Stone Butterfly (17 page)

Hush, my child

Lie still and slumber

Holy angels guard thy bed

Heavenly blessings without number

Gently fall upon thy head.

This was the lullaby her mother used to sing to her…
when I was oh, so small.
Sarah's head fell back onto the downy back of the velvet seat. Her soul fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

After receiving a call to transport an elderly asthmatic to the clinic, Marilee Attatochee shooed the cluster of cops out of her home. Her teenage cousin was missing, mountains might crumble and Wall Street tumble, but it was a hard world and a woman had to earn herself a living. As she cranked up her van, the zealous entrepreneur instructed Sheriff Ned Popper to arrest Al Harper: “—if you see that cross between a one-eyed snake and a beer-guzzling gutter-skunk skulking around my home.”

Straining not to smile, the lawman leaned on the Papago woman's taxi and requested some legal advice. Like what offense should he charge Mr. Harper with.

Marilee spat a response right back at him: “For impersonating a grown-up man!” Her dander up and dancing, she pointed to the nearest tree and added: “And hang him from that cottonwood limb so I can watch him kick and gag and turn blue in the face!”

The sheriff solemnly promised to do whatever Utah statutes allowed, but in Harper's case he doubted hanging would be called for. “Not unless he steals a horse. Or insults a sworn officer of the law.”

Sensing that this was the annoying man's notion of a jest, and fresh out of varmints to compare her ex-boyfriend with, the outraged woman departed, her vehicle kicking up a spray of gravel in its wake.

Behind Marilee's modest home, Charlie Moon, Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague, and Ned Popper gazed at Hatchet Gap.

“That's the shortcut Sarah Frank always took over to Ben Silver's place,” the local lawman said. “It's only about two miles from where we're standing. Not many of the locals go into the Gap—it's supposed to be a spooky place.” To make it clear that he gave no credence to such superstitions, Popper produced a raspy snicker. “There's an old Paiute who hunts all over these parts, but he won't set foot in the Gap. Claims it's ‘a bad place for an Indian'—says some old spirits still hang about in there. But I guess them tales never bothered Sarah much. Anyhow, Marilee was usually too busy to drive her over to Ben's place, so the kid didn't have a helluva lot of choice. The only other way to get there is around Big Lizard Ridge on Ben's private lane, which is a five-mile walk from here, maybe six.” A gauzy cloud slipped away to unmask the midafternoon sun. Popper pulled his hat brim down to shade his gray eyes. “If she's still up there, a hundred men might search for weeks and not find her.” The canny old sheriff gave the Ute a quick sideways glance, tried a long shot that was coated with subtle flattery. “But one man who was a sure-enough tracker—the kind who could follow a panther across a mile of solid bedrock—he might find her in a few minutes.”

Moon heard the message loud and clear, as if Popper had shouted in his ear.
He wants me to search that canyon, see if I can flush Sarah out of her hiding place.

The sheriff watched the Indian's eyes.
He won't do it.
Popper heaved a weary sigh.
Well, it was worth a try.
“You folks want to take a drive over to Ben Silver's place?”

Every day holds a surprise or two. Popper's popped up quite unexpectedly.

Charlie Moon offered his Expedition keys to the FBI agent. “Maybe you'd like to follow the sheriff.”
Unless you already know the way…

McTeague was not surprised. “While you take the route through Hatchet Gap.”

The tribal investigator nodded. “I'll show up in about an hour. Maybe two.” He pushed his hat brim back, basked in the warmth of the sun. “I intend to take my time.”

Barely suppressing his satisfaction, Sheriff Popper concluded that he had misjudged his man.

From Marilee Attatochee's backyard, the Gap had appeared to be no more than a crack in Big Lizard's back. As Charlie Moon entered the fissure in the long, sandstone ridge, it was apparent that Thunder Woman had given the unfortunate reptile a truly earth-shaking whack. It was natural that he should compare this crevasse to
Cañón del Espíritu
, whose wide mouth opened near Aunt Daisy's home. There were stark contrasts. Compared to the ruffled mesa-skirts that formed the sloping walls of Spirit Canyon, the cliffs in Hatchet Gap were almost vertical. The largest canyon on the Southern Ute reservation boasted a year-round stream, but what little rain fell from the arid skies above the Gap would instantly slip between the jumble of crumbled rocks, percolate down through porous pebbles and sand. Moon tried to imagine fourteen-year-old Sarah making this long, lonely walk, just to earn a few dollars working in the old man's house.
She must've needed the money pretty bad.
A few paces ahead, a rock squirrel poked its black head from under a clump of spiny hopsage. The
Spermophilus variegatus
fixed beady eyes on the long, lean intruder. The rodent's face reminded Moon of Al Harper's pinched features.
Or maybe it wasn't entirely about the money—Sarah may've just needed to get away from Marilee's house for a few hours.

