"Down to business now?" he said, making it a question. "Or just make chat while we eat?"

"Well, I am here trying to find an old friend, but I am also hungry."

"You are looking for Melvin Bork, right? The private investigator?"

Leaphorn nodded. He sipped his coffee. Excellent. He looked at his sandwich, took a small bite. Also fine.

"Why look here?"

"Because his wife thought he would be coming here to ask you about a rug. Is that correct?"

"Oh, yes. He was here." Tarkington was smiling, looking amused. "Three days ago. He had a copy of one of those expensive upscale real estate magazines with a picture of it. This magazine." He tapped the picture, smiling at Leaphorn.

Leaphorn nodded.

"He asked if I had seen a rug that looked like that, and I said yes, I had. One much like that got burned up in a fire way back. A real shame. It was a famous tale-teller rug. Famous among the bunch who love the really old weavings, and especially among the odd ones who dote on the artifacts that have scary stories attached. And this one does. Dandy stories. Full of death, starvation, all that."

He smiled at Leaphorn again, picked up his gla.s.s, rattled the ice in it.

"And it was also a wonderful example of the weavers' art. A real beauty. Bork asked me to take a close look at the magazine photo and tell him what I could about it."

Tarkington paused to take a sip of his water. And, Leaphorn presumed, to decide just how much he wanted to say about this.

"I told him the picture resembled a very old, very valuable antique. Rug people called such weavings tale tellers because they usually represent someone, or something, memorable. And the tale in this one was of all the dying, humiliation, and misery you Navajos went through when the army put you in that concentration camp over on the Pecos back about a hundred and fifty years ago."

Tarkington extracted a reading-sized magnifying gla.s.s from his jacket pocket and held it close to the photograph, studying places here and there. "Yes, it does look something like that old rug Totter had at his trading post years ago."

"Something like?" Leaphorn asked. "Can you be a little more specific than that?"

Tarkington put down the gla.s.s, studied Leaphorn. "That brings up an interesting question, doesn't it? That one was burned-let's see-back in the very late 1960s or early 1970s I think. So the question I want to ask you is, when was this photograph taken?"

"I don't know," Leaphorn said.

Tarkington considered that, shrugged.

"Well, Bork asked me if I thought it could be a photograph of a copy of the rug Totter had, and I said I guessed anything is possible, but it didn't make much sense. Even if you had real good detailed photos of the original to work from, the weavers would still be dealing with trying to match yarns, and vegetable dyes, and using different people with different weaving techniques. And with this particular rug, they would even be trying to work in the same kind of bird feathers, petals from cactus blossoms, stems and such. For example..." Tarkington paused, tapped a place on the photo with a finger. "For example, this deep color of red right here-presuming this is a good color reproduction-is pretty rare. The old weavers got it from the egg sac of one of the big desert spiders." He smiled at Leaphorn. "Sounds weird, I guess, but that's what the experts say. And it gives you an idea how tough it would be to make a copy."

Tarkington sipped his water again, eyes on Leaphorn, waiting for a reaction.

"I guess you're telling me that Bork asked you for an opinion about whether the photograph was of a copy of the original."

"Yep. He did. And I told him it was probably a photograph of somebody's effort at making a copy. Pretty d.a.m.ned good one, too. I suggested he might call the fellow who has it on his wall. See if he'd let him take a look at it. And then Mr. Bork said he thought he would do that, but he wanted to find out what I thought about it first. And I said those superrich folks who collect artifacts like that are going to be very careful about who they let into their house unless they know you. Bork said he thought about that and he wanted me to sort of introduce him so the man would let him in. And I had to tell him I didn't actually know the man myself. Just by reputation." Tarkington picked up his cup, noticed it was empty, put it down.

"Bork thought a man named Jason Delos had bought that house. I guess I could call information to get his telephone number. If it's listed," Leaphorn said. "Is that the right name? I think I'll need to go talk to him."

"You're right about the number being unlisted," Tarkington said. "And Jason Delos is the name. I guess he must be out of a Greek family."

Leaphorn nodded. "Am I right in guessing you know his number?"

"Carrie," Tarkington shouted. "Bring Mr. Leaphorn some more coffee and me some more ice water."

"You know him just by reputation? Who is he?"

