Sacred Clowns

Somewhere in the middle of that thought Leaphorn went to sleep.

After so many hours with so much nervous tension and so little rest he should have slept deeply. And he did for a while, as the light of the setting autumn sun reflected through Dorsey’s dusty curtain and then faded into twilight. But as the room darkened, Leaphorn’s subconscious returned to Davis, and to his ruined reputation, and to the big man standing at the door of room 127, pounding on it. Finally, no longer quite asleep, Leaphorn was remembering Davis accepting his card, and the expression on that honest face when Davis realized that Leaphorn, despite his civilian clothing, was still a policeman.

“Damn,” Leaphorn said. He reached for the telephone, dialed Streib’s office number. He got no answer. He glanced at his watch. It was almost seven. He dialed Streib’s home.

On the second ring a voice said, “Streib.”

“This is Leaphorn,” Leaphorn said. “If your people haven’t picked up Applebee yet, I’d tell them to rush it. Asher Davis was looking for him at the Navajo Nation I

A long silence. “You might be right,” Streib said. “Do you know why?”

The tone of the question surprised Leaphorn. “Well, I think he finally figured out just how totally Applebee had betrayed him.” He hesitated. “When I saw him at Applebee’s door there at the i

“You’re good at this psychology stuff, Joe. But you need to work on the timing.”

“Meaning what?” But even then he sensed what Streib meant. Davis had found his friend.

“Meaning I called the I

“Just walked up and shot him? Killed him?”

“Three times in the chest with a forty-five. That’ll do it.”

“Just shot him? Didn’t say anything?”

Streib laughed. “Well, yes. I was walking up from the other side and Applebee saw Davis coming and he must have seen the gun and he said something and Davis yelled at him. Said, ‘Roger, don’t say a goddam word.’ Then bang, bang, bang.”

Leaphorn had nothing to say.

Streib said, “I told him to drop the gun and he turned it around and handed me the butt and he put his hands behind his back to get handcuffed. And then I remembered you reminding me about reading him his rights, and I got that out of the way, and-”

“Applebee was dead?”

“Davis asked me that, too. I said, yeah, he’s dead, and he said, ‘Of course. Roger always left me to deal with the problem.’ You know what he meant by that?”

“I guess so,” Leaphorn said. But he didn’t want to explain it now. He wanted to get out of Dorsey’s haunted room, out into the air. It was time to go home.

He rose and pulled back the curtain for another look at the weather. Almost full dark now. Cloudy. Snow by morning, he guessed. What did he have to eat at home? He was out of milk, he remembered. Eggs but no bacon. Maybe a can of chili left, and about a half-loaf of bread, sort of stale. He stretched, grimaced at the painful stiffness in his back. He really didn’t want to go home. The house would be cold. The bed would be cold. His footsteps would echo. Where was Louisa now?

He turned out the light, locked behind him the door that was no longer Dorsey’s door, and started down the walk. Louisa would be leaving Honolulu by now, he thought. In the air. He imagined himself in the seat beside her. He imagined himself holding her hand. He imagined listening to her telling him what to expect in China. He imagined -

In the darkness, a woman was walking across the gravel toward him. Louisa.

“Joe Leaphorn,” she said. “You are one hell of a hard man to locate.”

Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn was speechless.

“You leave me a message on the answering machine. But then you’re not at your office, and you’re not at home. You don’t seem to be anyplace at all. But Virginia, bless her, Virginia finally-”

“What are you doing here?” Leaphorn asked. “Why aren’t you on that airplane?”

“I can always go to China,” Louisa said. “You said you were suspended. I thought you would need somebody.”

“I do.” Leaphorn realized that his voice was shaky. But it didn’t matter. “I need you.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The characters in this book are figments of the author’s imagination, representing no one. Nor does Tano Pueblo exist. What one sees of Tano ceremonialism herein is a melding of the author’s experience at other pueblos.

The author is indebted for the help and advice of Dr. Louis Hieb of the University of Arizona, the author of many works on the koshare and the ritual clowns of the Hopis. However, Tano is not a Hopi village and the descriptions in this book do not represent Hopi religious activities.

About the Author

TONY HILLERMAN is past president of the Mystery Writers of America and has received its Edgar and Grand Master Awards. His other honors include the Center for the American Indian’s Ambassador Award, the Silver Spur Award for the best novel set in the West, and the Navajo Tribe’s Special Friend Award. He lives with his wife, Marie, in Albuquerque, New Mexico.