People Of Darkness

12

IT WAS AFTER SUNDOWN when Chee drove past the Tribal Police office. It was dark. On the other side of the village, perhaps two hundred assorted vehicles were parked at the Crownpoint elementary school, suggesting a good turnout for the November rug auction. Chee found a blue Ford 150 pickup. Parked next to it was a green-and-white Plymouth, like the one Charley’s nephew had said the would-be car buyer was driving. Chee checked it quickly. It was new, with less than three thousand miles on the odometer. A folder on the dashboard suggested it had been rented from the Albuquerque airport office of Hertz.

Inside the school, the air was rich with a mélange of aromas. Chee identified the smells of cooking fry bread, floor wax, blackboard chalk, stewing mutton and red chili, of raw wool, of horses, and of humans. In the auditorium, perhaps a hundred potential buyers were wandering among the stacks of rugs on the display tables, inspecting the offerings and noting item numbers. At this hour, most of the crowd would be in the cafeteria, eating the traditional auction dinner of Navajo tacos – tortillas topped with a lethal combination of stewed mutton and chili. Chee stood just inside the auditorium entrance, methodically examining its inhabitants. He had little idea what Charley would look like-just Becenti’s sketchy description. His inspection was simply a matter of habit.

“Looking for someone?”

The voice came from beside him, from a young woman in a blue turtleneck sweater. The woman was small, the sweater large, and the face atop the folds of bulky cloth was unsmiling.

“Trying to find a man named Tomas Charley,” Chee said. “But I don’t know what he looks like.”

The woman’s face was oval, framed by soft blond hair. Her eyes were large, and blue, and intent on Chee. A pretty lady, and Chee recognized the look. He had seen it often at the University of New Mexico – and most often among Anglo coeds enrolled in Native American Studies courses. The courses attracted Anglo students, largely female, enjoying racial/ethnic guilt trips. Chee had concluded early that their interest was more in Indian males than in Indian mythology. Their eyes asked if you were really any different from the blond boys they had grown up with. Chee looked now into the eyes of the woman in the bulky blue turtleneck and detected the same question. Or thought he did. There was also something else. He smiled at her. “Not knowing what he looks like makes it tougher to find him.”

“Why not just go away and leave him alone?” she asked. “What are you hunting him for?”

Chee’s smile evaporated. “I have a message from his nephew,” he said. “Somebody wants to buy his old car and…”

“Oh,” the young woman said. She looked embarrassed. “I guess I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I’m sorry. I don’t know him.”

“I’ll just ask around,” Chee said. Her distaste for police was another standard reaction Chee had learned to expect from the young Anglos the reservation seemed to attract. He suspected there was a federal agency somewhere assigned to teach social workers that all police were Cossacks and that Navajo police were the worst of all. “Are you with the Bureau of Indian Affairs?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I’m helping the weavers’ cooperative.” She gestured vaguely toward the check-in table, where two Navajo women were sorting through papers. “But I teach school here. Fifth grade. English and social studies.” The hostility was gone from her eyes now. The curiosity remained.

“I’m Jim Chee.” He extended his hand. “I’ve been assigned to the police station here. Fairly new here.”

“I noticed your uniform,” she said. She took his extended hand. “Mary Landon,” she said. “I’m new, too. From Wisconsin, but I taught last spring at Laguna Pueblo school.”

“How do you do,” Chee said. Her hand was small and cool in his, and very quickly withdrawn.

“I have to get back to work,” Mary Landon said, and she was gone.

It took Chee about thirty minutes to establish that Tomas Charley was present at the auction and to get a description of the man. He might have done it faster had there been any sense of urgency. There wasn’t. Chee was more involved in getting acquainted with the occupants of his territory. Then Mary Landon was at his elbow again.

“That’s him,” she said. “Right over there. The red-and-black mackinaw and the black felt hat.”

“Thanks,” Chee said. Mary Landon still wasn’t smiling.

Tomas Charley was leaning against the wall alone. He seemed to be watching someone in the crowd. Mary Landon said something else, but Chee didn’t hear it. He was studying Charley. He was a small man – not over five and a half feet – and skinny. His face was bony, with small, deep-set eyes and a narrow forehead under the brim of his tipped-back hat. There was an alertness about him, a tension. The eyes shifted to Chee now, quickly past him, and back again. Becenti had said he was half crazy, a fanatic. The small black eyes had the took of those who see visions. Getting Tomas Charley to talk, Chee thought, would take a lot of care and a lot of luck.

