The Jupiter Knife

by D. J. Butler

  In a stray skein of starlight, Hiram could see that one of the bishop’s feet was missing toes.

  Hiram lowered the Jupiter knife. “Sheriff Del Rose.”

  Del Rose shifted from wolf form; the sheriff crouched, kneeling naked like some sort of perverse parody of a medieval knight. He kept his eyes down as he addressed Hiram.

  “I’m here.”

  “Leave the body where it lies. Bishop Gudmundson disappeared while walking on the Monument tonight. Go home.”

  Del Rose assumed his monstrous form and padded off into the night. The other werewolves followed him.

  “I want you to know,” Michael said, “that I feel like saying all kinds of cuss words, but I’m not doing it. Science has a lot to say for itself, but tonight, it’s the chaste and sober mind that wins.”

  “You haven’t totally quit cussing.”

  “No. But I’m getting better.”

  Hiram should have been trembling from the aftermath of the fight. Instead, he felt strong and vital. He wiped the Jupiter knife clean on his own shirt, which was already bloodstained. He then retrieved the sheath off Gudmundson’s broken belt. He stuck the dagger into his pants pocket.

  He couldn’t quite bring himself to wear it. Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  Lloyd Preece’s knife lay on the stone beside the bishop. Hiram handed it to Michael.

  “I think there’s someone down the canyon who would like to see this corpse,” Michael said.

  Hiram clapped his son on the arm. “I hadn’t forgotten. I’m glad you hadn’t, either.”

  They waited a few minutes to let the blood pouring from the body dwindle. Hiram found his strength was enough to hoist the body across his shoulders, severed neck away from himself to keep the blood from getting on him too much. He carried Gudmundson’s head in the crook of his arm.

  “What kind of burial do we give Gudmundson?” Michael asked.

  It was a good question. Hiram didn’t want to consecrate a grave, because he didn’t want to seal this murderer up to the resurrection or make him any spiritual promises. On the other hand, leaving the corpse lying in the open felt indecent. It felt as if it might have been the burial Gudmundson wanted, too, his predator corpse finally picked clean by carrion eaters, and Hiram didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.

  Also, a grave felt like a sort of quarantine. Whatever evil residue might ooze from this man’s body and spirit, Hiram felt it should be contained.

  “I need to think about that,” he told his son.

  Down in the wash, a fire continued to burn. Some of the embers from Hiram’s wall had gotten into a thicket, farther up the canyon. This thicket was isolated, and there wasn’t enough wind to spread the fire, but for the moment there was fuel and to spare, and the fire was growing.

  Good. Hiram could use the flames. Perhaps for more than one end.

  He dumped the body beside the fire. This was near enough where he’d had his vision of Jimmy Udall—within a hundred feet or so.

  “Are we going to talk to him?” Michael whispered.

  Hiram nodded. “Would you like to do it? You’re the hero of the hour.”

  Michael snorted. “Pap…”

  “It was your craft that figured out the Jupiter knife,” Hiram pointed out. “It was your book-lore, in fact, your astrology, your mastery of knowledge that has always been out of my reach, that did it. And then it was your plan that tricked the knife out of Gudmundson’s hands. And that’s not even to mention your interrogation of Green, and your use of the clay balls to discover Diana’s guilt.”

  “Yeah,” Michael said, “and then it was you that kicked his…you took all the beating.”

  Hiram chuckled. “That’s what a father is for.”

  Michael was silent for long moments. “You talk to him.”

  “Jimmy,” Hiram said. “We know you’re here. We hope you saw what happened tonight. We believe the man who killed you has been brought to justice.”

  The fire crackled as the last tree in the thicket took flame.

  “Jimmy, I think you can hear my voice, but I know you can see the fire. Reach into the fire, Jimmy. It’s not heavy, you can push it, you’ve done this before.”

  Michael seemed to be holding his breath.

  “I’m going to ask questions, Jimmy,” Hiram said. “If the answer is yes, make the fire move. Is that okay with you?”

  The bonfire snapped sideways. Yes.

  “Jimmy, this man, Gudmund Gudmundson…is he the one who killed you?”

