Hawk Moon (7 page)

He ran his fingers over the curved brim and noticed a slight crease in the center caused by squeezing the sides together. Tom Burke had given it to him after he'd returned from a trip to the West Coast a few weeks ago. He looked up with a glum expression. "It's mine."

"That's what I thought."

"It must have been in my Jeep. Someone took it, probably when the knife was stolen."

Kirkpatrick nodded, but didn't look very convinced.

He reached into the bag again and retrieved something wrapped in plastic. He set it in front of Will. It was a knife and the blade was caked with a reddish-brown substance.

"Is it yours?"

"Don't say anything you don't want to say," Connors said.

"It's okay, Grandpa. That looks like my knife." Kirkpatrick waited for Will to continue, as if he expected him to confess.

"We found both of these at Ashcroft today," Olsen said.

Will looked at the knife again. "It's got blood on it, doesn't it?"

No one said anything.

Connors gestured toward the knife. "Look, Bower, if this is all you wanted to do, then you've done it.

We're leaving now unless you've got something else you want to say or show us."

"There is something else," Olsen said.

Kirkpatrick reached into his shirt pocket and took out a square of foil. He unfolded it and set it on the table. Will leaned forward and saw a small amount of a blue powder. "Do you know what that is?" the sheriff asked.

Will shook his head.

"It's a designer drug called the Chill. Traces of it were found on the handle of your knife."

"I don't know anything about that," Will said.

"You must know something about the drug. Even kids who don't do drugs know about them. Word gets around."

Will recalled that Aaron Thomas, Claude Kirkpatrick, and Paige Davis had acted as if they were high on something at the party and Taylor thought it was the Chill. "Friday night at Paige's party I heard something about it."

"Was anyone doing the drug at the party?"

Will hesitated. He didn't like being a snitch. "Maybe. I don't know. I didn't stay long."

"What about before the party? Did you know about the drug?"

Will vaguely recalled hearing something whispered in the locker room a few weeks ago. He'd thought it was about a new type of steroid. He knew that some players, including Claude Kirkpatrick, had tried them, but no one talked about it openly. A couple of years ago, two or three players had been kicked off the football team for using steroids. Will had no interest in being the biggest or strongest guy on the team. Steroids couldn't make him any faster, so he never tried to find out about their availability.

"Will doesn't take drugs," Connors said when Will didn't respond right away. "You can count on that."

"We all like to defend our children, Mr. Connors," Olsen said. "But keep in mind that we're not with them every hour of the day"

"This is ridiculous," Connors said, standing up.

"Hold on, Ed." Kirkpatrick raised a hand. "There's one way to find out if Will is telling the truth. I'd like him to give us a urine sample. If he's taken the drug within the last ten days, we'll know it."

"They can't force you to do anything, Will," Connors said, "but it might be a good idea."

"I don't mind. Like I said, I've never taken the drug." Kirkpatrick stood up. "Good. Let's take care of that right now."

Fifteen minutes later, they left the station and headed home. "I hope we did the right thing," Connors said. "Maybe we should have had a lawyer with us."

"Why? I didn't do anything. Besides, you don't like lawyers."

"You got that right, but I don't trust Kirkpatrick, either. I don't care if he is the sheriff. He's too close to these sleazy Hollywood types and he's running for re-election, which makes it even worse."

W
hen Will arrived at school the next morning, he felt as if he were invisible. He walked down the hall surrounded by a wall of silence. No one asked him for the latest news about Myra. No one said anything. When he reached his locker, he found a folded piece of paper sticking out. He pulled it out, opened it. The note was written in thick red ink from a felt-tip pen.

You're one for the record books all right,
Lansa
. They'll be talking about the killer halfback for years to come.

Your
Fanz

Will frowned, crumpled up the paper, and walked to his first class. Bodies moved past him in a blur. Faces leering, then disappearing. He heard his name a couple of times, but didn't see who was talking, his mind still on the cryptic message.

As soon as he walked into chemistry class everyone looked his way, then fell silent. He tossed the wad of paper into the basket and sat down. The class began a few moments later, and he pushed away the troubling thoughts that had entered his mind.

Between classes, he noticed again that no one was talking to him. Kids he knew were turning away or acting as if they didn't see him. It was an odd switch from Friday when it seemed that everyone wanted to talk to him. Finally, he saw Paige Davis walking down the hall in his direction. She looked away and started to brush past him when he grabbed her arm. "Hey, can't you say hi?"

"Oh, hi, Will. I'm sort of in a hurry right now."

"Okay." He let go of her arm. She started to walk away, then turned back to him. "Don't you know it's all over school?" she whispered.

"What is?"

"Don't act dumb, Will. The knife. Your bloody knife. Kids are even taking bets on whether or not you'll be arrested before school's out today."

"Paige, I didn't do anything to Myra."

But she'd already turned on her heels and walked away. Suddenly, he was no longer a football hero but a murder suspect. He walked to English class in a daze and found a folded piece of paper on his desk. He opened it up and saw another note written in the same red ink.

