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The Jim Chee Mysteries: Three Classic Hillerman Mysteries Featuring Officer Jim Chee: The Dark Wind/People of Darkness/The Ghostway
     

The Jim Chee Mysteries: Three Classic Hillerman Mysteries Featuring Officer Jim Chee: The Dark Wind/People of Darkness/The Ghostway

by Tony Hillerman
 

In People of Darkness, Hillerman's first novel to introduce Officer Jim Chee of the Navajo Tribal Police, Chee is forced to use all of his powers of deduction and insight to extricated himself from a deadly series of incidences involving a mysterious millionaire, a sinister, peyote-eating Indian cult, and what the  New York Times called "an

Overview

In People of Darkness, Hillerman's first novel to introduce Officer Jim Chee of the Navajo Tribal Police, Chee is forced to use all of his powers of deduction and insight to extricated himself from a deadly series of incidences involving a mysterious millionaire, a sinister, peyote-eating Indian cult, and what the  New York Times called "an ingenious long-acting way of murder." In The Dark Wind, a seemingly routine stakeout at a vandalized windmill thrusts Chee into the center of a dangerous web of drugs, witchcraft, and betrayal. And in The Ghostways, a felon relocated under the Federal Witness Relocation Program sets off a chain of treachery and killings, and only Chee has the knowledge of the people and the landscape to understand the clues.

Editorial Reviews

New Republic
Hillerman's best book in an already strong series.
Washington Post
Superb mystery...A spine-tingling cat-and-mouse chase.
New York Times Book Review
All the flavor and exoticism one associates with Mr. Hillerman...one of the best in the series.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780060164782
Publisher:
HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:
11/28/1990
Series:
Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee Series
Pages:
576
Product dimensions:
6.12(w) x 9.25(h) x 1.69(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

IT WAS A JOB which required waiting for cultures to grow, for toxins to develop, for antibodies to form, for reagents to react. And while she waited, the bacteriologist would roll her wheelchair to the windows and look down upon the world. The world below was the parking lot of the Cancer Research and Treatment Center, the neighbor of the bacteriologist's Communicable Disease Laboratory on the University of New Mexico North Campus. It was a crowded lot, and a competitive one, and somewhere in the second year of watching it, the bacteriologist found herself familiar with its patterns. She knew when the meter maids made their rounds, and how long it usually took the tow truck to arrive, and what sort of violation provoked this ultimate punishment, and which vehicles tended to park illegally. She even knew of a romance which seemed to have flared between the female owner of a Datsun and the male owner of the blue Mercedes convertible that parked in the space reserved for one of the lofty administrators. Somewhere in that same second year she had started bringing her binoculars to the lab. She had finally left them there. They were in her hands now — focused upon a dirty green pickup truck which was nosing its way hesitatingly into a space guarded by a sign that read:

RESERVED FOR ASSOCIATE DIRECTOR
VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED AT OWNERS EXPENSE

The bacteriologist had learned long ago that cancer patients tended to be scofflaws. They were dying and they knew it. In the face of that, other considerations became less important. But habits of civilized behavior still generally prevailed. It wasrare to see such open defiance as the pickup was now demonstrating.

The defiant one was male, an Indian. Through the binoculars he didn't look defiant. He looked stolid and sick. He climbed laboriously from the cab. The bacteriologist noticed a suitcase on the passenger's seat and felt a sudden mild thrill of admiration. He was checking himself in, abandoning his truck forever to the mercies of the law. The nose thumbed at fate. But the Indian left the suitcase behind.

He was a large man, with the heavy torso and slender hips the bacteriologist had learned to identify with Navajos. He wore jeans and — despite the August heat — a denim jacket. He walked slowly toward the patients' entrance — a sick man's walk. He'll check himself in, the bacteriologist thought, and then he'll come back and get the suitcase, and move the truck.

Now there was another vehicle showing equally blatant illegality. It was a Chevrolet, silver-gray and new, which rolled past the green pickup and came to rest in the space reserved for the CRTC director. The driver's door opened and a slender man emerged, dressed in white, a straw hat pushed back on his head. The man stood for a moment, apparently looking at the pickup truck. Then he walked around his car and opened the door on the passenger's side. He leaned in, apparently working on something on the front seat. Finally he lifted out a grocery sack with its top folded down. He placed it on the bed of the pickup, among the boards and boxes against the cab. That done, he looked around him, studying the parking lot, the sidewalks, staring finally directly toward the bacteriologist. He was very blond, she saw. Almost an albino. Within a minute he was back in the gray Chevy, driving slowly away.

It was almost noon when the bacteriologist determined that the life form that had reproduced itself in her petri dish was not a food-poisoning salmonella but harmless nonpathogenic Escherichia coli. She made the required notes, completed the report, and pushed her chair back to the window. A tow truck had arrived. The bacteriologist focused her binoculars. The driver's helper was completing the attachment of the towing bar to the rear of the green pickup. He waved his left hand and squatted beside the pickup wheel, watching something. The sound of the tow truck winch was lost to distance and insulated glass. But the bacteriologist could see the rear of the pickup begin to rise.

Abruptly, all vision was lost in a dazzle of light. The sound came a second later — a cannon — shot boom. The glass on the bacteriologist's window was pressed inward to its tolerance and just beyond; it cracked, then flexed violently outward, where its shards joined those of a hundred other windows raining down on the empty sidewalks below.

Meet the Author

Tony Hillerman (1925–2008), an Albuquerque, New Mexico, resident since 1963, was the author of 29 books, including the popular 18-book mystery series featuring Navajo police officers Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn, two non-series novels, two children’s books, and nonfiction works. He had received every major honor for mystery fiction; awards ranging from the Navajo Tribal Council's commendation to France 's esteemed Grand prix de litterature policiere. Western Writers of America honored him with the Wister Award for Lifetime achievement in 2008. He served as president of the prestigious Mystery Writers of America, and was honored with that group’s Edgar Award and as one of mystery fiction’s Grand Masters. In 2001, his memoir, Seldom Disappointed, won both the Anthony and Agatha Awards for best nonfiction.

Brief Biography

Hometown:
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Date of Birth:
May 27, 1925
Date of Death:
October 26, 2008
Place of Birth:
Sacred Heart, Oklahoma
Place of Death:
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Education:
B.A., University of Oklahoma, 1946; M.A., University of New Mexico, 1966
Website:
http://tonyhillermanbooks.com

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