Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries (26 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

BOOK: Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries
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“Yes.” She stretched out on her back again and stared up at the Evening People.
Stone Ghost used his best storytelling voice, deep and slow: “When Dune first mentioned the divine musician, Poor Singer thought he meant Wind Baby’s voice or the roar of the Thunderbirds, but Dune told him that the divine musician was not outside, he was inside. Unfortunately because of all the chatter that filled Poor Singer’s brain, he couldn’t hear anything. So, one day, while he was fasting, he tripped over a rock. It made him very angry. He’d been tripping over that same rock for days. Poor Singer yelled, ‘Look at this! My toe has a big bruise! Why can’t you live somewhere else? You’re ugly and have sharp edges! I hate you!’”
Stone Ghost paused to take a breath and noticed that Bone Walker was listening intently, as though his voice were the only thing in the world. “Well, needless to say, Poor Singer was very surprised when the rock said, ‘Why do you insist on kicking me in the belly every day?’ Poor Singer—”
Bone Walker interrupted, “Didn’t he know rocks have souls?”
“Yes, but there’s a difference between
knowing
it—” Stone Ghost tapped his head. “—and
knowing
it.” He lowered his hand to his heart.
“Oh.” Bone Walker nodded earnestly in understanding. “Then what happened? Did he pet the rock?”
“I don’t recall that in the story, but I’m sure he must have. The rock forgave him.”
Bone Walker shoved tangled hair from her eyes and rolled over to peer at Stone Ghost. “When did he find the pebble?”
“He found it on his way back to Dune’s house; the pebble was shining in the trail at his feet. He picked it up and put it in his mouth—”
“And sucked off all the dirt.”
“Yes, but he put it in his mouth to remind him that
if he kept his own tongue from waggling, he might hear some of the other voices that called to him from the world. And he did, of course. The very next day, he heard the voices of clouds Singing, and trees weeping.”
Bone Walker’s huge black eyes widened. She didn’t say a word. She just rolled to her back again and stared up at the shining Evening People.
Stone Ghost gave her a few moments to absorb that, then bravely reached out to touch her tangled hair. She froze at his touch.
“Bone Walker? Would you like me to brush your hair for you? I could—”
She let out a high-pitched animal scream, scrambled to her feet, and ran away.
 
 
MAUREEN HADN’T FELT so tired in ages. She turned the Bronco into Dale’s driveway, shut off the engine, and killed the lights.
Dusty stirred in the passenger seat, stretching and yawning in the darkness. “Are we there?”
“Home sweet home. Or at least Dale’s port in the storm.”
Dusty opened the door and stepped out. Maureen watched him move the seat forward and twist into the back of the Bronco. He pawed his way past an empty doughnut box, a half-full sack of Doritos, and found Dale’s journal, Maureen’s thermos, and his notebook. He carried them inside.
They’d been just south of Zia when he’d pulled over and asked her to drive. Now, as she walked wearily to
the door, she wasn’t sure that had been such a smart idea. That last half hour into Albuquerque, she’d been seeing things—strange images spun from caffeine, stress, and exhaustion. She’d seen Dale’s face reflected in the afterimages of sleeplessness. His voice had spoken to her, sifted from the whine of the tires and the rumble of the motor.
What had he been trying to tell her?
She fumbled with Dusty’s keys and managed to unlock the door. The house was delightfully warm after the chill November air. A faint hum from the heat system was all she could hear. Walking to the answering machine, she noted that two calls were waiting.
“I’m headed for the sack,” Dusty told her. “Who wants first dibs on the John?”
“I do. My thermos of coffee outweighs the bottle of Guinness you found under the seat.” Lord knew how long it had been there. When Dusty had pulled it out, it had been covered with dust, the label half worn off. Nevertheless Stewart had pried the cap off and drunk it down before leaning his head back and surrendering to sleep.
Maureen walked down the hall past Dale’s office and closed the bathroom door behind her. She was in the process of washing her hands when Dusty burst in the door with Dale’s journal in his hand.
“We’ve had a break-in!” He whirled on his heel and trotted down the hallway.
“What?” She hurried after him and into Dale’s office.
Dusty stopped in front of the familiar file cabinet. The door hung open. Where the diaries had been packed side by side, the drawer was empty.
“You didn’t move them?”
Dusty shook his head. “No.”
She took a deep breath. “Thank God I took that journal” —she pointed to the one in Dusty’s hand—“this morning.”
Dusty lifted it. “I was going to replace it. Old field habit. All day long I bitched to myself about how much excavation data has vanished over the years because of carelessness. The UNM field notes taken during the recording of the Hosta Phase small house where Dale was murdered might have answered a lot of questions.” He clutched the diary tightly. “So I was going to be conscientious and put this back before I went to bed.”
Maureen glanced around, suddenly worried. She whispered, “You don’t think he’s still in here, do you?”
Dusty’s blue eyes gleamed. “I sure as hell hope so.”
He started for the door, and she feared he might be going to the Bronco for his pistol. Maureen grabbed him by the shoulder. “Dusty, we need to walk straight out to the Bronco and use the cell phone to call Agent Nichols. The best thing you can do right now is remember exactly where you went after we walked in the door. What you touched. Nichols is going to want to know.”
Dusty’s jaw muscles bunched. “I’ll let you call. I have other priorities.”
He pulled away from her and headed down the hall, and out the front door, at a fast pace.
When they slid into the Bronco, Dusty pulled his pistol from beneath the seat, opened it to see that it was fully loaded, then snapped it closed and leaned back with his eyes on Dale’s front door. “Call Nichols, Maureen. Tell him he’d better hurry, because I’m going to shoot the first person to walk out Dale’s door.”
 