As it developed, it was no trouble at all. They talked a bit about the rug auction, and about the drought. Chee leaned against the wall beside the man, guiding the conversation. The auctioneer was on the stage now, a florid white man explaining the rules in a West Texas voice. Chee talked of Sheriff Gordo Sena, of jurisdiction problems between Navajo police and white sheriffs. The first rug was auctioned for $65. Bidding on the second one stuck at $110. The auctioneer put it aside and joked with the crowd about its stinginess. He moved the offer up to $155, and sold it.

Chee talked of Mrs. Vines’ job offer, of what she’d said of the burglary, of his decision not to get involved in it, and of Vines’ withdrawing the offer. Tomas Charley said less and less.

“It’s no business of mine,” Chee said. “I don’t care about the burglar.” He grinned at Charley. “I know who went in Vines’ house and got that box You know who went in. And Gordo Sena never is going to know. What I’d like to know is what was in that box.”

Charley said nothing. Chee waited. On the fifth rug, bidding was spirited. The auctioneer sold it for $240.

“I’ve got a curious mind,” Chee said. “Lots of things funny about Vines. Lots of things funny about Gordo Sena. Mrs. Vines, too.”

Tomas Charley glanced at him, then glanced away. He stood with his arms crossed in front of him. The fingers of his left hand, Chee noticed, tapped nervously against his right wrist.

“Why did Vines bury your grandfather there at his house?” Chee asked. “I wonder about that. And why did somebody try to kill your father? And why did Mrs. Vines want me to find Vines’ old box? And then not want me to find it? And why did Gordo Sena warn me to mind my own business?”

Chee asked the last question directly to Charley. The drumming fingers stopped. Charley pursed his lips.

“I don’t give a damn if you got into Vines’ house and took something,” Chee said. “None of my business. But what was in that box?”

“Rocks,” Tomas Charley said. “Chunks of black rocks.”

It occurred to Chee that he hadn’t really thought about what the box might hold. But he hadn’t expected this. He considered it. “No papers?” he asked. “Nothing with anything written on it?”

“Mostly rocks,” Charley said.

“Nothing else?”

“Some medals,” Charley said. “Stuff from the war. Stuff like that.” He shrugged.

“Tell me everything that was in it.”

Charley looked surprised. “Well,” he said. “There’s a little card glued inside the lid. Got Vines’ name and address on it. Then there was three medals. One was the Purple Heart and the other two were like stars. One out of some kind of brown metal and the other one looked about the same, but it had a little silver star in the middle of it And there was a set of wings like paratroopers wear, and a shoulder patch with an eagle head on it and silver bars like lieutenants wear in the army.” Charley thought. “Photo-graphs. A picture of a girl, and a picture of a man and woman standing by an old car, and then a whole bunch of black rocks.” Charley stopped. The catalog was complete.

“Nothing else?” Chee asked. “What did you expect to find?”

Charley shrugged.

“Luck?” Chee asked.

Charley’s face tightened. “Vines was a witch,” he said. He didn’t use the Navajo word, which meant witch, or skinwalker, or Navajo Wolf. He used a Keresan expression – the word the people of Laguna and Acoma used to mean sorcerer.

“I heard that, too,” Chee said. “You think you’d find his medicine bundle?”

Charley glanced at Chee, then looked away. Time ticked past. The auctioneer began the rhythmic litany of another transaction.

“He was killing my father,” Charley said. “I wanted to turn the witching around. I wanted to find something for that.”

Chee didn’t say any of the obvious things. He didn’t say, “Your father is dying of cancer.” He didn’t say, “It’s not witchcraft; it’s something wrong with the way the cells grow.” He said nothing at all. Tomas Charley was sure his father had been doomed by a witch. When that happened, the Navajo way was a ceremonial – usually the Enemy Way or the Prostitution Way. Each invoked a traditional formula which reversed the witchcraft and turned it against the witch. And each required something that the witch had used. But Tomas Charley was half Laguna. He saw Vines as the Lagunas saw sorcerers. Perhaps they had a different formula. The auctioneer completed his transaction, selling a small diamond-patterned rug to a woman using bidding card 72. Chee and Tomas Charley leaned against the wall, watching, their shoulders touching.

