Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries (40 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

BOOK: Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries
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Sylvia’s expression turned suspicious as she eyed Dusty. “You didn’t bring one, did you?”
Dusty’s blue eyes widened innocently. “With the FBI watching my every move? Come on.”
“Yeah, right.” Sylvia turned to Michall. “Hey, Mick, you want to follow me back? Just in case my Jeep blows the transmission on the way?”
Michall stood up. “Sure. No problem.”
“Good night, all.”
Dusty locked the door after they’d stepped out into the night.
Maureen tossed the last of the forks into the dishwater and scrubbed them, then rinsed with hot water from the teapot. The paper plates went into the trash. Dusty used paper towels to wipe out the Teflon-coated pans and stuffed them into the cupboard.
He leaned against the counter, staring down at the floor. Maureen slipped back into the booth to finish her tea. She watched him, seeing the interplay of emotions. As tough as it was going to be on her, it would be harder on him. They would only be spectators, sidelined while others uncovered the soil that held the key to Dale’s last hours on earth.
“Michall seems like a sharp woman,” Maureen said.
When he looked at her, pain lay behind his eyes. “Dale was right about her. Too good to waste as breeding stock. God, Dale was right about so many things. Michall, Sylvia, Steve, you … and me.” He smiled at that, and said, “Good night, Maureen.”
Caught off guard, she watched him step back and close the door to the small back bedroom. She could hear him as he undressed for bed. The little trailer rocked slightly under his weight.
She sat quietly for a time, finishing her tea, then pulled on her coat and stepped outside to head for the rest room. The campground was empty. She stopped, staring up at the sky. The stars seemed to pulse. Had she ever seen them so clearly?
“Yes, Dale,” she said plaintively. “You were right about Dusty and me.”
When she finally returned, excited by the chill of the clear night, she found the trailer silent. She folded out the front bench bed and tried to think. Her movements were slow, preoccupied, as she rolled out her sleeping bag, undressed, and turned the knob on the lantern.
The light sputtered, yellowed, and died.
As she rolled onto her side the silence dropped around her like a weight. With only the ticking of the cooling lantern, Dusty’s face filled her mind. She could sense him, his presence oozing out from behind that thin door. Was he lying awake, staring into the darkness as she was?
Was he hurting?
Maureen wished she had the courage to go back there and ask, but she was too afraid of what might follow. They were growing closer every day, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. On the one hand, it soothed something inside her to be close to a man again. On the other, it scared her to death. She still missed John, and deep inside her, she knew she always would. But what did that mean? Did it mean she would never have a normal relationship with a man again?
She punched her pillow to fluff it up, and flopped her head down.
John had been the love of her life. He still filled her dreams. Her greatest fear was that she would never truly love again. And, the way she was going, that was likely to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.
She exhaled hard and tried to go to sleep.
 
 
“HOW DID WE miss them?” Horned Ram demanded. “Our warriors searched Kettle Town from top to bottom. All that they found were dead First People, pack rats, and bats.”
Blue Corn grimaced. “You’re assuming that they really are there.”
Horned Ram fingered his chin as he paced back and forth in the room. Rain Crow stood in the corner, his arms crossed as he considered his young scout. The
youth had only seen fifteen summers and seemed terrified of Horned Ram. “You’re sure it was Pigeontail?”
“Yes, War Chief. He came from War Club village, walking straight for Kettle Town. He and his two dogs. He was inside for at least two hands of time. Then, when he left, it was straight back to War Club village.”
Rain Crow arched an eyebrow as he met Blue Corn’s eyes. “That isn’t exactly proof that Browser is hiding the Mogollon in Kettle Town.”
“He’s there,” Horned Ram insisted. “I can feel him. His presence is like an owl’s on the roof. I say we take our force, surround the town, and search it room by room.”
“I thought you did that last time?” Blue Corn asked.
“That place is a rat’s maze. They could have scurried around behind my warriors.”
“Well, this time, make sure you find them. Then when you’ve driven them into the back, fire the place. Kill anyone who runs out.”
“You would burn Kettle Town to get these few Mogollon?” Rain Crow asked. “Some of my ancestors built that place.”
“If your ancestors were pawns of the First People, that is not my concern.” Horned Ram gave Rain Crow a cold look. “Burning Kettle Town is just another way of stamping out more of the First People’s perverted works.”
Blue Corn weighed her options, then said, “As soon as our warriors return from scouting the lower canyon, prepare them for an assault on Kettle Town. Let us finish this. The gods alone know what is happening with our Katsinas’ People hostages in Flowing Waters Town while I chase phantom Mogollon around Straight Path Canyon.”
Rain Crow’s ruined face reflected nothing of his thoughts. “Yes, Matron.”
Blue Corn studied Horned Ram from the corner of her eye. The Red Rock elder had a grin on his frog
face, as though he already smelled blood on the wind. He liked the killing and death. It fed something in his breath-heart soul the way a simmering buffalo stew did a starving man’s stomach.
She wondered whether her calculations for the future should include the elder. He was brash, effective, and totally without scruples when it came to the destruction of those who did not share his beliefs. Such a man and his warriors could be utilized as a terrible weapon. Assuming, of course, that they could be controlled. What good was a weapon that was as dangerous to its wielder as it was to her enemies?
Blue Corn chewed on her lip as she considered. This alliance had seemed a golden opportunity when Gray Thunder first appeared, but she now feared it might prove more frightful than she had ever dreamed.
Blue Corn had never been one to turn down an unexpected opportunity, but she hoped this wouldn’t be like having a rattlesnake in a pot. You always had to hope you could continue to keep it locked inside.
 
