The Bone Man

by Vicki Stiefel

  “Aric?” I said.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “All right?”

  I wasn’t. But I’d stepped on a train that I couldn’t get off until the ride reached its appointed destination. Confusing.

  So I watched and listened and smelled the spicy scents. I cried, but only a little.

  Dust billowed around us, even as the temperatures rose into the sixties. I’d awaked refreshed, and yet I couldn’t say exactly what had happened the previous evening. I guessed it was a healing ceremony for Ben Bowannie, his aide and Natalie. All I knew was that I felt well for the first time in weeks and that I’d slept comfortably and long.

  Aric Bowannie and I had left Zuni that morning, headed to the trading post and the Bone Man. On the way, Aric handed me my burnt cell phone, my wallet, and my can of pepper spray. We stopped in Gallup, where I bought two pairs of jeans, a broom skirt, some tops, a jacket, a purse, a pair of gloves, and a new cell, one of those untraceable prepaid ones. I did all of that with cash given to me by Aric, as he rightly cautioned me about leaving a credit card trail. He also warned me not to use the phone unless it was an emergency.

  Now a blanket of stars and full moon made the desert seem like I was in a planetarium, which Aric found ironic, as did I. Outside the truck window, the desert glowed with cacti and sage and rock and sand and night creatures foraging for supper. I thought I spotted three coyotes, but couldn’t be sure if it wasn’t simply a rock formation, coupled with my wishful thinking. And cows. Lots of cows. Home on the range and all that.

  I opened the window, and the chilly night breeze fingered my hair. The pavement slid by as we rode farther and farther from Zuni to who-knew-where. I didn’t ask. Didn’t much care, as I felt the intensity of Ben Bowannie’s quest that was now mine, too.

  “I’d like to tell you what happened in Boston,” I said.

  Aric said nothing.

  I explained about the re-creation that looked just like my missing friend, Delphine. I told him about Didi’s homicide, my adventures on the Vineyard, and the death of his father. He wanted every detail of his father’s death, and I told him all I knew.

  I didn’t think about why I trusted him, other than I had to. But it felt right.

  “Your father wanted the skull,” I said. “He didn’t believe it was an Old One, though. But he felt it mattered, and that it would cause trouble.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not surprised he knew something else was going on. We always have problems. Drugs and booze coming in, pots and sacred stuff going out. Fake fetishes purported to be ours. And traders ripping us off, making a bundle where we only make a few pennies.”

  “Not all,” I said.

  “No. There are some good ones. But this illegal stuff. That’s bad. That, more than some old skull, was what my father was investigating.” More to himself than to me, he said, “I wish he’d told me more.”

  “About the blood fetish?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “The blood fetish. Didi scrawled it on the floor. And the guy on the Vineyard was looking for a blood fetish, an old one, he said. Except . . . well, it’s as if I’m the only one who knows about it. It feels weird. Have you ever heard of it?”

  He shook his head, flipped open a can of Beechnut chewing tobacco, pinched a wad, and packed it into his cheek. He cracked the window. “Nope.”

  “C’mon,” I said. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  But there was something. Maybe a hitch in his voice? A look in his eye? Something. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care what you believe,” he said. “You’re hunting the guy who killed your friend. Well, someone’s hunting you, lady.”

  I flinched, looked in the rear-view mirror. The lonely road streamed behind us like a girl’s hair ribbon. I could see for miles, and no other cars were in sight. I breathed deep, calmed myself.

  Maybe someone was hunting me. But why? What did I know? What had I seen that would make me a target. Sure, I was here looking for Delphine and Didi’s killer. But how did the killer know that? And why was I such a threat?

  It had to do with some kind of pot thievery or fakery or . . . But, geesh, it felt like there were a dozen threads, none of which added up to much.

  It sure was tough to get rid of that itch between my shoulders when I’d almost stepped inside a fake cop car. I clenched my hands to white-knuckle tight. “So what’s our agenda? And where did this paper, the Bone Man, come from?”

  He hooked a sharp left, and I held on to the dangling strap inside the ancient Land Rover.