“Why was Vines witching your father?” Chee asked. “Do you know that?”

“Vines wasn’t always a sorcerer,” Charley said. “Once he was a good man, I think, and he helped my grandfather and he helped our church. He gave us our totem. He gave it to my grandfather. The mole. It is powerful, and it helps the Lord Peyote open the door for us. It helps bring us visions. Vines wanted to get it back. So he made my father sick. And then he stole my father’s body.”

On the stage, the auctioneer and his assistant held up a saddle blanket. “This un’s a dandy,” the Texan was saying. He leaned comically against its pretended weight. “Take a stout horse to carry this un. Wove so tight you couldn’t get water through it. I’m starting at eighty. Yum at eighty. Eighty. Eighty. Yum at eighty. Eighty-five. Have eighty-five. Yum at eighty-five. Ninety. Yum at ninety.”

“Stole your father’s body?” Chee asked. He was thinking Emerson Charley had been alive last week. Very sick but alive. How long ago was it? Five days? Six? He glanced at Charley. The thin man was staring straight ahead, every line in his face rigid. He seemed to be remembering something.

“When did Vines steal your father’s body?”

“Two, three days ago,” Charley said. “Out of the hospital there at Albuquerque. And he got the mole back again.”

“But how did he do it? Did he just walk in and walk out with it?”

Charley shrugged. “Vines is a witch,” he said. “The hospital, they call me, and they tell me my father died and what to do with the body? When I get there, Vines had already got off with it. That’s all I know.”

“What was the hospital’s explanation?”

“They didn’t know what happened. Just the body was gone. One man told me that some of the kinfolks must have got a funeral home to get it. He said the body was put where they put the bodies, and the next day it was gone. He said it must have been a funeral home got it.”

“You reported it to the police?”

“Yeah,” Charley said. “They didn’t do nothing.”

They wouldn’t, Chee thought. He imagined Charley showing up at the Albuquerque police building, trying to find somebody to take the report, telling a clerk (would the clerk have been incredulous, or merely bored?) of a missing body taken by a witch. What would the crime have been? At worst, transporting a cadaver without a permit from the medical examiner. And the police would have guessed it was merely a mix-up: the body claimed by another relative, a family feud perhaps. And Tomas Charley wouldn’t have raised hell and pressed for answers. He already knew two answers. One was that nobody would pay much attention to a Navajo trying to raise hell. And the other was that a witch had flown away with the body. Still, Chee felt his anger rising at this indignity.

“Those sons-a-bitches,” he said. “You want me to try to find him for you?”

Charley thought about it.

“Well,” he said. “I’m half Acoma and half Navajo, and I guess I’m Navajo far as bodies go. When the old man died, he died. Body don’t mean nothing but trouble. But my mother, she’s Acoma. She’d like to know he’s buried the right way. She wouldn’t want a witch to have him.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Chee said. “Why do you think Vines got him?”

Charley hesitated. “It’s got to do with our church,” he said. “I got to go way back to explain it.”

Tomas Charley went back to World War II, when his grandfather was working on the Santa Fe Railroad track crew, and had met an Indian from Oklahoma, and had been introduced to the Native American Church and Lord Peyote. His grandfather had founded a church in the Checkerboard country, and one day Lord Peyote had opened the door so his grandfather could see God. He was working then on an oil well, and God told him that something bad would happen the next day and to tell his crew not to go to work. The oil well had blown up just as God had warned and the word had spread among the Navajos and the Laguna-Acomas of this miracle, and the grandfather’s congregation grew. By the next year more than two hundred people were coming to the Peyote Ways. Then one time a white man came. He was a uranium prospector named Benjamin Vines. Vines told everyone at the Peyote Way that the Lord Peyote had given him a dream of where to find uranium ore.

“All this is the way my father told me,” Charley said. “He said Vines came back about a month later and told my grandfather the uranium ore was where the Lord Peyote said it would be. They had another Peyote Way and Vines had another vision. This time Lord Peyote told Vines he had now done two miracles for my grandfather’s church. He had saved the men from the explosion, and he had led Vines to the ore. He said Vines was blessed, and those men he had saved were blessed, and since the blessing had come from under the ground, from an oil well and uranium ore, their totem would be the mole and their name would be the name of the moles – the People of Darkness.”