Tarkington laughed. "I know him just as a potential future customer. It's obvious he has a lot of money. Collects expensive stuff. Moved in here a while back, either from Southern California because the sun was bad for his wife's skin condition, or Oregon, because the fog and humidity depressed his wife." Tarkington gave Leaphorn a wry smile. "You know how reliable gossip is out here where we don't have a lot of people to gossip about. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised to hear he doesn't have a wife. n.o.body seems ever to have met her. He has a middle-aged Asian man living out there with him. Sort of a butler, I think. And he uses a maid/laundry service, and so forth. And that butler leads into another story."

With that Tarkington shook his head and laughed, signaling to Leaphorn that this story did not carry his certification.

"This one makes Mr. Delos some sort of CIA agent, did a lot of work in the Vietnam War, retired after that and went into some sort of investment business. Then another version is that he got kicked out of the CIA because a bunch of the money our government was using to pay off South Vietnam government types when they were arranging that coup to get rid of President Diem-you remember that business?"

"I've read about it," Leaphorn said. "As I remember, it blew up into a big battle in Saigon with paratroopers attacking Diem's bunch in the Presidential Palace."

"Yeah. It brought in a new president more popular with President Kennedy. Well, anyway, the way the gossip goes, the CIA, or whatever they were calling it then, had been handing out bags of money to help arrange that, and some of the generals who were getting it thought they were shorted. One of those quiet investigations got started, and it was concluded that some of those money bags got lighter when in the custody of Mr. Delos."

"Oh," Leaphorn said, and nodded.

Tarkington shrugged. "Well, you could probably find a couple of other versions of the Delos biography if you wanted to ask around in Flagstaff. He just sits up there all alone on his mountain and gives us somebody interesting to talk about. Take your pick, whichever version you prefer. Like a lot of rich folks, he's into protecting his family's privacy, so our gossiping fraternity has to be creative."

The Hopi girl returned, smiled at Leaphorn, refilled his coffee cup, refilled Tarkington's gla.s.s, and left.

"What I really want to know, I guess, is how he got that rug. Then I track it back, find out who made it, and that's the end of it," Leaphorn said. "So I need to know his telephone number so I can go ask him."

Tarkington was grinning. "So you can be done with this case, and go back to your usual police duties?"

"So I can go back to being a bored-stiff-by-retirement former policeman."

"Well," Tarkington said, staring at Leaphorn. "If you do learn anything interesting-for example, who copied it if anyone actually did, and why, and so forth-I'd sure appreciate hearing all about it."

Leaphorn considered that. "All right," he said.

Now Tarkington took a moment to think. He sipped his water again, while Leaphorn sipped coffee.

"You may have noticed I love to talk," Tarkington said, emphasizing the statement with a wry smile. "That would give me something new to talk about."

Leaphorn nodded. "But you haven't told me his number."

"You had the name right," Tarkington said. "Jason Delos."

Leaphorn picked up a second sandwich, took a bite. Judged it as very good.

"Of course I collect stuff myself," Tarkington said, and gestured into the gallery to demonstrate. "And I collect stories. Love 'em. And that d.a.m.ned Woven Sorrow Woven Sorrow tale-teller rug collected them like dogs collect fleas. And I want to know what you find out from Delos, if anything, and how this all turns out. Will you promise me that?" tale-teller rug collected them like dogs collect fleas. And I want to know what you find out from Delos, if anything, and how this all turns out. Will you promise me that?"

"If it's possible," Leaphorn said.

Tarkington leaned forward, pointed at an odd-looking pot on a desk by the wall. "See that image of the snake on that ceramic there? That's a Supai pot. But why is that snake pink? It's a rattler, and they're not that color. Well, I guess they are in one deep part of the Grand Canyon. There's a very rare and officially endangered species down there in Havasupai territory, and they have a great story in their mythology about how it came to be pink. And that's going to make that pot a lot more valuable to the fellow who collects it."

He stared at Leaphorn, looking for some sign of agreement.

"I know that's true," Leaphorn said. "But I'm not sure I understand why."

"Because the collector gets the story along with the pot. People say why is that snake pink. He explains. That makes him an authority." Tarkington laughed. "You Navajos don't practice that one-upmanship game like we do. You fellows who stay in that harmony philosophy."

