Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  The fed muttered: “Do you believe Oates’s story?”

  The Ute did not know what to believe. “I’d like to hear what Sarah has to say.”

  “As would I.” McTeague clamped the purse under her arm. “But as the girl is not available, I suggest we pay a call on Miss Marilee Attatochee.”

  “Good idea.” Moon baited the hook. “I’ll get some directions.”

  She bit. “That will not be necessary.”

  Moon presented a wide-eyed expression. “You already know the way?”

  “Of course.” Charlie is so cute when he thinks he’s put one over on me.

  Mr. Cute laid it on thick. “No matter how fast I go, you’re always a couple steps ahead of me.”

  Flashing a saucy smile over her shoulder, the FBI agent wondered whether she should tell Moon about what she had discovered in Bureau files about Sheriff Ned Popper’s various and sundry (alleged) misbehaviors—which included a report of a brutal physical assault on a burglar caught red-handed. The incident had occurred a dozen years ago and the Tonapah Flats district attorney had not filed any charges. Lila Mae McTeague wrinkled her pretty nose at the recollection of a particularly odorous detail: the DA at the time had been Ned Popper’s godfather. And there was that Bureau rumor she’d picked up, to the effect that someone in the Tonapah Flats Sheriff’s Office was on Raymond Oates’s payroll. The insider was (so the story went) fixing traffic tickets, passing confidential police information to Oates, even destroying records that might prove embarrassing to the county’s most prominent citizen. The prime suspect was Ned Popper. But McTeague paid little attention to rumors and could see no useful purpose in passing this one on. Charlie Moon had worries enough.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cortez, Colorado

  Having tied a yard of cotton string onto Mr. Zig-Zag’s Collar, Sarah Frank entered a convenience store. Going up and down the aisles, she selected a few necessities for the final leg of the trip: a bag of gummy bears, a package of sliced baloney, a small box of crackers, a twenty-four-ounce bottle of Pepsi-Cola. Having paid for these purchases from her change purse, the customer shyly asked the cashier for directions to the bus station.

  Though reluctant to expend more than the minimum effort his job required, the sallow-faced youth was touched by the hopeful expectation shining in the girl’s big brown eyes. Feeling more than a little manly, the little man advised the customer that “there ain’t been no bus terminal in Cortez for years and years.” Glancing at her cat, he asked: “Where’re you two headed?”

  Having said too much to the people who owned the horse, the little fugitive was cautious. “On the other side of Durango.” Sarah added quickly: “I have family there.” Family. That was a sweet, heartwarming word. Like home.

  Assuming an older-brother attitude, the clerk propped his elbows on the counter, gave the skinny girl a thorough inspection. “You look kinda young to be traveling by yourself.”

  She bristled at this. “I’m older than I look.”

  “Yeah, right.” A crooked grin exposed an excessive display of gums. “Whacher name?”

  She hesitated. “Sarah.”

  “I’m Otto.” A sly pause. “Otto Palindrome.” If the girl got the joke, there was no evidence he could see on her face. “Otto is what you call a palindrome, see—you spell it backward, it’s the same.” To demonstrate, he spelled it. Backward. “o-t-t-O.”

  The Ute-Papago girl stared at the peculiar young man until Mr. Palindrome blushed pink. “Tell you what, kid—you head down thataway—” Otto pointed to the south, “—until you get to the intersection where Route One-sixty veers off to your left. You oughta be able to catch a ride that’ll take you to Durango, which is about forty-five miles.” He scratched at a thin growth of peach-fuzz on his chin. “A friend of mine makes a run to Durango almost every day. I’ll tell him to be on the lookout for you.”

