Lock In (Lock In, #1)(32)

“Damn, that’s creepy,” the man said. “This threep’s been in the corner for three years without moving, and suddenly it gets up. It’s like a statue coming to life.”

“Surprise,” I said.

“I mean, we’ve been using it as a hat rack.”

“Sorry to deprive you of your office furniture.”

“It’s only for the day. You Shane?”

“That’s right.”

“Tom Beresford.” He held out his hand. I took it. “I don’t mind telling you I’ve never forgiven your dad for crushing the Suns in four.”

“Oh, that,” I said. He was talking about Dad’s second NBA title. “If it means anything, he always said that series was closer than it looked.”

“It’s nice of him to lie like that,” Beresford said. “Come on, I’ll take you down to meet Klah.”

I started walking and stopped. “Jesus,” I said, and started jerking my leg.

“Something wrong?” Beresford stopped and waited on me.

“You weren’t kidding when you said this thing didn’t move,” I said. “I think something’s rusted up in this thing.”

“I can get you a can of WD-40 if you want.”

“Nice,” I said. “Just give me a second.” I fired up the threep’s diagnostic system to find out what was going on. “Great, it’s a Metro Courier.”

“Is that a problem?” Beresford asked.

“The Metro Courier is like the Ford Pinto of threeps.”

“We could try to find you a rental threep if you want,” Beresford said. “I think Enterprise might have some at the airport. It’ll just take forever and you’ll spend your day filling out requisition forms.”

“It’ll be fine,” I said. The diagnostic said there was nothing wrong with the threep, which may have meant there was something wrong with the diagnostic. “I’ll walk it out.”

“Come on, then.” Beresford started off again. I followed, limping.

“Agent Chris Shane, Officer Klah Redhouse,” Beresford said, after we reached the lobby, introducing me to a young man in a uniform. “Klah went to Northern Arizona with my son. As it happens he was in Phoenix on tribal business, so you got lucky. It would be a two-hundred-eighty-five-mile walk to Window Rock otherwise.”

“Officer Redhouse,” I said, and held out my hand.

He took it and smiled. “Don’t meet a lot of Hadens,” he said. “Never met one who was an FBI agent before.”

“A first time for everything,” I said.

“You’re limping,” he said.

“Childhood injury,” I said. And then, after a second, “That was a joke.”

“I got that,” he said. “Come on. I’m parked right outside.”

“Be right there,” I said, and then turned to Beresford. “There’s a possibility that I might need this threep for a while.”

“It’s just collecting dust with us,” Beresford said.

“So it won’t be a problem if I keep it in Window Rock for a while,” I asked.

“That’s going to be up to the folks up there,” Beresford said. “Our official policy is to defer to their sovereignty, so if they want you away when you’re done, head to our office in Flagstaff. I’ll let them know you might be on the way. Or get a hotel room. Maybe someone will rent you a broom closet and a plug.”

“Is this a problem?” I asked. “I’m not really versed in the relations between the FBI and the Navajo.”

“We don’t have any problems at the moment,” Beresford said. “We’ve cooperated with them just fine recently, and they have Klah taking you up, which says they don’t have a problem with you. But other than that, who knows. The U.S. government gave the Navajo and a lot of the other Native American nations a whole lot more autonomy a couple of decades back, when it downsized the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the Indian Health Service. But that’s also given us an excuse to ignore them and their problems.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Hell, Shane, you might be able to sympathize,” Beresford said. “The U.S. government just pulled the plug on the Hadens, didn’t it? It’s something you folks might say you have in common with the Navajo.”

“I’m not entirely sure I want to be going around making that comparison,” I said.

“That’s probably wise,” Beresford said. “The Navajo have a two-hundred-year head start in the ‘getting screwed by the U.S. government’ category. They might not appreciate you jumping on the train. But now you might understand why some of them might decide to be touchy about you showing up and asking questions. So be polite, be respectful, and go if they tell you to go.”

“Got it.”

“Good,” Beresford said. “Now go on. Klah’s good people. Don’t keep him waiting.”





Chapter Ten

THE RIDE UP to Window Rock took four and a half hours, with Redhouse and me passing the time in innocuous conversation followed by long lapses of silence. Redhouse seemed to enjoy my stories about getting to travel the world with my father and noted that his own travels had been far less extensive.