“What a hero,” she said under her breath. “First he saves me from myself, then he saves me from the world.”
Cain’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He had a hard enough time explaining to himself why he’d pulled back last night; he sure as hell couldn’t explain it to her.
So he stuck with what he could explain.
“No one knows about Jay and Jo-Jo,” he said in a rough voice. “Johnny’s death hasn’t hit the news yet. Danner found my truck where Larry left it in the woods. If anyone has noticed you’re gone, they aren’t raising a fuss.”
“No surprise. No one is left who cares.”
“I care.”
“Give me a break,” she said wearily. “We both know just how much you care.”
“Last night had nothing to do with caring!”
“Yeah, I figured that out all by myself.”
“Honey—”
“Besides,” she continued, talking right over him, “last night never happened, remember?”
“Shit.”
“Amen.” She put her head against the seat and closed her eyes.
He set his jaw and headed through the smog.
Neither one of them spoke again until they were inside Hoyt Jackson’s office. The BLM investigator’s room looked like it belonged to a pack rat on speed. The tiny desk was stacked haphazardly with paperwork. The shelves of freestanding bookcases on three walls were crammed with boxes of potsherds and whole artifacts. Every box and artifact was marked with an official-looking tag that said EVIDENCE. The tags were the only sign of organization in the whole office.
Hoyt Jackson wore a khaki shirt with BLM shoulder patches, but the rest of his uniform was as haphazard as his office. His work boots were badly scarred and his Levi’s hung low beneath a spreading belly. His face was tanned where it wasn’t bearded. Metal-rimmed reading glasses sat crookedly on his big nose. He looked less like a cop than any cop Christy had ever seen.
Jackson cleared boxes of corrugated grayware sherds from two office chairs and motioned for Cain and Christy to sit down.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m writing a piece on southwestern artifacts for Horizon,” she said, letting professional reflexes take over. “Aaron Cain is acting as my guide.”
“As I told Constable Moore after Joe got in touch with me,” Jackson said, “I really ought to refer you to our public information office for any press interviews.”
“This is strictly for background,” she said. “I’m interested in the traffic in illegal artifacts from the Southwest to New York. Larry said you were the best man in the West on that subject.”
The compliment pleased Jackson, but he still looked uneasy.
“I won’t so much as mention your name in the article unless you specifically want me to,” she assured him. “What I need from you is enough background to ask intelligent questions of the people who will be named and quoted.”
He still looked a little skeptical, but finally he shrugged. “Joe said Larry was solid. Larry vouched for you two. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m particularly interested in the activities of a man named Johnny Ten Hats.”
“Ten Hats, huh? Yeah, that ol’ boy has a few tales to tell. Have you tried interviewing him?”
“He gave us your name,” Cain said when she hesitated.
Jackson shifted like a man who wasn’t comfortable.
“Johnny told me he was working with the Bureau of Land Management,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t show her strain.
“I hope the bastard—’scuse me, ma’am, but Ten Hats and I don’t exactly get along.”
She smiled reassuringly. “Was Johnny working with you?”
“He’s not an employee, and he’s certainly not an informant.”
“How would you describe him, then?”
Jackson tugged at his chin whiskers and squinted over his glasses, first at Christy and then at Cain.
“You’ve already talked with him?” Jackson asked.
Cain nodded.
“Did he mention his aunt?” Jackson asked.
“He mentioned a lot of things,” Christy said before Cain could open his mouth. “The point is, we don’t know how much of what he said is true. What did he tell you about his aunt?”
Cain gave her a look of veiled admiration.
“Smart of you to check, young lady,” Jackson said. “Ten Hats isn’t the most trustworthy sort of man.”
“That’s why we came to someone with a reputation for integrity.” Smiling encouragingly, Christy waited for the investigator to continue.
Jackson settled more comfortably in his chair. “Ten Hats has an aunt in Rio Arriba County, name of Molly. She got herself in some serious trouble a few months ago, digging where she wasn’t supposed to be digging.”
“I see,” Christy murmured.
“She’s really a fine old lady. She just doesn’t understand that her people don’t hold title to all this land anymore.”
“Where was she digging?” Cain asked.
“Some ruin down near Chaco Canyon. One of our young patrol officers found her.”
“Digging, huh?” Cain asked. “That means a felony charge?”
“Yeah,” Jackson sighed. “What a stink. A more experienced patrolman would have handled it differently….”
Cain made a sympathetic sound.
“Anyway,” Jackson said, “Johnny Ten Hats came in to see me, trying to work out some kind of deal.”
“For his aunt?” Christy asked.
Jackson nodded. “He wanted to provide information against someone else in return for his aunt’s freedom.”
“Is that sort of thing done?” Christy asked.
The BLM investigator looked uncomfortable again.
“All the time,” Cain said. “It’s called plea bargaining.”
Reluctantly Jackson nodded.
“What did Johnny tell you?” Christy asked.
“A lot of bull, apparently. Said he would give me a big case involving lots of pots and famous folks from New York.”
“Did he?”