  Sarah thanked him and departed. As she tugged Mr. Zig-Zag along on the end of the string, she considered the task ahead. Though never having hitchhiked, she was of the opinion that sticking your thumb out and actually asking for a ride would be a lot less effective than sneaking into a horse trailer. And more dangerous. Some bad person might pick me up and murder me and cut my body up in little pieces and feed it to… The girl shuddered, closed her eyes, and for just an instant—the little window opened and through it she could see her corpse being pecked on by hideous buzzards. But she just had to get to Aunt Daisy’s home, and difficult times demand that a person take risks. She sucked in a bracing breath of the crisp morning air, called up a positive thought. Maybe somebody nice will stop. She imagined a kindly man and his pleasant wife, who would have a three-month-old baby in her arms. The woman would call Sarah “Honey” and offer her a dozen oatmeal-raisin cookies, but she would accept only one. Or two. Or maybe three if they were not so large. The nice lady would pet Mr. Zig-Zag and say, “That’s a pretty cat, and it sure is a fine day to be hitchhiking.” I’ll probably be at Aunt Daisy’s before dark. And even if she’s in a grumpy mood, she’d never turn me away. As Sarah passed a home-appliance store, she was astonished to see her face in the window. And it was not a reflection, this was an old black-and-white snapshot. In the still image, she was holding her cat and (with the sun in her eyes) trying to smile at Cousin Marilee’s camera. Sarah could hear the TV announcer’s voice booming through the open door.

  “—Frank is being sought by the sheriff’s office in Tonapah Flats, Utah as a ‘person of interest’ in connection with yesterday’s homicide.”

  When Ben Silver’s scowling face flashed on the screen—staring straight at her—Sarah dropped her small bag of groceries.

  The unseen announcer continued: “After being brutally assaulted, Mr. Benjamin Silver was found in his home by Sheriff Ned Popper. The victim died shortly after naming the girl, who has not been seen since.”

  Sheriff Popper’s weather-beaten face appeared on the screen, talking into a SkyNews microphone. “We have reason to believe Sarah Frank has important information about Mr. Silver’s death.” Ned rubbed at the bandaged bump on his head. “She’s most likely still in the vicinity of Tonapah Flats, but it’s possible she managed to get out of town, or even out of Utah. So if anyone sees a young lady matching the description we’ve provided, we hope they’ll call the sheriff’s office and let us know.” He went on to give a toll-free number, which wormed its way across the TV screen and under his chin. Popper faded and Sarah’s photograph appeared again. The announcer stated that “The family of the deceased is offering a substantial cash reward for information about Miss Frank’s whereabouts. Anyone who believes they have such information may call the toll-free number, which will connect them to the sheriff’s office in Tonapah Flats.” The same 800-number inched across the screen again.

  When she realized that her mouth was hanging open, and a red-faced man in the store was looking through the window at her, Sarah scooped up her cat, stuffed him in her backpack. She zipped the cover almost shut—leaving the startled creature just enough of a slit to breathe through. At this moment, a police car pulled into the parking lot between the small strip mall and the busy highway. She picked up the plastic grocery bag, did her best to look as if she had nothing at all to do but stroll along and window-shop. More than anything in the world, her thin legs wanted to run—carry her away like a leaf in the wind.

  Sarah’s heart did not stop racing until she had put almost a mile of Route 160 behind her. If a police car stops and they ask me what I’m doing, I’ll just say I went shopping and I’m walking home. If they ask where home is, I’ll just point east and say over there. She had put her thumb out twice, but to her dismay, both vehicles had zoomed past as if she was invisible. Sarah had considered praying for help, but decided it would be better not to take the chance. She reasoned that when you’ve done something really bad, like run away from home without telling Marilee (not to mention lots of other stuff she didn’t even want to think about) God was bound to be mad at you. Leaving
Him alone seemed more sensible than taking the risk of getting zapped by a stroke of lightning. As she was thinking these thoughts, the girl was trudging along beside the highway, paying no particular attention to the traffic.

  A heavy cloud-curtain slipped between earth and sun. A treetop-high dust-devil sucked up a cubic yard of sand from a construction site, tossed a cardboard box across the road, swished her skirt around her knees, spit grit in her face. Mr. Zig-Zag let out a pitiful yowl. She pulled the elderly cat from her backpack, clutched him to her chest, attempted to soothe him with comforting words. She also whispered a few words to herself and, despite the presumed risk, to someOne else. God—I’m sorry for the bad things I’ve done. This was, of course, merely a preamble to an urgent request. She dared not make her petition out loud—that would be far too bold—but she dropped a mental hint that it would be helpful if somebody nice would stop and give me a ride.