Leaphorn grinned. "Be more accurate to say a lot of Navajos try, but remember we have a curing ceremony to heal us when we start getting vengeful, or greedy, or-what do you call it-'getting ahead of the Joneses.'"

"Yeah," Tarkington said. "I could tell you a tale about trying to get a Navajo businessman to buy a really fancy saddle. Lots of silver decorations, beautiful st.i.tching, even turquoise worked in. He was interested. Then I told him it would make him look like the richest man on the big reservation. And he took a step back and said it would make him look like a witch."

Leaphorn nodded. "Yes," he said. "At least it would make the traditional Dineh suspicious. Unless he didn't have any poor kinfolks whom he should have been helping. And all of us have poor kinfolks."

Tarkington shrugged. "Prestige," he said. "You Navajos aren't so hungry for that. I'll ask a Navajo about something that I know he's downright expert about. He won't just tell me. He'll precede telling me by saying, 'They say.' Not wanting me to think he is claiming the credit."

"I guess I've heard that preamble a million times," Leaphorn said. "In fact, I do it myself sometimes." He was thinking that at his age, already retired, left on the shelf like the pink snake, he should understand that white cultural values were different from those of the Dineh, remembering how Navajo kids were conditioned by their elders to be part of the community, not to stand out, not to be the authority; remembering how poorly that att.i.tude had served his generation, the age group that had been bused away to Bureau of Indian Affairs boarding schools to be melded into the belagaana belagaana culture. culture.

"Who discovered America?" the teacher would ask. Every student in the cla.s.s knew the belagaana belagaana answer was Christopher Columbus, but only the Hopi and Zuni kids would hold up their hands. And if the teacher pointed to a Navajo kid, that kid would inevitably precede his answer with the "they say" disclaimer. And the teacher, instead of crediting the Navajo with being politely modest, would presume he was taking a politically correct Native American att.i.tude and implying that he was refusing to agree with what textbook and teacher had been telling him. Remembering all that, and the confusion it sometimes produced, caused Leaphorn to smile. answer was Christopher Columbus, but only the Hopi and Zuni kids would hold up their hands. And if the teacher pointed to a Navajo kid, that kid would inevitably precede his answer with the "they say" disclaimer. And the teacher, instead of crediting the Navajo with being politely modest, would presume he was taking a politically correct Native American att.i.tude and implying that he was refusing to agree with what textbook and teacher had been telling him. Remembering all that, and the confusion it sometimes produced, caused Leaphorn to smile.

The smile puzzled Tarkington. He looked slightly disappointed.

"Anyway, I'd like to hear more about the stories you've collected about this tale-teller rug," Leaphorn said. "I'll tell you what I hear if it's anything new."

Tarkington took another sandwich. He pa.s.sed the tray to Leaphorn, his expression genial again.

"First one I'll tell you is pretty well doc.u.mented, I think. Probably mostly true. Seems the rug was started by a young woman named Cries a Lot, a woman in the Streams Come Together clan. It was in the final days of the stay in the Bosque Redondo concentration camp. She was one of the nine thousand of your people the army rounded up and marched way over to the Pecos River Valley to get them out of the way."

Tarkington paused, raised his eyebrows. "But I guess I don't need to refresh your memory about the Long Walk."

"No," Leaphorn said, smiling. "My maternal grandfather used to tell us about freezing to death out there in his winter hogan stories when I was a boy. And then my paternal great-grandfather had his own stories about the bunch who escaped that roundup, and spent those years hiding out in the mountains."

Tarkington chuckled "And the government then makes sure you don't forget it. Calls a big piece of your s.p.a.ce out here the Kit Carson National Forest, in memory of the colonel in charge of rounding you up, and burning down your hogans, and chopping down your peach orchards."

"We don't blame Kit Carson much," Leaphorn said. "He comes out pretty decent in the hogan stories, and the history books, too. It was General George Carlton who issued that General Order 15 and gave the shoot-to-kill and scorched-earth orders."

"Most Americans never heard of that, I'm afraid," Tarkington said. "We don't teach our kids our version of how we tried Hitler's final solution on you folks. Round you all up, kill anyone who tries to escape, drive off the cattle, let the Indians starve. We ought to have a chapter in all our history books describing that."

Tarkington took the final bite of his sandwich, considering this, seeming to Leaphorn to be more troubled by the failing of historians than by the deed itself.

