Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  “Outside.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Harper believed he was beginning to get the gist of the plot. “You want me to go for a walk so you can talk to these folks—”

  “Hit the road, Al. Make tracks. And do it right now.”

  He did not appreciate her tone. No female was going to talk to him like that, especially not in front of witnesses. A man had his reputation to think of. He looked down his crooked nose at the pushy Papago woman. “I’ll go when I’m damned good and ready.”

  She approached in quick stomps that came very near to punching holes in the hardwood floor.

  Alphonse Harper’s feet contained about sixty more IQ points than his brain; they backed him into the dark hallway, barely keeping him out of her reach.

  A moment after he backed into the kitchen, his voice was heard again. “Hey—what’re you doin’ with that skillet.” A brief silence was followed by an answer to this pertinent question. It presented itself as that sort of soft, thudding sound such as might be produced if a husky person smacked a ripe pumpkin with a heavy, cast-iron object. This was immediately followed by an “Ow!” and the sound of clomping boots beating a hasty retreat, which was matched by the woman’s heavy steps. Plus two more thuds on Harper’s pumpkin. “Ow! Ow!”

  In alphabetical order, the visitors in the parlor offered comments.

  McTeague (alarmed): “She is assaulting the man!”

  Moon (looking askance at the television—where a furious Elmer Fudd, armed with a stubby double-barrel shotgun—was chasing Bugs Bunny through an apple orchard, firing both barrels sixteen times each without reloading): “Sometimes I am inclined to agree with those folks who say there is too much violence on TV.”

  Popper (disappointed at hearing the back door slam): “Dang. Sounds like Al’s got away.”

  Approximately one minute of heavy silence ensued, during which McTeague glared at those callous lawmen who showed not the least interest in whether Citizen Harper lived or died. Such unprofessional behavior irked the fed right down to the marrow.

  Precisely eighty-nine seconds after the last “Ow!” Marilee Attatochee returned. Wearing an immaculate pink apron and a big, pearly toothed smile, she was obviously much refreshed—even to the point where an astute observer would have concluded that the harried soul had assumed a bright new outlook on life. It was true. Having rid her home of the pesky nuisance, the five-foot female was, in short, a new woman. She paused by the rocking chair, patted the local sheriff on the shoulder as if he was her favorite brother. “Any of you cops want your coffee heated up?”

  As the barge-like bus drifted slowly down a Durango avenue, Sarah’s nose was pressed against the window. She was so close to home now. Or, since her parents had died, the closest thing she’d ever known as home.

  Soon, the town was behind them.

  The girl gave up a sigh that was transformed into a yawn.

  The driver began to sing, oh so softly.

  His honeyed baritone drifted off to conjure up a faraway yesterday:

  Hush, my child

  Lie still and slumber

  Holy angels guard thy bed

  Heavenly blessings without number

  Gently fall upon thy head.

  This was the lullaby her mother used to sing to her…when I was oh, so small. Sarah’s head fell back onto the downy back of the velvet seat. Her soul fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Gap

  After receiving a call to transport an elderly asthmatic to the clinic, Marilee Attatochee shooed the cluster of cops out of her home. Her teenage cousin was missing, mountains might crumble and Wall Street tumble, but it was a hard world and a woman had to earn herself a living. As she cranked up her van, the zealous entrepreneur instructed Sheriff Ned Popper to arrest Al Harper: “—if you see that cross between a one-eyed snake and a beer-guzzling gutter-skunk skulking around my home.”

  Straining not to smile, the lawman leaned on the Papago woman’s taxi and requested some legal advice. Like what offense should he charge Mr. Harper with.

  Marilee spat a response right back at him: “For impersonating a grown-up man!” Her dander up and dancing, she pointed to the nearest tree and added: “And hang him from that cottonwood limb so I can watch him kick and gag and turn blue in the face!”

  The sheriff solemnly promised to do whatever Utah statutes allowed, but in Harper’s case he doubted hanging would be called for. “Not unless he steals a horse. Or insults a sworn officer of the law.”

  Sensing that this was the annoying man’s notion of a jest, and fresh out of varmints to compare her ex-boyfriend with, the outraged woman departed, her vehicle kicking up a spray of gravel in its wake.