“And Vines gave your grandfather a mole fetish?”

“A little later,” Charley said. “They didn’t have a Way for a while because the Navajo Police and the BIA cops were arresting everybody and searching people for peyote buttons, and Gordo Sena was after everybody in the church. But then they had a Way at a secret place, and Vines gave these mole fetishes to my grandfather and to the other men who Lord Peyote had saved.” Charley paused. “That was before Vines got to be a witch,” he explained.

“How’d that happen?” Chee asked.

“First my grandfather got sick,” Charley said. “They had a sing for him, but it didn’t help very long. He went into the hospital. In and out a lot. Finally he died and Vines buried him up at his ranch. He was just building that big house then. The church sort of died out then for years. Then my father got it going again. After that, Vines came around. He tried to get my father to give him the medicine bundle, the box for Lord Peyote, the mole totem, all of the sacred things. My father wouldn’t give them up. After that Vines didn’t come to the Peyote Way again.”

That seemed to be the end of the story. Charley slumped against the wall, looking across the crowded auditorium toward the stage. The Texan had just sold a small yellow yei rug to number 18 for forty-five dollars and was describing a black-and-gray diamond design from Two Gray Hills as “worth three hundred dollars in any trading post on the reservation.”

“Then what?” Chee prodded.

Charley didn’t say anything for a moment. “Then we started hearing things.”

“Like what?”

“Hearing Vines was a witch.”

There was another pause. The Navajo half of Charley seemed to be ascendant, Chee thought. Navajos did not like to talk about witches.

“Tell you what,” Chee said. “You don’t want that old box of Vines’ with the rocks in it. You let me know where to look, and we’ll get it back to the owner. If anybody asks how we found it, it was an anonymous telephone call.”

“It’s out in the malpais,” Charley said. “It was locked. I took it to a place out there where I go and pried it open. It was heavy, so I just left it there.” He explained to Chee how to find it. “I got to go now,” he said. “I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

“Did the man see you about buying that old Chevy?”

Charley looked surprised. “No,” he said. “Somebody want to buy that?”

“That’s what your nephew said. He said to tell you a man came looking for you, and he wanted to buy that old car, and he was going to look for you here.”

“Must be crazy,” Charley said. And he walked away.

And I must be crazy, too, Chee thought as he watched Charley move down the aisle toward the table where an association clerk was paying off rug weavers for their sales. Rocks in a keepsake box. B. J. Vines as mystic prophet. B. J. Vines as witch. A body lost out of a hospital morgue. And Chee wasting his time in an affair that made no sense at all.

He wasted more time watching the auction, moving among the spectators idly at first and then looking for Mary Landon. She was interested in him, of that he was sure. He was equally sure that it was nothing very personal. The interest was more generic than individual. Another Navajo male, adequately scrubbed and trimmed, would have been just as interesting to the blue-eyed woman. Fair enough. At the moment, he was particularly interested in whites, and white women. The Navajo women he knew – his mother, her two sisters, who were his “little mothers,” the Navajo girls he’d been involved with – did nothing to explain Rosemary Vines. And he’d never really known the white girls. Their curiosity had put him off. But Mary Landon he would study. Unfortunately, Mary Landon was nowhere to be seen.

He walked into the parking lot, savoring the cold fresh air after the stuffy heat inside. Tomas Charley was standing beside his truck, talking to a white man in a yellow windbreaker. The white man was blond. The buyer of worthless rusty Chevrolets had found his man. Chee stared at him, curious. The white man seemed to feel the eyes on him. He stared back. The same man, Chee realized, had been watching him and Charley in their long conversation against the wall. Mary Landon was still invisible.

He found her, finally, in the cafeteria kitchen helping a half-dozen other women with cleanup operations.

“The message is delivered,” Chee said. “Thanks.”

It was the third time he had spoken to her, and Chee had a theory about third meetings between people. The third time you were no longer strangers.

“It must have been a long message,” Mary said. “I think you found something to talk about besides someone wanting to buy a car.” The words were skeptical, but after she said them she smiled.

Chee found himself trying to think of something to ask her, of a reason to be in this kitchen talking to her. His mind was blank. “How about having a cup of coffee?’ he heard himself saying. “The coffee shop will be open late.”

