The Night Visitor (38 page)

Curiosity was getting the best of her. “So how much did Briggs get for the flint blade?”

“Four hundred thousand dollars.”

“Four hundred thou… but that's
incredible!”

“So me and my pardner, we get to split three hundred and sixty thousand.” Moon's countenance took on the serene appearance of one lost in rapture. “That's one hundred and eighty thousand dollars apiece.”

“So it was Ralph Briggs who stole the flint blade from the McFain home.”

She'd made a natural enough mistake. But there was no reason to tell the journalist more than she needed to know. “I can see why my pardner likes you so much. You're as smart as you are pretty.”

“Save it, Charlie.” But she smiled. Just barely.

“So,” he said with a gesture of upheld hands, “that's what happened.”

“But it just isn't
ethical …
taking money for something that isn't rightfully yours …”

“Maybe not, but we did it anyway.”

She scowled at Moon. “I'd certainly like to hear an explanation.”

Moon frowned, and thought about it. “I don't think I can explain it.”

“That is not an acceptable answer.” “It's the best I can do.”

“You think I'll keep mum about this, don't you?”

Moon grinned boyishly. “I sure hope so.” He sure did.

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

“Me and Scott would sure appreciate it.”

She blushed with anger. “That is not a sufficient reason.”

“Thing is—if it becomes public knowledge that me and Scott just raked in three hundred and sixty thousand bucks, it'll cause all sorts of problems for us. Like visits from land developers and condo salesmen. And all kinds of needy relatives we never knew we had, just crawlin' outta the woodwork.” He paused to clear his throat. “Not to mention the IRS.”

In a murky sort of way, it was gradually becoming clear to her. This pair of lawmen—though basically honest—had been tempted beyond their ability to resist. They were like hungry little boys in a watermelon patch. Children who needed an adult to look after them. Anne put her head in her hands. “I just don't believe this …”

“Oh,” the Ute said, “you can believe it all right. See, the thing is, neither one of us has any money left for income taxes. I've put all of mine in no-load mutual funds. My pardner, he invested his share in real estate.”

She stared at the fireplace. “I already know about the real estate, Charlie. Scott bought a very expensive piece of property. A lovely home. For me. I feel so… so awful. So
guilty.”

Boy, was she mixed up. “There's no need for you to feel guilty.”

“No?”

“Nope. Scott wouldn't have spent a dime of the money on
you.”

She gave him a stony look. “He wouldn't?”

“Not a chance.”

Her lovely blue eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. “Who
does
he intend to spend it on?”

The Ute—who was becoming distinctly uncomfortable—pretended to take an interest in an oil painting hanging over the fireplace. Aspen on Salt Mountain. Not bad.

“Charlie… I already know who she is.”

He kept his gaze on the painted aspens. “You do?”

“Of course. The little blond.”

“Little blond?” Was it just a lucky guess?

He sounded so innocent. Like he had no notion of who she was talking about. Anne Foster could still see them, standing on the moonlit lawn. She'd been holding Scott's hand. Alice
Something-Or-Other. Or was it Alicia? The brazen young policewoman certainly hadn't wasted any time filling the void. But it wouldn't work. She was too young for Scott. It was a silly infatuation. “I do understand, Charlie. She's just a child. Insecure… in need of a father figure.”

His poker face slipped away. She
knew.
“Well,” Moon said, “now that you mention it …”

“I can understand how Scott might take an interest in someone so… so …” She choked on the word “young,” and swallowed hard. “But I can't understand why he'd spend all that money on her.” It just didn't make sense. Scott had always been so
sensible.

The Ute policeman shrugged. “I guess it just seemed like the best thing to do.”

And then it dawned on her. What if the sly little policewoman had found out about the sale of the McFain blade… Was she was blackmailing the pair of them? She shot the Ute a threatening look. “I think you'd better tell me what's going on, Charlie Moon!”

“Oh, I don't think I ought to do that… it's my pardner's secret. I couldn't tell.”

“Why not?”

“Code of the West.”

She stared daggers at him. It was such a silly thing to say. “That's silly.”

The Ute policeman shook his head stubbornly. “Not to me, it ain't.”

“Charlie Moon—if you don't tell me, you'll be sorry.”

He set his jaw defiantly. “No way you could make me go against my pardner.”