  Behind Marilee’s modest home, Charlie Moon, Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague, and Ned Popper gazed at Hatchet Gap.

  “That’s the shortcut Sarah Frank always took over to Ben Silver’s place,” the local lawman said. “It’s only about two miles from where we’re standing. Not many of the locals go into the Gap—it’s supposed to be a spooky place.” To make it clear that he gave no credence to such superstitions, Popper produced a raspy snicker. “There’s an old Paiute who hunts all over these parts, but he won’t set foot in the Gap. Claims it’s ‘a bad place for an Indian’—says some old spirits still hang about in there. But I guess them tales never bothered Sarah much. Anyhow, Marilee was usually too busy to drive her over to Ben’s place, so the kid didn’t have a helluva lot of choice. The only other way to get there is around Big Lizard Ridge on Ben’s private lane, which is a five-mile walk from here, maybe six.” A gauzy cloud slipped away to unmask the midafternoon sun. Popper pulled his hat brim down to shade his gray eyes. “If she’s still up there, a hundred men might search for weeks and not find her.” The canny old sheriff gave the Ute a quick sideways glance, tried a long shot that was coated with subtle flattery. “But one man who was a sure-enough tracker—the kind who could follow a panther across a mile of solid bedrock—he might find her in a few minutes.”

  Moon heard the message loud and clear, as if Popper had shouted in his ear. He wants me to search that canyon, see if I can flush Sarah out of her hiding place.

  The sheriff watched the Indian’s eyes. He won’t do it. Popper heaved a weary sigh. Well, it was worth a try. “You folks want to take a drive over to Ben Silver’s place?”

  Every day holds a surprise or two. Popper’s popped up quite unexpectedly.

  Charlie Moon offered his Expedition keys to the FBI agent. “Maybe you’d like to follow the sheriff.” Unless you already know the way…

  McTeague was not surprised. “While you take the route through Hatchet Gap.”

  The tribal investigator nodded. “I’ll show up in about an hour. Maybe two.” He pushed his hat brim back, basked in the warmth of the sun. “I intend to take my time.”

  Barely suppressing his satisfaction, Sheriff Popper concluded that he had misjudged his man.

  From Marilee Attatochee’s backyard, the Gap had appeared to be no more than a crack in Big Lizard’s back. As Charlie Moon entered the fissure in the long, sandstone ridge, it was apparent that Thunder Woman had given the unfortunate reptile a truly earth-shaking whack. It was natural that he should compare this crevasse to Cañón del Espíritu, whose wide mouth opened near Aunt Daisy’s home. There were stark contrasts. Compared to the ruffled mesa-skirts that formed the sloping walls of Spirit Canyon, the cliffs in Hatchet Gap were almost vertical. The largest canyon on the Southern Ute reservation boasted a year-round stream, but what little rain fell from the arid skies above the Gap would instantly slip between the jumble of crumbled rocks, percolate down through porous pebbles and sand. Moon tried to imagine fourteen-year-old Sarah making this long, lonely walk, just to earn a few dollars working in the old man’s house. She must’ve needed the money pretty bad. A few paces ahead, a rock squirrel poked its black head from under a clump of spiny hopsage. The Spermophilus variegatus fixed beady eyes on the long, lean intruder. The rodent
’s face reminded Moon of Al Harper’s pinched features. Or maybe it wasn’t entirely about the money—Sarah may’ve just needed to get away from Marilee’s house for a few hours.

  With no continuous path through the rubble of fragmented stone, it was a slow, tedious hike. The bowels of Hatchet Gap did not make for a picturesque place. Photographers from Western Scene Magazine would not haunt its quiet space. Happy families would not come here to picnic. The Ute watched a prairie rattlesnake slither under a wedge of sandstone. The walls were fractured with minor fissures, stained with a residue of a dark brown lichen that suggested coagulated Big Lizard blood. The stale air was sour-smelling and musty, the featureless shadows oppressive in this desolate space where the cleansing power of direct sunlight had never touched and never would.

  Halfway through the Gap, Moon reached the high point in his journey. He could see a vertical slit of light at the far mouth of the crevasse. From here on, it’s all downhill. He took a half-dozen steps, paused to pick up a fragment of hand-chipped obsidian. Looks like a hide scraper. As he straightened his back, his gaze locked on a remarkable display.

