A Thief of Time Read Online Free Page A

not malignant. Easily curable. Emma would soon be herself again, memory restored. Happy. Healthy. Beautiful.
    â€œThe chances?” the surgeon had said. “Very good. Better than ninety percent complete recovery. Unless something goes wrong, an excellent prognosis.”
    But something had gone wrong. The tumor and its placement were worse than expected. The operation had taken much longer than expected. Then infection, and the fatal clot.
    Since then, nothing had interested him. Someday, he would come alive again. Or perhaps he would. So far he hadn’t. He sat sideways, legs stretched, back against the door, watching. Thatcher and Luna talked to the white woman in the trench. Unusual name for a woman. Maxie. Probably short for something Leaphorn couldn’t think of. The Navajo was putting on a denim jacket, looking interested in whatever was being said, the expression on his long-jawed face sardonic. Maxie was gesturing, her face animated. She climbed out of the trench, walked toward the pickup truck with the Navajo following, his shovel over his shoulder in a sort of military parody. In the deep shadow of the hat brim Leaphorn saw white teeth. The man was grinning. Beyond him, the slanting light of the autumn afternoon outlined the contours of the Chaco Plateau with lines of darkness. The shadow of Fajada Butte stretched all the way across Chaco Wash now. Outside the shadow, the yellow of the cottonwood along the dry streambed glittered in the sun. They were the only trees in a tan-gray-silver universe of grass. (Where had they found their firewood, Leaphorn wondered, the vanished thousands of Old Ones who built these huge stone apartments? The anthropologists thought they’d carried the roof beams fifty miles on their shoulders from forests on Mount Taylor and the Chuskas—an incredible feat. But how did they boil their corn, roast venison, cure their pottery, and warm themselves in winter? Leaphorn remembered the hard labor each fall—his father and he taking their wagon into the foothills, cutting dead piñon and juniper, making the long haul back to their hogan. But the Anasazi had no horses, no wheels.)
    Thatcher and Luna were back at the van now. Thatcher slammed the door on his coat, said something under his breath, reopened it and closed it again. When Luna started the engine the seat belt warning buzzed. “Seat belt,” Thatcher said.
    Luna fastened the seat belt. “Hate these things,” he said.
    The green pickup pulled ahead of them, raising dust.
    â€œWe’re going down to look at what’s-her-name’s stuff,” Thatcher said, raising his voice for Leaphorn. “This Ms. Davis doesn’t think hyphenated could be a pot hunter. Said she collected pots, but it was for her work. Scientific. Legitimate. Said Ms…. Ms. Bernal hated pot hunters.”
    â€œUm,” Leaphorn said. He could see the big reservation hat of the young man through the back window of the pickup ahead. Odd to see a Navajo digging in the ruins. Stirring up Anasazi ghosts. Probably someone on the Jesus Road, or into the Peyote Church. Certainly a traditional man wouldn’t be risking ghost sickness—or even worse, the reputation of being a witch—by digging among the bones. If you believed in the skinwalker traditions, bones of the dead made the tiny missiles that the witches shot into their victims. Leaphorn was not a believer. Those who were were the bane of his police work.
    â€œShe thinks something happened to Ms. Bernal,” Thatcher said, glancing in the rearview mirror at Leaphorn. “You ought to have that seat belt on.”
    â€œYeah,” Leaphorn said. He fumbled it around him, thinking that probably nothing had happened to the woman. He thought of the anonymous call that had provoked this trip. There would be a connection, somewhere. One thing somehow would link Dr. What’s-Her-Name’s departure from Chaco with the motive for the call. The