“No, wiseacre. I am hoping for some kindly assistance from Sitting Bull.”
Moon seemed saddened by this news. “Well, that’ll be a problem, Stan. He’s not been seen in these parts for some time now.”
“Don’t give me heartburn, Charlie. I wouldn’t ask you if there was any other way. Besides,” he added seductively, “it’ll be real easy. No sweat.”
Moon regarded the special agent with a thoughtful look. “Stan, before I’d ever agree to do you a good turn, there’d be a condition.”
“Which is?”
“You’d have to be seriously beholden to me.”
Newman’s innards made a pitiful mewing noise. “This is no joking matter.”
The Ute tried hard to look serious. “I’m not joking.”
“Okay.” The federal agent raised his hands as one accosted by a robber. “You got it, Ace. I’ll be in your debt.”
Moon frowned suspiciously at the favor seeker. “For how long?”
Newman rolled his eyes at the blue Colorado sky. “Long as I live, Chucky.” A buzzard circled above. I’m dead meat.
“You swear?”
“On my saintly mother’s grave.”
“Your mother’s alive and well in Casper.” He would pass on the saintly part. But it was rumored that the senior Mrs. Newman peddled dry-land real estate to gullible city folk on both coasts.
“Okay then, forget my mother’s grave.” Newman drew an invisible X across his chest. “Cross my heart.”
“And hope to die?”
“In considerable pain. All alone in some rat-infested alley. With no one left to mourn my passing.”
Moon brightened. “Okay. What’s the favor?”
Special Agent Newman explained precisely what he required from his Ute friend.
Charlie Moon listened. And looked doubtful.
Newman hastened to point out that his proposal was one that the Bureau would be grateful for. More than that, if Charlie Moon agreed, his charitable action would be considered as one lawman’s personal favor to another. Not only would Newman be beholden until his death, so would the nation’s premier law-enforcement agency. So help me, J. Edgar Hoover. He spat on the gravel to solemnize this weighty vow.
The Ute, whose people had learned not to trust any solemn promise from the government in Washington, was wary. “For how long would this be?”
“Just a few days. Till we can make a more long-term arrangement.”
The special agent, who knew his man, played his hole card. Stanley Newman just happened to mention that the Bureau would, of course, pay Moon for his trouble. Not that there would be any actual trouble. Merely a figure of speech. Ha-ha.
The owner of the Columbine asked the critical question: How much.
Newman shrugged. “Depends on what the bean counters will approve. But if you provide our witness with a decent room and three meals a day, I could probably get you something”—he squinted painfully, as if performing a difficult mental calculation—“say in the neighborhood of a hundred and twenty bucks per day.”
The cash-poor rancher considered this a very nice neighborhood indeed. Melina Castro could stay in the guest cabin I fixed up for Aunt Daisy. Meals wouldn’t be a problem; Dolly Bushman could feed six kids her size on leftovers. But a small voice whispered to him: Don’t do it.
Charlie Moon—who needed the money—ignored the warning.
As Special Agent George Whitmer eased the sleek Ford Taurus out of the apartment building parking lot, he glanced at the rearview mirror. Charlie Moon was standing by his Ford pickup. Watching them leave. As if he knew they were not to be trusted. Whitmer suddenly felt as if he’d been party to a wrong deal. “Stan?”
“What is it?” As if I didn’t know.
“I don’t think you should’ve gotten Charlie involved in this.”
Newman found a very old pack of chewing gum in his coat pocket. “Don’t sweat it, George. It’s a win-win situation—works for everybody.”
“Bureau may not fund it.”
“Hey, it’s worth the risk.”
“Charlie’s taking all the risk,” Whitmer pointed out. “And if he don’t get paid, you’ve taken advantage of a brother lawman.”
“Moon’s not a real policeman anymore. He’s more like a private cop.” Newman popped a stale stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth. “Anyway, it’s not like I asked him to do something any upstanding citizen wouldn’t be happy to do in the service of criminal justice.”
