They’d probably ridden. He made a mental note to ask about Ray Berman’s clothing, although the report would contain any of the information they needed on trace evidence. But if they had ridden here, had they come together?
Why come here at all?
There was nothing at the Apache village that could relate to the past; it had been created as an educational site. Yes, it had been created by Apaches, but that was only a few years ago. Before that, it had been a patch of sand with a few rocks and scrub and cacti.
He walked out of the tepee. Someone had dug up a body from the past—and murdered Berman. Why? Why leave the old body to be seen and Berman back in the tepee? To torment the police? Or someone else?
He stood outside looking around. Then he mounted Roo and rode around the village, studying his surroundings.
Not far back on the trail was the sealed entrance to an old silver mine. No one even knew where the one vein of gold had been found, and the silver had long ago run out.
Berman’s killing, the nature of it, was something you might expect in a big city, where mob, drug and gang violence existed.
He’d been from the city. One of the biggest cities in the world.
Sloan rode back to the sealed entrance to the silver mine. Dismounting, he moved to the entrance. Years ago, to prevent the unwary from going inside to explore and dying in a cave-in, the entrance had been dynamited shut.
Walking over, he inspected it. At first, all the rocks in front seemed to be as solidly in place as ever. He continued to poke at them and test them.
At the far right of the rock pile, he found a loose boulder. He shifted it—and it rolled free.
He stared into the darkness, wondering if the rock had just worked its way loose with time or if someone had been using the cavern for illicit purposes.
But what?
Silver and gold were part of the past. Lily survived on tourism now. Ranches dotted the area, but everyone needed the tourists.
As he stood there, his phone rang. It was Jane.
He felt a rush of heat as he heard her voice.
“Hey, Sheriff, you coming into the office anytime soon?”
“Yeah, I’m coming in. I asked Betty to let you know I’d be late.”
“You’re out at the crime scene?”
“Yes.”
“Anything?”
“Not directly.” He hesitated. “Why?”
“I might have found something, but I’d rather not pursue it until I talk to you.”
“Where are you? What did you find?”
“I’m at the station. And maybe nothing. I’ll explain when I see you. Meanwhile, I thought I’d work while I waited.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
He wedged the boulder back where it had been. He would need light to go farther into the old tunnel. He was rather fond of living, so he wasn’t exploring until he had one of his deputies with him—and until his whole crew knew where he was and what he was doing.
Before mounting up, he looked around again. Someone was running around the desert with a gun and executing people. Well, only one so far, but that could be just the beginning...
He wasn’t letting anyone take him that way.
Right now, he was damned certain that he was alone.
He rode home and took the car into the station, anxious now to see Jane and learn what she had discovered.
No, he realized.
He was anxious to see her.
* * *
By the time Sloan arrived, Jane had placed half of her clay “muscle” strips over the wooden depth-marker pegs she’d attached to the skull. When she heard him come in, she covered the skull—remembering that it had belonged to his great-great grandmother. He grimaced.
“I’m a sheriff. I can take it,” he told her. But he didn’t wait for her to move the cloth. “What did you find?” he asked.
She got up to close the door he’d left open.
“I saw Sage last night,” she told him.
He looked at her and arched his brows slowly. She wondered if he thought she might have imagined a sighting—because last night they’d spoken about the dead they saw.
“I woke up because she was standing over me.”
“That’s what the supposed ‘ghost expedition’ guy said when he ran out,” Sloan told her.
His voice was level. She still couldn’t tell if he was skeptical.
“She led me out of the room. It was late, in between the bar closing and the day staff coming in,” Jane said.
He was watching her with a deep frown but didn’t say anything so she went on. “I followed her down to the theater and into one of the dressing rooms. She wanted me to see that there’s a trapdoor in the flooring.”
“And what was under the trapdoor?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t budge it, and then...then I left because I thought I heard someone in the bar.”
“Who was it?”
“There was no one there, and then I just ran back up to the bedroom because the staff was coming in.”
“So, you want me to ask Henri Coque about opening the hatch in the dressing room,” he said.
“Yes. I mean, I shouldn’t even know it’s there. I’m a guest. I have no business being in that part of the theater at all.”
He nodded. “I guess I need a reason to prowl around the dressing rooms,” he said.
“There’s a little more....”
“What’s that?”
“When I woke up and showered...there was blood on my feet.”
“You cut yourself?” he asked in a thick voice.
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t have any cuts—not even a scratch. So, somewhere I walked, there was...blood. And when I heard those sounds, it was like something being dragged. But I didn’t see anything at all, so I don’t know if I imagined it. And I was in the kitchen, so it could’ve been blood from meat they used or...” She stopped, shaking her head again in disgust. “I’m not even sure it was blood. It had rinsed down the drain before I realized I’d tracked it in.”
“All right. Let me call Newsome and check in with my deputies, then we’ll head back to the theater,” he said.
He left, and she figured she had about fifteen minutes so she could get another few strips placed on the skull. She went back to work and was concentrating so fully that she didn’t hear him when he returned. He must have been watching her for a while.
