Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  The Reader

  Wide awake now, Father Raes Delfino was in his bedroom, seated at a knotty-pine desk. The fat red volume illuminated by his reading lamp was large enough to be a Chicago telephone directory or an unabridged dictionary, but it was something far more precious. The book that occupied the attention of the retired Catholic priest was St. Francis of Assisi—Omnibus of Sources. For the past twenty-seven months, day by day, page by page, the devout scholar had been absorbing every detail on the life of the blessed little man who so loved his Lady Poverty. At the moment, his attention was focused on page 1253, and the section entitled Mirror of Perfection. The subject was the saint’s special love for the hooded larks. When Francis died, a great multitude of his feathered friends had appeared above the spot where his body was. The assembly of Lodola capellata circled above, singing most sweetly.

  Father Raes paused to wipe a tear away.

  So engrossed was he in his reading that he had not heard the stealthy footsteps outside his home, or noticed the face framed in the window.

  The knock on the front door surprised more than startled the reader. He marked his place with a scrap of scarlet ribbon, got up from his chair, headed into the small parlor. Who can it be at this late hour? Having dismissed the whispered warnings about what she had seen through the little window, he considered a few possibilities, quickly eliminated all but one. Charlie Moon, of course. He must have been out walking, and noticed my light. The innocent approached the cabin door—and his destiny—with a smile on his lips.

  Father Raes opened the door, blinked at the unfamiliar face. Charlie must’ve hired a new hand while I was away. “Good evening—what can I do for you?”

  “Charlie Moon sent me.” In a friendly salute, the stranger touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Boss wants me to bring the little Indian girl over to the ranch house. There’s some news from Utah he wants to tell her about.” He attempted a congenial smile. “What he’s got to say won’t take long. I’ll bring the kid right back.”

  Father Raes stared at the late-night caller. It was absurd that Charlie Moon would send someone for Sarah. Impossible. Charlie has no idea what his aunt deposited at the cabin…this man is lying. He started to speak, hesitated.

  The person who stood in darkness blinked at the little man with a halo of snow-white hair. “If she’s asleep, just wake her up—”

  The priest shook his head. “That is quite impossible.”

  The uninvited visitor assumed a mildly accusative tone: “You telling me she’s not here?”

  Father Raes began to close the door.

  “I come for the kid.” The stranger put his heavy boot across the threshold, leaned so close the priest could smell onions on his breath. “And I’m taking her with me.”

  “You are not taking anyone anywhere.” The Jesuit scholar shifted to pool-hall vernacular: “That shot is not on the table.”

  The hard-muscled man’s lips twisted into a brutish grin. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Padre.”

  Not so. The holy man of God knew precisely who he was dealing with. The faces were different, the threats varied, but they were all the same. “Do you have a name?”

  “You can call me Smith.” The trespasser saw a shadowy form slip down the hallway—and close behind it, a black-and-white cat. He stiff-armed the old man aside.

  Father Raes stumbled toward the fireplace, tumbled hard onto the brick hearth, felt a stinging pain as his pelvis fractured.

  Having dispensed with his diminutive opponent, the intruder took a stride toward the hallway. She’s headed for the back door. I’d better grab her before—

  The priest’s right hand had found the sooty end of an iron poker. God’s pinch-hitter clenched his teeth, made his swing—caught the intruder solidly on the shin. Not the most elegant blow ever landed.

  But it got the job done.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Columbine Foreman’s Report

  Shortly after Sheriff Popper had retired to his bedroom, Charlie Moon was—so he believed—just about finished with the day’s work. He was setting up the pot for the next morning’s coffee when he heard a distant roll of thunder. That’s over the Misery Range and the wind’s westerly, so we might get some rain. The rancher smiled at the thought of what a good downpour would do for the yellowing grass, plus what it would do for his sleep. The soothing lullaby of fat raindrops plopping onto the metal roof was the perfect soporific. These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by an urgent banging on the kitchen door. At this time of night, this can’t be good news. Taking long strides across the room, he imagined the worst. I bet that twelve-thousand-dollar polled Hereford bull we bought last week has taken sick. Or one of the cowboys has gotten himself killed in a bar fight. As he opened the door, Pete Bushman stumbled in. “Howdy, boss.” The foreman removed his hat, clenched the brim in both hands. “Before you hit the sack I thought you oughta know that a couple a the boys got bunged up some.”