Whitmer braked for a red light. “I still say it ain’t right.”
Special Agent Stanley Newman, his conscience tweaked by these righteous arguments, chewed the gum rapidly. “Okay, partner. Tell you what. If the bean counters disapprove the application to pay for our witness’s room and board at Charlie’s big ranch, we’ll pay him out of our own pockets.” Say ten cents on the dollar…
The older man laughed. “You made the promise, hotshot. Don’t think for a minute you’re going to pick my pocket.”
11
The Sun said: “My Sons…I know today that you will kill one of the members of your family.” He handed the Elder Brother his weapon, which is also the lightning….
—Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee
GHOST WOLF MESA
HER ARMS FOLDED resolutely, Amanda Silk stood above the excavation, staring down at the slight man who wore transparent latex gloves. He was the latest in a string of government experts who had photographed, probed, and sampled the soil at the crime scene. The archaeologist intended to be intimidating.
She was.
Barney Felt looked up from his position beside the makeshift grave where April Tavishuts’s calcined bones lay in deathly sleep. He squinted at the stark outline of this tall woman who stood with her back to the rising sun. Her form had the appearance of a cutout fashioned from black construction paper. He understood that Dr. Silk was the watchdog. She was present to make sure he did not go beyond the bounds required for the task at hand. “You needn’t worry, ma’am. I’ll be very careful.” The forensics specialist grinned in amiable fashion. “I know how you archaeologists feel about folks disturbing these old ruins.”
“How I feel has nothing to do with it,” Amanda said evenly. “It is a matter of federal law.”
His head bobbed as he nodded. “Yeah. I know about NAGPRA and all that.” Barney glanced at the burned bones. “All I’m interested in is finding out how this young woman died. Maybe even getting lucky, finding some evidence that’ll lead us to who killed her.” Then I’m outta here.
The archaeologist felt almost sorry for the fed. “I understand that you have a job to do.” She withdrew a respectful distance, sat on a slab of sandstone and watched him work.
The forensics expert moved slowly around the excavation, blinking at the disturbed earth.
Despite her professional concerns, Amanda Silk found this display immensely entertaining. He was crawling, his face inches from the ground. All he needs is a big magnifying glass and a deerstalker hat.
As if to oblige half her fantasy, Barney Felt produced a magnifying lens.
The archaeologist sighed. He’s almost too cute.
“Hey,” he said.
“What?”
He pointed with his nose. “What’s this?”
She went to look. “It’s a fragment of obsidian.”
“It’s real shiny,” he said with boyish enthusiasm. “Almost like glass.”
“Obsidian,” the archaeologist said with a pedantic air, “is often referred to as volcanic glass. It doesn’t occur naturally on the mesa. Someone carried it up here—probably at least a thousand years ago.”
The FBI forensics specialist squinted as he moved the round lens for a perfect focus. “Absolutely astonishing.”
“Not really so astonishing,” Amanda said patiently. “The continent is littered with bits and pieces of artifacts much older than that.”
“No. I mean what’s on the surface of the obsidian.”
She leaned to look more
closely. “What do you see?”
The Bureau employee turned an impish face toward the archaeologist. “Why, the fingerprint, of course.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“We who work for Uncle Sam’s federal police force do not make idle jests about evidence. Particularly in a homicide.”
“Then whoever buried the body must have touched the obsidian…”
“Sure. When the pothunter was digging, he must’ve found the volcanic glass. Picked it up, took a look at it, pitched it onto the pile of dirt.”
She nodded slowly at this astounding piece of good fortune. “Of course. An unworked piece of obsidian has no value to an artifact thief.”
Barney pocketed the magnifying lens, and rummaged around in his canvas tote bag until he found a camera in a leather case. He mounted the instrument on a small tripod, and took several close-up photographs of the obsidian artifact. “If our luck holds out, this bird’s prints will be on file.”
