The Night Visitor (10 page)

“Don't look like you've got much choice.”

“Please… there must be somethin' you can do for me.”

There was a long pause before Moon muttered under his breath. “Of course, there is paragraph 117-B.”

Flye grabbed the bars. “What'd you say?”

“Theoretically, under 117-B, I could arrange for your probationary release. And if you were cut loose it wouldn't be necessary to place your daughter into foster care. But I doubt you'd be interested… paragraph 117-B has some tough conditions.” He turned to walk away.

Horace felt his pulse racing. “What conditions?” he screeched.

“It's not all that easy.” Moon turned to give the prisoner a thoughtful look. “You'd have to find steady work within
seven days. And see that the child was properly taken care of.”

“I'll do it. I can get a job anytime I want, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Well,” Moon said doubtfully. “117-B does say I could let you go on probation. But if you don't keep the terms of your parole …” He shook his head, as if the consequences were too grim to contemplate.

Flye swallowed; his prominent Adam's apple bobbled. “Like you was sayin'—if I messed up whilst I was out on parole—not that I would, o' course—but if I did, then what?”

The Ute policeman fixed the prisoner with a pitiless gaze. “You break parole under 117-B, we turn your file over to the FBI. Those suits really like to work child-neglect cases that occur on Indian reservations.”

“What… but I don't neglect little Butter… and I thought you said you Utes had your own laws and whatnot… so why'd the FBI be interested in me and my child?”

“We got a contract with the Feds. Petty crimes we don't want to deal with, we turn over to them. We pay 'em five hundred dollars a whack—but they only get paid if they win the case and put the criminal in the federal jug. So they have what you'd call… motivation. And what with all them Justice Department lawyers just aching to get their teeth in guys like you, they don't lose one case in a hundred.”

On this particular day, the thought of teeth in his flesh—though merely a figure of speech—was exceedingly unpleasant. “Okay.” Horace rubbed at the bandage over his chewed ear. “Let's go for that B-17 whatchamacallit. I'll do whatever you say.”

Moon unlocked the cell door.

Flye waved the folded copy of the
Southern Ute Drum.
“All right if I take this with me?”

“Sure. The tribal newspaper is complimentary. Part of our service.”

He gave Flye the clipboard and a ballpoint pen. “This is the binding agreement that defines the terms of your probationary release. Sign here—on the bottom.”

The prisoner stared. “But there's nothin' wrote down on it. It's just… just a blank piece a paper!”

“No problem,” Moon said amiably. “I'll fill it in later.”

Horace Flye, holding his coat collar against the chill wind, tapped on the trailer door. “Butter, honey, it's Daddy. Let me in.”

Like a misplaced peg, her round face appeared in the square window. “Is the Big Bad Wuff gone… an' the Wicked Witch?”

Butter never made no sense. Just like her mamma. Must be somethin' in the blood. “Sure, honey. Now open the door. Daddy's gettin' mighty cold.”

The little face frowned at the blood-soaked bandage on his ear. “How do I know you're really my daddy? You could be the Booger-man, dressed up to
look
like my daddy.” Her face disappeared from the window.

“Butter!” He banged his fist on the flimsy metal structure. “You open this door right now, you hear? Or I swear I'll take a switch to you an'—”

“Go 'way, Booger-man!” She turned the TV up loud enough to make the trailer walls vibrate.

It was the proverbial last straw. Horace Flye muttered a curse, then sat down on the retractable trailer step. All in all, it had not been a good day.
I
got maybe thirty dollars and change in my pockets. Tried to raise a little extra cash, what did it get me? A rasslin' match with a sore loser. It was shameful, too—barely holding my own against a one-legged man with yaller teeth sharp as a possum's who damn near chewed my ear off. Then gettin' hauled off to an Injun jail. Don't
even have a wife to come home to no more. And now my own kid won't let me into the trailer. It's sure pure hell raisin' up a young 'un these days. And now the freezin' wind's a-blowin' sand into my face.

A man can only take so much. Even an Arkansas man who's tough as an old boot. Salty tears made crooked tracks down the channels of his leathery cheeks; his thin body heaved with doleful sobs.

Presently, she turned the TV off. The door opened. The
lower corner gouged him sharply in the ribs. A small head poked out. “I'm sorry, Daddy. But you always tell me to be careful who I open the door for.”

Horace Flye was in no mood to be consoled. He turned his head and glared hatefully at the child.

Butter tugged playfully at his ear bandage. “You look funny with only one earmuff.” She snickered.

“Damn smart-assed kid,” he muttered, and got to his feet.
Shoulda had one of them vasextomee operations years ago.

T
HE ENGRAVED PLATE
on the desk said:
RESEARCH LIBRARIAN—MS. PAMELA DRAKE.

Not quite sure how to proceed, Horace Flye waited patiently for the woman to acknowledge his presence.

Finally, she did. The librarian looked up to see a thin man with a bushy beard. And a bandaged ear. He was turning a battered felt hat in his hand. Not a bad-looking man, but he was dressed like a bum. But bums usually didn't come to the desk. They generally used the rest room, then found a quiet corner and snoozed until the library closed. She forced a professional smile. “Yes sir. May I help you?”

He nodded. “Yes ma'am. I need to read up on some things.”

Well, he was polite enough. “Such as?”

He looked over her head. Out the mullioned window. Where the pickup and trailer were parked. “Well, mostly about them great big hairy elephants. Mammoths and such.”

“Certainly, sir. I can direct you to the section on Pleistocene mammals and …”

“And I wondered—you got any books written by this fella—or his daughter?” He unfolded a small section that had been carefully scissored from a newspaper.

