The Bone Man (27 page)

I ran up to him, threw my arms around him, and hugged and hugged and hugged. I began to sob, and then I kissed him long and hard and, finally, when I felt semi-sated, I sighed and tucked my head beneath his chin.

God he smelled good and felt good and . . .

His arms were tight around me, and he was rocking me back and forth. Except something was very wrong.

I peeked up at him. “I don’t understand.”

He kissed the top of my head. “Nothing
to
understand, Tal.”

I sighed again, content in his embrace. Except . . . sure there was something wrong. I moved to back away, but he held me tight. Too tight.

I pushed, and his arms remained locked around me.

“Let go, Hank.”

“Tally . . .”

I jammed my foot on his instep and pushed hard.

“Damn!” he said.

I was free, and I backed away, watching him try to stare me down with that Cunningham doggedness I knew so well.

I looked behind me, and there was Aric, chaw in cheek, arms folded, legs crossed, hip against the wall. The relaxed Zuni, except he was anything but. I moved toward him, and he straightened.

“What the hell’s going on?” I said, trying to grasp a wisp of sanity.

Aric snorted. “Simple. This thing with lover boy has all been a scheme to get you to do what he wants. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

I looked from Aric to Hank. But no. Hank wouldn’t give me that kind of unnecessary grief. “Hank? Wes said you were hurt. Badly hurt. Is Aric right?”

Hank walked forward, eyes on me, but he spoke to Aric. “I don’t know, Special Agent Bowannie. Is it right or not?”

“Special Agent?”
I said. “Like in FBI Special Agent?” My world was spinning. Hank unhurt, Aric an FBI agent.

I looked around. A dozen faces were turned to us, as if we were stars in some soap opera. I guessed we were. I read pity on some faces, humor on others, fascination on others.

Sally the receptionist’s face wore regret and guilt. She’d been a part of the scam. I guess most of OCME had been, too.

Let’s trick Tally into coming home. For her own safety.

Yeah, right.

“Sorry, guys.” I saluted and ran out the door.

I ran beside hedges and around cars, zigzagging around anything that might hide me from view. I made it to a parallel street, heard shouts, and stuck out my thumb. Almost immediately, an old woman in a battered van gave me a lift. I ducked down, peeked out the window, and saw Aric
and Hank racing after the van. I was away. I sighed with relief.

I embellished a tale of two rival men, which the old woman found quite amusing. She was a neat old gal—a sheep farmer and weaver. She dropped me at the high school, per my request. I needed time to think, and I doubted Frick and Frack would figure out where I’d gone.

I thanked her and entered the school.

I checked Hank’s watch, the one I’d lovingly massaged minutes earlier. Pa-thetic. It was two. I still had time to make the sunset appearance in Chaco. Inside the school, I signed in at the front office, saying a friend who was moving to town wanted me to look at the library. That got me by, and I found the large room with no trouble. The school was small and low-ceilinged, but a sense of pride was everywhere, from the banners that read:
Go Eagles!
To a trophy case with athletic and academic trophies.

In the library, computers marched in a row, with a few students pounding the keys. The library stacks looked just like any other, and I felt a sense of home that made me long for Boston.

I certainly was a stranger in a strange land. Hank and Aric—both men I trusted had lied to me. I’d survive. I took a seat at one of the desks.

Why couldn’t I figure this thing out? What was
really
going on? The pots weren’t that valuable. Oh, an undamaged one would bring thousands of dollars. True. But so many deaths? That meant higher stakes, so why couldn’t I see what was really behind all the killing. Didi had started to write
bloodfet
in her own blood, no less. That mattered. I guessed the Bone Man did, too, but I had no clue about him, either.

The Bone Man might be the killer, the guy who was after me. I felt a central will in all the attacks, yet the actual person remained illusive.

There was no way I wasn’t going to Chaco that night. I kicked the leg of the desk.

“Ma’am, are you angry at our desk?”

I looked into the face of the pretty Navajo girl peering down at me with questions in her eyes.

She made it easy to smile back at her. “No, I’m not. I just have a lot on my mind. Do you have a map of Chaco Canyon?”

She returned my smile, and out popped two dimples. “Of course we do.”

I followed her through the stacks to shelves beneath high windows. Inside what appeared to be a bound notebook, she pulled out a large, folded map. She spread it on the top of the shelves.