  “You’re angry,” I continued. “Your father. His aide, who I’m guessing was your friend.”

  Aric remained silent. His fury came from some deep and passionate source, I was sure, even beyond the death of his father. It chilled me.

  In the distance, the land flattened more, and I saw blinking neon surrounded by nothing but desert, cactus, and cows.

  “Where did the paper come from, Aric?”

  “Natalie. It was in her pocket, inside an Altoids tin. The only thing that didn’t burn.”

  We neared the neon, which read DESERT DREAMS MOTEL. The clean blacktop and good paint job said “success.” I guessed I shouldn’t fear bedbugs. I couldn’t help scratching my arm.

  Natalie. All I could see was the girl I’d met at the airport. Open faced and smiling. Warm. “These people have a lot to answer for,” I said. “A lot. When do we reach the trading post?”

  He pulled into the parking lot in front of a sign that read OFFICE. A minute later, a potbellied man, unsmiling, cigarette dangling from lips, leaned against the driver’s side window. He held up a key, and Aric swiped it out of his hand in what seemed to be anger.

  Smoking Man smirked. “Now you owe me, ma brother.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I wished motel rooms smelled different. They all must use that same noxious disinfectant. They all seemed to have identical magazine subscriptions, too. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten to pick up a book to read in Gallup. I snagged the New Mexico Magazine on the bedside table. It was from the last century, which I found really annoying. I paged through the magazine while Aric moved around the room. He flicked on the TV and flipped through the channels to ESPN. Swell.

  “Look at that face,” he said. “You don’t like sports?”

  “Not a whole lot.”

  “Can you live with it?”

  Hadn’t I forever? “Sure.”

  I smelled the tobacco when he stuffed it into his cheek.

  “Gross,” I said.

  “Tough.”

  I found an article on Carlsbad Caverns and began to read. Good stuff. Aric finally went in to take a shower, which was when I called Gert about the potsherds. I hoped she’d been able to get them carbon dated.

  “They’ve got ’em in evidence,” she said. “And they’re hangin’ fast. No luck so far.”

  “What about Kranak?” I said. “He might go for the idea. That would have to do with evidence, the date of the pot.”

  “Yup,” she said. “He’s tried. He would have to get some kind of court order. Carbon dating wrecks the object or something.”

  Swell. “Thanks, Gertie. Keep me posted, okay?”

  “How the hell can I when I don’t know where you—-”

  “Tally?” Aric barked from the bathroom.

  I covered the mouthpiece. “What?”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Reading,” I hollered back. I closed the phone and slipped it back into my purse, picked the magazine back up, and sat on the chair just as Aric opened the door.

  “What was I hearing?”

  He leaned out of the bathroom, bare chested, towel around his waist. Whoooeee, he was pretty to look at.

  “You heard me singing, I guess.” I smiled. “How about a sample? I can do Oklahoma! or Brigadoon or the Dixie Chicks.”

  He lifted a towel to his head and began to dry his hair. “You’re full of shit. Go take a shower, lad
y, if you can pull yourself away from your concert.”

  I walked with great dignity into the bathroom steamy from his shower. Boy, did I miss Hank.

  When I opened the door outside the next morning, the sun had not yet risen. The stars had fled, and the sky was a murky blackish gray. Aric had gotten me up way too early. I’d asked the manager if I could take the New Mexico Magazine, as I wanted to finish the article on the caverns. His “whatever” meant I’d have something to read on the road.

  I chewed on a stale bagel while Aric stuffed a fresh piece of chaw into his cheek. He was decked out all Western, from his Stetson to a pair of shiny cowboy boots.

  “You look like a fake cowboy,” I said.

  “Well, thank you, ma’am.”

  “That’s the point, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Yup.”

  Two hours later, the sun yawned from the sky as we made yet another turn onto a desert dirt road that looked like a twin to the one we’d just left.

  “How do you not lose your way out here?” I asked.

  “It’s where I live.”

  I imagined the streets of Southie and the North End and Beacon Hill and a hundred more places I knew by heart.