"There'll never be a chapter on that," Leaphorn said. "And I'm glad there isn't. Why keep that kind of hatred alive? We have our curing ceremonials to get people back in harmony. Get rid of the anger. Get happy again."

"I know," Tarkington said. "But according to the stories I hear, a lot of memories of that brutality live on in that Woven Sorrow Woven Sorrow rug. They say that when the Navajo headmen signed that treaty with General Sherman in 1866 and the survivors started their long walk home, that young woman and her sister brought the beginnings of the rug with them and kept working on it, working in little reminders of their treatment. Little bit of a root woven in here, and rat hair there, and so forth, as reminders of what they were eating to keep from starving. Anyway, so the story goes, the weaving went on when the families began getting their flocks reestablished for some good wool. And other people heard about it, and more weavers got a hand in it and added another bitter memory of misery and murder and dying children. And then, finally, one of the clan headmen, some say it was either Barboncito or Manuelito, told the weavers it violated the Navajo way to preserve evil. He wanted all the weavers to arrange an Enemy Way sing to cure themselves of all those hateful memories and restore themselves to harmony." rug. They say that when the Navajo headmen signed that treaty with General Sherman in 1866 and the survivors started their long walk home, that young woman and her sister brought the beginnings of the rug with them and kept working on it, working in little reminders of their treatment. Little bit of a root woven in here, and rat hair there, and so forth, as reminders of what they were eating to keep from starving. Anyway, so the story goes, the weaving went on when the families began getting their flocks reestablished for some good wool. And other people heard about it, and more weavers got a hand in it and added another bitter memory of misery and murder and dying children. And then, finally, one of the clan headmen, some say it was either Barboncito or Manuelito, told the weavers it violated the Navajo way to preserve evil. He wanted all the weavers to arrange an Enemy Way sing to cure themselves of all those hateful memories and restore themselves to harmony."

Tarkington took a sip of water. "What do you think of that?"

"Interesting," Leaphorn said. "My mother's mother told us something like that one winter when I was about ten or so. She didn't approve of what those weavers were doing either. She told us about three of the shamans in her clan getting together and putting a special sort of curse on that rug."

"I heard something like that, too," Tarkington said. "They said it had too many chindi chindi a.s.sociated with it. Too many ghosts of dead Navajos, starved and frozen and killed by the soldiers. The rug would make people sick, bring down evil on people involved with it." a.s.sociated with it. Too many ghosts of dead Navajos, starved and frozen and killed by the soldiers. The rug would make people sick, bring down evil on people involved with it."

"Well, that's the way it's supposed to work. You keep your bad memories, grudges, hatreds, and all that alive with you, and it makes you sick." Leaphorn chuckled. "Not bad reasoning for people who never enrolled in introduction to psychology."

"Christians have that thought in their Lord's Prayer," Tarkington said. "You know: 'Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.' Too bad a lot of 'em don't practice what they're preaching."

Leaphorn let that pa.s.s.

Tarkington stared at him. "I'm thinking about people crying when the judge gives the guy who killed their kid just life in prison instead of the death penalty they were praying for."

Leaphorn nodded.

Tarkington sighed. "But back to the rug. I've heard bad luck stories about people who owned it down through the years." He shrugged. "You know. Murders, suicides, bad luck."

"We Dineh don't believe much in luck," Leaphorn said. "More in a sort of inevitable chain of causes producing naturally inevitable effects."

And when he said that, he was thinking of Grace Bork's fear, and of what sort of cosmic cause-and-effect chain might involve that Woven Sorrow Woven Sorrow rug, the photo of it, the fire at Totter's Trading Post, the wanted murderer burned in there, Mel Bork's being sucked into it, and the death threat taped on his answering machine. Then, suddenly, he was thinking of himself being sucked in as well. By being at Grandma Peshlakai's hogan and having his hunt for her pinyon sap bandit being interrupted by the fire because it destroyed the FBI's most wanted murderer. He shook his head, produced a rueful smile. No. That seemed to be stretching the Navajo cosmic natural connection philosophy a little too far. rug, the photo of it, the fire at Totter's Trading Post, the wanted murderer burned in there, Mel Bork's being sucked into it, and the death threat taped on his answering machine. Then, suddenly, he was thinking of himself being sucked in as well. By being at Grandma Peshlakai's hogan and having his hunt for her pinyon sap bandit being interrupted by the fire because it destroyed the FBI's most wanted murderer. He shook his head, produced a rueful smile. No. That seemed to be stretching the Navajo cosmic natural connection philosophy a little too far.