 
A NEST OF snakes squirms in Piper’s belly as she crawls up Straight Path Wash as fast as she can. Her knees are raw and bleeding, like they’ve been rubbed with sandstone, but she cannot stop. She must hurry! Hurry!
She’d found the trail two hands of time ago. Mother was very careful, her sandals barely scuffing the sand, but Piper knew those steps. She had tracked her mother many times.
Was Mother looking for me? Did she try to find me?
Tears choke Piper.
When the wash cuts deeper, Piper stands up and runs with all her heart, flying down the bottom of the
wash
.
The small rocks scream and shoot out behind her feet.
“
I’m sorry I ran away, Mother!” she sobs. “I’m sorry!”
If Grandfather can’t get Aunt Obsidian’s heart, he will take Mother’s heart. She knows he will.
A burning flood gushes up Piper’s throat. She stumbles and retches onto the shining sand. She retches until her belly aches and twists, and she can’t get enough air.
For a few instants she stares at the world through blurry eyes, then Wind Baby blows up the wash and strokes Piper’s face with strong icy hands, and she runs again. Fast!
Hurry
,
hurry …
 
 
DUSTY STUCK HIS thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans. Three FBI guys stood on the other side of the yellow tape, clipboards in hand. They had just handed out white sheets of paper with the “rules” for handling evidence. Rupert Brown and Michall stood reading the sheets with quizzical expressions.
It wasn’t bad enough that the government dictated how even normal archaeology was conducted, but here it was down to directives concerning everything including the sharpening of trowels.
To her credit, Michall took it all in stride.
“So, what do you think, Stewart?” Sam Nichols walked across the site and gave him a penetrating look. He had the collar of his brown canvas coat pulled up, and his horn-rimmed glasses rode low on his nose.
“I think this is bullshit.”
Dusty gestured to the pile of rubble beyond the tape, and the cold wind tugged at the brim of his brown
western hat. “Very soon, your people are going to realize that this crime scene is also an archaeological site. It has its own special problems and needs that don’t fit anybody’s rules.”
“Maybe, but your people aren’t trained in forensic evidence recovery.”
“And your people aren’t trained in archaeological data recovery,” Dusty reminded. “But it’s okay, Nichols. They’ll be on the same page by the time they get down to the intact levels.”
Nichols gave him a disbelieving look. “Intact levels? Anything worth getting is going to be around where Dr. Robertson was buried.” Nichols pointed to the frosted dirt, still readily visible where it had been turned.
“I’m sure that’s how it works in most modern murder cases, Nichols. I don’t think that’s what we’ll find here.”
Rupert Brown left Michall’s side and walked toward Dusty and Nichols. He wore a green nylon coat with the Department of the Interior patch on the shoulder.
Nichols said, “You really believe that the person who killed Dr. Robertson buried something here?”
“Or something was already buried here and that’s why he picked this spot. Kwewur may be playing with us, Agent Nichols. I think he—”
“Dusty’s right.” Rupert shoved his hands in his coat pockets. His six-foot-six-inch frame towered over Nichols. Even Dusty, at six feet even, had to look up to meet Rupert’s eyes. “I think it’s like a turnabout on the old European trick of having illiterate natives sign a treaty they couldn’t read. Kwewur is betting you can’t decipher the message he left here, Nichols.”
Nichols studied Rupert as if just seeing him for the first time. A faint look of hostility lit his eyes. “You seem to know a lot about him.”
Rupert shrugged. “You grew up in Baltimore where witches showed up for Halloween. They were make-believe
characters. I grew up in the Southwest, where witches were not only real, but you knew who was and was not a witch. You knew people who had died from their evil spells, or someone who almost died, and had to pay the witch to break the spell. Then, lo and behold, they got well. I was attacked by a witch once, Nichols. Because of that, I’ve spent more than half of my life studying southwestern witchcraft. I know it works and I can tell you, the key to a witch’s survival these days is misdirection. He
wants
you to disbelieve.”
“You mean he thinks I’m a fool?”
Rupert shook his head. “No. Just the opposite, Agent Nichols. He’s playing a game with you. The difference is that he knows that his rules are different from yours. But you think the rules of the game are the same.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he believes in you, but you don’t believe in him.”
“But you do?”
Rupert watched the crew preparing to dig.
Nichols’s mouth pressed into a tight white line. “You have a Ph.D., Brown. And you really believe that crap?”
“Kwewur believes it, Agent Nichols, and Dale is dead.”
“Yeah. Right. That’s why I’m in this godforsaken place, Brown.”
Rupert gave the agent a small smile. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate being addressed as either Dr. or Superintendent while I’m in the park.”
“Sure, Superintendent Brown.” Nichols frowned off into the distance. “That’s your grandson out there, isn’t it? Driving that pickup?”
“Yes. He’s doing rounds. Picking up trash.”
“Maybe I’ll go down and talk to him.” Nichols paused. “Does he believe in witches?”
“Go ask him.”
Nichols nodded to Dusty before walking off, a thoughtful slouch to his shoulders.
Dusty gave Rupert an askance look. “Are you okay?”
“God, no.”
Rupert shoved his hands more deeply into his pockets. “On top of everything else, he’s driving me crazy. Nichols has been throwing his weight around, reorganizing every park employee’s schedule, tearing down tape, putting up tape, blocking roads, opening roads, giving orders, pointing his finger. That’s what I really don’t like. The finger-pointing thing.” He shook his finger in Dusty’s face to illustrate, then tucked it back in his pocket. “See?”
Dusty smothered a smile. “I think he’s just being thorough, Rupert.”

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