White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  “I see,” Moon said. And he thought he did. Camilla—for whatever reason—had hiked over to the cabin. She’d knocked on the door, discovered the pretty young woman inside, and somehow managed to scare the FBI’s star witness half to death. Maybe three quarters. And now his sweetheart—who had leaped to the wrong conclusion—was gone. If he knew his woman, she wouldn’t be coming back. A mere phone call wouldn’t do it. Nor a letter. Not even flowers. I’m sunk unless I can get Stan Newman to tell Camilla what Melina Castro was doing here at the ranch. But even if Camilla buys that story, she couldn’t help being suspicious of what might be going on between me and this kid. Which was foolish, of course. And then he noticed that this shapely young woman was dressed in nothing whatever except a flimsy nightgown.

  And she noticed that he noticed.

  “Hmmm,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I think I’d better do something about you.”

  She gave him a wary look. “What do you have in mind?” Not that I’d mind.

  “I don’t suppose, after your—uh—little scare over at the guest cabin, you’d consider spending the night there?” He gave her—strictly above the neck—a hopeful look.

  She wanted to ask whether he had totally lost his mind, but abbreviated the query: “Are you, like—crazy?”

  Under the circumstances, he was not offended. It was a fair question. I have, for the sake of a few dollars from the FBI—which I will probably never collect—lost the love of my life.

  Unnerved by the Indian’s dark silence, she made a sensible counterproposal. “I’ll sleep here.”

  “No,” he said.

  “I’m not going back to that—that haunted shack across the lake.” She resolutely folded her arms and jutted out her small chin. “Never. Not if you got on your knees and begged me. Not in a million years. Not for a gazillion dollars. Twenty wild horses couldn’t drag me—”

  “I get the drift that you’d prefer to sleep somewheres else.”

  She brightened. “Then I can stay here?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She wiped a strand of hair from her forehead. “What’s the matter—you find me irresistible? Afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”

  He nodded sadly. “You are just about more than a man can stand.”

  She patted her hair. “I thought so. So you’ll sleep upstairs. I’ll curl up here on the couch.” She proceeded to curl up.

  “I’ll call Pete Bushman.”

  She made a face. “Your ranch foreman—the smelly old man with the fuzzy beard who’s always breaking wind and spitting tobacco juice?”

  “Him and Dolly have a spare bedroom,” Moon said wearily. “They’ll put you up for the night.”

  She pouted. “Then what?”

  “Tomorrow, when you’re—uh—calmed down, we’ll talk about it.” After I talk to the FBI about finding another place for you.

  “I am perfectly calm,” she said through clenched teeth. You hateful man.

  Moon made the call to his foreman. Explained that the girl was somewhat uncomfortable in the cabin. Could she stay with the Bushmans for just one night?

  Bushman’s gravelly voice challenged him. “Why don’t you put her up?”

  Moon responded that the answer to this was all too obvious.

  Pete made it clear he didn’t want none of them nutty college girls in his home. She was probably on drugs, pregnant from a Hell’s Angel, had a half dozen venereal diseases, and voted the straight Democrat ticket.

  Knowing the power of avarice, Charlie Moon offered his foreman halvers on the FBI per diem.

  There was a greenish glint in the foreman’s eye. “How much is that?”

  Moon told him.

  “Hmmm,” Pete said. And reminded the boss—who needed no reminding—that these college kids could be a big pain in the ass.

  Moon was desperate. He offered Bushman the whole payment. After it’s collected.

  “Well,” Pete said with a wary glance at Dolly, “it’ll be up to my wife. If she goes for it, I s’pose it’s okay with me.”

  Thus encouraged, Moon asked to speak to Mrs. Bushman. Dolly, who knew nothing of the payment, said he could bring the young woman right over. She would put fresh sheets and pillowcases on the cot in the loft bedroom. And fluff up the goose-down mattress. “Why, it’ll be just like having our own daughter at home again.” Moon thanked her. Dolly was a saint.