“Muscles make the face,” she murmured. “And soft tissue. The mouth is such a major part of a person’s expression, but working with eyes and nose can give us a good idea of that person’s appearance and demeanor. A skull can tell you about a person’s health and development, too. The reconstruction done on the skull of Robert the Bruce clearly showed the leprosy he suffered before his death. And the skull of King Midas revealed that he’d had his head bound as a child to create a longer vault—something considered noble or beautiful at the time.” She dusted her hands on her work jacket and covered the skull again. She’d been rambling on about her work.
But, to her surprise, he didn’t refer to anything she’d said.
“What you did was really dangerous,” he told her instead.
“Pardon?”
“Last night. You took off in the middle of the night to follow a ghost. You were barefoot, so I’m assuming you were still in your pajamas. And you didn’t bring your Glock.”
She’d never mentioned that she carried a Glock, which she did—a Glock 23. A .40 caliber handgun with a magazine that allowed her seventeen bullets. He’d assumed it either because the Glock 23 was a common weapon among law enforcement personnel—or he hadn’t assumed it at all; he’d seen it beneath her jacket. But he’d homed right in on what she’d done the night before.
�
�Sloan, there are a number of people in that building.”
“And they were sound asleep. If they weren’t, they should have been. The cast seems to be a decent group of people—but someone in there probably dug up that skull somewhere...and used a mummified dead man to point the way to a recent murder victim.”
“I won’t leave my room again without my weapon,” she promised him.
He turned and left the room. She quickly threw on her coat and hurried into the kitchen to wash her hands.
As he drove, he was thoughtful. “So, you were in the shower, and you noticed blood going down the drain.”
She nodded. “I thought I’d stepped on something and cut myself and hadn’t realized it. But the blood wasn’t mine.” She glanced at him. “I suspect traces of it could be found. And the housekeeper is afraid of my room. I told her not to worry about it, just to bring me clean towels now and then. So, I must have tracked it into bed and...”
“And it’ll be on the sheets,” Sloan finished.
They neared town and he braked, sliding to the side of the road, surprising her. She looked into the yard where they’d stopped. A handsome young man in his late teens was helping an older woman into a house with groceries.
“I need just a minute.” Sloan was frowning slightly as he surveyed the teen and the slim, gray-haired older woman.
“Certainly,” she said.
Jane got out and stood by the car. The older woman had gone into the house; the young man had a bag in his arms.
“Jimmy,” Sloan called.
“Hey, Sheriff,” the teen said, waiting. He smiled at Jane and nodded politely.
“Giving a hand here, I see,” Sloan said.
The teen blushed. “I, uh, came over here to apologize. I did hit Miss Larson’s car the other night. I figured the least I could do was a bit of hauling around for her.”
“Your father know you’re here?” Sloan asked him.
Jimmy looked uncomfortable. “This was just something I felt I should do.”
“Good,” Sloan said.
The older woman came back out. She waved to Sloan. “Hello, Sheriff!”
“Hi, Connie. You take care.”
“Yes, sir, thank you! Young Jimmy here helped me get in a week’s worth of groceries. Tomorrow, a lot of mayhem will be coming down on us, what with Silverfest on our doorstep,” she said cheerfully. “Now, I won’t have to venture out into the crowds. I can see the parades and such from my rooftop!”
“Great, Connie. Enjoy,” Sloan said.
Jane lifted a hand and waved to her. She waved in return.
“Jimmy Hough,” Sloan explained, getting back in the car. “Kid smacked the older woman’s car with his dad’s Maserati the other day. He’s actually a decent kid—well, he’d been drinking and I’m not sure what else, but he leaped out of the car to run around and check on Connie Larson. I had him taken in for the night, and his father, Caleb, had a fit. He was in the office to threaten me. I would’ve thought he’d want Jimmy to learn a lesson—before he killed himself or someone else. I went easier than I could have on Jimmy, not because of his father, but because of him. Like I said, he’s a decent kid and I honestly think he learned that you can’t drive when you’re impaired. I was really glad to see that, of his own volition, he came over to Connie’s place to see if he could help her.”
Jane grinned. “So, the father is a blowhard jerk. And the kid seems to be turning out okay, anyway.”
“Yeah.” He still seemed worried.
“What is it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Believe it or not, I doubt his father would be pleased. Caleb Hough has a big beefalo ranch about a mile or so past my property. He’s one of those people who feels entitled. He’d think his kid was a pansy—a word I’ve heard him use—for helping the woman just because he nicked what Caleb would call her ‘shit’ car.’”
She was quiet for a minute; she could tell he liked the kid—if not the father.
“He looks like he’s about to graduate. He’ll grow up and make his own decisions about the kind of man he wants to be.”
Sloan nodded. A moment later, they pulled into town.
“What are we going to say to get into the dressing room?” Jane asked.
“You haven’t figured it out?”
“No! This is your town, these are your friends. I waited for you because the plan was that you’d figure out how we’d get down there. I can’t say a ghost led me!”
