. And about Mr. Totter going away and dying, and being buried.”
“That call was from an old retired newspaper reporter. Somebody about like me. He checked for me back in Oklahoma where Mr. Totter was supposed to have gone. But Mr. Bradley found out that Mr. Totter didn’t die in that hospital there. And he hasn’t been buried.”
“Oh,” Tommy said, looking surprised, awaiting an explanation.
“I think he is still alive. And I think he is a very dangerous man.”
“Ah,” Tommy said, and raised his eyebrows.
“You’re not going to like hearing what I’m going to tell you, Tommy. And I can’t prove a lot of it. But when we find Mr. Delonie, I’m going to tell him all this, too. And maybe he’s the one who can prove whether I’m wrong or right.” He shrugged. “Probably the only one, for that matter—”
“I guess this is all about what Mr. Delos has been doing with those cherries?” Tommy Vang said. His tone sad.
“Yes, and more than that. In a way, I guess it’s about all these religious things we’ve been talking about. About the chief of the evil spirits you Hmong call Nau Yong.”
“All right,” Tommy Vang said. “I will listen.”
“Let’s start way back when you were still a teenager, living in San Francisco. By yourself then, because Mr. Delos was mostly away on his long business trips. We move to this area. To a service station-tourist gallery-food store beside the highway, run by a couple named Handy.
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TONY HILLERMAN
One day, a man showed up there. He gave his name as Ray Shewnack, a big, good-looking man, great smile, made friends fast.”
Leaphorn described what happened next, how Shewnack killed Handy and his wife, betrayed his new friends, and vanished with the money.
“Now we skip ahead to when you are a mature man, living mostly alone in California with Mr. Delos often away on a business trip. A man who calls himself Totter buys a roadside store, adds an Indian art gallery to it, does some business. Time passes; the three who went to prison for the Handys’ murders are now getting out on parole.” Leaphorn paused, studied Tommy, who had his lips pursed, staring ahead, seeming deep in memories. Putting things together, Leaphorn hoped.