  LAST CHANCE

  The closer she got to the heart of the Columbine, the more ashamed Camilla felt. Her man was already forgiven. Charlie Moon is the best man in the world. And I’ve behaved like a complete fool. Didn’t even give him a chance to tell me why that girl was in the guest cabin. There could be a hundred good reasons. A thousand. She tried to think of one good reason. Couldn’t. But it did not matter.

  As she neared the Bushmans’ home, Camilla realized how embarrassing this was going to be when the sun came up. She cut her headlights and coasted by, hoping they would not hear her pass. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything to him about it. Charlie is so sweet and understanding. If I don’t bring it up, we can just pretend nothing happened. And things will be like before…

  “Let’s go,” Moon said.

  The young woman got up from the couch. “Ouch!” She danced around absurdly on one leg.

  “What is it?”

  “I must’ve hurt my foot when I was running in the dark.” Melina sat down, cocked her knee, aimed the long limb at him. “Can you see what’s wrong?”

  There was nothing at all wrong with what he saw. This was a well-proportioned feminine leg, all the graceful curves in just the right places. He tried hard to concentrate on the blackened sole of her foot. “Looks like a cut. But not a bad one,” he added quickly. “Dolly will see to it. So let’s get going.”

  Brute. She stretched out a hand. “Well, I can’t walk to the pickup by myself.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That you’ll have to help me,” she cooed.

  “Well, then, let’s do it.” He helped her up. And to the door.

  Once again, Charlie Moon’s timing stank.

  Camilla cut the ignition, allowed the sedan to coast the final few yards to the ranch headquarters. I’ll walk in as if nothing’s happened. If he asks me where I’ve been, I’ll say I had an errand to run. None of his business what for. If he offers any explanation about that child in the cabin, I’ll listen. And believe whatever he tells me. And that will be the end of it.

  She was about to get out of the car when the front door opened onto the porch. Light flooded out, casting the two mismatched figures in stark profile. She stared in stunned disbelief. Charlie Moon had his arm around the girl’s shoulder. And the shapely young woman who leaned on him was practically naked! Camilla didn’t will the words she heard coming out of her mouth. “Well, that tears it, buster.”

  Melina Castro put her arm around the tall man’s waist and peered into the moonless night. “Did you hear something?”

  “Yeah.” She came back. But now she’s gone. For good.

  “It sounded kinda like a car,” the young woman said.

  Sounded like my life’s blood draining away.

  Melina looked up at her protector. “But if it was a car, why weren’t there any headlights?”

  Charlie Moon knew why. For a brief moment, darkness had overcome the Light.

  12

  Yietso, the Giant, lived at Tqo’sedo…the Twins went there and waited for him…there was a great blinding flash of lightning and it struck the giant.

  The Twins went to the Giant and cut off his scalp. They saw that he was covered with flint armor…clothing made of stone knives.

  —Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee

  DRY BONES

  THE CHAIRMAN OF the Rocky Mountain Polytechnic Department of Anthropology and Archaeology was by nature a garrulous man who enjoyed the company of his students. Particularly those who proved their worshipful respect by hanging
on his every word. But these youthful members of the site survey crew were full of energy and tended to keep chattering long after there was anything worthwhile to say. On occasion, Professor Silas Axton tired of his disciples and would withdraw to conduct some private business. This was one of those times when he preferred to be alone with his thoughts. Having left the gaggle of graduate students up on the Crag, the scholar was shuffling along the west rim of Ghost Wolf Mesa. The place had many things to recommend it. For one thing, there was a measure of shade from the late-afternoon sun. For another, it was an isolated spot where one could be quite alone. And this edge of the mesa was a rather pleasant place, quite unlike the vertical cliffs to the east and south. While there was a drop of two or three yards in places, the remainder of the slope fell away from the sandstone tabletop in a gradual fashion and was well forested with ponderosa pine and towering picture-book spruce. Silas Axton paused by a massive sandstone outcropping that hung over the slope’s edge, cocking his ear to hear the happy warbling of a mountain bluebird. And heard something else. An odd, grunting sound.

