Free Coyote Waits by Tony Hillerman Page A

be looking across the tops of the cottonwoods lining the San Juan and southwestward toward the sagebrush foothills of the Chuskas. He would be seeing the towering black shape of Ship Rock on the horizon, and perhaps Rol-Hai Rock, and Mitten Rock. No. Those landmarks would be beyond the horizon from Mr. Ji’s viewpoint at the window. Chee was creating them by looking into his own memory.
    Mr. Ji’s expression seemed sad. What was Huan Ji seeing in his own memory? Perhaps he was converting the gray-blue desert mountains of Dinetah into the wet green mountains of his homeland.
    Chee cleared his throat.
    “Mr. Ji,” he said.
    Five students looked up from their work, staring at Chee. Mr. Ji’s gaze out the window didn’t waver.
    Chee stepped into the classroom. “Mr. Ji,” he said.
    Mr. Ji jerked around, his expression startled.
    “Ah,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
    “I wonder when I might talk to you,” Chee said. “Just for a moment.”
    “We’re about finished here,” Ji said. He looked at the five students, who looked back at him. He looked at his watch. “You can go now,” he said. “If you have finished, give me your papers. If not, bring them in tomorrow — finished and corrected.” He turned to Chee. “You are a parent?”
    “No sir,” Chee said. “I’m Officer Chee. With the Navajo Tribal Police.” As he said it, he was conscious of Mr. Ji noticing the thick bandage on his hand, his denims, his short-sleeved sport shirt. “Off duty,” he added.
    “Ah,” Mr. Ji said. “What can I tell you?”
    Chee heard hurrying footsteps — Janet Pete coming down the hallway toward them. Hosteen Pinto would be legally represented in this conversation, he thought. Well, why not? But it bothered him. Where does friend end and lawyer start?
    “Mr. Ji?” Janet asked, slightly breathless.
    “This is Janet Pete,” Chee said. “An attorney.”
    Mr. Ji bowed slightly. If Mr. Ji ever allowed confusion to show, it would have shown now. “Is this about one of my students?” he said.
    The last of Mr. Ji’s students hurried past them, the urge to be away overcoming curiosity.
    “Miss Pete represents Ashie Pinto,” Chee said.
    It seemed to Jim Chee that Mr. Ji momentarily stopped breathing. He looked at Janet Pete, his face showing no emotion at all.
    “Is there a place we could talk?” Chee asked.
    Someone was in the teachers’ lounge. They walked out to where Janet’s Toyota was parked.
    “Is this your car?” Chee pointed to the Jeepster.
    “Yes,” Ji said.
    “It was seen out on Navajo 33 the night Officer Delbert Nez was killed.”
    Ji said nothing. Chee waited.
    Ji’s face was blank. (The inscrutable Oriental, Chee thought. Where had he heard that? Mary Landon had used it once to describe him. “You are, you know. You guys came over the icecap from the steppes of Mongolia or Tibet or someplace like that. We came out of the dark forests of Norway.”)
    “What was the date?” Ji asked.
    Chee told him. “That was the night of the rain. Good hard rain. It would have been between seven-thirty and eight. But getting dark because the storm was coming.”
    “Yes,” Ji said. “I remember it. I was there.”
    “Did you see anyone? Anything?” Janet Pete asked.
    “Where?” Ji asked.
    Chee suppressed a frown. It seemed a stupid question.
    “Where you were. Out beyond Ship Rock,” he said. “East of Red Rock on Route 33.”
    “I don’t remember seeing anything,” Ji said.
    “How about after you turned north on Route 63?”
    “Route 63?” Ji looked genuinely puzzled. Not too surprising. Not many people, including those who routinely drove that dusty, bumpy route, would know its map number.
    “The gravel road close to Red Rock that goes north toward Biklabito and Ship Rock.”
    “Oh,” Ji said, nodding. “No. I saw nothing. Not that I remember.”
    “You didn’t see the fire, Nez’s car burning?”
    “I think I saw a glow. I thought it was the lights