  Yes.

  “Is he the only one who killed you?”

  Yes.

  Hiram hesitated, afraid of what answer he might get to this next question. “Can you rest now, Jimmy?”

  Yes.

  “Holy smokes, Pap.”

  One moment, Hiram and Michael were alone with the blaze, and the next, Jimmy was standing beside them. The young boy looked down at the headless corpse at his feet, and Hiram thought he saw compassion in the ghostly eyes.

  Then Jimmy raised his arms over his head. His sleeves fell, and Hiram again saw the circular bitemarks, the tooth impressions that looked like they had been made by a human mouth. Slowly, they twisted, becoming elongated and deepening, rearranging themselves into the pattern of a beast’s long muzzle.

  And then they faded entirely, and Jimmy’s flesh was unmarked.

  Jimmy Udall smiled at Hiram and Michael, and then he was gone.

  “That’s what you saw before.” Michael’s voice was barely above a whisper. “In your dream.”

  “Or maybe not a dream,” Hiram said. “Yes.”

  They stood awhile, alone together with the fire and the wonder.

  Then Hiram picked up Gudmundson’s body and heaved it into the flames. He kicked the head deep into the embers, not wanting to touch it with his hands or look into its eyes.

  Then he sat on a rock and began to unlace his boots.

  “Pap,” Michael said, “what are you doing?”

  “I’m covered in the gore of that monster,” Hiram said. “He was a murderer, a child-killer, and he also went to church every Sunday and smiled at his congregation as their bishop. He killed Jimmy Udall and then preached a sermon at the boy’s funeral. I feel…unclean.”

  “You can wash in the river, when we get there.”

  “I’ll do that, too. Here, hold these.” Hiram handed his son his Zippo lighter, his bloodstone, and Gudmundson’s Jupiter knife.

  “What if the werewolves come back?”

  Hiram thought about the daunted looks in the monsters’ eyes as they had submitted to him. “They won’t.”

  “What do we about the Blót?” Michael asked. “Those guys might be scared of you now, but I don’t see them giving up their evil ways once you and I go back to Lehi.”

  Hiram nodded. “I have an idea about that. There’s a telegram I need to send.”

  Hiram set aside his Redwing Harvesters, and then stripped off all his clothing. Overalls, socks, and long johns all went into the fire. Then Hiram lay down in the sand and rolled around. He took handfuls of it and scoured his skin where he thought he was covered in blood, and when he was finally as clean as he could get, he laced his boots back on.

  “Pap,” Michael said. “You look like a madman.”

  Hiram shrugged and chuckled. “Well, appearances can be absolutely correct.”

  Michael held out his fedora. “I found this. It must have fallen off when you were coming up the canyon.”

  Hiram took his hat into his hands and grinned. “It needs a good dusting-off. Maybe I should throw a hat-brush into the toolbox.”

  “Only if you can use it to, I don’t know, brush a man to sleep or brush away wounds. We need all the space in that toolbox for our charms stuff. I found the rifle and shotgun, too. No ammo, though. I guess we’d better get walking,” Michael said. “We don’t want to run into anyone when you’re like this.”

  Hiram laughed. “Well, it wouldn’t be my preference, but it wouldn’t be t
he end of the world, either. I want to stay and make sure the fire burns out. And first, I want to say a prayer over Bishop Gudmundson’s body.”

  Michael nodded and folded his arms.

  Hiram hesitated, then removed the widow’s Uranus cross from around his neck and threw it into the flames. Then he set his hat aside and raised his arms to the heavens. He was conscious of the spectacularly odd scene he made, but he felt clean.

  “Great God of Heaven,” he said. “We beg thee to forgive this man, Gudmund Gudmundson, as much as thou canst. And what cannot be forgiven, we beg thee to burn it up in fire, that it may no more stain this land or trouble this people. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  They stood and watched the flames. Gudmundson’s corpse took fire and burned like a fat taper, sputtering and glowing a deeper red than the trees and brush around it. Hiram chanted assorted Bible verses about fire and corruption, to help the process along.