The librarian's eyes brightened as she saw the photograph. “Ah. Professor Moses Silver. And his daughter Delia. I know them well—very nice people.”

“Are they, now? And you know 'em personal?” He figured it wouldn't take much to get this one talking. And it didn't. Ms. Drake proceeded to tell him alt about the Silvers. How the daughter had been married, had a miscarriage. And how her husband had been such a beast—Delia had divorced him last year. How the young archaeologist was an internationally recognized expert in stone-age tool-making. Such a sweet girl—she was taking care of her aging father whose vision and memory were failing… and so on.

Horace Flye was storing all this information away. But she had forgotten his question, so he prodded her gently. “According to the newspaper, they wrote some books.”

She tapped the keys on her computer terminal. “We do have a book by Dr. Moses Silver—
Pleistocene Hunters of North America.
And there are several journal articles authored by both the professor and his daughter, who is—as I said—quite a noted scientist in her own right.” A small frown furrowed her brow. “In fact, now that I recall, we have a book by his daughter on our reference shelf—it's about how prehistoric people made flint implements, and where they got their materials from. Several beautiful color plates.”

He nodded eagerly. “I'd be right pleased to have a look at all of 'em.”

Though the answer seemed obvious, she asked the question. “Do you have a library card?”

He shook his head.

“I'll issue you a card if you wish to check out Moses' book. Delia's book and the journal articles can't be removed from the library, but you can read them here.” The librarian pointed to the copy room. “If you wish, you can make copies of articles
on our coin-machine. It's ten cents a page. Be sure and read the copyright notice.”

“Yes, ma'am. Thank you kindly.” Ten cents a page was pretty steep. He had a more cost-effective idea.

Horace Flye spent much of the morning in the library. It was downright painful. Reading deadly dry journal articles authored by the Silvers and others of the same ilk written by their colleagues. He was pleased to find an obituary of a famous paleontologist—Dr. Oscar Humboldt—who had spent his life excavating the fossilized bones of mammoths, mastodons, giant ground sloths, saber-toothed tigers, and three-toed horses. Horace used his pocketknife to cut out the obituary and a few articles that seemed relevant to the elephant bones the McFain fellow had found in his pasture. Though Horace Flye was unfamiliar with the tongue-twisting jargons of anthropology, paleontology, and archaeology, much could be understood by context. And—he had learned from long experience—just rolling them big words around in your mouth now and again went a long way toward giving folks the impression that you knew a lot more than you actually did.

Horace Flye steered carefully along the gravel road, watching the trailer in the large mirror mounted on the pickup door. He lifted his foot from the accelerator pedal and shifted down to second gear. There it was. The entrance had a big pine-log structure arching over it, high enough to drive a big truck loaded with hay underneath. A large sign hung upon the structure. The letters were expertly burnt into pine planks.

MGFain Dude Ranch

Butter, who had been dozing on the seat beside him, stood up and leaned against her father. “Daddy, where are we?”

The sleet-laden wind swept up gritty sand from the road, mixed these together, and flung them against the windshield. To Horace Flye, this rude greeting was an unsettling premonition.
He had, according to his habit, ignored the child's question.

She made a tiny fist and pounded on his shoulder. “Daddy, where
are
we?”

He reached to a knob mounted under the dashboard and turned up the heat. “Feels like the North Pole to me.”

“Really?” My, that was interesting.
Maybe I'll see Santy Claus!

He pulled to the side of the road. “Darlin', you'll need to get back in the trailer now. And don't be peekin' outta the windows. Daddy's got some important business to take care of, so you play hidey-seek till I tell you it's okay.”

Used to such admonitions, the child did not object.

Horace Flye was grateful for his daughter's willingness to play the game. When a man was looking for a place to stay for the winter—and a job to boot—well, it was best to keep a kid out of sight. Some people didn't like 'em too much. And come to think of it, they was a whole pile of trouble to take care of. Now that Butter's mamma was gone, what he needed was a good, strong woman. To take care of the little girl. And—he grinned wolfishly—he could do with a little takin' care of himself. Horace remembered the pretty little woman who liked to dig up bones and such, and was warmed by the memory. He'd learned aplenty about Delia Silver's personal life from that talkative old biddy in the library. Delia was a young woman who'd be on the lookout for a good man. So Horace had laid his plans. He'd trimmed his scraggly beard. Taken a bath and used up half a bar of scented soap. Pared his toenails and fingernails. Brushed his teeth with baking soda. Spit-shined his shoes. And put on his cleanest, least tattered shirt and britches.

There was a freshly washed fire-engine-red Dodge pickup parked under a nude cottonwood. Near the corral was a beat-up Jeep Wagoneer, of such age that its last brushed-on paint job was of indeterminate color. Might have once been brown. Or sickly sea-foam green. Or some clever camouflage combination. Closer to the barn was a large flatbed GMC truck, half-loaded with baled hay which gave off a wholesome, pungent
odor. Horace parked his pickup-trailer rig, got out, and made sure Butter wasn't peeking from a window. She wasn't. He zipped his jacket, and turned to blink at a solid-looking ranch house. The sprawling one-story structure was constructed of resinous, hand-hewn pine logs that reminded the Arkansas man of railroad ties. The dwelling had recently been crowned with a sparkling blue Propanel roof that clashed with the venerable logs. A fine L-shaped porch looped around the south and east walls; it was provided with an assortment of handsome pine rocking chairs and massive terra-cotta pottery from Mexico. A few potted plants hung from hooks in the porch roof, but the geraniums and less identifiable specimens were wilted gray from the frosts of an early autumn. He knocked tentatively on the door. Twice. Three times. No answer. He gave it up, and wondered what to do next. Must be somebody around here somewhere.