  Axton’s back went rigid. He moved forward cautiously, taking care not to step on a twig. And looked over the edge of the outcropping.

  Not twenty feet below him was a man. Axton squinted. It was Dr. Terry Perkins, the impertinent paleoastronomer. Perkins was squatting like an aborigine, messing about with an oblong pile of rocks. From all appearances, he was making a large pile of stones into a smaller one.

  Professor Axton posed two questions for himself: What in blazes is he up to? and What should I do about it? Being a methodical man, he considered his various options for almost a minute. Then smiled. Properly managed, this unexpected encounter would be great fun. Too bad I don’t have a camera with me. The professor silently cleared his throat, then bellowed: “Aha—you slippery rascal. I have caught you red-handed!”

  Perkins’s alarmed response was more than Axton had hoped for. The younger scholar yelped, attempted to turn and face his adversary, tripped over his feet—and fell flat on his handsome face.

  Axton leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, and guffawed at the comical sight. “So. Now we know what our brash young physicist does when he cannot discover a Stone Age astronomical site—he goes and builds himself one!” He shook his finger at the fallen man. “Shame on you, Perkins.”

  The paleoastronomer got to his feet and began to dust pine needles from his chic canvas jacket. “Good morning, Silas.” You silly old shit.

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” the anthropologist boomed, “I imagine you’ll have a remarkably opaque explanation for what you’re up to.”

  Terry Perkins, having managed to regain some measure of dignity, glared up at his tormentor. “Not that it is any of your business—but I can explain what I am doing.”

  “Don’t tell me—let me guess,” the anthropologist said with biting sarcasm. “You have discovered a prehistoric rock cairn used by those ancient astrologers you’re so fond of. But alas, it was not in quite the right place to align with Venus rising or Saturn occulting or something-or-other. And not a fellow to be defeated by mere facts, you are now in the process of moving this heavenly marker to a more suitable location. Now tell me, Terry, am I right?”

  “This is no time for frivolity.” The paleoastronomer had assumed a sour expression.

  Professor Axton, who had suffered much at the younger man’s barbs, thought Perkins a poor sport. But having had almost enough fun, he made a mocking bow. “I do apologize for anything I have said that may have offended in the slightest. Now tell me—what is so interesting about yon pile of pebbles?”

  Terry Perkins took a deep breath. “It would appear that something is buried beneath them.”

  “Absolutely astounding—you have found the fabled Anasazi treasure. Tell you what. I’ll keep your dirty little secret. For a half share.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  “Very well. I’ll settle for twenty-five percent.”

  “There’s nothing here you’d want to cart away.”

  “I cannot bear the suspense—what have you found?”

  Perkins turned to stare at the assembly of stones. “Bones.”

  “Of what species?”

  “Human, I should think. Though tibias and clavicles are not my specialty.”

  “Which is to say—you have no sense of humerus.” Axton chuckled at his joke; this made his belly shake.

  The paleoastronomer glared up at the older man.

  “Forgive me,” Axton apologized. “I have been in a whimsical mood all day. But I now repent.” He put on an ugly scowl. “Look up solemn in the dictionary, and you will find my likeness there.” He leaned to squint at the makeshift grave. “These are prehistoric human bones, I hope.”

  Perkins sniffed. “Judging from the odor of decaying flesh, I’d say not.”

  “In that case,” the anthropologist said with a dismissive wave, “they hold not the slightest interest for me.”

  DURANGO, COLORADO THREE DAYS LATER

  Special Agent George Whitmer’s desk was littered with reports from the Bureau’s D.C. forensics laboratory. The federal lawman addressed his words to his partner. “There were slight traces of aromatic hydrocarbons found in the burned remains of the Tavishuts woman’s body. Says here”—he ran his blunt finger across the paper—“‘Consistent with petroleum-derivative fuels.’”

  Newman banged his fist on the older man’s desk. “Aha—I knew somebody torched the body with gasoline.”