  “I found the money,” Michael said, as the fire was crumbling into its last embers, and the sky in the east was beginning to turn pale. “Lloyd Preece’s cash. It was hidden inside his mirror, in the cabin.”

  Hiram laughed. “And that’s what he meant about there being a fortune to be had in a man’s good opinion of himself. Adelaide Tunstall will be pleased.”

  “She’s not going to be very pleased when I tell her that I was dumb enough to let Diana Artemis take it from me.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Well, I offered to pay her to help rescue you, and she agreed. But then, just before I got out of the truck back there, she hugged me. I’m pretty sure that’s when she took the dough. And that’s why she just drove off like she did.”

  “But not before saving me,” Hiram pointed out. “Those flashing lights and the horn led me right to you.”

  “No, you can’t make her good. She just left us to die.”

  Hiram didn’t argue. Instead he laughed. “Well, Adelaide will live. Her dad’s lawyer will sell their land, and she’ll even live well. I don’t think you need to trouble yourself about the bearer bonds.”

  “And Diana?”

  “The widow Artemis took something from both of us, son, but she doesn’t matter anymore. And everything that does matter…I have it back, safe and sound.”

  “Ordinarily,” Michael said, “this might be a moment that called for a hug. But I think I’d rather wait until you have clothes on again.”

  In the yellow light of the rising sun, they began their hike back across the Monument, and back toward civilization.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Hiram walked with his son out of the desert, heading for town, as the sun rose steadily in the sky.

  They stopped at the Udalls’ shack to get Hiram some clothes.

  Michael knocked on the door, and then explained that they’d found Jimmy’s murderer. He’d been brought to justice, and the boy had found peace at last.

  Priscilla Udall was too proud to cry in front of them. She told them Jimmy had appeared to her in a dream, just before she awoke, and had told her, “Mamma, I’m happy now.”

  Moses blew his nose three times and gave Hiram a pair of overalls. He also thanked them, both for news of their boy and for the flour. The overalls barely fit. They rose up to Hiram’s mid-calf, and he had to wear them shirtless. When Hiram promised to return the overalls, Moses insisted that Hiram keep them as a token of his respect.

  “Mama, I’m happy now,” Mrs. Udall was repeating again and again as Hiram and Michael walked out of earshot.

  On their way in to town, Hiram pondered the events of the night before. Hiram had felt the power of the stars and the planets, and specifically Jupiter, and it had humbled him. Michael knew far more about the planets and the stars then he did, and that felt right. Hiram was proud of his son. Adding astrology to their knowledge of how God’s power worked in the world could only help them.

  And maybe it would lead Michael toward a career in astronomy one day, or even—why not?—piloting a space ship.

  Hiram didn’t know what kind of reception they would get in town, or if the widow Artemis had not only taken Lloyd Preece’s bearer bonds but also their Double-A. Losing the toolbox and the truck would be a blow, and he would require time and money to rebuild his arsenal, as well as to protect a new automobile as the Double-A was protected.

  Hiram carried the rifle slung over his shoulder; he felt exposed. Michael walked with the shotgun over the crook of his elbow. They were dusty and exhausted, their vehicle had been stolen and their ammunition spent. Hiram remembered days in the way when he had been similarly filthy, exhausted, and spent, a haggard warrior in a foreign and hostile land.

  Michael wasn’t Yas Yazzie, but he was a new war buddy and best friend, a fellow fighter in the dark and painful war Hiram fought against the forces of evil. In the morning light, Michael was also the spitting image of his father. A lump stuck in Hiram’s throat. He swallowed it down.

  They crossed the bridge over the Colorado River and kept walking the dirt road until they reached the town of Moab. Like always, it seemed like a quiet, sleepy place, full of people working hard and trying their best to make it through the Depression.

  The Double-A was parked on Main Street, in front of Banjo & Sons Mercantile.

  Hiram hurried forward, leaving Michael behind. To his great relief, the toolbox was there. Going to the cab, he saw the keys in the ignition. Diana had rightly assumed no one would steal it. Why had she left it for them? He doubted he’d ever get the chance to ask her.

  Michael ambled up. “Well, darn, I never thought I’d see the day that woman did something nice for us.”