The first time she had looked at him she had been inspecting a Tribal Police sergeant. Now she was looking at a man asking her out for coffee. It was a different sort of inspection. “I have to finish with these pots,” she said.

“I’ll do it for you,” Chee said.

Chee washed dishes each evening in his mobile home – a plate, cup, knife, and fork left over from breakfast, a second plate, a cup, and cutlery from dinner, and the frying pan used to cook both meals. But never since his university days had he washed dishes socially.

“You look like you enjoy that,” Mary said. “Maybe you missed your calling.”

Chee tried to think of something witty. He couldn’t.

In the booth at the Crownpoint Café, Chee learned a little about Mary Landon, and she learned a little about him. She had come to Laguna the previous year to replace a teacher hurt in an automobile accident. Then she had landed the Crownpoint job. She was from a little place not far from Milwaukee. She had attended the University of Wisconsin. She liked canoeing and hiking, and the outdoors in general. She didn’t like pretentious people. She liked teaching Navajo children, but wasn’t sure what to do about their conditioning against competitiveness. She hoped to learn Navajo, but it was hard to pronounce and so far she could speak only a few phrases. She spoke them, and Chee pretended to understand, and Mary Landon was not fooled by the pretense but appreciated it and rewarded him with a genuinely friendly look. Chee asked her about her parents, and learned her father ran a sporting goods store. He decided not to ask her about her hostility to police. This wasn’t the time for that, and the attitude was common enough.

Mary Landon learned Chee was one of the Slow Talking Dinee, the clan of his mother, and was “born to” the Bitten Water Dinee, the clan of his father. She learned that Chee’s father was dead, that his maternal uncle was a noted yataalii, and she had been around Navajo country long enough to know about the role of these shamans in the ceremonial life of the People. She learned a good deal more about his family, ranging from his two older sisters through a galaxy of cousins, uncles, and aunts, one of whom represented the Greasy Water district on the Tribal Council.

“She’s my mother’s sister, which makes her my ‘little mother,’ ” Chee said. “A real tiger.”

“You’re not playing the game,” Mary Landon said. “I told you about me. You’re just telling me about your family.”

The statement surprised Chee. One defined himself by his family. How else? And then it occurred to him that white people didn’t. They identified themselves by what they had done as individuals. He added sugar to his coffee, thinking about it.

“That’s the way we play the game. If I was introducing you to Navajos, I wouldn’t say, ‘This is Mary Landon, who teaches at Crownpoint,’ and so forth. I’d say, “This woman is a member of…’ – your mother’s family, and your father’s family – and I’d tell about your uncles and aunts, so everyone would know just exactly where you fit in with the people around you.”

“This woman’?” Mary Landon asked. “You wouldn’t tell them my name?”

“That would be rude. Now more people have English names, but among traditional Navajos it’s very impolite to say someone’s name in their presence. Names are just reference words, when the person’s not there.”

Mary Landon looked incredulous. “I think that’s…” She stopped.

“Silly?” Chee asked. “You have to understand the system. Our real names are secret. We call them war names. Somebody very close to you in the family names you when you’re little. Something that fits your personality, if possible. Not more than a half-dozen people are even going to know it. It’s used for ceremonial purposes: if a girl is having her kinaalda – her puberty ceremony – or if you’re having a sing done for you. Then, as you grow, people give you nicknames to refer to you. Like ‘Cry Baby,’ and ‘Hard Runner,’ or maybe ‘Long Hands’ or ‘Ugly.’ ” Chee laughed. “I’ve got an uncle on my father’s side everybody calls ‘Liar.’ ”

“How about Jim Chee? Isn’t that your real name?”

“Along came the trading posts,” Chee said. “Along came the white man. He had to have a name to write down when one of us pawned our jewelry to him, or got credit for groceries. The traders started formalizing the nicknames, and before long we had to have names on birth certificates, so you got family names, like mine. I’ve had nicknames, too. Two or three. And I’m sure you do, too.”

“Me?” Mary Landon looked surprised.

“How long you been at Crownpoint? Three months? Sure. The people have a name for you by now.”

“Like what?”

“Something that fits. Maybe ‘Pretty Teacher.’ Or ‘Stubborn Girl.’ ” Chee shrugged. “’Blue Eyes.’ ‘Blond Woman.’ ‘Fast Talker.’ Do you want me to find out for you?”

