A Thief of Time by Tony Hillerman Page A

had it put together.”
    There was something in Elliot’s expression. Maybe skepticism. Or disapproval. But Davis was enthusiastic.
    â€œWhat did she tell you?”
    â€œNothing much, really. But I could just sense it. That things were working out. But she wouldn’t say much.”
    â€œIt’s not traditional,” Elliot said. “Not among us scientists.”
    Leaphorn found himself as interested in what was going on with Elliot as in the thrust of the conversation. Elliot’s tone now was faintly mocking. Davis had caught it, too. She looked at Elliot and then back at Leaphorn, speaking directly to him.
    â€œThat’s true,” she said. “Before one boasts, one must have done something to boast about.”
    She said it in the mildest of voices, without looking at Elliot, but Elliot’s face flushed.
    â€œYou think she had found something important,” Leaphorn said. “She didn’t tell you anything, but something caused you to think that. Something specific. Can you think what it was?”
    Davis leaned back on the couch. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She laid her hand, in a gesture that looked casual, on Elliot’s thigh. She thought.
    â€œEllie was excited,” she said. “Happy, too. For a week, maybe a little longer, before she left.” She got up from the couch and walked past Leaphorn into the bedroom. Infinite grace, Leaphorn thought.
    â€œShe’d been over in Utah. I remember that. To Bluff, and Mexican Hat and—” Her voice from the bedroom was indistinct.
    â€œMontezuma Creek?” Leaphorn asked.
    â€œYes, all that area along the southern edge of Utah. And when she came back”—Davis emerged from the bedroom carrying a Folgers Coffee carton—“she had all these potsherds.” She put the box on the coffee table. “Same ones, I think. At least, I remember it was this box.”
    The box held what seemed to Leaphorn to be as many as fifty fragments of pots, some large, some no more than an inch across.
    Leaphorn sorted through them, looking for nothing in particular but noticing that all were reddish brown, and all bore a corrugated pattern.
    â€œDone by her potter, I guess,” Leaphorn said. “Did she say where she got them?”
    â€œFrom a Thief of Time,” Elliot said. “From a pot hunter.”
    â€œShe didn’t say that,” Davis said.
    â€œShe went to Bluff to look for pot hunters. To see what they were finding. She told you that.”
    â€œDid she say which one?” Leaphorn asked. Here might be an explanation of how she had vanished. If she had been dealing directly with a pot hunter, he might have had second thoughts. Might have thought he had sold her evidence that would put him in prison. Might have killed her when she came back for more.
    â€œShe didn’t mention any names,” Davis said.
    â€œHardly necessary,” Elliot said. “Looking for pot hunters around Bluff, you’d go see Old Man Houk. Or one of his friends. Or hired hands.”
    Bluff, Leaphorn thought. Maybe he would go there and talk to Houk. It must be the same Houk. The surviving father of the drowned murderer. The memories flooded back. Such tragedy burns deep into the brain.
    â€œSomething else you might need to know,” Davis said. “Ellie had a pistol.”
    Leaphorn waited.
    â€œShe kept it in the same drawer with that purse.”
    â€œIt wasn’t there,” Leaphorn said.
    â€œNo. It wasn’t,” Davis said. “I guess she took it with her.”
    Yes, Leaphorn thought. He would go to Bluff and talk to Houk. As Leaphorn remembered him, he was a most unusual man.

SEVEN
    J IM C HEE SAT on the edge of his bunk, rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, cleared his throat, and considered the uneasiness that had troubled his sleep. Too much death. The disturbed earth littered with too many bones. He put that thought aside. Was there