THE RED PLASTIC BAG was in a storage room on the second floor among scores of identical plastic bags, all arranged in alphabetical order.
“Bracken,” the attendant said. “Caldwell. Charley. Here it is. Emerson Charley. You can take a look at it there on that table.”
Chee removed a crushed black felt hat, a pair of cowboy boots which needed half soles, a denim jacket, a Timex watch with a steel band, a plaid cotton shirt, a T-shirt, a pair of jockey shorts, a pair of worn denim jeans, socks, a set of car keys, a pocket knife, a small leather pouch attached to a long leather thong, two blue shoestrings, a package of paper matches, and a billfold. He put the leather pouch and the billfold aside and quickly explored all the pockets. They were empty. Then he inspected the billfold. It contained a five, two ones, a driver’s license, a social security card, and a card identifying the agent who had written the liability policy on Charley’s pickup truck.
Then he picked up the leather pouch.
“What’s that?” Mary asked. “What are you looking for?”
“It’s where you carry your ceremonial stuff,” Chee said. “Supposed to be made of the hide of a deer killed in the ritual fashion. It holds your gall medicine. What you use against witchcraft. A little pollen. Maybe a little ceremonial corn meal…” He pulled open the draw cord and fished into the pouch with his fingers. “And it’s where you carry your amulet, if you carry one.”
The amulet he extracted was black, and dull, and shaped into the eyeless, sharp-nosed form of a mole. He held it up for Mary’s inspection. It was heavy, formed from a soft stone. Some sort of shale, Chee guessed. “Here we have Dine’etse-tle,” Chee said. “The predator of the nadir. The hunting spirit of the underworld. One of the People of Darkness.”
He stared at it, heavy on his palm, hoping for some information. It was well formed – better than most amulets. Chee remembered the amateur sculpture in B. J. Vines’ huge office. Had Vines made this? Was this formed from one of those fragments of black rock Emerson Charley had found in Vines’ keepsake box? Perhaps. But what did that mean? He slipped the mole back into the pouch.
“Did it tell you anything?”
Chee recited two lines of Navajo. “That’s from one of the blessing chants,” he said.
The mole, his hunting place is darkness.
The mole, his hunting song is silence.