“Sure,” she said. Then, “No, wait. Maybe just forget it. How about you? What do they call you?”

“Here? I don’t know. When I was at Rough Rock they used to call me…” He paused, and then said the word carefully in Navajo. “It means ‘One Who Studies to Be a Singer.’ ”

“Oh,” Mary Landon said. “Are you?”

“I was,” Chee said. “I guess I still am, in a way. It depends.”

“On what?”

“I applied for admission to the FBI. More or less to see how I’d do. Took the tests. Got interviewed by the screening panel at Albuquerque. Last week I got a letter telling me I’d been accepted. I’m supposed to report to the academy in Virginia. December tenth.”

She looked at him curiously. “So you’re going to be an FBI agent.”

“I don’t know,” Chee said.

“You haven’t decided?”

“What’s the rush? We work on Navajo time.” Even as he said it, the flippancy sounded false. December 10 wasn’t Navajo time. It was four weeks away. A specific, ironclad, unbendable deadline.

“But you can’t be both a Navajo medicine man and an FBI agent?”

“Not really,” Chee said. He wanted to change the subject, wanted not to talk about it. As a matter of fact, you couldn’t be both a Navajo and an FBI agent. You couldn’t be a Navajo away from the People. “By the way,” he said, “thanks for helping with Tomas Charley. I learned what I needed to know. If he told me the truth, that is.”

Mary Landon studied him. Chee remembered, belatedly, what he had told her about why he wanted to find Charley.

“Do people lie a lot in your business?”

The question sounded innocent. And if it was, the answer was yes, a lot of people lie to a policeman. But Chee sensed the barb. And the answer was different.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I did tell his nephew I’d pass on the message about the car. But I also wanted to see him about police business.”

“And you couldn’t tell me that.” It was more a statement than a question, and the proper answer, of course, was “No, I couldn’t.” But Chee sensed the hostility again (or perhaps it could now better be described as a mixture of caution and suspicion), and he was not in the mood to give the proper answer.

“I could tell you, but only if you don’t mind complicated accounts of things that don’t amount to much,” Chee said. “Do you want to hear about it?”

She did. Chee told her about Vines, and Mrs. Vines, and the stolen keepsake box, and Sheriff Gordo Sena, and about the People of Dankness and the disappearing body, and finally about where Tomas Charley had left the box.

“And when you look at it all with a detached view,” Chee said, “you see a Navajo cop simply exercising his curiosity. A crime of no particular importance. A total lack of jurisdiction.”

“But it is curious,” she said. “What do you think happened to Mr. Charley’s father? And what are you going to do next?”

“I don’t know about the body. Probably lost by the bureaucracy somehow and nobody cared enough to find it. As for me, next I’ll go out in the malpais when I have some time and get the box and take a look at those rocks, and then I’ll get the box back to Vines. He says he doesn’t want his box back. But he must want those medals.”

“What will you tell Vines?”

“I won’t. I’ll call the sheriff’s office at Grants and tell them I got an anonymous tip on where the box had been left, and went out and found it, and for them to tell the Vineses to come and get it if they want it back.”

Mary Landon raised her eyebrows and sipped her coffee.

“Okay,” Chee said. “It’s a lie. But how else does Vines get his box back without Charley getting in jail?”

“I can’t think of a way,” she said. “Something else puzzles me. How did Charley know he could trust you?”

Chee shrugged. “Because I look trustworthy?” he asked.

She laughed. “As a matter of fact, you don’t,” she said. “Could I go along when you go hunting the box?”

“Sure,” Chee said. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

The apartments the Crownpoint school district provided for its teachers were a quarter mile beyond the school. The school was dark now, and the parking lot empty except for a single pickup truck. The pickup was a blue Ford 150. Charley’s. Chee slowed his carryall, staring at it.

“Not here,” Mary Landon said. “It’s those apartments up ahead.”

“I know,” Chee said. “I’ll get you home in just a minute.”

He pulled into the parking lot, beside the pickup. “This is Charley’s truck,” he said. “Why would he leave it?”

The truck was locked. Frost was turning the windshield opaque. Chee walked around it, shone his flashlight into the cab, looking for anything that would answer that question. He didn’t find it.