  “How far to the trading post?” I said.

  “Not long.”

  “You said that an hour ago.”

  He smiled.

  “So what’s our plan?”

  “The old man, he’ll know about the Bone Man. All we have to do is get him to tell us about him. Here,” he said. “Hold out your hand.”

  I did, and he dropped a turquoise petit-point-style ring onto my palm.

  “We’re here to buy pawn,” he said.

  “Jewelry pawned by your people?”

  “And Navajo and Hopi and others. Yes. But it’s mostly all fake by now. Not fake Indian made, but fake pawn. Keep an eye out. See if he has anything that might relate to the Bone Man.”

  “Why would he sell something like that to strangers?”

  “Because he wants to get rid of it. Evidence. Maybe.” He raised his hand. “Or maybe we’ll have to trick him. So put on your domestic face, Tally Whyte.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m domestic! I do stuff at home.”

  He smiled. “Just stop looking like city girl.”

  “Easy.” All I had to do was remember life in Maine. As I scraped my hair into a scrunchie, my heart squeezed.

  We pulled into a parking lot in much need of refurbishing. Dust billowed around the truck as we backed up to the single red gas pump. Not another vehicle was in sight.

  “This is it,” Aric said. “Do a good job now.”

  My retort was lost in the slam of his door. Aric hauled over the nozzle and began filling up.

  “Hurry up,” he said. “This is a busy place. The only joint around. No shopping.”

  I almost laughed. What did he think I was going to do, dawdle in the aisles looking for trinkets? “Yes, sir.”

  He notched his head toward the shop/trading post/coffeehouse housed in the red adobe structure with an arch above the front door and turquoise slatted shutters in need of paint.

  I slid out and flattened my broom skirt that billowed in the wind. I pulled on a ball cap and sunglasses.

  “Don’t,” mouthed Aric.

  He was right. Too sharp-looking for my character. I tossed them on the seat, groped in back for the straw hat I’d purchased in Gallup and headed for the front door.

  I looked back once. Aric was watching me as he held the nozzle to the gas tank. The Bone Man. Okay. Here goes.

  I reached for the screen door. The wind gusted and door flapped in the breeze. I stilled. Wrong. That was wrong.

  With all the sand and wind out here, even the shabbiest establishment would at least have some latch to keep the screen door from flapping. Something was out of whack. I chewed my lower lip. I might be being watched. I should go inside, not hesitate. Turning back to Aric would signal a problem to a watcher.

  But if I went inside, the “people” behind all of this could be waiting for me.

  I turned back to Aric. “Honey, I’m going to look around back. I need the bathroom. It might be out here.”

  “Sure,” was all he said.

  I walked around the building. No cars. No tracks. A small brown lizard scooted out of my way. A window facing east had a cracked pane. I stood on tiptoe, shielded my eyes and peered in.

  I couldn’t see much. Dark. Wood floor. Shelves. This wasn’t working.

  The wind stilled, and as I walked around the building, the sand crunched beneath my feet and the hot sun warmed my cheek. All desert here and a ring of mountains to the west. So beautiful, so austere.

  The back door was locked.

  I continued walking, and soon I again faced the front door. I didn’t feel much safer, but I’d done what I could not to play the fool. I wondered why the hell Aric wasn’t coming inside with me.

  I checked my cell phone. I had a signal. Not a great one, but it was there.

  I pulled open the screen door, held my breath as I stepped into the cool darkness.

  No one had switched on the lights for the day. No fans, either, which I found unusual. At least no one had jumped out at me and gone “boo!” I exhaled and . . .

  Hell.

  The unmistakable smell of dead flesh and feces and other odors of death mingled like a noxious perfume. There was a something “other,” too. Something unfamiliar.

  Happy I was wearing sneakers—so aptly named—I sidestepped behind a shelf of canned green beans, peas, and corn. I opened my cell phone, switched it to camera, and peered around the grocery. Nothing out of the way appeared on the small screen, but I snapped off some shots.

  For the millionth time, my foster mother’s words about getting a gun rang in my brain.