 
DUSTY AND MAUREEN sat at a window seat in the Ore House restaurant, a second-story affair overlooking the Sante Fe Plaza. The decor charmed Maureen. The whitewashed adobe walls contrasted beautifully with
worn Saltillo floor tiles. To her right, French windows looked out onto a porch, empty this frigid November evening.
Dusty thoughtfully sipped at his cappuccino, his gaze on the bundled pedestrians scurrying across the plaza. He’d declined a beer, swearing that he’d fall face first into his plate after the first one. He looked unusually handsome tonight, wearing a gray-plaid shirt and new Levi’s.
“I don’t understand,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Nichols’s crack ERT team didn’t find a jimmied lock. After a whole day of dusting and taking samples, they found nothing.”
Maureen folded her arms across her cream-colored wool sweater and leaned back in her chair. “Unless, like Nichols said, we didn’t lock the door when we left.”
“The door was locked,” Dusty said. “You don’t live in Albuquerque without learning to lock your doors. Even in the nice neighborhoods. I was the last one out. Believe me, I locked it.”
“Well,” she said and tilted her head. “Then someone had a key.”
“I’m
the only one who has a key to Dale’s new house.”
She lifted a shoulder, remembering the long string of questions they’d answered. The problem was, no one really knew who had keys to Dale’s house. Dale might have given a key to someone else and Dusty didn’t know it. That possibility had forced them to return to Santa Fe and the safety of Dusty’s dilapidated trailer.
“A loony for your thoughts?” she said.
He smiled tiredly, his bearded cheeks gleaming in the light. “Just thinking of La Fonda. That’s where Dale took her that night in 1962. If we could step back in time, we’d see Dale and my mother walking right out there. Holding hands, laughing the way lovers do.”
A waitress with a notepad in her hand scurried by,
leaving a trail of perfume. The musky scent seemed oddly out of place here.
Maureen said, “You sound sad.”
“Oh, it’s just that it’s a part of them I never had. I guess I feel like I’ve been robbed.” Dusty blew on his cappuccino and steam curled around his handsome face. “I wish Dale had told me.”
Maureen propped her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. Her long black braid fell over her shoulder. “He knew you’d read the journals eventually, eh? Maybe he just did.”
The lines around Dusty’s blue eyes tightened. “Except for the part of the story I’ll never know, because some son of a bitch took his other journals. Why would someone do that, Maureen?”
“Names, dates, places. Whoever stole them knew Dale kept a journal, and knew what he’d written there, or at least suspected. Someone took a big risk to break into Dale’s house.”
“A big risk?” He studied her. “We were out of town. All the thief had to do was case the place, make sure we weren’t home, and break in.”
Maureen smoothed her fingers over the cool tabletop. “Yes, but it was someone desperate, Dusty. Desperate enough to be very, very careful. He left no prints.”
When the waiter arrived with a bowl of pumpkin soup, Maureen surrendered herself to culinary delight. That treat was followed by a succulent tenderloin, topped with a green chili, avocado, and almond sauce. Black bean
refritos
layered with jack cheese and garnished with cilantro added to the feast. Dessert consisted of a piñon pine-nut bread pudding in a honey glaze followed by a cup of black coffee.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” She smiled and gazed out at the Plaza.
Lights had started to come on, splashing the sidewalks
with gold. Across the way, at La Fonda, luminarias glowed with a festive abandon.
The little candle on their table cast a magical glow in Dusty’s eyes as he watched her. “Once you get used to eating in Santa Fe, food in the rest of the world seems bland.”
“Just think,” she said, “you made sure that my first meal in New Mexico was a stale sandwich from a gas station cooler at Crownpoint.”
“I didn’t know you then. I thought you were going to be a pain in the ass.”
She smiled warmly. “I am a pain in the ass. I’m also stuffed, and I haven’t had a full night’s sleep for days. If you don’t take me home, I’m going to fall over and start snoring.”
They walked out into the cold November evening.
Maureen kept an eye on Dusty, watching the expression on his face as they passed the corner of La Fonda. His mind was definitely on Dale and Ruth Ann. They crossed the street in front of the Terbush Gallery, and walked down to where Dusty had parked.
As they drove up Canyon Road, she asked, “Why does it bother you so much, Dusty? It was a long time ago. Dale and your mother were both consenting adults.”
He took the turn that led down to his humble little trailer. “I know but I just can’t see them together.”
After he unlocked the trailer, he looked around at the shabby surroundings. “You’re sure you wouldn’t feel better in a hotel?”
“I’ll be fine,” she told him, but as she stepped over to the foldout couch, added: “I just wish I could go back in time. I’d pay those burglars to steal this thing.”
She could see the exhaustion in his eyes as he arched a brow and bent a finger, pointing to the hallway leading to the rear. “Go on, Doctor. I’ll sleep on the couch. I’ve developed a sense of chivalry that I never knew I had.”
“You’re all charm, but I can’t—”
“Sure you can.” He pushed her gently toward the hallway. “I’ll let you have the bathroom first, too. And don’t worry. I won’t barge in. Not even if I find a body in the hallway.”
“Don’t even joke about it.”
As she made her way to the bathroom, she heard Dusty open the trailer door and step outside. A moment later, he reentered. After she brushed her teeth, she made her way to his bedroom, and found Dusty changing the sheets. She helped him tuck the corners and looked around. She’d never seen his bedroom. It had a compact dresser, a twin bed, and a mirror. A sliding closet was built into the wall. Drapes covered the narrow windows.
Maureen stopped short. The ugly pistol rested on the nightstand.
“I thought it might be smart,” he said.
“Just because somebody drilled a hole in Dale’s head and cut pieces off of him?”
Dusty finished smoothing the sheets and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll take it up front with me.”
She sat on the side of the bed and pulled off her boots. “I actually feel safer because you have it. You’re apparently turning me into a barbarian. Lord alone knows what you’ll do to me next.”
His eyes were puffy from the long days, the stress, and no sleep. He sat down beside her. “This is a mess, isn’t it?”
“Murder always is.” She put a companionable arm around his shoulder. “I ache all over and I feel like every muscle in my body is made of wet yarn, eh?”
“You are tired. You sound more Canadian than ever.”
She laughed at that and playfully pulled him backward until they were lying side by side, legs dangling over the edge of the bed. “We’ll figure this thing out, you know.”
“Yes,” he said through a long exhalation. “I know.”
“It’s really all right, Dusty. Dale had a good life. He lived well. You just can’t do any better than that.”
He hugged her and they both stared at the ceiling.
Maureen didn’t remember falling asleep.
 