Just another stab at fame, no doubt.

Your
Fanz

He slipped the piece of paper into his notebook just as Claude Kirkpatrick walked into class. He glanced at Will, nodded, but didn't say anything.

Will tried his best to concentrate, but without much luck. He spent several minutes slowly shredding the
Fanz
note into tiny bits of paper. Fortunately, his teachers weren't calling on him today. They probably knew about the knife, too. As he walked to the lunchroom, he felt as alone as he'd been during his first days on the reservation last summer.

Every seat was taken at the football table and that was fine with him. He found a table in the corner that was empty except for two people: Charlie Baines, the computer nerd, and a girl who was also a sysop in the computer lab. Baines glanced his way, then continued talking. As Will started eating, he overheard snatches of their conversation. They were talking about computer games—not about playing them, but programming them—and Will didn't understand a thing they said.

Baines was a short kid with messy hair and clothes that always looked slept in. He'd helped Will in the lab from time to time, and from that experience Will had decided Baines didn't bathe very often. The girl, who Baines called
Ridder
, wore big round glasses that kept sliding down her nose. Her curly hair fell loose around her shoulders. Every time he looked her way, she turned her head. She'd probably heard all about him, like everyone else, and was probably upset that he'd sat at their table.

But for the most part, they were lost in their own world and acted as if he weren't there. As Will was about to leave, Baines suddenly turned to him. "
Lansa
, don't you want Death Dream Four?" he asked amid a clatter of plates and raised voices from the next table.

For a moment, Will thought he saw the bloodied features of the haggard
Masau
grinning at him. He sucked in his breath and glanced away. He didn't want to believe what he'd just seen. But he had to look again. When he did, he saw Baines staring at him.

"Well, do you?"

"Is that a new game, Death Dream Four?"

Baines frowned, then pointed at Will's plate. "I said, don't you want your ice cream bar."

"Oh, no. You can have it."

Baines snatched it off his plate. "By the way, someone was screwing around on the computer system and posted E-mail addressed to you in everyone's mailbox."

He flipped through a notebook and found a computer printout. "Here it is."

Will took the paper and read:

Will
Lansa
raced for a record and everyone thought he was cool.

Too bad he'll only be remembered for killing his girl after school.

Your
Fanz
again

Will's fingers curled into fists and he nearly tore the piece of paper in half. "Who wrote that?"

"That's the funny thing. It looks like you wrote it yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"It was your handle."

"I didn't write this."

"Then someone must know your access code. Stop by the lab this afternoon and we'll change your code." Will nodded and walked away.

He was never so happy for a school day to end. At the bell, he hurried out to the parking lot. He just wanted to get away from all the stares and whispers. But then he saw Claude Kirkpatrick walking toward his truck. Will had been waiting for a chance to talk to him alone. Claude was just unlocking the door when Will called out to him.

"What's going on, Will?" he asked without turning to look at him.

"You tell me. Seems like someone's spreading a lot of crap about me."

Claude turned to him, and Will saw that his fists were clenched. "What are you saying?"

"I guess you told your father that Myra and I broke up."

"So what? You weren't trying to hide it."

"I don't have anything to hide. But I'd like to know what your father told you."

"Nothing. He doesn't talk about his police business with me."

"Not even when it involves one of your friends?" Claude rubbed his square jaw. "You know, Will, you've got a lot of nerve standing there and interrogating me when you're the one in it up to your neck."

"Hey, I thought we were friends."

"We were."

With a sudden shift of his weight, Claude slammed his fist into Will's midsection. His knees buckled, he gasped for breath. Will struggled to his feet to retaliate, but Claude was in his truck, revving his engine. He pulled away, his tires spitting bits of gravel that struck Will on his arms and cheeks.

Ten minutes later, Will drove slowly through downtown, looking for a parking space. He found a spot on Hunter Street and walked the block and a half to the Elk's Club building at Hyman and Galena where his grandfather had a corner office on the second floor. He knocked on the door, then opened it as he heard Ed Connors talking on the telephone. Connors turned in his chair, then signaled Will to come in.

Connors's desk was cluttered with books and maps that spilled onto the floor. Although he was no longer actively involved in the mining business, he still held mining rights on a couple of thousand acres in Pitkin County and owned several hundred acres.

"I'm not interested," Connors said. "I told you I wasn't interested two years ago, last year, and I'm not interested in selling now."

Will walked over to the corner window and looked down on the crowded mall where Hyman Avenue was closed to traffic. Just across the street was the old Ute City
Banque
building, the one-time home of a bank and now a popular bar. He leaned closer to the window as he saw Tom Burke standing outside the bar. He was talking to two men, neither of whom Will recognized. Both looked to be in their thirties. One had a black beard and curly hair, while the other wore his hair in a ponytail. They seemed to be discussing something very intently as if they weren't just casual acquaintances. Then Burke waved a hand and walked away.