The First Eagle by Tony Hillerman

Author:Tony Hillerman [Hillerman, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Mystery
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The van was parked on the sandy bed of a shallow wash, partly shaded by a cluster of jumpers and screened by a growth of four-winged salt-bush. No one was visible, but what looked like an oversized air-conditioning unit was purring away on its roof. Chee stood on the fold-down step beside its door and rapped on the metal, then rapped again, and—harder this time—once again. No response. He tried the doorknob. Locked. He leaned his ear against the door and listened. Nothing at first, except the vibrations from the air conditioner, then a faint, rhythmic sound.

Chee stepped back from the van and inspected it. It had a custom-made body mounted on a heavy GMC truck chassis with dual rear wheels. It looked expensive, fairly new and—judging from the dents and abrasions—heavily (or carelessly) used in rough country. Except for the lack of a door, nothing was different on the driver’s side. Built against the rear was a fold-down metal ladder to provide access to the roof and a rack, which now held a dirt bike, a folding table and two chairs, a five-gallon gasoline can, a pick, a shovel, and an assortment of rodent traps and cages. There were no windows on the rear and the only side windows were high on the wall. Placed high, Chee guessed, to allow more space for storage cabinets.

He knocked again, rattled the knob, shouted, received no response, put his ear against the door again. This time he heard another faint sound. Something scratching. A tiny squeak, like chalk on a blackboard.

Chee folded down the access ladder, climbed onto the roof, dropped to his stomach, and secured a firm grip on the air-conditioner engine mount. Then he squirmed over the edge and leaned down to look into the high windows. All he saw was darkness and a streak of light reflecting from a white surface.

“Ho, there,” a voice shouted. “Whatcha doing?”

Chee jerked his head up. He looked down into a face staring up at him, expression quizzical, bright blue eyes, dark, sun-peeled face, tufts of gray hair protruding from under a dark blue cap that bore the legend SQUIBB. The man carried what looked like a shoebox containing what seemed to be a dead prairie dog inside a plastic sack.

“Is that your car I saw back there?” the man asked. “The Navajo Tribal Police car?”

“Yeah,” Chee said, trying to scramble to his feet without further loss of dignity. He pointed down to the roof under his boots. “I heard something in there,” he stammered. “Thought I did, anyway. Something squeaking. And I couldn’t raise anyone, so—”

“Probably one of the rodents,” the man said. He put down the shoebox, extracted a key ring from a pocket and unlocked the doors. “Come on down. How about a drink of something?”

Chee scrambled down the ladder. The man under the Squibb cap was holding the door open for him. Cold air rushed out.

“My name’s Chee,” he said, extending a hand. “With the Navajo Tribal Police. I guess you’re with the Arizona Health Department.

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