 
“HORNED RAM,” STONE Ghost said distastefully. He sat cross-legged in front of a bowl of glowing coals. The red embers cast a gaudy light over the long-abandoned chamber; it sparkled from the cobwebs that draped the ceiling, and the single black eye of the little girl who lay in the far corner to his right. He’d spread his turkey-feather cape over her to keep her warm while she slept. But she’d wakened the instant Browser and Catkin stepped into the chamber. She had pulled his cape over her head, and peered at them through one of the holes.
“Do you think he was the frog-faced elder at Sunrise House?” Catkin asked. She knelt to his left with her hands extended to the coals. The white wolves and bears painted on her faded red war shirt seemed to move in the wavering light.
“Probably.” Stone Ghost pulled a willow stick from the firewood and toyed with it. He’d found an old sleeping mat rolled and stowed in one of the abandoned rooms. Stick by stick, he fed it to his warming fire. “It has been a great many sun cycles since I’ve seen him.”
“What do we know about him?” Browser asked. His round face had a faint crimson hue. “I’ve heard he’s a very traditional elder from over in the Red Rim country to the west.”
Stone Ghost nodded and placed the twig onto the coals. Bone Walker had not moved since Browser and Catkin arrived. Where had she learned that? Who had
taught her to be afraid to move in the presence of adults?
Stone Ghost said, “He is of the Ant Clan. I met him once. We were just youths. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize him. He was married to one of those Alkali Water women. He married her despite the fact she had already divorced four husbands in about as many summers. It was rumored that she could not bear children.”

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