“Where do you want to go in Chaco, or do you just want to tour around?”

I studied the map. “Here.” I pointed to Chetro Ketl, whatever that was.

She nodded, her eyes again smiling. “Oh, yes, that’s very beautiful.”

“What’s this road?” I asked. “The one off Fifty-seven.”

She held up a finger and walked off. The map looked good, but not good enough. I needed details so I wouldn’t end up eaten by the death squad, or whoever they were.

A soft grunt made me turn, and I stared into the serious face of a Navajo teen. He wore cowboy boots and jeans and a plaid shirt, with a red bandana tied around his page-boy haircut. The outfit struck me as traditional, intentionally so, right down to his Navajo turquoise bracelet.

“You bothering my sister?” he said.

“Hi. My name’s Tally. And I don’t think I’m bothering her. She offered to help me, and so she is.”

He grunted again, folded his arms, and set his face into a rigid stare. The fact that I topped him by a good five inches didn’t seem to bother him one bit.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Joe. And don’t try to get friendly.”

“I wouldn’t think of it, Joe. I just like to know names, is all. I’m from Boston.”

He snorted. “So? You think you’re better than us?”

Oh my, this was one angry boy. “No. Why would I think that?”

“ ’Cause of money.”

“Really? So you believe money defines a person?”

His chin jutted. “No. But
you
do.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, Joe. People are people. I try not to judge and to take them for who they are.” I shrugged. “That’s about the best I can do.”

“So who am I?” he spat.

I was
really
too tired for this. “I don’t know—”

“Gorman!” barked a stern woman in a pressed pair of jeans.

I looked from her to the boy, who hadn’t moved an inch.

“He was helping me with this map,” I said.

She sniggered, smooshed her hands into her too-tight pockets. “Sure he was.”

“Isn’t that okay?” I said.

She walked toward me. Swaggered would be a better word.

“You look like you been through a blender, lady,” she said.

I shrugged. “I sort of have.”

“Gorman, two demerits.” She flicked her red nail–polished index finger. “And go sit over there.”

The kid gave me a black look and moved out.

“That’s sort of harsh,” I said.

“Yeah?” She smiled. “He knows he’s not supposed to talk to Anglos.”

“Pardon?”

“You deaf, too?” She sauntered toward the boy, again wagging that finger, and talking in what I presumed was Navajo.

I stood there for a moment, frozen to the linoleum floor. I felt foolish, like I’d just been chastised for breathing. But I was also annoyed with her narrow mind, which was obviously tainting the boy’s. I went back to looking at the map and had trouble focusing on it. Boy, that exchange bugged me.

“Hey,” came the chipper voice.

The pretty girl was back, and her eyes were welcoming.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Kai. It means willow tree, which I find sort of funny, since, well . . .” She gestured to her full breasts.

“It’s a lovely name. Mine’s Tally. That boy over there, Joe, said he was your brother. He was told not to talk to me because I’m an Anglo.”

She didn’t bother to look. “I know just who you mean. It’s a clan thing. He’s not my biological brother. And, yeah, he’s really into the Diné point of view.” She flushed. “He’s a pretty angry kid. So’s—”

“—the woman?” She looked over her shoulder, and her long ponytail swished across her shoulders. “That woman
is
my biological half-sister. She hates everybody. Don’t let them bother you.”

“No. Thank you.” Kai was lovely and petite, and her smile welcomed the world. Life was complicated, for sure. “So what did you bring to show me?”

“Oh! Yes. Here.” She laid a pad and pen and another map of Chaco on the counter. “You can take these with you. And I’ll give you directions into the canyon.”

She talked, and I began to write while two pairs of hostile eyes burned into my back.

“That’s it!” Kai said, dotting the final
i
.

“Great.” My smile was at half mast. Time to go meet the beast. The question was, did I use Navajo or park law enforcement? “One more question, Kai. Do you have any books or articles here on fetishes? I know they’re mostly the province of the Zuni, but you’re so near Chaco that I thought you might.”

She smiled. “I think we do. Are you looking for something specific?”

“A carving called the blood fetish.”

She flushed and bit her lip. “That sounds bad. I don’t like it.”

“You’ve heard of it?”