  The miniature twister sauntered off to rattle awnings in a trailer court.

  A dozen more paces along the shoulder, then…Sarah heard an enormous SSSHHHH, as if the Cosmic Librarian were calling for silence.

  The sound of air brakes was followed by a double-creak as a huge bus came to a stop beside her.

  Sarah turned to stare at the magnificent coach, all silver except for a long blue stripe beneath a row of spotless windows. Seeing the door open, she caught her breath. Someone must be getting out here.

  No one emerged.

  The inside of the bus was filled with a soft, violet light. She could see the driver, a large, barrel-chested black man. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, black bow tie, black razor-creased trousers, shiny black shoes. He turned his head.

  Sarah could feel the penetrating eyes behind the opaque sunglasses. And then she remembered the pale-faced boy in the convenience store. “Are you Otto’s friend?”

  This inquiry produced a wry grin. “Yes, I am.” The voice was deep, like (she imagined) a whale speaking from the bottom of the ocean. “You rather ride than walk?”

  She felt herself nod.

  “Then get on board, child.”

  Without a thought of disobeying, she managed to get her foot onto the first high step. It was easier after that. She had barely gotten inside, when the driver pulled on the crank handle, slammed the door behind her. “Sit anywhere you want.”

  All the seats were plump, plush red velvet. All were empty. After a glance at the long, narrow aisle, Sarah Frank chose a spot right immediately behind the driver. She could see his face in the mirror mounted above the broad windshield.

  He released the brake, stepped on the accelerator. Like a great ship leaving harbor under full sail, the massive craft slipped away effortlessly, and without a sound. “Where’re you and that spotted cat headed to?”

  Her voice was a mousy squeak. “To Aunt Daisy’s. She lives on the far end of the Southern Ute reservation, not far from Chimney Rock and right next to Spirit Can—”

  “I know where she lives.” He sniffed. “In these parts, I know where everybody lives.”

  He sounds like a braggart. And braggarts were not to be trusted. I hope he doesn’t murder me and cut my body up into little pieces. Another thought occurred to her. Sarah fumbled with her change purse.

  The face in the mirror put on a disapproving frown. “You don’t need no money to ride on this bus!”

  She stared at the startling visage. “I don’t?”

  “Huh-uh.” The back of his black head shook, and the face in the mirror dutifully did the same. “This here’s a special charter bus. And when-so-ever I’m not on a partic’lar job, the boss lets me pick up whom-so-ever I want to. And if I don’t choose to charge ’em a solitary dime, that’s up to me!” The big mouth smiled, presenting a dazzling display of pearly white teeth. “But it’ll be ’leven dollars for the cat.”

  “Oh, yes sir. I can pay—”

  “That was a joke, young lady.” The frustrated comedian rolled his eyes.

  “Oh.” He’s a big smart aleck. She wanted to ask, “Where are you headed to?”, but did not dare.

  The driver began to sing:

  O Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land

  As on thy highest mount I stand

  The bus was picking up speed. Little white houses flashed by. Also sunflowers. Big signboards. Tall pine trees. The driver shifted gears. The engine hummed the hymn along with him.

  I look away across the sea

  Where mansions are prepared for me

  It seemed very odd, but by and by, as miles and minutes slipped past the windows, Sarah began to feel comfortable. Even cozy. And for the first time since those bright days before her parents died—safe. She thought it over and corrected herself: No, it wasn’t quite that long ago. When I was a little girl and Charlie Moon gave me a piggy-back ride—I felt like I was where nobody can hurt me. She considered praying again, offering thanks. But a troublesome thought nagged at her. Maybe God doesn’t know where I am. She decided that it might not be prudent to attract the Almighty’s attention.

  For no apparent reason, the driver laughed out loud.

  Sarah smiled, found the various sensations very curious and also appealing.

  Big wheels rolling faster and faster, droning…nnnnnnnnnnnnn

  Big engine humming…mmmmmmmmm

  This cavernous chariot carrying her somewhere.