6.

Luxury Living magazine protected the privacy of those who allowed its photographers access to their mansions. It published neither names nor addresses. Leaphorn had concluded, by studying the view through the window beside the magazine protected the privacy of those who allowed its photographers access to their mansions. It published neither names nor addresses. Leaphorn had concluded, by studying the view through the window beside the Woven Sorrow Woven Sorrow rug, that the house was in the high slopes outside Flagstaff-one of the handsome residences built as summer homes for those who enjoyed the long views and the cool mountain air and could afford a second home. After some stalling, Tarkington checked his address file and read all the information off it that he considered pertinent to Leaphorn. But the telephone number? It's unlisted, Tarkington said. But you'd certainly know it, Leaphorn had insisted. Well, yes, Tarkington had admitted. But don't let anyone know you got it from me. rug, that the house was in the high slopes outside Flagstaff-one of the handsome residences built as summer homes for those who enjoyed the long views and the cool mountain air and could afford a second home. After some stalling, Tarkington checked his address file and read all the information off it that he considered pertinent to Leaphorn. But the telephone number? It's unlisted, Tarkington said. But you'd certainly know it, Leaphorn had insisted. Well, yes, Tarkington had admitted. But don't let anyone know you got it from me.

And thus Leaphorn left the Tarkington Museum Gallery with nothing much more than he arrived with-except for an expert's vague opinion that the rug in the photo might or might not be a copy of the original Woven Sorrow Woven Sorrow, and that making such a copy would be very difficult and, besides, who would want to do it? Beyond that, he had enjoyed two cups of excellent coffee, two tasty but not filling sandwiches, and an interesting version of the story of how that rug had come to be woven, and its history of spreading the misery, brutality, and misfortune it was designed to recall. The only thing he'd received that might help him was the telephone number of Jason Delos.

Leaphorn pulled into a Burger King, ordered a burger, found the pay phone, picked up the receiver, then decided not to call Delos. Not yet. First he would call the Coconino Sheriff's Department and find Sergeant Kelly Garcia.

If Garcia was in, he might know something useful about Mel Bork. And if Grace Bork had played that telephone tape for him as she said she would, maybe Garcia would have some ideas about that. Anyway, it was a reasonable way of postponing the call to Delos. He had a sad feeling that the call would lead him to a dead end. But if he just called Grace Bork saying he had nothing helpful to tell her, and then made the long drive back to Shiprock, he would be welcomed there by the loneliness of an empty house and the smell of an almost-full half gallon of milk, thoroughly soured by now, which he had forgotten to put back in the fridge.

He dialed the sheriff's office. Yes, Sergeant Garcia was in.

"This is Garcia," the next voice said.

"Joe Leaphorn," Leaphorn said. "I used to be with-"

"Hey, Lieutenant Leaphorn," Garcia said, sounding pleased. "Haven't heard your voice since we worked on that Ute Mountain burglary thing. Somebody told me you were going to retire," Garcia continued. "I said, no way. Old Leaphorn ain't the kind of man you'll see out there chasing those golf b.a.l.l.s around the gra.s.s. Just couldn't quite imagine that."

"Well, I am retired," Leaphorn admitted. "You're right about the golf thing. And now I'm trying to act like a detective again. Trying to find a friend from way back. A fellow named Mel Bork. Runs a private-eye business."

"Yeah," Garcia said. "Mrs. Bork called me. Said she had talked to you. Had me listen to her answering machine tape." Garcia made a clicking sound with his tongue.

"What did you think?"

"Makes you wonder what Mel's got himself into, doesn't it?"

"It made me wonder. And if you have any time, I'd like to talk to you about it. Could we get together for a cup of coffee?"

"I can't handle it today," Garcia said.

Leaphorn overheard him shouting at someone, then a little bit of one end of a conversation, then Garcia came back on the phone.

"Okay," he said. "Maybe I can. You remember the Havacup Cafe there by the courthouse? How about meeting me there. Thirty minutes or so."