She gave him an appraising look. Poor Charlie Moon. Almost seven feet tall. Over two hundred pounds of muscle and bone. But he was just a man. Didn't stand a chance.

Moon jammed his black Stetson down to his ears and got up to go.

Anne Foster was staring at him with those huge, luminous blue eyes. Like her heart would falter and stop, her soul turn to vapor and fade away. And then the dreaded thing happened …

A large tear appeared in the corner of her left eye.

“Hey …” he said.

The tear slipped onto her cheek. And began to make a moist track along her lovely face.

“Listen,” he said, “there's no reason to …”

The elegant performance was repeated in her right eye.

Moon felt the very ground cut from under him. He thought about it. Rationalized about it. There was, of course, the Code to be considered. Come hell or high water, a man always stood up for his pardner. But shoot, it sounded like she already knew who the money was being spent on. And Anne was a stubborn woman. What she didn't know, she'd eventually find out. Better for Scott if she heard it from him.

So he told her what he and his pardner had done. And why.

Anne was astonished at what she heard.

But what neither of them knew was this: Charlie Moon knew only half the tale.

And not the better half.

O
N THIS COLD
night, Daisy Perika prayed for many things.

For an easy winter, so the rutted lane from the gravel road to her mailbox would not be a yard deep in ice-crusted snow or—when the thaws came—knee-deep in mud. For the Social Security checks to arrive in her mailbox on time. For the safety of her nephew; Southern Ute policeman Charlie Moon faced many hazards. As usual, she petitioned God to help Charlie to find himself a wife. A good Ute girl would be the best thing. Maybe someone from the Unintah reservation. Barring that, maybe a Cheyenne, an Arapaho, a Shoshone. A Pueblo woman would be acceptable. But not one of them uppity Navajos, God—thank you anyhow.

Daisy rolled over; she hugged a rumpled pillow to her ear.

Almost as an afterthought, she prayed that cousin Gorman Sweetwater would not drink himself to death. And that he would not come to visit unless she needed him for something… the porch was getting rickety again. Maybe he could hammer a few nails into it.

She yawned.

Though the old woman had eaten a bowl of posole which was liberally salted with tongue-searing green chili and fatty pork, she did not pray for a night free of troublesome dreams. Perhaps this was an oversight.

Within minutes, she slipped away from this world and its many cares.

Now, the old woman sleeps.
But it is the shaman who dreams.
And in her dream, she understands what she must do …

where she must go.

Daisy awakens suddenly. Yes. She has not visited the little man for a very long time. Father Raes Delfino—a worrier to his marrow—has warned her about communing with such creatures. But tomorrow, she will go into the canyon. Not that she intends to do anything that would offend the Catholic priest. Just visit the place where the dwarf lives… leave him a present or two. Maybe rest for a few minutes. What harm could come of that?

She'll have to take the children along, of course.

Fortified with a breakfast of scrambled eggs and pork sausage, the children were happy to be outside with the old woman. Sarah's black cat was also pleased to be released from the trailer for such a happy jaunt. Mr. Zig-Zag darted here and there, sniffing at dead flower-stalks, hollow grasshopper skeletons, and invisible tracks of a tiny deer-mouse who had come this way during the previous night.

Though the sun was well over the eastern peaks and warm on their necks, it was a crisp autumn morning. The girls—bundled warmly in coat and scarf—tagged along at Daisy's side, laughing, occasionally skipping away a few paces to examine wonderful things. A dead tree that looked like a ghastly monster with outstretched arms. A clump of wild mistletoe hanging from a sickly piñon. A speckled granite boulder shaped like a duck's head. But they did not stray far from the old woman, who carried a double-barreled shotgun under one
arm and cast wary looks this way and that. It was Butter Flye who asked about the need for the weapon.

“Might see a fat cottontail,” the old woman replied, aiming the long barrels at the imaginary rabbit. She had intended to shock the blue-eyed
matukach
child.

“You shoot 'im, I'll skin 'im,” the Arkansas girl had responded promptly. “Then we can fry 'im up for lunch.” She licked her chapped lips.

Daisy was surprised at the response, and pleased. This was a sensible child.

Sarah Frank deliberately ignored this foolish exchange. The very notion that someone would murder a little bunny rabbit. And then eat it! Disgusting.