  On a flat panel of the sandstone wall, there was a seemingly random array of human handprints. No, he corrected himself—not prints. These were outlines of hands. They might have been placed on this hard canvas a mere few hundred years ago, or ten thousand. They seemed to gesture to the Ute. To call to him.

  We are here forever

  You are of us

  Come close

  Put your hands on ours

  Be here forever

  Mesmerized by these sinister whispers, stunned by what seemed to be taking shape before his eyes, Charlie Moon was unaware that the obsidian artifact had slipped from his fingers…

  The solemn procession of elders was led by an Ancient-of-Days grandfather who wore a snarling wolf pelt on his back, a fluffy owl-feather apron suspended from his waist. On the heels of the Maker of Spells—eyes bright with an exhilarating mixture of bone-quaking fear and breathless anticipation—was the boy about to become a man. The initiate carried a leathery bladder crafted from a bull elk’s intestine; this contained a thickish mix of spring water and powdered red ochre.

  This scene slipped by in bits and pieces, like a choppy old motion picture assembled from scraps strewn across Dream-Time’s cutting-room floor.

  After an extremely painful but essential ritual—which involved piercing the boy-man’s tongue with a porcupine spine, smearing the blood on his cheeks and chin—he was ready to be initiated into the secret Turtle Smoke Clan.

  The youth raised the leather pouch to his lips, filled his mouth with the rusty-hued brew.

  The shaman raised his arms in supplication to some unknown and unnamed power-spirit; the solemn retinue chanted in a guttural monotone.

  The young man pressed a trembling palm onto the cliff wall, spewed out the brownish fluid onto his fingers and thumb. There was a murmur of approving grunts from the assembly of elders, a long, eerie wolf-wail from the shaman.

  The act had been duly sanctioned.

  The thing was done.

  The obsidian hide-scraper struck the ground.

  Charlie Moon snapped out of the spell.

  From a tuft of scrub oak jutting improbably from a finger-wide cleft in the sandstone cliff, an oversized raven cackled a rattling chuckle, ruffled her dark wings.

  After taking thought, the rational man blamed the embarrassing episode on a serious head injury he had suffered several years earlier at Chimney Rock Archaeological Site. The neurosurgeon had warned Charlie Moon that he would never completely recover from such a serious concussion. And I haven’t. From time to time, I still see things that aren’t there. Add to that, the remarkable power of suggestion—Sheriff Popper’s remark about Hatchet Gap being a “spooky” place had certainly helped things along. Having serious work to do, Moon shook his head—hoping this might keep the unwanted vision from returning. But something he could not shrug off tugged at the shadowy underside of his mind. Before leaving this extraordinary place, the Ute felt compelled to count the handprints. The sum was thirteen. And all but one represented right hands.

  After watching Sheriff Ned Popper turn a shiny brass key in the front door lock, Special Agent McTeague followed him into Ben Silver’s house. Even after he switched on the lights, the parlor seemed to harbor a murky residue left over from the preceding day.

  Clomping his cowboy boots over to a varnished oak desk, the local lawman pointed to a spot where the medical examiner had placed strips of masking tape on the hardwood floor. Popper said unnecessarily: “That’s where I found Ben.” He aimed the same finger at a window over the desk. “And that’s where I was lookin’ in when the girl tossed that baseball bat through the glass.” He winced at the lump on his forehead, which had a peculiar way of double-throbbing whenever he recalled the unpleasant incident.

  Taking care not to step on the spot where the victim had been found, the FBI agent approached the desk. She frowned at the broken window, now sealed from the outside with a freshly cut square of plywood. “And you have no doubt whatever that the person who threw the bat at you was Sarah Frank?”

  He stared blankly at the fed.

  “I mean,” she added quickly, “it couldn’t have been another girl—of similar age and height?”

  “I guess we can’t completely rule that out.” The sheriff pulled at his mustache. “If Sarah had an identical twin.”

  McTeague blushed, changed the subject. “It’s fortunate the victim was still alive when you arrived. As I recall, when you asked Mr. Silver who had bludgeoned him, he named Sarah. In a homicide, that’s a nice piece of luck.”