  I sucked in a breath, almost choked on the stench, and stepped from behind the shelf. I crept forward. Where the hell was Aric?

  Another step, where packages of pasta and tacos and Oreo cookies towered over me. No one in the aisles. Not so far.

  Dammit, Aric.

  Lights blazed, and I stumbled, grabbed what turned out to be canned jalapeños, and furiously blinked.

  “Tally,” Aric said.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s okay. Come out.”

  I peeked around a corner, then walked down the wooden-floored center aisle until I neared the front counter.

  Except it wasn’t okay. Not one bit. Aric was bent over a supine body encased in jeans, a plaid shirt, and cowboy boots that lay behind the counter. Beside the body, a gray furry mutt that looked half coyote oozed blood from his shoulder.

  The mutt was breathing. The human wasn’t.

  Above them loomed the scarred wood counter with its ancient cash register. The drawer was closed. Other than the corpse and the dog, nothing else was out of place.

  I ran over. The body belonged to an old man. Oh, dear.

  The dog whimpered.

  I found a clean dishrag and kneeled by the dog.

  “Don’t,” Aric said. “You’ll lose your hand.”

  “I might.” I talked to the pup, tried to soothe him, but each time my hands moved near his wound, he growled. Understandable. I’d growl too.

  “Can you hold him, Aric? Just until I get this bandage on.”

  “You’re loco. Swear to God.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Most likely, but he’s stood by his master until he’s too weak to move. If we stop the bleeding, we can take him to a vet and . . .”

  Aric snorted, jumped up, and returned with a pack of Handiwipes, several of which he tied around the dog’s snout. He then took Coyote into his arms, and I sprayed the wound with some Bactine from the shelves, then bound the wound. Oh, Coyote did not like that one bit.

  I retrieved a clean bowl from a shelf in aisle three, snared a bottle of spring water, and used the latter to fill the bowl. I opened some food and put it in another bowl.

  “Ready?” Aric said.

  “Yea
h, I think so.”

  Aric released Coyote and jumped back.

  “What?” I said. “Are you expecting an attack? He’s half dead.”

  Coyote’s wiry muzzle twitched. He managed to get his two back legs under him, but he was too weak to stand, and he collapsed. I moved the water bowl closer, and his tongue slithered out. He began to lap.

  “Good pup,” I said.

  “Can we get to the problem at hand, Tally?” Aric said.

  “Yes, yes, sure. Of course.”

  I took my first serious look at the old man. Poor soul. Two bullet holes marked his chest. His face was gray, his cheeks sunken, and stubble covered his chin and upper lip. Flied buzzed around his head.

  He’d deserved better. I’m so sorry, old man. I crouched down. Hard to tell if he was Anglo or Indian or both. He looked like, well, like an overcooked . . . Geesh. “Awful.”

  I reached to touch Old Man’s face. Such a sad, lonely way to die. Coyote growled, and I smiled. At least Old Man hadn’t died alone. No.

  Inside my purse, I found my phone. I felt naked without my camera, long lost in the accident, but the phone would do. I snapped off half a dozen shots of Old Man and Coyote, and then I walked around the trading post taking photos of shelves and goods and pawn and pottery and anything else I could think of.

  The dust made me sneeze, and I purloined a box of tissues.

  “You done?” Aric said.

  “Almost.” I walked behind the counter, and took photos there, too. I hoped the camera would capture what I wasn’t seeing. The fluorescent light sputtered above my head. Time to change the bulbs. I guess it didn’t matter much now, at least not to Old Man.

  Aric was pacing in front of the corpse. I sat on the dusty floor and crossed my legs.

  “See anything?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “You?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing that strikes me. Is he the Bone Man?”

  “I don’t believe so. Natalie was a cautious kid. I doubt the Bone Man would be the operator of a trading post. Too obvious. Too—”

  “Public? So who is the Bone Man? Or what, maybe? I wish I could see how this old man’s death connects to a twenty-first-century woman’s skull found in an ancient pot.”

  I began to dial 911. I punched out the nine, and Aric put his hand over mine.