  Moon groaned. “Which ones?”

  “Lopez and Six-Toes. They was on the way back from town in the flatbed. It musta started right after they passed through the main gate.”

  For the first time since Popper’s arrival, Moon remembered the Utah sheriff mentioning the unlocked gate.

  The foreman cocked his head like a man who was about to reveal a special insight. “One of ’em—and I expect it musta been Six, ’cause Lopez is a careful driver—drove the track off’n the lane and into that little dry wash. You can imagine how that woulda started up a big argument betwixt ’em, and fussin’ came to cussin’ and first thing you know those two hotheads started poppin’ off like two-dollar firecrackers.” He pulled a deep breath, started up again: “And then they commenced to takin’ swings at one another.”

  “Is that what they say?”

  “Well, they ain’t actually said a solitary word.”

  “Then how do you know—”

  “I don’t exactly know, it’s what you call a spec’lation.” The hairy-faced foreman scratched at his scraggly beard. “I mean, there wasn’t nobody else with ’em, so they must’ve knocked each other out.”

  “If they were unconscious when you found—”

  “I didn’t find ’em. It was Little Butch that come across ’em when he went out a while ago to check the gate, make sure it was locked. And it’s a wonder he spotted ’em—as far off’n the lane as they was. Anyways, Butch says they was laid out pretty as you please, like two sides a beef.”

  “Pete, I don’t see how two men could knock each other unconscious.”

  “That’s because you ain’t given it much thought.” Bushman’s eyes were bulging with the strain of his own thinking. “Here’s how it happens—all it takes is that both of ’em throws his Sunday punch at the same time, and they connects within a fraction of a second—pow-pow! Both men is cold-cocked, both of ’em go down.”

  Moon shook his head at this improbability.

  The supporter of the Theory of Simultaneous Pugilism did not conceal his chagrin. “Well, if you’ve got a better idea, don’t hold back—I’d be pleased to hear it.”

  “Okay, try this. They’re marked up because they got into a brawl in town. After they got through the gate, they drove off the lane into the dry wash, got out of the truck to drink up what was left of the liquor they’d brought with ’em—and passed out cold as kraut.” He added with a grin: “But not necessarily at the same instant.”

  The foreman rolled the competing conjecture over in his mind. “Well, I s’pose it mighta happened like that.” His face assumed its typical stubborn expression. “But I still like my notion better.”

  “Send ’em around after sunrise,” the Ute said. “I’m gonna have a serious powwow with that pair.”

  “Okay.” Bushman inhaled another long breath through his whiskers. “I don’t mind so much if you send ol’ Six-Toes down the road, he ain’t good for nothin’ much but ridin’ fence and chopping kindlin’ wood. But I hope you won’t fire Lopez—he
’s one a the best hands we got.”

  The Ute rancher had a faraway look in his eye. “There’s just an off chance that somebody else busted up our cowboys before they could lock the gate.” Somebody who showed up before Sheriff Popper found the gate unlocked.

  The foreman pulled at an earlobe. “I never thought a that.”

  “Get Six-Toes and Lopez talking soon as you can. If they met up with some hard cases, I’ll want a description. And just in case the Columbine’s got some unwanted visitors, post a half-dozen armed guards.”

  “I’ll do that right now.” Entertaining visions of rustlers and other such lowlifes, Bushman stalked off toward the door. He stopped, turned on his boot heel. “I almost forgot to ask, but who does that pickup outside belong to—the one with the Utah license plate?”

  “Sheriff Popper, from Tonapah Flats.” Smiling at the suspicious expression on his foreman’s perpetually worried face, Moon added: “He’s a friend of mine.” He pointed toward a corner bedroom. “If you’d like to go wake him up, I’ll introduce you two.”