“Hmm. I was pretty sure the plan was to get me involved because you couldn’t get it open last night.”
“With time, I could’ve managed. You’re missing the point—on purpose, I suspect.” She glared at him. “So do you have a plan?”
His grin deepened. She felt a sizzle of fire; he really could assault the senses with that smile of his.
“I kind of have a plan,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“We’ll get some lunch and come up with a plan. That’s the plan.”
“They don’t serve lunch at the theater.”
“We can make sandwiches, can’t we?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, while we’re having our sandwiches, we’ll come up with a plan. It’ll be easier to do that if we’re in there, right?”
“You can’t just say you want to check out the dressing rooms?”
“You don’t think someone will ask why? Of course, I could tell them all that you seem to be friends with the ghost of my great-great grandmother,” Sloan suggested, ignoring Jane’s groan.
“Let’s have lunch—and come up with a plan.”
Sloan grinned. “Isn’t that what I said?”
6
Jane exited quickly as Sloan parked the car. If she didn’t move fast enough, he’d be around to open her car door. It was nice, but not necessary every time.
They entered the theater and she blinked a minute, letting her eyes adjust after the bright sunlight.
Alice Horton, dark hair swept back in a ponytail, in sweats, as unvamplike as could be, was digging in the refrigerator. She looked up and greeted them with “Hey, Jane. Sheriff. Any news on the murder?”
“We’re investigating,” Sloan said. He walked through to the bar. “But a man has to eat.”
As he came up next to Alice, Jane noted that she wasn’t the only woman who seemed to flush when he was around. Alice was enough of an actress to behave casually, but Jane got a glimpse of her eyes.
“Salami?” Alice asked him. “Oh, Jane, how about you?”
“Salami. Do you have cheese, tomatoes, maybe lettuce and mayo?” Sloan was saying.
“I’ll eat anything,” Jane assured Alice.
Alice plopped paper plates and the various makings on the bar.
“We can do an assembly line if you want,” Jane offered. “Make lunch for all of us.”
“Great,” Alice said. “I’ll throw some bottles of water up here and we’ll make a few extra sandwiches. I know Valerie is coming down, maybe someone else.” She seemed pleased that Jane took a seat at the bar while she stood behind it with Sloan. They got a system going—Jane put out the bread and spread the mayo, Sloan added the meat and cheese, and Alice finished up with lettuce and tomato slices and cut the sandwiches in half.
“Is anything going on this afternoon?” Sloan asked. “Rehearsal for the shows?”
“Rehearsal? Today?” Alice said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “Oh, yeah. But not for the show. We’re going to take our act out on the street for a trial run with the locals.”
“Your act?” Jane echoed.
“Tomorrow’s the yearly arrival of the lemmings,” she said. “Actually, I mean that appreciatively. We get huge crowds. By the weekend, Silverfest will be crazy. There’ll be ‘settlers’ selling all ki
nds of things—some antiques, some reproductions, you know, Old West clothing, weapons, belts, buckles, dresses, plus corn cakes, barbecue and beans. Oh, yes, and silver jewelry, of course. Turquoise. A lot of Native American art. We all play a part out there, taking on the roles of old settlers.” She paused to grin mischievously. “Sloan gets in on it. He plays Trey Hardy sometimes.”
“I always had a soft spot for Hardy,” Sloan admitted.
“What’s that deal?” Jane asked. “I’ve heard about him from Heidi. He was sort of a Robin Hood character, wasn’t he?”
“Hardy had been a lieutenant in the Confederate cavalry,” Alice explained. “He held up trains and stagecoaches, but he’d give to whoever needed it—whites, newly freed slaves, Native Americans. He was finally caught by our local sheriff, Brendan Fogerty, who seemed to like him, too. It was just that he had to bring him in. We had a traveling circuit judge back then, and—do you know this part of the story?”
“Some of it. Go on.”
“Okay. I think Fogerty thought he might face his charges and get off—since no one would act as a witness against him. But the deputy at the time, Aaron Munson, had a thing about Hardy. When he was on duty alone, he shot Hardy in his cell. Pumped him full of bullets while he was in there like a caged rat. Well, someone saw him and Munson wound up being dragged out onto Main Street and lynched by the crowd. It was sad all the way around.”
“I remember hearing that,” Jane said.
“Hardy haunts the jail, Munson haunts Main Street,” Sloan said.
“Hey, I don’t go to the Old Jail alone, and I don’t hang around the street at night, either,” Alice said solemnly.
“Was he killed before or after the stagecoach disappeared?” Jane asked.
“About a month before. It must have been a strange time for Lily,” Alice said. “First, Hardy’s shot down, then Munson is lynched—and four weeks later, Sage McCormick up and disappears, along with Red Marston.”
“They disappeared on the same night, didn’t they?” Jane asked.
“Yes. According to local legend,” Sloan said.
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 3: The Night Is WatchingThe Night Is AliveThe Night Is Forever Page 12