“Not so far.” Jackson grinned. “Matter of fact, that’s the reason I’m talking to you right now, you being from New York and all. I figured you might be able to do me some good.”
“I might,” she said evenly, “if I knew what Johnny was after. What did he tell you?”
“Not one single hard fact.”
“How many times did you talk to him?”
“Three times. Ten Hats would make vague statements about New York and then ask me how we connect a pot with one piece of land after the pot has been dug and sold and no one is talking.”
She sensed Cain’s sudden alertness, but he didn’t say anything.
“I finally decided Ten Hats was just trying to learn how to be a better Moki poacher,” Jackson said, “so I told him to get lost unless he had some hard evidence for me to process.”
“When was that?” she asked.
Frowning, Jackson picked up a smooth, wedge-shaped black stone from his desk and hefted it a few times. “Not long ago. Frankly, I didn’t like the way Ten Hats was acting. Thought he was crazy.”
“Was what he told you that strange?” she asked.
Jackson sighed and put the wedge-shaped rock back down.
When the silence lengthened, Cain reached for the smooth black stone. “Nice gastrolith.”
Jackson gave a little hoot of delight and approval. “Not many folks recognize a dinosaur gizzard stone.”
“I’ve seen a lot of them in Moki digs.”
“Why do you think the Anasazi carried these stones around?” Jackson asked eagerly. “I’m collecting theories.”
“They probably used them to smooth out the marks on the inside of their pots,” Cain said. As he spoke, his thumb described slow circles on the stone.
Christy watched and remembered just
how sensual his touch could be. Color rose in her cheeks.
He saw it and smiled. “Or maybe,” he added in a deep voice, “they just liked the satin feel of them.”
Smiling, Jackson nodded. “Yeah, I kinda lean toward that theory.”
“Are you still pursuing the case against Ten Hats’ aunt?” Cain asked.
“Molly is an old lady.” Jackson hesitated, then said, “Just between us, I’m going to lose the file.”
“Where is Molly now?” Christy asked.
“Don’t know for sure.”
“Who might?”
Jackson thought a moment. He pulled open a drawer, found a file folder, and sorted through a dozen scraps of paper and bar napkins that were covered with notes. Finally he found a telephone number written on the back of an envelope that looked like it had once held a utility bill.
“Her full name is Molly Faces-the-Sun,” Jackson said.
Again Christy sensed Cain’s sudden intense interest.
And again he said nothing.
“Molly lives out beyond Cuba, between there and a spot called Counselors,” Jackson said. “There’s a little two-pump gas station just after you cross the county line into Rio Arriba County. Ask there. Somebody’ll give you directions.”
He tore a page off his calendar pad, wrote a telephone number down, and handed it to Christy.
“That’s her daughter’s phone number,” Jackson said. “You might call her first, but I wouldn’t do it until you’re out there. Molly can make herself real scarce if she doesn’t want to talk to you.” He pushed back from the desk and came to his feet, signaling the end of the interview.
Reluctantly, Christy and Cain stood up.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the paper. “We appreciate your time.”
“You’re welcome. If you really appreciate it, you’ll tell me what Molly was digging for and why.”
“She didn’t tell you?” Cain asked.
“Not one word. She just clammed up.”
“It must have been a religious matter.”
“Think so?” Jackson asked.
“She Who Faces the Sun is the name the clan sorceress takes when she is initiated into her duties. If a woman with that name was digging in ancestral grounds, she was doing it for spiritual reasons.” Cain smiled. “Losing her file is a good idea.”
“Be damned. Thanks. I get so involved in old pots that I forget the modern tribes are people too.”
Cain nodded and shook the hand Jackson was holding out.
“Was Johnny interested in any particular investigative method?” Cain asked as the handshake ended.
Jackson took the question, inspected it, rolled it over in his mind like it was a smooth stone. Then he looked right at Cain.
“He wanted to know how we proved that an artifact came from a particular dig,” Jackson said, “even if the documentation said it came from somewhere else.”
“Can you do that?” Christy asked, surprised.
Jackson grinned like a cop. “Yes, ma’am. We sure can.”
“How?” Cain asked.
“Ask the lab boys up at Los Alamos—if you can get past the gate. As for me, I just send them the dirt and read the bottom line.”
Cain doubted that Jackson was telling the whole truth, but didn’t push. The BLM investigator had told them as much as he was going to.
As soon as they were out of Jackson’s office and on the deserted street, Christy said, “Well, now we know why Johnny was ready to kill for a bag of grave dirt.”
Chapter 46
Cain paused in the act of opening the truck passenger door. “You don’t miss much, Red.”
“I’m dynamite on the little things.” She pulled the door the rest of the way open and climbed in. “It’s the big things that nail me every time.”
He circled the hood and came in on the driver’s side. The truck door slammed behind him.
“What big things?” he asked.
“Like having a sister who is a murderer and not suspecting a damned thing. Like getting seduced by a man who couldn’t hold his nose long enough to finish the job.”