Amanda was beginning to find this man’s work fascinating. “And if they’re not?”
“Then we’ll have to wait for a suspect.” He looked up uncertainly at the watchdog. “It’d sure help if all of you folks who work at the archaeological site would volunteer to be fingerprinted.”
Amanda nodded. “You may begin with me.”
Barney used a plastic-tipped forceps to lift the obsidian specimen and drop it into a plastic bag. This was carefully sealed and marked with the date, time, and precise location of discovery. “What about the others—you think any of them will mind giving us their prints?”
“I’m sure they’ll be happy to cooperate.”
He removed a roll of film from the camera and slipped it into a black plastic cylinder. This evidence was stored in another marked plastic bag. “That’s good to hear.”
But in reality, Amanda Silk was not so certain. One or two of the academics were bound to protest. Privacy, civil rights, and all that sort of thing.
THE GUEST
Melina Castro sat at the table, watching the Ute prepare their supper. This is a very interesting man. “So you live all alone here.”
“Pretty much.” He switched on the gas oven.
“How big is your ranch?”
“Pretty big.”
“How big is that?”
It was the sort of impolite question that a local citizen would never ask. Like: “How much money do you have in the bank?” Or: “How many cows do you have on this spread?” But he gave her a number.
Her face drooped in disappointment. “That’s not so many acres.”
“Square miles.”
She was stunned into silence by this revelation. But only temporarily.
“So how many cows do you have?”
Enough was enough. “Not as many as I’d like to have.”
“You must be incredibly rich.”
He couldn’t afford to laugh. “How d’you like your lodgings?”
She shrugged. “The guest cabin is—well, you know—okay, I guess.”
“I fixed it up for a relative.” But it don’t look like Aunt Daisy will be using it.
“But there’s no telephone. And no television.”
“There’s a radio,” he pointed out. “And electricity. And indoor plumbing.”
“I’m so terribly thankful for that.” The sarcasm fairly dripped from her lips. “At least I won’t have to light a whale-oil lamp to find my way to the outdoor privy.” The young woman looked out the window, toward a dark grove of spruce. She shuddered. “I sure wouldn’t want to live so far from town.”
“Well,” he admitted, “living on the Columbine has its drawbacks. Before going out at night, there are some precautions you should take.” He turned up the flame under a well-seasoned iron skillet.
She imagined mountain lions lurking in the gathering shadows. “Please don’t tell me I need to tote a rifle.”
Moon shook his head. “You’ll need shades.”
“What?”
“Dark glasses.”
“At night?”
“To prevent night blindness.” He put the potatoes into the oven.
“I don’t get it.”
“Stars over the Columbine are extremely bright.” He squinted at the beamed ceiling. “Been known to dazzle city folk.”
Silly man. She checked her fingernails. They needed a touch-up. “You like being a rancher?”
“So far.” He sprinkled salt and pepper on the prime beef.
“You ever been married?”
He shook his head.
“You got a girlfriend?”
Charlie Moon plopped the rib-eye steaks into the hot skillet.
She smiled. “Is she an Indian?”
Preferring another sound to her voice, he listened to the steaks sizzle.
The young woman looked Moon up and down. “How tall are you?”
“How do you want your steak?” He found a spatula in a cabinet drawer, flipped the rib eyes.
Melina Castro approached the stove to inspect the beef. “I like mine well-done.”
“Me too.”
“Just the thought of eating bloody animal flesh makes me want to urp up my kidneys.” She opened her mouth, made a gagging motion with her finger.
“You’re a very civilized young lady.”
She appreciated the compliment. “It was sweet of you—letting me stay here till the FBI catches that awful man I saw at April’s grave.”
He wrapped a towel around the hot iron handle, slid the blackened skillet into the oven.
She gave him a squinty look. “You’re some kinda cop, aren’t you?”
“Used to work for the Southern Ute Police Department.”
“That FBI agent said you were a private detective.”