  “Darn?” Hiram asked.

  Michael nodded. “I can’t very well cuss and be an instrument for the source of all power.” He cocked his head. “And this lust thing. I don’t see how you handle that. It’s so…tough.”

  “They call them deadly sins for a reason.” Hiram peeled down the shoulder-straps of his borrowed overalls to throw on an old shirt that was lying behind the truck’s seat. There was still a wide gap showing pale skin between the bottoms of the overalls and the Harvesters.

  “Now, what, Pap?” Michael asked.

  “I want to get back to camp so I can put some real clothes on. But first, we need a phone.”

  “The Maxwell House Hotel?”

  Hiram grinned. “We might as well go in and see what kind of reception we get. And heck, Leon might not even be around.”

  “Heck is right,” Michael agreed.

  They stowed their weapons in the front seat of the truck, along with the toolbox.

  Hiram and Michael walked up the steps and into the lobby. Hiram didn’t remember when his muscles had ached so much—in addition to the chase and the fight, he and Michael had hiked all night to get out of the Monument. He was also hungry; it was after breakfast time, and Hiram didn’t think lunch would be ready for another good hour. Even then, they’d probably had their last delicious meal from Arnie and his father.

  Maybe the hotel could spare him an apple.

  A man Hiram didn’t know stood behind the counter. When Hiram asked for a phone, he pointed to a coin-operated device near the stairs, across from where Erasmus Green had fallen asleep at their table. Those astrological signs would still be under the table; if possible, they should discreetly wipe them away…just in case.

  Michael provided Hiram the dime. He slipped it in and got an operator. It took a bit, but he finally reached the Utah Highway Patrol. He told them there were at least three bodies to be found up at the Monument. There had been trouble up there overnight, something to do with wild animals. He didn’t say more.

  The officer on the phone promised they’d send a car down from Price. When he asked about Sheriff Jack Del Rose, Hiram hung up.

  Then, true to Hiram’s word, they drove to their camp to recover their things—including Hiram’s pistol, which they found lying in the dirt of the riverbank—and for Hiram to change into his own clothes.

  La
ter, driving north, Michael sighed. “Hey, Pap, there’s something I don’t understand.”

  “Just the one thing?” Hiram squinted against the sun. “This won’t take long.”

  “I hope it doesn’t.” Michael actually seemed to squirm behind the wheel. “I had trouble with the divining rod when I was in Preece’s cabin because of, well, Diana Artemis. I kept thinking about her. If you know what I’m saying.”

  Hiram’s squint turned into a wince. “It’s just another sin. Let’s not make too much of it.”

  “That’s the thing,” Michael said. “If we separate our biology from the religious connotations of lust, or sin, or any of that, we were created with these urges. It’s not a flaw in my character, just as it’s not a flaw for horses, pigs, chickens to want to…you know.”

  Hiram did not want to be talking about this. And yet, it was as unavoidable as it was futile—he was not going to win an argument with his son. Hiram thought maybe if he didn’t say anything, another subject would come up. That was wishful thinking.

  “There’s even that song by Cole Porter,” Michael said. “‘Birds do it, bees do it…’”

  “This is why I don’t like jazz.”

  “The problem doesn’t end with the lust, but this whole idea of us being faulty instruments.” Michael sighed. “If I’m faulty, it’s by God’s design. Am I to be punished for His shoddy design? I’m not saying I don’t believe, I’m saying…I don’t understand.”

  Hiram took his time answering. “Or perhaps,” he finally said, speaking slowly and choosing his words, “you’re not faulty. Perhaps you’re simply not perfect yet. And perhaps you’ve come to this earth to become more perfect, as part of a long, long journey that started eons ago and will continue eons from now. And perhaps God will bless you for all the perfection you achieve and the good that you do, and above and beyond your desserts, only you can’t even see how much God is blessing you, because your perspective is narrow and human, just like mine.”

  Michael whistled. “Perfection, huh? What’s your charm for achieving that one, Pap?”

  “I don’t have a charm,” Hiram said. “And my only strategy is to try to serve others, as much as I can. If you come across a more effective path, you let me know.”