With no continuous path through the rubble of fragmented stone, it was a slow, tedious hike. The bowels of Hatchet Gap did not make for a picturesque place. Photographers from
Western Scene Magazine
would not haunt its quiet space. Happy families would not come here to picnic. The Ute watched a prairie rattlesnake slither under a wedge of sandstone. The walls were fractured with minor fissures, stained with a residue of a dark brown lichen that suggested coagulated Big Lizard blood. The stale air was sour-smelling and musty, the featureless shadows oppressive in this desolate space where the cleansing power of direct sunlight had never touched and never would.

Halfway through the Gap, Moon reached the high point in his journey. He could see a vertical slit of light at the far mouth of the crevasse.
From here on, it's all downhill.
He took a half-dozen steps, paused to pick up a fragment of hand-chipped obsidian.
Looks like a hide scraper.
As he straightened his back, his gaze locked on a remarkable display.

On a flat panel of the sandstone wall, there was a seemingly random array of human handprints. No, he corrected himself—not prints. These were
outlines
of hands. They might have been placed on this hard canvas a mere few hundred years ago, or ten thousand. They seemed to gesture to the Ute. To call to him.

We are here forever

You are of us

Come close

Put your hands on ours

Be here forever

Mesmerized by these sinister whispers, stunned by what
seemed
to be taking shape before his eyes, Charlie Moon was unaware that the obsidian artifact had slipped from his fingers…

This scene slipped by in bits and pieces, like a choppy old motion picture assembled from scraps strewn across Dream-Time's cutting-room floor.

The obsidian hide-scraper struck the ground.

Charlie Moon snapped out of the spell.

From a tuft of scrub oak jutting improbably from a finger-wide cleft in the sandstone cliff, an oversized raven cackled a rattling chuckle, ruffled her dark wings.

After taking thought, the rational man blamed the embarrassing episode on a serious head injury he had suffered several years earlier at Chimney Rock Archaeological Site. The neurosurgeon had warned Charlie Moon that he would never completely recover from such a serious concussion.
And I haven't. From time to time, I still see things that aren't there.
Add to that, the remarkable power of suggestion—Sheriff Popper's remark about Hatchet Gap being a “spooky” place had certainly helped things along. Having serious work to do, Moon shook his head—hoping this might keep the unwanted vision from returning. But something he could not shrug off tugged at the shadowy underside of his mind. Before leaving this extraordinary place, the Ute felt compelled to count the handprints. The sum was thirteen. And all but one represented
right
hands.

After watching Sheriff Ned Popper turn a shiny brass key in the front door lock, Special Agent McTeague followed him into Ben Silver's house. Even after he switched on the lights, the parlor seemed to harbor a murky residue left over from the preceding day.

Clomping his cowboy boots over to a varnished oak desk, the local lawman pointed to a spot where the medical examiner had placed strips of masking tape on the hardwood floor. Popper said unnecessarily: “That's where I found Ben.” He aimed the same finger at a window over the desk. “And that's where I was lookin' in when the girl tossed that baseball bat through the glass.” He winced at the lump on his forehead, which had a peculiar way of double-throbbing whenever he recalled the unpleasant incident.

Taking care not to step on the spot where the victim had been found, the FBI agent approached the desk. She frowned at the broken window, now sealed from the outside with a freshly cut square of plywood. “And you have no doubt whatever that the person who threw the bat at you was Sarah Frank?”

He stared blankly at the fed.

“I mean,” she added quickly, “it couldn't have been another girl—of similar age and height?”

“I guess we can't completely rule that out.” The sheriff pulled at his mustache. “If Sarah had an identical twin.”

McTeague blushed, changed the subject. “It's fortunate the victim was still alive when you arrived. As I recall, when you asked Mr. Silver who had bludgeoned him, he named Sarah. In a homicide, that's a nice piece of luck.”

Popper took a hard look at the broken window. “It's also a lucky thing Sarah didn't crack my head open when she tossed that damn bat at me.” The throbbing shifted into triple-time.