“Damn it, that’s not—”
“Nolo,” she interrupted, rubbing her forehead. “My fault. I’m sorry. I’m not as tightly wrapped as usual. I really didn’t mean to bring it up, and it won’t happen again.”
“Last night had nothing to do with how much I wanted you.” His voice was as hard as his face.
“Last night had nothing to do with anything.” She looked at her watch and remembered the map she’d read. “Is there time to get to Ruby or wherever before dark?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The sooner this is over with, the sooner we can get on with our lives.”
“Missing your boyfriend?” Cain asked acidly, starting the truck and pulling into traffic.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Then what are you in such a hurry to get back to? Your job?”
“My job?” With a broken laugh Christy leaned against the seat and looked out the passenger window. “I’ll be shocked if my job lasts longer than the Hutton assignment.”
“Then what’s the rush?”
“What’s the point of staying? Jo-Jo is dead. There’s nothing here for me but the sordid history of a sister I always loved and sometimes hated and never really knew at all.”
Cain would rather have heard anger than the bleak acceptance in Christy’s voice. He glanced at her, wondering if her eyes held any less pain. Her head was leaning against the window. Though open, her eyes weren’t focused on anything.
“You can’t change the past,” he said. “You can only change the future.”
She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but it was too much effort. She rolled the window down a few inches, letting the cool afternoon air into the truck.
After many miles, the air and the austere beauty of the desert penetrated her fog of emotional exhaustion. She sat straighter and looked at the man she’d known only two days.
Two days. God. How can only two days have passed? Jo-Jo is dead. I’ve seen a man killed. Nick is history. My job soon will be.
And I’m on the run with an ex-con.
“Ready to talk?” Cain asked.
“About what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that time is unreliable.”
“Two days seem like two years?”
Startled, she looked at him. “How did you know?”
“I’ve had the same two days.”
Her laugh had more sadness than humor in it, but it was still a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you have. But you don’t look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”
“It’s a trick I learned in jail. When the big things get you down, think about the little ones.”
“Does it work?”
“Most of the time,” he said.
“And when it doesn’t?”
“I get run over by a truck.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “All right. Little things it is. You first.”
“Peter Hutton’s treasure room was packed with so many extraordinary artifacts that he didn’t notice when Jo-Jo and Jay skimmed off a million bucks, wholesale,” Cain said. “Your turn.”
“Johnny knew. He had to. He was doing the digging for Hutton.”
“Right. I suspect he was also doing the skimming for Jo-Jo.”
Christy frowned. “What went wrong? Why did Jo-Jo and Jay take off running?”
“Maybe Johnny asked for more money. Or maybe they didn’t want to pay him at all.” Cain hesitated, then added, “Maybe they figured a piece of Jo-Jo’s action was all the pay Johnny needed.”
“Whatever,” Christy said, “they grabbed one last artifact and took off for Santa Fe. And then she died.”
“If it was sabotage,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice, “there are two possibilities.”
She heard as though at a distance.
“Your turn,” he said. “Litt
le things, honey. Just the little ones.”
She let out a ragged breath and gathered her thoughts.
“Who gained from the sabotage?” he prompted.
“Johnny, if he’d been double-crossed. And Hutton, who certainly had been double-crossed.”
“But Johnny was blackmailing Jo-Jo and Jay,” Cain said. “If he kills them, he loses a cash cow.”
“That leaves Hutton.” Christy frowned.
“He’s my favorite candidate.”
“Why?”
“I recently discovered that if Johnny wanted to kill someone, he would do it head-on.”
“The way he was at the alcove?” she said.
“Yes. Sabotage isn’t his style.”
“But…”
“But what?”
“Hutton may have been selling artifacts and not reporting the income, but that’s not worth killing someone to keep quiet.”
“Jealousy,” Cain said.
“From the man who liked watching Jo-Jo in bed with other men?” Christy asked, her voice rough with distaste. “Besides, he was through with her.”
“Punishment for stealing from him?” Cain offered.
“Having Jo-Jo arrested for theft, stripping her of her position and her pride—that would have been punishment. Why didn’t Hutton do that?”
For several miles there was silence.
“I’ll bet Johnny knew the answer,” Cain said.
“I wonder if Hutton has any half-literate notes in his file, signed by Johnny. Blackmail is a good reason for murder.”
“You’re forgetting something, honey.”
“What?”
“I’m the one who killed Johnny. If there are any notes in Hutton’s files, Jay or Jo-Jo signed them.”
A long line of cars appeared on the highway ahead, coming out of the sun toward Christy and Cain. When they drew nearer, the reason for the tightly bunched cars became obvious. A New Mexico Highway Patrol cruiser was driving along at the exact speed limit—fifty-five miles per hour—which forced civilians to form a slow, sullen parade just behind him.
Both Christy and Cain held their breath and watched the truck’s mirrors, half expecting to see the cruiser turn around and come after them.
The badlands convoy kept going and disappeared over a rise.
“I hope Molly Faces-the-Sun knows what Johnny knew,” Cain said. “We can’t keep running forever.”
The Secret Sister Page 28