  Bushman eyed the closed door as if he just might call the boss’s bluff. But the foreman departed, leaving an eloquent “hmmph” behind.

  Moon listened to the heavy door slam. It’s late, but I better give Father Raes a call, ask him to lock his cabin door. The owner of the outfit went into the parlor, picked up the telephone, punched in the number. There was a brief silence, followed by a recorded message from the telephone company’s computer, monotonically asserting that the line was “…not in service at this time.” Moon stared at the instrument in his hand without seeing it. In the window, a flash of light. Four counts later, a rumble of thunder came to rattle the windowpanes. There’s two dozen different reasons for a line to go dead, and twenty-three of ’em are nothing to worry about. He placed the telephone back in its cradle. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll go over to the cabin and have a look. Rather than drive, he decided to take a flashlight, walk along the telephone line. With a little bit of luck, I might spot a break.

  Some sixty miles to the south in Durango, in the snug little brick house on Buttonwood Lane, Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague could not get a wink of sleep. She was perched on the edge of her bed, toes curled under bare feet, violet eyes staring at yellow daffodils sprouting on faded wallpaper. For weeks, it had been a mere possibility, but today the official memorandum had trickled down to the Denver Field Office, from whence it was forwarded to her fax machine in Granite Creek. The ambitious woman had a serious decision to make. And suspected that she had already made it. But I won’t be able to rest until I call Charlie and tell him about the job offer. I’ll ask him what he thinks I should do. She clenched her hands into fists. Oh, I am such a hypocrite! I should just tell him the Bureau has made me an offer I can’t refuse. She reached for the telephone, hesitated. It occurred to the lady that she should think of some excuse to call the tribal investigator, chat awhile about this and that. Then, when it feels like the right moment, I’ll mention my chance for a big promotion, see what Charlie has to say about it. She wanted him to say: “Don’t ever leave me, Lila Mae.” But she knew what the Ute would mumble in that deep, sad voice. “Well…do whatever you think is best.” Her brow knitted into an angry scowl. A damn lot of help you are, Charlie Moon—you and your worthless platitudes. You’re about as sensitive and romantic as a—as a glacier! The gorgeous woman ground her perfect teeth. But I’ll call you anyway, and get this over with.

  Problem was, she couldn’t think of an excuse to call him this late in the evening. Miss McTeague finally gave up, fell back onto the pillow. As she was playing with a pearl button on the collar of her nightgown, the answer to a question she was not even thinking about came straight out of nowhere, jolted her brain like an electric shock.

  She sat straight up.

  The forensics photograph of Ben Silver’s prone body seemed to shimmer before her eyes. She could see the buttons ripped from his shirt—the boot on the floor by his knee. Her mouth opened—“Oh my God!” After a minute of going over the facts, she knew she was right.

  The FBI agent snatched the telephone, punched in the Columbine number, listened to the dial tone drone. Ring! It did. She banged a fist against her knee, willed him to answer. Pick up, Charlie. Now! Four rings. She begged. Please-please-please! After seven rings, she got the answering machine, listened to the programmed message, waited for the beep.

  “It’s me.” Well, that sounds dumb. “Uh—Charlie, this is McTeague. Look, I think I’ve figured something out about the Silver homicide in Tonapah Flats. Something very important.” She paused to take a breath. “I don’t want to leave the details on your machine, but call me the very minute you hear this message.” She started to hang up, hesitated. “I don’t know if I can prove it, but I’m absolutely certain that at least one of those Utah cops is dirty.” The fed felt the pulse throbbing in her neck. “Maybe all of them.”

  After lowering all the automobile’s windows, Knuckle-Dragger Number Two shifted into low, jammed his boot heel on the accelerator pedal. The priest’s Buick picked up speed, bounced over a slab of basalt, brushed aside a few spindly willows. An instant before the front tires splashed into the lake, the driver leaped from the old sedan, stumbled, almost fell, muttered an earthy curse. He backed up the pebbled bank, heard the hot exhaust manifold hiss in the icy waters. The engine shuddered, coughed, died. The chassis began to settle into the murky depths. He had assumed the lake was deeper. The wide-eyed spectator chewed on his lower lip. I hope it’s got a soft, muddy bottom.