A student waved, and Kai said, “Excuse me,” and walked off.

I followed and waited as she showed the student a program on one of the computers.

“Kai?” I said.

She turned back to me. “Why do you ask about the blood fetish?”

“I saw it written once. And a man I met spoke of it.”

“It’s probably nothing but a rumor,” she said. “But it’s an old one. And not necessarily a good one.”

“You’re the first person I’ve met who’s even heard of the thing. Or at least admits to it. It’s as if I’ve been imagining the words, the object.”

She undid her long ponytail and refastened it. Her sparkling brown eyes grew serious. “I’m sure I’m not the first person who knew of the blood fetish,” she said. “Not if you’ve been asking Indians. But most folks won’t talk about stuff like that.”

“What
do
you know about it?”

She shrugged.

I hooked my arm through hers and walked her to where others couldn’t see us. I leaned close, and I told her all that had happened. The only thing I didn’t say was about the deputy’s murder. Grants was way too close to home. The last thing I wanted was this gentle girl involved.

“Like I said, I know a few things,” Kai said. “That Zuni guy. That Aric. He knows. I’d bet on it. Zunis carved it in the first place. Long, long time ago. I’ll show you something.”

She led me across the library to a stack near a corner of the library. “How do you know Aric?”

She shrugged. “The blood fetish is not one of those for-sale fetish carvings,” she said. “Not like the ones they do for tourists and collectors. No way. It’s got some hoodoo in it.”

“ ‘Hoodoo?’ ”

“Yeah, magic. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s bad stuff. Talking makes it worse.”

“What did you want to show me?”

She didn’t look happy. “I shouldn’t.”

“Hey, Kai!” Joe hollered.

He’d appeared out of nowhere, along with Kai’s sister. Both wore angry frowns.

Joe snorted. “Why’re you talkin’ to this Anglo? She’s trouble.”

Kai rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, right. All Anglos are . . . to
you
and sis. You’re idiots! Now get out of this library, unless you’re gonna study, which it’s obvious you’re not.”

“Screw you,” Joe said.

“I’ll screw you, all right,” Kai said, cheeks flushed, hands on hips. “Now get out, or I’ll tell Ma what you’ve been up to with that one.” She flicked a finger at her sister.

They melted into the darkness of the stacks.

“He sure is angry,” I said.

Kai nodded. “It didn’t used to be like that. Pretty sad, if you ask me.”

She turned toward the farthest stack. “This whole row is weaving and pots and carving and stuff. You’ll find some things here.” She pointed to a lower row. “But this is really where the important articles are kept. See how old these books are? At least a century or two, some of them. They’ve got magic.”

Her words cloaked us in mystery. The air became charged with portent, and I sensed that Kai was far more than a sweet young librarian. There was something here, and if I were lucky, I would find it. Kai knew exactly what it was, this magic. But maybe all books held magic for Kai.

“You’re right, all books do,” she said, as if answering my thoughts. “Look carefully, okay? Be respectful. And you may find what you’re looking for. It’s not up to me. We don’t just show anybody these.”

I laid my hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. Now forget what I’m looking for, do you hear me?”

Kai seemed to grow taller, older,
wiser
. “I cannot. It’s done.”

I took her hands in mine. “Then stay safe, Kai. Please.”

She nodded, solemn and silent. Finally, she said, “You, too. Remember, respectful. I can give you twenty minutes with these. That’s it. Or someone will sense . . . Just be fast, okay?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Good.” Then a student called, and she was Kai again, the young girl with few cares and fewer years on her shoulders. She gave me a wave and a “good luck,” and off she went.

Aloneness wrapped around me again. I might have been the only person in the world. The corner I stood in was dark and quiet, as if time itself were muffled. I bit my cheek. I believed I was about to open books no Anglo had seen for many years.

I took a deep, life-affirming breath.

The higher shelf held such familiar books as Oscar Branson’s
Fetishes and Carvings of the Southwest
, Kent Mc-Manis’s series on Zuni Fetishes, Hal Zina Bennett’s
Zuni Fetishes
, a Facsimile edition of Frank Hamilton Cushing’s
Zuni Fetishes
, Rodee and Ostler’s
The Fetish Carvers of Zuni
,
Zuni Fetishism
by Ruth Kirk, and others, many of which I had in my personal library.