  Ever and ever nearer to…Beulah Land?

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Cousin

  As moon pulled his Eddie Bauer/Triton V-8 expedition to a stop, the heavy automobile’s seventeen-inch all-terrain tires crunched pleasantly on a bed of white gravel. The tribal investigator and the federal agent took their first look at the place Marilee Attatochee called home. The peaked roof perched atop the shotgun house was shingled with a varied collection of corrugated steel sheets; most were rusty-brown and loose as week-old scabs, a few were shiny as newly minted silver dollars and nailed down tight, the ones nearest the chimney were sooty black. In stark contrast to the decaying gray clapboards, the front door and window frames were freshly painted and looked new and blue as a robin’s egg in June. In one of the windows, a round brown face appeared between a pair of white plastic curtains. Dark tufts of coal-black hair sprouted out this way and that, suggesting one of those indestructible cartoon characters who had recently experienced a hundred-kilovolt electrical shock. “That must be Miss Attatochee,” McTeague murmured. She looks like a tough cookie. The fed was eager to probe Sarah Frank’s cousin with a few pointed questions, but deferred to the Ute. “Would you prefer that I wait outside? The lady may feel more comfortable talking to you if I’m not present.”

  “Because you’re a blue-eyed devil and I’m a sympathetic Indian?”

  “Blue-eyed what?”

  “It was what we Utes refer to as a ‘figure of speech.’”

  “Do you Utes like my blue eyes?”

  The dark man was able to blush without showing it. “They’re more…violet.”

  Lila Mae studied his craggy profile. “You’re very sweet, Charlie.”

  “I’m glad someone has finally noticed the sugary aspect of my character.”

  She offered up a smile. “But you’re also full of guile.”

  His innocent expression was a question mark.

  She explained: “You evaded my question.”

  He watched the other woman, the one in the blue-framed window, who was watching him right back. This Attatochee gal looks like she’s mad enough to bite somebody’s head off at the neck, chew it up, and spit it right in his face. I’d better take McTeague in for protection. “Fact is, Lila Mae, you evaded my question.”

  “What question was that?”

  “D’you think the Papago woman would feel more comfortable with me because you’re a blue-eyed devil and I’m a sympathetic Indian?”

  “In my considered professional opinion, a stressed-out member of the Tohono O’otam tribe is more likely to share a confidence with another Native American than with someone of a more—shall w
e say—European persuasion.” The FBI agent pursed her lips. “Now it’s your turn.”

  He took a deep breath. “I like your eyes too much, McTeague.” Not to mention everything else. Which he did not. Mention it, that is.

  “Thank you, Charlie. I like your eyes too.”

  His face split in a grin. “You do, huh?”

  “No. I was merely toying with you.” Resorting to unfair tactics, she batted long lashes over the violet orbs.

  Despite the fact that his mind had suddenly melted into mush, Charlie Moon tried his best to come up with a witty response. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

  The vampish woman was delighted to observe her devastating effect on the helpless male. Treetop-tall Charlie’s such a little boy at heart—such a darling little boy. She did a quick sidestep. “Besides being a sympathetic Indian, you’re also a friend of the family. I refer to Sarah Frank’s father, not the Attatochee clan.”

  Moon cleared his throat, found his tongue. “We’re partners, McTeague—from here on in, it’s just you and me.” He paused to let that sink in. It did. Her peculiar expression—as if she were about to say something that would shake the earth—rattled the man. He returned his gaze to the Attatochee window. The Papago woman’s face had vanished. “And I imagine she’d like to talk to another woman.”

  Twice in rapid succession, the Ute musician had plucked just the right chord.

  “Very well.” McTeague consulted her compact, found the reflection satisfactory. “If it will make you more comfortable, I shall tag along. But only to show you how wrong you can be.”

  “Having read somewhere or other that humbling experiences build strong character, I will appreciate the soul-searing humiliation.”

  “This is your territory, and I expect you to conduct the interview without any help from me.” She slung the black purse over her shoulder. “At the appropriate moments, I shall smile and nod. But I will not have a solitary word to say.”