  Almost a yard deep now, the General Motors product listed slightly toward the driver’s side, sank until water flowed into the open windows. It settled more quickly, then oh-so-slowly. Hesitated. Stopped.

  He ground his teeth. Sink, damn you!

  As if energized by this rude command, the Buick responded with a lurch forward. Like a Mesozoic amphibian fossil reincarnated—only to perish again, the massive black turtleback slipped beneath the surface.

  Harboring a superstitious fear that the aggravating vehicle might (by some sinister automotive physics?) float back to the surface, he held his breath—only to witness a sudden burp of bubbles. Then another. Must’ve been air caught in the trunk.

  As if all were well, moonlight rippled serenely on the waters.

  He exhaled a grateful sigh. Well, that’s over and done with.

  Not so.

  And nobody saw me do it.

  Ditto.

  This particular descendant of Cain had not noticed the winged witnesses circling above the shore. His eye was blind to their flitting forms, his ear deaf to their clear, sweet song.

  Larks?

  A romantic might dare to hope so.

  But hooded as well?

  Given the locale and habitat, such a visitation seems quite unlikely.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Aces Over Eights

  On this night, the forest was full of peering eyes. By way of example—on a rocky knoll above the priest’s cabin, in a smallish, grassy glade, a still figure was immersed in inky nightshade. Sheriff Popper watched the Ute’s approach. Tried to decide what to do.

  Having found no break in the telephone line, Charlie Moon approached the cabin. He was mildly surprised to discover that the priest’s old Buick was not parked in the usual spot. Looks like he’s took off on another one of his trips. Following a distant cannonade of thunder, a few raindrops peppered onto the brim of his black Stetson. The beam of his flashlight traced the line from the final pole to the west wall. Well no wonder his phone didn’t ring—the wire’s fallen off the terminal box. An inner voice whispered: Or somebody pulled it off. The sober-minded man smiled at his morbid imagination. He picked up the section of cable, examined it in the bright glare of the flashlight—rubbed his thumb over the broken end. Looks like it was pulled loose, all right. He suppressed the inner voice, substituted a commonplace explanation: Probably an elk or something bumped into it. He tossed the line aside. I’ll come back later
with some tools, get it reconnected. One thought led to another. But just in case Father Raes gets back before I do, I’ll leave a note to let him know his phone isn’t working. He went to the front door, started to turn the knob. The door opened. Now that’s funny—it wasn’t even latched. I guess that priest is getting a little absentminded.

  He stepped inside the small parlor.

  The atmosphere was eloquently taut, as if the fabric of night might rip under the strain. The Ute felt a presence. He called out: “Hey—anybody home?” Well, that was a dumb question. Moon grinned at himself, switched on a lamp. I’ll leave a note on the kitchen table.

  Heavy pistol in hand, Sheriff Popper entered the cabin softly as a kitten walking on moss. It happened in the blink of an eye—the Utah lawman saw his man, squeezed the trigger, the hammer dropped on a center-fire cartridge, a lump of copper-jacketed lead went spinning toward the intended target.

  The outcome was inevitable.

  Even if the lawman had not been an expert marksman—and he could shoot an acorn off a scrub oak at twenty paces—it would have been hard to miss at this range. The poker player lowered his revolver so the barrel pointed at the floor, felt a plum-size lump in his throat. I’d as soon have shot my own brother. But like thunder follows lightning, this had been bound to happen. On a night when a player got dealt the Dead Man’s Hand, somebody was bound to cash in his chips.

  And the big Indian was most certainly dead. The .45-caliber hollow-point had taken off the top of his head.

  A Minor Difference of Opinion in the Bunkhouse

  Jerome Kydmann cocked an ear. “Pete—did you hear that?”

  Having what is commonly known as a one-track mind, Pete Bushman could not conduct two trains of thought at the same time. Busy with a futile attempt to shake and slap the pair of beat-up cowboys to some semblance of consciousness, the Columbine foreman did not appreciate this distraction from the Wyoming Kyd. “Hear what?”