  “Not necessarily,” Whitmer said. “The forensics scientists say the trace hydrocarbons could be explained by the old tent Charlie Moon put over the corpse. It was probably soaked with emissions from camp-stove fuels. Anti-wetting agents in the fabric. That sort of thing.”

  “Damn. Why did Moon have to interfere with the crime scene.”

  “To protect the evidence from the rainstorm,” Whitmer reminded his partner.

  Stanley Newman leaned on Whitmer’s government-issue desk. “So what else have we got to work with?”

  George Whitmer squinted through bifocals perched near the tip of a bulbous nose. “ME’s report confirms that the latest corpse Dr. Perkins discovered at the Chimney Rock Archaeological Site was the Ute rancher who was reported missing last April—Mr. Julius Santos.”

  Newman straightened himself, hung his thumbs under tight red suspenders. “Santos. The guy who went horseback riding.”

  Whitmer nodded. “Horse came back. Mr. Santos didn’t.”

  “And his remains show up on Ghost Wolf Mesa.”

  “Just over the edge of the mesa,” Whitmer said.

  Newman ignored the technical correction. “At a location not all that far from where the Tavishuts woman was murdered. And he disappeared weeks before her death. George, something bothers me about this.”

  “Right. Like why didn’t we find his body when we had a couple dozen cops on the mesa looking for evidence in the Tavishuts murder.”

  “Maybe because we were searching for footprints, a murder weapon—a live suspect. We weren’t looking for another body. And you generally don’t find what you aren’t looking for. What bothers me more is how this smart-aleck college professor happens to find Santos’s remains.”

  Whitmer leaned back, entwining sausagelike fingers behind his neck. “Dr. Perkins claims he was walking along the edge of the mesa, looking for evidence of prehistoric astronomical markers. Maybe another petroglyph nobody had noticed before. Maybe a boulder with a notch in it. He just happened to look over the edge—and spotted the pile of rocks.”

  “So being an inquisitive sort of fellow,” Newman mumbled, “Dr. Perkins climbs down to have a closer look. Under the rocks, he spots something that looks like a piece of cloth. So he starts taking some stones away. And finds some bones. Then Professor Axton comes along.”

  There was an uneasy silence while the federal lawmen mulled the testimony over in their minds.

  Whitmer spoke first. “You think this Perkins geek knows
something he isn’t telling us?”

  “Maybe.”

  A primly dressed middle-aged woman knocked lightly on the facing of the open door.

  Whitmer didn’t look up. “Come in, Marty.”

  She placed a blue folder on his desk. “This just arrived.” The secretary left silently.

  The older of the special agents thumbed through the report, then whistled.

  Newman found this behavior mildly annoying. “Okay, George, what is it?”

  Whitmer didn’t offer his partner the document. “Another forensics report from D.C.” He looked up over his spectacles. “Remember that fingerprint our tech found on that flake of obsidian at the murder scene?”

  “Of course not. I’ve completely forgotten about the single piece of hard evidence in the hottest reservation murder we’ve had in twenty years.”

  “And the dead girl’s stepfather—Alvah Yazzi—remember the burned powder and stuff we found in that old Navajo guy’s empty clothes?”

  “Come on, George, give.”

  Whitmer managed to look quite smug, as if he’d done the laboratory analysis himself. “Forensics has come up with a match for the print. And they’ve got some really interesting things to tell us about the ashes and bone chips in Yazzi’s duds.”

  “So tell me.”

  “If I told you, Stan, you wouldn’t believe a word I said.” Whitmer offered his partner the forensics report. “So you’d better read it yourself.”

  Newman scanned the document. Then read it more carefully. “George, this is really weird. We’ll have to rethink this case. Right from page one.”

  The older agent nodded. “Charlie Moon has our witness stashed up there on his ranch. We’d better check on the both of ’em.”

  Newman, who had the Columbine number memorized, punched it into his cell phone. There were four rings before he heard the Ute’s recorded voice. “Damn. I’m getting his answering machine.”