“Tribal investigator.” Had a better ring to it. Like a cash register.
“What’s the difference?”
“I work for the tribe.” He spooned eight heaping measures of fresh-ground coffee into the percolator. Then two more for the pot.
“Will the FBI pay you for my room and board?”
“I sure hope so.” But with the paperwork that would need approving, it was a long way from a sure thing. He glanced at her. “If you would care to contribute some cash for your lodgings, the management will gladly accept it.”
“If you’re not sure they’ll pay you, then why’re you doing it?” Maybe because you got the hots for me.
“Partly as a favor for Special Agent Newman.”
Sure. A favor. Her mouth was engaged well in advance of her brain. “I thought—maybe you—uh—you know—well, you must get lonely out here—and…”
He put three extra spoons of coarse grind into the percolator.
She waited for him to say something. Anything.
He didn’t.
Melina Castro assumed that this big, bashful fellow needed some prodding. So she put the spurs to him. “I thought maybe you found me—well—you know…” Attractive.
“Ahh—how do you like your steak, Miss Castro?”
Her lids narrowed to lizardlike slits. “You already asked me that—Mr. Moon.”
“And what did you say?”
“Burn it to a crisp.” Bastard.
“Oh yeah—well-done.” Charlie Moon’s mind balanced two thoughts. It’s going to be a long few days. But I expect the worst of it is over. He was half right.
The wall-mounted telephone rang. Like a drowning man coming up for the third time, Moon grabbed for this bit of driftwood that Fate had floated his way. “Hello.”
The gravelly voice on the other end was Pete Bushman’s. “Hey, boss.”
“Hey, Pete.” Moon looked over his shoulder at the strange young woman. “What’s up?”
“I thought you might want to know that you got a visitor comin’ up the lane lickety-split.”
Desperately in need of a chaperone, Moon welcomed this news. “Who is it?”
Bushman told him.
Fate had fixed an anchor around Moon’s neck.
The Ute slammed the receiver into its cradle, turned on his heel to glare at his guest. “Get out of here!”
She stood up, pale as a ghost. “Look, I’m sorry if I mouthed off and made you mad—”
He pointed at the back door. “Now!”
She was at the edge of tears. “You don’t have to yell at me.”
He took her by the arm. Gently, he thought. “Miss Castro, I promised Stan Newman that I’d keep his star witness stashed away where nobody would find her. But I have a visitor coming. So you head back to the cabin. Pronto!”
The circulation to her hand had been cut off by his grip. “Okay, I’ll leave.” She put on a pitiful look. “Without my supper.”
He led her to the back door. “She’ll get here any minute. Take the path through the spruce.”
She? I knew it! “Is this visitor your girlfriend?”
“Scoot,” he said, and pushed her out the door.
Melina flattened her nose against the glass. “Don’t forget to bring me something to eat!”
“Heat up a can of beans,” he muttered, and pulled a curtain across the pane. Stan Newman is going to owe me big for this.
TROUBLE
Camilla Willow held her platinum compact just so and frowned at the reflection of an astonishingly pretty face. “Charlie—you smeared my lipstick. And mussed my hair.” She pressed a glistening golden tress back into place.
“Give me half a chance, I’ll do it all over again.”
Camilla smiled sweetly. “All in good time.” She snapped the compact shut. “I bet you were surprised to see me.”
“A little.” Like if a grenade went off in my pocket.
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Do you like surprises?”
“Hey, does the pope like Polish sausage?”
“I wouldn’t know.” She lifted her nose and sniffed. “It appears that I have interrupted your supper.”
“Nothing that won’t keep. Just burning me some beef.”
She frowned. Sniffed again. “You know, I believe you are.”
Before he could react, she was heading toward the kitchen. Helplessly, he watched her open the oven door. After a glance at the baking potatoes, Camilla found a pot holder. She pulled the iron skillet from the oven. “Charlie, these are quite overdone.”
White Shell Woman Page 18