Sarah's pet rubbed his ribs on the old woman's ankle.

Daisy made a face at the black cat, who returned the stare with a glare of yellow eye. She cut her eyes at the Ute-Papago child. “I'll have to be careful what I shoot at. Wouldn't want to mistake Mr. Rag-Bag for a rabbit.”

Sarah also ignored this jibe. “He's Mr.
Zig-Zag,”
she muttered under her breath.

“You know,” Daisy continued to no one in particular, “if you skin a cat and cut off its tail, you can't hardly tell it from a skinned rabbit.”

Now Sarah shot her a dark look.
“I'd
know the difference.”

Daisy, pleased to have gotten the desired response, gave up the game. The weapon, of course, was not for slaying furry creatures for her iron kettle. No fool in her right mind would eat leather-tough old rabbit when she had tender store-bought chicken in the refrigerator. No, she'd brought along the twelve-gauge for quite another purpose. It was for the Magician. The mud-covered trickster had best not show his dirty hide around here unless he wanted to dance the high-step! But something about her enigmatic night visitor nagged at the shaman's mind. His sleight-of-hand conjuring of that white egg… it had seemed to have some special purpose. A sinister meaning that she could not fathom.

Daisy, being of a practical nature, dismissed the worrisome puzzle.
But if she crossed paths with the Magician, she'd learn one thing for sure. Whether he could run faster than buckshot.

Though the grade was slight, the trail into the canyon was uphill. By the time they reached the appointed place, the old woman was heaving with deep breaths. Despite the crisp air in the deep canyon, great beads of sweat stood out on her forehead like melted pearls.

The children, of course, were just warming up to this little walk.

Daisy Perika paused at the old piñon. Her
sleeping tree …
a place of visions. She leaned the rusty shotgun against the gnarled trunk, and eyed the hole in the ground. It was maybe a foot and a half wide. And very dark inside. It had once been home to a badger, but the masked varmint was long gone. Someone else had moved in. Someone much more interesting than a member of the weasel family. And considerably more dangerous.

Butter noticed that Sarah and the old woman were staring at the hole in the ground. The white child walked toward it, only to be frozen in her tracks by a sharp call from Daisy.

“No. Come back here.”

Butter obeyed, though not happily. Grown-ups were always keeping you away from the most interesting stuff. Like late-night TV when naked men and women wrestled under rumpled sheets. The yellow-haired child muttered to the older girl: “What's wrong?”

Sarah answered in a whisper. “That's where the
pitukupf
lives.”

“What's a pitookoof?” the
matukach
child asked. Sounded like a sneeze.

“A dwarf,” the older child said.

“Like in Snow White and the Seven …”

“Sort of. But this one lives alone.”

Butter sighed with heartfelt pity. “He must get all lonesome out here all by hisself.”

Sarah shrugged. “I guess that's why Aunt Daisy comes out to talk to him sometimes. She brings him presents, too.”

The little white girl nodded. It all made perfect sense. Except
for one thing. Why would anyone want to live in a dirty hole in the ground? Probably because he was some kind of little bum. She hoped the old woman wouldn't hang around here too long. Butter wanted to go hunting. See Daisy shoot a rabbit!

The old shaman stood for a long time, oblivious to the whispered exchanges between the girls. She stared at the badger hole. Thought her roundabout thoughts. Wove her strands of twisted logic. She had half-promised the Catholic priest that she'd have no more to do with the
pitukupf.
Well, she'd actually half-promised not to
talk
to the dwarf.

She'd never said she wouldn't listen if the dwarf talked to her.

Daisy reached into the deep pocket of her dead husband's wool overcoat. Her fingers closed around the little treasures. Well, they weren't actually gifts she'd brought out here for the dwarf. Just… well, supplies. You never could know what you might need on a walk into
Cañon del Espiritu.
A little bag of smoking tobacco. Not that she smoked, but tobacco had certain medicinal properties. Useful if one of the children got stung by a yellow jacket. The yellow jackets had been gone since the first frost—but how can an old woman remember everything? She had also brought some pretty peppermints, wrapped in cellophane. Daisy didn't care much for candy, but the girls might want some. And there were more than enough peppermints to go around. She nodded at Sarah.