  Popper took a hard look at the broken window. “It’s also a lucky thing Sarah didn’t crack my head open when she tossed that damn bat at me.” The throbbing shifted into triple-time.

  Charlie Moon did not know how he knew, but know he did. Sarah isn’t here.

  But being a professional lawman and an experienced poker player, he felt compelled to play the cards in his hand. Before descending from the pinnacle of Hatchet Gap, the tribal investigator cupped hands around his mouth, bellowed out a summons.

  Echoes ricocheted off the stone walls like ghostly cannonballs. A startled black-tailed jackrabbit materialized from behind a cluster of snakeweed, skip-hopped along the narrow canyon floor, disappeared into a dark cleft. Simultaneously, a brownish gray mourning dove erupted from a thirsty juniper, fluttered away to some uncertain destination. After this, silence. Moon called out again. Louder, this time.

  Startled from a dreamless sleep, Sarah Frank shuddered, jerked her thin body erect. “Here I am!”

  The bus driver observed her startled reflection in the yard-wide rearview mirror.

  Sarah looked back at him. “Somebody called my name.” The half-awake girl was immediately embarrassed by this revelation.

  “Wasn’t me.” The driver, who had a schedule to keep, checked his pocket watch.

  The cavernous coach chased its long shadow. Ever eastward.

  After a few heartbeats, the passenger drifted off toward her dreams. Ever homeward.

  The panel of handprints now behind him, Charlie Moon set his face toward the lonely end of Hatchet Gap, where an old man had returned home only yesterday—to encounter a violent assault, an untimely death.

  Special agent McTeague’s willowy silhouette was neatly framed in the open back door of the house recently vacated by Ben Silver. While a reddening sun fell inexorably toward its nightly destination, she kept her gaze fixed on the Gap. Why is Charlie taking so long—could he have found some trace of Sarah?

  After generously helping himself to the contents of the dead man’s pantry, Sheriff Ned Popper was enjoying a steaming cup of cocoa and a box of stale Fig Newtons. All things considered, he was satisfied with the aloof woman’s company and the simple snack. He was not, he mused, a hard man to please. Reaching for his umpteenth hard cookie, he shattered the comfortable silence. “Caught sight of him yet?”
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br />   Having almost forgotten his presence, McTeague twitched at the sound of the lawman’s voice. “No,” she mumbled. “Not yet.” A west wind, fragrant with the scent of sage, whispered in the willows. “Wait…” She held her breath, squinted to focus on a distant speck. “Yes. I think I see him.” She did not realize that her lips had parted in a smile—as if this was her man, coming home…

  Popper stuffed the last surviving member of the Newton clan under his mustache, munched it. “Soon as he gets here, I’ll do the crime scene dog-and-pony show again and then—” The sheriff’s cell phone warbled, and he jammed the thing against his ear. “Popper here.” He listened impassively. “Okay, I’m on my way.” He got up from his chair at the kitchen table, tossed the house key to the fed. “After you show Mr. Moon where Ben got knocked off his pegs, you can lock up the place. If your Ute friend wants to know something I ain’t already ’splained to you, he’ll have to catch me later. Right now, I’ve got to get back into town.” He stuffed the miniature telephone into a shirt pocket. “There’s been a big knock-down drag-out at the Gimpy Dog. Deputy Packard needs an extra hand and Bearcat’s out on another call.” As he went clomping down the hall and through the parlor, McTeague heard the crusty old lawman muttering. “Day in, day out, nothing but domestic disturbances, car wrecks, and bar fights. I should’ve been a barber, like my daddy.”

  When Moon arrived, McTeague showed him around the Silver residence. The fed repeated everything Sheriff Popper had told her.

  The tribal investigator stared at the taped outline on the floor. Mr. Silver had evidently been a small man. Small enough to be felled by a fourteen-year-old girl with a baseball bat.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Way Daisy Sees Things

  As it happened, the tribal radio station was broadcasting two hours of bluegrass Big Names. Flatt and Scruggs. Doc Watson. Ricky Scaggs. The Dillards. It was quite lively stuff, and if the year had been 1930 or thereabouts, Daisy Perika might have been kicking up her heels, clapping her hands, making plans to mail Sears & Roebuck six greenback dollars for a five-string banjo—With Complete Instructions Included!